Good Friday

by Lynda La Plante

  “Out with it,” Crowley demanded.

  “Seeing the key fob reminded me of something. When Natalie rang my doorbell, I looked out the window.”

  They all looked at her impatiently.

  “The reason your teams didn’t pick her up at Baker Street station was—”

  “Yes, yes?”

  “She came by car. I saw the roof, a soft top. I’m sure it was a blue Triumph Herald. I mean, I can’t be positive, but I think I saw a blue soft top car parked in the hotel courtyard.”

  Jane now had everyone’s attention. Crowley shrugged.

  “Probably coincidence. I mean we disarmed the rucksack bomb and found the transmitter Natalie had, so—”

  Dexter interrupted him, banging his hand on the bar, and turned to the inspector.

  “There’s something not right here. Did the expo say how big the rucksack bomb was?”

  The Inspector nodded. “Yes, about a pound or two of TNT.”

  Dexter picked up the car key. “He never had a detonator for the rucksack because Natalie failed to deliver it. He’s running for his life and chucks these away because he didn’t want us to find them or a connection to the car . . .”

  Everyone’s attention was now on Dexter.

  “OK, this is the possibility: the rucksack could have been a primary device intended to cause some damage and mass panic.”

  Church was very tense. “If it had gone off it would have killed or maimed any of the receptionists standing near it.”

  “That’s not the point. A small explosion may kill one or two, but it makes everyone else retreat away from it and run straight into the path of a much bigger secondary device!”

  Crowley grasped the enormity of Dexter’s point. “If the rucksack went off while we were in here, then everyone would have run out the front of the hotel into the courtyard parking area.”

  “Exactly. So I need to examine that Triumph right now.” Dexter shook the key in his hand.

  The duty inspector braced himself. “Shouldn’t we take it to a safer place to examine?”

  Dexter glared at him. “What’s your name?”

  “Inspector Brian Curtis.”

  “Well, Inspector Curtis, you let an IRA terrorist plant a bomb and then do parking duties! So excuse me if I don’t listen to your opinion this time.”

  Although it was Jane who had given them the heads-up about the car, no one was paying her any attention. The men grouped together to discuss what to do. Inspector Curtis said that he would start organizing the evacuation of the building.

  Crowley interjected. “I am the DCI from the bomb squad. It’s too dangerous to evacuate. People will be seriously injured if a car bomb goes off.”

  Dexter agreed and said that as the banquet hall was at the back of the hotel it was the safest place to be at present time. Looking a bit put-upon, Curtis said he’d do his best to keep everyone in situ without causing alarm.

  Dexter stubbed out his cigar, took off his jacket and once again handed it to Jane. She saw him exchange a glance with Stanley who nodded back. They headed toward the hotel reception entrance, followed by Crowley and Jane.

  The rows of parked cars in the hotel car park were illuminated by the lights from the hotel. The pale blue two-seater Triumph Herald was instantly noticeable due to its age. It was parked right by the hotel entrance. Surveying the now-full parking area, Jane could see why Dexter was concerned the reaction to a smaller device would make everyone run into the path of another bigger bomb.

  Crowley calmly told the reception staff to make their way up to the banquet room and asked one of the porters to get him a torch. Dexter turned to everyone, instructed them to stay back and, holding the torch, calmly walked over to the car. He seemed relaxed, but Jane’s heart was pounding. The Long Walk seemed to be happening in slow motion.

  No one spoke as they watched Dexter peering into the car. He didn’t attempt to open the doors as he moved around the car, which was parked with the boot facing the low brick wall. He crouched down by the driver’s door and shone the torch around the rim of the door and the rubber seals before peering into the door lock. Gently, he eased the key into the door and slowly turned it, causing the push button lock to pop up. It was as if he was counting down time to himself as he carefully opened the door two inches and again checked around it before opening it further.

  Stanley whispered to Jane, “He’s got nerves of steel.”

  Dexter adjusted the two front seats as far forward as possible so he could get better access to the small rear section of the vehicle.

  “What’s he doing?” Jane asked.

