‘Well, as I’m sure you know, the councils are trying to get the maximum use from their housing stock.’
‘But this is my house. I moved in there with my husband forty years ago, God rest his soul. Forty years, Mr Metcalfe, and now I’ll have to move out.’
‘No one is saying you have to move out, Mrs Ellis. The council is just asking you to pay for the rooms you don’t need.’
‘But that doesn’t make any sense. Why should I pay for something I don’t need?’ Metcalfe was struggling for an answer when the door burst open. A young, bearded Asian man stood there, with a look of confusion on his face, as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was.
Molly jerked out of her iPhone reverie but he had walked in before she had even got to her feet.
‘I’m sorry, there’s a queuing system,’ said Metcalfe. ‘We deal with people one at a time. You talk to Molly here and she’ll take your details.’ He smiled but the man didn’t appear to be listening. He walked up to the table and Metcalfe caught a whiff of stale sweat. There were flecks of white lint in the man’s straggly beard and hair and the whites of his eyes were threaded with tiny burst veins. Metcalfe wondered if he might be high on drugs. He stood and held up his hands defensively as the man continued to swivel his head from side to side. ‘Look, please, you really need to wait outside in the other room. I will get to you eventually.’
The man mumbled something and spittle peppered the table. Metcalfe caught a strong whiff of garlic. He looked at Molly and started to tell her to call the police but the man grabbed him by the wrist, his nails digging into the MP’s skin. Then something metallic flashed and Metcalfe yelped, fearing a knife. He ducked away but the man’s grip held firm and something fastened around Metcalfe’s wrist. The garlic smell was almost overpowering now.
‘Allahu Akbar!’ the man shouted. ‘Everyone do exactly as I say or we will all die here today!’
Metcalfe began to tremble. His face reddened with embarrassment as he felt the warm liquid around his groin and realised that he’d wet himself.
LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (12.40 p.m.)
‘Bad news on the white-van front,’ said Sergeant Lumley. ‘The Birmingham police have spoken to the owner. In fact, they’ve seen the van. It’s still up in Birmingham, complete with the name of the plumbing firm on the sides.’
Kamran grimaced. ‘So they cloned the number?’
Lumley nodded. ‘Looks like it. And the even worse news is that number-plate recognition hasn’t turned it up. But the van is still out there.’ He pointed to his left-hand screen. Where there had been three CCTV shots of the white van, now there were four. The registration number of the fourth was different. ‘This van dropped off the bomber who is now holed up in the coffee shop near Marble Arch. According to the DVLA, this belongs to another firm up in Birmingham.’
‘They changed plates? Terrific.’
‘I’ve got both numbers flagged on number-plate recognition, but if they switched twice they can switch again.’
‘Which means we’re looking for a white van in London,’ said Kamran. ‘Needle in a haystack doesn’t even come close.’
Lumley’s phone rang and he answered it. He stiffened noticeably, then put his hand over the receiver. ‘It’s Downing Street,’ he said. ‘The prime minister.’
Kamran frowned. ‘What?’
‘The PM wants to talk to you.’
Kamran held up his hands. ‘He needs to talk to the commissioner. Or the deputy commissioner.’
‘No, he wants you. Asked for you by name.’
Kamran pointed at the receiver in Lumley’s hands. ‘Is that him? Actually on the line?’
Lumley smiled tightly.
Kamran sighed. ‘Better put him through, then.’ He took a deep breath to steady himself. His phone buzzed.
‘Line one,’ said Lumley.
Kamran took another deep breath and picked up the phone. ‘Superintendent Kamran,’ he said.
‘What’s the state of play, Superintendent?’ asked the prime minister. ‘Where do we stand?’
‘We have seven incidents now, sir,’ said Kamran. ‘The latest is a bus in Tavistock Square.’
‘I heard,’ said the prime minister. ‘That has echoes of Seven/Seven, doesn’t it?’
‘That may well be why that particular bus was targeted,’ said Kamran.
‘This is a nightmare,’ said the prime minister. ‘And getting worse by the minute.’
Kamran said nothing.
‘Their demands haven’t changed?’ asked the prime minister, eventually.
‘No, sir. They want the six prisoners released from Belmarsh and an aircraft fuelled and ready at Biggin Hill.’
‘That’s out of the question, obviously,’ said the prime minister.
‘The problem is there doesn’t appear to be any negotiating,’ said Kamran. ‘It’s take it or leave it. We accept their demands by six p.m. or they will all detonate their vests.’
‘Presumably you have snipers in position?’
‘All the bombers are inside, sir. I can’t guarantee that shooting will end the sieges without casualties.’
‘So what do you suggest, Superintendent?’
Kamran gritted his teeth. He had no suggestions to make. He was all out of ideas. ‘We have to start talking to them,’ he said. ‘Face to face.’
Waterman began to wave excitedly at Kamran. ‘We’ve identified the guy on the bus,’ she said. ‘You’re not going to believe this!’
‘I have to go, sir,’ said Kamran. ‘It’s a bit hectic here, as you can imagine.’
‘I’m heading into an emergency meeting of the Joint Intelligence Committee, Superintendent. I shall be in touch once we’re done.’ The JIC was composed of the country’s top intelligence experts, including the directors of MI5, MI6, GCHQ, plus the chief of the Defence Intelligence Staff, with representatives from the Ministry of Defence and the Foreign Office. Kamran figured the PM could probably do with all the advice he could get.
The prime minister ended the call and Kamran went over to Waterman’s workstation. Murray was already peering over the MI5 officer’s shoulder. ‘What’s the story?’ asked Kamran. ‘He’s known?’
‘He’s known all right,’ said Waterman, sitting back. ‘He’s one of yours.’
‘One of mine?’
‘Kashif Talpur. He works for the National Crime Agency’s undercover unit.’
Kamran’s jaw dropped. ‘What are you telling me?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think I can be any clearer,’ said Waterman. ‘He’s a cop.’ She pressed a button and a picture flashed up on her screen. A caption gave his name as Kashif Talpur and he was wearing the uniform of a Metropolitan Police officer.
For only the second time that day Kamran cursed. He looked at Lumley. ‘Joe, find out who Talpur’s governor is and get him in here right away,’ he said. ‘He needs to see what’s going on.’
SOUTHWARK (12.50 p.m.)
The lunchtime rush was in full swing and Calum Wade was worked off his feet. To be honest, he preferred it that way. Working in a restaurant that wasn’t busy could be soul-destroying: the minutes ticked slowly by and you were always looking for things to do. But the hours between twelve and two always seemed to whizz by, taking orders, filling glasses, carrying food from the kitchen and empty plates back to be washed. Wade always thought of himself as a people person, which was the main reason he had chosen to work in the restaurant business. And it had been a deliberate choice, too. Most of his fellow waiters were doing it as a fill-in before they found the job they really wanted, but it had long been his first choice as a career. Wade loved restaurants, and had done since his parents had first taken him into Harry Ramsden’s fish and chips emporium in Blackpool. It had been the first time he had been served food by a waiter and he’d never forgotten the man who had put down the plate of fish, chips and mushy peas in front of him, with a sly wink.