Java Spider

by Geoffrey Archer

  He turned to check the time on the red display of the bedside clock. A quarter to seven. A drink was what he needed. Tea. Maybe with a shot of whisky. Hair of the dog.

  He opened the bedroom door and made for the kitchen.

  ‘Morning Mr Sankey.’ A voice. From the living room. Through the open door he saw a young, shirt-sleeved male rise up from his sofa, pushing the aerial into a mobile phone. ‘Thought I heard you moving about.’

  ‘Who the fuck …?’

  ‘Last night. We had a little chat. Helped you home. Remember?’

  Vaguely. Strangers asking him questions. Bundling him into a car.

  ‘Detective Constable Harding.’

  ‘Oh, shit. Who did I hit?’

  ‘No one, sir,’ the constable grinned. A strapping lad with dark hair that needed a comb running through it.

  Sankey clutched his forehead and massaged his temples. He needed some tea urgently. He continued his drift towards the tiny kitchen. He shook the kettle, found it full and switched it on.

  ‘Want some tea, sergeant?’

  ‘Detective constable, sir. Joe, if it’s easier. And yes, I’d love a cup.’

  Sankey perched on a stool and rested his elbows on the worktop.

  ‘D’you mind telling me what this is about?’

  ‘You had a chat with us last night, sir. Me and my boss, Detective Chief Inspector Mostyn. Only, you weren’t too coherent. Thought we’d try again this morning. So we brought you home and I slept on your sofa. DCI Mostyn’s just on his way back over. I rang him a few minutes ago.’

  Mostyn. The boss man at the Yard.

  ‘I talked to one of your blokes on Monday,’ Sankey frowned. ‘Detective Sergeant Randall. Awkward bugger.’

  The young policeman smiled.

  ‘That was after the first satellite transmission. Now there’s been another we thought you might have remembered something else.’

  ‘Must be joking. Can’t even remember who I am this morning …’

  ‘You were certainly well pissed last night,’ the DC confirmed, grinning. ‘Pissed as anyone I’ve ever seen.’

  The kettle clicked. Sankey groped in a cupboard for two mugs, then in another for the PG Tips.

  ‘Milk and sugar?’ he enquired, without turning round.

  ‘Two sugars please.’

  As he was pouring, he heard the letter box go and the morning papers thump on to the doormat.

  ‘I’ll get them,’ said Harding.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Sankey sat back on the stool and sipped the scalding liquid.

  ‘You’ve made the front page in the Sun!’ The policeman sounded impressed. He dumped the papers down on the kitchen table.

  ‘Christ!’

  For several minutes Sankey flicked through the pages, cringing at what they’d written about him and about the irresponsibility of the News Channel in putting the pictures out live.

  ‘Oh, God!’ he moaned repeatedly.

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘That’ll be DCI Mostyn, sir. All right if I let him in?’

  Sankey waved his approval. He peered anxiously at the man who entered – late forties and looking strangely grubby.

  ‘Morning Mr Sankey. How’s your head?’

  Sankey shook it and winced. ‘Don’t ask. Have a cup of tea and tell me what you want.’

  When Sankey reached for another mug, Mostyn enquired with his eyes if the DC had got any more out of him. Harding shook his head.

  They sat around the small Formica table.

  ‘We need your help, Mr Sankey,’ Mostyn insisted, coming straight to the point. ‘The kidnappers chose you twice for their transmissions. Has to be a reason. Perhaps they know you. Know people in the company maybe. Conceivably you may know them if you think hard enough about it.’

  Sankey blew out through pursed lips, his breath carrying enough proof spirit to make Mostyn quail.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t …’

  ‘Think about it. Why pick you?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue …’

  ‘And why the second time? Chose their moment, didn’t they? Just before your lunchtime news went off the air. If you wanted a scoop they’d left you no time to record the feed and check it first. Must be someone with inside knowledge, Mr Sankey.’

  Sankey frowned, his brain like a car engine on a damp morning. Suddenly he realised they probably suspected him.

  ‘Now wait a minute …’ He looked at one face then the other. Both expressionless. ‘Are you accusing me of something?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Mostyn answered smartly. ‘Just very curious.’

