by LJ Ross
“I’m not sure how I am,” he answered, honestly. “I can’t—I can’t seem to wrap my head around things.”
Anna cradled a mug of hot tea in one hand and the telephone receiver in the other, wishing she was there to give him a friendly hug.
“The feeling will pass,” she said. “Right now, it seems as though it’s the worst time in your life, but remember it will pass.”
“Thanks, Doctor Taylor,” he said, not unkindly.
“I’ll bill you, later,” she joked.
Another pause.
“So—”
“Ah—”
They spoke simultaneously.
“You first,” Jack said.
“I was going to ask whether you’d heard any news,” Anna said. “The sooner this is all behind you, the better.”
In the quiet space of his parents’ dining room, Lowerson closed his eyes and gripped the receiver, as if it were his friend’s hand he was holding instead. Anna never questioned his innocence, never even suspected him, only asked when his ordeal would all be over.
But for so long as Jennifer’s face haunted him at night, he wondered if it would ever, truly be over.
“Tebbutt isn’t telling me much,” he said, with grudging respect. “I can’t blame her, for that.”
Anna thought of the woman she’d met the previous day and was forced to agree. Justice meant nothing, if everything was not done by the book.
“At least you have Marbles to keep you company,” she said, cheerfully clutching at something she knew would make him smile.
But there was a long, awkward silence on the line.
“She ran away,” he said. Then, in an odd voice, “I’d better be getting off.”
“Oh, right. Sure. Don’t be a stranger, Jack. And remember, we’re here for you, whenever you need us.”
“Thanks,” he managed.
As Lowerson set the phone down on the table in front of him, his mind swirled with flashing images, a constant reel of nightmarish memories he feared he would never forget.
CHAPTER 16
Ben Potter could feel his asthma getting worse.
With every passing minute spent on top of the bridge, his anxiety rose and his breathing became more shallow and hoarse. He tried his inhaler again but, when he checked it, he realised the capsule had run out and he hadn’t brought any more.
“Shit,” he muttered.
He closed his eyes and focused on remaining calm, counting his breaths in and out as he’d been told.
One…two…three…
There came a sharp rap at the door and he almost jumped.
“Ben, it’s Imran,” came the sound of his train manager’s voice.
He turned to unlock the door.
“Any news?” the other man said, squeezing into the cabin beside him. “People keep asking me what’s happening.”
Ben shook his head.
“You know the procedure,” he said. “We can’t tell them there’s a bomb threat.”
“But some of them who were sitting near the front will have seen the smoke, anyway,” Imran said. “And it’s splashed all over the news, look.”
He produced his phone and scrolled through a selection of headlines, each more sensational than the last.
Ben sighed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
“There isn’t much we can do about that,” he decided, looking away from the bitcoin counter. “Keep sending the trolley through and keep them hydrated and as happy possible. Crack a few jokes. Just do what you can, mate.”
Imran nodded, thinking of the people on board the train.
“I can tell they’re stressed by the way they look at me,” he said, and gestured to the beard he wore. “One minute, it’s all smiles, the next they’re looking at me and thinking ‘terrorist.’ ”
Ben looked at his friend and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Most of them don’t mean it. They’re just scared and stupid.”
Imran looked out across the snow-covered tracks and felt his own measure of fear.
“What kind of person does this?”
Ben felt his breathing hitch again and battled not to let it show.
“Somebody you probably wouldn’t even notice walking down the street,” he said. “They don’t look any different to you and me, son, but they’re rotten inside.”
* * *
When Chief Constable Morrison stepped into the makeshift incident room inside the Castle Keep she had expected to find chaos but was surprised to find the place eerily quiet. Staff from several support divisions were seated at laptop computers and people spoke in urgent undertones on the telephone or huddled in groups, each focused entirely on their task. In the thick of it all, she spotted Ryan’s dark head bent over a new report that had come through from the lab.
She crossed the room and, for once, nobody looked up or shuffled to attention.
“Ryan?”
He set the report aside and unfolded himself from one of the uncomfortable foamy tub chairs that had been laid on for their use.
“Ma’am.”
He pulled out a chair beside him, which made her stop and blink. It had been a long while since a man had performed that small service and she wasn’t sure how to feel about it. These days, it was unfashionable for a woman to admit to liking such things but, knowing Ryan as she did, she understood that the gesture did not come with any strings attached, nor was it intended as any slight upon her standing as a woman and his senior officer.
It was just the way he was made.
She murmured her thanks.
“You’re here to tell me that the Commissioner wants us to pay the ransom.” Ryan decided to take the bull by the proverbial horns. “You’re getting plenty of flak and you’re here to tell me that time’s up. Correct?”
Morrison didn’t bother to deny it.
“Ryan, things are getting out of hand. First, the bomb last night…now, this,” she shook her head and, in the harsh morning light, he couldn’t fail to see the lines of stress creasing her forehead.
