‘Um … guilty?’
‘Free. I felt free. I’m a gambler to my core. If anyone tries to stop me, I just walk away.’
‘You ever see those people again?’ asks Sam.
‘I saw the parents one night near St Paul’s, working in a soup kitchen. Nice people. Really nice people. I was in the queue but I put down my plate and left. Too ashamed to face ’em.’
Abigail raises an eyebrow. ‘Yeah. Well, I’m not born again, I’m not after a pet atheist to convert and I have never turned the other cheek in my life. I’m offering you—on a very short-term basis—a bath, a bed and some of Charlie’s clothes. He won’t mind. I don’t do the casting-out-of-demons thing, but if you steal from us I’ll kick you where it hurts.’
Mutesi chuckles, blowing on her tea. She didn’t want yet more tea, she’s sure nobody did. But they have all welcomed this lull before the storm. As soon as the four of them step outside, their fragile balance will be shattered. The intensity they have felt within these four walls may never be felt again, by any of them. Intensity of fear, of comradeship, perhaps even of love. Sam will be taken away and she shudders for him. God knows what he will face. For the hostages there will be police and statements and reporters. There will be life. A soft bed, yes, a shower—lovely—phone calls and visits from family. And then the flat emptiness of escape.
‘Go and stay with Abigail, Neil,’ says Sam suddenly. ‘Don’t be a jerk about it.’
Mutesi looks at him, surprised by the cheerfulness in his voice. His shoulders have straightened. There’s a new lightness to him.
‘I mean it, old man.’ He’s grinning at Neil. ‘She can be your surrogate daughter. Abi, you’ve scored yourself an extra dad. Be happy.’
Woman behold your son, thinks Mutesi. Behold your mother.
‘Deal!’ cries Abigail. ‘And no matter how long you get, Sam, we’ll visit you. Mutesi will smuggle in tea and carrot cake until you’re a free man again.’
Sam’s staring at Abigail. Such intensity. Mutesi wonders what it is he’d like to tell her.
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
It really is time to go. They all seem to sense the moment. There’s a collective sigh, and Neil lays a hand on Sam’s arm.
‘Ready, mate?’
Sam swallows, and nods.
‘Eliza says we’re not to bring anything,’ says Abigail, placing the café phone on the table. ‘No handbags, no nothing. This is a crime scene.’
Everyone begins to shuffle along the booth, standing up, looking apprehensive. Abigail is the first to reach the door.
‘You two go first,’ says Mutesi. ‘I’ll walk right behind you, with Sam.’
‘Shall we take bets on how many guys in combat gear are waiting out here? I reckon at least ten.’
‘Not funny,’ says Neil.
Abigail grins, mutters, ‘See you on the other side,’ then opens the door and steps out, followed by Neil with Buddy. Sam is flexing his fingers, stamping his feet like a man at the starting gates of a marathon.
‘I’m scared. I’m scared, Mutesi.’
She takes his hand in hers, tucking it firmly under her arm. Later, she will realise that she’s completely misunderstood what it is he fears.
‘We’ll go out together,’ she promises. ‘Like this. I will not let go of you.’
A bitter wind swoops on them as they move over the threshold. Spotlights are shining in their faces. It’s disorientating. They’re blinded. Mutesi hesitates, wondering which way to turn.
Sam has stopped too.
‘Oh! Mum’s ashes!’ he cries. ‘I can’t leave them—they’re what I came for in the first place! You go on, I’ll nip back in and grab them.’
She feels his fingers grasping hers for one final moment before he pulls himself away. By the time she’s turned around to follow him, the door is slamming in her face. She hears the key turn in the lock. The bolts.
She’s banging the palm of her hand on the glass, shouting and rattling the handle as people run from all sides. Heavy boots, loud voices. She’s surrounded by rescuers, but they’re irrelevant now.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Eliza
An aluminium can clatters down the gutter ahead, leading the way, tumbling faster than she can walk. She hadn’t realised quite how cold it is out here.
