by Bill Rogers
‘I assume you have clearance, so you can always check the internal list for her work number?’
‘I already have it,’ said Jo. ‘And her personal number.’
‘Then I don’t know what else to suggest.’
‘Put me through to the Duty Officer,’ said Jo. ‘Tell them it’s a State Zero: Emergency Assistance.’
Five minutes later, reassured that everything would be done to track Sarah down and keep her safe, Jo went looking for Nick Carter. Her deputy was talking to two of the passive media search team.
‘I haven’t been able to reach Sarah,’ she told him. ‘I’m worried that Clements may have followed her to London, which is why we haven’t sighted him or his bike up here.’
‘What train was she on?’
‘The 20.17.’
‘I’ll get someone to check the on-board CCTV,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll know for sure.’
‘If he knows where she works and lives, he could have got on any of the trains. An earlier one.’
Nick frowned. ‘That means checking the concourse CCTV for the past twenty-four hours,’ he told her. ‘There’s only so much we can do at any one time.’ His gesture took in the whole of the incident room. ‘See for yourself. We don’t have the bodies.’
‘Then get on to the Transport Police. They’ve got his photo like everyone else.’ People were looking up from their desks and staring at them. Jo lowered her voice and tried to sound conciliatory. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but we’ve both known Sarah for a long time. She was more than a colleague to me. She was a friend, and . . .’
He held up a hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll get on to it. And don’t worry. She’ll be fine.’
‘Where are we up to with Henry Mwamba?’ she asked.
‘I sent DC Hulme to have another word with him.’ He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘He should have reported back by now. I’ll give him a call. Find out what he’s playing at.’
Hulme yawned. He searched in the glove compartment, found a half-empty bag of Fisherman’s Friends and popped one in his mouth. He sat back and moved the lozenge slowly around with his tongue, waiting for the hit of menthol and liquorice. If he had been in his own car he could have plugged in his phone and been listening to a trivia quiz. That was the trouble with pool cars. There was beggar all to do when you were just sitting around watching and waiting. Worse when you were on your own. Unless your companion happened to be that motor mouth from K Division CID with the body odour problem.
His radio crackled. It was DS Carter.
‘Hulme?’
‘Yes, Boss?’
‘You were supposed to give me a sitrep?’
‘Sorry, Boss. It’s just that there was nothing to report.’
‘There’s always something to report. Even if it’s that there’s nothing to report.’
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Hulme.’
‘Where in Hulme, Hulme?’
‘The Kingdom of Heaven Church of the Mustard Seed.’
‘Is this another of your windups, Jimmy?’ The barely repressed anger in Nick’s voice more than made up for his use of the DC’s given name.
‘No, Boss. It’s on the level,’ said Hulme. ‘ “The kingdom of heaven is like to a grain of mustard seed, which a man took, and sowed in his field: Which indeed is the least of all seeds: but when it is grown, it is the greatest among herbs, and becometh a tree, so that the birds of the air come and lodge in the branches thereof.” Matthew 13:31–32.’
‘Hulme!’ Carter bellowed. ‘What the hell are you doing and where is your target? And where is his watcher?’
Hulme swallowed what was left of the lozenge and went into formal mode. ‘I ascertained that the target was delivering a homily at the 10.15 a.m. family service at the Kingdom of Heaven Church of the Mustard Seed in Hulme. When I arrived, the designated surveillance officer confirmed that the target had entered the church. I offered to take over while he snatched a breakfast. I then checked for myself that the target was indeed present at the service and then retired to my car to wait for him to leave. I judged it to be unwise and unnecessary to haul him from the service in the middle of his oration.’ He paused. ‘I trust that was appropriate, DS Carter?’
‘What time does this service finish?’ said Carter. He sounded mollified, although unrepentant.
‘Half eleven, Boss. They’re on their way out as we speak.’
‘Good. Let me know as soon as you’ve spoken with him. And then regardless of what he says, you stick to him like a limpet. Got that?’
‘Yes, Boss.’
