Seven Bridges

by LJ Ross

  “If they cause any kind of obstruction, book them,” he said.

  “They’re getting two for the price of one, tonight,” Phillips observed. “Big night for the news desk.”

  Ryan said nothing but slipped the radio into his back pocket and raised his binoculars again to scan the empty streets below, watching for any sign of suspicious activity. He had officers situated at various check-points with orders to be vigilant and several members of the Firearms Unit were stationed in office buildings with a clear view of the bridge, should they need to disable a suicide-bomber on a mission.

  As the clock crept ever closer to midnight, they heard the roar of a vehicle’s engine as it made its way up to the roof of the car park. The sound reverberated around the concrete walls and an army jeep emerged, coming to an abrupt halt in one of the parking spaces nearby. Two men and a woman dressed in military gear jumped out and ran across to where Ryan and Phillips stood beside the far perimeter wall.

  “Which one of you is DCI Ryan?”

  A fit-looking man of around forty addressed them in the kind of no-nonsense tone that might have set their teeth on edge, had the threat of an imminent explosion not been uppermost in their minds. He wore head gear but, from what they could see, he had a year-round tan on his chiselled face, a pair of arresting blue eyes and what might have been sandy blond hair beneath his cap, all of which reminded Phillips of a plastic Ken doll.

  “Captain Nobel? Thanks for getting down here so quickly.”

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t get here sooner. There’s no time to send a robot to look for any explosives, so I’m afraid we’ll have to hope for the best.” He gestured towards the two other military personnel standing beside him. “This is Sergeant Sue Bannerman and Corporal Kevin Wilson. We’ve got the rest of the team heading to the south side to liaise with your DI MacKenzie. What measures have been taken so far?”

  But there was no time for discussion as they suddenly heard the distant sound of chanting voices carrying on the night air.

  “What’s that?” Phillips tried to judge the direction.

  “It’s the crowd on the Quayside,” Ryan said, without rancour. “They’re counting down the seconds until midnight.”

  Ten, nine, eight…

  “For God’s sake, it’s not New Year’s Eve!” Phillips cried. “Do they think this is a bloody joke?”

  “Let’s hope it is,” Nobel remarked. “Nine times out of ten, these things are a false alarm and it gives them all something to talk about in the morning.”

  Ryan still didn’t like those odds.

  “How far back is the cordon?” Bannerman asked quietly, coming to stand on Ryan’s other side.

  …seven, six, five…

  “At least two hundred metres in any direction,” Ryan murmured, his eyes still scanning the road for any sign of life but finding none.

  The tension in the air was palpable and the people on the roof fell silent as the remaining time slipped away, five pairs of eyes coming to rest on the shadowy arches of the bridge which dominated the skyline.

  Ryan felt his heart hammering against the wall of his chest, powerless to stop what was about to happen before their very eyes.

  …four, three, two…

  Time hung there, suspended for a terrifying moment. And then—

  One!

  A cheer erupted from somewhere far below and they held their breath, hardly daring to move, never tearing their eyes away from the bridge which remained blessedly intact. Elsewhere in the city, people tuned into the news or streamed it on their smartphones, caught somewhere between excitement and dread as they watched live footage from the cameras that were dotted around the city, their long-range lenses trained on the bridge from every possible angle.

  When nothing happened, Phillips let out a long, quivering sigh.

  “There, y’ see! I told you, it was nothing but kids—”

  The explosion rocketed through the night air, sending smoke and rubble up in a billowing cloud of dust. Shards of tarmac and burnt metal flew through the darkness and cheers turned to cries of panic as shrapnel fell like glittering raindrops, wounding those who refused to be moved. Ryan felt the air contract, buffeting against his body in a hard burst of energy that rocked him back on his heels. He threw up a hand to shield his eyes against the bright ball of white light that flared up and then simmered into a steady yellow glow, staring in horror as the fire raged on.

  They stood in silent vigil as one of the city’s most iconic landmarks was altered irrevocably. Its lines could be re-drawn, and its arches repaired but it would never again be the same steel that had been forged and moulded, hammered and bolted into place by the hands of men nearly a hundred years ago.

  When Ryan was sure he could trust his own voice, he raised the police radio to his lips.

  “MacKenzie? Do you copy?”

  The sound of the radio’s crackle broke through the unnatural hush, serving to remind them that there was urgent work to be done.

  “All fine here,” MacKenzie replied. “No casualties reported. From what I could see, the blast seemed to come from the north end of the bridge.”

  Ryan agreed with her.

  “We’ll have to wait until the dust has settled before we can assess the true damage.” Below, they heard the wail of ambulance sirens making their way down to the Quayside. “Keep me posted with any developments.”

  Ryan ended the exchange and then turned to the three army officers.

  “How soon until you can get down there and find the source?”

  “Not for a while. That might have been a partial blast,” Nobel said, with a note of warning. “We need to wait to see if there’s a second explosion. You should warn your officers of that possibility.”

  Ryan nodded towards Phillips, who began making a series of radioed warnings to that effect.

  “If we don’t see a second blast, we’ll send a robot down there to look around. It’ll be easier in the morning, when we have a bit more light to guide us,” Nobel continued.

