The Balance of Guilt

by Simon Hall

  He stood with Craig and went through the plan for the broadcast.

  They would begin with Dan’s report. Following that would come a live interview with the Principal of the Minster. Then Craig would voice over the mobile phone pictures of the arrest. After that, they would cross to Plymouth for an update on the search of the bomber’s house, followed by the interview with the terrorism expert in London.

  Another presenter back in the studio would read a brief round-up of the rest of the day’s news, then it would be back to the Minster for Craig to sum up the day’s events. Dan left him rehearsing his lines, walking back and forth and talking to an imaginary audience complete with the odd histrionic gesture, just as an actor might.

  A gang of young lads turned up on their bikes and asked what was going on. Dan groaned to himself. The last thing you needed on a story of this magnitude was kids in the background, waving at the camera and shouting. They seemed fairly well behaved, but you could never tell. Dan had known one lad bare his backside while he was live on air. He used his standard trick, sent them over to the van to watch the broadcast from there. It had the dual advantage of keeping them out of the way, while also annoying Loud.

  Armed police were still patrolling the green and the streets of the city. Adam had said they didn’t think anyone else was involved, and were almost certain there were no more bombers, but they weren’t taking any chances. Besides, it was good for public reassurance to see cops on the beat.

  It would be a familiar sight in the frightened region in the days to come.

  The September sun was sinking faster in the sky, casting long shadows across the green. But the Minster’s façade faced west and was evenly lit by the yellowing light. It toyed with the colours of the remnants of the stained glass in the great shattered window. A steady procession of people were still laying flowers by the war memorial, watched by a couple of police officers who were standing sentry duty on the cordon. Some of the visitors had come from miles away.

  One older man summed up what Dan suspected many had been thinking. ‘We’re in another war, aren’t we?’ he said quietly. ‘Well, we’ve won them before and we’ll win them again.’

  Dan wrote the words down and passed them to Craig, who nodded. They would be ideal for the summing up at the end of the programme.

  The countdown to the broadcast came fast, as ever. For Craig’s opening link, he talked about the attack and the death, injuries and damage it had caused. Nigel panned the camera to find the ruined window. As he did, the sun slipped behind a cloud. Sometimes nature’s symbolism defied words.

  The interview with the Principal, a Dr Edward Parfitt, was powerful. A scholarly man with a classic pair of teacher’s glasses, he talked movingly of the pain of seeing the damage to this wonderful Minster, and also about forgiveness.

  ‘It is the duty of a Christian to forgive,’ he said, in a measured voice. ‘But sometimes, it can be difficult. This is the hardest case I have ever known. I think it will take some considerable time for myself, and my fellows, to find forgiveness for this appalling act. It strikes at the heart of our nation.’

  Craig narrated flawlessly over the pictures of the arrest of Ahmed. The section from Plymouth was also impressive, the area around the house filled with marksmen. The investigation was concentrating on a computer which was kept in the bomber’s bedroom. He still had not been officially identified, but the police expected to announce his name later.

  Finally came the summing up from the Minster. Craig quoted the man’s words about war, and Nigel panned the camera off to end the programme with a shot of the flag flying at half mast.

  Lizzie rang and fizzed her delight. Well, almost, Dan thought. That was just his translation. She described the programme as “pretty good”, which was stratospheric praise for her. There was always a barb though, and this time it was that he had to stay there to present a live update for the 10.30 bulletin.

  That was fine. He’d expected it, always kept an overnight bag in the car ready for stories like this. Plus Dan would have his little revenge. One of Exeter’s finest – and most expensive – hotels was on Minster Green. It was of the ilk which had tables laid with glasses and cutlery sufficient for three meals, let alone one, and attendants on hand for every task, bar breathing. But it was the obvious place to stay if they were to make sure they were at the heart of the story.

  Dan wondered what they would make of the caveman curmudgeon that was Loud. He would be as incongruous as a tramp at a black-tie dinner.

  He called his downstairs neighbour to ask him to look after Rutherford for the night and was about to make for the hotel when the Press Liaison officer called the media around. The forensic search of part of the Minster had been completed. In a quarter of an hour they would be taken inside to film and photograph where the bomb had exploded. There would also be a news conference to update them on the investigation.

  Dan caught Nigel’s look. A long night was in prospect.

  The smell was everywhere. Of the explosion and of death. The acrid tang lingered in the still air of the wounded Minster.

  There had been the usual banter as the media pack was led towards the main door. But it quietened as they walked inside. Their footsteps echoed in the cavernous space. As one, their eyes were drawn to the shattered window. The last remnants of the evening light were fading outside, casting a jagged silhouette of the surviving shards of glass.

  ‘Half an hour,’ the press officer announced. ‘And that’s it. We’ll do the news conference outside afterwards. Just there, that’s where the explosion happened.’

  He pointed to a corner at the back of the Minster, by the end of the rows of pews. A flare of photographers’ flashes blazed in the dim light. The camera crews began setting up their tripods, filming the spot. All that marked it was a slight shading of the smooth flagstones.