It’s almost ten o’clock. She’s a hermit leaving her cell. Stepping out of the negotiation room is like entering another world—a crowded, active world. All day long other units have been rushing around, making decisions and organising practicalities while she has sat in that one small, silent space, building a connection with a disembodied voice.
She’s wrapping her scarf around her mouth as she heads towards the inner cordon. A couple of uniformed officers have just got out of a squad car and are moving in the same direction, chatting about something they saw on telly last night. One of them spots her and calls out, ‘Well done, ma’am, I hear it’s all over bar the shouting.’ An ambulance is waiting with its engine running, prepared for any casualties. Hospital staff will be on standby too.
Everything is in place; everyone is ready to do their job. Sam will be arrested as soon as he steps out of Tuckbox. Teams will go in, secure the crime scene and begin the investigation into Robert Lacey’s death. Others will deal with the taking of statements, the media, the contacting of Lacey’s relatives, the traffic chaos. It’s going to be a busy night for a lot of people.
Eliza’s task now is to keep her promise to Sam. She’ll meet him and stay with him for the first few minutes of his arrest. For a negotiator to break promises is counterproductive. It’s amazing how often you find yourself in a crisis negotiation with the same person a year down the track. Lie to them once, or let them down, and it comes back to bite you.
As she passes the ambulance a figure hurries around it, hailing her with a raised hand.
‘They said I could wait at the cordon,’ he calls out. ‘Well … at least, they didn’t say I couldn’t. You’re the negotiator? You’re DI McClean?’
She nods, perplexed. ‘And you are …?’
She can sense his jitters, though she can’t see much of him in the dark. His hands are shoved into the pockets of a rain jacket: a young man, stocky but not heavy. Nervous smile.
‘Charles Bowman,’ he says. ‘Abigail Garcia is my, um, fiancée. Or something.’
‘You’re engaged?’
‘She doesn’t approve of marriage as an institution. But I hate the word partner. Is it true—she’s coming out now?’
‘Let’s hope so,’ mutters Eliza, silently cursing whoever’s in charge of families and witnesses. This man shouldn’t be here. He should have been kept well back, out of sight and out of range. This isn’t over yet.
‘Can I tag along with you?’ he asks, and falls into step beside her.
They arrive at the inner cordon, waiting at the tape beside a small crowd of police and other personnel. There’s an air of relief and expectation. Eliza rubs her cheeks vigorously with her hands. Come on, Sam, come on.
‘You’ve got to stay behind the tape,’ she tells Charlie. ‘No matter what.’
‘Will do.’ He shivers. ‘This has been the worst day of my life.’
She doesn’t answer. Her focus is on the street door of Tuckbox, willing it to open. Come on, Sam. Come on, Sam.
‘I’ve got to give Abi some upsetting news,’ says Charlie. ‘We’ve been trying IVF for ages and I got the latest result today. Negative. I don’t want to have to tell her. She was really hopeful this time, I could tell from her internet searches. She’s been looking for cots and things.’
‘And were you hoping too?’
He’s staring towards the café, hands still in his pockets, shoulders hunched.
‘I just want her to walk out of that door. That’s all I want. I don’t really care about anything else.’
‘Me too,’ says Eliza.
Wilton Street could be a film set: spotlights, ghost-faces, people entering
stage right, exiting stage left. There are scripts, there are roles. This is the final scene. It’s a wrap.
Come on, Sam.
Ah! Movement down at Tuckbox. A pair of spotlit figures step out of the doorway, hands held high, and walk towards the firearms officers. They have a dog with them.
‘It’s her!’ shouts Charlie. He looks ready to leap over the tape. He reaches out to grab Eliza’s arm, doesn’t even seem to know he’s doing it. ‘That’s Abi! She’s safe! Thank you, thank you.’
A smattering of applause breaks out from the group at the cordon as a third and fourth figure step into the spotlights, holding on to one another. That’s it. Four people. That’s everyone.
Eliza is about to duck beneath the tape when something seems to go wrong. One of the figures has turned and run back into the café. The other is banging on the street door, shouting.
‘What’s happening?’ asks Charlie.
The negotiation phone begins to vibrate in her pocket. Tuckbox.
