Robert. Good to know his name at least.
She looks into his face. ‘Robert? Can you hear me?’
There’s no flicker, no movement. She holds the back of her hand close to Robert’s bloodied mouth, leaving it for thirty seconds or more before taking his pulse one more time. She touches his neck, stares into his face again. Finally she looks at Neil and shakes her head.
That’s it then. Failed again. Weakness overwhelms Neil. His heartbeat is racing, his legs and chest crushed by Robert’s weight. Sounds seem to be coming from far away. He’s dimly aware of the nutter thumping about at the front of the café—dragging furniture, maybe. He shuts his eyes, lets his head drop back against the fridge.
A touch on his hand makes him start. The older woman is assessing him through glasses with tortoiseshell rims. She has a bobbed hairdo—thick and heavy, framing her face like curtains.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks quietly.
‘Better than this poor sod.’
She lifts her head to look over the counter towards the gunman.
‘He’s busy barricading the doors. Good. That’s distracted him for a few minutes. I’m going to move Robert off you right now.’
Robert’s a big man. She sizes up the task before hooking her arms under the lifeless shoulders, pulling him away from Neil and beginning to haul him along the smooth floor. The smart girl pitches in to help; once she’s got over her initial revulsion she’s no wilting violet. Between the three of them they manhandle the dead man until he’s lying flat on the floor at the very back of the kitchen, near a swinging door. The whole exercise feels surreal. This poor guy was cleaning cabinets just a few minutes ago, and now a broad trail of blood marks the pathway to his resting place. His eyes and mouth are wide open. He looks clownishly surprised, gaping up at the ceiling.
A loud crash sends the three of them ducking for cover. Sneaking a wary look through a glass cabinet, Neil can see that the gunman has tipped over another table and is dragging it towards the courtyard door at the far end of Tuckbox. He seems obsessed with barricading every entrance.
‘He’s afraid,’ whispers the older woman.
The smart girl is shrugging out of her posh overcoat.
‘He can have this,’ she whispers, jerking her head towards Robert. ‘Let’s cover him up, for God’s sake.’
‘You sure?’ asks Neil. ‘Looks like a nice coat.’
‘It was. I won’t be wearing it again. It’s all splattered with—’ she grimaces ‘—God knows what.’
The older woman takes the coat and carefully spreads it over the dead man. As shrouds go, this one is luxurious: charcoal cashmere with a peacock-blue satin lining. Robert was six foot something. The coat covers only his head and about half of his body. His legs are sticking out: jeans, red-and-green-spotted socks and brown leather shoes. The effect would be comical if it weren’t macabre.
‘That’s better,’ she says. ‘And now we face whatever is coming next. We face it together! Hello. My name is Mutesi.’
Neil is intrigued by her accent. It’s from somewhere in Africa, he’s sure, but there’s something else as well. Maybe French? Every syllable is stressed. The effect is rhythmic. Hypnotic. Under any other circumstances he could listen to her voice all day.
‘Neil,’ he gasps. He’s shivering now.
Crash. Another table hits the dust. Blood has splashed onto their hands and clothes and shoes; it’s spread along the floor, sprayed up the walls and kitchen surfaces. One great smear of crimson is streaked across the white fridge.
‘I’m Abigail,’ murmurs the overcoat girl. ‘Abi. What the hell just happened?’
Neil tries to wipe his hands on his jeans but it’s hopeless, there’s too much blood. It’s crawling over him. It’s sticking to him. He’s gulping.
‘Might be going to throw up.’
‘Don’t worry about the blood,’ whispers Mutesi. ‘It’s just mess like any other.’
‘It’s everywhere.’
‘It will wash off, I promise you.’
‘I dunno if it will. Feels like it’s part of me now.’
She takes a firm hold of his shoulder. ‘That’s the horror playing with your mind. But it is not part of you, it will wash off. And you have blood on you because of your kindness. I saw you run to Robert.’
‘Didn’t even know I could still run.’
‘I saw. You’re a hero, Neil.’
