by Mark McKay
Chapter 12
It would take a further two days before the British Consulate could arrange a temporary passport for Rebecca. She had asked Nick to buy her some jeans and a couple of blouses, so she would “look presentable” when they flew back.
‘I’ve got nothing, no money, no credit cards.’
‘Actually, I brought your bag with me. I took it from your hotel room in Kolkata. And your phone.’
She was relieved to hear that. He told her that the City of London Police would foot the bill for her new outfit, so she added a pair of shoes to the list.
He did the shopping, thinking it was rather odd for him to be clothes shopping for a woman he hardly knew. She’d given him her sizes and he just hoped he’d got it right. Following his first visit to the hospital he had gone straight back to the hotel and emailed Inspector Shah with the date and place of Rebecca’s departure from Chennai. He could only describe the vessel as a “small container ship”, but at least they now had something to work with. Shah acknowledged the email almost immediately, saying he was pleased that Rebecca was safe and that he would get someone down to Chennai straight away.
He visited her the following evening, with his purchases. She looked much better now. Her face had lost most of the anguish he’d seen earlier and she was now smiling more freely, though occasionally during their chat her eyes would lose their focus and she would stare into space for a moment, with a troubled expression. Then she would come back to the room and resume where they’d left off, as though nothing had happened.
They got an early flight out the next day and three hours later they were back in the UK. At Heathrow, Nick ordered a taxi to take Rebecca directly home.
‘South London, isn’t it?’ he asked.
‘Catford. Do you think the Green Street will pack up my stuff and send it to me?’
‘Yes, I’m sure they will. Do you want me to organise that?’
‘No, I can do it. I think I’ll have a couple of days to myself before I go back to work.’
‘Is there a friend or partner or someone, waiting for you?’
She smiled, more to herself than him. ‘No, not right now. I’m a bit of a loner most of the time. More interested in ancient history than the hassle of relationships. Much easier to handle.’
He couldn’t help thinking it was a waste of an attractive woman, but it was none of his business. ‘I will need to get a formal statement from you at some point, but there’s no rush.’
‘That’s fine. Call me in a day or two, I can come into your office. Do you think you’ll find them?’
‘The lions, or Sylvie Dajani?’
‘I don’t give a shit about Sylvie. Those lions are special, though. They shouldn’t be sitting in some rich man’s basement, where nobody but him can see them. It’s obscene.’
‘You’re right, it is. I can only say that with the police forces of several countries on the case, our chances are as good as it gets.’
‘Well, if there is anything I can do to help, let me know.’
His phone rang, the taxi was approaching the terminal. He walked Rebecca out to meet it. Once she had gone he took a train back in to London. They never told me patience was a requirement of a good policeman, he thought, as the houses rushed by the window. The case had ground to a halt again, pending the result of further enquiries. Unless those enquiries produced a quick result he was back playing the waiting game. No doubt Hamilton’s fraud case would fill the void. He wondered what creative scheme the bankers of the City had cooked up this time, though he wasn’t in any particular hurry to find out. No matter how creative, it would pale in comparison to his current investigation. His growing obsession with the case meant it would involve a major effort on his part to focus on anything else.
A further week passed, with no word from Shah. In one more week he would be on the way to Japan for the retreat. Before he went he needed to hand over to someone with the instruction that if anything did happen, that person should let him know immediately. He knew that Lauren was right, delegation wasn’t one of his strong suits. He was still an adherent of the “If you want it done, do it yourself” school of management. He bit the bullet and found a colleague who would deputise in his absence. Yvonne knew as much about the case as he did and he made sure she would be on hand to advise, if needed.
Detective Inspector Ian Hamilton wanted him to help draught a preliminary report on a group of traders at an investment bank, who had apparently been involved in some dubious deals on the foreign exchange market. They had allegedly been colluding with traders at other banks to push the price of a particular currency pair up or down, as it suited them. Whatever direction netted the most profit for the bank and as a result, boosted their bonuses. He was being briefed by Hamilton when there was a knock on the meeting room door.
‘Sorry to interrupt.’ It was one of Hamilton’s team, a young Detective Constable named Johnson. ‘The markets are going crazy. Looks like we’re having a repeat of the 2010 flash crash.’
‘Flash crash? What’s he talking about?’ asked Nick.
‘Someone’s placing thousands of sell orders on two of the major indexes. It’s some high speed algorithm driving it, the market’s going into a tailspin.’
‘Shit,’ said Hamilton. ‘Where’s it coming from?’
‘That’s just the problem, sir. No one knows. And now all the high frequency trading firms are getting in on the action and driving the price down further.’
Hamilton swore again. ‘They aren’t supposed to do that. Don’t these people learn anything?’
‘I’ve got the S&P 500 chart on my monitor now. Come and see for yourself.’
Hamilton hurried out and across the office to Johnson’s terminal, with Nick close behind. Johnson’s chart showed the S&P 500 index chart being traded in real time. Its value was falling precipitously, minute by minute.
