Overnight Express

by Philip McCutchan

  Hedge rang off and said, “Still no concessions. Let us go outside, Superintendent.”

  They went out, stood by in the roundabout. The same crowd was mostly there, though the major-general had been joined by a brigadier in a fur hat like a Russian, and the rear-admiral seemed to have gone, leaving his net behind as evidence of zeal. There was a curious hush, in which a man’s sudden sneeze rang out like a knell of doom. The brigadier seemed to go into a frenzy: nerves, Hedge thought. He shouted at no-one in particular, “Take that man’s name.”

  Then a voice came from above, from the high viaduct. “It is past midnight. You agree to our demands?”

  Hedge cleared his throat and spoke into the microphone of the loud-hailer which someone had thrust into his hands. “There will be no concessions. We demand your surrender. If you do this, there will be no firing. You cannot, however, get away. You should recognise this, and be sensible.”

  “It is on your head,” the voice called back. The silence returned. There was a moon now, fitful through the heavy cloud that blew before the wind. Behind Hedge, the great cathedral reared, stark with light showing through the stained glass. Then there was a cry from the train, a scream of terror, and in the searchlights that since nightfall had thrown the train and viaduct into sharp relief, a body hurtled, turning over and over until it hit the roadway, clear of the net, and lay still in a spreading pool of blood.

  9

  The girl had been taken away by the dark-skinned men some half an hour earlier; the incorporated accountant had protested but to no avail. He had even stood up to protect her, but had been knocked flat by a gun muzzle smashing into his face just beneath his right eye. The time being close to midnight, he had guessed the use that was to be made of her. So had the other passengers in the vicinity. Mr and Mrs Irons had shown horror when someone had put it into words.

  “The first to go, the first hostage. Why save three bloody judges?”

  The scream when she did go, fighting to retain a hold on the train but hurled clear over the parapet of the viaduct, rocked the passengers to the core. The incorporated accountant closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears while the blood from the heavy blow ran down his face. In truth he had few feelings in regard to the girl, she had been someone to go to bed with while he was in Edinburgh and that was about the extent of it, but he was shattered nevertheless to think about her end. Besides, she would be identified by the people on the ground and her name would be in the newspapers, and then his wife would know, or anyway would make an accurate guess. Why had he been picked on, why his girl? But, of course, somebody had to be picked on and it was just filthy luck.

  From well back beyond the police barricades, along with the ordinary gawpers, Fred Irons from Wensleydale saw the body fall in the searchlight beams and heard the scream cutting through the night. He agonised for his parents. He had been there in Durham for some while. Kath had said he was daft and what was the point, but he had felt impelled to drive north and stand by. Just in case … in case of bloody what, he thought? He didn’t know; it was no more than a blind instinct. They’d always stood by him, now he had to stand by them.

  During the day his sister had telephoned from Athens. Just a gesture: she wasn’t coming back. Harold Haythornthwaite had said there was no point, by the time they could get a flight fixed it would all be over. Holidays didn’t come every day of the week. Fred had been angry but had tried not to let it show in his voice. His parents had done a lot for Mabel in the past, just as they had for him. The prick of tears came to his eyes as he waited in suspense for the next act: he wished now he hadn’t ever upset his father over those plastic cows and all.

  *

  Hedge reported by telephone from the Homestead Sleep Centre, reported direct to Rowland Mayes who gave a series of tongue clicks down the line.

  “Oh dear, oh dear. A tragedy. The PM will be saddened —”

  “I thought Mrs Heffer was keeping out of it.”

  “Yes. But she has her emotions, my dear chap. She is, after all, a woman. What are you doing your end?”

  Hedge asked cautiously, “What are you doing yours, Foreign Secretary?”

  “Waiting. Waiting for the next contact, the next deadline.”

  “I shall do the same,” Hedge said, feeling relieved.

  “Quite so, quite so. A waiting game, always the same.”

  “Our hands are tied.”

  “Indeed they are. By the fact of the hostages if nothing else, of course.”

