Cry of the Needle

by Radford, Roger

  ‘It was a mistake,’ Townsend whimpered. ‘For God’s sake, give me a drink.’

  ‘It was my wife, you bastard,’ Kelly seethed. ‘You were drunk, weren’t you?’

  ‘I-I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You were drunk that day, you low-life. You were drunk when you had that syringe in your hand. You put her through so much pain that she ended up taking her life. You killed her, Townsend, not the damn paracetamol. You left four children without their mammy. You left me a widower at thirty-seven, you scum.’

  ‘Please, I never meant to do any harm.’

  Kelly laughed sardonically. ‘Harm? You became a lethal weapon the moment you put a whisky bottle to your lips, man. God knows how many others you’ve maimed. How many babies have you lost, Townsend? How many mothers will ever know that their infants died from your negligence? It’s so easy to cover it up, isn’t it? After all, God’s infallible, and you arrogant bastards play God all the time. The worse thing is that when you make mistakes, you try to cover them up. You know what a doctor says when he tears through the dura? He says ‘sorry’. But just a little while later he says, ‘what me?’ You all do it. You go into denial mode and treat your victims like shit. Look what happened at Bristol Royal Infirmary.’

  ‘That had nothing to do with me.’

  Ignoring the doctor’s plea, Kelly felt the familiar anger within him reaching boiling point. ‘Thirty-five babies butchered by heart surgeons who then clubbed together to cover up their ineptitude. Funny, that, don’t you think? Heart surgeons without a heart.’ The Irishman laughed again, this time with a bitterness that sliced through his captive. ‘On the other hand, they had plenty of hearts. They took them out of those poor babies and gave the bits and pieces back to the parents for burial. Without telling them, of course.’

  ‘Please, I feel so bad,’ the doctor beseeched.

  ‘You’re going to feel a lot worse by the time I’m through with you, scumbag. You’re going to feel what a misplaced needle full of toxins is going to do to your central nervous system. In your case, we might even use alcohol. Now that would be fitting, wouldn’t it? I don’t have to tell you what a few fluid ounces of whisky would do to your spinal cord, you lush.’

  With this, Kieran Kelly swept out of the room, leaving in the wake of his condemnation one painfully thin, middle-aged physician drained of energy and hope. Lying crumpled on the mattress, Townsend resembled little more than the husk of a dead arachnid.

  The vitriol was still coursing through the Irishman’s veins as he entered the room containing his biggest prize. He had little doubt that of his three captives, the politician was the most devious. However, the little matter of Tring’s cassette in his pocket was likely to prove a great leveller.

  Stephen Sellars was physically the opposite of Dr Martin Townsend. While the physician could be regarded as emaciated, the cabinet minister sported an expansive girth that owed much to the rich fare provided by some of London’s more salubrious eating establishments. Words of contrition were also not likely to be found readily in the minister’s lexicon. He regarded any admission of mistakes as a sign of weakness. Indeed, his peers regarded him as a master of spin. At the first hint of trouble, the slick Sellars machine would slip effortlessly into gear with arrant journalists being wined, dined and fed the party line. It had worked most of the time. True, the situation in which he now found himself was different, but the same principles applied. It was all a question of psychology. Mind games.

  ‘Ah, the good Secretary of State for Health,’ the Irishman sneered. ‘My God, you’re really quite gross, aren’t you. Why are most money-grabbing bastards fat? You know what your epitaph will be when you die? Here Lies Stephen Sellars. He Denied Himself Nothing.’

  Sellars was unmoved. He regarded himself as a master at dealing with such jibes. They were part and parcel of the political arena. ‘I don’t know why I am here or what you want from me,’ he said, trying to present a brave front, ‘but I’m sure you won’t deny me the satisfaction of knowing.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll tell you all right, Minister,’ said Kelly, smiling wryly. ‘I promise I won’t keep any secrets from you. You’re a corrupt bastard, Sellars, although that’s really not why you’re here. You see, you represent a malaise that’s been endemic in British governments for years. It doesn’t matter whether you’re Tory or Labour, you all kowtow to big business. It’s money that calls the shots, not the needs of the sick and disabled. You all just pay lip service to them. You so-called Socialists even brought in the rule that makes the disabled undergo a grilling every three years. You said it was to curb benefit cheats, but what about the other side of the coin?’

