He did a fast assessment. Looked at his watch. It was less than five minutes or so since the man had left his seat. That ruled out a motion sensor that would set the device off — if it was indeed a bomb. More likely a timer or a text detonator. But the perp would want to be well clear of the stadium grounds before it went off. At five minutes, he would not be, yet.
He made a snap decision.
One he knew might cost him dear. Maybe his career. Perhaps his life.
The words of the former Chief Constable rang in his ears.
Whilst everyone else is running away from danger, we’re the people who run towards it.
‘Stay here,’ he commanded Bruno.
He left his seat, clambered past the rest of the fans in their row, and down the aisle. For a second, he studied the camera on the seat along from the older man and the small boy.
And saw the timer where the shutter-speed setting should have been.
Ticking down as he watched.
1.23
1.22
1.21
23
Saturday 12 August
17.00–18.00
Ylli Prek hurried in through the doors marked SOUTH STAND WASTE MANAGEMENT — NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS. He had to trust his boss’s word that the camera outside had been disabled. He entered a foul-smelling room, with a grimy concrete floor and stark tiled walls.
It was filled with green and red bins, mostly with their lids open and overflowing with bagged waste. Labels above them read GLASS, FOOD WASTE, DRY MIXED RECYCLING, GENERAL WASTE.
The last bin on the right, under GENERAL WASTE, had a grey lid that was shut. Ylli opened it, glancing nervously at the door. From the pockets of his tracksuit he removed a bobble hat and scarf. Then he hurriedly stripped off his tracksuit to reveal a blue-and-white Seagulls shirt and blue jeans beneath. He dumped the tracksuit top and bottoms into the bin, along with his cap, and pulled on the bobble hat. Then he walked back to the doors. His boss assured him there would be an evacuation of the stadium, if the bomb did not go off first. All he had to do was to slip out and he would be unnoticed in the panicking crowd all trying to get as far away from the stadium as they could.
But at this moment there was no sound of any panic.
He opened one door a few inches and peered out. He heard the roar of the crowd. The game was still in progress.
He closed the door again, shaking with nerves. Something felt wrong.
24
Saturday 12 August
17.00–18.00
Roy Grace, holding the heavy camera, frightened it would explode at any moment, turned and raced up the stairs towards the stand exit.
57
56
Had to get the device away from the players, from the crowds. He looked around. Where?
Where?
Where was safe?
52
His brain was racing.
Some years ago, shortly after the stadium construction had been completed, he’d been given a tour of the building, along with several other police officers, by the Head of Safety and Security. There was a tunnel on the far side, through which the players came out to the pitch. It ran past the changing rooms, and out to the players’ secure car park at the rear. But that would mean running round the pitch.
Was there a better way?
Then he remembered.
A short distance away was another tunnel. It would probably be deserted now — no members of the public would be there, although there would be plenty above.
Yelling, ‘Police!’ at two startled stewards in the doorway, he sprinted past them and along past the stark, cream columns of the deserted concourse, narrowly missing colliding with a man who came out of the toilets. He reached the tunnel and turned into it, racing past machinery, utterly terrified the camera would detonate at any moment. Then to his dismay he saw steel security shutters, down, at the far end.
No!
39
Just as he reached them they began to rise, clattering upwards. Agonizingly slowly.
Come on, come on!
34
The instant there was enough clearance, he ducked under and through into the wide, deserted area outside the ground.
Should he dump the camera here and run?
The wall of the stadium was a hundred metres or so behind him. Too close.
Had to get it further away. At this distance, the EOD might still want a full evacuation.
27
He sprinted on towards the station, running down the incline, beneath the railway bridge and towards the deserted university rugby pitch. As he reached the barrier fence, the timer showed nine seconds left. He hurled the camera as hard as he could at the playing fields and watched it tumble through the air, then as it fell towards the grass he threw himself to the ground and waited, breathless, gulping down air.
He heard only the faintest thud.
Nothing more.
A whole minute passed.
Nothing.
He continued waiting, then cautiously stood up and peered across at the camera lying in the grass some distance away. His shirt stuck to his back; he was drenched in sweat.
‘Good throw, sir!’
He turned to see a steward in a high-viz jacket.
‘Thank you,’ he gasped, tugging out his handkerchief to mop away the perspiration running down his forehead.
‘You’re blooming nuts, if you don’t mind my saying, sir!’
Grace grinned. ‘I’m OK with that.’
‘I was in the army, out in Afghanistan. I once had to lob a grenade that had been tossed into our foxhole. Never managed to throw it as far as that.’
‘Yep, well, I just closed my eyes and imagined it was a rugby ball.’
The steward shook his head. ‘Tut-tut. Saying that at a football game, sir, that’s heresy, that is.’
Several more stewards and police officers rushed out towards them.
25
Saturday 12 August
17.00–18.00
Mungo, Kipp Brown wondered, watching the game but very distracted by his son’s absence.
Where on earth are you, Mungo?
No way would he be missing the game, he had talked of little else for the past three months.
Suddenly he cursed himself. Previously, when Mungo had an iPhone, he and Stacey could always check where Mungo was on the Find My Friends app. Now, with the cheap phone he had bought him to replace it, to teach him a lesson for losing his iPhone, there was no app on which Mungo could be tracked. He hit Mungo Mob on his Favourites list. Held it tight to his ear. It was hard to hear the ringing above the roar of the crowd all around him. He heard it ringing once, twice, three times, four times, five times. Then his son’s voicemail.
‘Yeah, this is the right number for Mungo Brown. Leave a message unless your name’s Hugo, in which case go stick your head in a microwave and refry your already fried brains.’
He ended the call and was about to put the phone into his pocket when, through the din, he heard the ping of an incoming text.
Mungo, no doubt, he thought with relief surging through him. Mungo asking him where he was.
He looked at the display.
And froze.
26
Saturday 12 August
17.00–18.00
In the Amex Control Room, Adrian Morris, on his feet, switching from CCTV monitor to monitor had, to his disbelief, watched Roy Grace run out with the suspect device and throw it into the deserted university playing field.