Seven Bridges

by LJ Ross

  Wendy inched a little closer and reached across to take his hand, which she cradled on her lap. She looked down at the man’s skin and remembered when it had been a tiny baby’s hand that clung to her finger only hours after he had come into the world shrieking and crying, ready to make himself heard. Now, when she glanced across at her son’s profile and saw how pale he had become, how shadowed his eyes were after months of unrest, she thought of the boy she had nurtured and wondered where he had gone.

  “What are you thinking of, son?”

  Jack felt his mother’s soft hands holding his and almost succumbed to tears, but they did not come. As the television blared, he thought only of one thing.

  Jennifer.

  “Nothing,” he lied.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, as he watched the images moving across the screen while she stared out of the living room window and watched the first snow begin to fall outside.

  “We’ve missed you, Jack,” she whispered. “We were so worried about you.”

  His chest tightened but he said nothing, and she began to rub soothing circles against the back of his hand.

  “You’ve changed, love,” she murmured. “You’re not the same person you used to be.”

  Jack opened his mouth to deny it, but no sound came out.

  “I don’t know if we’ll ever get the old Jack back again but, you know, that’s alright,” she continued softly. “That’s okay, because nobody stays the same forever. Do they?”

  He looked away from the television and into her tear-drenched eyes.

  “Mum?”

  She dashed a tear away and gave him a sunny smile.

  “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “I love you.”

  Her arms opened wide and she held him tightly, rocking gently as he poured out all the grief and the heartache, all the memories he’d never tell another living soul.

  Outside, she watched the snow fall, covering the earth with a blanket of white.

  * * *

  On the other side of the city, Ryan faced a roomful of police and service personnel from inside the so-called ‘Black Gate’ of the castle, an area formerly used to enforce mediaeval law but more recently used as a museum, conference and events facility. Having commandeered one such meeting space, the room was populated by staff from the EOD Unit, Firearms and local police sergeants as well as members of CID in an attempt to manage a multi-taskforce approach to a threat facing two neighbouring cities and the many thousands of people who lived there.

  “I’ve heard back from GCHQ,” Ryan was saying. “They have confirmed what our internal tech team have already identified: namely, that the server hosting the website www.savethebridges.org is based out of the Ukraine. Our colleagues in GCHQ have already contacted the authorities over there to ask for details about the web host but, so far, have received no response.”

  “Sir? Can’t we just ask them to take down the website?” Trainee detective Melanie Yates asked, from the corner of the room.

  Ryan shook his head.

  “GCHQ can take down the website by instigating a DOS attack—”

  “Howay man, that’s another Scrabble word,” Phillips complained, eliciting a couple of snorts around the room.

  “A DOS or ‘Denial of Service’ attack is where a host server is flooded with requests so that it becomes inoperative and nobody can access it,” Ryan elaborated. “Unfortunately, the warning we received this morning explicitly forbade any such measure.”

  “Sneaky bastard, isn’t he?” Phillips remarked.

  “That he is,” Ryan agreed. “The Alchemist is no fool; they know a bit about computers as well as something about explosives. Which leads me to my next update, concerning the ingredients we managed to extract from the debris left over from the first explosion. Nobel? Can you bring us up to speed on the type of device we’re expecting to find?”

  Ryan gestured the army captain forward to allow him to step through the components.

  “Right, listen up,” he said, with a ludicrous wink for MacKenzie, who eyed him with a dislike so intense it was almost comical. “We sent across the samples of circuit board, wiring and other residue we found to the lab and they worked on it all through the night. Turns out, our alchemist is a decent chemist, after all. It’s likely he used an IED—”

  “That’s an improvised explosive device, for the dinosaurs amongst us,” Ryan put in, and received a withering look from his sergeant.

  “It works by marrying an explosive main charge with an electrical fusing system that contains components from a device used to detonate, such as a mobile phone or a garage door opener,” Nobel continued. “It usually has four main components: a power supply, an initiator, explosive material and a switch. There are various designs, but our perp opted for a tried and tested rucksack, in this case. We found canvas material near the epicentre of the blast that would be consistent with the fibres of an ordinary rucksack.”

  “What about the explosive materials?” MacKenzie asked. “Can you give us some idea of what was used?”

  “It gets a bit complicated,” Nobel told her, and for a moment she expected to be patted on the head. “In this case, he used C-4 as the major component, which is a kind of white, pliable, military plastic-bonded explosive contained cyclonite. It’s not easy to come by, and would definitely have flagged as a security alert with GCHQ if anybody searched for it online.”

  There were nods around the room.

  “Anything else?” Ryan asked.

  “We found ammonium nitrate, the remnants of wiring and circuit boards…it’s all consistent with a combination-type explosive.”

  “What do you mean when you say ‘combination’?” This, from one of the sergeants.

  “I mean it’s both an incendiary and an explosive device. For those of you who saw the blast last night, you’ll remember there was a loud blast which blew a hole in the road tarmac and a small area of the bridge but there was also a fire, which lasted longer than the initial explosion. Our alchemist wanted the best of both, I’d say.”