Gratitude swells in his throat, making his eyes water. It’s been a long time since another human being has looked him in the eye, called him by name and voluntarily touched him. Most of the time he feels less visible than a traffic cone. Even when giving him money or food, most people drop it beside him without breaking their stride. There are acts of kindness: the curate who tried to get him into a shelter, the barista who sneaked him pies. People buy his Big Issue and sometimes stop to chat for a moment and pat Buddy. But for the most part Neil is Mr Cellophane.
The radio news comes on. Shots fired at a café in Balham, armed police deployed, a tense stand-off is ongoing. Local schools are closed, businesses and transport systems all being locked down.
Neil listens with a sense of unreality. They’re talking about us, he thinks. We are the people on the news.
The gunman seems to have finished dragging furniture around and has taken up position behind the street door barricade. He’s leaning down to peer out through a place where the blind doesn’t quite cover the window, and jumping at shadows. When a helicopter passes low overhead, he shouts at it and fires through the door. The shot slices the blind and obliterates a pane of glass. Neil can hear Buddy just outside, whining and squealing in terror. Poor old boy! Neil should tell gun-nutter to bugger off, bust his way through the barricade and charge outside to comfort his best friend.
But, no, he doesn’t do that. Instead he lies flat on his face behind the counter, trying his best to be invisible. And this, he thinks with self-loathing, is how tyrants rise to power. People like me do nothing. Cowards like me abandon our loyal old friends. Heads down, mouths shut. It feels like a long time before Buddy is quiet again.
‘Was that your dog crying?’ whispers Mutesi.
‘Yes, he’s—hey, how d’you know I’ve got a dog?’ He lifts his head to squint at her. ‘Hang on … did you put four quid into my cup this morning?’
‘Mm. And if I hadn’t, I bet you wouldn’t be here. So don’t you even think about being grateful.’
He feels the pressure of her fingers on his shoulder before she gets to her feet. She’s a plump woman with a casual, rolling gait. There’s a confidence about her. He watches in admiration as she turns off the ovens and gas hobs with their abandoned cooking. She strolls out from between the cabinets, flicks off the radio and crosses to where people are cowering on the floor.
‘You need to move well back from the windows,’ she tells them quietly. ‘There may be shots from outside. You understand me? From outside.’
They seem too dazed to see what she’s getting at. Only the gunman understands. He takes her advice, rapidly retreating further from the street door.
‘Why, Grandma?’ asks the small boy. ‘Is there someone outside who wants to shoot us?’
‘No, not us! But accidents happen. Look, we’ll sit in this booth. Sir, wouldn’t you like a more comfortable seat?’
She helps the elderly man out from under the table and onto his feet. He’s tall, stooped, his trousers pulled up high on his waist. He’s wearing a tie and a tweed jacket. The small boy finds his walking stick and flat cap on the floor and brings them along too. Within a minute Mutesi has coaxed everyone into a crescent-shaped booth with vinyl seats. There are sachets of sugar, a bucket full of serviettes and a plastic tomato for ketchup. Mutesi ferries mugs and plates of abandoned food to another table. She looks serene, as though she’s ready to order lunch.
One by one the sirens stop. The helicopter drones away into the distance.
And then there’s nothing. No traffic. No footsteps. No voices. No
rescue party. Nobody.
EIGHT
Eliza
Not a hoax, then. She’s been given further details on her journey to the scene. Shots fired, at least one confirmed casualty.
By eight twenty-five Eliza is at the outer cordon, ignoring the stares of a crowd of onlookers as a uniformed constable holds up the tape for her. The wind is punishingly cold. Her face is stinging. This end of Wilton Street is mostly lined by Victorian terraces, though she can see a concrete block of flats and a school with a metal fence. Towards the High Road, homes give way to commercial premises, cafés and shops.
‘Morning,’ she says, ducking underneath the tape. ‘Not a good day for standing at a cordon.’
‘Glad you’re here, ma’am. This incident isn’t stable. We’ve just had another shot come out through the door. We’re evacuating more properties.’
‘Where is this café?’
‘High Road end of Wilton, right-hand side.’ He jerks his head towards the top of the street. ‘A temporary command centre’s being set up in that building on the corner. Barnett and Hughes. They offered their premises straight away.’