‘The last time this happened it spilled over into the equity markets,’ said Hamilton. ‘Major companies had hundreds of millions knocked off their value in no time.’
‘But they recovered, didn’t they?’ replied Nick.
‘They did. Let’s hope that’s exactly what happens this time.’
Nick knew that Lauren was involved in a software implementation at a major bank in Canary Wharf. He called her.
‘It’s chaos here,’ she said when he got through. ‘People are panicking and shouting at each other.’
‘Can’t they stop it?’
‘Not at the moment. Apparently whoever is doing this has triggered off a load of automated sell signals by other trading brokers. We just have to hope it bottoms out.’
‘Let me know what happens.’ He conveyed Lauren’s impressions to Hamilton and Johnson.
‘Out of our hands,’ said Hamilton.
The fall in the markets continued through mid-afternoon, as evidenced by the plunging red bars on Johnson’s chart. At 4pm precisely, it stopped. Johnson came by Nick’s desk, to tell him.
‘Very strange. The market’s gone flat. When this is over, we may have a new case of market manipulation to check out.’
‘You mean you might have one. Not really my thing.’
His phone rang.
‘Nick, it’s me.’ Lauren sounded tense. ‘The market stopped falling.’
‘I know, just been told that. What’s wrong?’
‘There’s a message that’s just come up on every terminal in this building, as far as I can see. I’m looking at it now.’
‘What does it say?’
‘It says, “We apologise for the diversion. You have ten minutes to evacuate.” That’s all.’
‘Is it a hoax?’
‘No one in IT would pull a stunt like this. They’d never work in the City again. People are on their way out now and I’m right behind them. And there’s something else.’
‘What?’ He wanted her to stop chatting and leave.
‘The golden lions you were looking for? There’s a photo of one a
bove the message. I thought you should know.’
For a moment he was speechless, then anxiety kicked in. ‘Get out of there now, Lauren.’
‘All my stuff is on the third floor. Just need to pick that up and...’
He didn’t let her finish. ‘Just do as you’re told, don’t stay in there a moment longer, understood?’
‘OK. I’m hanging up now. See you soon.’ She was gone.
Johnson was staring at him. ‘What’s happened?’
‘The financial district in Canary Wharf needs to be evacuated. Now.’
‘Christ,’ said Johnson. ‘Is there a procedure for this?’
‘Alert every police officer in East London. We need them on site as soon as possible. I’ll call the Met emergency room.’ He picked up his desk phone.
‘I’m on it,’ said Johnson. He turned and ran across the office to his desk, yelling for assistance from anyone within earshot on the way.
Five minutes later the station shook. For a split second, Nick thought it was an earthquake, but the almost simultaneous thump of an explosion just a few miles away dispelled that impression. Before he could register what had happened there was another tremor and a further explosion.
He was numb. Inside the station it was deathly quiet. Everyone sat motionless, deprived of the power of speech. It lasted five seconds that seemed an eternity and then everyone started talking at once. Some reached for phones, others were leaving the building to see what was visible from the street below. Nick had Lauren on speed dial, but he still felt like he was hitting the key in slow motion. She didn’t answer.
‘No,’ he muttered. He got up and ran across to the window, overlooking Bishopsgate. He could see lots of people outside stopped in their tracks, either with mobile phones to their ears or standing looking in the direction of the blasts. He rushed downstairs and out the door.
With a group of colleagues he stared eastwards, where whirling, dark palls of smoke were visible. Yvonne was standing next to him.
‘We’re going down there,’ he said to her. She looked at him, startled. ‘Yvonne? Did you hear me? Is there anyone you need to call?’
‘I don’t know anyone who works in Canary Wharf,’ she said. ‘Will you drive, sir, or shall I?’
Yvonne drove. A lot of traffic was coming the other way but it was hard going, nevertheless. The siren helped clear their way. He kept trying the phone, without success. They got as far as they could before being stopped by a police cordon. Nick was relieved to note that the disaster response time had been quick, at least.
Yvonne pulled into a side street and parked. The main road was filling up with a convoy of ambulances in both directions as they got out and walked towards the source of the blasts. Nick began jogging towards the bank where he knew Lauren had been working. The cloud of thick, acrid smoke made it easy enough to find. As he went, he looked left and right at the crowds of workers leaving the area, hoping to spot her. A few minutes later, he was close enough to see several fire engines outside both banks, which stood virtually next to one another. The fire brigade was busy dousing the blaze, which seemed to be coming under control. The first three floors of each 50 floor building were now windowless, and although from the outside the structure looked sound enough, he wondered if the internal damage might lead to an imminent collapse. If so, it wasn’t deterring the fire crew, who were bringing out bodies and laying them on the pavement and then going back in again to find more. His heart sank.
A uniformed policeman came up and told him to leave the area. Nick flashed his ID at the man, who looked at him curiously before shrugging his shoulders.