  Crowley whispered, “The car could be rigged to explode so he’s checking as he goes. The best way to examine the boot lock is to enter from the inside. If it’s rigged he can detach any trip wires connected to the boot lock before opening it.”

  Dexter leaned into the car and removed a travel rug that had been spread across the back. Under the rug there were sticks of TNT and gelignite, covered in nails and other bits of loose metal and wrapped in cling film. The area behind the back seats had already been cut away to allow the boot to be crammed with explosives. He gently moved some out of the way so he could shine the torch onto the boot lock.

  The tension was palpable. No one could see clearly what Dexter was doing as he was crouched down looking inside the boot for what seemed like ages. Eventually he reappeared, walked back toward them, wiping the dripping sweat from his forehead.

  “It’s a big bomb, at least fifty pounds of gelignite and sticks of TNT attached to a clock timer that’s ticking.”

  “How long have we got?” Crowley asked.

  “Don’t know. I can hear the clock, but can’t see it. It’s inside a cigar box similar to the one I was testing at Woolwich. That helps in some ways as at least I have an idea of its makeup. The back of the car is packed with nails and other lethal crap intended to cause as much injury as possible. The boot is booby-trapped from the inside so I can’t open it with the key until I disarm the wires leading to the lock.”

  Crowley was badly shaken. He looked almost helplessly at Dexter. “Can you do this?”

  “Yes. Just keep everyone away,” Dexter said. “And get me some small sharp knives from the kitchen and wire clippers as quick as you can. We don’t know when it’s been programmed to explode, so every second counts. Is DS Lawrence here?”

  “Not yet. He’s coming but got held up at the lab examining the stuff from Wilde’s flat.”

  Dexter turned to Stanley as Crowley went back into the hotel to find the equipment Dexter had requested.

  “You okay to work with me, hand me what I need?” Dexter asked.

  “Sure, of course. But will you get it done before they serve the cheese and biscuits? My wife will be going ballistic sitting next to an empty chair all night.”

  Dexter laughed. “It shouldn’t take long.” He turned to Jane. “Go back to the dining room, Jane, it’s too dangerous to be out here.”

  “No, I’ll stay here.”

  “It’s not necessary. Go inside.”

  “No,” she said through gritted teeth, holding his jacket tightly.

  Church pulled out his packet of cigarettes and lit one, passing it to Dexter who took it and gave him a smile of thanks. Church then shook a cigarette out for himself and Jane asked if she could have one. She took one and leaned toward him as he struck a match, using the same flame to light one for himself. Although the wait seemed interminable it was only five minutes before Crowley returned with some kitchen knives and a leather folding case full of tools.

  “Found the tools in the basement maintenance office. They okay?” He handed Dexter the tools.

  “Under the circumstances, they’ll have to do.”

  Jane watched as Dexter and Stanley conferred, checking over the tools together. Dexter looked round at the rest of them.

  “If you insist on staying in the foyer, then you should position yourselves further inside the entrance behind the pillars for prot
ection.” He smiled. “Just in case I cock up and it goes off.”

  Grim-faced, Stanley took the torch and followed Dexter to the Triumph. Dexter handed him the tools and told him to place them on the front passenger seat and shine the torch inside the boot area. Stanley could now see the explosives. He was sweating as he crouched down next to Dexter and leaned forward into the cramped space.

  Dexter grinned. “Man, this bomb is a biggy. It would blow this car park and anyone standing in it to smithereens.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Stanley replied nervously. He could hear the clock ticking.

  There were six wires running from the cigar box to the explosives to the lock of the boot. Stanley shone the torch around the boot.

  Dexter grabbed Stanley’s arm. “Keep the torch steady on the cigar box, please.”

  “Sorry. Why are all the wires the same color? I thought they’d be set up like a plug. You know, red, green and brown? Or is the earth yellow?”

  “They’re deliberately all the same color to make it more difficult for me to know what’s what and which one to cut. Now, be quiet, unless you want to be blown up. Pass me the small paring knife.”

  Easing the knife under the cigar box, Dexter lifted it a fraction and looked under it.

