Deadly Terror (Detective Zoe Finch Book 4)

by Rachel McLean

  The swing doors to the shopping centre opened and two armed constables emerged with a group of shoppers. They stared at the officers as they were hurried down the ramp towards safety, their faces wide with fear.

  “A woman,” said Sanders. “Mid-twenties, wearing a green headscarf. She’s got an explosive device strapped to her chest.”

  “But she hasn’t detonated it.”

  “Not yet.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I don’t think anything about this situation is good, Silver Command.”

  “She’s got doubts,” Lesley said. “She’s reconsidering. At the very least, she could be waiting until we’ve evacuated the place.”

  “It’s one of the UK’s busiest railway stations. There are still trains on the platforms, people being brought off them. It’s far from empty.”

  “Which could be why she’s still waiting.”

  “Silver, you need to get to the ops base. I need you co-ordinating the armed response units.”

  “Are they already in there?”

  “They are.”

  “Can she see them? The bomber?”

  “There’s CCTV being set up at the base. You’ll be able to find out there.”

  “They’ll scare her.”

  “She’s standing in the middle of a shopping centre with an explosive device on her chest. I think she’s already scared, don’t you?”

  Lesley chewed her bottom lip. The doors opened again and a gaggle of people stumbled out, this time unaccompanied by police.

  “How many still in there?” she asked.

  The woman that Sanders had been talking to nodded at Lesley. “Could be over a hundred, ma’am.”

  “Shit. And you are?”

  “Inspector Jameson, ma’am. Lead negotiator.”

  “Good. Why haven’t you gone in yet?”

  “With respect, ma’am, we were about to when you arrived.”

  “Go then,” Lesley said. “Don’t wait for me.”

  Jameson eyed Sanders, who gave her a nod. She conferred with her colleague and the two of them passed the armed officers and pushed through the swing doors, their hands raised. Both wore stab vests: no protection against a bomb.

  “What’s their angle?” Lesley asked Sanders.

  “They don’t have one yet. We have no idea who this woman is, what her motive is. No group has claimed involvement. They’re going to have to talk to her, find out what they can.”

  “We got any witnesses? Any muggles who spoke to her?”

  “Muggles?” He wrinkled his nose.

  “You know what I mean. If any members of the public saw her, spoke to her even, it’ll help us.”

  “I’ve no idea. We’ll be putting out an appeal, but in the meantime…”

  “Of course.” Lesley peered towards the glass doors. The shopping centre beyond them was still. “Do those two have recording devices?”

  “Too risky,” Sanders said. “They wanted to go in clean.”

  “OK.” Lesley sucked in a breath. “CCTV it is.” She turned for the car, then reconsidered. “I’m going in there.”

  “No. You’re not.”

  “Somebody in charge needs eyeballs on the scene. It can’t be you. I won’t get involved. I won’t go far. But I want to see for myself what’s going on.”

  Sanders put a hand on her arm. “That’s folly.”

  Lesley yanked her arm away and shook her head. It felt like someone had pumped it full of liquid fire. By the time she got to the ops base, and accessed the CCTV, it could be too late.

  A radio crackled behind her: Sergeant Wareham had arrived. She gave Lesley a wary look and turned to the Super.

  “Sir,” she said. “We’ve got a feed in the ops base. I can relay an account of what’s happening.”

  “Can’t you patch it through to a phone?” Lesley said.

  “Sorry, ma’am. They’re working on it, but not yet.”

  They all turned as the junior negotiator came through the doors. He’d been running.

  “She’s got a girl,” he panted.

  “The bomber has?” Sanders said.

  “A hostage.”

  “Why?” asked Lesley. “She’s got a bloody bomb strapped to her chest. Why does she need a fucking hostage?”

  Sanders raised an eyebrow. “If you don’t mind, Silver.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me. She wants something. She’s not going to blow the place up. Not now she’s got another bargaining chip.”

  “We can’t make any assumptions,” Sanders said.

  “Sir,” said Wareham. “Ma’am. You really need to come with me. At least let’s retreat to the cordon.”