Hulme undid his seat belt and sat up. The congregation was spilling out into the street. He had assumed this would be one of the burgeoning Black Majority Churches, but it was an eclectic mix of race and culture from right across the spectrum. Manchester in a microcosm. There were already more than a hundred men, women, and children blocking the pavement and the narrow street. Concerned that he might miss Mwamba in the crush, he climbed out of the Peugeot 308, alarmed the car, and sauntered over to the opposite side of the street.
Five minutes later, with no sign of his quarry, Hulme politely shouldered his way through the crowd of happy people still congregated outside.
‘I’m afraid that the service is ended, Brother,’ said one of the ushers standing just inside the entrance.
‘I was hoping to have a word with Mr Mwamba,’ Hulme said. ‘He doesn’t seem to have come out yet?’
The usher’s eyes lit up.
‘Ah, Brother Mwamba!’ It rolled off his tongue like a hymn of praise. ‘Such a wonderful, uplifting sermon. A shame that you missed it.’
‘I’m sure it was. But right now I need to speak with him. Where is he?’
The usher frowned at the brusqueness and impatience of the enquirer. He turned and surveyed the interior of the church. ‘He doesn’t seem to be here right now. Why don’t you ask his son? He’ll surely know.’
‘His son?’
‘Right there. In the blue suit, next to the Sister in the pink dress and hat talking with Pastor Christianson.’
Hulme hurried into the church and down the aisle to where the three of them were standing beside the front pews. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘You’re Henry Mwamba’s son?’
The man turned and stared at him suspiciously. ‘Yes, and this is my wife, his daughter-in-law. And you are?’
He pulled out his warrant card and showed it to them. ‘Detective Constable Hulme. I need urgently to speak with your father.’
‘Police?’ said the pastor. ‘What business could the police possibly have with Brother Mwamba?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Hulme. ‘I don’t have time for this. I need to speak with him now. It concerns his safety.’
The two men looked shocked, the daughter-in-law horrified. She gasped and her hand flew to her face.
‘His safety,’ said the son. ‘What do you mean, his safety?’
‘He hasn’t told you, has he?’ Hulme didn’t wait for an answer. It would have been superfluous. ‘We have reason to believe that someone may be targeting your father,’ he said. ‘He is supposed to be taking precautions. Now, please, tell me where he is.’
The daughter-in-law looked as though she was about to faint. The pastor reached across and held her steady.
The son grabbed Hulme’s arm in a vice-like grip and pointed to a door off to the right. ‘He’s just left for the Trafford Centre,’ he said. ‘He’s taken our daughter with him.’
His wife began to scream – a high-pitched keen that sent a chill through Hulme’s body. He pulled his arm free and raced to the door. On the other side was a parking lot, with an exit out onto the back street. There were a few cars left. None of them contained Mwamba or his granddaughter.
Hulme rushed back inside. ‘Ring your father and tell him to return immediately,’ he said as he pulled out his own phone. ‘Tell me his number while you’re at it, and the make of his car.’
&nbs
p; ‘Françoise . . .’ moaned the daughter-in-law, rocking backwards and forwards in the pastor’s arms. ‘Françoise . . .’
Her husband, his phone clamped to his ear, moved away the better to hear. Hulme followed him.
‘How old is your daughter?’ he asked.
‘Nine. It’s her birthday tomorrow. Dad is going to let her choose a present. We’re joining them later – having a meal, going to the pictures.’
‘When did they leave?’
‘Ten minutes ago? Maybe fifteen?’ He put the phone to his other ear and listened intently. His hand trembled.
‘Any joy?’ said Hulme, instantly regretting his choice of words.
The husband shook his head, his face frozen with fear and helplessness.
‘Christ!’ DC Hulme exclaimed, as he turned and ran down the aisle.
‘Don’t blaspheme in God’s House,’ the pastor called after him.
‘Least of your worries,’ was his muttered reply. ‘Stay here, all of you!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll be back.’
Chapter 74
‘Calm down,’ said Joanne Stuart.
