Bill wound his window down.
‘Sorry, you can’t park here, ARV or otherwise. Nothing’s allowed on here today.’
Henry jumped out and flashed his ID. ‘Yes we can,’ he said, almost adding ‘son’, but refraining from being too patronizing. The constable peered at the warrant card and shrugged.
‘Makes no difference, sir.’
‘Makes every difference.’ Henry strutted past him and went to the staff entrance, ID still in hand, where he was greeted by a uniformed private security guard in a booth by a turnstile. He was aware that behind him, the PC was having heated words with Bill in the ARV. ‘You checking in staff this morning?’ Henry said.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Is Abdul Hussein on your list?’
He ran a thick finger down a typed list. ‘Yep.’
Henry loved laconic people. ‘Has he shown up for work this morning?’
‘Yep.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Uh — ten minutes.’
‘You’ve been a great help.’
‘Ta, mate.’
He spun away from the booth and crossed back to Bill who was just staring blank-faced at the foot patrol PC, who was only doing his job by trying to get the vehicle to move on. Henry tapped him on the shoulder, smiled at him and said to Bill, ‘He’s in,’ then to the PC said, ‘Get the venue commander down here, please — now.’
Henry’s heart sank to depths never before experienced when he saw the hastily summoned venue commander walking along Nuttall Street. It was often the case that headquarters wallers with career aspirations grasped at opportunities out in the real world of policing to show that they could still do the job and enhance their CVs. Henry didn’t even know what a CV looked like, but he suspected that the venue commander for the day did. His name was Andy Laker and his day job was the chief constable’s staff officer.
Laker’s expression was one of sheer annoyance. ‘This better be good, Henry. I’m expecting the Foreign Secretary and the American Secretary of State to arrive any time now,’ he said imperiously, as though they were coming to see him.
Henry had no wish to get embroiled in any discussions with Laker, so he got straight to the point.
‘You’ve got a suicide bomber in the ground — how does that grab your balls?’
The CCTV control room was situated slap-bang in the centre of the Darwen End terrace. A huge picture window overlooked the pitch and the three other stands and Henry took a moment to appreciate the view. The pitch looked excellent. He knew it was one of the best in the league.
Then he turned back to the room and the bank of monitors along one wall hurriedly being switched on by a technician. Coloured images came on to the screens one by one, giving myriad views from the many cameras dotted around the ground, inside and out.
The souvenir shop had already been checked for Hussein, but he wasn’t there and none of the other staff knew where he’d disappeared to.
‘Let’s see if we can spot this guy,’ Henry said. He jerked his head to Najma, standing in one corner of the room with Iqbal. She came to stand next to Henry, her arms folded tightly across her chest. ‘Start looking,’ he said sternly to her. ‘If you spot him, yell.’
The CCTV room door burst open and FB rolled in, accompanied by Dave Anger and a harassed looking Andy Laker.
‘I gather things have moved on a-pace, Henry,’ FB said and patted him on the back.
‘Yeah — and I haven’t had to torture anyone yet.’
Najma was sitting next to the CCTV operator, looking at the monitors.
FB, Dave Anger and Andy Laker were silent, standing next to Henry. Their combined tension was palpable. Iqbal sat in a chair behind them. Bill came back into the room, having been out to the ARV following the authorization to arm himself overtly. He had his Glock holstered at his side and a Heckler and Kock MP5 machine pistol slung across his chest. He sported a chequered baseball cap. He looked pretty cool, even though he was weighed down by all his equipment, which also included a Taser gun, CS gas, rigid handcuffs and his expandable baton.
Henry glanced at him and nodded.
‘Najma — seen him yet?’ Henry asked her. She looked drawn and exhausted, her eyes red raw, face a mess. ‘Is it really true about Sabera?’ she whispered.
‘Sorry.’
She seemed to slump inside herself for a moment. Henry thought she was going to collapse and topple off her chair and half-moved to catch her. ‘I can’t see him,’ she said hopelessly.
Henry turned to FB. ‘Cancel this part of the visit,’ he said.
FB shook his head. ‘She’s on her way, Henry, and nothing will stop her from coming here. She’s already had to do a lot of chopping and changing and she won’t do any more.’
Then Najma suddenly shouted, ‘That’s him!’
Everyone rushed to look over her shoulder at the screen.
It showed one of the internal concourses under one of the stands, a wide concrete area on which there were toilets and on match days bars and counters selling beer and pies, the staple diet of football fans. Now the shuttered screens were locked down. And it was deserted other than for one person walking slowly along.
‘That’s Abdul,’ she confirmed as the camera zoomed in on him. He was a small, thin youth, wearing a hi-viz steward’s jacket.
‘Where is that?’ Henry demanded of the CCTV operator, just as Abdul stopped, looked cautiously around, then directly into the lens of the camera which he had no reason to suspect was recording his movements. He inserted a key into a door, opened it and stepped inside, out of sight. ‘Where is it?’
The operator pointed down at the floor. ‘Here! Right below us. It’s the Darwen End concourse … it’s a store room … he’s right underneath us.’
‘He must have hidden the explosives in there.’ Henry turned urgently to FB and the two other men. ‘Stay here and make sure she doesn’t disappear.’ He pointed at Najma. ‘Bill — you up for this?’
Bill nodded and gripped the HK firmly. ‘It’s what I live for,’ he said, tongue in cheek.
‘Gimme the Glock,’ Henry said. Both men looked towards the chief constable for the nod, which he gave immediately. Bill handed Henry the pistol.
Henry tore out of the CCTV room, followed by Bill. They sprinted down the corridor, then twisted left into a stairway which doglegged down on to the concourse below. They turned left off the bottom step and ran down the deserted concourse towards the door Hussein had entered. Ten metres before they reached it, he backed out, not noticing them initially.
Henry and Bill came to a sudden halt, side by side. Bill had instantly adopted the classic firing position for the HK: butt pulled into his right shoulder, left foot forward, left knee slightly bent, his right eye sighted down the short barrel. He did not flinch.
Henry dropped into a combat stance, feet shoulder width apart, the Glock in his right hand, supported by the left, safety off, right finger tip resting on the trigger.
Both guns were aimed at Hussein’s head.
He saw them, went rigid.
Henry’s eyes quickly took him in and could see something between the gap in his jacket around his waist, about the size of a paperback book. Was it a belt of explosives, strapped around him?
‘Abdul Hussein,’ Henry said. The young man blinked on hearing his name. ‘Yes, I know who you are … please raise your hands — slowly — or we will shoot you.’
He did as instructed. But his right hand remained clenched in a fist and Henry saw something black, like a pen, poking out from his grasp and also a thin wire running down his sleeve.
A switch connected to a detonator.
His thumb hovered over it.
All he had to do was press.
This time Henry knew it would be connected.
‘It’s over, Abdul,’ Henry said. ‘There is no need for this, no need at all.’ Henry offered his left hand in a gesture to him to surrender and took a careful step towards him, but kept the Glock aimed.