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  ‘This doesn’t sound right,’ Holland said. ‘Why’s Akhtar suddenly losing it now, and why take a hostage?’

  It was much the same thing Thorne had said to Brigstocke half an hour before. Holland had worked the original manslaughter case too and could clearly sense, as Thorne did, that there was something wrong with the picture.

  ‘It’s stupid,’ Holland said.

  Thorne shrugged. ‘We’d be out of work if people weren’t stupid.’

  ‘You reckon he still blames you for the sentence?’

  Up until the judge’s sentencing, the Akhtar manslaughter case had been run-of-the-mill, even if the exact details of the offence itself had remained a little vague. Amin Akhtar and a friend, aged sixteen and seventeen respectively, had been attacked by a group of three young men, all about the same age as they were, on a street in Islington. One of the attackers – Lee Slater – had been carrying a kitchen knife, and during the melee that had followed, while Amin had been trying to protect his friend, Slater had been fatally stabbed with it.

  In an effort to avoid prosecution, the two surviving attackers were naturally keen to distance themselves from their dead friend, but their version of events had differed wildly from the account given by Amin and his friend. There had been snow on the ground that night and they insisted that a harmless exchange of snowballs had simply got out of hand. Denying any direct involvement in the attack, they were at least willing to admit that Slater had been the attacker, but claimed consistently that Amin had been equally aggressive in snatching Slater’s knife when it was dropped and using it to stab Slater to death. This was not of course how Amin and his friend saw things and though theirs was the story that most believed, the conflicting testimonies led to the Crown Prosecution Service deciding it would not be in the public interest to pursue any charges of assault or GBH, despite the injuries to both Asian boys. In the end, they had decided to proceed only with a charge of manslaughter against Amin and it had been one of the easiest cases Thorne had ever had to put together.

  With at least some of the evidence pointing towards self-defence and given the defendant’s previously unblemished character, the prosecution had been expecting a sentence of four years or perhaps even less. Nobody had been more astonished than Thorne when Amin Akhtar had been sent down for eight. Or more outraged than the boy’s father.

  Though he could still not quite picture the man, the ferocity of his anger had become even clearer. Screaming in Thorne’s face on the steps of the Old Bailey. Shouting over and over again that the law had let him down.

  ‘It sounds like I’m the one he wants,’ Thorne said. Ahead of him, cars swerved into the bus lane as he tore down South Lambeth Road into Stockwell. ‘Maybe he’s taken Helen Weeks so he can swap one copper for another.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Holland said.

  She would have a one-year-old by now …

  Thorne would do it, if that’s what it came to, and he spent the rest of the high-speed journey south thinking about how he would handle things and trying to keep his hands steady on the wheel.

  Imagining himself staring at a gun.

  Wondering who he would be thinking about.

  The road had been sealed off one hundred yards either side of the newsagent’s. Squad cars blocked side streets as well as the main routes in and out, which not only meant disruption for dozens of householders but also for commuters using the mainline station at Tulse Hill and the staff and children at a local junior school, both of which were well within the area that had been cordoned off.

  Thorne showed his warrant card and was waved through the cordon. On the pavements either side of him, uniformed officers were ushering residents to safety. Some were still in nightclothes, having been hurriedly evacuated.

  He drove slowly down the hill towards the target location.

  There were a number of cars and motorbikes parked alongside the small parade of shops. Thorne guessed that most would belong to people who had caught the train into work, though it might now be a while before they could be claimed. He could see a police van and several more squad cars at the bottom of the hill on the far side of the station. He pulled over on the same side of the road as two Armed Response Vehicles and got out of the car.

  He stared across at the shop.

  The metal shutters were covered in graffiti though only the word PAKI was legible.

  There were five or six armed officers standing around the two specially adapted BMWs, and, as Thorne and Holland walked towards them, it was clear from their stance and the almost casual conversations taking place that they had yet to be constructively deployed. With the shutters down there was nothing to take aim at and, with the shop based inside a single-storey unit, there was no possibility that the man inside could be taking aim at them.