  Hedge said, “We could always give them a judge to go on with, I suppose.” He had said it on impulse and regretted it the moment the words were out. It had been unworthy of him and one must never show defeatism, which was an axiom of the PM’s. Rowland Mayes hadn’t seemed to like it either. He had rung off abruptly.

  *

  It so happened that the three justices had been with the Foreign Secretary at the time of Hedge’s call from Durham, which made the stupid suggestion even more unfortunate, though the judges couldn’t possibly have heard: accustomed to secrecy, sealed lips and so on, Rowland Mayes always kept the receiver pressed very close to his ear. But his face was a little pink with embarrassment and not only because of Hedge’s actual words: the truth was, he himself saw a representative judge as a useful sop, and in particular His Honour Judge Prestwick whose air of calm authority, whenever they happened to meet, put him at a disadvantage. He did not like Judge Prestwick at all and always had the feeling he was about to be sentenced.

  Putting down the phone he said, “Impasse. And a death. A young girl.”

  “Do we know who?” Judge Prestwick asked in a booming voice.

  “Not yet. Probably no-one of consequence — too young.”

  “Ah. No word of Dick and Hester Cross?”

  “None. Anyway, it certainly wasn’t Lady Cross.”

  “A relief, Foreign Secretary.”

  “Yes, yes, a relief indeed.”

  There was a pause and then Judge Orp lifted his sharp face and gave it as his opinion that terrorists should be horse-whipped and then sentenced to death, such a pity about the stupidity of parliament in not having restored the death penalty when the whole country so clearly wanted it.

  “The Home Secretary’s against it, Judge.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Anyway, it’s your position, gentlemen, that I wished to discuss. It’s an unfortunate one you’ll agree. There are people in the country who’ll make capital out of it. Three judges against some hundreds of persons —”

  At that moment a red-enamelled phone burred softly at his elbow. He answered, jiggled distractedly at another telephone, said nothing and then rang off. “Damn!” he said. “Too brief for any tap. It was another contact, the hijackers’ HQ. Deadline extended four hours.”

  “And then another death?”

  “Yes, Judge, I’m afraid so.”

  Judge Prestwick let out a long breath and banged a fist on the arm of his chair. “Why the devil do we go on feeding them? Why not starve them out?”

  Judge Bessell said impatiently, “Rubbish! Stop sending food and more hostages will die, surely that’s obvious?” Rowland Mayes looked relieved that he hadn’t had to say much the same to Judge Prestwick.

  Judge Orp asked on a note of sheer helplessness, “What do we do, for goodness’ sake?”

  “I really don’t know,” Rowland Mayes answered. He was beginning to feel exhausted; he had endured a lot from Mrs Heffer and he had had all sorts of conflicting advice pressed upon him ever since the train had been halted. Hesseltine of the Yard, the Durham chief constable, Ministry of Defence, the anti-terrorist squad, the lot. Each one of them knew best; but in the end it all came down to the one possible thing: wait, and go on waiting, and wear the hijackers down.

  *

  Jean Fison had, early in the hijack, summoned up all her determination and had approached the hijackers to ask for her release on account of her mother dying in Edinburgh. This had been rejected out-of-hand: there would be no re
leases until the British government conceded. When she went on with her pleading she was knocked over. She went sprawling in the aisle and was assisted to her feet by a person who didn’t open his mouth until the hijacker had passed on along the train. He turned out to be an American; he didn’t say so, but Jean Fison heard so when he did speak, cautiously, from the corner of his fleshy mouth.

  “Goddamn rats.”

  “It seems hard.” Jean Fison was close to tears but knew she mustn’t show weakness. “But I suppose one can understand their point of view. If they concede once …”

  “Yeah, sure, but still. I reckon you’re a brave lady.” Mr MacCantley wanted badly to chew gum but didn’t dare since to do so would perhaps draw attention to his nationality. Jean looked past him, saw a Chinese girl snuggling close on his other side. A woman of the world, she guessed the score. The small Chinese girl smiled at her, a nice smile if strained.

  “I have mother and father.”

