Oaten looked into Sharples’s eyes. He understood.
‘Now go.’
Oaten turned round, made his way to the door, slinked silently through it. Sharples and Abdul-Haq waited until he had gone before speaking.
Sharples gave another rare smile.
‘Like I said, nothing to worry about.’
Abdul-Haq nodded.
Sharples checked his watch, looked at the darkening skies outside. ‘Polls should be closing soon,’ he said. ‘And since you and I aren’t going anywhere for the foreseeable future we may as well watch the election results here.’
Abdul-Haq looked towards the door. ‘Won’t—’
‘We won’t be disturbed.’
Sharples settled himself on the chesterfield. ‘Whisky?’
Abdul-Haq gave a small smile, tried to commit himself to looking relieved. Failed. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’
40
The polls had closed. The count was starting.
Politicians and would-be politicians could relax their facial muscles, let their rictus smiles go. Get on with the business of waiting. All around the country bins were emptied, armies of volunteers got to work, voting slips were counted by hand.
On TV David Dimbleby settled into his studio, readying himself for an all-night shift before an audience of students of politics and insomniacs.
At the farm in Northumberland they were getting ready to move out.
The foot soldiers were lined in the barn, listening to Major Tom give their final instructions before getting into the backs of the four white vans. There was no pushing or jostling. No joking, name-calling, rough-housing. Just concentrated, focused men standing to attention, listening. All dressed in uniform of combats, boots and black nylon bomber jackets.
Major Tom had a map of the West End of Newcastle in front of him, a pointer in his hand.
‘A team,’ he said, gesturing to the first four men, ‘will be stationed here. B team here, C team here and D team here.’ He looked round the group. ‘Don’t worry about the names of your groups. It doesn’t mean anything. Just something to identify you all by.’
The men said nothing. A well-drilled, well-trained platoon.
‘I want you all to wait for my signal. It’ll come over the radio. I’ll be in the central command vehicle. When you hear that, you go into action as planned.’ Another look round the group. ‘Any questions?’
There were none.
‘Good luck, everyone. Pick up your weapons from the armourer and off you go.’
The men filed out. No talking, no shambling. Straight lines all the way to the milking shed, where they were each given a firearm. Some were rifles, some shotguns, some handguns. They had been familiarized with them, trained, and they weren’t tempted to play about with them. Then on to the waiting vans.
Kev, standing with his back against the door of a black 4×4, watched it all, mobile hidden in the palm of his hand. Surreptitiously, he captured the scene, disguising the camera’s click with a small cough.
He had kept the camera with him all afternoon, trying to find a way to phone Amar and failing. Major Tom had banned the use of mobiles; no one was to know where they were, what they were up to. He had introduced the strictest penalties for anyone caught breaking that rule. So Kev had had to think on his feet. He had kept it hidden, taken pictures of the farm, the layout of the camp and, from a discreet distance, Major Tom and his lieutenants. He had been lucky so far. But he knew that luck could run out at any moment. And he didn’t want to endure what would happen to him then.
He felt the stolen knife, wrapped in cloth to protect his skin, nestling at the small of his back. That gave him some consolation. It was something he was familiar with, something he knew how to use to the best advantage. He drew comfort from having it there, strength.
Another click, another cough. Then Major Tom came striding towards him.
He hurriedly flipped the camera shut, slipped it into his pocket, swallowing hard, hoping Major Tom hadn’t seen him do it. Major Tom drew level.
‘Right,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘Shouldn’t be long now. You may as well get in the car.’
‘Right, sir.’ Kev got into the car, tried not to let his reluctance show. Because Jason was in there waiting. Sitting, staring straight ahead, the blink of his eyes, the slow rise and fall of his chest the only indications that he was actually alive. Kev had tried to talk to him. Jason had said nothing. Shared memories, told him jokes. Nothing. Eventually he had given up, sat there next to him, staring alongside him. It had become too much. That was when he had climbed out of the 4×4, started taking photos again.
