Overnight Express

by Philip McCutchan

  “Just don’t make trouble,” he said as he passed along the coaches bearing food as it became available. In point of fact he had now dispensed what he believed to be the last of the food. There was no-one on the station platform to deliver it, and no further requests had been made by the hijackers. And after the last verbal exchange Sam Frudge knew the end was in sight. They just had to wait for the arrival of the helicopters and the departure of the Middle East, presumably with personal hostages: Sir Richard Cross and Judge Prestwick.

  And then? Well, the hijackers wouldn’t just go away and leave the passengers to scarper out from the train, away from the explosives. Sam Frudge had tried to find out just what they intended, but so far without any success. The hijackers were keeping buttoned lips.

  The same point was on Shard’s mind: the train passengers were the big stick. Sir Richard Cross and Judge Prestwick would in the public mind be far more sacrifice-able than Tom, Dick and Harry, anonymous private citizens caught up in mayhem whilst on an innocent journey. No government would be forgiven for letting such a trainload die. This, the hijackers would be only too well aware of. Until they were out of the country, until they had touched down at their unknown destination, all the passengers would remain at risk. Ergo, a suicide squad would remain aboard after the helicopters had lifted off the others.

  Shard had a quiet word with Ian Costermaine and Peter MacAllister. He advanced his theory. “Suicide,” he stressed. “Not voluntary capture afterwards. You follow?”

  “You mean we’ve all had it, them and us.”

  “Once the main lot’s safe, yes.”

  “In which case,” Costermaine said, “we’ve nothing to lose by hitting back. Have we?”

  “Right. But we wait till the guard’s reduced by the helicopter lift.”

  Shard moved away. He had been aware of some easing of the armed men’s vigilance once again, as if they were so near success that they couldn’t lose whatever happened now. If he wasn’t too obvious, he found, he could move about the train much more easily than at the start of the siege. He went now to contact the badge boys.

  *

  “It’s very odd,” Hedge said. No helicopters had turned up. He had been in touch with Leeds and Bradford airport and had been informed that Judges Bessell and Orp were aboard the aircraft and this information he had imparted to the hijackers. He had been told that the helicopters were ready for lift-off: there had been a slight technical problem with one of them but this had been overcome. But that had been just over an hour and a half ago.

  “I’ll contact the Foreign Office,” Hedge said, and went in to the telephone. He was told not to worry; the person who had answered didn’t seem to know much and neither Rowland Mayes nor the Permanent Under-Secretary was available: they were at Number Ten now. Hedge took a decision: he would go to the police HQ and talk on the closed line to Scotland Yard, who would put him through to the Cabinet Office if necessary. He took this decision with some relief; he would feel safer at Police HQ and once there he might as well remain. It would really be a handier place from which at this stage to conduct the operation. He called for a vehicle and was speeded on his way to the telephone. He spoke to the Foreign Secretary and complained about the non-arrival of the helicopters.

  “A change of plan, Hedge.”

  “Oh?”

  “The PM’s coming up with a counter-proposal.”

  “What proposal?”

  “It’s being formulated.”

  “Really. I might have been informed, Foreign Secretary — with respect. I’m somewhat exposed here.”

  “Yes, I appreciate that. But of course you’d have been informed as soon as possible … as I said, the new proposal is still being formulated.”

  “I see. I shall remain by the telephone, Foreign Secretary.”

  The call was cut and Hedge sat drumming his fingers on the police superintendent’s desk and frowning. Counterproposals were all very well but they could be dangerous, coming at so late a stage. However, Mrs Heffer must know what she was doing; she was certainly no fool. Yet why a counter-proposal anyway? Those who believed themselves to be on the winning side didn’t need to make proposals, they simply issued demands — like the hijackers. Hedge, who all along had believed that somehow or other right would prevail, now had doubts. Was there surrender in the air? Was Mrs Heffer, when the chips were down, sustained by feet of clay? Inconceivable, surely? But what else was one to think? Hedge felt more than ever exposed, more than ever at risk of being sacrificed himself, not as a hostage but as the man who would carry the can for whatever was to happen next. It came to him in a sudden, blinding flash that there was one very good reason why the Foreign Secretary had not shown up in person in Durham: he wasn’t going to stick his neck out, oh no.

