The deadly explosion at the Ivy League university earlier this week was caused by a gas leak, it was claimed last night. According to an FBI source, New Jersey Police are about to announce they have found no traces of a bomb at the scene of the explosion. Instead, the source has revealed exclusively to the Post, it is believed that a technical malfunction led to a leak which caused the devastating blast, and that routine maintenance on the university’s gas system may have been neglected...
Was that it then? Jones didn’t know what to think. However, since becoming a media personality she had endured considerable attention from the tabloid press, and had learned that, contrary to a widely held belief, they were more often right than wrong when they splashed on an exclusive story.
She had promised herself the previous day that she would move on. And that was what she was going to do. She dressed in the jeans she had worn the day before, which along with her black hoodie, she’d sent to be laundered upon arriving at the House. Like her, she hoped, they appeared to have made a good recovery from any damage suffered at the Princeton crime scene.
It was a pleasantly sunny morning, so she wandered up to the roof terrace for a leisurely breakfast. Afterwards, at around nine a.m., she took the lift to the ground floor and stepped out on to the cobbled street outside the House’s discreet front door on the corner of Ninth Avenue and 13th Street.
The sun was already surprisingly hot again for mid-September. She squinted into the line of approaching traffic. She had yet to properly work out which cabs were for hire and which weren’t on the streets of New York, and her dilemma was not helped by bright sunshine which made it impossible to tell whether the cabs had their lights on or not.
She’d learned to do what New Yorkers do — just stand on the pavement with your arm held out high in the air in front of you. She knew from her previous visit that the area right outside the House, in the heart of the Meatpacking District, although it didn’t look promising, was a pretty good place for picking up cabs.
All the same, she was mildly surprised that morning by the alacrity with which a yellow cab pulled up right alongside, causing her to take a step backwards in order to avoid being knocked over.
She opened the door of the rear compartment and, having decided to start the day with a little shopping, gave the address of one of her favourite fashion stores.
The driver made no verbal response but took off with an unnerving squeal of tyres. This was, Jones knew, par for the course in New York. She’d long ago discovered that cabbies in the Big Apple were nothing like their London contemporaries, who were inclined to treat their passengers to their views on the weather, the traffic, the cost of living, the latest sporting event, the state of the country if not the world and indeed all aspects of life, at the drop of a hat. They were also obliged to learn The Knowledge, to know every detail of the layout of their city, in order to gain a licence to operate. In New York no such regulations were enforced. Taxi drivers’ Medallions were bought rather than earned.
Jones made herself settle back in the seat and try to enjoy the ride. Vaguely she wondered why the driver was taking the route he was. It seemed obtuse even by the standards of New York cabbies.
She repeated the address of the store.
There was no response at all. The glass panel between the driver’s compartment and the passenger seat was closed. Jones tapped on it and raised her voice.
‘Driver! Hey driver! This isn’t right. We’re going the wrong way.’
Still no response. Jones tapped even louder and then pushed her fingers against the glass panel in an attempt to make it slide open. The panel was either locked or jammed. She tapped yet again, more forcefully.
‘Hey driver!’
‘Just relax, ma’am, I know exactly where I’m taking you.’
Jones was taken by surprise. The voice, pure New York, deep and resonant, was projected through a speaker just above the back seat. She hadn’t known that New York cabs had that sort of sophistication.
‘But we’re going in the wrong direction,’ Jones shouted back.
‘You don’t need to shout, ma’am, I can hear you just fine.’
The glass panel remained closed. Jones glanced around her. There must be a microphone somewhere, she assumed.
‘Then for God’s sake listen to what I’m saying,’ she countered irritably, before repeating the address once more, complete with the obligatory cross street.
‘We’re heading the other way, surely?’
‘I know where I’m taking you, ma’am.’
Jones opened her mouth to say it damned well didn’t look like it to her. Then closed it again. There was something disconcerting about the way the driver had delivered the last remark. Jones was beginning to suspect that if this man was taking her the wrong way, it was not by mistake.
The bile rose in her throat. She fought to remain calm. Perhaps the events of the previous day had been too much for her and she was just being paranoid. She decided to have one last attempt at normal behaviour.
‘Just pull over,’ she commanded. ‘I’ll get out here.’
Jones delivered the remark as if it was an order she expected to be obeyed. But she wasn’t at all surprised when the driver ignored her. Stifling a growing sense of panic, she began to formulate a plan. She was sitting on the left of the cab directly behind the driver. She shuffled along the seat to the right until she could see clearly ahead. There was a set of traffic lights just a couple of hundred yards ahead. To her irritation they remained on green. So did the next three sets. In American cities traffic lights often seemed better synchronized than at home. She waited impatiently, her fingers tight around the door handle, until finally a set of lights turned red as the taxi approached.
The driver braked. And as the cab drew to a halt Jones wrenched at the door, preparing to hit the street at a run. The door didn’t budge. She twisted the handle frantically, pushing and shoving with all her might. It made no difference. The door was locked.
‘Driver,’ she yelled. ‘Driver, will you please unlock the doors. I told you, I want to get out.’
There was again no response. The lights changed. The cab moved forwards, unhurriedly.
‘Driver, will you damned well pull over and unlock these fucking doors!’ Jones shouted even louder, aware that her voice had turned into a kind of shriek.
The driver made no attempt to slow the cab down, but at least he responded.
‘Just calm down, ma’am. You’re not going to come to any harm.’
As he spoke he reached behind his head with one arm, and an enormous black hand adorned with assorted bling appeared directly in Jones’s line of sight. Bracelets around the wrist jangled as ring-laden fingers flicked some kind of switch and slid the glass panel to one side. Then the driver glanced briefly over his shoulder, and Jones was confronted by a smiling face, big and broad-boned. She did not find the smile reassuring. In fact just the opposite.
The man’s domed head was entirely without hair except for a Mohican stripe along the centre. Earrings dangled from both his ears and more bling hung in layers around his neck. His appearance was surreal. For just a fleeting hopeful moment Jones wondered if she might be dreaming.
‘I’m only taking you to someone who wants to spend a little time with you, that’s all.’
The driver’s voice was loud, clear and resonant. This was no dream.
‘My name is Dom, I’m mighty pleased to meet you, Dr Jones, and I want you to know you are absolutely safe with me.’