  A clump of vans sat at the bottom of the ramp, more of them no doubt snaking their way up New Street. The city centre was emptying out. Good.

  “Very well,” Sanders said. “What’s the latest from the feed?”

  “The bomber seems to be talking to Inspector Jameson,” Sergeant Wareham said. “She’s got the girl in a tight hold at her side, leaving her other arm free for the detonator.”

  “That’s how she was when I left,” said the junior negotiator.

  “She’s still holding the detonator?” Sanders said.

  Wareham lifted the radio to her ear. “Yes, sir.”

  “Have we got snipers on her?”

  “Six, sir. Three inside the centre and three on the roof. They have a visual but we don’t know if a bullet will go through the ETF plastic.”

  “The what?” Lesley asked.

  “The clear plastic they built the roof from,” Sergeant Wareham replied.

  The shopping centre’s roof was made of a double-layer polycarbonate, light over the vast span it had to cover but insulated against the elements.

  “No one can tell us?” Sanders asked.

  “We’re trying to get hold of the company that manufactured it, sir.”

  “If it’s in doubt, and let’s face it, it will be regardless of what the manufacturers say, then the armed officers on the roof can’t possibly take that shot. They could hit the girl, or the negotiator.”

  “Sir.”

  “What about the other three? Have they got a line of sight?”

  “This is my job,” said Lesley.

  “I beg your pardon?” Sanders turned to her.

  “Sir. You’re Gold Command. Your job is strategic oversight. Coordination with other services, allocation of resources. Mine’s operational. Leave this to me.”

  “If I leave you in charge, you’ll go running in there.”

  She said nothing.

  He sighed. “Wareham will stay with you, brief you on what we’re getting from the feeds.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Hmm.”

  Lesley knew she’d pay for her insubordination. But Sanders was micromanaging. He needed to do his job, so she could do hers.

  “Right,” she said to Sergeant Wareham as Sanders reached the bottom of the ramp. “I want to see. I’m not going inside, but I’m going as far as those doors. OK?”

  “Ma’am.”

  “Tell me if you get anything important from that feed.”

  “Ma’am.”

  Lesley made for the glass doors. She hated not being able to see what was happening. She knew her place was far away from the scene, where she could safely co-ordinate the operation. But first she had to see what the situation was.

  She put a hand on the door and leaned forward to look through the glass. Ahead of her was a broad corridor flanked by shops. At the far end was a group of restaurants, and off to the right, unseen, more shops.

  “Where’s the bomber now?” she asked Wareham. She put a hand up against the glass to block reflections.

  “She’s next to Caffé Concerto.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s overlooking the station concourse. Up ahead, and to the right. Not far away.”

  “Has she been there all along?”

  “We think so, ma’am.”

  Lesley p
ut pressure on the door. She wanted to push it open, to go in there. She saw movement to one side and tensed.

  “Someone’s on the move,” she said.

  Wareham paused. “It’s Jameson. She’s on her way back. She’s got the hostage.”

  “Well done that woman.” Lesley let out a long breath.

  “Ma’am.”

  Lesley watched as the negotiator walked towards the doors. She was moving briskly but not running. She had a girl of about sixteen with her, who walked ahead of the inspector with jerky movements. Lesley watched both of them, willing them to hurry. Jameson would be aware of the bomber’s eyes on her back, she would have been told not to run.

  Inspector Jameson was five metres from the door. The hostage was in front of her, two metres away. Lesley shifted to one side to look past them. As she did, Jameson surged forward and pushed the girl through the doors. Lesley caught her as she stumbled out and the doors swung back.

  There was a flash of light from the right. Through the glass of the door Lesley could see Jameson turn towards it. A moment later her head snapped back like someone had yanked at it. She span in midair and hurtled towards Lesley, her arms flailing. In the same instant, the flash of light grew and engulfed her.

  “Back!” Lesley yelled. She threw herself in front of the girl. Behind her, Sergeant Wareham shouted to her colleagues on the cordon.