  Ryan looked back at the dust cloud spreading further downstream.

  “What do you make of the level of explosion?” he asked. “It was in a different league to the usual pipe bomb in a carrier bag.”

  All three EOD officers made a kind of synchronised, non-committal sound.

  “It looked bad but, sometimes, once the air has cleared, you find it’s only made a small dent,” Wilson explained. “That bridge is pure steel and it was built to last. It’d take a truckload of explosives to bring it down.”

  “Unless the bomber had access to military grade materials,” Bannerman pointed out. “That would make more of an impact but they’re harder to come by.”

  “What were they looking for this time?” Nobel asked. “Money?”

  The distant glow of the fire was reflected in Ryan’s eyes as he thought of the planning it must have taken to pull off the attack they’d just witnessed.

  “We won’t know what they’re looking for until the second blast,” he said. “This was just a practice run, to get our attention.”

  “Aye, well they’ve succeeded in that,” Phillips said, with a catch to his voice. His grandfather had been a scaffolder, one of the many who had built the bridge piece by piece until it had become a permanent part of the skyline. The explosion was more than an attack on concrete and steel; it was an attack on their shared history and on the community that had built up around it.

  “You reckon there’ll be a second?” Wilson asked, curiously. “How can you be so sure?”

  Ryan spared him a brief glance.

  “It’s your department, but I don’t need to be an expert to know that a device was planted in advance. Whoever did this probably held a remote detonator of some kind in the palm of their hand. They triggered it and watched the bridge go up, maybe even from the crowd down there on the Quayside. They’ll have heard all the cheers, seen the audience in awe of it all.”

  He paused, struggling to find the right words.
<
br />   “I know there’ll be more because whoever did this has had a taste of real power. It’s like a drug to some people and the need doesn’t diminish, it only grows stronger.”

  He lifted a mute hand towards the bridge.

  “This is only the beginning.”

  CHAPTER 5

  There was a picture of a heart on the wall.

  At some time or other, a previous inmate had scratched its outline onto the wall of the cell and written one word beneath it that read, ‘SAM.’

  Lowerson stared fixedly at the small mural from his position atop the uncomfortable single bed which, despite being fairly new, had already attracted the lingering smell of urine. He wore the freshly laundered jeans and shirt his mother had sent down for him, and when he lifted the material to his face, he recognised the scent of her laundry detergent and could almost imagine she was there beside him.

  His eyes were red-rimmed but bone dry, all his tears having been spent.

  How had it come to this?

  He stared down at the clothes he wore and remembered he had bought the jeans a year ago, although it felt like much longer. Wearing them again, it was like donning a different skin, an old skin that felt smooth and worn-in, yet uncomfortable at the same time. He’d stopped wearing many of his old clothes because Jennifer had told him, ever so gently, that he needed to dress like a man, not a boy.

  “It’s no wonder you were practically a virgin when I met you, Jack. I’m surprised any woman ever touched you, before me.”

  He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his elbows on top, spearing his fingers through his hair. The tiny heart on the wall opposite seemed to mock him, reminding him of what a fool he had been.

  But even now, even knowing how she had felt about him before she died, a small, treacherous part of himself wanted to deny it. His heart, now battered and torn, wanted to cling on to even the smallest hope that the last four months of his life had not been completely, utterly wasted. He wanted to mourn the woman he had loved, to believe she had been a good person. For, if she had been anything else, how could he forgive himself for being so taken in?

  “Blah, blah, blah, Jack. That’s all you ever say. Always whining at me to tell you ‘I love you’, to rub your belly like a puppy. Is that what you are, Jack? Are you a dog, that I can kick?”

  “No. I’m not, I’m—”

  Then, she’d walk to him and place a hand on his face. She’d look into his eyes with every sign of sincerity and whisper the words he longed to hear.

  “Of course I love you, Jack. I just want what’s best for you, that’s all. I just wish you’d change, only a little. Just for me, okay?”

  Lowerson thought of how he’d lapped up her words, and anger washed over him in a wave so strong it was almost painful. He felt the rush of adrenaline burst through his veins and he leapt off the bed to walk it off, pacing around the room as his mind went around and around in circles, thinking of everything and nothing.

  And every time he closed his eyes, he saw her lifeless face staring up at him.

  He leaned back against the wall of his cell and sank to the floor, holding his head in his hands.

  * * *

  “Ryan, come in.”

  Chief Constable Sandra Morrison pushed her office door shut and gestured vaguely towards one of the over-stuffed visitor’s chairs arranged on the other side of her desk.

  For once, Ryan took up the offer and settled himself as comfortably as he could, stretching out the tired muscles in his neck. Somewhere over his shoulder, he heard the sweet sound of a coffee machine percolating and wondered if there might be a god, after all.

  “Here,” she said, thrusting a cup into his hands. “You look like you need one.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he murmured, and chugged back a grateful swig while Morrison hesitated, then decided to break with her own tradition and take the seat beside him rather than facing him across the expanse of her desk.

  Ryan noted the action and polished off the last of his coffee in three large gulps. If they were about to have a serious discussion, he needed his wits about him.