That was bad enough. But worse was the plastic explosive strapped to Jason’s stomach. Kev didn’t know how much was there, but knew it was a lot. Enough to do a great deal of damage. Jason’s jacket was zipped up to his chin, no wires showing.
Kev sat back next to him, sighed. Wondered how his life had come to this.
‘All right, mate?’ he said to Jason.
No reply.
Kev felt like the relative of some comatose car-crash victim, sitting at his bedside, talking to him in the hope that something he might say, some trigger, might bring him back to life. He looked at Jason, who hadn’t even acknowledged his presence. Kev went back to looking out of the window.
And saw something.
A separate white van had backed up to the door of the outhouse where he suspected Peta was being held. He saw that scary, strange, wizened old hippie woman who had been wandering around for the last few days go to the door, open the padlock with a key. He took the camera out again, glanced round for sight of Major Tom. He was off talking to one of his lieutenants. Good.
Kev opened the door a little, placed his camera hand on the crack. The back doors of the van were opened, obscuring Kev’s view. He tried to crane his neck, see around them. He caught glimpses: what looked like a bound figure being helped, if that was the word, then thrown into the back of the van.
Click. Cough.
And again.
Then the doors of the van were slammed shut. Kev looked to the front of the van, angled the camera at it, hoped he had got a shot of the numberplate. He closed the door, sat back, began to go through the phone, see what he could do about sending the photos.
‘They’re not allowed.’
Kev jumped, almost dropped the phone. He looked round. Jason had pulled his gaze away from whatever it was he had been looking at and turned to face him.
‘What?’ Kev was almost too stunned to talk.
‘If they find you with that,’ he said, voice small and distant, like it was coming down a transatlantic phone line, ‘they’ll be really angry with you. You’d better get rid of it.’
Kev swallowed. ‘You’re not going to tell them, are you?’
Jason looked like he was making up his mind. ‘No,’ he said eventually, although he didn’t sound convinced.
‘Look, Jason, I can get you out of here. I can. But you’ve just got to trust me. Can you do that?’
Jason said nothing.
‘Can you?’
Jason frowned, like he was receiving thoughts he didn’t know how to process.
‘Can you?’
The front door of the 4×4 opened and Major Tom got in. Kev quickly shoved his phone into his pocket. Major Tom looked round, his eyes flashing down to Kev’s hand. Kev didn’t know whether he had seen him or not.
‘Not long now,’ said the major.
Kev waited for him to get up again but he stayed where he was, in the passenger seat. Jason had resumed staring into space.
Kev, not knowing what was going to happen next, joined him.
Peta landed on the floor of the van with a thump. Her shoulder, already sore, ached further. Her hands were still tied behind her back, her ankles similarly bound. A gaffer tape gag over her mouth. She couldn’t move, had given up all hope of escape.
She had lost all track of time, and had alternated between impotent anger and real hopelessne
ss. After Mary Evans’s visit she had been left alone, just food and drink brought in and left by the door, one hand freed to eat with, then the plate taken away, her hand retied.
She had spent all the time in her head. Thinking of childhood holidays with Lillian and Philip. Her real father. Imagining those days were with her again, ignoring the tears on her face when she came out of her fantasies, realized where she was.
She made deals with a God she had long since ceased to believe in: I’ll never drink again. I’ll be the daughter my mother wants me to be. I’ll find a man, settle down. I’ll never go looking for trouble again. I’ll go to church every Sunday.
Bargains she hoped she would one day be in a position to make good on but doubted that would ever happen.
She was going to die. She knew it. Everyone was going to die, but Peta knew that her death would come sooner than most. She had tried not to torture herself with thoughts about who and what she would be leaving behind. Instead tried to be brave, even philosophical about it.
No good. She couldn’t do that. She imagined she knew what her friend Jill must have gone through several months ago when she had been kidnapped, tortured and finally killed by a serial killer. She would never read a Thomas Harris novel again.
