[Locked 02.0] Locked In

by GB Williams

  ‘They—’ Mr Brown paused to clear his throat. ‘They need to establish a channel of communication.’

  When Mr Brown spoke, it was to Mr White, who had yet to lower his gun. Mr Brown’s own gun was in his right hand, the one on the far side from her, and remained at his side. His left hand was slightly raised, heading towards Mr White’s firearm. Teddington frowned. Clearly Mr Brown was both comfortable with guns and reluctant to use them. A peacekeeper. Deployed. Mr Brown had to be ex-military. He just had to be.

  ‘Why?’ Pink demanded.

  ‘Mr Pink,’ Mr White ordered calmly, his eyes on Mr Brown, ‘back to your station.’ The ringing stopped. ‘Apparently,’ Mr White said, ‘they aren’t that keen.’

  ‘They’ll call back,’ Mr Brown stated, ‘and if they don’t get an answer, they’ll get their answers some other way.’

  In the pause that stretched, Teddington watched Mr White. He was clearly the man in charge, but he didn’t seem to be the one most prepared for the situation. The way he looked at Mr Brown was calculated, calculating. Interesting dynamic.

  ‘Mr Orange,’ White said over his shoulder, his voice measured and paced. ‘Go to the back of the building, see what’s happening. Let me know if you see any police.’

  The man who had hit Sam pulled up the sawn-off which he’d dangled in one hand and gripped it in both palms as he turned and went through to the back.

  The phone started ringing again.

  ‘We need to answer that,’ Mr Brown stated.

  Mr White considered. ‘Diluting the team through the building is a risk.’

  Mr Pink was moving around, pacing. He was grinding his teeth now, glaring at Lucy as she cowered against her mother. At least the sobbing’s finished, Teddington thought. Everyone cries themselves dry eventually.

  ‘If we don’t respond,’ Mr Brown said quietly, ‘there’s a bigger risk that the police will take a more aggressive stance.’

  ‘Aggressive stance?’

  Teddington thought that whispered question came from the woman on the seat, the one who’d complained about her driver’s licence being unaccepted.

  ‘Storm in, guns blazing.’ The low response was from Hickson, the well-dressed man. ‘If that happens, hit the deck, hands behind your hea—’

  ‘Shut up,’ Mr White growled, now pointing the gun at Hickson. ‘Go,’ he told Mr Brown, nodding towards to the manager’s office.

  Mr Brown’s long legs carried him swiftly past Mr White and over to the office.

  ‘Keep it short and get back here.’

  Mr Brown nodded in acknowledgement, the office door swinging shut behind him. Teddington watched as Mr White looked around the hostages, the gun moving across them in silent underlining threat.

  ‘Next one of you who speaks, gets shot. Understand?’

  There was a lot of fast, silent nodding.

  Teddington looked towards the office door, but her attention was caught by the man who’d gone to the back of the bank, Mr Blue. He was leaning against the counter, the loot by his feet. He was calmest of them all, his joints soft, his muscles relaxed, his gun held loosely. But still held. At the ready. His eyes moved and suddenly Teddington was in his sights. He was looking directly at her and all she could do was look back. She read amusement in his eyes. He was actually enjoying this. Then his face broke into a grin, an I’m-having-fun-waiting-to-kill-you kind of grin. He pointed his gun at her. Ice washed through her nervous system as he mimed the act of shooting and mouthed the word boom, his grin widening as he lowered the gun and looked back to the office.

  Teddington swallowed, and tried to calm her drumming heart. Mr Pink was antsy, Mr White commanding, Mr Brown intelligent, Mr Orange quick-tempered, but Mr Blue? Mr Blue was what? Enjoying himself?

  Her thoughts were cut off when Mr Brown reappeared from the office.

  ‘Well?’ Mr White demanded.

  ‘Told him other means of communication have to be found.’

  ‘What other means?’ Mr Pink demanded.

  In the ensuing silence, Teddington felt the desert fill her oesophagus as she raised her hand, hating that it was trembling as she did so. Mr White spotted her movement out of the corner of his eye and levelled his gun at her head again.

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ Mr Brown asked.