She fumbles to answer.
‘Sam? Hello? Is that you?’
‘Eliza.’
‘What happened? I saw you come out! I’m here, waiting for you.’
He’s panting loudly, as though he’s trying to speak while running up a mountain.
‘Tell them to take Mum home,’ he gasps. ‘Take her home. Tell them, okay? They’ll know what it means.’
‘Sam, hang on a minute—’
‘This isn’t your fault. Okay? Okay, Eliza? This isn’t your fault.’
‘Sam!’
It reaches her in stereo, exactly as she predicted, travelling through the air and down the line. It echoes around and around the street, around and around in her brain. A dog barks. There are groans from the watchers at the inner cordon.
A single shot. The final one.
THIRTY-NINE
Eliza
It’s long after midnight by the time she unlocks her front door.
There’s bound to be an internal inquiry as well as public inquests. The media will be all over today’s events. Eliza has already spoken to the three hostages. They’ll be asked for detailed statements tomorrow but tonight they’re exhausted. They’re also grieving; they seem distraught, as though they’ve lost a family member.
‘He was coming out with us,’ Abigail Garcia kept saying. ‘He was right behind us. Mutesi was holding his hand, weren’t you, Mutesi?’
‘I was!’ Mutesi screwed up her face, sighing, ‘Sam … Sam.’
Neil was tearful. ‘We were going to help him. We were going to visit him in prison.’
The negotiation team have already begun writing reports, filing their notes and records. The three of them spent another hour in the attic room, pulling everything together. Thank God Paul had done such a meticulous job of noting every decision along the way.
‘This was a success, Eliza,’ he insisted. ‘The hostages all got out unharmed, not a shot fired by police. Fantastic. You kept your nerve. If you hadn’t, we’d have had SCO19 storming the café when he found Nicola. That might have led to a far worse tragedy.’
‘I failed, though. I lost Sam.’
Ashwin was leaning his forehead against the window.
‘You didn’t lose him,’ he said. ‘You walked beside him, you listened to his story.’
‘But he still died.’
‘That was his decision to make. He’s lived with depression for years, and his future wasn’t looking bright. You showed him a way out of Tuckbox, you gave him a choice, but there was no escape from what was in his own head. He talked everything through with a person he trusted—you—and he knew what he wanted to do. He chose to speak to you in his last few seconds. You. Nobody else.’
The three were quiet for a while, looking out towards the café.
That single shot. Such a lonely sound.
•
On the way back to her car, she looked in through the door of Tuckbox. It was all so familiar, all exactly as she expected it to be. She felt as though she’d spent the day in there alongside Sam and the hostages. It’s a crime scene now, brightly lit, sealed off and guarded. SOCO will be taking measurements and samples, photographing everything including what’s left of Robert and poor Sam. She doubts whether the place will ever function as a café again, now that the last act of a tragedy has played out there.
Nicola has handed over the message Sam wrote for Julia. She seems shocked about his death—horrified, even—but not grief-stricken. Eliza has a suspicion that she’ll be on her feet again in no time. Perhaps she was too young when her pregnancy forced her to try to settle down with Sam; perhaps she wanted things from life that he could never give.
Sam’s letter is written on a white serviette, neatly folded into four. The handwriting is childish, each letter individually and carefully formed, all in blue crayon.
My Julia,
The last time I saw you we read The Tiger Who Came to Tea. Do you remember? That was one of my happyest memries ever. All my best memries are of you. You are the most wonderful thing in my world.
I know you will be an amazeing woman by the time you read this. Whatever your doing, whoever you are, I will be prowd of you. Please be happy.
I love you with all my heart and all my soul. Sorry not to be with you but if I can I will be watching over you and cheering you on every step of your life.
LOVE
Dad XXX
She drops her keys into the bowl by the front door before listlessly hanging up her coat and scarf. She feels as though someone’s hit her on the back of the head with a mallet, and yet she won’t be able to sleep. She’ll hear that last shot again. And again. And again. She’ll know exactly what it means. She’ll hear his voice: This isn’t your fault. He’s putting down the phone, picking up the gun, shutting his eyes. He’s all alone.
