Overnight Express

by Philip McCutchan

  “Have it your own way, then,” Hedge had said in a huff, feeling inclined to utter a vulgarity about what could be done with Bede.

  “We intend to, Mr Hedge. It’s not really your concern.”

  Hedge thought that was sheer cheek, and his huff deepened. Then he had other matters to worry about: there was a telephone call from London and it was about the judges.

  *

  Justices Prestwick, Orp and Bessell had been summoned hurriedly to the Foreign Office, where a junior minister from the Home Office was present together with the Lord Chief Justice himself. They were holding watching briefs only and Rowland Mayes was absent; this was being left entirely to Lord Crax, a hereditary peer whose lineage stretched back to the Domesday Book and beyond.

  “A mere suggestion, naturally,” he said in his smooth voice. “There’s absolutely no thought of pressure, absolutely none whatsoever.”

  “Quite. That would be conceding.”

  “Indeed it would. Out of the question.”

  Judicial chains were stroked, uneasily. No pressure, but the Prime Minister … an expressed wish, evidently, and thus not to be entirely discarded out-of-hand. Judge Bessell said, “Of course, one sees her point.”

  “Indeed one does,” said Judge Orp.

  “The women and children —”

  “The sick, there’s bound to be some elderly persons.”

  “Strokes and so on.”

  “Yes, quite.” Each judge was looking covertly at his companions in the law. It was a terrible dilemma for them all; if they didn’t volunteer it would go down very badly. On the other hand, there was an innate respect for the law and its decisions. Wasn’t there? Not so evident as in former days, perhaps. Marty Feldman the comedian had once called a judge an old fart … in his own court too.

  Judge Orp said full consideration must be given, and of course would. “Not something for an off-the-cuff decision,” he said.

  “There’s a time factor,” Lord Crax said.

  “There’s always plenty of time in hijack situations.”

  “In the Prime Minister’s mind, I’m afraid there isn’t. That is, not on this point. The train, you know. There’s a good deal of anguish, a good deal of suffering.”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, undoubtedly.”

  “It’s not in the least surprising.”

  Lord Crax sighed and being a conscientious man tried again but the discussion went round and round in circles, the legal minds busily putting in objections, riders, points of law, delays, anything. Lord Crax, seeing through it all, insisted there would be no question of anyone being left to the mercy of the hijackers. The situation would be still the same: the hijackers would not be allowed to get away with it. Everyone would be saved.

  “Except those unfortunate enough to be murdered in the meantime.”

  “Well, yes, I concede that. But —”

  “It’s rather relevant, Crax.”

  Lord Crax persevered. Judge Prestwick was looking more and more thoughtful, and kept glancing at the Lord Chief Justice who was getting on towards retirement — he was over eighty. Mrs Heffer might well show gratitude. Crax, who after a while made a correct interpretation of Judge Prestwick’s looks, said that the Prime Minister would be by no means unappreciative of co-operation. Certain promises had been made.

  This seemed to swing the balance. The discussion became more productive; and a satisfactory compromise was at last arrived at and the judges went home, though one of them was not to remain there long. Judge Bessell was greeted by his wife, to whom he explained the dilemma.

  “Are you going, Bertie?”

  “No, dear, Prestwick is.”

  “How wonderful of him, Bertie.”

  That was all she said; but Judge Bessell felt more aggrieved than ever by her tone and the absence of any impulsive joy that he had been spared. He wondered if there was another man somewhere, but decided she wasn’t the sort. Too horsy.

  In the Homestead Sleep Centre’s premises Hedge passed the news to the chief constable and the major-general, who was all set and raring to take charge of the military. The major-general said, “Damn brave. Splendid! What’s the form to be, h’m?”

  “I’m to contact the train when Prestwick gets here — he’s being helicoptered.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t crash!”

  “Oh, amen to that,” Hedge said, blowing out his cheeks. “Anyway, the hijackers are to be told he’ll deliver himself up at the station approach and be ready on the platform. They’re to release all children and any sick or elderly.”

  “Women?”

  “That’s to be negotiated. Obviously, the more that are released the better. But there has to be a bargaining counter, you see.” Hedge frowned. His earlier mental scenario was coming true in part. “There’s another thing: he’s coming in his wig and gown.”

  “Damn hot!”

  “Possibly, but it’s more impressive. It’s believed it may give the hijackers second thoughts about what they’re doing — personally I doubt that, but there it is. Also, he’s less likely to get shot at. Remember that poor fellow who dashed across — I expect Whitehall’s had that in mind.”

  They waited for the arrival of Judge Prestwick. Aboard the train conditions worsened steadily. There was some hysteria now; Jean Fison roused herself from her anxieties to cope with that, talking to the women and trying to calm them. Oddly, the badge boys, the Birmingham hoodlums, were splendid. They sang songs, filthy ones but cheering to the rest of the travellers. By showing unconcern they pulled people together. In the cab the American, MacCantley, was being harassed, goaded, bullied. Sir Richard Cross was there still, looking white and ill and with no fight in him. He simply stared vacantly when cigarette-ends were pressed against MacCantley’s cheeks while his arms were held. Americans had to be humiliated. MacCantley had been questioned at first, an attempt to find out his status, whether or not he was some sort of official American, perhaps from the US Embassy. When the hijackers realised he was a stuffed dummy, a man of no consequence, it just came down to simple torture for the fun of it.