  “Tell me some good news,” she said, in the residual silence.

  He almost smiled.

  “Ma’am—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, let’s cut out the formalities, too. We both know the Department’s up shit creek without a paddle. That qualifies for a frank discussion on first name terms.”

  “Alright then,” he gave a slight shrug. “I wish I could tell you some good news, Sandra, but I can’t. Not yet, at least. We need time to figure this all out.”

  “We don’t have much time,” she shot back. “This has hit every major international news outlet. I presume you’ve spoken with the counter-terrorism unit?”

  And there was the difference between them, Ryan thought. Of the two major events that had occurred in the space of a few hours, Morrison’s priority was to pacify her colleagues in centralised departments, whereas his first duty was to the young man holed up in one of the basement cells, three floors below.

  “Yes, I’ve spoken with them. An investigation is already underway, and we’ll know much more in the morning, once the EOD team have had an opportunity to assess the site. Meanwhile. the tech team are working together with The Enquirer to find out where that e-mail came from and I’ve authorised the resources for them to work through the night on this. If we can find the source, we can find the person responsible. I’ve sent the rest of the team home to catch some shut-eye, with orders to report back for a briefing at eight o’clock tomorrow morning or, rather, this morning.”

  Morrison checked the time on her smartphone. It was already past two o’clock, so she could hardly ask for a quicker response than that. The windows were dark except for the dim, yellowish glow of the streetlamps in the staff car park below and she’d turned on every light in her room, just to stay alert.

  She set her cup on the desk and turned to the next troubling matter on her agenda.

  “Tell me what happened to Jack,” she asked him, as gently as she could.

  “I’ve already told you all I know.”

  Morrison raised a hand to push back the untidy fall of ash-blonde hair flopping into her eyes. There had been no time to run a brush through it after she’d first heard the news and hurried out of the house, back down to the office where she belonged. Although it was the worst kind of news to receive on a Saturday night, she had not been cuddled up on the sofa with anybody special, or enjoying an Aperol Spritz with a group of giggling friends down at her local drinking hole. There was a reason she lived alone; she had made her choice years ago, after her marriage collapsed. There had been a choice to make then between devotion to her work, or to her ex-husband. She’d chosen the work. But, every now and then, she wondered what life might have been like if she’d made a different decision, as Ryan had done.

  Irritated with herself, she shoved the thought aside and focused on the present.

  “No,” she said. “You’ve told me what you plan to tell Tebbutt, when you give a statement. I want to know what happened to Jack before—I want to know how it came to this. Why was he the one to find Lucas at home?”

  How did I miss this? she nearly added.

  Ryan looked at her for a long moment with calm, all-seeing eyes, until she had the grace to look away. Months earlier, he had come to her to warn her of the kind of woman she had chosen to appoint as their new superintendent. He’d tried to tell her about the danger, to warn her of Lucas’s insidious nature. Morrison hadn’t listened, hadn’t wanted to hear it. She’d needed a poster girl for CID, somebody with an impeccable track record who could sweep in and white-wash the blemishes left over from the old days, and she’d believed the person to do that was Jennifer Lucas. He’d been forced to watch as the culture of their team had become one of fear and mistrust, where officers learned never to speak out or find themselves reprimanded. He’d watched his friend, his colleague, lose himself a little more each day and he’d been pow
erless to stop it. Ryan had almost taken the decision to leave or take a long sabbatical, when Lowerson had arrived on his doorstep.

  “You know why,” he said, quietly. “I tried to tell you.”

  The seconds dragged on and then Morrison lifted her chin to look him in the eye. She hadn’t made it this far in life without having to take difficult decisions, ones which sometimes cost her sleep, but she was always willing to take responsibility for them. If an apology was due, it deserved to be said face to face.

  “I know you did,” she acknowledged. “I don’t know what happened to you in London, Ryan, and when you tried to tell me I silenced you, told you to stop being unprofessional. I needed to believe it was professional differences or old scores between you and Lucas, so that I could get the department back on track. I didn’t want to know.”

  He said nothing, and she dug a little deeper.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, baldly. “If it had been MacKenzie or Yates who came to me with a concern about a male colleague in a position of power, I’d have treated them differently. I understand that, and I hope you’ll accept my apology. It should never have happened, and it pains me to know that, because of my inaction, Lowerson may have found himself compromised.”

  Ryan opened his mouth to speak but she surprised him by continuing.

  “I want us to be friends again,” she said, and her voice wobbled slightly. “I trust your judgment as a police officer and the staff love you. You’re an outspoken so-and-so,” she added, for good measure, “and God knows you don’t always follow protocol. But you’ve got an unswerving moral compass which is bloody hard to find in our business. I don’t want to lose that, none of us do. Tell me what I can do to make things right again.”

  Ryan listened, then gave himself a second to collect his thoughts. When he’d walked into her office, he’d expected to give a report and then be on his way. He hadn’t expected her to delve into all that and he found himself momentarily at a loss.

  “The first thing you can do is fire up that coffee machine again,” he said, bringing a smile to her face. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us and it’s going to take more caffeine.”