  Hedge was still sitting by the telephone as promised when it rang, a sound of urgency. Hedge grabbed for the receiver. Number Ten, but it was an assistant undersecretary from the Home Office who spoke.

  “Hedge?”

  “Yes —”

  “Good show. The helicopters will not be taking off.”

  “I see.” Hedge didn’t at all. “Is this to do with the counter-proposal?”

  “It is. Keep ’em guessing.”

  “Guessing? Is this in fact the counter-proposal itself, or is there more?”

  “There is no precise counter-proposal, Hedge.”

  Hedge felt the sweat pour. “What do I tell the train, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Tell them nothing. Nothing at all. Keep them in doubt. A case of masterly inactivity. Just a moment.” There was a pause, then the Home Office man said, “The Prime Minister wishes to speak to you herself.”

  There was another pause, a brief one, and then Mrs Heffer came on the line. “Mr Hedge —”

  “Yes, Prime Minister?”

  “Mr Hedge, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, England expects. I’m sure you’ll get the reference. I know you’ll not let me down.”

  “Of course not, Prime Minister, but with respect, if only I knew a little more about what is to be done, then I —”

  “Yes, Mr Hedge, I quite understand. I don’t mind telling you that I’ve had just a little difficulty here at Number Ten, but I’ve made my position quite clear. You will wait until full dark and then lead in your gas-lines. As soon as the gas starts being piped in, you will re-group your forces — the army and the police, and send them in to rescue the hostages. Do you understand?”

  Hedge said, “You mean —”

  “I mean this, Mr Hedge.” The voice had risen and it shrilled at him down the line from London. “We shall gas them out, like the rats they are. There will be absolutely no concessions to terrorism. I trust that is absolutely clear.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  There was a click in Hedge’s ear. Mrs Heffer had cut the call before he had been able to put what he considered to be a vital point, this being that there was no certainty that any connexion could be made between the gas-lines and the train’s interior. That, despite all the blueprints and drawings and working models of trains and engines, cabs and power units produced by Lord Arkwright’s team, could not be actually practised until the laying team were right beneath the train itself, and they were going to have a difficult task. Silence, dead silence, would be a prerequisite for success. All tools had of course been muffled in preparation, whilst when the time came sound would be produced to overlay any working noise from underneath: police and ambulance sirens, the ringing of the massive cathedral bells. It might all work, but it might all not.

  Hedge went unwillingly back to the roundabout, filled with unease, and passed the new orders. The troops and police were mustered out of sight from the viaduct, ready for the dash for the station approach once the gas teams had indicated the connexions made. With forethought earlier, Royal Marine commando units had been assembled with scaling equipment, ropes and grapnels and so on, also out of sight from the train.

  In the midst of the new preparations there
was a call from the hijackers.

  “Where are the helicopters?”

  Hedge was summoned. He called back, “A technical fault. I’m sorry. We shall have to wait. It’s beyond my control.”

  “If they do not come soon, there will be more deaths.”

  “If there are more deaths they may not come at all.”

  Stalemate of a sort, perhaps? An angry shout come down to Hedge. “You are a slippery bastard, like all the British peoples.”

  “Hard words,” Hedge shouted back, “break no bones.” There was no response to that and Hedge felt he had scored a point after all. He turned away from the viaduct and walked across the roundabout towards his temporary HQ. Had there, he wondered, been some nuance in that last shouted piece of rudery from the train, some suggestion that the hijackers were themselves uneasy now, not quite so cocksure? Had Mrs Heffer really done it again by going — as obviously she had — against her Cabinet advisers? But it all depended on the gas, really, and Hedge found himself losing faith in the gas.

