15:00 hours
Diane Chambers had also made it to Yorkshire. But without Crane’s credentials, she was penned in with the press. They were mostly acting like chickens, occasionally pecking at the floor as they looked at and checked their equipment and then raising their heads to look around, eyes darting from one side to the other, desperate not to miss any slight movement from the train and therefore missing the shot. The one that would be beamed around the world.
From their vantage point, the Ribble Viaduct looked both an imposing structure and at the same time smaller than she had imagined. The further back from it you were, the harder it was to see the scale of the massive stone arches. The only point of reference was the train. A blue, white and purple, two carriage train, looking as small and insignificant as a toy, perched on top of the middle arches.
Unusually for Diane, who was aiming to be a hardened investigative news reporter, her thoughts turned to the passengers marooned on the train. She could only speculate how they were feeling. Frightened? Cowed? Upset? Rather them than her, she thought, not sure she would have the stomach for dealing with enforced incarceration.
She had collected a press pack on her arrival, but it contained scant information. For the moment there was no news from the authorities as to how many passengers were on the train. It wasn’t known if they were male or female, young or old, nor whom they might be. An emergency contact number had been issued, asking for people who thought a relative could be on the train to ring the authorities, in order to try and answer those questions. Unfortunately, unlike air travel, trains did not have passenger manifests, especially local trains such as this one, where most tickets were bought from a ticket machine. Nor did the authorities, at the moment, know how many hijackers there were. So the press were left awaiting a press briefing, promised to be held in an hour’s time.
Try as she might to stop them, her thoughts kept turning to Billy. They’d met accidentally one evening in the Goose pub in Aldershot, when both were at a loose end, and had decided to abate hostilities and have a drink together. Promising not to talk about work had broken the ice and one drink had turned into several, accompanied by much fun and laughter. The evening had ended by Billy taking her personal mobile number and leaving her with a kiss on her cheek. As she thought about that evening and their pre-arranged date for this coming Friday, her face burned. Forcing herself to put her personal feelings to one side, she focused on her job. But couldn’t help the lingering thought - I hope to God he’s alright.
16:00 hours
All the passengers were now in one carriage and had managed to introduce themselves to each other. Billy looked around at the motley crew and wondered who would be brave enough to help him, should he be able to distract the hijackers and possibly take one or more of them out. The train driver, Mick, was making a good show of hiding his fear. He was a small, rotund man, with a belly that hung over the belt of his trousers. The middle-aged conductor, Peggy, was comforting the pregnant woman who was called Hazel and glaring at the nearest hijacker. The hijackers had relieved her of her ticket machine, which now lay discarded in a corner of the carriage. The bulky sweating man was Colin and the bookish looking girl was called Emma. A further two passengers had joined them from the other carriage, a man and his son in walking gear. The father, David, was doing a fair job of reassuring his son Charlie, who Billy thought was probably 11 or 12 years old. The boy seemed to swing between fascination at the situation he and his father found themselves in, interspersed with bouts of crying. Allowing his underlying emotions to come to the fore. Indicating that really he was only a child, despite all his bravado.
Billy had managed to get a further message to Crane by asking the young men holding them hostage to allow the passengers to take a toilet break. But he knew he wouldn’t have another chance to send a text for a few hours. He wouldn’t be able to pull that stunt again too soon, without the hijackers becoming suspicious. So far no one had offered a reason for them being held captive, so Billy decided to try and find out.
Turning casually to the young man standing beside him, who was leaning against the side of the seats with his gun trained on the hostages, Billy said, ‘I think it’s about time you told us what’s going on and who the hell you all are.’
He hadn’t meant for his last few words to come out as aggressively as they had, but they prompted demands from the other passengers as well.
‘Yeah, it’s about time you lot told us why we’re here,’ that was from Mick the driver. ‘There’s going to be trouble from the railway over this, you know,’ he continued. ‘Have you any idea how disruptive this is going to be to the rail network? Hundreds of passenger trains and freight trains run on this route.’ Mick shook his bald head in disbelief. ‘It’s going to be a bloody nightmare,’ he finished.
