that it was essential they were kept under control. Their plans had been thrown off course, but if he kept calm, soon most of these people would be dead, and he’d be on his way to a new life.
Eighty-three
TINA HAD WRAPPED the children in blankets she’d found in one of the cupboards and they were now sitting at the kitchen table taking it in turns to speak to their mother on her mobile. They were both in tears, and by the sounds of things, Arley was too. Tina couldn’t blame any of them.
She left them in there, putting up a finger to say she’d be back in one minute, then returned to the bedroom where the kidnapper lay face down on the carpet. Crouching down, she felt for a pulse, but there was nothing. He was dead.
Jesus, thought Tina, standing back up, I’ve killed again. She might have taken a pretty bad beating herself, but she was still standing, whereas the last blow she’d laid on the kidnapper had been to the side of his head with a piece of lead piping. But as far as she was concerned, he’d deserved what he got. There were some people out there whose crimes were so terrible they didn’t deserve life and, in her opinion, this man was one of them. What did bother her, though, was being on the receiving end of a manslaughter charge; she still had enough enemies in the Met to make this a definite possibility. Either way, she was in a lot of trouble.
She went back downstairs and made her way into the living room, where the kidnapper had been sitting when she arrived. A rucksack was on the sofa and she went over to it, wondering if there’d be a clue to his identity in there. The news had been saying for most of the day that the prime suspects in the bombings and the subsequent siege were Islamic fundamentalists, but the man she’d killed was white, and the single curse word he’d uttered when they were fighting sounded like it belonged to someone with a local accent.
She pulled open the rucksack and stopped dead when she saw the battery pack and wires, realizing she was staring at a bomb.
Slowly, very carefully, she stepped away from the device, knowing she had to get the kids out of there. As she turned towards the door, she glanced briefly at the TV, which was showing live footage from the Stanhope, and saw the rolling headlines saying that explosions and gunfire were audible from the back of the hotel and that unofficial sources suggested a rescue attempt by Special Forces was being repelled.
The nausea Tina was already experiencing suddenly grew a whole lot worse. So there
Oliver was speaking on the phone when Tina came back into the kitchen. ‘I need to speak to your mum urgently,’ she said, taking the phone from him. ‘And we need to get out of here right now.’
‘What’s going on, Tina?’ asked Arley.
‘Give me a minute,’ she answered, pushing the kids out of the front door and on to the driveway, ignoring their questions. It occurred to her that there might be further devices in the house, and that the van might contain some kind of bomb too. ‘I’ve just seen the news on the TV. So the SAS went in. You all but promised me you wouldn’t let that happen.’
‘They did go in, but I managed to get a message to them to abort the attack. They pulled back just in time, and although there was some shooting and a couple of explosions, none of them were hurt.’
‘Are you sure? Because there’s no point lying to me now, Arley.’
‘I swear it, Tina. There were no casualties.’
‘Surely they must want to know how you came by the information.’
‘They do. It’s one more thing I’m going to have to deal with when this is over.’
‘Where are you now? It sounds like you’re in a cupboard.’
‘I’m in the mobile toilet. Listen, Tina, I won’t implicate you, I promise.’
‘It’s too late. You already have. And I’ve killed a man here. I can hardly try to hide it. That just implicates me more.’
‘God, I don’t know what to say, I really don’t.’
Nor did Tina. She could hardly scream and yell at a woman who in the last few hours had lost her husband, her career, and so nearly her children.
There was a long silence while both women processed the events of the night and their inevitable repercussions.
‘It’s all over for me, Tina,’ said Arley quietly.
‘I know it is.’
‘And I know how this must sound, but can I ask you one final favour?’
Tina almost laughed. ‘Jesus, Arley. You’ve got chutzpah, I’ll give you that.’
‘I need to see my children while I’m still free. I need to tell them about their father. And I want to do it face to face.’
‘I don’t see how that’s going to be possible,’ said Tina as she ushered Oliver and India down the muddy track outside the cottage.
‘My mother lives in Pinner. If I text you the address, please can you take them there? I know I’ve asked a lot of you.’
‘You’ve asked everything of me.’
‘I know. And I’m begging you … please.’
‘I need to phone the police. There are bombs in the house where I found your kids, as well as a body, and we need to get the area sealed off.’ Tina sighed, looking in turn at Arley’s children, shivering under their blankets. ‘Then I’ll take them to your mother.’
Eighty-four
MARTIN DALSTON WAS FEELING nauseous and tense, although he wasn’t sure how much of this was due to his illness and how much to the atmosphere inside the Park View Restaurant, which had deteriorated steadily ever since the execution of the hostage more than an hour earlier.
And then ten or so minutes ago they’d heard explosions and shooting coming from somewhere far below in the building. The taller of the two terrorists, the one Martin had overheard being referred to as Dragon, had told them in advance to expect some gunfire, but that the situation was under control.
But it seemed it wasn’t fully, because both terrorists were now on their feet, their body language riddled with tension as they kept their assault rifles trained on the hostages, screaming threats the moment someone so much as changed position on the floor. Dragon had his foot on the detonator pedal, and he kept exchanging nervous glances with the other guard, the one with the Scandinavian accent and the limp. Both were checking their watches every few seconds, as if they were waiting for something.
Their erratic behaviour, and the uncertainty of the situation, was also affecting the hostages, whose expressions were becoming more and more panic-stricken. One person in particular, a white-haired businessman in his sixties, only a few feet away from Martin, had started to breathe very heavily in the last few minutes, and it looked like he might be having a panic attack. People were ignoring him, and several had turned away, as if, like prey animals in the wild, they’d sensed his weakness and were abandoning him to the predators. Martin gave him a reassuring look, but the man either didn’t see him or chose not to meet his gaze.
Strangely, Martin himself was feeling less scared than he had done all night. Or maybe it wasn’t strange. Maybe it was because, having been so close to death earlier on, and realizing that at the last second he’d actually been ready for it, he felt there was little else they could threaten him with. There was also something comforting in being back among the group rather than being singled out and alone. He wondered what the bombs and shooting had been about. At first he’d thought it was an Iranian Embassy-style attack on the building by the SAS, but that didn’t make sense, because the two terrorists guarding them had known what was going to happen