It’s a double-fronted house, an estate agent’s office festooned with photos of properties for sale. The cordoned-off street outside has become the car park for an assorted collection of vehicles—squad cars, an ambulance and a couple of vans. Paul is waiting for her at the door. She feels her spirits lift at the sight of her friend’s broad-shouldered bulk and hopelessly misshapen nose. The man has no ego, or if he does he leaves it at home. He looks like a prize-fighter—broad, battered, surprisingly light on his feet—but he was a counsellor for a decade before he joined the police.
‘Hello, you ugly bastard,’ she calls genially.
‘Likewise.’ A shop bell tinkles as he opens the glass door. ‘I’m meant to be painting Dad’s garden shed today.’
‘Macho.’
‘Mm. The old man isn’t happy with me. Says I promised.’
‘Snap. I’m in the doghouse too.’
‘They’ve stuck us in a room on the top floor.’ Paul keeps talking as they hurry through an open-plan office. Every second is vital, especially during the first hour or two of a stand-off like this. People are moving furniture and equipment around, settling in for what could be a long haul. Eliza spots a stunned-looking group who might be witnesses. A woman in jogging gear is talking stridently as they’re all shepherded towards a room at the back.
‘The good news,’ says Paul as he leads the way up a narrow staircase, ‘is we’ve got fast broadband, landlines and a view of the place. Bad news is it’s a bit damp up there.’
The negotiators’ home for the duration turns out to be an attic room with a sloping ceiling. Once, perhaps, it was a maid’s quarters. Cardboard boxes and filing cabinets barely leave space for an oval table, a freestanding whiteboard and four plastic swivel chairs. Someone has turned the radiator on but it hasn’t yet taken the edge off the cold, nor dispelled a mustiness in the air. The familiar array of phones, headsets and other tools of the negotiation trade are being carried in and set up on the table. Nice to see that. There have been crises in the past when she’s had to improvise. No equipment or chain of command, just Eliza and a loudhailer.
‘This is all very efficient,’ she remarks, crossing to the sash window.
‘Howard’s the incident commander.’
That explains it. Superintendent Malcolm Howard is a magician when it comes to managing the practicalities of an incident like this one. He’s on the verge of retirement, though Eliza can’t imagine him playing bowls. Perhaps he’ll just dissolve like an Alka-Seltzer when he takes his uniform off for the last time.
‘That’s Tuckbox,’ says Paul, pointing across a jumble of tiled roofs. ‘Other side of the street, down the end. With the blue-and-white striped awning.’
‘Has there been any contact yet?’
‘Not yet. The coordinator suggests you’re primary negotiator on this one. I’m number two and Ashwin’s number three. He’s being briefed—ah! Talk of the devil. Morning, Ashwin.’
The third member of the team rolls in, puffing slightly after his climb up the stairs. Ashwin Anand is in his forties, a uniformed sergeant and the beleaguered father of five daughters. He looks stressed this morning, but then he generally does. His job as third negotiator involves sifting intelligence, building up a profile of their attacker and acting as the link with other teams.
‘Salubrious quarters, I see.’ He throws himself into a chair, dropping a sheaf of notes on the table. It takes him several seconds to get his breath back, but he’s clearly keen not to waste any time.
‘Right. First reports of shots fired came in at seven thirty-two this morning,’ he says, putting on reading glasses as he hunches over the notes. ‘Two initially, two more at intervals, one of ’em a few minutes ago—came through the glass door, possibly prompted by the helicopter passing. We know there’s at least one casualty: Robert Lacey, who owns and runs Tuckbox. He’s still on the premises. Witnesses believe he was hit at least once, probably twice, but we don’t know the nature of his injuries. The witnesses were running.’
Paul has pulled up a chair to the table and is taking notes. ‘Anything known about Lacey?’
‘Not a lot. Fifty years old, lives at an address in Wandsworth Town. Nice guy by all accounts; none of the witnesses can think of any enemies. His wife died of cancer a couple of weeks ago, so he’s not having much luck. He’s the only confirmed casualty, except one poor sod who broke his ankle climbing out of the courtyard. Several witnesses are still deaf from the sheer volume of those shots in a confined space.’
‘What’s known about the perpetrator?’ asks Eliza. ‘Mad, bad or sad?’
‘One witness thinks there were two of them. Nobody else saw that. The consensus is we’re dealing with a lone male, aged anywhere between eighteen and forty, armed with one shotgun. Not sawn off.’