  ‘I said the next one to speak gets shot.’

  ‘She didn’t speak,’ Mr Brown pointed out. ‘She raised her hand to seek permission to speak.’

  Teddington watched Mr White’s jaw line clenching. Then suddenly the gun went down.

  ‘What were you going to say?’ Mr Brown asked at last.

  Teddington looked up at him and while those brown eyes meant nothing to her, she felt there was a connection. She just wished she could define it. She swallowed. ‘Mobile phones.’ She turned to Mr White who was watching her intently, took a worried breath and went on. ‘Look, you don’t want your men diluted through the building, that makes sense, but the only phones in this room are the ones the customers are carrying. So, you give a mobile number to the police, and you can take the call in here.’

  ‘What about that phone?’ Mr Blue asked, pointing to the one next to the internet banking stand marked for telephone banking.

  Presswick tutted and rolled his eyes, ‘That onl—’

  Mr Blue stormed forward and put his gun muzzle against the man’s forehead. ‘No one gave you permission to speak.’

  Judging by the smell, Presswick must have peed a little at that point. Mr Blue sneered, then pulled back a little, looked at Teddington. ‘You.’

  She shrugged. ‘Guessing it’s for telephone banking only, probably a dedicated line.’

  ‘Are you offering your phone?’

  Swallowing her nerves, Teddington nodded. ‘Okay.’ Her voice squeaked uncomfortably.

  ‘Why?’

  She cleared her throat and swallowed before she could speak again. ‘Your mate over there already pointed out that I’m a prison officer. Which means that I’m the tall poppy here, the last one you’ll let go. Logically that means the more use I am to you, the better my chances of survival.’

  ‘Or…’ Mr Blue smiled, pure snake oil. ‘I take your phone and kill you anyway.’

  Cold washed through her. ‘That’s um…’ She wouldn’t have put it past the man to kill her in cold blood. ‘That’s certainly an option.’

  ‘Mr Blue.’ Mr Brown’s voice was nearer a growl. ‘Back off.’

  Mr Blue’s eyes gathered steel, his lip curling as he turned to the taller man. ‘Why are you protecting her?’

  ‘I’m protecting me,’ Mr Brown corrected, his barrel chest moving as he took a deep breath. ‘If we go down for this, we’ll go down a damn sight longer if a hostage gets hurt. I want to avoid that. This is damage limitation only.’

  ‘Both of you get back to your spots,’ Mr White ordered.

  Now turning to Mr White, Teddington wondered about him. He wasn’t as calm as he’d like to think, as she’d like him to be when in command of an armed raid.

  Mr Blue huffed, shrugged and sauntered back to the counter, virtually lounging there. Mr Brown still looked stiff, expressionless, as he returned to the door. In the silence that followed, Teddington thought about the difference between Mr Pink and Mr Brown. Mr Pink, a skinhead in an ill-fitted blue suit. Mr Brown in need of a haircut, wearing jeans and an army surplus jumper, that might even be his own former uniform.

  The phone in Presswick’s office rang again. This time Mr White looked to Mr Blue. Mr Blue pushed away from the counter and went to the office. They heard the ringing stop, then Mr Blue’s gruff voice calmly pronounce, ‘Phone ’ere again and I’ll pull the phone from the fucking wall.’ The handset went down hard. Mr Blue returned to his indolent slouch at the counter.

  For a moment Mr White contemplated the situation.

  Teddington cleared her throat. The way he looked at her suggested he was giving her permission to speak. She hoped that was what it meant, anyway. ‘Mr White, you said you d
idn’t want to hurt anyone, so prove that. Demonstrate good faith by letting a hostage go. The released hostage can take my number to the police.’

  His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me who I should send, too?’

  She knew who she’d send, but all her hostage training told her she’d pushed the boundaries already. She swallowed. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, you’re the one in control.’

  His look was tight; he didn’t trust her any more than she trusted him. Then he moved to the divider between queue and counter, found a slip that had nothing on the back, and with a vicious yank pulled the pen chain from the base. He moved over to pass them to Teddington. ‘Write your number on there.’