  “Where?”

  “In Hong Kong. I miss them.”

  “Yes. I’m sure you do.”

  “So I am so sorry for you.”

  Jean was touched. “That’s nice of you, my dear.”

  The American said something that sounded — and here Jean was willing to admit her perception of Americans had been much coloured by Hollywood — like “Shucks, honey,” and the Chinese girl subsided back into her corner. No more was said; Jean Fison felt that the American didn’t want too much talking, anyway about the Chinese girl’s parents, and had shut her up. Parents obviously would not be coming into his future plans, always supposing there was to be a future. Jean Fison passed a dreadful day of heat and fear and unresponsiveness, overlaid by thoughts of her mother waiting for her in Edinburgh — would she have been told, would she take it in if she were told, about the hijack? When, that night, the first of the hostages was thrown from the viaduct, Jean Fison was physically sick and Mr MacCantley said, “Jesus Christ!”

  Ten minutes after midnight there was a stir and word went through the wakeful train: the man who had been removed to the cab early in the hijack and had subsequently been returned to his seat had been taken back to the cab again. He was believed to be some sort of VIP in Whitehall, a Sir. It was possible he might be the next to die, or again, he might not be. VIPs could be better kept alive.

  Soon after this there was an announcement on the internal broadcast system: the new deadline as already announced to the Foreign Office, 0400.

  *

  Hedge was contacted again by Whitehall. He was on continuous duty now. There were plenty of beds in the Sleep Centre’s showroom adjacent to the office but Hedge was too restless, too agitated, to make any use of them. He pounced on the telephone when it rang at 0200: the caller was Rowland Mayes.

  “Hedge —”

  “Yes, Foreign Secretary?”

  “Still awake, good man.” Hedge preened. “The PM has been in constant touch, of course. There’s been a shift in her mind.”

  “Goodness gracious, Foreign Secretary, she’s not going to —”

  “No, no, out of the question — that. No, it’s the terrorists, the ones held in gaol. The leak’s got through, rather neatly arranged I think I can say.” The inference was that Rowland Mayes had fixed it himself. “BBC Overseas Service — splendid co-operation. And very oblique, don’t you see —”

  “Will they get it, aboard the train?”

  “It’ll permeate. Things do, you know.”

  “Yes … quite surprising.”

  “Like dirty jokes.”

  “I beg your pardon, Foreign Secretary?”

  “What you’re told as brand new one day in London, you’re told again next day in John o’Groats.”

  “Yes, indeed, that’s true, Foreign Secretary. But the PM — you said —”

  “Yes. She’s decided to play this right through. That’s to say, the prisoners are to be moved. Genuinely.”

  “Oh? Yes, I see, Foreign Secretary. Dangerous, but … why the shift, may I ask that?”

  There was a slight hesitation, a barely perceptible change of manner. Rowland Mayes said, “Well. Sometimes things are better not put into precise words, Hedge. I’m sure you understand?”

  Hedge did: Mrs Heffer was projecting an image of womanliness for public consumption. Wise, really; heartlessness was out. It was always good to be seen as ready to compromise in order to save lives. But Hedge said, “I take it she won’t actually concede anything?”

  “Great Scott, no.”

  “No actual hand-over?” Hedge liked to have things quite clear.

  “I see that as very unlikely, Hedge.”

  Hedge asked, “Where are they being moved to — here, Durham gaol?”

  “No —”

  “Too close?”

  “I think so, yes. Northallerton.”

  “Northallerton’s a Youth Custody Centre.”

  “Yes. But it’s been a prison, very secure.”

  “Well, yes. When, Foreign Secretary?”

  “At once.”

  When Rowland Mayes had rung off Hedge was thoughtful. There was a nasty smell around somewhere. Why the move, really? Elections apart, that was; and Hedge knew quite well that Mrs Heffer wouldn’t go too far on that one — she was a woman of honour and not one to travel the paths of expediency. There had to be something else, some deeper consideration. Northallerton was very handy, not all that far down the trunk roads from Durham. But a Youth Custody Centre … well, yes … Mrs Heffer was always astute. Terrorists wouldn’t be expected to be found in a Youth Custody Centre and there might be something up the PM’s sleeve. And at once? In that lay urgency.