Hulme wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or to DS Carter, whom he could clearly hear cursing him in the background.
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Within the last fifteen minutes. I’m sorry, Ma’am.’ His voice trailed off.
‘Not now,’ she told him. ‘Save it for later. When we’ve found them both, safe and sound. Now get back in there and put the son on. We need detailed descriptions of them – what they’re wearing. And email me any photos of them that he’s got on his phone.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘And then stay with them. I don’t want them charging over to the Trafford Centre and getting in the way. Understood?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Good. Now go.’
She ended the call and turned to face an irate DS Carter.
‘I told you he was a bloody liability,’ he said.
Jo shrugged her jacket on. ‘It’s a mistake any one of us could have made, Nick,’ she said. ‘And, like I told him, this isn’t the time for recriminations. We have two people to keep safe. On the flip side, this might just be the opportunity we’ve been waiting for.’
Jo and Nick burst into the Intu Trafford Centre Security Control Room, closely followed by Carly Whittle. It felt like NASA mission control shortly before lift-off. Serried rows of desks faced a single wall covered with CCTV screens showing live feed of the entrances, food halls and galleries, escalators, cinemas, stores, the parking lots, and the approach roads.
There was an electrifying buzz about the place and a raw intensity about the manner in which operatives studied their monitors. A middle-aged man in a smart suit and with a buzz-cut waved them over.
‘DI Stuart?’ he said, offering her his hand. ‘I’m Les Stanley, the Security Coordinator.’
‘SI Stuart,’ she replied, ‘but it’s academic. This is DS Carter and DC Whittle. I understand you have a Comms station ready for us?’
‘Over here,’ he said, setting off.
‘I take it you haven’t found them yet?’ she asked.
‘No. And we certainly haven’t spotted anyone who looks as though he could be carrying a rifle. Believe me, he wouldn’t have got beyond any of the entrances. But if they are here, I guarantee we’ll find them within the next few minutes.’
He led them to a pod containing three desks combined in a horseshoe shape. Each desk contained a keyboard, three computer monitors, two CCTV monitors, and various headsets. An operative sat before each desk. There were three empty mesh-backed work chairs. Beside each keyboard was a printed list of operational keywords.
‘This is Bronze Command Pod One,’ he told her. ‘I have a duplicate pod just over there. They can both be redesignated as Silver Command if so directed. As I understand it, I’ll be continuing to monitor access control, all of our CCTV, and our detection alarm systems. All the information will be available to you here, to Gold Command at GMP Headquarters, Silver Command at Nexus House, and to all the other relevant stakeholders: GMP specialist units, fire service, emergency medical services, and if it comes to it, special forces. I will also be responsible for the deployment of our own front-line security teams in accordance with your direction.’
‘You do know this isn’t a full-blown terrorist threat?’ said Jo, envisaging the potentially disastrous consequences of an over-the-top response. ‘We’re talking a known threat: one suspect and one, possibly two, targets.’
‘Standard protocol,’ said a voice from behind her.
Jo turned. The familiar figure of a senior uniformed officer stood there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a tablet in the other.
‘Chief Inspector Sarsfield,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m your appointed loggist. As for the scope of the response, I believe that’s down to Exercise Winchester Accord. You’ll remember that?’
Jo did. The 2016 simulation carried out right here, in and around the Intu Trafford Centre, following the Paris and Brussels terrorist attacks. When the fake suicide bomber had caused outrage by shouting ‘Allahu Akbar’. No one at GMP was likely to forget it.
‘We were waiting for you to arrive to implement a controlled evacuation,’ Stanley explained.
‘We’ll see about that,’ said Jo, sitting down in one of the chairs and signalling for Nick and Carly to do the same. She put on a pair of headphones and pointed to the communications board in the centre of the pod. ‘Are all these channels networked?’
The operative nodded. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘In which case,’ she said, ‘please open them all.’
Lights flickered from amber to green.
Jo consulted the list of keywords. ‘This is Bravo Charlie One,’ she said. ‘Golf Charlie One, Sierra Charlie One, please confirm you are receiving.’
