by Peter James
He wondered now, as he had done for several months, whether he was doing the right thing in retiring at the end of the year, at just fifty-two. He would collect his handsome pension pot. He’d be able to text jokes to friends without having to worry about being hauled up in front of Professional Standards accused of being racist or homophobic or sexist or animalist or veganist or whatever faction of the Political Correctness Fascists he might have supposedly offended this week.
And yet . . .
As a Chief Superintendent colleague who was also coming up for retirement had recently told him over a pint, once the knowledge was out that you were down to your last year or so, your colleagues put you into the UBB.
It stood, unflatteringly, for Useless Bastards Box.
Keith hung up his motorcycle clothing on a couple of pegs in the locker room, put his crash helmet down on a bench, then climbed the concrete staircase, in his black uniform top and trousers, into the open-plan area of the Force Control Room that had been his domain for the past three years. And realized just how much he loved it here. He might be in the UBB these days, but hopefully he could at least show his abilities as a safe, competent pair of hands up to his very last shift.
And this vast room on two floors was where all potential glory – and sometimes sheer horror – for Sussex Police began.
It was where the county’s emergency and non-emergency call takers – or contact handlers, as they were called – sat wearing their headsets, in deep concentration. And it was where the rota of highly skilled operators monitored the county’s 850 CCTV cameras.
Everything that might involve the police in an emergency callout began here, in this room. Whether it was a suspicious man posing as a gas meter reader, a road traffic accident, a mugging, a bank robbery, a rape, a suspected terrorist, a firearms incident or an air disaster, any 999 call would be answered and assessed in this room. And he would have the responsibility for handling the first stages of any major incident resulting.
UBB.
Huh.
No way! If he could have just one juicy job sometime between now and retirement, he’d show them just how damned good he was!
He wasn’t going to have to wait very long.
13
Saturday 12 August
17.00–18.00
Although Roy Grace was enjoying a precious day out with his son, and a day away from work, he was, like all police officers, rarely fully off duty – and today he was the on-call SIO. As Bruno studied the programme, commenting knowledgeably on the team squad and wondering who would be selected for today’s game against tough opposition, Manchester City, his father was preoccupied, staring around the terraces.
Grace was looking for the faces of local villains he had encountered during his two decades of policing the city of Brighton and Hove, always interested to see, in particular, who was sitting with whom and what new criminal alliances might have formed or be under discussion. In addition today, having been briefed by DCI Fitzherbert, he was being extra-vigilant as a result of the threats that had been made to the stadium.
He had already clocked something of interest, as people filed in and took their seats: a low-life drug dealer and car thief, Alan Letts. Letts was sitting beside one of Brighton’s oldest and nastiest villains, Jimmy Bardolph. Bardolph, a scabby, scarred creep, had once been a henchman for one of Brighton’s biggest crime families, but these days had long been a busted flush. The pair were engaged in earnest conversation and Grace would have loved to have been able to eavesdrop. What were they discussing? Not donations to a charity, that was for sure. He made a mental note to inform a colleague at Specialist Crime Command Intel.
‘Hello, Roy!’ a voice said right behind him.
He turned to see a retired police officer, Mike Hird, and his son, Paul. He greeted them briefly then noticed two people seated next to them, smiling at him. He recognized Cliff and Linda Faires, who ran the Brighton Shellfish & Oyster Bar on the seafront.
‘Enjoyed those oysters last week did you and the missus, Roy?’
‘We did, very much! We tried to get my son, Bruno, to try them, but he preferred his prawn sandwich.’ Grace resumed scanning the crowd.
‘So, Papa, who will win, what will be the score?’ Bruno said.
‘What’s your prediction?’ Grace asked his son. ‘Are you looking forward to seeing the Albion’s German midfielder, Gross?’
‘From Ingolstadt,’ Bruno said, solemnly. ‘He is good. But I think Manchester City will win, two–nil.’
‘We’re meant to be supporting Brighton, aren’t we?’
Bruno nodded, looking as ever his serious self. ‘But I don’t think they will win today, not with their formation. They have it wrong.’
The players were coming out onto the pitch. The roar of the crowd began as a ripple, then rose in a crescendo as everyone got to their feet, clutching the blue-and-white flags that had been placed on their seats, singing, heartily, the club anthem, ‘Sussex by the Sea’, interspersed with chants of, ‘ALBION!’
Grace noticed the man in the baseball cap, with the big camera, two rows in front of him. Something about his body language seemed odd. The man was looking around him, nervously, edgy, then fiddling with a dial on the top of his camera. A professional-looking job of the kind favoured by paparazzi or perhaps birdwatchers – twitchers. Or, he thought with his ever-suspicious mind, peeping Toms. Because of yesterday’s threat, Roy continued to watch him, not liking the look of him. If he was press, he would have been with the others in the middle of the stadium’s West Stand, behind the dugouts, or at the far end, behind the goalposts. Probably just a fan, like a lot of others, with a passion for photography.