  Teddington did so, leaning on the floor, then sat back up and passed the note to White.

  Holding the note between his thumb and index finger knuckle, he held his hand out. ‘Pen, too.’

  Bugger. She’d been hoping to keep hold of that. With enough force, it could be a useful stabbing tool. She handed it back.

  Now Mr White surveyed the hostages.

  ‘Send the kid and her mother.’

  Teddington was relieved to hear the suggestion from Mr Brown. Mr White didn’t respond. His eyes narrowed as he looked to Megan and Lucy.

  ‘Look,’ Mr Brown continued when Mr White said nothing, ‘the damn kid’s annoying the lot of us, and she ain’t letting go of her mother, so get the pair of them out of here. There are plenty of other hostages.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Mr White said, ‘there are.’ He raised his arm and pointed the gun. Several hostages gasped and leant away from his aim. Megan hugged Lucy closer, the girl gripping her mummy for dear life, burying her face and sobbing again. The gun, however, was pointed directly to the well-dressed man at Megan’s side. Mr White’s gaze was also concentrated on Hickson. ‘You. Get up.’

  Polished shoes shifted and Teddington moved to her right to give the man room. The high gloss of his shoes, the precision of the crease in his trousers and the way he stood very erect, not cowering from the gun pointed directly at his chest, all added together in Teddington’s mind. No wonder Mr White wanted to get rid of him. Hickson had military bearing; he’d shown some familiarity with hostage situations in what he’d advised the others to do earlier. This guy was a potential problem for the gang—his presence could foil their plans. Slowly and carefully, Hickson stepped around Teddington. Raising his hands away from his body, Hickson took the note only when it was offered and headed for the front door only when he was told. He stopped a clear metre from the door, facing Mr Brown. All the time his hands were kept carefully in view.

  Mr Brown looked to Mr White, then carefully moved to the door, clicking off the latch and opening it slightly. He moved his head closer to the slight gap and shouted, ‘We’re sending a hostage out!’ Then he turned back to Hickson. ‘Put your hands higher and slightly in front of you, make sure that the police see you aren’t carrying a weapon. The guy on the phone called himself Piper. He’s probably in charge.’

  Piper! Teddington held herself as still as she could. She didn’t want to be seen reacting to that name.

  Then the door was opened and the man walked out, hands high and open.

  Carefully, Teddington eased herself back, surprised to realise that there was a space to her left. A quick glance told her Presswick had moved to the vacated seat. She couldn’t entirely avoid rolling her eyes as she turned her head forward and down.

  Lucy was crying again.

  7

  Piper’s stomach was in knots. His wife might be right, perhaps he should see his doctor and check this wasn’t an ulcer. He wanted to throw something, preferably break something.

  It had been clear that he’d spoken to two different men on the phone. He thought the first one might have been Charlie disguising his voice, but he couldn’t be sure. He had no idea who the second man was. He eased the knot of his tie and remembered all those months ago when this started.

  He’d met Charlie by accident. Carlisle sometimes got better results on his own and the DS needed to grow into the job to move to the next level, so Piper had let him go do his thing and waited in the nearby pub. Then Charlie had walked in. He’d never seen the younger man so lost or defeated. Everything about Charlie screamed ‘beaten’ from the lack of cleanliness and the body odour to the unwashed clothes and the obvious weight gain. When he’d told Piper he couldn’t get a job but thought he’d been offered a place on a blag, Piper’s ears had pricked up. The way forward was obvious to Piper. He hadn’t said anything to Charlie, just told him to shape up—other things needed to be done first. Other things he wasn’t going to forget doing in a hurry.

  He had gone to Detective Chief Superintendent Broughton’s office. They’d met as colleagues with mutual respect, possibly even friendship, but Piper had known that there was a strong likelihood that would change by the time the meeting was concluded.

  ‘What’s the problem, Matthew?’ Broughton asked, indicating Piper should take one of the visitor chairs as he took his place behind the big dark wood desk.

  Piper took a deep breath. ‘I want to register a new informant, sir.’

  Broughton looked rather amused and smiled. ‘I’m not CHIS, you don’t need to talk to me to do that.’