‘We don’t much care about the disruption,’ came the reply. ‘In fact the more disruption the better. But you both have a point. It is about time you understood that you are being held against your will, until the authorities decide to liberate our brothers being wrongly held in Bagram Detention Centre.’
‘What?’ Mick said. ‘What the bloody hell do we have to do with people in this Bagram Detention Centre? I don’t even know where the hell that is!’
‘Afghanistan, old man, it’s in Afghanistan. Tell me, do you have any brothers?’
‘Brothers?’ Mick’s confusion was evident from his puckered brow, but he replied, ‘Alright, I’ve got a brother, what about it?’
‘And is your brother free to go about his business, his daily life, without fear of being pulled off the streets and thrown in jail on a made-up charge?’
‘Of course he is.’
‘Well, my brother isn’t. Our demands are simple. We want the UK authorities to release members of our families being held against their will in Bagram and when they do, we’ll release you.’
As that information sunk in, there were varied reactions.
Emma said, ‘How long is that going to take?’ She pushed her glasses up off her face onto the top of her head, so they nestled in her hair.
‘What’s your name?’ the hijacker demanded.
‘Emma,’ she replied. ‘What’s yours? If you are doing this to us, we have a right to know who we’re dealing with.’
‘Our names are irrelevant. All that matters is that we have guns trained on you and as long as you and the authorities co-operate, then no one’s going to get hurt.’
‘Now look here,’ Colin said, the sheen of sweat making his head shine, reminding Billy of a bowling ball. ‘This is an outrage. I’ve got a company to run and meetings to go to. I can’t just sit here, you’ve got to let us go,’ he gabbled and began to rise from his seat.
‘Sit down!’
But the large man ignored the instruction and stood up.
‘I said sit down!’ The hijacker’s words were accompanied by a backward swing of his arm, ready to smash the butt of his gun into Colin’s head.
As he brought down his arm in an arc towards Colin, Billy rose to try and protect his fellow captor.
That was when the phone in the driver’s cab started to ring.
16:00 hours
The police hostage negotiator brought in by the Major Incident Squad was nothing like Crane imagined. In American films they were usually tough, no nonsense, little talking and flawed human beings. The flawed bit being important for the narrative of the film. But Mike Keane was none of those things. At least on first appearances. He was tall and slim with sandy brown hair, but what impressed Crane was his calmness, his stillness. Keane listened to the briefing with little reaction and absolutely no fidgeting. He asked probing questions every now and again, especially of Crane about Billy’s involvement, and from Dudley-Jones about the information, or rather lack of it, that they had on the terrorists so far. But other than that he remained still and silent. Occasionally he made notes in the legal-type blue A4 notebook he’d brought with him.
At the end of the briefing he said, ‘
Thank you gentlemen for your succinct assessment of the situation.’
Very polite, Crane thought.
‘Can you direct me to the phone that’s been connected to the train?’
Crane nodded in the direction of the shop, which was part of the visitor’s centre and situated behind a door off the main waiting area. The team had taken over the whole of Ribblehead Station to use as their headquarters. Refurbished over 10 years ago, the station was quite large. There were exhibition rooms dedicated to the building of the Carlisle to Settle railway and a shop on the ground floor. Up above was a caretaker’s flat and just down the track the Station Master’s House. Both sets of accommodation had been taken over and the whole team were staying in-situ. Crane doubted they’d get much sleep, but at least it meant it was possible to have a bit of down time and a shower.
‘It’s in the shop, said Crane. ‘We’ve had the shop items cleared to give you more room and Northern Rail have linked the phone directly into the driver’s cab on the train. No other calls can be made from or to that handset, so you’ll have unrestricted access to the train. Always assuming they answer the phone, that is.’