Ylli Prek raised his camera and pressed his eye to the viewfinder, pretending to take pictures in case anyone was watching. Then he laid it down on his lap again and peered at the dial on the top. Ordinarily, it would have been for setting the shutter speed. But on this camera, it was the timer. Twisting it would prime the bomb. The options were one minute, five minutes, ten minutes and upwards in further increments of five minutes. He had been instructed to wait until the game had started, just in case of any delay, then to allow himself enough margin to get well clear of the stadium; but not to let it run to half-time, when the stands wouldn’t be so full. And not to leave the camera on its own for so long that people would get suspicious.
Fifteen minutes, Ylli Prek decided. Or would ten be better?
Roy Grace kept a steady, uneasy eye on the man.
14
Saturday 12 August
17.00–18.00
Adrian Morris, seated at his command centre in the back row of the Amex Control Room, was studying the crowds in the stands. Casting a vigilant eye across all of them, row by row. Despite his near-sleepless night, he was more wide awake and alert than ever before in his life.
The caller had not rung again.
Why don’t you sleep on it? I will make contact later to give you one last chance.
The Head of Safety and Security’s regular complement of sixteen were at their seats in the Control Room now, concentrating on their computer screens or on the bank of CCTV monitors, rather than watching the match itself. Seated alongside him were the Police Match Commander, Chief Inspector Andy Kundert, as well as the Safety Officer, and a radio operator. In the middle row were two police radio operators, three CCTV operators, the External Controller and loggist. In the front row were the SECAMB Ambulance Service Manager, the St John Ambulance Commander, the medical radio operator and a British Transport Police officer.
Today, in addition, also peering intently at the row of CCTV screens, was Detective Inspector Glenn Branson, here in his own time – with Roy Grace’s encouragement – using the game as a developmental opportunity to broaden his range of skills for his hoped-for next step up the police career ladder – to become a Chief Inspector.
Both inside and outside the stadium was the largest police presence ever for an Albion game. There was effectively a ring of stee
l around the place.
The Chief Constable had been informed. A high-level strategic command meeting, with the Gold Commander, Superintendent Jason Tingley, had taken place at midday to review the situation. In the six years since the Amex had opened, this exact scenario had been rehearsed several times. The Gold Commander’s decision had been to go ahead with the game, but be ready to evacuate if there was any cause for concern.
Armed police marksmen stood in the wings in full public view to give added assurance to the fans, covering all four stands; two Armed Response Units were in place outside. Adding to the police presence, NPAS-15, the police helicopter, had been overhead several times and was on standby.
Morris was relieved they were going ahead with the game, but the caller’s words still rang fear in his heart.
Mr Morris, there will be a bomb on or under one seat in the stadium tomorrow afternoon . . . Who will come off worse from this tragedy? You, the Amex Stadium or Sussex Police?
He had toyed with whether to let his young son come to the game with his grandfather. He had not told his wife all the details, knowing exactly how alarmed she would have been and what she would have said: that they shouldn’t go. He’d fretted about them all night, feeling stuck between a rock and a hard place.
His concern was that if anything did happen in the stadium, and word got out that he’d known of the danger and had prevented his son and his granddad from attending but let the game continue all the same, there would be hell to pay.
In the end, he’d convinced himself that the stadium was safe.
But why hadn’t the caller rung again as he had said he would?
Suddenly the door opened and one of the stewards, Keith Waring, a stout man in his sixties who had been part of the Albion security team for as long as Morris had been there himself, came in and hurried up to him, holding out his mobile phone. ‘Ade,’ he said, looking puzzled. ‘I’ve got a call for you – come through on my private phone. I asked if I could take a message but the bloke says he has to speak to you in person and it’s very urgent.’
Shit, he thought, taking the phone. ‘Adrian Morris,’ he said. And immediately heard the unpleasantly familiar, polite, accented English voice. He felt a mixture of relief and deep apprehension.
‘Mr Morris, I thought I would give you a little time to consider what we discussed.’
‘I thought you were going to call me earlier? It’s five minutes till kick-off.’
‘You are the Head of Safety and Security. It is within your remit to postpone the game and evacuate the stadium. Really I would advise you to do this.’
The display showed again that the caller ID was withheld.
‘How did you get this number?’
‘I can get any number I have to, in order to reach you on a line that is not tapped by the police, whom I advised you not to contact. I can see them all with you up in the Control Box. You will never see me. Postpone, Mr Morris, really, I am saying this in your best interests. Evacuate. Then pay the money as I will direct you. Understand that I am not a greedy person. You now have just under four minutes.’
The call ended.
Morris immediately turned to the Match Commander, telling him what had happened, including Glenn Branson in the discussion.
Kundert called the Force Gold, Jason Tingley, and updated him.
The players were on the pitch and the roar from the crowd rose in a crescendo. Thirty thousand fans were on their feet, clapping, chanting, waving flags and banners.
‘Gold says it’s your call, Ade,’ Andy Kundert said. ‘He’ll support your decision either way.’
Morris then spoke with Jason Tingley himself, and together they reviewed the current threat assessment. He made the decision to continue with the match.
