The laptop bleeped.
‘The car’s moving,’ said Orla excitedly. ‘He’s turning onto Uxbridge Road, heading east back towards Hangar Lane.’
Scope was on a back street parallel to the main road but the wrong side of the police station. He did a quick U-turn, overtook a car moving slowly ahead of him and two minutes later he was back on the Uxbridge Road. This time he was far less subtle in his driving, overtaking two cars in front and having to cut back in fast, to avoid a van coming the other way.
‘Slow down. He’s only fifty yards ahead. He’ll see us.’
Scope forced himself to drop the pace as they drove past Ealing Common, keeping well back, aware that he could blow this very easily, but even more aware of the clock on the dashboard telling him it was 10.20 a.m. He had the Jaguar in his sights a dozen cars in front, but at the North Circular junction traffic lights Bale got through and Scope didn’t.
Within five minutes, though, Scope was back within a dozen cars of Bale as they passed through the Hangar Lane junction. The problem was there were still far too many people about for Scope to do anything without drawing attention to himself, and the traffic was moving too quickly for him to jump inside the Jaguar, even if he was prepared to take that risk.
Bale temporarily disappeared from view as Scope came to a halt behind a lorry.
‘Okay, he’s turning right up ahead,’ announced Orla, still staring at the screen. ‘He’s turned.’
Scope stuck his nose out behind the lorry, but there was no way through and he was forced to wait until the traffic started moving again.
‘Okay, right down here,’ she said, pointing at a turning into a residential street on the other side of the road.
Scope pulled into the middle of the road but was forced to wait precious seconds for a big enough gap in the oncoming cars, before he pulled across in a screech of tyres. There was no sign of the Jaguar, but Orla was doing a good job of telling him which route to follow, making him glad that he’d brought her.
‘You’re on the road parallel to him now,’ she said, ‘and we’re almost level. There’s a junction up ahead. Turn left there and we can cut him off.’
The street – two long rows of 1950s terraces – was quiet, and there was no traffic up ahead, so Scope accelerated, the dial picking up towards fifty. A young Asian woman pushing a pram gave him an angry look and gestured for him to slow down, but he ignored her. The dashboard clock said 10.28.
The junction loomed up ahead and Scope slammed on the brakes, before yanking the wheel hard left and almost hitting a dustcart sitting in the middle of the road. The car squealed to a halt just behind it, and two dustmen unloading rubbish into the back both turned and scowled at him. There was no way past them as the dustcart crawled further along the road, and Scope’s only hope was that it would block the road that Frank Bale was travelling down and force him to a halt.
Except it didn’t. Up ahead, Scope saw the Jaguar pull up at the junction and dart across in front of the dustcart.
He cursed, slamming his fist down on the horn, hoping he could speed it up. But still it crawled slowly forward as the various bins were collected.
A gap finally appeared as the dustcart approached the junction from which the Jaguar had emerged, and Scope yanked the wheel and mounted the pavement, almost knocking over two of the bin men as he got in front of the dustcart and accelerated up the road.
‘Where’s he now?’ he demanded.
‘He’s about four hundred yards up ahead and …’ Orla paused. ‘Looks like he’s slowing down.’ Another pause. ‘He’s stopped.’
‘Where?’
Her expression was puzzled. ‘Looks like the Central Middlesex Hospital.’
‘Are you all right, Tim?’ asked Brenda Foxley, a tough-looking yet kindly MP from the Labour back benches, who served on the committee with him. ‘You haven’t been yourself today.’
It had just turned 10.30 a.m. and they were walking down the corridor towards the Portcullis Room, where the hearing was to take place, the remainder of the committee and the attendant researchers following in a loose line behind them as they passed through the metal detectors.
Tim forced a smile. He liked Brenda, having known her close to ten years now. They’d even had a brief fling once, not long after Max had been born; and she’d be sitting next to him today. Which meant that unless Scope came up with something very fast, she’d be dead too within the next half an hour. ‘I’m fine. I’ve just been a bit under the weather lately, that’s all. I think I might be coming down with flu.’