  The why question had plagued him too. There had to be a reason for choosing the low-audience, lowly-rated News Channel in preference to one of the main outlets.

  ‘Maybe they realised the only chance of getting their horror movie on the air was by giving it to a daft chancer like me …’ Sankey said forlornly.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I meant that as a joke,’ he added, hurt. ‘It’s called self-deprecatory humour.’ He felt pleased he’d been able to pronounce the word.

  ‘But perhaps it isn’t a joke,’ Mostyn pressed. ‘Perhaps the kidnappers do know you. Knew you’d take a chance if it meant boosting your ratings. Think, Mr Sankey, think.’

  Sankey gulped at the tea, desperate for the fluid and the stimulant even if it meant burning his throat.

  ‘Wait a minute, gents. What are we talking about here? The people who kidnapped Stephen Bowen, or the people who beamed pictures of him up to a satellite?’

  Mostyn smiled fleetingly. He could see Sankey’s mind was beginning to work.

  ‘I think we’re talking about the latter. About somebody who knows how to operate a stolen flyaway. Maybe even someone who knows how to steal one.’

  Suddenly Sankey breathed in sharply. He’d remembered someone.

  ‘Tell me, sir,’ urged Mostyn.

  ‘Hang on.’

  Think it through, Sankey told himself. Don’t say anything stupid. He remembered the day, about two weeks ago. A talented technician looking for work. Just resigned from the BBC, so he’d said. Learned later he’d been sacked on suspicion of stealing camera equipment.

  ‘Ricky Smith.’

  ‘Go on, sir,’ Mostyn said, turning to the constable. The name was familiar.

  ‘Came to see me a fortnight ago, looking for work. Just gone freelance, so he said. Good professional reputation. Handsome bloke. Impressive to meet. Said I’d give him a try. After we’d talked he hung around the newsroom chatting up the girls and playing with the computer system.’

  Dead smooth, the bugger was. Acted like he owned the place.

  ‘Shit!’ he exploded. Another blast of alcohol vapour. ‘Ricky Smith. Beeb sacked him for theft. Could well be your man. He’d know how to operate a flyaway. And have the bollocks to pinch one.’

  ‘And with a grudge against the BBC?’ Mostyn checked.

  ‘Could be.’ The tea had got his mind going. ‘He could’ve found out about our satellite feeds off the computer.’ Then he had second thoughts. Thin evidence on which to accuse someone. ‘I don’t know. Jumping to conclusions. Can’t see how he would have got involved.’

  Mostyn turned to the DC and nodded. Harding extracted a photocopy from a briefcase.

  ‘Could have been set up like this,’ the DC asserted. ‘Advert in the classifieds of a trade magazine a month ago.’ He pushed it across the table for Sankey to read. A struggle to focus but he managed.

  Adventurous, multi-skilled TV News technician wanted. Experience of flyaways essential. Needs to be used to taking risks. Box XW273.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Sankey murmured. ‘Ricky would have gone for something like that.’

  ‘Not seen it before?’ Mostyn asked.

  ‘No. Never. Who placed it?’

  ‘Somebody who went in personally to the magazine office, paid cash and left a false address. Came in a week later to pick up the replies, three of them. The girl in classifieds said he was middle-a
ged with long hair in need of a wash. Thinks he had an accent. South African, Australian, she wasn’t sure.’

  Mostyn watched for some sign of recognition from Sankey, but there was none.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Sankey … what are your plans? Out of a job, I gather. My condolences.’

  ‘Yeah. So I am. Dunno. Start thinking about it when I get rid of this hangover.’

  Had to see a lawyer and try to squeeze some compensation from the bastards at the News Channel.

  ‘Would you do me a favour?’ Mostyn asked, handing Sankey his card. ‘Don’t go far without talking to me first. Just in case we want another word. And by the way. Everything we’ve talked about in this room is confidential. You’ll understand that, even as a journalist. Don’t want to see any of this appear in print, right? There’s someone’s life at stake, remember.’

  ‘I’ll remember.’

  ‘Right then. Thanks for your time. Sorry to jump on you so early.’