Yoda appears from nowhere and winds around and around her legs, butting her calves with his solid little head. She stoops to lift him into her arms, carrying him into the kitchen.
Richard has left a note on the table.
Shepherd’s pie in fridge. Your mother phoned, no message. Liam ran out of school shirts, I put one in machine can u hang it up? Liam is not wanting to go to school tomorrow. Will need to make some decisions. Am worried.
Well done in Balham, heard on news all hostages released. Proud of you.
R X
She deals with Liam’s shirt, tips cat biscuits into Yoda’s saucer. She ignores the shepherd’s pie in the fridge. After glimpsing the carnage in Tuckbox she can’t imagine ever wanting to eat again. She knows from experience that the effect will wear off.
Putting down the phone, picking up the gun, shutting his eyes.
She turns off the kitchen lights and walks quietly upstairs. The third stair creaks when she steps on it. Always has, always will.
Jack’s room first: calm in the soft glow of the nightlight. The baby is jammed into one corner of the cot, lying on his front with his bottom sticking up in the air. He’s wearing his all-in-one sleep suit. Julia would be standing in her cot, holding out her arms for me to pick her up. Blankets and toys are scattered haphazardly all around him. It looks as though he’s been having a party in there. She covers him up, leans down and kisses his pudgy cheek.
Liam’s room is darker, but there’s enough streetlight filtering through his curtains to see his head on the pillow. The teenager is snuffling quietly. She crosses to the bed and sits down on it, close to the curve of his bent knees.
‘Mum.’ His voice is slurred, half drowned in sleep.
‘Shh.’ She leans down to tuck the duvet around his chin.
‘It was awful.’
‘I’m sorry. Dad told me.’
‘I’m never going back to school.’
‘Park that worry for now. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’
He curls in on himself, burying his face in his pillow.
‘I’m never going back. I can’t go back. I really can’t, Mum.’
She feels his misery. It overwhelms
her. She drops down to kneel on the floor, putting both her arms around him.
Picking up the gun, shutting his eyes.
‘No school for you tomorrow,’ she says. ‘That’s a decision made. We’ll go to the winter ice rink, just you and me. We’ll decide what to do.’
‘Work?’
‘No. Day off.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
Little by little his breathing slows. In ten minutes he’s snuffling again. She rests her head on the pillow and shuts her eyes. She’s still kneeling on his floor when a weak winter sunrise seeps through the curtains.
FORTY
Sam
He’s glad to see they’ve remembered to shut the gate behind them.
They could almost be a walking club: a small girl, a man and three women of different ages and stages of life. They spread across the rich pastureland, looking around as they orientate themselves. There’s a dog too, a shining black-and-white collie who goes nuts as soon as he’s let out of the car. He remembers this place.
It’s a glorious day on Tyndale Farm. Blue sky and sunshine, bright clouds scudding in a steady breeze. The hedgerows are bursting into leaf. The air rings with the songs of nesting birds as they dart and chatter around the spinney. The new owners haven’t destroyed it after all—not yet, at least. Until yesterday ewes and lambs were grazing this field, but it’s empty now. Probably a good thing because Toby wouldn’t have been able to resist trying to round them up.
My Julia! Look at her!
She sticks out her arms and pretends to be an aeroplane, charging down the slope in her new blue wellies, curls flying. He reaches out to touch her head as she skims past. Perhaps she feels him. She stops suddenly, looks around, laughs and gallops on again.
Mutesi and Neil have travelled here in Abi’s car. Mutesi looks exactly the same as ever, but Neil could be ten years younger: clean-shaven, short back and sides, plumpness rounding the gaunt cheeks. The limp has gone completely. He’s managed to land a job as handyman in Mutesi’s nursing home. She swung it for him, just as she found him a bedsit near her own place, just as either she or Abi march him to Gambler’s Anonymous twice a week. Nobody else could do it, but they can. Mutesi tried very hard to persuade him to visit her church but there he drew the line.
The Secrets of Strangers Page 31