‘Don’t give it to me, then. I’m off to Malaysia next week on that fact-finding tour, and I don’t want to miss out on the chance of sunshine.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, unable to keep the smile going. ‘I don’t think it’s catching.’
The men’s toilets were coming up on the left and Horton excused himself, walking up to the third cubicle, his heart hammering in his chest. The door was slightly ajar and he went inside, locking it behind him. One of the other cubicles was occupied by someone who was making a lot of noise clearing his throat, and Horton wondered whether he too was going to be attending the hearing.
He bent down and reached round the back of the toilet bowl, immediately feeling the mobile. It was affixed to the bowl with duct tape, and he slowly peeled it off, before gingerly placing the unit on the toilet seat. It didn’t consist of much. Part of the mobile’s casing had been removed and two wires – one black, one red – ran from its circuit board directly into a thin, mobile-phone-sized block of plastic explosive wrapped in protective film. The whole thing was held together by a single tightened canvas strap.
Horton stared at it for a long time. It wouldn’t have been difficult for someone who knew what they were doing to get the various components through the metal detectors before assembling it in here, but it was still a terrifying thought that determined individuals could bring such weaponry into the mother of all Parliaments. It looked so innocuous as well, but he knew the damage it would do. The phone vibration would set off the first explosion, which would set off the bigger package of plastic explosives in the vest’s lower pocket and blow the hearing room to smithereens. He’d be killed instantly. No question.
He looked at his phone, hoping he’d missed a call from Scope, but he hadn’t. This was the moment of truth. If he put the bomb in the vest, he’d be a dead man walking, with no control over his destiny. But if he didn’t and Scope failed, then Max died, and he’d have to live with the guilt for the rest of his life.
The man in the other stall farted loudly and Horton shut his eyes tightly. He had no choice. In the end, he had no choice.
Pulling up his shirt, he slipped the bomb inside the empty pocket.
19
The underground car park at the Central Middlesex Hospital was almost full, and there was no immediate sign of either Frank Bale’s Jaguar or Frank Bale himself, as Scope drove to the hospital entrance and pulled up.
‘Park the car and meet me inside,’ he told Orla. ‘He’s got to be in there somewhere.’ He got out and headed through the double doors. There were only two reasons why Bale could be here. Either he was visiting a friend or relative, or he was coming to speak to a prisoner being treated here. If it was the latter, then he’d have to sign in, which at least narrowed it down a bit.
The reception area was spacious, modern and surprisingly quiet. A middle-aged woman with big glasses sat behind the counter, and he went over. ‘Has DCI Bale signed in yet?’ he asked. ‘It would have been in the last few minutes.’
She shook her head. ‘Certainly not in the last few minutes. I’ve been here.’
Scope acted puzzled. ‘Oh. Well, you might have seen him walk past. He’s a very big guy – quite fat, to be honest – almost bald, but with a few wisps of sandy hair. He stands out.’
‘Oh yes, him. I think he went by a few minutes ago. He had flowers with him. I’ve seen him a few times lately.’
If Bale was visiting,
and with flowers too, it had to be someone very close to him. Especially on a day like this, when he was always going to be preoccupied. Scope guessed it had to be his mother. ‘Do you have a Mrs Bale staying here?’ he asked.
For the first time the receptionist looked at him with suspicion. ‘I’m afraid that’s confidential information. Who are you exactly?’
‘A friend of DCI Bale’s,’ he said. ‘It’s very important I speak to him.’
‘I can’t help,’ she answered, stony-faced.
Knowing he couldn’t force the issue, Scope turned away as Orla came through the door.
‘Bale’s brought flowers, so I’m guessing he’s visiting a female relative. Maybe his mum or his wife. We’re going to have to split up and search for him ward by ward. Just ask any staff member you see if they know which bed Mrs Bale’s in. You start at the bottom. I’ll do the top. If you find out, call me immediately, but don’t try anything, whatever you do. This guy’s dangerous.’
