‘So definitely not self-inflicted, then?’
‘No chance, mate. No signs of previous intravenous drug use, plus the needle went into his right arm and he was almost certainly right-handed, so unless he was some kind of circus freak—’
‘How can you tell that?’ Thorne asked.
‘The hair.’
‘Come again?’
‘Ninety-five per cent of right-handers have hair that grows clockwise from the crown. Another riveting seminar, that was.’
Thorne watched as Holland and Kitson walked towards the squad car at the end of the street. They were deep in conversation and he could guess what it was about. Who it was about.
‘Doesn’t mean it wasn’t an accident though,’ Hendricks said. ‘Somebody does it for the first time, they often get someone else to do it for them. If his mate was already out of it, he could easily have got the dosage wrong.’
Thorne knew this was true, but explained that a mate who had accidentally given Allen an overdose was unlikely to have wiped everything down afterwards.
‘So none of this is news then, right? You knew it was murder before they took the body away.’
‘I needed it confirmed officially, so I could go after the man responsible.’
Hendricks laughed. ‘You’re
so
full of it.’
‘Yeah, well, time’s not exactly on my side on this one.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘I think this is the kid that gave Amin the overdose.’
There was a pause. ‘I said that, didn’t I? I said it was one of the other prisoners.’
‘He was just a willing pair of hands,’ Thorne said. ‘Someone set it all up, showed him what to do.’
‘I take it you’ve not caught him yet then?’
‘He’s done a runner,’ Thorne said. ‘We’re staying on it, but I’m not holding my breath, so now I really need to know how Amin was given that overdose. No pressure or anything.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I still need to check a couple of things—’
‘I’m getting desperate here, Phil.’ Thorne watched as a panda car turned fast into the street, swerved past the squad car just as Holland and Kitson were about to reach it. He saw them turn to watch as the panda came to a halt a few feet shy of where he was standing. An Asian WPC got out and began walking towards him.
He told Hendricks that he would call him later and hung up.
‘I’m looking for DI Thorne?’
‘Me,’ Thorne said.
The WPC nodded back towards the panda car. ‘Someone who wants to talk to you,’ she said. ‘He rang 999, and when he gave them your name they patched it through to a temporary incident room in Tulse Hill. You know, this siege?’
Thorne nodded.
‘It’s taken us a while to track you down.’
Thorne walked up to the car and peered in through the back window. He opened the door, felt the excitement flood back into him as Rahim Jaffer climbed nervously out.
Sue Pascoe was feeling less in control of the situation with every hour that passed. Mid-afternoon on the third day, she would normally have had some sense of how events were likely to pan out. At the very least she would have felt a little more …
connected
, as though her own role in proceedings was part of an agreed and well-orchestrated strategy.
Normally …
Who was she kidding?
She sat in the small room behind the stage with coffee and sandwiches and reminded herself that she could slide back in behind a nice tidy desk any time she wanted ‘normal’. That it was its unpredictability that had attracted her to hostage negotiation in the first place. The training was vital, of course it was, but once you got out of the classroom, when it came down to the business end of things with guns pointed at heads, the job was all about reacting. Circumstances changed whenever moods did, so it was important to be flexible and to think on your feet.
That’s what kept people alive and got her own heart beating that little bit faster.
She looked across at Chivers on the other side of the table. He crammed half a sandwich into his mouth then washed it down noisily with a slurp of black coffee. He reached for another one and took a bite without looking at it. The process seemed to be about nothing but taking on fuel.
Keeping his strength up. Staying ready for it.
‘Obviously we’re all hoping it doesn’t come to that,’ Chivers kept saying. ‘If and when’ and ‘worst case scenario’, but Pascoe was becoming increasingly convinced that the CO19 man would go home disappointed if he did not get a chance to draw his weapon.
One of his weapons.
Still chewing, Chivers glanced up and nodded. Pascoe quickly looked down at her coffee, watched the creamy globs of powdered milk floating on the surface.
She thought about Tom Thorne.