  *

  So far as events in Durham were concerned, the television screens were blank now. The searchlights had been switched off in the interest of concealment for the gas-line teams and by now it was very dark. No moon, by a stroke of luck. So instead of the train on its viaduct, the nation’s viewers watched an interview conducted by a well-known, somewhat angry face of, among others, Mr Wakeford of the TUC who in fact had little to say beyond an insistence, constantly reiterated, that he wanted fair play for the trade unionists aboard the train. In the end the interviewer left him talking and switched to a Labour politician who said he agreed fully with the action taken so far by the Prime Minister, which to all intents and purposes had been nothing.

  These wordy antics were watched closely by those most personally concerned, the various families of the hostages aboard the train. In Ealing Beth was haggard from lack of sleep, racked by fear and relieved only that her mother had at last gone back to her own home, saying that she would come again at once if she was needed. Her tone had seemed to suggest that she would be needed when Simon’s death was known, and Beth had stood there, dry-eyed but on fire inside, listening to this as Mrs Micklem stood in front of a long mirror twitching at her hat.

  In another part of London Ian Costermaine’s girlfriend, the one who had financed his northern job hunt, was also sleepless. She had the radio on, listening for news that could come at any moment, the news of a blow-up in Durham. Away north in Edinburgh Jean Fison’s mother, who had known nothing of the hijack, being too far gone, died at a little before midnight. At home safely in Perthshire, the MacAllister children slept, having been given sedatives. They had been assured by their temporary guardians that mummy and daddy would be perfectly all right and they had accepted this and after a while hadn’t cried very much. In Wensleydale Mr and Mrs Irons had also been sedated but their interest was no longer with the train. Thoughts of a son unnecessarily dead had taken over their lives and they had both cried like children until the doctor had come and put them for a few hours out of their misery. They were hurt that their daughter had not seen fit to interrupt her holiday in Greece and had only sent a message to say they were in her thoughts.

  The incorporated accountant’s wife was more or less numb and had been ever since she had winkled out the truth. She didn’t care if her husband died or not. It no longer mattered. She moved in limbo, wondering how long it had all been going on. That, oddly enough, did matter. They had seemed happy and all the time that woman could have been around.

  Aboard the train Shard had had his contact with the Birmingham tearaways and had gone back to his own coach feeling that he had some worthwhile assistance to call upon. The badge boys had dried out from their binge long since and though filthy still were by this time only slightly dirtier and more sleazy than any of the other passengers. But they were as dangerous-looking as ever and they, too, had their worries. There were dependent women, largely in the Birmingham area, and bastard children — only one of the tearaways was actually legally married, and he had been on the point of getting a divorce. Also there were parents, seldom considered in normal times but now on some of the imprisoned minds. Parents would be worrying themselves sick, probably. Not, however, in all cases: some of the badge boys had been insoluble problems until now, disgracing their families, and in some of the homes words were uttered to this effect.

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  “I feel sorry for the bloody hijackers I do.”

  But even the bad rubbish wanted to live. Shard had been promised full support. They were all as thick as planks but no matter: in the past, thickness had made many a hero. And there was any amount of brute strength behind the hair and the dirty singlets and the stench.

  Shard, moving back through the coach towards Lady Cross, Ian Costermaine and the others, was aware of the increased tension as still the helicopters didn’t come in. All the passengers had heard the verbal exchanges with Hedge and they all knew the crunch had to come very soon now. Shard was spoken to by Costermaine and the Lancing West MP, Ernest Lorimer.

  “Can you make an assessment of what they’re doing, the authorities?” Lorimer asked, his face grey with fright. Shard noticed that he and Miss Tuffin were holding hands quite openly. Imminent extinction concentrated the heart.

  “Just guesses.”

  “Well?”

  “They’re playing for time.”

