Then the struggle with the pushchair on those sodding stairs. Ten minutes’ walk to Janine’s and that last cuddle, then on towards the station. Chewing gum and chocolate.
That last cuddle …
She thought about the catch in his voice that killed her when he cried and the way he gummed at her chin, fastening on like a limpet as he tangled his fingers in her hair.
The smell when she nuzzled at the back of his neck.
Akhtar was next door in the shop. Helen could hear him moving things around and the noise of glass being swept. She guessed that he was trying to clear away the mess he had made earlier.
That was a good sign, she thought. A desire for order.
Stephen Mitchell sat bolt upright at her side, running with sweat and scratching at himself. His eyes were closed and he was mouthing words she could not make out clearly.
Alfie would need picking up in a couple of hours’ time. Janine was always strict about that, with a school run to take care of and a husband coming home from work. Helen would always call, even if she was going to be just a few minutes past pick-up time …
Sweating, as she ran from the station.
They would have organised something, she was sure about that. Maybe Janine had already heard about it, seen something on the news. Helen hoped it would not be a uniformed officer knocking on Janine’s door. Some big awkward oaf scooping Alfie up and carrying him out to a squad car. No, they would have told Jenny, surely … which was probably the best thing.
Good in a crisis, her younger sister. Organised. Cold.
She rolled her wrist around inside the metal cuff.
Proof positive, of course, that Jenny had been right all along. Had known best, as usual. Hard enough to cope on your own, never mind going back to a job like that. Not so quickly anyway. Think about the baby.
Now look where you’ve got your bloody self!
She wondered if they were outside. Jenny and her dad. The old man nagging every copper he could get hold of, demanding to be told what was being done, with Jenny trying to keep him calm. Taking charge and finding out where the tea and biscuits were.
Being Mum.
She tried not to think about it, but it was like trying not to breathe.
At least Jenny knew the best way to get Alfie off. Helen had shown her plenty of times,
enjoyed
showing her.
Small circles, low down on his back—
‘It’s going to be OK, isn’t it?’ Mitchell asked suddenly. ‘You said so before. I mean, you’re not just saying it, are you?’
She looked at him. He was blinking quickly and trying to smile. He looked like a little boy.
Her phone rang.
She stared at it – the vibration causing the handset to inch across the floor between her legs – until Akhtar came hurrying back in.
‘Is it Thorne?’
Helen shook her head. She did not recognise the number. She pointed towards the front of the shop. ‘Probably them,’ she said. ‘They’ll want to talk to you.’
Akhtar sat down and picked up the gun. He let the phone ring for another few seconds, then nodded.
‘Answer it.’
On his way back towards the library, Thorne slipped into one of the prison officers’ tea rooms to call Holland. He walked into the corner and took out his phone, smiling at the two occupants, despite stares only marginally less aggressive than those he’d received out on the landing.
‘Any joy?’
‘Slater’s old man was as much of an arsehole as you’d expect,’ Holland said. ‘But he was surprised enough to hear that Amin was dead.’
Thorne wasn’t surprised to hear it. A result that fast was way too much to hope for. ‘What about Lee Slater’s mates?’
‘Clarkson wasn’t in and we’re just on our way to see Armstrong.’
‘OK. Quick as you can, Dave.’ Thorne heard Kitson in the background, saying she couldn’t find a place to park. ‘Just park
anywhere
,’ he shouted.
Holland said something, but Thorne lost it in the blare of a passing siren.
‘Dave?’
‘I said, what about you?’
‘What?’
‘Any joy?’
Thorne was still struggling to process everything he’d heard and seen since he’d arrived at Barndale. The reactions to Amin Akhtar’s death from Bracewell and McCarthy. The psychological analysis from Shakir. He looked at his watch, then glanced across at the two POs cradling mugs of tea and looking as though they could not wait for the day to end.
‘Precious little in here,’ Thorne said.
Sue Pascoe was grateful – despite the speakers that had been set up to listen in – that the microphone on her handset was not sensitive enough to pick up the sound of her heart beating.