Usually, the lack of operational predictability stemmed from whatever was happening on the inside. The delicate relationship between hostage and hostage taker, a flash of temper, a sudden tumble into depression. A host of dreadful possibilities and acceptable outcomes. This time though, what was happening on the outside felt every bit as uncertain, as impossible to second-guess, as what was going on behind those scarred metal shutters. There was simply no way to exercise any degree of control or to impose order, when so much seemed to depend on a single copper charging around like a nutcase and hoping to get lucky.
It was rapidly becoming clear that however things turned out, it would have as much to do with Tom Thorne as it did with Javed Akhtar.
Either capable of ending it.
Each with as great a potential for chaos as the other.
‘Nice job,’ Chivers said, suddenly.
Pascoe looked up. Chivers was wiping his mouth with a paper serviette. ‘Sorry?’
‘Just wanted to say. Nice job you’re doing with Akhtar. And with Weeks.’
Pascoe nodded. Bloody hell, was this another one who thought she needed bolstering up somehow? Did he actually think she might like him a bit more if he chucked a pointless compliment or two her way? Or was he trying it on, same as Donnelly had done? Even as she contemplated this last horrific possibility, she knew she was being ridiculous, that Chivers was probably the sort who lived alone and would go home to a cold shower having happily rubbed himself against pictures of some really shiny guns in
Massive Weapons
monthly. She watched him toss the crumpled serviette back on to the table and hesitated. Saying nothing might come across as unnecessarily antagonistic and ‘Thanks’ would sound a little too grateful.
She said, ‘Cheers,’ and turned as Donnelly came into the room.
‘So, where are we?’ Chivers asked.
‘Getting there,’ Donnelly said.
The Silver Commander had spent the last half-hour in the back of the mobile TSU suite parked up next to Teapot One, being briefed by officers and civilian technicians on their progress thus far. He now explained how an initial survey had made it clear the hostages were being held at the rear of the newsagent’s, in a small room used primarily for storage. Access had been gained to the premises next door – a dry cleaner’s with largely the same layout – from where they were now proposing to establish audio monitoring of the storeroom via the adjoining wall.
‘One microphone in there,’ Donnelly said. ‘And maybe a second in the rear wall next to the back door.’
‘Cameras would be even better,’ Chivers said.
‘I’m being advised that’s not too clever.’ Donnelly told them that the cameras involved a more complex install. That even accounting for micro-tools and fibre-optic cabling, the drilling still needed to be deeper and was that much more likely to be seen or heard from inside. ‘They reckon we could probably get one into the main shop from the front, but what’s the point of that? Just going to be looking at a smashed-up shop, right? I’ve told them to go ahead with these two microphones.’
‘How long?’ Pascoe asked.
‘A couple of hours if we go as carefully as we should.’ Donnelly looked at Pascoe. ‘Any reason to think we need to get it done quicker than that? Any concerns for the hostages? For Akhtar’s state of mind?’
Chivers sniffed. ‘Other than the obvious ones, you mean?’
‘DS Pascoe?’
Pascoe said she had no immediate concerns.
‘In the meantime we keep putting the calls in as per normal,’ Donnelly said. ‘Maintain the routine.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Two o’clock?’
Pascoe nodded. Thirty minutes away. ‘Any word from Thorne?’
‘Nothing,’ Donnelly said.
‘He was certainly fired up earlier on. Someone in the frame for that overdose in Hackney.’
‘I told him to call if he had anything worth sharing, so—’
‘We better not be counting on Thorne,’ Chivers said. ‘I think we might all end up looking very stupid.’
Pascoe opened her mouth, but only long enough to push another sandwich into it.
Thorne led Rahim away towards the main road and around the corner to a Turkish café he had driven past an hour or so before on his way to Bridges’ flat. The boy said nothing as they walked and Thorne was happy enough to let him. Happy enough to wait just a little longer. Thinking was what had finally driven Rahim Jaffer to pick up the phone and a few more minutes of it could not hurt.
Could only wind things up that little bit tighter.
Nothing spoken then and both kept their eyes on the pavement a few feet ahead, but all the way there Thorne was aware of Rahim breathing heavily next to him. A faint wheeze when he inhaled. As though he had just been running and urgently needed to suck in some strength.
