by AD Davies
“What’s your name?” the black police officer asked.
“It’s Holly,” the older copper answered for her. He was definitely one of those she met visiting with Mr. Swank.
“Holly, what do you want?”
Holly gripped tighter. “What I want is for you to give me an excuse to let go of this switch. It sends a spark into the mix, and the whole thing explodes. It’ll disperse the nerve agent, and no one in this hall will survive. But for now, the best you can do is head to my room, and switch off the black box that’s jamming your phones and radios. Then we can get on with things.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Over the next three hours, several things happened.
First, Holly issued her orders: everyone was to maintain a twenty-foot clear zone around her. Within that clear zone, the students slid their mobile phones her way, and they all sat on the floor with their hands on their heads. Approximately a hundred remained, a couple of dozen having fled when the danger first became apparent. When she ordered them all to stop or she would blow the place, everyone froze. Then she ordered the police out of the room until she decided to talk to them. “I’m sure you can get my number from the school,” she said. “Send me a text so I know who I’m calling, but other than that do not attempt to make contact until I’m ready.”
Chief Superintendent Paulson ordered the cops to cooperate, leaving only a fibre-optic camera poking around the side of the door to keep an eye on the situation. After the police cleared out, Holly demanded William pass her the small bag she stashed behind one of the banners close to where they were making out earlier. And from this, she donned a pair of jeans, and slipped a cardigan over her torso, a baggy one so as not to threaten an accidental explosion by loosening her grip.
Although they had their own experts on hand, they had never experienced a device like the one attached to Holly, so Paulson then requested support from bomb specialists from the nearby Catterick Garrison, and they scrambled a unit immediately.
Next, with help from Nigel Swank and one of the escaped teachers, Stevenson and Murphy located Holly’s room, where they disconnected the jammer that prevented the distress call transmitting before the girl chose. Once this was down, news of the chemical bomb vest filtered out to the surrounding protection detail. The commanding officer ordered the inner-cordon set up at twenty-five metres from the main school, with no one positioned anywhere near the windows of the Grand Hall. Although the police commissioner was technically in charge, he handed operational control to Janine Paulson, and she was happy with the setup so far.
Then, with the police occupied and the jamming signal nullified, Holly used her left hand to call her parents. Her mother answered, and Holly simply said, “This is all your fault.” After hanging up without waiting for a reply, she blocked their landline and both their personal mobiles and the ones they use for work.
Of course, not everyone gave up their phones. There were over a hundred people in the hall, so it was fairly obvious that someone would get a message out. In fact, between the jammer switching off and Holly demanding they give up their phones, thirty-two of the hostages sent text messages to family members and friends, and six uploaded video to Facebook, three with pictures to Instagram, and countless more to Twitter and Snapchat.
Meanwhile, in hotels encompassing the North and West Yorkshire regions—none more than an hour’s drive from Excelsior—fifty-three parents were making plans for the evening, having travelled from the south to collect their offspring and commence their holidays as early as possible. As their phones spread news alerts and text messages, one-by-one they learned of the danger that Nigel Swank had assured them was a “storm in a teacup,” and each of them set off to confront the situation.
In places like London, the Cotswolds, and fine houses all over the south of England, word also spread. At first, a network of business partners, asking if they’d received a text from the children but could not call them back due to those phones being switched off, or the owners unable to answer. Shortly, parents whose children attended the same school up north, safe, away from the threat of terrorist attacks in the capital, contacted one another as rumours solidified into fact. Some called local police, others the school, and the richest phoned Nigel Swank directly.
Within half an hour of Holly dropping her dress to the floor, almost every parent of a child at Excelsior Academy learned their offspring was in mortal danger. By the time the clock ticked over to 8:00 p.m., Holly’s original kick-off time, an exodus of dozens of wealthy men and women got underway. They travelled north in luxury cars, in limos, and even three helicopters, and since only a handful were able to get through to human representatives of the school or the police on-site, their next phone calls went to MPs, other police commissioners with whom these parents held influence, and a number of them went to the press.
To travel from Leeds to London by car takes the average driver around four hours. That is in typical traffic, obeying speed limits, careful through roadworks so as not to activate the average speed cameras. But with a high-performance vehicle, and no concerns about points on their licences—assumptions being that their status and extenuating circumstances might give them a pass on the laws mere mortals have to follow—that time can come down to anywhere between two and a half and three hours.
So, with Holly awaiting instructions from her mysterious Saviour, the one who understood her so well, with whom she felt such affinity, who inspired such confidence and certainty within her, the stand-off continued. But he never called. No text message, no Internet messenger note.
Nothing.
At 10:30 p.m., after the odour of half the children in the hall soiling themselves became too much to bear, Holly raised the phone to her ear and dialled the number texted to her by the police. When the woman answered, Holly used her firmest, most hoity-toity voice to say, “I am going to address the press. When they get here, send them in.”
* * *
Alicia wanted to talk to Holly so badly. From everything they learned of her, this was the most out of character thing she could possibly have done. Holly’s parents called, and Alicia managed to ask a few questions, but once Nigel Swank revealed that Holly was the person who placed everyone in danger they clammed up and told the police a lawyer was on the way.