  Sellars shifted his massive bulk uneasily. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,’ he said genuinely.

  ‘What about those people who’re in terrible agony but look normal. What about those who are turned down for benefit because some bureaucrat thinks they’re swinging the lead. All you people ever think of is saving a buck.’

  ‘I still don’t see your point.’

  ‘Teresa Kelly is my point,’ the Irishman said, and fell silent for a few seconds as the bitter memories flooded back. He then gave his captive a potted history of the suffering and subsequent demise of his wife and those like her. It didn’t get any easier with each telling.

  Sellars listened intently to his captor. The man was obviously hurting. He couldn’t bring his wife back, but he could make promises. A politician could always make promises. ‘I’m sorry about your wife, and I promise to raise all your grievances with the PM personally.’

  ‘Your promises ain’t worth jack-shit, Minister, and you know it.’

  ‘Then what do you intend to do with me?’

  ‘You saw the syringe.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Maybe, but that’s for you to guess and me to know.’

  ‘The police will find us. You’ll go to jail for the rest of your life unless—’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Unless I give evidence on your behalf. You know, mitigating circumstances.’

  ‘You assume too much, Minister. You assume that I care about saving your skin as much as you care about saving yours. I only care that my demands are met.’

  ‘And what are they?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough and, by the way, I’ll be informing the police of our exact whereabouts. They’ll be very interested in trying to make sure that both of us spend time at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Sellars, his stomach churning.

  ‘One of my other guests is Professor Jonathan Tring. You know who he is, don’t you? You know, Sellars, for such a shit you’re underwear’s pretty clean. But not for long. This is a tape of you being bought off by Jack Proctor. You’ll hear it when the media’ll broadcast it. Until then I’ll leave it to your imagination.’

  The health secretary broke into a cold sweat. He knew that no amount of spin could wipe clean the tiny cassette now raised high in his captor’s right hand.

  Kelly, enjoying Sellars’ obvious discomfort, turned on his heels and left the room. He almost skipped down the stairs. The time had come to inform the police, and he felt more purposeful and more determined than ever to remain true to his wife’s memory. The world was about to be educated about the dangers of invasive spinal procedures. And only God knew how it was all going to end.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE SIEGE – DAY ONE

  The explosion, when it happened, took everyone by surprise. It was not that they didn’t take the hostage takers seriously. It was that the threat of violence usually remained just that.

  ‘Jesus Christ, these guys really mean business,’ Commander Bob Simmons growled, as he ducked behind one of the ubiquitous red DPG vehicles. Sods of rudely disturbed soil crashed all around him. The man in charge at the sharp end of Operation Whitehall, the codename hurriedly given to the task of bringing this particular incident to a peaceful end, looke
d nervously around him. Other members of the various units within Specialist Ops could be seen either lying flat on the ground or crouching behind their own cars. My God, he thought, they’d only just got there and the shit was already hitting the fan. This one was definitely not going by the book.

  ‘You okay, Bob?’ came a familiar voice alongside him.

  Simmons was glad to see the rotund figure of a veritable legend within the ranks of SO7, the Hostage and Extortion Unit. A proud Welshman from the Rhonda, Dai Hopkin was the hostage negotiator’s negotiator, a man who could talk himself into a desperate man’s psyche, unravel it and put it together again to construct the perfect pussycat.

  ‘They must have known I was coming, boyo,’ the fat man said jokingly as he straightened up and tucked an errant shirttail into his voluminous trousers. ‘What do we know so far?’

  Simmons stared pensively at the cottage. ‘He told us not to approach the building closer than fifty yards or we’d get a nasty surprise.’

