It stood, unflatteringly, for Useless Bastards Box.
Keith hung up his motorcycle clothing on a couple of pegs in the locker room, put his crash helmet down on a bench, then climbed the concrete staircase, in his black uniform top and trousers, into the open-plan area of the Force Control Room that had been his domain for the past three years. And realized just how much he loved it here. He might be in the UBB these days, but hopefully he could at least show his abilities as a safe, competent pair of hands up to his very last shift.
And this vast room on two floors was where all potential glory — and sometimes sheer horror — for Sussex Police began.
It was where the county’s emergency and non-emergency call takers — or contact handlers, as they were called — sat wearing their headsets, in deep concentration. And it was where the rota of highly skilled operators monitored the county’s 85 °CCTV cameras.
Everything that might involve the police in an emergency callout began here, in this room. Whether it was a suspicious man posing as a gas meter reader, a road traffic accident, a mugging, a bank robbery, a rape, a suspected terrorist, a firearms incident or an air disaster, any 999 call would be answered and assessed in this room. And he would have the responsibility for handling the first stages of any major incident resulting.
UBB.
Huh.
No way! If he could have just one juicy job sometime between now and retirement, he’d show them just how damned good he was!
He wasn’t going to have to wait very long.
13
Saturday 12 August
17.00–18.00
Although Roy Grace was enjoying a precious day out with his son, and a day away from work, he was, like all police officers, rarely fully off duty — and today he was the on-call SIO. As Bruno studied the programme, commenting knowledgeably on the team squad and wondering who would be selected for today’s game against tough opposition, Manchester City, his father was preoccupied, staring around the terraces.
Grace was looking for the faces of local villains he had encountered during his two decades of policing the city of Brighton and Hove, always interested to see, in particular, who was sitting with whom and what new criminal alliances might have formed or be under discussion. In addition today, having been briefed by DCI Fitzherbert, he was being extra-vigilant as a result of the threats that had been made to the stadium.
He had already clocked something of interest, as people filed in and took their seats: a low-life drug dealer and car thief, Alan Letts. Letts was sitting beside one of Brighton’s oldest and nastiest villains, Jimmy Bardolph. Bardolph, a scabby, scarred creep, had once been a henchman for one of Brighton’s biggest crime families, but these days had long been a busted flush. The pair were engaged in earnest conversation and Grace would have loved to have been able to eavesdrop. What were they discussing? Not donations to a charity, that was for sure. He made a mental note to inform a colleague at Specialist Crime Command Intel.
‘Hello, Roy!’ a voice said right behind him.
He turned to see a retired police officer, Mike Hird, and his son, Paul. He greeted them briefly then noticed two people seated next to them, smiling at him. He recognized Cliff and Linda Faires, who ran the Brighton Shellfish & Oyster Bar on the seafront.
‘Enjoyed those oysters last week did you and the missus, Roy?’
‘We did, very much! We tried to get my son, Bruno, to try them, but he preferred his prawn sandwich.’ Grace resumed scanning the crowd.
‘So, Papa, who will win, what will be the score?’ Bruno said.
‘What’s your prediction?’ Grace asked his son. ‘Are you looking forward to seeing the Albion’s German midfielder, Gross?’
‘From Ingolstadt,’ Bruno said, solemnly. ‘He is good. But I think Manchester City will win, two — nil.’
‘We’re meant to be supporting Brighton, aren’t we?’
Bruno nodded, looking as ever his serious self. ‘But I don’t think they will win today, not with their formation. They have it wrong.’
The players were coming out onto the pitch. The roar of the crowd began as a ripple, then rose in a crescendo as everyone got to their feet, clutching the blue-and-white flags that had been placed on their seats, singing, heartily, the club anthem, ‘Sussex by the Sea’, interspersed with chants of, ‘ALBION!’
Grace noticed the man in the baseball cap, with the big camera, two rows in front of him. Something about his body language seemed odd. The man was looking around him, nervously, edgy, then fiddling with a dial on the top of his camera. A professional-looking job of the kind favoured by paparazzi or perhaps birdwatchers — twitchers. Or, he thought with his ever-suspicious mind, peeping Toms. Because of yesterday’s threat, Roy continued to watch him, not liking the look of him. If he was press, he would have been with the others in the middle of the stadium’s West Stand, behind the dugouts, or at the far end, behind the goalposts. Probably just a fan, like a lot of others, with a passion for photography.
Ylli Prek raised his camera and pressed his eye to the viewfinder, pretending to take pictures in case anyone was watching. Then he laid it down on his lap again and peered at the dial on the top. Ordinarily, it would have been for setting the shutter speed. But on this camera, it was the timer. Twisting it would prime the bomb. The options were one minute, five minutes, ten minutes and upwards in further increments of five minutes. He had been instructed to wait until the game had started, just in case of any delay, then to allow himself enough margin to get well clear of the stadium; but not to let it run to half-time, when the stands wouldn’t be so full. And not to leave the camera on its own for so long that people would get suspicious.
Fifteen minutes, Ylli Prek decided. Or would ten be better?
Roy Grace kept a steady, uneasy eye on the man.
14
Saturday 12 August
17.00–18.00
Adrian Morris, seated at his command centre in the back row of the Amex Control Room, was studying the crowds in the stands. Casting a vigilant eye across all of them, row by row. Despite his near-sleepless night, he was more wide awake and alert than ever before in his life.
The caller had not rung again.
Why don’t you sleep on it? I will make contact later to give you one last chance.
The Head of Safety and Security’s regular complement of sixteen were at their seats in the Control Room now, concentrating on their computer screens or on the bank of CCTV monitors, rather than watching the match itself. Seated alongside him were the Police Match Commander, Chief Inspector Andy Kundert, as well as the Safety Officer, and a radio operator. In the middle row were two police radio operators, three CCTV operators, the External Controller and loggist. In the front row were the SECAMB Ambulance Service Manager, the St John Ambulance Commander, the medical radio operator and a British Transport Police officer.
Today, in addition, also peering intently at the row of CCTV screens, was Detective Inspector Glenn Branson, here in his own time — with Roy Grace’s encouragement — using the game as a developmental opportunity to broaden his range of skills for his hoped-for next step up the police career ladder — to become a Chief Inspector.
Both inside and outside the stadium was the largest police presence ever for an Albion game. There was effectively a ring of steel around the place.