  They were waiting for orders.

  Just before Thorne and Holland reached them, Thorne’s mobile rang.

  ‘I think I’ve got your “why”,’ Brigstocke said.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Amin Akhtar killed himself in Barndale Young Offenders Institution eight weeks ago. Tom … ’

  Holland looked at him, waiting to be told.

  Thorne just swore under his breath and carried on walking towards the men with the guns, while Brigstocke gave him the sordid details.

  FIVE

  The leader of the CO19 Firearms Unit was a squat and surly individual named Chivers. He pointed Thorne and Holland towards the junior school at the far end of the street opposite, which had been designated as the RVP or Rendezvous Point and was being hurriedly transformed into a temporary Incident Room. Walking away, Thorne was thinking that Chivers had seemed irritated by the situation, bored even. One of those types for whom things were pretty tedious unless they were kicking in a door somewhere and spraying bullets around.

  Thorne could only hope for everyone’s sake that, as far as Inspector Chivers was concerned, this particular situation would remain as dull as ditchwater.

  There was another gaggle of uniforms at the school gates. Staff and children were still being moved off the premises and, to his left, Thorne could see a small crowd behind the cordon, many angrily demanding to know what was happening. Some would be disgruntled parents, but the majority, he knew, were there for no other reason than to gawp and there would be plenty more of them as the day wore on and word spread.

  It would not be long before the media arrived in numbers.

  Thorne and Holland were escorted across the playground, through the main doors and into the echoing hall. Most of the plastic chairs had been stacked at one end and a series of trestle tables erected in front of the small stage. Uniformed and plain-clothes officers were shunting equipment about, their boots squeaking on the polished wooden floor, shouting and swearing as they rushed to get set up.

  It still smelled like school though.

  ‘That takes me back,’ Holland said, breathing it in deep. ‘Reminds me of crayons and sweaty socks.’

  Thorne sighed theatrically. ‘I was thinking about the dinner lady I was in love with,’ he said. ‘And a little tosser named Dean Turner who used to steal my milk. Until Margaret Thatcher stole everyone’s, of course.’

  Holland clearly did not understand the reference. ‘You used to have milk at school?’

  ‘Are you Thorne?’

  They turned to see a tall man in full dress uniform walking towards them and Thorne did not need to see the crown on the man’s shoulder to know that he was looking at a superintendent. He was in his early forties, with sandy hair cropped close to the scalp and a nose that looked to have been broken more than once. In a low voice and with a trace of a northern accent, the officer introduced himself as Mike Donnelly and explained that as the local superintendent on call that morning, he had by default become the Silver Commander; the head of the operation on-site. He did not sound overly thrilled about the fact. This could easily be due to a lack of experience in situations such as this, Thorne thought, but might simply be down to the shortag
e of information thus far.

  ‘So, what do we think Akhtar wants?’

  ‘Me, by all accounts,’ Thorne said.

  Donnelly nodded. He clearly had a habit of nodding and grunting in what sounded like agreement, whenever anybody else was talking. It was a strategy Thorne was familiar with, and one he had not been beyond adopting himself once or twice. It looked as though you were listening, paying attention. It gave the appearance of being thoughtful, even if all you were actually thinking was that you were out of your depth.

  ‘You don’t think this might be a Muslim thing?’ Donnelly looked from Thorne to Holland and back again.

  ‘A thing?’

  ‘Come on, you know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Just throwing it out there,’ Donnelly said. ‘Got to consider every angle at this stage, right?’

  Holland shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘That’s not what this is about,’ Thorne said. He told Donnelly what Brigstocke had said on the phone.