“The bomber’s last message has gone viral,” she continued. “It’s up there on the website for everyone to see. It’s made international news; CBS, Fox, BBC World News…this isn’t a local incident anymore, it’s an international one. We need to put an end to it.”
Ryan looked meaningfully around the room.
“What do you think we’re trying to do, here?” he asked. “Nobody is happy about the situation, Sandra, but we’ve already discussed the alternative.”
“And your view is, there is no alternative,” she reminded him.
“I stand by it,” he said.
She passed a tired hand across her forehead, trying to decide what was for the best.
“The counter has already reached well over a million bitcoins because people around the country and around the world are donating to try to keep the people on that train safe. We can’t be seen to be doing nothing—”
“We’re doing everything we can,” he interjected.
“I know that,” she said. “But I’ve already spoken to the Commissioner, who is liaising with the right people to put the remaining funds in place, if we need it.”
Ryan said nothing.
“Look,” she burst out. “It would cost more money to repair the bridge, if The Alchemist decides to detonate. It makes sense to just pay this bastard what he wants and get it over with.”
“Do you think I haven’t thought about it?” he asked, quietly. “I’ve never been more aware of how much this decision could cost us and, if it’s the wrong decision, there’s no coming back from it.”
His stomach twisted, just thinking about the lives at stake
“We need to keep our heads,” he said. “It’s your call whether to pay the ransom but all I’m asking you to do is think about the bomber’s motivation. We’re dealing with a twisted individual, but I don’t think he’s a natural born killer. The small charge on the High Level Bridge wasn’t intended to hurt anyone; the
explosive wasn’t packing nearly enough power to cause the train to derail. Even though they knew Sue Bannerman was on the bridge, almost directly underneath the device, it wasn’t enough to cause serious injury,” he added, then leaned forward, compelling her to listen.
“Everything about a bombing is hands-off, except the bomb-making itself. It isn’t the same as shoving a knife into someone’s belly or holding a gun to their face. On one level, our perp is squeamish and prefers to do things from a distance. If that’s the case and the overriding motivation is money or power, then we’ve got something to work with.”
“And if it isn’t just the money?”
Ryan sighed.
“Either way you look at this, if you pay what The Alchemist is asking for, you’ll be sending out a signal to every would-be bomber across the world stage that we’re prepared to pay any price. It would open the floodgates to more and more incidents of the same kind.”
Morrison was silent for a long moment, then looked him in the eye.
“And, if you’re wrong about all this? What then?”
“I won’t take that chance,” he murmured, and quickly checked the time. “It’s twenty-past eleven, now. Rail officials tell me it’ll take around half an hour to evacuate the train and I’ve already spoken to Sentinel and the British Transport Police to smooth the way, when the time comes. If the counter hasn’t hit two million based on individual donations in ten minutes’ time, I’m not putting lives at risk.”
“What will you do?”
“I’m taking people off that train,” he said simply. “I won’t have their lives on my conscience, Sandra.”
“If that’s the case, let’s just take them off now—?”
Ryan had thought of that, turning the problem over and over in his mind but ultimately drawing the same conclusion each time.
“He or she is watching, Sandra. They knew Bannerman was on the bridge, that’s why it blew. They’ll be watching now and waiting to see if we breach another condition. We have to see if the counter reaches two million—it’s not far off—before we risk it. Remember, the explosion just now was another warning. We don’t know how much firepower might be hidden in the arches of the bridge, just waiting to go up if we break the rules again.”
Morrison put a hand to her stomach, feeling sick at the thought.
“I-I’m not sure what to do,” she confessed, and there were very few people she felt able to say that to. In all her years on the force, she’d seen and done a lot, but there had never been a terror threat of this scale and magnitude in the North-East.
Ryan felt for her and the burden she bore on her shoulders, but remained firm.
“Do what’s right,” he advised.
Just then, an e-mail pinged on her phone and she let out a mirthless laugh.
“Looks like I’ll have to,” she said. “The Commissioner says the Treasury won’t grant the funds to make it up to two million. The UK government does not negotiate with terrorists.”
She swiped a shaky hand over her mouth and then looked back at him.
“Looks like the Powers That Be agree with your strategy, Ryan. Let’s hope that you’re all right.”
He reached across to give her hand a brief squeeze, then pushed back his chair and went to work.
* * *
Imran pasted a weak smile on his face as he walked through the carriages of the train, looking at the faces of the people he passed with a growing sense of unease. Some were tearful, others were angry, but these strangers were all united in one emotion that trumped all others.
Fear.
It crawled over the walls and doors, snaking its way into the hearts of these strangers who had been thrown together and were now trapped inside a metal box, unable to leave.
“Why isn’t the train moving? Why can’t we go backwards and get off the bridge?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any further information, ma’am, please try to remain calm,” he told them, while his own nerves jittered.
“We’re all going to die,” one man kept saying, causing those around him to fly into vitriolic outbursts of rage and panic.
