Overnight Express

by Philip McCutchan

  The hijacker halted and aimed his gun. “You,” he said.

  Sir Richard looked up but said nothing. “You will come with me,” the armed man said.

  *

  Hedge was back below the viaduct, or more precisely he was standing on a footbridge that crossed the roadway not far from the roundabout and from where he could get a better view of the halted train and through binoculars could see the faces behind the closed windows. He was looking out for Shard but couldn’t see him. He felt very exposed on the footbridge, an excellent target, and he had climbed up only because two other high-ranking persons had already done so and it was up to him to show the FO flag. The other two were a major-general and a rear-admiral; Hedge couldn’t find any reason for a rear-admiral to be in Durham and had said so, wondering if the naval presence might have some connexion with the only watery activity germane to the situation which was the police diving team still standing by to submerge in the Wear.

  “Good heavens, no. I’m a submariner. Or was. Not a diver.”

  “A submariner, in Durham?”

  There was a hearty laugh, which belied the unnatural pallor of a working life spent beneath the sea. “Just keeping a weather eye. Who’re you, may I ask?”

  “Foreign Office.”

  “Ah yes. Not your pigeon then, I suppose.” Hedge wished, peevishly, that the submariner was right. “Actually I’ve been sent up in case Royal Marine commandos are required.”

  “What would they do?” Hedge asked.

  “Can’t say at the moment. Just a recce. But I tell you what I’d do if I were in charge.”

  “What?”

  The rear-admiral bounced a little on his feet; he was a tubby man, Hedge-shaped in fact. He said energetically, waving an arm as though flourishing a telescope, “Rig nets. Nets, by Jove! Under the viaduct, don’t you see? Catch people safely — seeing nets rigged, some of them might take a risk and jump. What d’you think of that?”

  Hedge was about to say it sounded completely lunatic but just in time had second thoughts. It could be a safeguard in certain circumstances, though he didn’t know which, and would at least show the people aboard the train that something definite was being done. If there was to be an assault along the track, say, something of that sort, then it would be an immense help if some of the trapped people could attempt a getaway, and the hijackers would be too busy dealing with the both-ends assault to bother with jumping hostages. About to utter again Hedge was forestalled by the rear-admiral, who by this time had moved on mentally, and was pointing down into the roadway.

  “What are those dogs?” he asked.

  “Sniffer dogs.”

  There was another laugh. “Sniff the train, from here? Ridiculous nonsense!”

  “I really wouldn’t know,” Hedge said. “But to get back to those nets. A good idea, possibly. I’ll pass it on.”

  “Good man, good man!”

  *

  The second demand had by now been transmitted to the Prime Minister in Perth, reaching her as she was about to be given coffee in a café attached to Caithness Glass where, through windows, she had watched the workers kneading, pulling and blowing thin wafers of glass into bottles, bowls and tumblers. She had been much intrigued and had commented on the keenness and industry of Scottish workmen. “Or I should say craftsmen. So skilled. It’s very gratifying to see them so hard at it. No slacking. If only the rest of Britain were the same, don’t you think, Roly?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister —”

  “And I hope they all vote Tory. I’m sure they do.” Mrs Heffer sent a winning smile through the glass; it was dourly met and in the background a working youth made a rude sign with two fingers, but this Mrs Heffer didn’t see, her attention having been caught by a large and rather angry-looking tom-cat, obviously castrated, wearing a tartan collar. Mrs Heffer knew the Scots were fond of cats: only the previous year she had visited the distillery at Glenturret near Crieff, and had been introduced to a tabby named Towser, said to be of very great age — on a board were telegrams from the BBC’s Blue Peter team, also from the Queen, offering twenty-first congratulations — and with a remarkable record for catching mice. He had lived near one of the huge copper retorts, in front of an electric fire, very comfortable in his old age, with a nice big bed. Mrs Heffer, who disliked cats intensely, had enthused. Towser had since died. Mrs Heffer enthused again now, at the Caithness Glass cat.

  “Puss, puss.” She made a noise with her tongue. The cat stalked away, tail in the air, a round hole gazing back at her. “What a splendid cat. A bumper cat.” She could find nothing else to say and was led away for coffee and as she was drinking it and saying how good it was the bomb was dropped by an aide who had been called to the telephone in the management offices and now came to report.