  Lesley wanted to run to the negotiator, to rescue her. But it was too late. Her body slammed into the reinforced glass. A wave of sound followed behind her.

  The glass doors shattered. Lesley shrieked and raised her hands, just as her feet left the ground. A pulse of air knocked her backwards and sent her slamming back into the ground, glass shattering over her.

  Chapter Four

  Zoe sat in the team office, BBC News on Connie’s computer monitor. Her own laptop had too small a screen and her eyes were aching.

  She rubbed them as the door opened: DS Mo Uddin.

  “What’s going on?” He grabbed Rhodri’s chair and positioned it next to Zoe’s then sat down.

  “There’s been a bomb threat at New Street. Lesley’s Silver Command.”

  “I know about that. What’s the latest?” his voice was strained.

  She sighed. “I don’t know. The cordon’s too wide, the cameras can’t see a thing.”

  “Can’t you find out direct?”

  “There’s no way I’m disturbing Lesley. And relaying updates back to the office isn’t exactly priority number one right now.”

  “Fair point.” He stood up. “Can I get you a coffee?”

  “That would be perfect. Strong, please. Stick an extra spoonful in.”

  Mo screwed up his face and ignored the look Zoe gave him. She leaned back in her chair, eyes fixed on the screen. She knew she should be focusing on her caseload but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. She’d been out this morning interviewing a shopkeeper who’d been the latest victim of a spate of armed robberies in Chelmsley Wood. Grunt work, but she’d been the only person available. CCTV had captured two men – faces covered, no surprise. There was paperwork to do, of course.

  That could wait.

  Onscreen, there was movement. Uniformed officers led a group of shoppers past the cordon. The officers looked grim, eyes down and mouths tight. The members of the public were pale and agitated. A small girl in a bright pink coat was being carried by her mum, both of them crying.

  Zoe tapped her foot against the desk leg. Her breathing was ragged and her chest tight. She hated being stuck here like this, but she knew she had no part to play in what was unfolding in the city centre.

  Her phone rang: DI Carl Whaley, her boyfriend.

  “Hi,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Are you watching?”

  “BBC. D’you know what’s happening?”

  “Lesley’s there, but that’s all I know.”

  “That’s good news. She knows what she’s doing.”

  “Yeah.” Lesley was experienced and competent, good at coping with pressure. Zoe hoped her boss would be safe.

  “This mean we’re off for tonight?” Carl said.

  “I don’t know. Sorry.” Zoe watched the journalist onscreen speak to a woman with a bright blue hat and a faraway look in her eyes. “We keep doing this, don’t we?” she said.

  “Comes with the territory. At least it’s both of us.”

  “Yeah. Look, I’ll try and call you—”

  The door opened behind her. Zoe swivelled her chair round, her hand over the phone. “I hope it’s good and strong.”

  “You hope what is?” Detective Superintendent David Randle stood with his back to the door.

  “Sir.” Zoe stiffened. What was he doing here on a Saturday? He should be at home, enjoying the perks of seniority. “Anything I can help you with?”

  “You’ve got the news on. Good.”

  She shivered, uncomfortable at being caught skiving. But she needed to know what was happening to her boss.

  “Carl, I’ll speak to you later.” She hung up, wondering if Carl had heard Randle’s voice.

  “Take a seat,” she said, hoping he’d decline.

  He sat in the chair Mo had vacated and made himself comfortable. The door opened again and Mo entered holding two mugs. Zoe gave him a perplexed shrug.

  “Sir,” Mo said.

  “DS Uddin. You’re working the weekend too?”

  “Working on the Sparrow case, sir.”

  The muscle under Randle’s eye twitched. He eyed the mugs. “Wouldn’t mind one myself, if that’s OK.”

  Mo pursed his lips but nodded. “No problem, sir.”

  Randle gave him a patronising smile and turned back to Zoe. She took the two mugs off Mo and placed them on her desk. He’d made hers eye-wateringly strong. The fact that it could blow the top off her head distracted from the taste.