  ‘No, sir, not usually, but this is a little different.’

  Broughton was still smiling. A good sign: he was in a good mood. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s the er… it’s the informant, sir.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Charlie Bell.’

  Broughton’s smile slid off his face like an avalanche from the Matterhorn. ‘You are fucking kidding me?’

  Piper had expected a reaction from Broughton, but hadn’t expected quite so much venom in the tone. ‘No, sir, I’m not kidding. That’s why I wanted to run it by you first.’

  ‘We, and the prison service, are still reeling from the consequences of the last time that man set foot in this station. And don’t think I don’t know what happened in cell four.’

  ‘Nothing happened in cell four.’

  ‘We only have their word for that.’

  ‘And we only have our own dirty little minds to say anything to the contrary.’

  An uncomfortable pause allowed that truth to fester in the open until by mute and mutual consent, it was swept back under the carpet.

  ‘Why,’ Broughton said with careful deliberation, ‘would I allow this? Why on earth would you even suggest it?’

  Piper went carefully through his thought processes, the position he thought Bell could work his way into, along with the potential implications of that. Broughton didn’t look wholly convinced.

  ‘He was a good officer,’ Piper said. ‘You once even said he reminded you of you at that age.’

  Broughton scowled at the memory. ‘I never killed a man.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I never appointed myself as judge, jury and executioner.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The DCS was rather red-faced and angry as he looked across the desk. In a sudden move that nearly made Piper jump, Broughton was on his feet. He marched the short distance to the window, where he stood looking out, his back to the junior officer. For a moment Piper wasn’t sure what to do.

  ‘You’re sure about the Mansel-Jones connection?’ Broughton snapped.

  He wasn’t at all sure, but every instinct was twitching. ‘It’s impossible to be wholly sure, but it’s a distinct possibility, sir.’

  Broughton contemplated the point.

  Piper waited. He knew if he pushed Broughton he’d lose out. He had to let the man come to his own decision.

  ‘Then do what you believe is right.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Piper rose.

  ‘Not so fast.’ Broughton turned to face Piper. ‘If you do this, you’re his handler. His fuck-up is your fuck-up. Understood?’

  Of course he’d understood, he still understood even as he carefully placed the phone back on the
van shelf. It was wired in to ensure that the conversation was recorded. He took a deep breath.

  His fuck-up is your fuck-up.

  Piper could only pray that this didn’t get any more fucked up.

  ‘Now what?’ Andrews asked.

  Piper turned to the man by his side, fully in the moment again. Unfortunately, the moment wasn’t looking any better now than it had when the phone had slammed down.

  His first answer was a shrug. ‘Obviously they don’t want to talk by phone.’ He sighed and stepped out of the van, pulling up short as he found himself facing DCS Broughton. He was like a formidable black mountain. The sun glinted coldly off polished insignias. It wasn’t as cold as his eyes. ‘Sir, I wasn’t expecting you on site.’

  Broughton was scowling. ‘Seems there’s a fair amount neither of us was expecting.’ He looked at the man behind Piper. Broughton took a moment to look the other man up and down. ‘Andrews,’ he recalled the name. Then he turned back to his DCI. ‘What’s the situation?’

  Piper gave a quick rundown.

  ‘And we don’t know who the hostages are yet?’

  ‘Only the three employees. Mallory Presswick, Samuel Frankfort, and Zanti Bashir are confirmed as on duty today.’

  Broughton glowered at Piper in a way that told Piper there was thin ice ahead.

  ‘Sir!’

  Piper, Andrews and Broughton looked to Wymark as she leaned out of the van.

  ‘Sounds like they might let a hostage out.’

  As she said it, the door of the bank cracked open. Piper saw and heard the instant of high alert among the armed and uniformed police, and instinctively moved towards the cordon. Andrews stepped back into the van, advising his men to hold their fire.

  ‘We’re sending a hostage out!’ a voice called.

  The oddity of the gangster’s shout coming after Wymark’s statement sharpened the way Piper felt his superior’s censure.

  ‘Sounds?’ Broughton hissed, close on Piper’s heels. ‘You’ve got ears in there?’