  Mostyn stood up and held out his hand. ‘Think of anything else, give me a call, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  The DC nipped into the living room to collect his jacket. Then followed Mostyn outside.

  ‘Thanks for the use of your sofa,’ he said, closing the front door behind them.

  Sankey loped back into his bedroom and wrestled the tie from his neck. His clothes stank. He stank. He’d take a shower.

  He felt lower than he could ever remember. Much lower than when the wife left him. There’d been an inevitability about that; they’d both played around. But this time it felt like he’d lost everything. His job, his reputation and above all his pride. Some jerk of a technician had taken a quick look at him and decided he was the one man in the TV news business he could con into doing a live transmission of the untransmittable.

  He kicked off his trousers, then picked them up carefully from the floor. He inspected the silver-grey fabric for stains from drink or bodily fluids, then folded them along the remains of their creases and slipped them into an electric clothes press.

  He removed his pants and socks and stood naked, staring down at the bulge of his stomach. His liver hurt when he pressed it. He decided never to drink alcohol again.

  He felt acutely insecure suddenly. He had little recollection of what had happened in the bar and wanted reassurance. The clock said nearly seven thirty. He bumbled into the living room, cluttered with yesterday’s half-read newspapers, and picked up the TV remote. The News Channel was into its commercial break. A good time to ring.

  He returned to the bedroom, perched on the mattress and dialled the direct line to the newsdesk, finger poised over the rest, ready to ring off if it wasn’t Mandy on duty.

  ‘Newsdesk.’

  It was.

  ‘Mandy, it’s Ted.’

  ‘Hey! What happened? Last I heard you got carted off by the police!’

  ‘Don’t bloody tell everyone, girl …’

  ‘Don’t have to. Most of the newsroom was there!’

  ‘Shit! Did I make a complete cunt of myself?’

  ‘No. You were just brain-dead and legless. How’s your head?’

  ‘Still attached to my shoulders. Just. Look … what’s going on? What are people saying?’

  ‘Well … not a lot yet. It’s heads down and get on with it. Tom Marples running the meetings and guess who’s taken over your office for now?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Sankey moaned. ‘Not …’

  ‘Steve Paxton. Yes. Taken complete charge of the housekeeping. Budget cuts all round.’

  ‘Hell! So what’s happened to Charlie? Is she there yet?’

  ‘Funny you should ask. Just been speaking to her. Paxton ordered her home again to save money …’

  ‘What? The berk! What a waste …’

  ‘But, Ted, but … Would you believe it, she’s refusing to do it. She rang up from Darwin airport a few minutes ago to say she’s found someone who’ll do camera for free and she’s going to Kutu tonight. And if the company fires her, so be it, she said.’

  ‘Plucky little girlie. I knew she had balls when I picked her …’

  ‘Eh-h?’ giggled Mandy. ‘Muddling up the sexes this morning, are we, Ted?’

  Whitehall

  10.45 hrs

  The line of motor coaches wound its way through Trafalgar Square into Whitehall. One from every DefenceCo factory in the country, they’d formed into a convoy at a service station on the M25. Banners naming the plants hung from the side windows.

  TV cameramen filmed their progress past the Cenotaph. Two coaches from the Clyde had travelled overnight to get here. Others from Lancashire had set off in the small hours. The men in those from the Home Counties however had breakfasted at home. Most of Britain’s 100,000 workers dependent for their livelihoods on arms exports had sent delegates.

  The demonstration had been organised at astonishing speed, triggered by the galling sight yesterday of the prime minister caving in at Commons Question Time. Managements and unions galvanised by a common belief that unless they rammed a steel rod up the government’s backbone, the anti-arms-trade lobby would have a sudden and unwarranted triumph.

  The convoy turned left at Parliament Square, then left again on to the Embankment, to park in a line outside the Ministry of Defence. Doors hissed and drivers stepped down to unlock baggage spaces. Then the passengers disgorged, stretching stiff limbs and turning up noses at the unfamiliar noise and smell of the capital. Some wore raincoats and suits, others overalls and anoraks, all with the common aim of ensuring the arms contract with Indonesia went ahead, whatever some fuzzy-haired lunatics did to a not very popular cabinet minister.