She nodded. ‘Okay, I’m on it.’
He smiled at her then. ‘Thanks. I appreciate this.’
She nodded and they parted company, with Scope making for the escalators, and already dialling T Rex’s number in the hope that the hacker could access the hospital’s database and speed things up.
It was 10.51 a.m.
The room smelled of air freshener and decay, as it always did, which was why Frank always brought fresh cut flowers with him when he visited. For a few minutes at least, they managed to mask that stench of impending doom.
Frank’s mother was dying. She was seventy-seven and had just had her third stroke in as many years – this one so massive that it had effectively left her brain-dead. The doctors had told him that they wanted to withhold fluids and let her die peacefully. Frank had consented, on the proviso she was given her own room so that at least she could go with dignity, and they’d agreed.
‘Hello, Mum,’ he said, looking down at the wizened and shrunken shadow of who his mother had once been. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing peacefully as Frank bent down and gave her a kiss on the forehead. Next he changed the old flowers and the water in the vase, before carefully arranging the new ones. He took a deep breath of their scent, then switched on the TV at the end of the bed, turning to Sky News, where they were just about to begin live coverage of the parliamentary select-committee hearing into football match-fixing.
Frank stood staring at the screen as the camera panned round the hearing room, taking in the members of public and the journalists seated in rows behind the empty table where those giving evidence were going to sit, before stopping in front of the select committee itself – nine smartly dressed, well-scrubbed politicians: six men, three women – who were now taking their seats, as a couple of pedestrian-looking security guards looked on. In the middle was the committee’s chairman, Garth Crossman, a high-flying new addition to the Conservative Party who’d been tipped for the top, and whose right-wing views resonated with the general public. It seemed a pity that Crossman had to die, because his views resonated with Frank’s as well, but for a hundred and fifty grand he wasn’t going to shed any tears. Third from the left was Tim Horton. He was wearing the two-piece suit he’d had on in the hotel room earlier. The buttons were done up, but Frank could just make out the telltale bulge of the explosives. Tim looked tense and his cheeks were flushed, but he was acting normally, at least on the face of it. Frank felt his breathing getting faster as he realized the full enormity of what he was about to do. He was going to make history. Tomorrow every one of the world’s media outlets would lead with this story. It was an incredible feeling.
The door to the meeting room opened and Matt Cohen, the man Tim Horton was here to kill, walked in, accompanied by a security guard.
Without taking his eyes off the screen, he reached into his pocket for the mobile phone.
The clock on the screen said 10.57.
20
As far as Tim Horton was concerned, Matt Cohen looked every inch the archetypal football agent. He had black slicked-back hair, a fake tan, an even faker sincere expression in his eyes, and an expensive suit that was either way ahead of its time or twenty years out of date, depending on how charitable you were feeling. In Tim’s grandma’s day, they would have called him a spiv and he’d have been wearing a pork-pie hat.
Tim hardly noticed him now, even though they were barely five yards apart. The committee’s chairman, Garth Crossman, the charismatic Conservative new boy whom Tim didn’t trust one iota, was opening the hearing but his words were a faraway blur.
The whole world seemed to be moving in muffled slow motion for him now. It was like being drunk. He couldn’t think straight. His heart was battering at his chest and he was sweating profusely. He wondered if the TV was picking up on his appearance. He wondered too if Diane was watching and, if she was, what she was thinking. Was she willing him to do it? To die so that their son could live?
‘Tim, you look terrible,’ whispered Brenda Foxley, putting a hand on his arm. ‘I think you should say something to Garth. I’m serious.’
‘Oh God!’ said Tim, loud enough to be picked up by the mike on the desk in front of him, and the next second he was on his feet and rushing towards the exit, tearing at his suit, knowing he had to get rid of the bomb. No longer thinking straight. No longer thinking of anything at all, bar survival.