  11

  “Train ahoy.”

  A pause, then a face leaned from the cab window in the front of the train. “Yes?”

  “A parley.” Hedge wiped at his face: sweat was streaming. “You have children aboard. And women, of course.”

  “Yes.”

  “And elderly, perhaps. Or sick persons.”

  “Elderly, yes. What is your proposal?”

  “You asked for three judges,” Hedge called back. “Three judges of the High Court —”

  “Three evil men, who gave verdicts to order, and vicious sentences.”

  “We won’t argue that point,” Hedge said. He was about to go on when he was interrupted by the hijacker spokesman.

  “Where are the men from your gaol?”

  “Not here.”

  “Then where?”

  “In gaol, one supposes — I really don’t know —”

  “There was a report that they were being moved —”

  “I’ve no knowledge —”

  “And then there was a crash on the road, of a military convoy. I ask again, where are the men we asked for?”

  “I can’t say,” Hedge bellowed into the loud-hailer, drowning out any more unanswerable questions. “What I can say is this. We are making a concession, and asking for one in return. Your request … a judge of the High Court … one is willing to join you, as you will see.”

  Hedge turned towards a Jaguar that a few minutes earlier had driven into the roundabout from Millburngate. He waved an arm. Like a rabbit responding to its conjuror, Judge Prestwick emerged from the back of the Jaguar, adjusting his wig. He was an impressive sight, his large square face sternly implacable beneath the curled wool of the wig, but in the middle of a roundabout there was an incongruity and Judge Prestwick was conscious of this as he strode towards the station approach, warm with the autumn sun on his back. Hedge turned again to the train on
the viaduct and made further use of his loud-hailer.

  “Mr Justice Prestwick will speak to you from the station platform,” he called. “If you are prepared to release some of the hostages, he will go aboard the train.”

  *

  Old Mr Irons, sitting with his wife, was muttering to himself, blaming himself for what had happened to Fred. If only he hadn’t been such a fool, but it was too late now. And the little lad, the grandson, only just christened, or maybe that had been cancelled. Mrs Irons was rigid with grief, staring into space, vacantly, seeing nothing of her surroundings. She had said no words of blame: she had understood and she knew the bond between her husband and son. It came down to the hijackers — who else? Perhaps also the authorities for not doing something about the train. Right there in the middle of Durham and they did nothing, it was unbelievable. You could imagine it all happening in the Sahara Desert, or America or somewhere, but in England! She sat in her misery, holding her husband’s hand. They had both seen what had happened. Mrs Irons had looked from the window by her side when she’d heard her husband shouting from the end of the coach and she’d seen Fred dash across. She wished she hadn’t, for she could never forget.

  A number of other passengers had seen the shooting and it had made things worse. If people unconnected with the hijack, people outside, could be mown down like that, none of them could hope to get away. Ian Costermaine had given up even thinking about the job he hadn’t been interviewed for: all he wanted now was to get back in one piece to London and his girlfriend, who would be worried sick. Being under threat concentrated his mind: life was the important thing. He could apply for other jobs. He looked across at Shard. What was a senior police officer’s life like? Settled, ordered, steps up the promotion ladder, no financial worries, yet here he was with the rest of them, helpless, no doubt worrying about his own home and family if he had one.

  Costermaine was about to make a remark to Shard when they heard the exchanges between train and ground. Shard listened intently, then got to his feet to look down towards the roundabout. Costermaine joined him, and they saw the emergence of Judge Prestwick.

  Costermaine looked at Shard. “Conceding?”

  “Scarcely all the way, I think! But something’s going to happen, obviously.”

  All along the train now they were looking out. Some of the aloneness seemed to have gone from the situation. Judge Prestwick could be seen: there was the look of the Assizes, from the days before the Assize Court had been abolished, a circuit judge processing, only there was no real procession, just the judge and the chief constable and two armed plain clothes men, looking stalwart and grim-faced, unmistakable for what they were. The four moved beneath the viaduct, came out the other side, and turned along the station approach, not using the short cut the steps of which were rather too steep for anyone of Judge Prestwick’s age and build. There were a lot of steps and he had little puff.

  When the party reached the station and moved along the platform, they were no longer visible from the train itself, only from the cab. Two dark-skinned men got down from the cab, holding automatic weapons, and stood there waiting.

  “That is far enough,” one of them called as Judge Prestwick neared the platform’s end.

  The party halted.

  “Your full proposal,” the man said, looking watchful, fingers round the trigger ready to press, to spray the British the moment there was anything he didn’t like.