  Mrs Heffer set down her cup with a bang. “What impertinence. Release those vile men from prison? Some of the worst we’ve ever caught — our splendid police! What do you think, Roly?”

  “I agree, of course —”

  “Of course you do, Roly. And of course the demands won’t be met, that goes without saying.” She paused. “Now what is it, Roly?”

  Tentatively Rowland Mayes said, “It just occurred to me there could be room for manoeuvre —”

  “Manoeuvre, Roly? What sort of manoeuvre?”

  “Well, an accommodation.”

  “Do you mean a compromise?”

  “Yes. It’s at least a thought —”

  “A judge for a terrorist? Passengers for a terrorist?” Mrs Heffer drew herself up, her eyes lit as though from some inner circuit. “Never, Roly! Absolutely never! I shall not compromise. No, Roly — hijackers can only be beaten by a total show of strength and total oneness in the official approach. Weaken and you’ve lost the battle, Roly.”

  Nevertheless, Rowland Mayes thought to himself, there is room for manoeuvre. Hijackers never really expected to get away with all their demands intact. All the same, he did see Mrs Heffer’s point of view.

  That afternoon the conference was given a sharp lecture on Mrs Heffer’s point of view, a lecture vehemently delivered. The PM was passionate in defence of liberty, freedom from the threats of terrorism. Afterwards, the BBC was full of it all on TV and radio. The nation must stand together with the unfortunate people on the Durham viaduct. Even the official Labour spokesman found himself in a quandary when he was forced into a routine denunciation of Tory principles in general and of Mrs Heffer in particular. He gave the impression of wishing he hadn’t got to say anything; whatever you said, you were sure to upset some voters. Television, he said later to the Leader of the Opposition, was mostly a bloody nuisance, but the Leader of the Opposition didn’t agree: charm came across nicely and freckles had a cosy image of little scamps in the summer sun.

  *

  Sir Richard Cross had been removed to the cab, to which, by use of the driver’s pass key, the armed men had access. He was held at gun-point, staring through the big windows of the cab towards the platforms of Durham station, now manned by police and troops but with the brass departed. Safety was close but obviously unattainable.

  The questions came, or rather the statements to begin with.

  “You are Sir Richard Cross, an important man in the British Treasury.”

  Sir Richard swallowed nervously; his hands were shaking but he made an effort, however useless. “You’re making a mistake.”

  “Not so. There is no mistake, we have information. Also there are Members of Parliament travelling and these you will know —”

  “Not necessarily.”

  The gunman didn’t argue the point. He and another armed man plus the driver and co-driver, renegades both obviously, stared at Sir Richard. Then the first man spoke again. “You are intimate with Mrs Heffer.”

  “No, no, I —”

  “We understand the British constitution and parliament. Mrs Heffer is your First Lord of the Treasury. You are a high person of the Treasury. Therefore there is intimacy with Mrs Heffer.”

&
nbsp; Cross gave a grunt: they didn’t know as much as they thought they did. Intimacy was hardly the word where Mrs Heffer was concerned, the relationship was master and servant largely. But he offered no further comment and the questions started. They were all about the PM. Where was her soft point, the chink in her armour? There must be humanity somewhere: what would bring it out?

  Sir Richard smiled thinly: he believed they were exhibiting their own weak point now. He said, “You mean you’re meeting a brick wall, that the PM isn’t giving way?”

  That went home. The gun was pressed into Sir Richard’s side and he jumped backwards. “Do not provoke us. It is true there has been no response to our demands, but we have plenty of time. We do not wish to kill the passengers. You can help them as well as us. You will tell us how best to appeal to your Prime Minister.”

  Cross was sweating. He said, “Really, I’ve no idea. She’s a woman of high principle and is unlikely to agree to your demands, that’s all I can say.”

  “But if passengers are to die?”