Frank Bale cursed as Tim Horton leaped from his seat, tearing at his jacket like a cut-price Superman. He pressed the Call button on the phone in his hand and counted down the seconds as it connected to the phone attached to the bomb. The TV camera followed Horton as he rushed towards the door behind the committee table and in the opposite direction to Matt Cohen, who, like everyone else, was out of his seat, wondering what on earth was going on. Tim’s jacket was off now, and he was struggling to unbutton his shirt, while still making for the door, when a security guard appeared in shot, blocking his way, arms outstretched in a calm-down gesture.
‘Get hold of him,’ whispered Frank, clutching the phone to his ear, willing the guard to block Horton’s escape.
‘Get back! It’s a bomb!’ Tim yelled as the security guard appeared in front of him. His shirt was open now, revealing the vest beneath, and he was scrabbling at the Velcro on the pocket, trying to open it so he could chuck the bomb out of the door.
The guard’s eyes widened and he dived out the way as Tim yanked open the Velcro, charging for the door, his mind suddenly totally clear. His fingers wrapped round the bomb and he started to pull it out, screaming at a young female researcher who was standing frozen next to the door to get out the way. Tim was running now, only a couple of yards away from the door, ripping the bomb out of its pocket.
Which was the moment he felt it vibrate in his hand, and then the whole world seemed to erupt in a flash of intense noise and white blinding light.
Frank saw the explosion on TV. One second, Tim was holding up the bomb like a trophy as he reached for the door handle, the next he disappeared in a fiery flash and the camera was yanked away from the scene as the cameraman hit the deck.
A second, bigger explosion followed, and when the cameraman got back up a few seconds later the whole room seemed to be filled with smoke, and shouts of alarm and shock came from every side. And then, with exquisitely bad timing, Matt Cohen appeared in shot, looking as shocked as anybody, but still unfortunately very much alive.
As the cameras cut back to the studio, Frank cursed again and switched off the set. He was hoping the fact that Cohen was still alive wouldn’t affect his payment for the operation, although he suspected there’d be trouble as a result. Either way, he needed to think, and he couldn’t do it standing in this shitty little hospital room.
He gave his mother another kiss on the forehead, told her he’d be back later and went out into the corridor and some marginally fresher air.
21
Scope walked swiftly down the hospital corridor, wondering how long he could keep this up for. He was still waiting for T
Rex to come back to him with information about who Frank Bale could be visiting in a hospital this size, with five floors and five hundred beds. And all the time he knew that he might be too late. But he couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop until he found Max, and that meant finding Bale.
He approached an orderly pushing an old man in a bed towards him, and repeated what was fast becoming his standard spiel. ‘I’m looking for one of your patients, Mrs Bale, and I’m not sure what ward she’s staying on.’
The orderly looked at Scope blankly, then looked beyond his shoulder and frowned.
Scope turned round and saw two uniformed security guards approaching. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the closest one, a guy in his thirties with messy hair and too much weight round his middle. ‘Can you tell me who you’re here to see?’
‘A Mrs Bale,’ he answered as they stopped on either side of him. ‘I’m not sure what ward she’s on.’ He could tell immediately from their body language that they perceived him to be a potential problem. The second guard was younger and bigger, and the tension coming off him was obvious.
‘And are you a relative or a friend?’ asked the messy-haired one.
‘A friend.’
‘And what’s her first name?’
Scope could hear the phone ringing in his pocket. ‘Excuse me for a moment, I need to answer this.’
It was Orla, and she sounded breathless. ‘I’ve just seen Bale. He’s heading for the emergency exit on the second floor, just beyond the Maternity Ward.’
‘I’ll meet you down there,’ he said, conscious of the two guards watching him like hawks. ‘Keep him in sight but don’t do anything.’ He replaced the phone. ‘Thanks, I’m leaving now,’ he told the guards.
‘Yes, you are,’ said Messy Hair, putting a hand on Scope’s right arm, while his colleague did the same with his left. ‘We’ll escort you out.’
Dead Man's Gift and Other Stories Page 8