  Would there, in the end, be a concession, a compromise?

  And what about the judges? Judges could be replaced, convicted terrorists could not, at any rate not the same ones. Which were the most valuable? Hedge stifled that line of thought. Judges would never be handed over. Never.

  Perhaps there was to be some dirty work, chicanery, broken promises even, though this again one certainly did not connect with Mrs Heffer. On the other hand … and certainly there was another hand: Hedge himself. He could break promises, he could take the opprobrium, couldn’t he? He was the man on the spot, the representative in charge at the scene. He was, in essence, the Foreign Office in Durham. Who better to be said to have made a cock of everything? Not a cock exactly; the idea would be to fool the hijackers into a release of the train’s passengers, and that, of course, would be success, not a cock at all. But in that lay a most dangerous consideration: he would become a target, the Middle East’s Enemy Number One.

  His hands shook and his face suffused. What a dilemma; but surely he was imagining things? He must be. Mrs Heffer wouldn’t sacrifice him, she wasn’t the sort. She had always been very nice to him on the occasions, few certainly, when they had met in the company of Rowland Mayes. One such occasion had been at a garden party at the Palace, with Mrs Heffer behaving very graciously, pressing him to a sticky cake, chocolate-flavoured. Hedge remembered it well. They had had a little talk about the need for contraceptives in India. Mrs Heffer had expressed disgust at what was going on so frequently in the world’s overpopulated areas but had conceded that people, unfortunately, would be people …

  *

  The move from the maximum security prison to the less rigorous Youth Custody Centre at Northallerton half-way between the Yorkshire dales and the North Yorkshire moors was made under a tremendous cloak of, not so much secrecy, but escort strength. Each of the terrorists was manacled to two prison officers with more prison officers riding in each of the two vehicles. All the officers were armed. There were no less than six police cars, three in the lead, three in rear, with motor-cycle outriders. Travelling at some distance in the rear as a long stop was an army personnel carrier. A helicopter circled overhead. The terrorists all bore gloating expressions: this looked remarkably like freedom to come. Their friends had done well for them. They were all lifers, inside for bomb outrages against British aircraft in o
verseas airfields or in flight, with a total of seven hundred and ninety-four deaths, crew and passengers, plus a number of persons killed on the ground when a jetliner had blown up shortly after take-off from Heathrow. Now they were on their way out. One of them, as he had embarked aboard his transport, had spat full in the face of a prison officer, confident of no retaliation at this juncture of events.

  The convoy headed north; the roads were clear, empty of all but the heavy stuff, the artics thundering through the night. They made good speed along the Ml, coming off onto the M18 north of Sheffield, then onto the A1 off which they were scheduled to turn at Leeming onto the A684 for Northallerton. Scheduled: but they never made it farther than just beyond the roundabout by the Wetherby Turnpike Hotel.

  10

  It had been carnage but, as the Durham chief constable, who went at once to the scene himself by helicopter, reported by telephone to Hedge, it was believed to have been the sheerest accident with no suggestion at all of dirty work on anybody’s part.

  “Two articulated vehicles, Mr Hedge, travelling south. There’s a bend a few hundred yards from the Wetherby Turnpike. It had started to rain … the roads were greasy. For some reason the leading artic braked and skidded right across to the north-bound carriageway. The second was too close. In heavy braking, that skidded as well. The prison vehicles hadn’t a chance. I believe —”

  “The terrorists, Chief Constable! The terrorists!”

  “Dead, I’m afraid.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, all of them. That is, they must be. The prison officers too. The vehicles were flattened totally, just flat metal on the road. Like big trouser presses, pressing. An appalling sight. I’ve never seen worse.”

  His fleshy face shaking with apprehension, though by no stretch of the imagination could it be called his fault, Hedge rang the Foreign Office: like himself, Rowland Mayes was still on duty.