above his left man-boob: TSU: Kim Yates.
Donnelly looked at his watch. ‘About a minute.’
Pascoe nodded. She knew that the slightest break in routine could wreck many days of delicate negotiation and be enough to push a hostage taker over the edge. A change of voice at the end of the phone, or a call coming at one minute past the allotted hour.
‘Off you go, Sue.’
Yates saw Pascoe take out her mobile and waved a hand. ‘You won’t be needing that again,’ he said. ‘It’s programmed into our system as a speed-dial. More or less instantaneous, and obviously we’ve made sure that yours will still appear as the incoming number on Sergeant Weeks’ handset.’ He half turned back then stopped. ‘If you’ve got any questions, feel free to fire away.’
‘I think I’ve got it.’
Yates spun back round to his console and he and his colleague put on their own headsets. He stabbed at a button. ‘Here we go.’
The ringing of Helen Weeks’ phone immediately filled the van.
It was answered after three rings and Helen said, ‘Hold on.’ A few seconds later and the quality of the silence changed, as she switched the call on to speaker. ‘Now Javed can hear,’ she said.
‘Of course,’ Pascoe said.
Straight away, Yates and his colleague began making minor adjustments to their settings. The voices of Helen Weeks and Javed Akhtar would be relayed inside the vehicle via the microphones that had been carefully sunk into two of the storeroom walls. It was crucial, however, that this sound did not feed back to Helen’s phone. That she and – more importantly – Akhtar were not able to hear their voices broadcast back at them through the TSU speakers.
Yates gave Donnelly and Pascoe the thumbs-up.
‘It all looks very busy out there,’ Akhtar said. ‘Like Piccadilly Circus or something.’
‘What do you mean?’ Pascoe asked.
‘We have got the television on with the sound turned down,’ Akhtar said. ‘We can see it all on the six o’clock news. All the reporters, the flashing lights and what have you. A lot of police officers.’
‘This is a major operation, Javed.’
‘There is a picture of me in the corner of the screen.’ There was a grunt of shock or disapproval. ‘Where did they get that? Did Nadira give them that?’
‘Probably the passport service,’ Helen said. ‘DVLA maybe.’
‘You’re making the news, Javed,’ Pascoe said. ‘What you’re doing.’
‘I don’t care about that.’
‘Of course you don’t, I know that, Javed. I know that this isn’t about making headlines.’
‘Not until my son’s murderer is caught and sent to prison. Then I want to see big bloody headlines, believe me.’
‘Of course.’
‘Biggest ones they have.’
‘Biggest ones they have, absolutely,’ Pascoe said. ‘But until then you can at least see how seriously we’re taking everything.’
‘Everybody looks very serious, that’s for sure,’ Akhtar said. ‘Everybody seems very busy, but still there is nothing really happening. I have heard nothing more from Inspector Thorne.’
‘He wanted me to tell you that he’s still chasing that lead, Javed.’ Pascoe glanced at Donnelly. ‘A very strong lead.’
‘The dead boy, yes I know.’
‘He has more information now-’
‘I’m getting impatient.’
Pascoe looked at Donnelly again. They did not need top-quality speakers and high-definition stereo to hear the anger in Akhtar’s voice.
‘That’s understandable, Javed.’
‘I will not be strung along, do you understand?’
Donnelly waved to get Pascoe’s attention, pointed at his headset and nodded.
‘That’s not what’s happening, Javed,’ Pascoe said. ‘You need to believe that. You need to know that there’s support for you out here. A lot of support, for all of you. Can you hear me, Helen?’
‘Yes,’ Helen said.
‘Whatever happens, you need to know that we’re out here, that there’s support here and that we’re listening. OK?’
‘OK,’ Helen said.
‘I do not want to be… fobbed off,’ Akhtar said. ‘I do not want to be messed around.’ The anger was blossoming now, his voice ranting and ragged. ‘There has been far too much of that.’
‘I will not mess you around,’ Pascoe said.
‘You give me your word?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Good. OK. That’s it.’
There was a second or two of silence before the line went dead.
‘Nice,’ Donnelly said. He took off his headset. ‘You think she got the message?’
‘Like I said, she’s clever.’ As Yates and his fellow technician began to confer about DBs and balanced output, Pascoe excused herself and stepped down from the truck into the playground.
I’m getting impatient…
She thought about the textbook response to anger on the part of a hostage taker. The strategies she had been taught to deal with the increased threat of volatility. She considered the options as she walked back towards the hopscotch court and felt for the pebble in her pocket.
FIFTY-SIX
It was just beginning to get dark as McCarthy’s silver Astra drove out of the Barndale car park and its headlights came on as the barrier was raised at the security checkpoint. The car turned on to the quiet country road towards the M25 and Thorne waited for another vehicle to pass before he pulled out of the unmarked track opposite, flicked on his own lights and began to follow. It would be easier to stay out of sight once they reached the motorway and until then it would just be a matter of staying far enough back. Thorne did not think there would be a problem. He guessed that Ian McCarthy would have more important things to worry about than whether or not he was being followed.
He hoped so at any rate.
Though not quite able to pull off ‘blase’, the doctor had done his best to appear cocky, defiant even, and Thorne’s first thought when he had left the prison almost an hour before had been to race back into central London and confront the person he believed had given McCarthy the coaching. He had quickly decided that he would almost certainly have even less luck with him than with McCarthy. So, with no idea who the third man was, he could do little for the time being other than stay close to the doctor and see what happened.
See where the weakest link in the chain would lead him.
Or to whom.
Thorne was now convinced that Amin Akhtar had been the victim of a conspiracy. He also knew that he could base this on no more than a single picture on Rahim Jaffer’s phone, which actually proved nothing at all. The names and the reasons were what mattered now of course, were what would get Helen Weeks out of that newsagent’s, but if those responsible were to pay for what they had done, Thorne would need evidence that the conspiracy had been maintained. He had to prove that the men in that photograph were still in contact with one another.
It began to rain as they drove past Chorleywood Common. The road straightened over the next mile or so, becoming wider and better lit as it approached the M25 roundabout. Thorne was three cars behind the Astra, doing