Add that to the list of impossible bargains.
And then they had picked her up, thrown her in the van. When they had opened the door, her heart had momentarily risen. But now, as she lay on the filthy floor of the van, she wasn’t so sure. She looked around. At each side of her, piled high, was something that, although not an expert, she recognized.
Explosive. And lots of it.
Her heart sank again, lower than it had ever been.
The door was still open. A figure stood in the doorway. Peta recognized her immediately.
Mary Evans.
‘And how are we today?’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter. Because you’re soon not going to care about things like that. Remember I said we had something planned for your dear old dad? Well, this is it. We’re going to make sure you give him something to remember you by. Smile. You’re going to be famous.’
She slammed the door shut.
Peta felt like she had been locked in a tomb while she was still alive. She looked at the explosives.
But not for long.
Amar sat staring at the screen. Jamal and Donovan were on the sofa, the TV on, David Dimbleby marking time until he had something to talk about.
Nothing would start until the polls had closed. They all knew that. But they had monitored, nonetheless. Now they just had to wait. There was a limit to how much tea, coffee and Coke could be drunk, how much pizza could be eaten in one night and they were all discovering it. Not that they had appetites or thirsts. It was just something to fill in the time with.
They knew the best thing to do was wait, but it didn’t come naturally to them. Donovan wanted to go tearing round the streets, knocking on doors, talking to people. But he knew it would yield nothing. So he had joined the others, eating pizza, waiting. Hating it.
They had discussed courses of action, made their plans. Nattrass would be informed as soon as they heard anything pertinent to her. Anything concerning Peta they would deal with themselves.
But there had been nothing. David Dimbleby was interviewing politicians and political editors who knew as much as he did. The phone hadn’t rung.
They waited.
41
Trevor Whitman stood by the entrance to Stowell Street, Newcastle’s mini Chinatown, looked along it.
The street consisted of two strips of Chinese buildings, mainly restaurants, interspersed with supermarkets, stores and Chinese community associations. He took out his phone, dialled a number he had learned by heart. Lillian answered.
‘Hello.’ Her voice was fraught, sharp. On edge, waiting for news.
‘It’s me.’
‘Joe, Jamal,’ said Amar turning round and slipping the headphones on, ‘we’ve got something.’
Donovan and Jamal rushed over to the table, joined him at staring at the laptop. The figures made no sense to Donovan.
‘Here,’ said Amar, turning up the volume, ‘listen.’
‘There’s no news,’ Whitman said. He had heard that catch in Lillian’s breath, knew what she had been about to ask. Her silence was his response. ‘But I’m working on it. I’ll have answers soon. Very soon. Then it’ll all be wrapped up.’
‘Soon? What? Where are you?’
Whitman laughed. ‘Stowell Street.’
‘Least we don’t need to trace him,’ said Amar.
*
‘Remember,’ Whitman was saying, ‘one of our first proper dates was here? Chinese restaurant. Saved up for months. Poor students.’
Lillian’s voice became warm. ‘You said you would only eat food from a left-wing country that cared for and respected their workers.’
Whitman gave a small laugh. ‘Shows what I know.’
She joined him in laughing, longer and harder than the joke warranted. She sounded like she had been drinking. Whitman couldn’t blame her. The laugh died away.
‘Why?’ he said, a plaintive edge to his voice.
‘Why what?’
‘Why target one ethnic minority for hatred and not another?’
‘What d’you mean? What are you talking about?’
‘The Chinese,’ he said, slightly slurring his words. ‘They’ve been here as long as I can remember. But, you know, apart from that casual, ignorant everyday British racism, no one bothers them.’
Lillian’s voice filled with concern. ‘Trevor, have you been drinking?’
‘I mean, who decides?’ he said, ignoring her question. ‘Who says, yeah, Indians and East Europeans, but not Chinese. Who draws up these lists? The right-wing political parties? The right-wing media?’