The place was busy, noisy with chat and clatter from the kitchen, and Thorne ushered Rahim to a small table in the corner. A waiter followed them over. Rahim said that he was not hungry, but Thorne ordered for them both anyway; tuna mayonaise sandwiches and two cans of Coke. He looked across at Rahim who nodded, mumbled, ‘Thanks.’
‘You’ve got to eat,’ Thorne said. ‘
I’m
bloody starving. Missed breakfast and that feels like almost a day ago.’
Rahim studied the tabletop.
Between them in the middle of the table, a wooden rack held the laminated menu. Thorne pushed it to one side, then slid the ketchup bottle and the salt and pepper out of the way. His view was clearer, but with a baseball cap pulled down low over the boy’s brow Thorne still had difficulty making any sort of eye contact. ‘Up and out to a murder scene at half past stupid, I was.’ He grimaced. ‘Not that a body first thing does a great deal for your appetite, mind you.’
‘Don’t,’ Rahim said, quietly. He raised his head.
‘What?’
‘Bang on about it. I got your message.’
‘Sorry about that.’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘I’m very glad you are.’
‘So … you know. You don’t need to …’
Thorne sat back and folded his arms as the drinks were laid down. The waiter popped the ring pulls then turned to an adjacent table. Thorne watched Rahim reach for a can.
‘What did you do?’
‘Sorry?’
‘
That
.’
Thorne pointed and Rahim quickly drew the can closer, obscuring Thorne’s view of the sticking plaster across his wrist. He took a sip and shrugged, lowered his head again. ‘Accident,’ he said.
Thorne snatched a serviette from the dispenser and dabbed at the few drops Rahim had spilled. Looking around, he understood that the café was so busy because of the range of food it served. To one side of them, a large man squeezed into a shiny suit was making short work of a full English breakfast, while at another table a pair of young girls who might have been students picked at chicken salads. There was a Daily Specials board Thorne had not noticed before. He quite liked the sound of the Mediterranean omelette with feta and peppers, or the shepherd’s pie with spiced lamb, but despite what he had told Rahim he was not feeling particularly hungry.
It had felt better to do this somewhere informal, that was all. To try and take the pressure off a little. Better than talking on the street or in the back of a panda car.
‘Why did you call 999?’ Thorne asked.
‘I needed to get hold of you.’
‘I gave you my mobile number.’
‘I threw it away.’
‘So, why now?’
‘Because I was scared, just like you said.’ Rahim looked up and stabbed a finger at Thorne. ‘And don’t say sorry again, because you know very well that’s what you wanted.’
‘It was the only way to get you to do the right thing,’ Thorne said.
‘You didn’t think I would otherwise?’
‘Well, you hadn’t so far.’ Thorne lowered his voice and leaned in. ‘Come on, Rahim. You must have thought there was something dodgy about Amin’s death. Even when you thought it was suicide, right?’
Thorne watched the judder and lurch of the boy’s skinny chest, the rapid rise and fall visible even beneath the padded jacket he was wearing, and he saw tears welling at the corners of his eyes. Neither of them looked up as their food was laid in front of them and neither seemed inclined to touch it once the waiter had walked away.
On the pavement outside, a woman bent to slap a young child’s legs.
A few tables away, the girls eating the salad were laughing.
Thorne said, ‘Whatever it is you’ve come here to tell me, you need to get on with it.’
Rahim nodded and blinked slowly. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out an iPhone. He began to scroll through the menu.
‘What?’ Thorne said.
Rahim shook his head and pressed a few more buttons on the screen, then, when he had found what he was looking for, he laid the phone down on the table and slid it across to Thorne.
Thorne picked it up and was immediately looking at a photograph.
Decent quality, colour.
Three men.
They were standing close together, glasses in fists and arms on shoulders. A party. In the background there were others with drinks and smiles and a couple of men appeared to be dancing. There was a table with food.
Thorne glanced up. Rahim was looking away and nervously picking at the ring-pull on his can. Thorne pressed his finger and thumb to the screen, then eased them gently apart to enlarge the image of the group at the centre of the picture.