The phone continued to ring out …
She had done everything required of her up to this point, gathering all available information about both hostages and hostage taker and working to formulate a negotiation strategy, but that would be worth next to nothing if this first call did not go well. The initial contact with the hostage taker was always the most delicate part of any operation. The foundation on which, if it went according to the textbook, everything else could be built.
The problem was that Javed Akhtar was anything but a textbook hostage taker.
Outside of situations involving domestic disputes or disgruntled employees, hostage takers usually fitted neatly into one of four categories: criminals, the mentally disturbed, prisoners or terrorists. They were part of structured groups or they were unstable individuals and the actual taking of hostages was either well planned or spontaneous.
It was easy enough to see which of these boxes Akhtar ticked, but from that point on he had ceased to be predictable.
To be someone you could be trained to deal with.
The received wisdom was that any hostage taker was faced with three options. He could surrender to the police. He could lessen his demands and continue to negotiate. Or he could choose martyrdom by killing the hostages and/or himself. Akhtar could yet choose to do any of these of course, but trying to predict which and guiding him towards an outcome in which nobody was harmed depended almost entirely on what he was demanding.
There were well-structured reactions to demands for money, or drugs, or the release of comrades in arms. There was an accepted response to a simple need for attention. This time though, Sue Pascoe listened to the phone ring inside the newsagent’s shop and felt as though she would be making it up as she went along, because the man who was holding two hostages at gunpoint appeared to want nothing but answers.
And she could not be sure Tom Thorne would be able to provide the ones he was looking for.
Done much of this?
he had asked her. Cheeky bastard obviously thought he was God’s gift.
All those gathered around the speakers in the school hall leaned that little bit closer when the call was answered. Donnelly gave Sue Pascoe the nod and the hostage negotiator spoke softly into the phone.
‘Helen?’
‘Who’s this?’
Pascoe looked at Donnelly who quickly nodded his understanding. It was clear from the echo that Helen Weeks’ phone was also on speaker. That Akhtar was listening in.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Sue Pascoe and I’m working here with the team that’s trying to get this situation resolved, OK?’
‘OK … ’
‘First of all, how are you doing in there?’
‘I’ve been better, obviously.’
Pascoe gave Donnelly a thumbs-up. Always a good sign if the hostage felt able to make light of their predicament. That they were permitted to by the person holding them. ‘Well, I can promise you that everything’s being done to get this sorted out as fast as possible.’
‘What about my son?’
Another look to Donnelly, who shrugged. It had been agreed that Pascoe would try to avoid talking about Helen Weeks’ child, but clearly the subject could not be avoided if Helen Weeks brought it up.
‘That’s all taken care of, Helen. You don’t need to worry about that.’ Pascoe knew at once that it was a stupid thing to say. Of course she would be worried. ‘We’ve made all the arrangements, OK?’
‘OK … ’
‘How’s Stephen?’
‘He’s … doing OK.’
Pascoe took a deep breath. ‘Can I talk to Javed, Helen?’
There was a pause. Pascoe imagined Helen looking towards Akhtar for a response. Looking at the gun. She listened for his voice, prepared herself.
Thinking: active listening, validation, reassurance.
‘He doesn’t want to,’ Helen said.
Pascoe raised her voice. ‘Javed, can you hear me? If you can hear me, I’d really like to speak to you, if that’s all right.’
‘I only want to speak to Thorne,’ Akhtar shouted.
‘I understand that, Javed,’ Pascoe said. ‘You only want to speak to Tom Thorne.’ She took care to repeat the hostage taker’s words, just as she had been taught, to focus the attention on him and make it clear that she had understood his wishes. ‘We will definitely make sure that happens, but right now he’s not here. He’s busy trying to gather the information you wanted.’
‘Not “information”,’ Akhtar shouted. ‘
Truth
. They are not the same thing … not the same thing at all.’
‘No, of course they aren’t,’ Pascoe said, careful to show concern, but not to talk down. To let him know she felt the same way about these things as he did. ‘We do understand what you want, Javed.’
Akhtar said nothing.
‘Nadira’s here, Javed.’ She paused for a few seconds, deliberately. ‘She’s here and she wants to talk to you.’