  “I really can’t answer for the Prime Minister. Naturally, she would be most upset.” The sweat was really pouring now; the sun on the cab’s windows heated the place like a kettle and Sir Richard was in fear of his life. These beasts were desperadoes, men totally without mercy, that could be seen from their eyes and savage expressions. The next round of questions shifted target from Mrs Heffer to the MPs, the stragglers who would now never reach Perth in time for the conference. He, Sir Richard Cross, was to identify them, and there was a suggestion, not overtly expressed it was true, that once identified they would be the first for the sacrifice as the time ticked away to the deadline. Sir Richard felt as limp as a rag; Mrs Heffer had a majority of only six over the combined opposition. Sir Richard had no idea how many MPs were aboard the train, but if there were more than six the government could be brought down in a series of by-elections. Sooner, in fact — the very next vote in the House. But, of course, he wouldn’t identify them to these evil men …

  *

  Time moved on. No deadline had yet been announced by the hijackers or their high command somewhere in London, a place that was being searched for but so far without success. But everywhere in the metropolis the men from the Yard and from the FO and Defence Ministry were busy. They listened in places patronised by Middle Eastern persons, listened anonymously in the hopes of picking something up. Careless talk was never a monopoly of the British and many other races couldn’t resist sounding big. But all they picked up were sundry comments on the situation and the dilatoriness of the authorities in dealing with it.

  “Bloody fuzz, do nothing but nick drivers and chase prozzies.”

  “Or bash up coloured people.”

  “Or miners. Or print workers.”

  Memories were long; the fuzz put up with it and soldiered on. They were used to it, used to raucous screams about police brutality, used to non-co-operation from various sections of the community they tried to protect, used to abuse in all its forms. That day many of them, far too many of them, were uselessly employed in marching along Whitehall with a demo about animal rights that contained a strong contingent of CND, plus, in rear and noisily, a cohort from the SWP, Sam Frudge’s mates. In New Scotland Yard Assistant Commissioner Hesseltine was having a hard time. Everyone was onto him — Commissioner, Home Office, Defence Ministry and, from Durham, Hedge.

  “My hands are tied, Hedge.”

  Hedge sounded frantic. “But this can’t go on! The PM will be livid. The election’s not all that far —”

  “Stuff the election, Hedge, it’s people we’re dealing with, not votes.”

  “The PM —”

  “Don’t impute unworthiness, Hedge. She’s not like that, never has been. She has my trust and respect.”

  “Yes, well.” Hedge didn’t disagree: things were remarkably difficult for any Prime Minister, of course, but so they were for anyone in his, Hedge’s, position. It would be he who would get it in the neck: the FO was always easy to blame when foreigners did anything nasty. “I’m just attempting to impress upon you, Hesseltine — unless your people locate the command post the time may soon come for direct action. We have the strength on the ground.”

  “Don’t use it, Hedge.” Hesseltine’s voice was heated. “As far as I know, the order is to continue to play it cool. At the very least we have to give them time to cool it themselves — they always do, in the end.”

  Hesseltine rang off: Hedge glared at the instrument that had clicked rudely in his ear. Blasted policemen! He had in fact rung from Durham police station and he had been aware of the looks that had passed between the local policemen while he was speaking to London, forbearing looks that he’d found intensely irritating. He bounced his way out of the station and back into the car that had been placed at his disposal and was driven back to the viaduct’s vicinity. He found that some Royal Marine commandos had arrived and also — fast work this, as a result of his own recommendation — a party of sailors was rigging a huge net beneath the arches of the viaduct, with the rear-admiral issuing a stream of orders to the lieutenant in charge. There was no reaction from the train while this activity was going on, and it didn’t take Hedge long to realise why: the naval ratings and their net, so far anyway, were concealed from view and gun range by the viaduct itself, the whole party plus the net itself having been clandestinely unloaded from two closed vehicles now parked beneath one of the arches standing across the roadway leading to North Road, Western Hill and the station approach. At intervals, the rear-admiral was blowing a whistle but the seamen appeared to be taking no notice.

  Hedge approached. “It’s not much use slap beneath the viaduct,” he grumbled.

  “Quite. But it’s not going to stay there, you see. It’ll be drawn out to either side by means of ropes attached to those vehicles.” The rear-admiral indicated half-a-dozen heavy lorries with ROYAL NAVY painted on their sides, waiting in Sutton Street. “They’ll take the strain and hold the net sufficiently far off the ground to take the impact of anyone who decides to jump.”