  “Devious bastards!” he muttered under his breath. “There’s a small micro switch under the box so it will go off if I lift it. Get me a heavy spanner out of that tool kit.”

  Stanley started to lift each spanner to feel their weight.

  “The biggest one will be the heaviest, Stanley, so just hand it to me.”

  Dexter took the spanner from Stanley, then eased the knife back under the cigar box, to hold the micro switch down while he slowly lifted the cigar box and put the spanner down in its place. Next, he checked the seal of the cigar box lid and, satisfied it wasn’t booby-trapped, opened the box. Inside was an alarm clock connected to a battery and circuit board with the wires running to the explosives. Dexter could see that he only had three minutes left before the big hand made contact with a piece of metal attached to the clock, which would then detonate the bomb.

  “How long have we got?” Stanley asked, his hand shaking.

  Dexter lied, “Plenty of time. Okay Stan, my man, gimme the torch and tool kit. You go back and join the others. Tell them all to go to the banquet hall, just in case the bomb goes off.”

  Stanley hesitated. “No, I’m okay.”

  “Well, I’m not. You’ve got a wife and kids, so just do as I ask.”

  Stanley got out of the car and passed the tools and torch over to Dexter, who carefully propped them up inside the boot. He chose various clippers and scissors and two Stanley knives from the tool kit, placing them next to him so they were easily to hand.

  Stanley walked back into the hotel foyer and spoke quietly with Crowley, explaining that Dexter wanted to work alone and that it would take some time to defuse the device. Crowley dragged on his cigarette, his nerves on edge.

  DCI Church peered around a pillar. “What could you see?” he asked Stanley.

  “There’s an alarm clock and battery in a cigar box with wires leading to the explosives and the boot lock. He said there’s plenty of time left, but we should get further back in the hotel to the banquet room. It scared me half to death.”

  Instantly Crowley knew something wasn’t right. Dexter had not made the booby-trapped car boot safe so he could get better access to the bomb; this could only mean he was running out of time.

  Dexter picked up the wire clippers and held them between the wires leading to the battery, but as they were all the same color he wasn’t sure if the timer was rigged so that when he cut the wire the detonator would activate. He looked at the clock and saw that he only had one minute left. There was no time for indecision. His heart was beating like it never had before. There was only one course of action he could take, but whether it would work or not was in the hands of the gods.

  He put the clippers to the wire attached to the detonator that was embedded in the explosives. With 30 seconds to go he closed his eyes and cut the wire. When nothing happened, he breathed a huge sigh of relief, and after removing the initiator by hand, cut the battery wires to the alarm clock, finally making the bomb safe.

  Dexter switched the torch off, slowly got out of the car and began placing the tools he had used back into their holder. He shut the driver’s door, turned toward the expectant watchers and smiled as he held up the offending alarm clock. Crowley let out a sigh of relief.

  “He’s bloody done it!”

  As Dexter joined them they crowded round him, but he simply waved his hand at them and placed the tools and torch down on the reception desk. He handed the clock to Crowley, as if he had won an award.

  “Job done. Now I need a large drink and some food. And I want to win the crate of Moët in the raffle.”

  Jane handed him his jacket.

  “I need to take a leak and clean myself up,” he said.

  “We’re so proud of you Dex. Congratulations! We were all so tense, willing you to succeed.” Church clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Oh, come on . . . enough of all this . . . I want to get into that banqueting room. I’m starving!” As Dexter walked away, jacket slung over the crook of his arm, he appeared nonchalant, but Jane could see that his shirt was soaked through with sweat.

  DCI Church clapped his hands.

  “Okay everyone. Show’s over! I propose that we all do as our hero suggests and get back to enjoying the evening.”

  As Jane accompanied them back into the reception, she overheard Crowley speaking with Church.

  “He’s got nerves of steel. I’ll speak with DS Lawrence about having the vehicle removed to the explosives lab.”

  As they headed toward the dining room, it was clear that the word had got round and some detectives, flushed from the evening’s booze, were joking that the phrase “the party went off with a bang” had nearly came true.

