Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

Henry had to keep moving. He dived for the gun, scooped it up and rolled up on to one knee, coming up with it poised and aimed at the second youth, who was desperately fiddling with the wire from the switch.

‘Stop!’ Henry yelled. ‘Or I’ll fire.’

The lad dropped the switch on the ground and looked pathetically at Henry, now every inch the immature, scared teenager. He raised his hands, a defiant expression on his face.

Henry climbed to his feet, breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring, knowing he had just cheated a terrible death.

Both lads were quickly pinned down, their wrists cuffed behind their backs, a burly cop standing astride each, baton extended and ready for use.

The one who’d had the gun — Omar — was trussed up in the alley, his face a swelling mess from the punch Henry had laid on him. The other was in the yard, his explosive vest having been carefully peeled from him. They were being kept separate and two vans were on the way to collect the prisoners.

The situation had been radioed in and other assistance was also on the way. The house had yet to be entered and although Henry had been ordered to keep it secure, he was itching to go inside, now that his blood was flowing.

He was not convinced the two lads had been in there by themselves, tooling up for some atrocity or other; they were far too young and inexperienced for that. A team had been disturbed and Henry thought there was a good chance others were still inside, although there had been no signs of movement.

The front door was still intact and Henry intended to leave it that way, three cops guarding it. The rest of his team, with the personnel carrier, were in the back alley and the kitchen door was invitingly open.

‘I’m going in,’ he told the sergeant.

She regarded him anxiously. ‘Is that wise?’

‘Probably not — but what the hell? This was supposed to have been a nothing job.’

‘We’ve been told to hang fire, wait until a firearms team has arrived, wait until the circus arrives.’ She was toeing the party line, but Henry could see she, too, was raring to get in.

‘I used to be part of the circus,’ he said. ‘You coming?’

‘Absolutely,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘We really do need to check.’

‘But carefully,’ he warned her. ‘Any sign of a gun, we run, any sign of a booby trap, we try not to step on it, OK?’

‘OK.’

Henry’s stab vest had been replaced by a bullet-proof one from the equipment in the carrier.

The sergeant briefed two of her men to stay by the kitchen door, the rest to come in behind her and the chief inspector. Henry poked his head around the door and looked into the kitchen.

‘Police!’ he shouted, though he was pretty sure that if anyone was in there, they had a good idea that the law had arrived. He stepped into the empty room, still dithering from his close-run encounter, but not even starting to think it through. It was just like any other kitchen in this neck of the woods: fitted, fairly modern, functional, large enough for all the mod cons, a small table and four chairs … and on top of the table, three half-drunk mugs of tea, three plates with the remnants of a curry on them, half-eaten naan breads.

‘The three bears,’ he said to the sergeant.

She nodded.

Even with a cursory glance, Henry could see there was no one else in the kitchen, unless they were in the fridge. ‘Room clear,’ he said, then moved across to the inner kitchen door to the threshold of the next room, which was a cheaply furnished lounge: tatty settee, two battered armchairs and a TV. No carpet on the floor, just bare boards, the wallpaper peeling.

Henry ushered a couple of officers in ahead of him and they did a quick search behind the furniture. ‘Clear,’ one said.

There was a road atlas of the UK and a London A-Z on the settee, together with an exercise book, pens and scraps of paper. Two rucksacks leaned against the wall. Henry was tempted to look, but held back because he was pushing his luck by disobeying the instruction he’d received not to enter the property.

‘Touch nothing,’ he said forcefully, and walked slowly across the room to the open door leading to the next room, the front lounge. He looked in and saw there was no furniture in here at all and could say with reasonable certainty that no one was in it. A wooden, open-plan staircase ran up directly opposite the front door.

He went across the threadbare carpet to the front door, which, as he suspected, had been reinforced. This had been done by an extra skin of hardwood and numerous bolts. But that wasn’t the only thing that caught his eye. The wires leading down from the edge of the door into a small plastic lunchbox made him gasp.

‘Christ!’ the sergeant breathed behind him. ‘A booby trap … if we had managed to put the door in …’ Her thoughts were left unexpressed, although her instructions to the officers behind were as clear as day.

Henry exhaled, not even aware he’d been holding his breath, then turned to the stairs, peering cautiously up through the treads. ‘Starting to get shaky,’ he said.

‘I’m sweating like a horse,’ she said.

‘Too much detail,’ he said, grinning. ‘We need to be very careful here.’

‘I like the obvious statement,’ she came back.

Giving the front door as wide a berth as possible, they eased themselves up the stairs without incident, stepping on to a tiny landing from which the back and front bedrooms and the toilet could be accessed. Henry took his time looking round, thoughtful. ‘Front bedroom, back bedroom, loo,’ he said, pointing at the closed doors. ‘Agreed?’

‘Yep.’

He raised his eyes and saw a loft hatch.

‘So,’ he said hoarsely, ‘if there was a third or fourth person, where have they gone?’ he speculated. ‘And if you were a member of a terrorist cell preparing to commit a crime, using a terraced house as a base, what would be a prerequisite?’

The sergeant looked at him, uncertain. ‘Dunno what you’re getting at.’

‘What would you need just in case the cops came calling to break up the party?’

‘Ahh — an escape route.’

‘Bob on,’ he said, ‘but why didn’t they all use it, if there is one?’

She shrugged.

Henry said, ‘I thought it was a good question and I reckon I know the answer and somehow I don’t think it would be the wisest course of action to go barging into any of these rooms through these doors, just in case.’

‘What? Just in case number three’s behind?’

‘No — in case these are booby trapped, because if there is a third person — and I’d bet my newly enhanced pension on it — he’ll have gone now across the rafters.’ He pointed up to the loft access flap. ‘And any terrorist worth their salt will have probably left a calling card behind the doors and that flap … so this is where we stop …’

‘Boss!’ came an urgent shout from one of the officers downstairs, interrupting Henry’s audible thought process.

‘What?’ he responded doubtfully, hoping he wasn’t going to hear that the two prisoners had escaped, or they’d managed to take cyanide pills. He stepped back down the stairs.

‘There’s a bit of a kafuffle out back — one of the neighbours says he’s just had a nasty experience. Someone’s just dropped into his house from the attic.’

‘OK, be with you in a sec.’ To the sergeant, he said, ‘Before we even turn one of those door knobs, we get our act together. We don’t want blowing to smithereens, or anywhere else for that matter. And this little contraption by the front door’ — he pointed down stairs at the lunchbox — ‘needs paying some respect.’

‘I’ll sort it,’ she said, businesslike.