Paulson would not allow Alicia near the hall, even though it was only metres from the outer cordon. “You’re lucky to even be here,” Paulson told her. “If I didn’t need every man on hand, I’d be marching you out myself.”
In lieu of a mobile ops centre, they’d set up a marquee on the gravel of the front patio that led down to the sports fields and car park. Other than the two-by-two team on Kuno Kae, Nick Shepherd’s team manned the perimeter, filtering the parents as they arrived, and ushered them towards Nigel Swank’s residence. Paulson gave Nigel the incredibly important task of coordinating the parents as they arrived. He didn’t want to leave, but Commissioner Rhapshaw accompanied him, demanding to be kept abreast of developments. Swank’s own dining hall would accommodate fifty easily, and so he ordered two teachers who escaped the prom to help him with refreshments, and to relay information as and when it became available.
When Holly did finally make contact via phone, Paulson looked like she was giving the girl everything she wanted. It was a ruse, of course, but a necessary one. Alicia heard the tears behind Holly’s voice through the tinny speakerphone setting.
She was expecting support. She must have been. Otherwise there was no reason to stall on exploding.
But what sort of support? How long was she supposed to wait? And why break the pattern now?
The girl shut down all attempts at face-to-face negotiations, and refused to let anyone leave even to use the bathroom, which told Alicia she did not intend to leave the hall. She would die there.
Although they discovered quickly that Holly flirted with anarchist groups, liked ultra-left-wing politicians on Facebook and followed them on twitter, there were never any militant leanings. From
Alicia’s own meagre perusal of Holly’s media accounts, she just looked normal.
Whatever that means.
A helicopter whooshed overhead, banked sharply, and touched down on the rugby pitch. The occupants poured out—two men and two women—and raced towards the annex.
Paulson came off the phone and beckoned Stevenson and Alicia to her. Murphy gathered automatically.
She said, “Holly wants TV cameras in there within an hour or she blows the place.”
“Plenty to choose from,” Stevenson said. “They’re queueing outside, demanding answers.”
“Are we sure she will do it?” Murphy asked.
Paulson sighed. “Hard to tell. No one’s backed out so far.”
“That we know of,” Alicia said.
“Right. No way to tell if anyone chickened out before the three this week.”
“Although,” Stevenson said, “we didn’t pick up any additional activity except what we can attribute to the killings.”
Alicia looked up at Murphy. “Any luck with the substance?”
Murphy checked his notes. He’d checked online and liaised with the Army experts at the outer cordon, desperate to know exactly what Holly carried on her. He said, “You know, there are a lot of chemicals that mix to form deadly toxins, and there are plenty that combine to make explosives. But no one I’ve spoken to so far can come up with anything that is highly explosive and highly toxic, at least not stable enough to contain like that. A little bit explosive and highly toxic? Sure. Highly explosive and a little bit toxic? Yep. If she has any of those, we’re still in deep trouble.”
“Why the delay?” Alicia said. “It has to mean something. There has to be a reason.”
Paulson checked her phone. Rhapshaw’s name flashed on the screen as it buzzed and Paulson turned away to answer.
Alicia asked, “Where would a girl like Holly get that sort of explosive from? In fact, where would some ex-con—”
“An ex-Soviet spy,” Stevenson corrected.
“It’s too crude. Too much doesn’t make sense. People disappearing up at the Institute, the delay, it’s like … like a bluff. The whole misdirection business.”
The Fire Service had been in touch to confirm they found nobody under the wreckage of the wooden barn.
“We need to get in the hall,” Alicia said.
“No way. We wait for the boss.”
The boss disconnected her call and pointed at Stevenson. “You’re a trained negotiator, right?”
“Yes…?” Stevenson replied.
“Good. You’re going in.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Backfill Bobby. That’s what she called him. That’s what one fat moustachioed sergeant in a uniform called him too, which meant the nickname might be spreading. And here he was, backfilling as she hung out in the safety of dozens of armed cops and a warm cup of tea. He never envisaged “backfilling” as posing as a reporter while a female police officer lugged a camera, which a BBC video journalist called Errol taught her to use through a fifteen-minute crash-course. She, and the guy holding the furry boom mic, were both armed with Glock 17s in the smalls of their backs. Neither had any intention of using the firearms against a terrorist wielding a dead man’s switch, but if there was even the slightest chance they might be necessary, Stevenson preferred to have them and not need them, than need them but not have them.
His job, Paulson told him, was to get Holly chatting. Then, through judicious questioning, try and talk her down. He could, at any point, pull out. In fact the whole operation was voluntary.
Yeah, voluntary.
Looking back down the drive at Swank’s house where around sixty or seventy parents gathered—some outside, some inside—Stevenson figured the only other person on hand that could pull this off was Alicia, and she would volunteer without hesitation. He made a single call to Callum, told him not to wait up, that it was going to be a late one, and confirmed that yes, he was a part of the Excelsior Academy stand-off. Callum sounded excited and proud and they exchanged “I love you’s” before hanging up.