  ‘He wasn’t joking.’

  ‘He was using an electronic voice disguiser, but I think he’s Irish.’

  ‘IRA?’

  ‘I don’t think so. What would he be doing holding a scientist and a doctor as well as Sellars?’

  ‘He told you?’

  ‘Yeah, he mentioned them by name. Said he’d use the Internet to broadcast his demands. He said everything would become abundantly clear. Gave us the domain. The web cam just shows a chair and the back wall of the room. Impossible to tell which room, although I’d guess it’s at the front of the cottage. I hate those fucking mirror blinds.’

  ‘Have you got his phone number?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a mobile.’

  ‘Did you give him yours?’

  ‘Yeah. I told him to call anytime he wanted.’

  ‘Has he got a landline?’

  ‘Yeah, but he says that it’s dedicated for the web. He’s adamant that he won’t use the line for calls.’

  Hopkin rubbed his chin pensively. While cellular phones could be monitored using a short-wave radio receiver and scanner, it was a two-edged sword. The media might also find the frequency and listen to the whole caboodle. They would be better off if they could get a throw phone in there.

  ‘He’s not alone, Dai,’ said Simmons, cutting into the Welshman’s train of thought. ‘If there was only one hostage, maybe, but more will take some controlling.’

  ‘Yeah, I agree, but how many?’

  ‘The bare minimum’s got to be two, probably more. They’d need to keep an eye on every angle. He told us the perimeter was mined and that he’d got surveillance cameras and mikes everywhere. A real gadget man.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got some new toys of our own, boyo,’ Hopkin growled.

  ‘What about the MDR?’ Thanks to Hughes Missile Systems, entry rescue units now had access to a compact Motion Detection Radar, which could penetrate non-metallic walls and tell them how many people were in Rosedale Cottage and also their locations.

  ‘We’ve got to get it within thirty yards,’ Simmons grunted. ‘He’ll probably blow it to smithereens if we used it during daylight.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Hopkin pondered, running his finger and thumb along his neatly trimmed moustache. ‘Run it up at night and get it back before it gets light.’

  ‘What if he’s got night vision?’

  ‘It’s a chance we’ve got to take, Bob. This one’s a pro all right, and it’s political.’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘No, not the IRA or the Middle East. Politics of a different kind, maybe Animal Rights. Anyway, he’s soon going to enlighten us. How well armed do you think he is?’

  ‘To the hilt,’ Simmons grunted, ‘judging by that welcome. Whatever he’s got he knows how to use it. I believe he must have a military background.’

  Hopkin glanced around. The police presence was massive. There must have been at least twenty cars and vans surrounding the cottage, albeit at a radius of fifty yards. Soon they’d be more. Support vehicles, ambulances, and a couple of fire engines. Then would come the media circus, clamouring to get as close as it could. He could see the snipers searching for good vantage points to construct their hides. Soon they would be straining every sinew to get a pot shot at God knows who. He had never liked the use of force. In most cases it proved unnecessary. He also didn’t like handling huge negotiating teams. The assistant commissioner in charge of specialist ops had ordered everything but the kitchen sink: sixteen people and a dog, presumably in case the hostage takers spoke bow-wow. There were also two negotiating mobile command posts, an equipment trailer and enough incidental stuff to open a shopping mall. He himself was of the old school, believing that negotiators who lacked the bells and whistles often came up trumps because they had to work extra hard and be super-creative in resolving incidents. Negotiators could become complacent when surrounded by a large assisting team and expensive equipment. ‘Keep this lot under control, Bill,’ he said quietly. ‘Our only friend at the moment is time.’

  Kieran Kelly surveyed the scene with a quiet satisfaction. The first stage had gone according to plan. The remote controlled explosion had worked and his adversaries now knew that he meant business. He stared at the console in front of him, gratified that he could see their every move, while they could see nothing.

  ‘They must be dying to know how many there are of us and what we’re about,’ said Sean Callaghan over his friend’s shoulder.