  Hedge nodded; it seemed a good plan. It would give the passengers some degree of hope and confidence. The lorries looked very solid and reassuring. So did the bluejackets, strong young men from Portsmouth — from the navy’s PT display team, the rear-admiral now said. Muscles bulged and swelled as the heavy net was drawn out and from time to time there was some colourful seafaring language.

  *

  Aboard the train, beneath the over-riding fear for the future, the passengers were busy with their private thoughts, mostly about their families and the agony they would be going through. The incorporated accountant’s mind was in a mix: when would his wife in Twickenham get an inkling that he was not as alone as he was supposed to be? Of course he had said to her, casually before leaving home, that his secretary would be accompanying him, but in point of fact Angela was not the secretary his wife knew, his actual secretary being a misshapen woman in her thirties whom he had told would not be needed in Edinburgh. A pound to a penny his wife would be ringing the London office and then the cat would be out of the bag.

  Along the train Sickert J. MacCantley was acting dumb in a literal sense: so far his nationality didn’t seem to have been remarked by the hijackers but that wouldn’t last if one of the lousy gunmen came past and he happened to be speaking. So he dealt firmly with Sun Wun Foo when she asked questions, seeking reassurance.

  “Can it,” he said with a brief hiss.

  “What can? I did not ask —”

  “Ah, shit. Tie a knot in your tongue for Chrissake.”

  “Tie —?”

  “Shut your yap.”

  Puzzled, but intimidated by his manner, the Chinese girl subsided. She wrinkled her nose. Never mind the immense riches the American said he was possessed of, he, like all Europeans — or Americans — smelt. It was an unpleasant smell in Chinese nostrils and by now it was a real stench thanks to the proximity of so many British persons and the closeness of the atmosphere un
der the continuing Durham sunshine and the shut windows. By now the air-conditioning had gone right off. It was beginning to be very noticeable that few of the passengers had washed since the day before, and nearby a small child wearing napkins had had an accident and was adding to the general discomfort. The fact that it was wailing on a high-pitched note made it worse, but Sun Wun Foo had a soft heart where babies were concerned and after a while she rose from her seat and moved, smiling, across the aisle towards the baby’s mother.

  “I rock?” she asked pleasantly.

  The mother, a fat, bloated woman with an angry face, opened her mouth in some surprise. “Eh?”

  “I rock the baby, please?”

  “Oh no you bloody don’t! What d’you think I’m here for, eh? I can rock her if she needs it, I don’t want any dirty foreigners touching her, thank you very much indeed.”

  Crestfallen, Sun Wun Foo went back to her seat. No sympathy from Mr MacCantley. He said, or whispered, “Y’asked for that. Sit down and shut up, willya?” The baby continued wailing.

  Mr Irons was thinking of Yorkshire again, not now of the plastic cows and so on but of his own Yorkshire, the great county he’d known for all his many years, the county of so many faces. He knew what southerners thought of it: all coal mines and heavy industry, bleak mill towns and unemployment, huge dirty warehouses, squalid canals running through slum areas when they weren’t silted up with disuse, power stations … they never thought about the rest of it, the far greater part, never even knew it existed most likely. Yorkshire was just somewhere they passed through on their way to Scotland, never realising that the Pennines had splendours to equal Scotland’s. The great sweep of the dales, Wensleydale through Widdale to Ingleton, past Gayle Moor and Whernside, under the magnificence of the Ribblehead Viaduct that had carried the Skipton to Carlisle railway since long before Mr Irons had been a boy. Or north of Wensleydale to Swaledale, high, twisting roads that in summer seemed to rise to meet the blue of the sky, fresh winds sweeping scuds of cloud along, or in winter snow-covered and often closed even to foot or horse traffic, the sheep of the fell farmers like himself bleak and lonely behind the wind-breaks, sheep that somehow you had to reach and feed or assist in the lambing. The great expanse of Marrick Moor above Grinton, leading into Hurst Moor and Kexwith Moor, Booze Moor with Stang forest beyond and then the descent down to Brignall Banks and Greta Bridge and the quiet luxury of the Morritt Arms hotel on what was now called the A66 but in Mr Irons’ young days had been simply the Brough road to Appleby.