  “Peacocking a bit,” Ryan remarked, almost to himself. “Thanks, Nobel. We’ll hand it over to our tech support team and GCHQ, to see if we get lucky and find that somebody ordered everything in one nice, easy delivery package.”

  “I think I just saw a pig fly,” Phillips remarked.

  Ryan huffed out a laugh.

  “I can get on to GCHQ and ask them to start trawling through internet searches for those ingredients but it’s unlikely our perp used Google or any other ordinary search engine. More likely, he went underground with it,” Ryan said. “Besides, there isn’t a cat in hell’s chance that we’d find out anything helpful before noon today.”

  There were murmurs of assent around the room.

  “Frank? Where are we with CCTV?”

  Phillips rubbed a hand across his jaw and realised he’d forgotten to shave.

  “I’ve spoken to the Council and a load of other local businesses around both entrances to the Tyne Bridge but it’s going to take time we don’t have to go through all the footage they’re sending through. The worst of it is, they usually only keep the reels for a couple of weeks. It all depends how far in advance they planted the bomb, doesn’t it?”

  Ryan looked back at Nobel, who was lounging against one of the old stone walls.

  “Gary? What’s your assessment of the other six bridges in the vicinity?”

  “Our lads have done a walk-over on each of them,” he said. “They’re still out there, now, circling back around for another pass over the bridges to be sure they haven’t missed anything on sight. After that, I don’t know what I can tell you besides what you already know. You need to evacuate.”

  Ryan gave a brief shake of his head.

  “Again, that was expressly forbidden in the warning message. We’re taking enough of a risk, as it is, allowing your team to check the bridges on foot.”

  Ryan checked the time, which read ten-thirty, and turned to his trainee, Melanie Y
ates, who had returned from her stint at the offices of The Enquirer.

  “Yates? What can you tell us?”

  She was becoming more accustomed to public speaking but, even so, pressure weighed on each person in the room and she could sense a degree of impatience while they waited for her to collect her thoughts.

  She swallowed her nerves and forced herself to step up.

  “Sir. I took statements from members of the news team at The Enquirer first thing this morning. A woman called Beverley Anderson, goes by the name ‘Bev’, was on the evening shift last night. She was responsible for keeping tabs on all incoming news alerts and that includes monitoring the e-mail inbox for general news desk enquiries, which is enquiries@enquirernewsdesk.co.uk.”

  “Did she explain why it took her twenty minutes to report a suspicious e-mail?”

  “She claims that, at first, she thought it was just a hoax.”

  “Oh, really? How convenient that we were met with a full press junket when we made it down to the Quayside last night.”

  Yates nodded her agreement.

  “I remembered what you told me about there being no real coincidences in our business, sir,” Yates said. “That’s why I asked to see her outgoing mailbox.”

  Ryan grinned.

  “And?”

  “She was resistant, at first, but I managed to persuade her it was the right thing to do,” Yates said, with an air of deceptive guile. “I found several e-mails sent from her address to her colleagues within The Enquirer, as well as to local television broadcasters and wider nationals.”

  Ryan wasn’t surprised.

  “I hope you explained the gravity of withholding evidence,” he said, and watched her eyes light up.

  “Oh, yes, sir. I took the opportunity to remind her of the penalty for obstructing an investigation and lying to a police officer, too.”

  “Good,” Ryan said, roundly. “I’ll hazard a guess that our friend at the news desk also saw fit to leak the details of the second warning to the press earlier this morning, correct?”

  “It would not be outside the realms of possibility.”

  Ryan ran an agitated hand through his hair.

  “How much have people donated, so far?” he asked, of nobody in particular.

  There were a few shuffles as people typed in the web address.

  “Three hundred and seven thousand—no, three hundred and ten thousand now, sir.”

  Ryan looked across at the police constable who’d called out the total.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  But the faces around the room confirmed it.

  “Number’s rising every minute,” MacKenzie told him, glancing down at the offensive bitcoin counter graphic, which showed a cartoon dragon breathing fire against a bridge every time the counter rose.

  Ryan thought quickly and came to a decision.

  “Yates? Get in touch with Bev from The Enquirer. Tell her I’m going to give a press conference and she can have the first scoop,” he said, then, turning to the others, added, “That’s sure to guarantee that every journalist within a thirty-mile radius will hear about it.”

  “What’re you going to tell them?” Phillips asked.

  “What they need to hear,” came the surly reply.

  CHAPTER 13

  When Anna returned home to Elsdon, there was a stack of unopened mail waiting on the flagstone floor. She bent down to scoop it up, nudging the front door closed with her hip and breathing a sigh of relief as it shut out the cold air blowing in from the hills outside.

  “Freezing,” she muttered, dumping the stack of assorted letters and junk mail on the kitchen worktop.

  It wasn’t until she had taken her first sip of hot tea that she thought about sifting through it all, and her fingers flicked through the paperwork with mild interest.

  Then, stilled.

  A postcard showing an artsy, black and white photograph of the Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna was nestled between a catalogue and what appeared to be an electricity bill. Carefully, she reached for a knife from the drawer beside her and used it to flip the postcard over, although she already knew what she would find.

