Mark Billingham: Good as Dead

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 shortage 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