‘The first three floors collapsed, sir,’ he said. ‘In both buildings. The bombs were probably at basement level.’
‘How many people were inside?’
‘Impossible to say. Anyone on one of those three floors when the blast hit, is probably dead.’
The officer moved off to shepherd a shell shocked group of people in the direction of safety. Nick looked around. There were still individuals or groups just sitting on the nearest available bench or on the ground, some with their clothes in tatters. Policemen were approaching them and encouraging them to move on, but their shock and inability to hear anything clearly after the blast made it difficult to get the message across. He counted at least 30 bodies laid out on the street now, each covered with a blanket or anything else that would serve as a shroud. Ambulance men were more concerned with the walking wounded, who were either being stretchered or helped into the ambulances, which then swiftly sped away. The dead would have to wait.
He didn’t know where Yvonne had got to and then he saw her across the street, helping a confused and limping man towards the ambulance queue. He knew he had no chance of finding Lauren in this mess, she could be on her way to hospital. Or under a shroud. He felt his heart thumping and he thought he should start looking under those shrouds, but he couldn’t do it. If she’d left the building when he told her too, surely she was safe?
He tried her number again, no response. She had him down as her emergency contact, so if the worst had happened and someone had her phone, they would eventually call him. If he remembered right, she didn’t have a lock on it. He looked around once more, there was nothing he could do but wait. He decided to make himself useful by assisting those who needed it. The area was almost clear now, but there were still people wandering about or sitting on the ground, heads in hands. Yvonne came over.
‘There’s an assembly area set up on Fisherman’s Walk, sir. Anyone who isn’t physically injured should be steered in that direction. That’s where Lauren will be, if she…’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Good thinking, Yvonne.’
‘Why don’t you go straight down there, you might find her.’
‘I will. When you’ve finished here, don’t wait for me. I’ll find my own way back.’
There must have been several hundred people assembled on Fisherman’s Walk. He looked for an hour, but couldn’t see her anywhere. People were waiting for taxis or being picked up by friends. The Underground was shut for security reasons and there weren’t many buses, either. It was going to be a long wait for some. He picked up a ride in a police vehicle going back into the City. Casualties were being taken either to the Royal London or Bart's hospitals, and he decided to stop by the Royal London first. They were nearly there when his phone finally rang, it was the hospital admissions department. A Ms Lauren Hunt had given them his name. She had been knocked unconscious by the force of the blast, but was OK and suffering now from what they hoped was nothing more than a temporary hearing loss.
‘She asked us to call you, Mr Severance. She was brought in unconscious, only came round about twenty minutes ago. She can’t hear very well, but I can assure you she is fine otherwise. Standing right next to me.’
‘Thank you, I’ll be right there.’
She was in a designated waiting area, along with several other dishevelled blast escapees. There was a television on one wall showing live coverage of the affected area, which they were all watching. Their facial expressions conveyed either disbelief, confusion, or in some cases, blank acceptance. Lauren sat in one corner, her eyes flitting between the screen and the shoe she was holding, the heel of which was dangling precariously. She kept pressing it back into place, as if she could repair it by willpower alone. She wasn’t aware of him until he touched her shoulder.
‘Nick…’ She stood up barefooted and threw herself into his arms. He buried his face in her hair and just held on to her. The feeling of her unharmed body against his was the best antidote to anxiety he could wish for.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said.
She came out of the embrace to look at him, tapping one ear. ‘Can’t hear too well.’
He kissed her. ‘Let’s go.’
She read his lips. ‘OK.’ Then the words came out in a torrent. ‘I got out of the building right away, then the blast knocked me over. Lost my phone, don’t know where my othe
r shoe is, guess it doesn’t matter because this one’s useless, anyway.’ She pointed at the offending shoe. ‘I was unconscious, then they brought me here. They say I should stay, I’m probably concussed. I said you’d look after me. There were still people inside when the bomb went off…’ She stared at him. ‘We had less than ten minutes to get out, Nick. Bastards.’
‘I know. We’ll talk about it when I get you home.’ He put his hand on her abdomen. ‘This one OK?’
She nodded. ‘I think so. I hope so.’ Then she looked at her feet. ‘I can’t walk around town barefoot. You’ll have to get me some shoes.’
They went out into the corridor, where he asked a passing hospital porter where the nearest shoe shop might be. The man was bewildered, then he saw Lauren’s predicament.
‘No idea, mate.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Tell you what, I’ll get you a pair of operating theatre clogs. What size are you, Miss?’
While the porter left to fetch the clogs, Nick called for a taxi. Half an hour later, after promising to return her new shoes at the earliest opportunity, Lauren held his arm as they walked out of the hospital. Once they were both in the taxi and it began to move, she pressed herself against him, closing her eyes. He put his arm around her and pulled her close. He was fortunate to still have her. Tonight, there would be a lot of newly bereaved families in this town who weren’t so fortunate. Someone needed to answer for that.