  The real story surrounded it. The dark oak of the nearest pews was further blackened by the blast, and pitted and chipped by flying shrapnel. Dan knelt down and studied the surface. A spray of pock marks had been scored from it, scars of lightness in the smooth wood.

  The nails had been removed by the police forensics team, but there might still be something worth filming here. Dan squinted hard, ran his hand along the ragged edge and found what he was looking for. A fragment of green glass, a tiny icicle protruding from the bench.

  Nigel bent down and filmed a close up. Television always worked best with detail. Dan would write about the shrapnel of broken glass from the bottles, the containers for the chemicals which made up the bomb. If it could cause such damage to the hardy, antique wood, the viewers would be left with no doubt about what it would do to a person.

  None of the rest of the pack had noticed it. Some of the other TV reporters were intent on recording addresses to camera, talking about the exact spot where the bomb exploded. It was a classic error of vanity, so common in a trade filled with bloated egos.

  If there was still shrapnel damage to the pews, the clean up was by no means complete. There would probably be another legacy of the bomb here too. But it wouldn’t be easy to spot in the half light. Dan left Nigel filming the shattered window and paced slowly back and forth. Where else would most visitors congregate?

  To his side was a display, some boards bearing the story of the Minster. Dan pretended to tie his shoelace, bent down, checked the flagstones and quickly found what he was looking for. Nigel followed him over, got down on his knees and began filming the dark, misshapen stains.

  A side door opened and a tall man walked in carrying a broom. He started sweeping up fragments of glass under the remains of the great window. All the cameras followed him. It was Dr Parfitt.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ one of the reporters ventured with the classical clichéd question of the thoughtless hack.

  ‘I’d rather not say,’ came the reply. ‘Not here, not in this place of God. But what I will tell you is this.’

  The Principal waited until he was sure all the cameramen and radio re
porters were recording, and the other journalists taking notes. ‘We will be cleaning up the Minster as best we can tonight. And we shall be opening to visitors, as usual, at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. We will never be cowed or intimidated. And we will never submit.’

  He went on with his sweeping, but refused to answer any more questions. ‘That sounded rehearsed to me,’ Nigel whispered.

  ‘No kidding,’ Dan replied. ‘I don’t imagine he’s the one who usually cleans the Minster, either. But it’ll be all over every media outlet going and I bet you that tomorrow the place is the busiest it’s ever been. The fund for the repair project will be doing nicely.’

  Nigel filmed some more shots of the interior, while Dan did a final check that they had all the pictures they needed. Other journalists were starting to look around to see what else there was to mention in their reports. Some were coming dangerously close to the bloodstains and fragment of glass in the pew.

  Dan laid his hand on one of the great fluted pillars. He ran a finger along the cold stone and let out a loud whistle.

  ‘What?’ one of the other reporters asked.

  Dan pointed to a dark stain on the white surface. ‘Look. The force of the blast even reached here.’

  The press posse gathered around it and started photographing and filming, the newspaper reporters writing descriptions. They were all intent on what looked to Dan like nothing more than a perfectly natural and very long-standing flaw in the historic stone.

  As they filed out of the Minster, Dan started to feel guilty at his flippancy on such a sombre day. He worked his way to the front of the pack, paused at the door and made a very public show of placing ten pounds in the contributions chest. The other hacks had little choice but to follow.

  For the half past ten bulletin, Dan re-cut his report, starting with the new pictures inside the Minster and including the blood and fragment of shrapnel. Combined with the damage to the window, and the interviews with the eyewitnesses, it gave the viewers a stark sense of what had happened.

  They’d even managed to get something to eat. Nigel had found a kind landlord in a pub along the green who’d agreed to allow his staff to bring them food and drinks in the satellite van. It was the first time Dan had enjoyed waiter service as he worked. Even Loud was impressed, until he bit too hard at a bread roll and hurt his damaged tooth.

  The Deputy Chief Constable had held another short media briefing to give an update on the case. The person killed in the bombing was a woman and from the local area, but the police were not yet naming her as all her family had not been told. One other person was seriously hurt, as was the bomber himself. Another 22 had more minor injuries.

  The first reports of many people being killed were inaccurate, as was often the case. Exaggeration was one of the dangers of a disaster. Dreadful as the attack was, it could have been much worse.

  Aside from the bomber, another man had been arrested in connection with the attack and was now in custody. As Flood spoke, a couple of the other hacks cast irritated glances at Dan. He just about managed to keep a straight face. Word went around fast when you had a scoop, particularly one as impressive as an arrest by armed police, and journalists were jealous creatures.

  Once again, Flood saved until last the most dramatic part of the statement.

  ‘I am now in a position to reveal the bomber’s name to you. He is John Tanton, a schoolboy from the Stonehouse area of Plymouth. He will be formally questioned when doctors tell us he is well enough. His house is currently being searched.’

  The press conference ended and the reporters picked up their mobiles, began filing the information to their newsrooms. But Dan just stood there.