‘
No
.’
Pascoe had to move quickly, before Akhtar had a chance to hang up. She beckoned his wife across and nodded to her. The woman glanced at the listening officers as she took the phone. Donnelly raised two hands and mouthed, ‘Nice and calm.’
‘Javed … ’ Nadira Akhtar sounded as nervous as she looked. She gave a hesitant smile when Pascoe reached out to lay a hand on her arm. ‘It’s me.’
‘I can’t talk now,’ Akhtar said.
‘You need to talk to me, OK?’
‘No, I
don’t
.’
‘This is ridiculous, Javee.’
Akhtar said something in Hindi then and Nadira said, ‘No, you need to tell me.’ He spoke in Hindi again, for longer this time. Pascoe looked across at Donnelly and shrugged. Even though there was a translator standing within earshot – a young woman poised with notepad and pencil – it had been agreed that Nadira would try and talk to her husband in English. Nadira looked at Pascoe, panic-stricken. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, ‘He won’t talk to me in English.’
‘It’s OK,’ Pascoe said. ‘Just keep talking to him.’
They spoke for several minutes more. Akhtar did most of the talking, shouting at first, then growing calmer as he said the same thing over and over, while his wife tried and failed to interject, until eventually she gave up and began to weep.
When Akhtar ended the call, Pascoe took the phone and stood up to put an arm around the woman’s shoulders. She looked at Donnelly as she told her how well she had done, while Nadira shook her head and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Donnelly nodded the translator across, but Nadira waved her away. She wanted to tell them herself.
‘He says he loves us all very much and that he’s sorry.’ She fought back a sob. ‘This is for Amin, he says. All for Amin. He says that he owes it to him to do this.’ She lowered her head. ‘He is happy to offer his life back to Allah if need be, but he has no choice.
Everyone’s
life … ’
The tears came again and she made no effort to stop them. Donnelly quickly beckoned the WPC who was working as family liaison officer to escort her away. Nadira turned to say sorry one more time as she was led from the hall, but Donnelly, Pascoe and Chivers had already moved into a huddle.
‘I didn’t like the sound of that last bit,’ Chivers said. ‘Offering his life back. Heard that a few too many times.’
‘He’s not a terrorist,’ Pascoe said.
‘Isn’t he?’
Donnelly raised his hands and tried to speak, but Pascoe was not about to let Chivers have the last word.
‘He’s just a father who’s lost his son, so let’s not go throwing labels around.’ Her responsibility as a negotiator began and ended with the safety of the hostages. That meant maintaining an atmosphere of calm and making sure that nobody – fellow officers included – got over-excited.
Chivers made no attempt to hide a sneer. Donnelly asked both of them if they had quite finished. Pascoe – calling on every ounce of training and experience when it came to reading people and making judgements about personality and state of mind – decided that Chivers was a twat.
‘Right … ’ Donnelly said.
They all turned at the sound of raised voices in the corridor, and moved quickly when somebody screamed and what sounded like a full-blown slanging match began to erupt. Donnelly led the way, charging out of the hall and towards the classroom that had been set up as a family liaison area.
They entered the classroom to see a WPC struggling to hold back a young black woman who was raging at a terrified Nadira Akhtar. She called her a bitch and swore that if anything happened to her husband, she would make her and her family pay for it.
Donnelly shouted, demanding to know what was going on.
‘Sorry, sir.’ The red-faced WPC finally managed to gain some control over the woman. ‘This is Stephen Mitchell’s wife. I didn’t know where else to put her.’
Pascoe took Nadira’s arm and led her from the room. Chivers raised an eyebrow and followed them.
Donnelly glared at the WPC. ‘Nice job,’ he said.
When Thorne eventually got to the library, he spread the files out across a table in the corner and spent fifteen minutes tracing Amin Akhtar’s journey, from first court appearance to funeral.
As was the case with all young offenders sent down from the Old Bailey, Amin had been transferred to Feltham YOI, the same place in which he had spent five months on remand after his arrest. From there, he was eventually assigned to Barndale to serve what would be the first half of his eight-year sentence, before moving into the adult prison system.