Keane nodded and went to go through the door.
‘Keane!’ Crane’s shout stopped him. ‘Don’t drop my Sergeant in it. If you do, I won’t be responsible for my actions.’
Keane simply turned and smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Sgt Major, I’m well aware of any repercussions should I make a mistake like that,’ he said. ‘Please rest assured I have no intention of ‘dropping him in it’ as you so colourfully put it. I’ve done this job before. So if you’ll excuse me, I want to try and make the first contact. Then we can see where we go from there.’
Crane wasn’t sure whether to be reassured or incensed by the man’s calm exterior. He could only hope Keane could remain as calm as he was now, under the kind of pressure he was likely to face over the coming hours or even days. He turned away as Keane went through to the shop.
‘What’s Keane’s background?’ asked the civil servant that Crane now knew to be Andrew Hardwick. He was from one or other of the intelligence services, MI5 or MI6 or some such. Or even from a service that had no name and no-one knew about. Amongst Hardwick’s many roles was to keep the Prime Minister and his COBRA team updated on events as they unfolded.
‘He’s a psychologist, apparently,’ the Colonel said.
‘A practicing one? A clinical psychologist who’s called on by the police?’
‘No, he’s a policeman. He graduated as a psychologist but because of his interest in the criminal mind, instead of becoming an independent forensic psychologist, he decided to join the force on the fast track graduate program, wanting to combine his knowledge of psychology with police work. So now he’s an expert that can be called on whenever there’s a situation like this.’
Crane said, ‘Surely there aren’t many situations like this?’
‘You’d be surprised, Crane,’ Hardwick replied. ‘Not everything is reported in the press, you know.’
‘Well I hope he knows his bloody job,’ Crane snapped and turned towards Dudley-Jones, who was at his laptop, ready to amplify the call through speakers he had recently attached to it.
Everyone fell silent and turned towards the laptop, as the sound of a ringing telephone filled the waiting room.
16:10 hours
Kourash knew the call would come. Knew they’d try and contact him and try to talk him into giving himself up. Even though he was half expecting it, the ringing telephone had surprised him and everyone else. Kourash slowly dropped the arm he had raised in anger. Perhaps now wasn’t the time to upset the hostages, he decided. It would only make any brave ones amongst them determined to try and get themselves out of this situation. Not that he thought anyone one of them capable of such an act. And anyway, being marooned in a train, 100 ft above the ground in the middle of a viaduct didn’t make for an easy get away. Should one of them be foolish enough to try, there were guards posted at both ends of the train, ready to gun them down.
The telephone continued its incessant ringing as Kourash moved towards the driver’s cab. He motioned for the two guards stationed there to leave the confined space and once he had closed the door behind them, he picked up the phone.
And didn’t speak.
He could hear a man breathing on the other end of the line. Kourash was determined not to be the one to break the silence, so he sat in the driver’s seat, phone to his ear, and raised the blind that had been pulled down to cover the window from prying eyes. He looked out across the pleasing vista of the Yorkshire Dales. It was a tranquil, yet typically British, view. The sun came and went as large clusters of clouds raced across the sky. Sheep grazed on the nearby hills. Clusters of rocks dotted the area, their granite sparkling in the sunshine. He was, of course, looking at the view facing away from the inward curves of the viaduct, looking in the opposite direction to where the might of the British Government was no doubt plotting the best way to get him to let the hostages go. And the man on the other end of the telephone was their first offensive strike.
‘Hello, I’m Mike.’
Kourash had done it. Scored the first point. Made the man speak first.
‘What’s your name?’ Mike asked.
After a long pause, he eventually replied, ‘Kourash.’
‘Well, Kourash, I’m here to listen to your...’
Kourash placed the receiver back on the telephone, cutting Mike off. That would do for now. He had scored the first point. He closed his eyes and whispered, ‘I’ll get justice for you, Feda. Your incarceration will not have been in vain. I promise I’ll get you released.’