  Donnelly thought about it for a while. ‘Now that’s not good news for anyone. Least of all Detective Sergeant Weeks.’ He excused himself, saying he needed to check on how the evacuation was going, then handed Thorne a transcript of the call made by Helen Weeks just over an hour before. There was a small CD player on the table and Donnelly leaned across to press PLAY before he turned and walked away.

  Holland peered over Thorne’s shoulder to read the transcript as they listened to the recording.

  Call from 07785 455787. 08.17 am

  – Child Protection Unit, Gill Bellinger.

  – Gill, it’s Helen, and I need you to just shut up and listen, OK? Pause.

  – I’m listening …

  – I need you to get hold of a DI Tom Thorne for me. He’s Area West Murder Squad, or at least he was a year or so ago.

  Voice in the background. Indistinct.

  – It’s very important that you get hold of him, OK? You need to do it now.

  – What’s going on?

  – I’m being held at gunpoint in a newsagent’s on Norwood Road. Near the junction with Christchurch Road … just up from the station.

  Voice in the background. Number 287.

  – Number 287.

  – Jesus—

  – Make whatever calls you need to make, OK? But first get hold of DI Thorne. The man who’s holding us wants him here.

  – Who’s holding you?

  Voice in the background. Indistinct.

  – I need to go, Gill … just get on the phone …

  Call ends. 08.18 am.

  ‘Akhtar seems happy enough to tell us exactly where he is,’ Holland said.

  ‘He wanted us here as fast as possible.’

  ‘She sounds nervous.’

  ‘Really, Dave? I can see why you sailed through those sergeant’s exams.’ Thorne saw Donnelly coming back and held up his mobile. ‘Why don’t I call her?’

  Donnelly nodded, but was looking around. ‘Let’s make sure all the key people are listening in first, shall we?’ He asked a passing uniform to go outside and fetch the CO19 team leader. Then he waved across a young woman from the other side of the hall. He turned back to Thorne. ‘You met Chivers?’

  Thorne nodded. ‘Ex-military?’

  ‘He told you?’

  ‘Shot in the dark,’ Thorne said.

  The woman arrived at Donnelly’s side. She was somewhere in her early thirties, Thorne guessed; above average height and skinny. Her dark hair was cut in a shaggy bob, and she wore a tailored leather jacket over jeans. She looked relaxed enough, but Thorne could not be sure how much of an effort she was making. Donnelly laid a hand on her arm. She glanced down at it for just a second, before smiling a little nervously at Thorne as the superintendent made the introductions.

  ‘This is Sue Pascoe,’ he said. ‘She’s here as our trained hostage negotiator and I hear very good things.’

  Pascoe shook hands with Thorne and Holland. Donnelly told her they were just waiting for Chivers and she nodded.

  ‘Done much of this?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘Enough,’ Pascoe said.

  Thorne was not aware of any full-time hostage negotiators in the Met and guessed that ‘trained’ just meant that Pascoe had been on the requisite course. He’d been on one himself a few years before, but one focused on how to cope should you find yourself being held hostage. A weekend at some cheap hotel off the M25, where for many, learning anything had come a poor second to heavy sessions in the bar or trying to pull. It was all the stuff you would expect: forging a bond with your captor; finding common ground; encouraging them to see you as a human being. All those techniques that might help keep you alive as long as possible.

  He hoped that Helen Weeks had been on the same course, that she had not been one of those on the sniff or pissing it up the wall.

  Chivers came through the doors and took off his helmet as he walked across to join them. Ignoring Thorne, Holland and Pascoe, he acknowledged Donnelly with a nod, his hand falling automatically to the handle of the Glock 17 on his belt, holstered next to a pair of 8 Bang stun grenades.

  The superintendent told Thorne to make the call.

  ‘Nice and easy,’ Pascoe said. ‘Obviously we need as much information as possible, but it’s important to be reassuring. Nothing’s a problem at this stage.’

  ‘I’ll try and remember that,’ Thorne said. He checked the number on the sheet and dialled, then switched the phone on to speaker as it began to ring.