  It was blank, except for the stamp and postmark—and their home address, written in neat, black capital lettering.

  Anna stared at it for long moments, then headed directly to Ryan’s study where she knew he kept packets of unused nitrile gloves and fresh plastic evidence bags.

  A moment later, she returned, suitably kitted out.

  Using gloved fingertips on the extreme edge of the postcard, she scooped it into the evidence bag, then made sure to put the gloves in another one before setting both of them on Ryan’s desk for him to look at, later.

  Yes, she thought. She was learning a thing or two.

  The tea had gone cold by the time she picked it up again, but she didn’t care; she thought of the man who had sent the postcard, of a killer who knew their address. Oh, they hadn’t been able to prove it was Nathan Armstrong who had sent the other cards; he’d been so careful. And when Ryan had taken them to Faulkner’s team of CSIs for analysis, there had been no DNA match in the saliva from the stamp to any known person, either living or dead. What’s more, the DNA had been different on each stamp.

  But they knew it was Armstrong behind them.

  Who else could it be?

  Though she knew it was foolish, Anna set her tea down with a small splash and hurried back into the hallway to bolt the front door.

  * * *

  Back in the city centre, Ryan stood outside the gateway to the Castle Keep and faced a barrage of questions from the reporters who gathered in a huddle outside. As he had predicted, word had spread quickly, and it did not take long for them to arrive armed with mics, cameras and dictaphones.

  “DCI Ryan! Can you tell us what progress has been made in finding the person responsible for last night’s bombing? Is it true they’re calling themselves The Alchemist?”

  Ryan turned to face an eagle-eyed journalist from the local television news.

  “We are taking every proper measure to find and apprehend those responsible for the attack last night,” he told her. “We will continue to follow every avenue available to us.”

  “But what about the latest threat?” she threw back. “The bomber is moving very quickly. How can you hope to stop them in time?”

  Ryan told himself to be patient.

  “We are pursuing all leads.”

  More voices called out.

  “What about paying the ransom?” somebody called out. “How do you know the bomber won’t strike again? Isn’t it better to pay the ransom now?”

  Ryan sought out the voice in the crowd and found himself looking at a blonde-haired woman of around thirty-five matching the description of Beverley Anderson, the woman in charge of The Enquirer news desk.

  “We do not accede to the demands of terrorists,” he said, firmly.

  He was cut off as more questions were called out and he held up a hand until they died down again.

  “What I really want to do is make a personal appeal to every resident of Newcastle and Gateshead. I want to tell them that I understand how they might have felt as they watched an explosion hit one of our best-loved landmarks last night. I may not have been born in the North,” he admitted, “but I’ve lived here for ten—nearly eleven years and I’m proud to call it my home. My wife is from your neck of the woods and can trace her family history back generations. I feel your pain, when you look at the scorched metal and tarmac on that bridge, believe me.”

  He paused to let that sink in, before continuing.

  “But the fact is, this isn’t about metal girders or steel arches. It’s about the people who made them and moulded this landscape. It’s about shared values and being able to trust our neighbours. It’s about fighting for the things we believe in rather than giving in to a glorified bully. We can build other bridges on the foundations of the old, if we have to, and be proud that we stood up for what was right.”
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  Ryan paused while his words carried on the air.

  “I’m going to ask people not to donate their hard-earned cash to whatever monster is threatening our way of life. Don’t log onto the website and donate bitcoins because you are only fuelling their greed.”

  “What can they do instead?” one woman called out. “Are they supposed to sit at home, waiting and worrying?”

  Ryan paused before answering, considering his words carefully so they could not be misconstrued by anybody watching as an attempt to evacuate.

  “They can trust their law enforcement agencies to act with their best interests at heart. They can receive regular updates on our progress via the extensive news coverage and we will, of course, work closely with you all to keep the lines of communication open.”

  “Is there any connection between these attacks and the death of DCS Jennifer Lucas?” Another intrepid reporter called out, and Ryan was not altogether surprised by the question. In fact, he was only surprised somebody hadn’t asked it sooner.

  “I speak on behalf of everybody in the Northumbria Police Constabulary when I say that we were very sorry to hear the news of our colleague’s death yesterday. However, I have no knowledge of the progress of the investigation as the decision was taken, very properly, to enlist one of our colleagues from a neighbouring constabulary. Even if I were the Senior Investigating Officer, my answer would be the same: I do not comment on details pertaining to an active investigation.”

  Ryan was about to call the conference to an end when there was a final flurry.

  “Isn’t it true that the constabulary has suffered a series of setbacks during your tenure?” one man took pleasure in pointing out. “Some might think you’re out of your depth, Chief Inspector.”

  Ryan turned to him with hard, unyielding eyes.

  “Let them think it,” he said bluntly. “I refer you to an exemplary record of public service over the past fifteen years. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more important things to worry about than whether I’m the flavour of the month.”

  * * *

  As Ryan finished his plea to the people of Newcastle and Gateshead, Ben Potter brought the train he was driving to a standstill on the south side of the High Level Bridge. He lifted his arms above his head and tried to stretch out the aches and pains, looking forward to the end of his shift when he could go out for a few beers with the lads.