‘Definitely no automatic weapons?’
Ashwin shakes his head. ‘Just the shotgun. We’ve got a witness who saw it from close up, and she’s a keen shot herself. Renata Forbes. She’s very certain that she was looking at a twelve-bore side-by-side shotgun. In all the panic she left her two dogs outside.’ There’s a brief twitch at the corner of Ashwin’s mouth. ‘She wants us to negotiate their release before we do anything else.’
‘Is she serious?’ asks Paul. ‘Higher priority than a wounded man?’
‘Much higher. She’s downstairs, kicking up a storm.’
Paul leans far back in his chair with both hands laid flat on his head. It’s his thinking position.
‘Have we ruled out a terror attack? Could this guy have brought in any explosives?’
‘He’s wearing jeans and a jersey, not carrying a bag. Unlikely he’s hiding an explosive device. We can’t see into the place because he’s pulled down the blinds, and there’s no listening device as yet, but this doesn’t look like a political or religious thing. He and Lacey behaved as though they’d met before. They knew one another.’
The tension lifts a little. Eliza has never had to negotiate during a fatal terror attack, and she hopes she never will. Fanatics—whatever their beliefs—don’t tend to follow the rules.
‘It doesn’t look like a robbery gone wrong either,’ adds Ashwin. ‘The attacker comes barging in, there’s a barney—witnesses give different accounts, but it seems he’s asking Lacey about someone. He’s saying something like: “Why didn’t you tell me?” and “I’ve come to get her.” At some stage he may have asked: “What have you done with her?”—or it might be “What did you do to her?”’
Paul’s already on his feet, writing along the top of the whiteboard:
I’ve come to get her.
Why didn’t you tell me?
What have you done with her/what did you do to her?
‘Who is “she”?’ Eliza asks Ashwin.
‘None of the witnesses have any clue who “she” is. It seems Robert Lacey isn’t helpful to the perpetrato
r, who leaves briefly before reappearing with the shotgun. He discharges it twice, apparently wounding Lacey, though nobody was sticking around to check.’
Paul stands a couple of paces away from the whiteboard, chin in hand, looking at the words he’s written.
‘How many hostages?’ he asks.
‘Also unclear.’ Ashwin turns a page of his notes. ‘The barista thinks there were upwards of fifteen customers at the time the incident began, plus five café staff, including Lacey. We know at least twelve have come out. One waitress hasn’t turned up, a woman called Rosie in her early twenties. There’s also an Abigail Garcia, thirty years old. Barrister. We’ve heard from her partner. He was actually talking to her on the phone, heard what he thinks was a gunshot, lost contact, called emergency services. She hasn’t been seen since. He’s a lab technician at St George’s Hospital. He’s downstairs now, offering to take Garcia’s place in the café.’
‘How noble!’ says Eliza as she shrugs out of her coat. ‘Does he mean it?’
‘If he’s not serious he’s running a hell of a risk. He’s making a lot of noise. Someone might take him up on his offer.’
Paul’s whiteboard marker squeaks as he adds the names. He has very regular, copperplate handwriting.
Rosie (staff, 20s)
Abigail Garcia (lawyer, 30)
‘The barista remembers a woman with a toddler,’ continues Ashwin. ‘A small girl. Mother’s heavily pregnant, might not have been able to carry her child and run. Apparently it was a scrum in there. Also a schoolboy in uniform, aged about five, well-known to café staff because he’s often in with his grandmother. Those four people haven’t turned up. Finally, there’s a third dog outside. Nobody’s claimed it.’
The whiteboard list is growing.
Pregnant mother + toddler
Grandmother + schoolboy aged ? 5
Dog owner
‘What does the boss want?’ asks Eliza.
‘He wants to know who’s in Tuckbox Café right now, what state they’re in. Lacey’s condition. He wants to know what happened to the third shot—the first two were aimed at Lacey, the fourth came out through the door. Did the third injure anyone? He wants this guy’s motivations and likely next moves. He wants your threat assessment. If this is going to blow up in our faces he wants to know about it. Any and all demands are to be passed on to him immediately, regardless of how unrealistic they are.’
The Secrets of Strangers Page 4