  Judge Prestwick said, “I offer myself in place of the women and children, the sick, and the elderly.”

  “Three judges are wanted, for so many hostages.”

  “There is just myself, and I will have to be enough.” Judge Prestwick spoke with flat finality, totally dismissive of being joined by anyone else at all. “You understand this is a concession, made on humanitarian grounds. You would do well to respond in the same spirit. You realise you cannot get away with what you are attempting?”

  There was plenty of fire power around, the train well covered from all points. But the gunmen shrugged and said, “If we die, all die.”

  “You’re prepared for that?”

  “Yes, we are willing to die, all of us.”

  Judge Prestwick nodded. He knew already that the hijackers were said to be a suicide mob, and now, being well used to reading faces, to summing up persons in the dock and in the witness box, well accustomed to sorting truth from lies, he knew beyond doubt that these men would do as they said. His own face remained impassive but he felt a loosening of his stomach, knowing the noose into which he was about to put his head. There was one moment of panic, quickly suppressed. After all, he was a judge of the High Court, one of the highest persons in the land, and the press was present in what looked like legions, so were the television cameras, BBC and ITV, a free show for Britain and the world. Countless eyes watching … Judge Prestwick began the hard bargaining, aware of a nation’s acclamation.

  *

  In Downing Street, with telephone at hand, Mrs Heffer watched the screen together with Rowland Mayes and a handful of assistant under-secretaries of state from various concerned ministries — Defence, Environment, Home Office and so on — plus Lord Arkwright of British Rail, who was being put through the hoop.

  “I cannot see why the train can’t be shifted, Lord Arkwright.”

  Lord Arkwright felt he had been here before. He began, “Because —”

  “Pushed or pulled off the viaduct.”

  “Virtually impossible, Prime Minister —”

  “Ah — virtually!” Mrs Heffer pounced. “You mean it’s not totally impossible, don’t you?”

  “To all intents and purposes, Prime Minister, I’m advised it is impossible. With brakes fully on, and such a very dangerous —”

  “Oh, brakes! And what about momentum for heaven’s sake? The more the momentum, the more the push or pull, surely? Once started, you see.” Mrs Heffer was no scientist and had no intention of being one. She broke off the conversation as the cameras shifted and Judge Prestwick was shown walking along the station platform.

  “A very brave man,” Mrs Heffer said, and there were murmurs of agreement. “A splendid example to us all of what we British can be at times of crisis, don’t you think so, Roly?”

  “Yes indeed, Prime Minister.”

  Judge Prestwick advanced and there was a pause on the screened platform. “Lord Crax did very well, quite surprising.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  “Wasn’t he the one who made a suggestion about Barnsley?”

  “Yes, he was, but —”

  “I thought so. However, never mind.” Mrs Heffer had remembered something from the past, before the last general election: Lord Crax had suggested with apparent seriousness that all council tenants might be shifted, by the large-scale creation of jobs, to Labour constituencies in the north, where Labour would then get a succession of huge and useless majorities while no-one voted for them in the rest of the country, where the number of constituencies was far greater. Mrs Heffer had said it was quite lunatic, taking far too much time to bring about, though there was something intriguing about the idea of job creation acting to destroy Labour’s chances …

  The cameras showed the hijackers.

  “Those faces! Evil incarnate!”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  “Sheer nastiness. Who’s that man? I know the face.” The scene was now the roundabout: TV could never keep still, and Mrs Heffer clicked her tongue.

  “Which one, Prime Minister?”

  “That one.”

  “Ah, yes. My man Hedge — Security.”

  “I remember now. Wasn’t he the one who had the foresight to put a senior Foreign Office plain clothes man aboard the train?”

  For foresight, Rowland Mayes thought to himself, read crystal ball — it had in fact been sheer coincidence. But, always a loyal man, he made a sound of agreement.

  “A man to watch, Roly. So sensible, so — so far-sighted as I said. When this is over, I shall have a word with
him myself.”

  “Very good, Prime Minister.”

  “Make a note, Roly.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  “There’s Judge Prestwick again.”

  *

  The bargaining was indeed hard and took some time; Judge Prestwick’s feet ached and he wanted nothing so much as to sit down, but knew these things couldn’t be rushed. It was essential to extract as much as possible from the situation, as many releases as could be negotiated. And he must not be seen to weaken in the smallest degree, either by the hijackers or by the TV audience.

  He strove and was adamant: there were many breaks while the hijackers consulted together privately, breaks during which Judge Prestwick waited with outward patience and calm. As for himself, he had no need for consultation: the parameters of his negotiating had been clearly and firmly laid down and he knew precisely where he stood vis-à-vis the Prime Minister and the Cabinet, no argument about that.

  It was into the afternoon, another hot one, when the hijackers made their first positive pronouncement. “We will release the children.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “The sick and elderly?”

  “Some, yes. Not all. A man with a wounded arm, and some very old.”

  “And the women.”

  “Not the women.”

  “It is essential.”

  “Not the women. The children only.”