‘I, I don’t know, Trevor.’
‘Should write a book about it,’ he mumbled, then sighed. ‘Something else I wouldn’t get round to doing.’
‘Trevor, come home. I’m worried about you.’
‘No, Lillian, this has gone on long enough. It’s time for this to end. Tonight.’
‘But, Trevor …’
‘Don’t worry. It’ll all be over soon.’
Lillian sighed.
‘I’m going back to where this all started. Get it sorted out.’
‘Where it all started?’ said Donovan.
The other two looked at him, frowning.
‘Then find Peta. Make sure she’s safe,’ said Lillian, that catch returning to her voice.
‘I will,’ he said. He sighed, building himself up for something. ‘Look, Lillian, I’ve got to go. But I just … I just wanted to say …’
Lillian waited, her breath fast.
‘I love you.’
Silence from Lillian, then a gentle sob, sniffed away. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice small and soft. ‘The first time you’ve ever said it.’
‘But not the first time I’ve ever felt it. I didn’t want to say it until I was sure. And I was sure that you’d accept it.’
‘I do. And I love you too, Trevor.’
Another sigh from Whitman. ‘I’ve got to go. Just wanted you to know.’
‘I think I knew already.’
There was only a little bit more. She wished him luck, he accepted it. With great reluctance, he broke the connection.
Pocketed the phone, walked away from Stowell Street, checking the gun in his pocket, his stride becoming more purposeful the longer he walked.
Amar turned to the other two. ‘Don’t know about you, but I felt a bit pervy listening in to that last bit,’ he said. ‘And not in a good way.’
‘Know what you mean,’ said Donovan. ‘But what did he mean? Where it all started. What does that mean?’
‘The Chinese restaurant?’ said Jamal.
‘No,’ said Donovan, ‘he was already there. He’d have mentioned it. I think that was just some romantic memory between the pair of them. No. Where it all started …’
/>
‘Dunno,’ said Jamal. ‘Man sounded out of it.’
‘Sounds like he’s been trying to build up the courage to do something. Getting angry on purpose. Think.’
‘What about the pub?’ said Amar. ‘Where the bomb was?’
‘That’s it,’ said Donovan, his heart beating faster, his breathing getting heavier. ‘The pub.’ He looked around for some case reference material. Nothing there. He’d left it all at his own place and Peta’s. ‘Right. Which pub was it again?’
‘Major Tom, can you come over here a moment, please?’
‘Won’t be a moment.’ Major Tom looked at Kev and Jason, got out of the 4×4. That look had been held a bit too long for Kev’s liking. He felt Major Tom suspected him of something.
Kev looked through the window. Major Tom was talking to one of the van drivers. It looked like they were checking and coordinating routes. He had a minute, two at the most. He took the mobile out, clicked through the menu. He had to find Amar’s number, get the photos off to him. Call him or text him, let him know that Peta was definitely there and was being transferred. Let him do something about it. Call in the cavalry.
He clicked through, trying to find it.
‘Please don’t.’
He jumped. Jason was watching him. ‘All right, mate? Don’t worry. Just get this done, then I’ll get us out of here.’
‘Please, just do what they want. If you don’t they’ll … they’ll really hurt you. I know what they do. Please …’
Kev found the number, began sending the photos. ‘Don’t worry, mate, it’s all right.’ Kev looked to see where Major Tom was. Still talking. Good. As his attention came back to the phone, his eyes strayed to the front of the 4×4. The keys were still in the ignition.
An idea hit Kev, sent a thrill through his body. Drive the 4×4, get away with Jason. Give Amar the news in person. A smile spread over his features. Brilliant. How was that for atonement?
He flipped the phone shut, ready to get out, slip into the driving seat, drive off.
The door slammed. Major Tom was back in. Kev hadn’t heard him. He looked at the mobile in his hands.
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