  “You don’t think the helicopters will come in, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. Technical hitch … there are plenty of other ’copters available.”

  “The hijackers’ll know that, won’t they?”

  Shard nodded. “Yes. And don’t ask me what their reaction is going to be. It’s fifty-fifty. Anyone’s guess. They may not want to — go to the extremes just yet. They have time on their side, I fancy. It’s more in their favour than in ours.”

  “Ours?”

  Shard said, “I don’t mean us. I mean the authorities. What helps the hijackers, helps us.”

  “We can still be sacrificed one by one,” Miss Tuffin said suddenly. Her voice was shaking, so was her body. “Time isn’t going to help us all, is it?”

  There was no happy answer to that. At any moment the hijackers might kill again. Shard wondered how many would have to die before one side or the other gave in. Most at risk, presumably, were Judge Prestwick and Sir Richard Cross in the cab. Shard looked covertly towards Lady Cross, who was no fool. Her face was without expression but she was staring out of the window alongside her, towards the great dark mass of the cathedral, just distinguishable as a huge shadow in the night, no lights visible behind the boarded-up stained glass. The three great towers stabbed into the sky like physical embodiments of prayer. Down in the roundabout there was no light either, not at this stage. That had to mean something, but what? A storming of the train by police and troops? That wouldn’t have a hope, in Shard’s view. They had been withdrawn too far; the moment they moved out into view they would be mown down, and the train would be within an ace of blowing up.

  Hedge?

  He would still be down there somewhere, getting in everyone’s way, issuing pompous orders. Shard believed that the time might already have come to pull the plug from under Hedge, but he was still reluctant to interfere with the plans of the high command and possibly balls things up for good and all. The risk would be immense and he needed to be more certain before he moved.

  Suddenly, like a knell of doom, there was a hollow sound from right beneath the train and then a clang as something apparently dropped to the rails.

  16

  Hedge had jumped a mile. “What was that, for God’s sake?”

  “The train, Mr Hedge. Someone’s been clumsy.”

  “On the train?”

  “No, under the train.”

  “The gas party?”

  “I fear so,” the chief constable said.

  “Find out and report, Mr Hemingway!” Hedge was in a frenzy, eyes popping from his
head. He could see nothing in the darkness and there was no further sound, as though all around people were holding their breath. From a window in the train, over a door, a torch beamed down and a voice, a Middle Eastern one, demanded to know what was happening. The voice was given no reply and the silence returned. Within the next thirty seconds a police officer ran from a mobile and reported to the chief constable. There had been a brief message on a walkie-talkie: Gas abort.

  “What now, Mr Hedge?”

  Hedge flapped his arms helplessly, his flabby cheeks wobbling. He said, “I’ll contact Number Ten immediately.”

  “You’d better hurry,” the chief constable said.

  Hedge moved at the double for the Sleep Centre’s offices, rejecting the security of a closed line this time in the interest of speed, believing he was about to be caught in a very big explosion.

  *

  “Gas abort,” Mrs Heffer repeated to the brass. Eyes stared in dismay, Foreign Secretary, Lord Arkwright, Chief of the General Staff, Minister of Defence, Lord Privy Seal, there for no discernible reason. “Well, no matter.”

  “No matter, Prime Minister? It’s our whole strategy gone up in smoke!”

  “Oh no it hasn’t Foreign Secretary, don’t talk defeatist nonsense, I don’t like it and I wont have it.” Mrs Heffer heaved her breasts up, chest right out, stomach in, a backs-to-the-wall aspect about her whole stance. “We still have our police and soldiers, such splendid men. What we need to find out now is whether or not the hijackers realise what’s been happening. About the gas. I don’t suppose for a moment they do. Mr Hedge was quite explicit that he had not communicated.”

  “What do we do, Prime Minister?”

  “At this moment, nothing,” Mrs Heffer answered calmly. “We wait for further information. The situation may not have changed at all. In which case neither does our strategy.”