  The frill at the bottom of Jane’s skirt was still trailing as she headed for the powder room in the hope that there was a cloakroom attendant who might have a needle and thread. There was a large cloakroom next to it, with rails of coats and jackets belonging to the female guests. A woman in a hotel uniform was standing behind the counter.

  “Do you have a needle and thread? I’ve had a bit of a problem with the edge of my dress.”

  “Just wait here dear. I’ll see if I can find one for you.”

  As she left the cloakroom, Alison, Stanley’s wife, banged into the cloakroom. She was obviously very angry as she began to search for her coat.

  “Alison, are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not. First I am collected to be brought here, then I’ve had to sit throughout dinner with his empty chair next to me. Then in he comes with his shirt filthy, having lost his bow tie and a gold cufflink, and starts asking for dinner. I’m getting a taxi home!”

  “Don’t go, please. I don’t know how much I can tell you about tonight, but if it wasn’t for your husband I could have been killed. He’s incredibly brave, and hopefully eventually he can tell you about it himself . . .”

  Alison bit her lip.

  “Besides, there’s still the raffle, and—”

  “That’s been going on for ages.”

  “Well then, there’s the band. All I can say is that your husband really is a very special and very brave man.”

  Alison hesitated, then turned and headed out of the cloakroom. Jane went into the powder room. There were large mirrors hanging on the walls and Jane gasped at her reflection. There was a nasty red welt around her neck. She washed her hands, then opened her small evening bag and took out her powder and lipstick. She dampened some tissue paper and wiped her face, then dabbed powder around her neck to try and hide the mark, but it was still red raw.

  As she went out, she found the cloakroom attendant had returned with a needle and black cotton thread. Kneeling beside Jane she began to attempt to stitch the frill back in place.

&nb
sp; “I’m just going to do big hem stitches for now, but you need to get a professional seamstress. It’s delicate silk and some of the lace is torn.”

  “I’m so grateful. If you could please just do what you can so I don’t trip up again.”

  In the dining room, standing on the small raised platform, two rather drunk officers were digging into a box of raffle tickets and shouting out the numbers into a microphone. There were cheers as the lucky ticket holders jumped up from their tables to claim their prizes. They were mostly bottles of gin, whisky and brandy, with a few more feminine prizes for the female guests of perfume and bath salts. As they were reaching the end of the raffle, Stanley was tucking into a large plate of cheese, biscuits and grapes, accompanied by a glass of red wine.

  Alison sat down beside him as the last but one ticket was pulled out of the box.

  The prize was dinner for two at the Savoy Hotel, and there was a loud bellow as Blondie Dunston stood up waving his winning ticket stub. He received a slow handclap as he went to collect the gold envelope. As the band began to set up, the last major prize was drawn: the crate of Moët & Chandon champagne.

  “Ticket number 409, ladies and gentleman . . . number 409. Donated by Minstral’s Wine, a crate of vintage champagne hand-delivered to your door.”

  Dexter rose to his feet and waved his ticket stub as the room erupted into yells of “FIXED . . . FIXED!” but he danced his way up to the platform. Crowley was up on his feet clapping and cheering and the insults turned into a stamp and hand-clap of applause as the flushed and smiling Dexter took the microphone.

  “I would like to hand over my winning ticket to a man who has proved himself above and beyond the call of duty tonight: my friend, DS Stanley. And now—let’s dance!”

  There were a few loud and abusive remarks as Stanley stood up at his table. His face was like a young boy’s as he held his arms above his head and cheered. The band struck up and the small dance floor was cleared as guests started to move from their tables to dance.

  Jane had arrived in the dining room in time to see Dexter pass his prize ticket to Stanley. Alison was smiling proudly as he guided her onto to the dance floor. They immediately collided with Edith who was being whirled around by Maynard, his bow tie undone and his shirt tails hanging out of his trousers. Edith was wearing a black velvet sequined gown with long strands of pearls that she continually swung around her neck. Together they looked like an overgrown school boy dancing with the inebriated school matron.