  From the lockers they pulled out their placards, then formed up in the roadway for the march into Whitehall.

  10 Downing Street

  11.30 hrs

  Prime Minister Keith Copeland replaced the receiver with a twinge of relief. The most difficult aspect of his decision was now behind him – telling Sally Bowen that he simply couldn’t yield to the terrorist demands that would save her husband’s life.

  In the end the decision had been easier to take than he’d feared. It was the Cabinet that had forced his hand. In the minds of his ministers, the principle of never being seen to give in to terrorists became paramount. Tragic though it was, better that one roguish minister should lose his life than that the whole government should lose its credibility. The colleagues had concluded too that the tide of public opinion was turning. After initial gains by the human rights lobby, money was winning over morality again – as in the end it always did.

  The decision was the right one, taken for the right reasons, of that he was satisfied. The fact that it was also the best way of protecting his own back and the nest-egg he’d been banking on for his retirement was incidental.

  Copeland got up from his desk and stepped into the entrance hall, just seconds before the big black door opened to let in the Indonesian ambassador. Tall, wearing a dark suit and with slicked hair, the diplomat’s mouth was clamped into a smile that was shaped by protocol. Copeland reached out his hand.

  ‘Good morning, Your Excellency. Thank you for coming.’

  ‘Good morning, prime minister.’

  The Indonesian looked overawed; he’d not been in Number 10 before. Unsettled too by the battery of cameras that had recorded his arrival, and by the pair of microphone stands waiting in the road outside.

  The PM led his guest into a reception room. They sat and said nothing while coffee was poured. Then they were left alone.

  Copeland spoke first. He talked of the moral debate that had raged in the Commons and in the country, and of the deep concern about human rights that the kidnap had brought to the surface.

  The ambassador’s square, bespectacled face looked grim, ready to reply that such matters were his country’s internal affairs, not the concern of foreigners.

  ‘You’ll understand, Your Excellency,’ Copeland continued solemnly, ‘that as the elected leader of the British people it is my duty to give
voice to their very real concerns and to pass them on to you. However … it is also my duty to ensure that the decisions I take as head of the government are in Britain’s national interest. In the past couple of days I have listened to wise counsel from all sides. After much careful consideration I have decided to resist the pressure in Britain and elsewhere to cancel the arms contract with your country. I propose to announce this to the media shortly and would be very pleased if you would do me the honour of standing beside me when I do so.’

  ‘You want to reconfirm the contract?’ the ambassador checked, muddled by the verbiage. He looked absurdly relieved. ‘Shake hands for the cameras?’

  ‘Umm, yes.’

  ‘Sure. Why not.’

  They talked for a little longer, Copeland asking whether the Indonesian police had any new leads on the kidnap. The ambassador’s response was pre-scripted. An echo of what had been said before. No evidence whatsoever that Stephen Bowen was still in his country. No evidence that any Indonesian was involved in his kidnap.

  Did he know about Sumoto, the PM wondered? Ambassador Bruton had rung two hours ago hinting at the general’s chicanery.

  Copeland led the way on to the pavement, his confidence returning. Half an hour ago he’d received a boost to his spirits, a call from Assistant Commissioner Stanley at Scotland Yard. A photo of a rogue TV technician called Ricky Smith, wired to the Paris police, had been recognised by a cargo clerk at Charles de Gaulle airport. The man had collected two packages airfreighted from the Indonesian island of Bali, one on Sunday evening, the other on Tuesday morning. The timing was right for these to have been the tapes of Stephen Bowen.

  The net was closing. Soon the kidnappers would lose their power to manipulate the minds of millions.

  Wesley Street, Westminster

  11.45 hrs

  Sally Bowen hunched on the sofa hugging her knees, never more miserable and alone. She’d wanted the children with her, but their house-tutors had urged her to leave them at school where they could be kept busy. Best for them, if not for her.

  The television was on. Good of Keith to give her notice of his decision. Now, there he was in Downing Street, saying it to the world. Announcing in effect that his forty-nine-year-old minister of state at the Foreign Office would never see fifty.