  She grimaced, aware of the inappropriateness of the thought.

  Onscreen, the reporter spoke to camera, relaying the lack of information. He stood in the centre of New Street, out of sight of the station and towards the Bullring shopping centre. Behind him was quiet, the only people uniformed officers.

  “So,” said Randle. “How are things here at Force CID?”

  Randle had worked in these offices in Harborne until three months earlier, when he’d been promoted to Detective Superintendent. He’d been a DCI, Lesley’s colleague. He was head of Force CID now, but based out of HQ at Lloyd House.

  “Busy, sir. As always.”

  “Glad to hear it. Wouldn’t want to be over-resourced, not with the budget pressure we’re under.”

  Zoe nodded. David Randle hadn’t come in here to talk to her about budget cuts.

  “You have a new DS in your team,” he said.

  He knew that. He’d come across DS Ian Osman before.

  “We do, sir.”

  “I imagine you’re missing Mo.”

  “That’s not relevant, sir,” she said. “DS Osman’s an experienced detective. I’m glad to have him on the team.”

  Randle’s shoulders shifted in a suppressed chuckle. He knew as well as she did that Ian wasn’t a welcome member of the team. He was argumentative and borderline lazy, and he rubbed the constables up the wrong way.

  “Glad to hear it,” Randle said. “Look after him, will you? I wouldn’t want to see him getting a raw deal compared to his predecessor. I know you’re not one for favouritism.”

  “I treat all my team the same, sir.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Randle stood up.

  “You’re not waiting for that coffee, sir?”

  “I need to head off.”

  She nodded. So he’d wanted Mo out of the room.

  Randle patted down his hair. He wasn’t wearing his habitual dark suit, but was as well turned out as ever, an ironed blue shirt and a pair of chinos that made Zoe think of politicians on their days off.

  “Your coffee, sir.” Mo was back.

  “Thank you, DS Uddin, but I won’t be needing it. I’m sure DI Fin
ch will drink it.”

  “I’m sure she will, sir.” Mo gave a hesitant smile.

  “Thank you.” Randle put his hand on the back of Zoe’s chair, close enough for her to feel a breeze brush her neck but not quite making contact. She held herself very still, determined not to shudder. After a few moments, he patted the chair and walked out.

  “What was all that about?” Mo asked.

  “Beats me,” said Zoe. “He wanted to know how Ian’s getting on.”

  “Ian?”

  Zoe had her own ideas about why Randle was interested in her sergeant. She turned back to the screen, where people were running past the reporter.

  “What’s happened?” she sat up in her chair.

  She turned up the volume to hear a low rumble in the background. Her stomach clenched.

  Mo’s mouth hung open. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “No,” she said.

  The reporter put his hand to his ear. He blinked into the screen a few times, then spoke fast, barely intelligible. “There’s been an explosion inside New Street Station.”

  Zoe and Mo looked at each other. She’d watched them evacuating people, knew that Uniform would be doing all they could to clear the place. But on a Saturday afternoon in the January sales, the place would be packed.

  She leaned in, almost toppling the two cups of coffee. The scene onscreen was chaotic, people running. Either the picture had dulled, or there was smoke.

  The door crashed open again. Randle.

  “DI Finch,” he said. “Come with me.”

  Chapter Five

  Sofia Pichler hugged herself as she stared out at the aeroplanes unloading their cargo.

  Behind her, one of her boyfriend’s employees, Adam, barked into a mobile phone. He paced back and forth as he spoke but never moved more than six feet away from her. He’d driven Sofia here in her boyfriend’s second Mercedes.

  He, and his colleagues, drove her lots of places.

  The aeroplanes were vast and beautiful, gliding towards their positions alongside the gates. The one she longed to get a glimpse of would arrive unseen at the far end of the arrivals hall. But for now, just gazing out from the viewing lounge was enough to fill her with anticipation.

  She checked her watch: three fifty. Andreea’s plane would arrive in twenty minutes. Then there would be passport control, and the luggage carousel. Within the next hour Sofia would be reunited with her sister.