  ‘Here we go,’ Donnelly said.

  It was answered almost immediately.

  ‘Helen?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Tom Thorne. Are you all right? Can you talk freely?’

  Helen Weeks said that she could. That she was fine.

  ‘Tell Mr Akhtar that I know about what happened to his son, and that I’m sorry.’

  They listened as the message was relayed. Nothing was said in response.

  ‘Helen? Can I talk to him?’

  Helen asked the question, then said, ‘He wants you to talk to me for the time being.’

  ‘OK, listen. Tell him that I’m willing to trade places. It’s me he asked for, so if he lets you walk out of there, he can take me instead.’ Thorne became aware of Pascoe waving a ‘no’ at him, and of Donnelly gesticulating furiously, clearly annoyed that such an offer had not been discussed with him. He turned back to the phone. ‘Helen …?’

  ‘That’s not what he wants,’ Helen said.

  Donnelly leaned in close to Thorne and whispered, ‘Ask who’s in there with her. We’ve got a witness who claims there was another customer in the shop.’

  ‘Are there any other hostages?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘He’s called Stephen Mitchell,’ Helen said. A man’s voice said something, then Helen gave out an address in Tulse Hill.

  Donnelly scribbled it down and handed the piece of paper to a uniformed officer who hurried out of the hall.

  ‘So, what does he want?’ Thorne asked.

  The exchange that followed was punctuated by a series of pauses and muffled conversations as Helen passed on Thorne’s questions, listened to Akhtar, then relayed his responses. ‘He says that his son did not kill himself … that he would never kill himself. He says that the truth has been covered up. You are the one that sent his son to prison … so you are the one who must find out who murdered him.’

  Thorne glanced up. Saw that all eyes were on him. ‘Tell him that we’ll mount a full reinvestigation into his son’s death, but that we need to end this situation now.’

  While they were waiting for a response, Donnelly scribbled RELEASE MITCHELL? on a piece of paper and passed it to Thorne.

  ‘He says it will end when you find out what happened to his son.’

  ‘Tell him that we’re happy to listen to him,’ Thorne said. ‘Tell him that I’ll do what I can, but that we need an act of faith on his part. Tell him that he needs to let Mr Mitchell go.’

 
Next to him, Sue Pascoe was shaking her head. ‘Never going to happen,’ she said.

  ‘He says no,’ Helen said.

  They could hear the newsagent shouting now.

  ‘He says he had faith in the law, but not any more … so you need to do what he wants, or things will only get a lot worse.’

  Thorne glanced up to see Donnelly and Chivers exchange a knowing look. Donnelly closed his eyes.

  ‘You have to prove that Amin did not commit suicide,’ Akhtar said. ‘To find out who killed him and why. Or … ’

  ‘It’s OK, Helen.’ Thorne and everyone else had heard Akhtar clearly enough and Thorne did not want Helen to have to say it.

  To hear the terror in her voice.

  ‘Or I will shoot them both.’

  SIX

  When the call had ended, Helen laid her phone down on the floor in front of her and looked up at Akhtar sitting at the desk. He was breathing heavily and muttering to himself. He seemed pleased about how the conversation with Tom Thorne had gone. He looked back at her.

  Said, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So, what happens now?’ Helen asked.

  Akhtar stood up. He was holding the gun. Next to her, Helen felt Stephen Mitchell flinch.

  ‘Turn the phone off,’ Akhtar said.

  ‘What if they want to talk to you? If there’s news.’

  ‘When I’m ready.’

  He pointed the gun and Helen did as she was asked.

  ‘Now you must try and make yourselves comfortable, and we will hope that Detective Thorne is as good as his word.’

  ‘He will be,’ Helen said.

  ‘And is also good at his job.’ Akhtar thought about this for a few moments then walked out through the archway into his shop.

  Helen and Mitchell said nothing for a minute or more, then Mitchell spoke quietly, without raising his head.