Mike Keane walked back into the briefing room to face the four men who had turned towards him. All had an opinion they wanted to voice. Well three of them did. Crane knew that Dudley-Jones was of a far too lowly a rank, to have an opinion.
‘Well, that didn’t go well,’ Colonel Booth was the first to criticise. ‘Not much dialogue there.’
‘I thought it went extremely well,’ Keane replied evenly. Crane thought that if Keane was a successful hostage negotiator, then dealing with this small band of experts would no doubt be a picnic compared to some situations he’d been in. Colonel Booth wasn’t likely to ruffle Keane, he’d more than likely come up against worse.
‘How come?’ Crane asked, echoing Keane’s even tone. The man had something there, Crane thought. Perhaps he should try and cultivate an even tone and an unruffled exterior, for future use. But no. It didn’t take Crane long to decide that he was a ‘hard as nails’ investigator. It wouldn’t do for him to go soft, or at least appear to have gone soft.
‘I got his name,’ Keane replied to Crane’s question.
‘And?’
‘And so I scored the first point. I got him to tell me something, without giving anything away.’
‘Is that the way you think he’ll see it?’ Hardwick wanted to know.
After a pause, Keane replied, ‘I expect he’ll think he’s got one over on me, because he made me speak first. But that’s fine.’
‘Why is that fine?’ Crane asked, becoming genuinely interested in the psychological approach.
‘Because the more Kourash thinks he has the upper hand, the more confident he’ll become. Meaning that he’s more likely to miss something in the future. In the meantime, I’d like Dudley-Jones to see what he can do with the name Kourash.’
‘I’m already on it, sir,’ said Dudley-Jones, peering at his computer screen. ‘His name means ‘ancient king’. Maybe that’s why he thinks he’s a leader of men, thinks he’s their king. Kings often think they’re indestructible. His parent’s must have thought he was something special to choose that name for him. If he’s been brought up with that attitude then...’
‘Precisely,’ said Keane, ‘good job, Dudley-Jones.’
The young man once again made his embarrassment evident.
‘Mumbo, jumbo, rubbish,’ was Crane’s opinion. He’d had enough of the soft approach
bollocks already and growled, ‘What’s in a name, for God’s sake?’
‘Far more than you would think,’ replied Keane. ‘Especially when we’re talking about people from different ethnic origins to our own. In Kourash’s culture, names are chosen far more for their meaning than here in England, where they’re chosen for their popularity. Think how many George’s there are going to be now - just because the latest member of the Royal Family is called George.’
‘Still think it’s a load of rubbish,’ mumbled Crane, whose own name was Tom, shortened from Thomas, meaning the doubter.
17:00 hours
Harry Poole, senior reporter on the Daily Record newspaper, had made his way up from London to Yorkshire and after several hours of driving, had finally arrived at the first police check point. He’d actually wanted to travel up to Yorkshire by train, which would have given him more time to do research on the viaduct and the rail system during the journey. But because of the cancellations and delays caused to the network by the train siege, it hadn’t been possible.
After showing his press pass to the policeman on duty, he was directed to a large car park from where he could walk to the press coral. And that’s precisely what it was. The press were herded into a cordoned-off field, where various television crews and local and national reporters had set up shop. Harry turned at the noise of a lorry behind him and watched as mobile toilets were brought into the field, followed by a couple of outside catering vans. No doubt the smell of burgers and sausages would soon mingle with the smell of fascination and excitement emanating from the press. He was reminded of packs of hungry wolves, as the television crews and presenters vied for the best spot for their live reports. It seemed everyone wanted to have the viaduct as their backdrop and heated arguments were breaking out between rival stations. Harry knew it would only be a matter of time before crews from other countries arrived as well, particularly if it looked like the siege was going to drag on for some days, as indicated by the provision of mobile facilities.
Hijack: A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller (A Sgt Major Crane Novel Book 6) Page 3