“Shut up! Stop saying that—you’re frightening my little boy!”
“We’re all going to die, I know it. We’re all going to die—”
“Please, sir, try to remain positive. The emergency services are working hard to resolve the situation—”
“I want to get off this train! Let me off! I want to get off!”
Several people jumped up, demanding to be let off the train so they could fend for themselves. But, if it was true what the warning said on www.savethebridges.org and they tried to leave now, then the whole thing could blow up. Besides, all his training told him that passengers were almost always safer on the train than on the tracks.
“Please, sit down,” he begged them. “I need you all to stay calm, this isn’t helping—”
There were more threats, more wails and cries, and he heard the same reports from his colleagues in the other carriages.
The situation was becoming volatile.
* * *
Less than twenty feet beneath the train, Sergeant Sue Bannerman felt time slipping away while she shivered against the hard metal railing of the pedestrian walkway. All around, the wind howled and sent the metal quaking but if she turned her head in either direction she could see light at both ends of the tunnel.
Safety.
It shamed her to admit that, over the past half hour, she’d thought once or twice about making a dash for it, consequences be damned.
But that would be tantamount to going AWOL and she was better than that.
“I’m ’enry the eighth, I am, ’enry the eighth I am, I am…I got married to the wido’ next door…” She sang a silly song she’d heard on a movie somewhere and checked the time on her mobile phone.
Nearly half-past eleven.
She blew out a long breath which clouded on the air in front of her, then sang a little louder as the minutes ticked on.
CHAPTER 17
At precisely twenty-five minutes past eleven, Ryan made a final check of the online counter, which read £1,846,321 in bitcoin donations made by people around the world. Morrison caught his eye and nodded, acknowledging that she had made her decision and would abide by it.
“Be careful,” she said.
Ryan put a hand on her shoulder in silent support, then turned to address the room.
“Can I have everybody’s attention, please?”
The space became so quiet, they might have heard a pin drop. He looked around the faces of his friends and colleagues and felt a mixture of emotions; pride mingled with resolve.
“I don’t need to state the obvious, but I will,” he began. “It’s nearly half-past eleven and we haven’t been able to trace the person responsible for terrorizing our cities.”
“If I only had more time,” Phillips said. “The CCTV has just come through. If I just had a bit more time to check it—”
“There’s no more time, Frank,” Ryan said, gently, then carried on. “I want to thank everybody for their hard work and dedication this morning. I’m as sorry as you are that we haven’t been able to bring this madness to an end before now.”
He drew in a breath.
“The first thing I need to remind you is that there are absolutely no assurances that the bomber isn’t still watching the bridges—all of them—or that they will fail to detonate simply because the counter has almost reached its target. That may not be good enough. We simply don’t know what they will choose to do; all we do know is, they are watching and they gave us a clear instruction that nobody should go on or off the bridge.”
Ryan paused to allow his warning to sink in.
“Having said all that, there are hundreds of lives at stake. We’ve given it as long as we can but now we need to act. I have liaised with the relevant train and transport officials who, together with the EOD Unit, are on standby to give us access to the tracks via the railway station.”
“Eh? Lad, you can’t go in there,” Phillips was the first to say. “It’s too dangerous.”
“And what about the five or six hundred people trapped on that bridge, unable to move? It’s too dangerous for them, too,” Ryan shot back, then held up his hands to stave off any further comment. “I’m going up there to start evacuating people, in direct contravention of what this bomber has said. Given the gravity of the situation, I will not be ordering any of you to come with me.”
They looked amongst themselves, and then MacKenzie’s lilting voice broke through.
“Would you take volunteers?”
Ryan gave a funny half-smile.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I’ll take volunteers so long as they know the risks.”
“Aye, well—don’t think you’re gannin’ up there and takin’ all the credit,” Phillips sniffed, in a courageous attempt to lighten the mood. “You’re not bloody Superman, y’nah. Me ‘n’ Denise’ll go with you.”
“And me,” Yates said, followed by several other voices.
From her position on the sidelines, Morrison felt tears rise unexpectedly, lodging somewhere in her throat. Ryan never had to use force or threats, he hardly even needed to ask for their support because it was freely given. Their loyalty came from knowing that this tall, irreverent man was more than simply their boss or a Senior Investigating Officer; more than the bloke who signed off their sick leave.
He was their friend.
Ryan glanced at the clock, which struck the half hour.
“Let’s go.”
* * *
While Ryan and eight other volunteer members of CID covered the short distance between the Castle Keep and Newcastle Central Station, Detective Constable Jack Lowerson walked through the automatic doors of Police Headquarters.
The duty sergeant recognised him instantly.
“Jack?” she hissed, looking around to see who might have noticed his arrival. “You shouldn’t be here—”
“I want to speak to DCI Tebbutt,” he said, very clearly. “Can you tell me where she is?”
There was an odd note to his voice that made her frown.