  Kelly smiled and tapped the computer screen in front of him. ‘God bless broadband technology,’ he said. ‘Power to the people.’ Ever since he had bought the machine, he had become hooked on its ability to garner information. Someone had once said that knowledge was power, and the Internet could provide as much knowledge as anyone could ever need. The beauty was that with a web cam you could put yourself online to the world. Streaming had reached such a level of sophistication that it was as if every computer owner could run his own TV station. In the last year, photon technology had made all this possible. He’d read somewhere that the whole of the world’s population could watch one man’s web cast without it overloading the service provider. They were in a new century and all this recent innovation meant that he, Kieran Patrick Kelly, could reach the world with his message. The only thing that could prevent this would be if the service provider pulled the plug, so it was time to make sure that that was unlikely to happen. He inclined his head slightly towards the thin sliver of plastic attached to the top pocket of his shirt. ‘Baldrick,’ he said firmly. There was a beep as the codeword activated the brand new thin mobile phone. He then spoke the numbers clearly and precisely and waited.

  Bob Simmons was startled by the sudden ringing tone of the mobile he’d dedicated solely for dealing with the hostage takers. He spoke his own particular codeword and acknowledged his caller.

  The Irishman brought the voice distorter level with his throat. ‘Good morning once again, Commander,’ he said, almost with bonhomie. ‘It’s time for me to give you information about tonight’s broadcast. At nine o’clock this evening you and the rest of the world will find out what this is all about. Just make sure the ISP keeps me live. I’ll be watching myself, anyway.’

  Hopkin brought a closed fist to his right ear and mouthed the words ‘throw-phone’. He knew that this piece of equipment could be more useful than a firearm. They were purpose-built with around one thousand feet of military-grade field cable and they could work off an internal battery. These units included headsets for the negotiator with an on/off switch, outlets for additional headsets, jacks for external speakers and tape recording facilities. But some of them had another, more vital weapon in the chief negotiator’s armoury: an internal, highly sensitive microphone that would allow them to monitor conversations in the cottage, even when the phone was not in use. The only problem was that any information gleaned from the bug would have to be denied a chief negotiator in order to prevent him from inadvertently using it with the hostage takers. They would immediately smell a rat and put
the whole operation in jeopardy. Another useful facet of the system was that it also contained a signalling light, so that team members could readily tell when the phone was active. The field cable could also be marked in measured increments, so that when the hostage taker was on the telephone, his exact position could be accurately determined. The big question was whether or not the men in Rosedale Cottage would buy the proposal.

  ‘Er, listen,’ Simmons spoke hesitantly into his mobile, ‘we don’t want the press picking up on our conversations. How about letting us get a throw-phone into you. It’s just a line between you and us. Everything could then be private.’

  ‘So that you can bug it and listen to everything we say?’ Kelly laughed. What kind of fool did they take him for?

  Simmons looked at Hopkin and shook his head. ‘Okay, listen, the next call you get will be from our chief negotiator. His name’s Dai Hopkin and he’s a good man.’

  ‘You mean I can trust him,’ said Kelly, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  ‘Look, we’re going to need a name for you, any name.’

  ‘Okay. You can call me Spinal Tap.’

  ‘But that’s a rock group.’

  ‘I have my reasons. It’s either Spinal Tap or Mr X, and I prefer the former.’

  Simmons snarled with undisguised contempt. ‘Okay, Mr Tap, or would you prefer Spinal?’

  Hopkin shook his head. His boss was using the wrong tone with the man. Everything had to be kept very smooth, very unthreatening. With a circular motion of his index finger, the Welshman intimated to his colleague to wind up the conversation.

  Kelly was enjoying himself. There was nothing he liked better than taunting authority. ‘You can try calling me after the broadcast. Whenever my phone is off, it means I don’t want to talk to you. Don’t try any games. We can see and hear everything you do. Keep your monkeys at least fifty yards away or the hostages get it.’