‘Please, Javee,’ Nadira said.
‘I want him to tell me.’
Thorne put a hand on Prosser’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘Tell him.’
Prosser looked at the floor.
‘Tell him what you did.’
Prosser shook his head.
Thorne was aware of Helen suddenly pushing herself away from the wall behind him. He was about to speak again when he heard the dull smack of the gun barrel being pushed into the back of Prosser’s skull.
‘ Tell him,’ Helen said.
The judge tensed and swallowed and began to gabble. His eyes were fixed on the floor. ‘I had sex with your son, I was at a party and I paid him for sex and when I saw him in my courtroom I panicked and for God’s sake you know the rest. Please, what else can I say…?’
There was no need to say anything else. Thorne’s failure to observe the correct legal procedure might well have done some damage to the case against Jeffrey Prosser, but there was no arguing with a confession, every word of which had just been monitored and recorded.
Helen Weeks left the gun where it was.
Prosser looked as though he were about to burst into tears, but when the sob exploded, it was from Javed Akhtar’s throat and not his. Akhtar stepped then staggered backwards and only the steadying hand of his wife prevented him from crashing into the rack of metal shelves behind him.
‘My sweet, sweet boy,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Stop it, Javed,’ Helen said. ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘Yes, it is.’ Akhtar smiled at her, and looking at him it seemed to Thorne that the inside of his mouth was black, that he looked old and ill suddenly under the striplights. ‘You see I was not strictly honest with you either, Helen. Not that I’ve been lying exactly, but… ’
‘You did what you thought was right,’ Nadira said.
‘I was the reason he was in that courtroom in the first place, do you understand?’ He was swaying slightly and his eyes were wide and wet, staring at Helen Weeks. ‘I was the one that turned him in. I gave my own son up to the police, because I trusted in the law to do the right thing.’ His words were coming in short bursts now, thrown up on noisy breaths. ‘I told him that everything was going to be fine. I told him not to worry. He came home covered in blood, you see? It’s all right, he told me. It’s not mine, it’s not mine.’ He turned to his wife. ‘You remember he said that?’
She nodded, clinging to him.
‘Not my son’s blood,’ Akhtar said. ‘Not his blood. Now, I am the one covered in my son’s blood. Drowning in it.’ He began to sink slowly towards the floor and his wife took his weight, and kissed his head and shoulders as she eased him gently down on to the canvas bed.
Thorne turned and took the gun from Helen Weeks.
He put a hand on Prosser’s back, eased him towards the doorway.
He knew there was no need to shout.
‘We’re coming out,’ he said.
SEVENTY-ONE
The light from the arc lamps outside flooded the shop as the shutters rose and once again Thorne was forced to shield his eyes against it. Through the curtain of drizzle he could not see anyone clearly beyond the lights, but he knew that there would be guns pointed into the shop. Trained on Akhtar, or perhaps even on him. With a loaded weapon still inside, albeit in theoretically safe hands, the Silver Commander would be taking no chances until everyone, hostage taker included, had been safely removed from the premises and was in custody or undergoing basic medical checks.
Or, in the case of Stephen Mitchell, on their way to the mortuary.
Thorne stood framed in the open doorway, a few feet back from the entrance, in the centre of the wrecked shop. Helen Weeks was to his immediate left while Javed and Nadira Akhtar stood close together on his right. Prosser was just behind them, sitting slumped on the overturned fridge.
Holding the barrel between two fingers, Thorne slowly lifted the revolver high and squinted into the light.
He shouted, ‘Emptying the weapon.’
He carefully released the catch that allowed the cylinder to swing out, then turned the gun, so that the unfired rounds spilled on to the floor. He leaned forward and tossed the gun out through the doorway. It skittered across the pavement and came to rest in the road, just a few feet away from the abandoned Passat.
‘Here’s how we do this.’ Donnelly’s voice was tinny through the loudhailer. ‘We bring the civilians out first.’
Thorne was wondering if that included the surviving hostage, when Donnelly answered his question.
‘Sergeant Weeks second, and then last of all Inspector Thorne can walk Javed out of there. Is that clear?’
Thorne said that it was.
‘Right, let’s have Mrs Akhtar and Mr Prosser front and centre.’
Thorne nodded to Nadira. She moved slowly away from her husband, her hands deep in the pockets of her anorak. Thorne turned and saw that Prosser was already on his feet, eager to be out of there.
‘Now the pair of you start walking,’ Donnelly shouted. ‘Nice and steady, out of the front door and straight towards the lights. Is that clear?’
The judge and the newsagent’s wife both nodded and began to move.
‘There will be officers waiting to meet you.’
Prosser pushed past Thorne. In his hurry to leave he lost his footing in a tangle of plastic and paper, but regained his balance and stepped in front of Nadira, clearly desperate to be the first one out of the door.
She paused, let him go ahead.
Thorne doubted that there were still any weapons trained on the shop, but he understood nevertheless why Nadira Akhtar was raising her hands.
Thought he understood.
Then he saw the wink as the blade caught the light, and, as the arm came down, Thorne was already shouting out Nadira’s name and driving himself forward. Trying to push her aside in an effort to get to the judge before she did. Taking her to the floor, then stumbling and crawling to where Jeffrey Prosser lay on his side, legs bicycling wildly and one hand flapping at his neck.
At the scissors that were sunk up to their yellow plastic handles into it.
Thorne heard cursing, running footsteps.
Someone screamed, ‘ Paramedics… ’
The blood bubbled up through Thorne’s fingers and away, soaking into magazines and damp newspapers. Prosser gagged and began to shiver. He opened his mouth and the blood ran into it.
Then someone was telling Thorne to move and pulling him away from the injured man. There were uniforms and medical bags, a good deal of shouting. And some time after that, when the shouting had stopped, Thorne found himself sitting on the floor of the shop with his back against the wall, and he noticed that Helen Weeks was holding on to him.
A female officer leaned down and wrapped a space blanket around Helen’s shoulders. Helped her to her feet. Helen kept hold of Thorne’s hand until the last possible moment.
She looked down at her palm. ‘You’ve got blood on you.’
‘Always,’ Thorne said.