‘Golf Charlie One receiving.’
‘Sierra Charlie One receiving.’
So, Helen Gates was Gold Command, Gordon Holmes Silver Command, and their prime suspect, appropriately, Papa Sierra. Henry Mwamba was Hotel Mike, and his granddaughter Françoise, Foxtrot Mike.
‘Papa Sierra, Hotel Mike, and Foxtrot Mike have yet to be located,’ she told them.
‘Is it correct that Tango One is believed to have arrived on a motorbike?’ asked a male voice.
‘Who is this?’ said Helen Gates. ‘Identify yourself using the appropriate keywords.’
‘Bravo Charlie Two,’ came the reply from the Security Coordinator.
‘We don’t know for certain,’ said Jo. ‘Regarding transport, all options should be considered. And we do not, I repeat, do not have a Tango. Golf Charlie One, I have a serious concern. Can you confirm that this operation has not been designated either as an emergency or a terrorist incident?’
‘I can confirm that this is not designated as a terrorist incident, although that option remains open. It is designated as an emergency.’
‘But . . .’ Jo began.
The rules made it clear that for it to constitute an emergency it would have to represent a substantial challenge to GMP’s ability to execute its functions. That was not the case. Jo was tempted to argue but knew that would only waste valuable time.
‘My concern,’ she said, ‘is that the implementation of emergency procedures, such as an evacuation, may present a greater threat to public safety than a coordinated stop-and-search protocol. The resultant panic would alert Papa Sierra and make it harder for us to apprehend him. And potentially cause crush injuries to members of the public.’
Jo held her breath. There was a short pause.
‘I concur, Bravo Charlie One,’ said Gates.
‘This is Bravo Charlie Two. We should at least put out a call for Hotel Mike to make himself known to my staff ?’
‘That would also alert Papa Sierra,’ said Jo.
‘The safety of Hotel Mike and Foxtrot Mike have to be our prime concern,’ Gates responded.
&nbs
p; ‘I concur,’ said Gordon Holmes. ‘At least it will avoid major panic and make it easier to identify Papa Sierra if he’s following them or decides to escape. But it is your decision, Bravo Charlie One.’
Jo stared up at the bank of screens, teeming with men, women, and children blissfully unaware of the unfolding drama. A typical Sunday afternoon. There must be tens of thousands of them. Beside her, DCI Sarsfield had his biro poised, waiting for her decision.
‘Make the announcement,’ she said. ‘But keep it low key. Say his son and daughter-in-law are waiting for him.’
‘For information,’ said Gordon, while they waited, ‘a hazard response unit is on its way. Mobile units are already in place and covering all the major routes into and out of the operational zone. Three intercept teams are en route to you. Paramedics are already on-site and have been briefed.’
No mention of Armed Response.
‘What about TFU?’ she asked.
‘On-call TFU1 have been delayed by an incident,’ Gates told her. ‘TFU2 are on their way from Manchester Airport, ETA five minutes.’
‘I also requested air support,’ said Jo.
‘NPAS 21 involved in Casevac and unavailable,’ Gordon informed them. ‘However, the Greater Manchester Fire and Rescue Service AIR Unit drone is en route. ETA four minutes.’
Jo couldn’t fault the scale or speed of response. Tactical Firearms officers, dog units, Tactical Aid and Riot Control, all for one man armed with an air rifle, albeit with poisoned pellets. Her acknowledgement was drowned out by the announcement.
‘This is a customer service announcement for Mr Henry Mwamba. Would Mr Henry Mwamba please make himself known to the nearest member of staff. Your son and daughter-in-law are waiting for you at the meeting point.’
Excellently done, Jo thought. Not the slightest hint of concern in the tone of the announcer. They watched the bank of screens for an indication that Henry Mwamba had heard and was responding.
The traffic had come to a standstill on all the approach roads. Those exiting the parking lots were having to run the gauntlet of checks by strategically placed motorcycle officers. Still no sign of Mwamba, his granddaughter, or Clements.
