Simon Kernick - Ultimatum

The recipient was the owner of a major City-based IT company, a man called Garth Crossman. DS Hancock had done some brief research on Crossman on his way over (he always liked to find out a little about the people he was giving such bad news to, so he could at least try to get some idea of how they were likely to react). A self-starter and entrepreneur who’d left school at eighteen with poor exam results, Crossman had founded Logical Solutions two decades earlier, and was now a millionaire many times over. However, as DS Hancock knew from experience, all the money in the world can’t protect you against tragedy.

At first when they turned up at the front desk of Logical Solutions’ head office in Leadenhall, the receptionist hadn’t wanted to disturb Mr Crossman. Apparently he was in an important meeting with investors. Only when Hancock showed her his CTC ID and told her it was an emergency did she finally relent, suddenly looking very worried.

Two minutes later, Crossman appeared in reception. He was a fit-looking, silver-haired guy in his late forties, a little on the short side, smart but casual in an open-necked shirt and dark, neatly pressed trousers. He fixed Hancock and MacDonald with a welcoming yet puzzled expression — he clearly had no idea what two officers from Counter Terrorism Command could want with him — and after shaking hands, ushered them into an adjoining boardroom.

DS Hancock never saw the point in delaying the inevitable. ‘I’m afraid we have some very bad news,’ he said, looking Crossman firmly in the eye. ‘A woman we believe to be your wife was killed in the cafe bombing this morning.’

Crossman’s face tightened, and Hancock could see he’d had a number of recent Botox injections. ‘I, er …’ He stayed silent for a moment as the shock of Hancock’s message hit home. ‘Oh God.’

‘Would you like to sit down, Mr Crossman?’ asked DC MacDonald, motioning towards one of the chairs round the boardroom table.

‘No, no, it’s OK. How sure are you that it’s her?’

‘There’s no doubt, I’m afraid,’ said Hancock. ‘A DNA sample taken from her body matches the one we already have for her on the central database.’ Two years earlier, Martha Crossman had been convicted of drink driving, making identifying her far quicker and easier than if her DNA hadn’t been on file.

‘I tried phoning her earlier,’ said Crossman, his voice shaking. ‘You know, after I heard about the bomb, and the message said the phone was switched off. I didn’t think anything of it. I mean, you don’t, do you?’ He looked at them both in turn, his eyes wide and gleaming. ‘It’s a terrible shock. God, I’m going to have to tell the children.’ He wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead, and ran a hand down his face. ‘Do you need me to … to identify her? My wife, I mean?’

Hancock shook his head. ‘No, that’s all taken care of. We’ll release the body as soon as we’re able, but it may not be for a while yet.’

‘Did she suffer?’

‘Your wife was very close to the bomber. She would have died almost instantly. In fact, she probably never felt a thing.’

‘And there’s no doubt?’

‘No. There’s no doubt at all. I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you, officers. It must be a very hard job you have to do.’

A long time afterwards, DS Chris Hancock remembered this being the point when he thought there was something wrong with Crossman’s reaction. He was acting more like a politician doling out well-earned praise than a man who’d just lost his wife, but at the time all Hancock experienced was an uneasy feeling he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Crossman must have seen something in his expression. ‘I have to admit, my wife and I were planning to split up,’ he informed them. ‘We’ve had a number of arguments and she was planning to move out in the next few weeks. Even so, it’s still a terrible loss to our family.’ He took a deep breath, and looked up towards the ceiling.

DC MacDonald put a hand gently on his arm. ‘If there’s anything we can do, Mr Crosssman …’

‘No, it’s fine,’ he said, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘I’ll do what has to be done.’

‘It may be best for you not to be alone. We can organize a grief counsellor to come and talk to you and your children.’

‘I really appreciate your offer, but we can manage.’

There was a finality in his tone that told them that they were done here. They left the boardroom and walked back through reception, nodding at the receptionist as they left.

‘God, I hope we don’t have to do any more of those for a while,’ said DC MacDonald when they were outside.

‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Hancock. So far, twelve people — not including the bomber — had been confirmed dead, a figure that was still rising. ‘I always seem to get these jobs.’

‘I thought he took it pretty well in there, considering.’

‘So did I. Too well.’

‘Really?’

He shrugged. ‘There was something about him I didn’t like.’

‘I think you’re beginning to get cynical in your old age, Chris.’

‘I disagree,’ he said, as they got into the car. ‘I can see the good in people. But I can also tell when it’s missing. And it was missing in there.’

Back in the boardroom, Garth Crossman sat in contemplative silence. He’d made numerous presentations in this room to investors, shareholders and clients, yet in many ways the one he’d just made to the two police officers had been the most important. It was essential they believed in his grief, and he was pretty certain they had.

He sat back in his seat and allowed himself a small smile. There’d been some unnerving moments, but so far his plan was working perfectly.

And the exciting thing was, it was only just beginning.

14.30

Jetmir Brozi’s name alone wasn’t a huge help to Bolt’s team. At the moment they only had the word of a suspected mass murderer that he was involved in the Stanhope siege and today’s attacks, and Tina knew this meant a major and possibly lengthy evidence-gathering mission. The first priority was to locate him, which was why Mo Khan and Omar Balachi had been dispatched to keep watch on the brothel in King’s Cross, while she and Bolt had just turned off the Pentonville Road and were driving to his house in Islington. A surveillance team from Tina’s old station, Islington nick, was already there at Bolt’s request, keeping an eye on the place until they arrived.

Bolt was driving and, as he approached some red lights, Nikki Donohoe’s voice came over the radio to tell them that Brozi had been positively ID’d leaving his house, and was now being followed by the surveillance team.

‘Christ, I hope they don’t lose him,’ said Bolt, bringing the car to a halt.

‘How big’s the team they’re using?’ asked Tina.

‘Six.’

Tina frowned. ‘Is that all?’

‘Right now, everyone’s on the hunt for the bombers, and this is just one of a hundred leads. We were lucky to get anyone at all.’

Most police surveillance teams were an absolute minimum of eight strong, with twelve being the average, while the terrorist chasers in MI5 liked to use up to twenty-five people to follow one suspect. As far as Tina was concerned, sending six was worse than sending no one at all, because they were more likely to get spotted, ruining everything.

It wasn’t long before they were driving past the address they’d been given for Jetmir Brozi — a well-kept Georgian townhouse on a leafy residential street not far from Liverpool Road. ‘Not bad for a thug who should have been deported years ago,’ Bolt remarked.

They found a spot yards metres further down the road, and took up position facing his front door. Now it was just a matter of waiting for authorization to carry out a covert entry on Brozi’s house and plant cameras and audio equipment inside. Usually this could take days, but Bolt had asked his boss, Commander Thomas Ingrams, the head of CTC, to do everything he could to fast-track it and, given Brozi’s record as a known criminal, they were both hopeful they’d get it sooner rather than later.