The odour within the hall caused Stevenson to gag initially, but he breathed through his mouth until he came across Holly. She stood from the plastic chair she had acquired. Having sweated somewhat, her mascara had run and her hair hung in clumps and knots.
“May we approach?” he called.
She beckoned them over without a word, and the three police officers wound through the trembling mass of seventeen and eighteen-year-olds. Dozens appeared to have been sobbing, but stopped a while ago. Groups gathered together, their hands clearly where Holly could see them, although they had been allowed to remove them from their heads. Staying in such a position would have been impossible for this amount of time.
The two armed officers set up the equipment as demonstrated earlier. The woman claimed to be a keen amateur photographer and had received training in semi-pro video cameras similar to this, so she picked up the basics quickly. It was a Canon used by video journalists in local news stations, not a full-sized studio camera, but it did the job.
When they were ready, Stevenson explained to Holly, “This isn’t a live feed. It records, then I take it to my producer in the van outside the Academy, and he transmits it. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, don’t worry,” Holly said. “If I blow you up, my message doesn’t get out.”
He was impressed that she saw through an item he added to Paulson’s risk assessment, hoping it wouldn’t come to this. He could do nothing about the fact that he was here now, so he asked Holly what she wanted to tell the world.
* * *
When Cleaver called Alicia back, she retreated to the staging area’s main table where three laptops were now connected to the school’s Wi-Fi. She put him on hands-free, and told him to shoot.
He relayed all the information she’d asked for. Account details for IROMOV, for each of the members, as much as they could get on Kuno (which wasn’t a lot), and for more information on Norman Faulkner and the man known as “Tolya”. Murphy joined her and swept through other items as Cleaver and Ndlove uploaded documents and screenshots, and narrated what they were looking at.
Alicia devoured every item she could see. Tried to drown out the one-sided conversation that Paulson was having with Graham Rhapshaw and Daniel Nixon, the two most senior officers dealing with members of the public, practically acting as family liaison officers. There were clearly demands for more information, for action, and all Paulson could do was assure them they were doing everything they could. She was confident of talking Holly out of the hall without bloodshed. The sign-off must have been curt because Paulson snorted as she hung up and put a fist on one hip, and looked around for someone to bollock.
Alicia happened to be in her line of sight.
So the chief super marched over and asked, “What the hell are you still doing here? You need to go.”
“I’m close, boss,” Alicia said, this time without an ounce of sarcasm on the “boss”.
“Close to what?”
“Close to why we called this wrong.”
“Are you going to start going on about misdirection again?”
“Maybe.”
Throughout her career, Alicia thought of her brain as a minicomputer. Its processing speed was greater than most of the equipment used by the police, but it was not infallible. Especially now it contained the virus known as “baby brain.” But right now baby brain took a backseat and so much information coalesced, forming a great big purple ball. She had no idea why her ideas took the form of a big purple ball, but as it throbbed and pulsed like a heart, all the little bits and pieces started to make sense.
She said, “Chaos. Panic. People’s reactions. This delay. Holly, waiting for something, for someone to come and see her. Or contact her.”
She raced back through the files on the screen, holding on Vernon Slater, skipping to the late Bill Khan, back to the incarcerated Jacob Rocaby. And Faulkner. The Magician. The spy.
Toly
a.
Alicia said, “Look at the timeline. The gay killings, then the probing of public outrage. The police would be involved. But then they stepped up to the Islamic attack, which always stirs up anger by a factor of ten. The ‘Muslim factor’, right, Murphy? If some little scrote from a housing estate committed the breezeblock murders, there wouldn’t have been huge demonstrations, no public reaction other than general disgust and sorrow.”
“We know,” Paulson said. “We covered this already. We don’t need another of your speeches.”
“But we haven’t covered it. Because the escalation is not to do with violence or the numbers of people who died. It’s to do with us. With police involvement. Gay people have a loud voice these days, so of course action would be taken. We don’t sweep those crimes under the carpet anymore. And Islamic militants, my God, we have entire units dedicated to them. Half of them are here today, the CTC, and let’s not kid ourselves that OU12 is anything but a reaction to the terrorist threat. But what’s really getting us involved? An attack on our own. Benjamin Grodin selected a PCSO from a wealthy family. It’s a double whammy of a cash hit and anger. And because the other campaigners threw their oar in it escalated the need for the police to solve it. And solve it quickly. And yet…”
Alicia closed her eyes, let the circuits and gears click together.
She said, “And yet, it became more obvious that protest groups were as important as the killings … heck, they even targeted police officers to attend.”
“Stevenson,” Murphy said.
“Right. They were showing us their hand from the very start. The invites, the agitation, that virtual private network that looks like they’re trying to hide, but aren’t really, because it’s not as anonymous as some people make out. They needed us to find them. They needed us to find … him.”
“Who?” Paulson asked.
“Tolya.” Alicia wandered towards the school, her eyes glazed, seeing virtually nothing in front of her. She fixed on Paulson and said, “Trust me. Just this once, trust me. And get me in that hall.”