As he put the phone down, he shook his head, then raised his arms in a helpless gesture. The biggest day in the club’s recent history. Their first home Premier League game. Could he really screw it all up for the Seagulls and the legion of fans here?
‘We know there’s been nothing planted under the stands,’ Morris said. ‘If anything is in here, it’s been brought in – and everyone’s been checked.’ He looked over at the South Stand, trying to pick out his father and his son.
What to do?
What the hell to do?
The whistle blew. Brighton and Hove Albion had won the toss and chosen ends, and Manchester City kicked off. But Adrian Morris wasn’t watching his home team in their blue-and-white strip, nor was he watching the opposition in their maroon kit. His eyes were fixed to the bank of monitors, studying every single person in the stadium.
He checked on his son, Finley, sitting with his granddad, and in the same row noticed a young man wearing a red baseball cap who suddenly stood up and seemed to be making his way out. So soon after kick-off?
He zoomed in with the CCTV on the seat the man had vacated, and saw a camera lying on it. Thousands of pounds’ worth of kit. Got to be pretty trusting to leave that behind, he thought.
Then an icy chill swept through him.
From the conception to the construction of this stadium – which had been to the most robust specification of any football stadium in the nation – they’d liaised closely with the Anti-Terrorist Squad, and all his security team had had intensive training from them in what was now known as the ‘HOT Principle’. This had originally been devised in consultation with British Transport Police, to minimize the inconvenience to rail passengers any time an unidentified package was spotted at a station. There had been a time when the discovery of a bag or rucksack lying anywhere in a railway station, without an apparent owner, would result in immediate evacuation, causing hours of delay, missed flights and all the other knock-on consequences.
The HOT Principle stood for Hidden, Obvious or Typical of the environment but left unattended for some time, and set down a series of assessment protocols for a suspicious item based on these.
The camera looked serious and very expensive, more like something a professional press photographer might use. But, equally, he knew there were plenty of keen amateur photographers among the fans. Right now, he decided, he had cause for concern but not immediate alarm. No one genuine would leave a valuable item like this unattended for more than a couple of minutes.
He radioed the Stand Manager, Annette Day, asking her to take a quick look at the camera on seat 311S. She replied that she would.
He spoke to his CCTV chief operator, giving him a description of the man in the red cap, then anxiously concentrated on the bank of monitors above him. He saw the man, who was short and dressed in casual sports clothing, hurrying through the stadium complex, looking nervously around him. Morris punched buttons on his control panel to bring up different cameras, trying to track him as he ran along the empty corridor and approached the double doors signed SOUTH STAND WASTE MANAGEMENT – NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS.
He switched to the next camera, covering the doors and the turnstile just beyond. But all he got was a blank screen – it wasn’t working.
Shit, shit, shit.
Instantly, he alerted security, gave them a description of the man and told them to find and apprehend him, and to summon a police officer to question and search him. He alerted the Match Commander, and called out to the match officer, PC Darren Balkham, who was up here also monitoring the game, and apprised him of the situation.
Should he text his father and tell him to take Finley and leave the stadium? He desperately wanted to but he knew that if he was that concerned, he should order a full-scale evacuation of everyone.
Balkham hurried up to the control desk and studied the close-up of the camera. Yes, he agreed with Morris and the Match Commander, it might be innocent, but could they take the risk? They would give it a couple more minutes, time for the man – if genuine – to have a pee or get a drink and return to his seat.
To his relief, Annette Day, in her tabard, came hurrying down the stand steps towards the seat.
Roy Grace watched the steward, a midd
le-aged woman, excuse her way past the fans directly in front of him, to the seat on which the camera lay.
Good, he thought, that security here was so vigilant.
Annette Day looked at the camera, which had its lens cap off and attached by a cord. Then she stepped back into the aisle and spoke into her radio.
15
Saturday 12 August
17.00–18.00
The steward’s body language worried Roy Grace. He watched her talk to the man in the next seat along, who shrugged his shoulders. She turned to the people in the row behind, asking them questions.
Telling Bruno to stay where he was, Grace slipped out into the aisle and hurried down to her.
There was a sudden surge of energy from the crowd. A massive roar.
‘ALBION . . . ALBION . . . ALBION!’
But any thoughts of the game were far from Grace’s mind: he was in full professional mode. ‘Hi,’ he said, holding up his warrant card. ‘I’m a police officer. Are you worried about that camera?’
She joined him in the aisle. ‘I’ve been asked to check it out, sir, yes. Did you see the man who was sitting there?’
‘Yes, and I wasn’t happy about him. He was looking very nervous.’
Annette Day spoke into her radio to Morris. ‘Sir, I’m with a police officer, Detective Superintendent Grace, who was sitting a couple of rows behind and has concerns about the man who left his seat and the camera.’
Adrian Morris straight away sent out an instruction to all stewards to go to Priority Messages on their radios. It was code for a potential major incident. He updated Andy Kundert, who immediately ordered all police officers in the ground to switch their radios to TX Inhibit, which would block any transmission – a standard procedure for a suspected bomb, as many explosive devices used by terrorists could be set off by transmission from a mobile phone.