  Nigel reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s just – John Tanton. I think I’ve met him. I reckon he was at some prize-giving ceremony I did a year or so ago. I’m pretty sure I met his Mum. Alison was her name. She’s a businesswoman. We got on well. She even gave me her phone number and said if ever I needed help on a business story to call her.’

  Nigel whistled to himself. ‘That could be useful.’

  ‘Yeah, to say the least.’

  After the broadcast they walked wearily along to the hotel. Dan sat with Nigel and Loud for a beer, to calm down after a chaotic day. It tasted good. He drank one, then another, was about to have a third when he saw Nigel’s look.

  Dan made an excuse about feeling tired and went up to bed, quietly ordering a double whisky from room service on the way. The suite was more luxurious than any he’d ever slept in before. It even had a choice of pillows, boasting the feathers of an impressive range of birds.

  Some good sleeping was required and the white duck pillows and whisky would help. That was all it was, just medicinal, nothing more. Dan sipped at the amber liquid and enjoyed its smooth burn. He found himself staring at the empty glass. That was the problem with spirits. They disappeared too quickly.

  He thought about ordering another, but decided against it. Tomorrow would be filled with reporting a follow-up to the bombing and promised to be just as busy as today. He might even be able to get an exclusive interview with Alison Tanton.

  Or then again, maybe another little dram wouldn’t be so bad. He deserved it, after that day.

  The porter must have misheard the order. He brought a double by mistake. Ah well, it would be churlish to complain.

  Funnily enough, the same happened with the next measure Dan called for. Perhaps it was the hotel’s way, to make sure the guests were comfortable.

  It too vanished quickly. It must be the heat of the room, making the liquid evaporate.

  Dan debated having one more for the road, or for the bed, but he was already feeling light-headed. He plumped up the luxurious softness of the pillow and was about to turn off his mobile when it rang. Adam.

  ‘Just a quick call to let you know about tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I take it you’re staying in Exeter?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Me too. Can you come to Heavitree Road Police Station at nine for a briefing?’

  ‘Yep. Any news on the investigation?’

  ‘Yeah. Some good and bad.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The spooks are here. FX5, that lot. They’ve been here all afternoon, in fact.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘A couple of their officers were at some liaison meeting near Bristol. They came straight down.’

  ‘They’ll be a help, surely?’

  Adam sounded far from convinced. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I’ve had dealings with them before. In any terrorist case it’s supposed to be handled by the local force, with them in an “advisory” role.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But, I’ve never known spooks manage to limit themselves to advice in their shady little lives. They’re not exactly good at taking a back seat.’

  ‘Turf wars?’

  ‘Oh yes. And they’re already well underway.’

  ‘What about the rest of the case?’

  ‘We tried to question Ahmed, but he wants a specialist solicitor and we can’t get one until the morning. That’s OK. We’re sure now there are no more bombers out there. I’ve found him the coldest, most uncomfortable cell I can. He is a strange one.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Terrorist suspects almost always stay silent. It’s drilled into them by their handlers that it’s the best way to frustrate interrogation. But not Ahmed. He’s already been railing against the police. “A despicable tool of a disgusting state”, he called me. And when he saw Claire …’

  The world stopped. Claire.

  She was part of the case. Of course she was. She always worked with Adam. And Greater Wessex Police needed all the detectives it had on this one. But still, somehow the news was an ambush of emotion.

  Claire.

  He hadn’t seen her for five months. Since that last, vitriolic night.

  Flaming words in the darkn
ess.

  When he’d finally found the resolution to call her, and their midnight meeting.

  And the things they’d said. And then shouted, and screamed. The toxic, searing words.

  And now he was about to see her again. In the midst of a high-profile and intense investigation.

  Claire.

  Dan was vaguely aware that Adam was still speaking. ‘Well, Ahmed certainly didn’t like Claire. He practically hissed at her, called her a harlot, a slut, and a whore, just for having the cheek to be wearing a short-sleeved shirt. So, that’s the sort of thing we’re up against. See you in the morning.’

  It took a few seconds before Dan realised his friend had hung up. He turned off the phone and lay back on the bed. Tomorrow, for the first time in months he would see Claire, and he would be working closely with her in the days ahead.

  Claire.

  And he would be facing an extremist suspected of radicalising a schoolboy and turning him into a terrorist, one who attempted mass murder by bombing a sacred building. It was the biggest case he had ever worked on, not to mention a huge story.

  Dan closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But he knew there was little chance of that. He was too aware of a sense of the extraordinary events to come.

  Chapter Six

  LYING AWAKE, KNOWING YOU’RE tired, but being unable to sleep is one of the meanest sufferings life can inflict. The harder you try to reach the elusive paradise of blissful unconsciousness, the more determined it seems to be to evade you.

  Dan found himself tracing the dark patterns of the wallpaper, and studying the details of the plasterwork on the ceiling. Several times he got up, sipped at some water, shifted the thick drape of the curtain and stared out at the Minster, lit only now by a slice of the moon. A solitary policeman paced a bored guard beside the shattered window.

  The stairs creaked with the night sounds of the porter, or the occasional late or restless guest. The odd footfall passed by outside, but otherwise all was quiet.