‘If that’s true, there’s nothing we can do,’ said Gillard.
‘There is one thing,’ said Kamran. ‘We can give him what he wants.’
WANDSWORTH (3.55 p.m.)
Inspector Edwards wanted a cigarette but even though the shopping centre had been evacuated he figured the NO SMOKING signs still applied. He looked longingly at his cigarettes and lighter, sitting on the counter of the sports shop they had commandeered as a forward base.
‘I know how you feel,’ said Sergeant Clarke, catching his look.
‘I suppose we could pop out for a quick one,’ said Edwards. ‘It’s not as if there’s much happening. Mick and Paul can hold the fort.’ Mick Hecquet and Paul Savage were the other two members of the negotiating team, but they had done nothing except keep watch since they had arrived.
‘Just a quick one, then,’ said Clarke, picking up his pack of Rothmans.
‘Sir, there’s somebody coming out,’ said Hecquet.
The two armed officers had their rifles up at their shoulders.
Edwards and Clarke rushed over to the entrance and peered cautiously out. There was a woman walking purposefully towards them, pushing a double buggy with two toddlers in it. One was munching a slice of pizza.
‘Armed police, hands in the air,’ shouted one of the armed officers.
‘Fuck off, I’m coming through!’ yelled the woman, increasing her pace.
Edwards stepped out of the shop.
‘Stop where you are and raise your hands!’ roared the second armed officer, a woman with short blonde hair. Both officers were dressed in black with Kevlar vests and helmets.
‘What — are you shooting fucking housewives now?’ shouted the woman.
Edwards knew it was standard operating procedure to stop and search everyone leaving a hostage situation, but even a quick glance showed him that the woman wasn’t carrying any explosives. ‘It’s okay, guys, let her through,’ he said.
The two armed officers lowered their weapons.
Edwards ushered the woman into the sports shop. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked her.
‘Of course I’m not fucking okay. I’ve been held hostage by a fucking suicide bomber! Would you be okay?’
‘Why did he let you go?’
‘He didn’t say. He got a phone call and then he said me and the kids could go.’
‘A phone call? On the shop phone?’
The woman shook her head. ‘He had a mobile in his bumbag. That thing around his waist. He answered the call and then he said we could go.’
‘And, just to confirm, how many hostages are still in there?’
‘The poor girl he’s handcuffed to. Another shop assistant. And three customers. He’s keeping them in the changing rooms.’
‘What’s your name, madam?’
‘Stella. Stella Duffy.’
‘What we’re going to do, Stella, is get you to a safe place and have a chat with you about what’s happened.’ He waved over a female officer. ‘Can you take Mrs Duffy out to the Joint Emergency Services Control Centre, please?’
‘Will do, sir.’
‘He says you’re not to talk to him,’ said Mrs Duffy.
‘Who? Sami?’
‘He just said that if you try to talk to him again, everyone will die. He says you’re not to go anywhere near him. He said I was to tell you that and to make sure you understand.’
‘How does he seem?’ asked Sergeant Clarke.
‘What do you mean, how does he seem? He’s threatening to blow himself up, how do you think that seems? He’s a fucking nutter, that’s what he is. Now who do I see about compensation? Criminal Injuries and all that. I need compensating for what me and the little ones have been through.’
‘This lady will deal with all that,’ said Edwards.
The officer took the woman and her children away. ‘What do you think, Chris?’ asked Edwards.
‘It’s not usually how it works, is it? We offer them something and ask for something in return. He sent out the kids for no good reason — he already had the food and the bucket.’ The sergeant grinned. ‘Maybe he just got fed up with her. You saw how mouthy she was.’
‘Or maybe he didn’t want the kids in the firing line. But when we spoke to him, he didn’t seem to care much.’ Edwards took out his mobile. ‘I’ll give GT Ops a call and let them know what’s happening.’
‘And what do we do?’ asked the sergeant.
‘You heard what she said. He doesn’t want to talk so we just wait and see if he changes his mind. At least we got three of the hostages out.’
LAMBETH CENTRAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMAND CENTRE (3.56 p.m.)
Superintendent Kamran’s stomach growled and he realised it had been almost four hours since he had eaten anything. He glanced at Sergeant Lumley, but he was busy on the phone, so he took the lift up to the third floor, visited the toilet then headed to the canteen. As soon as he pushed the door open he saw Captain Murray out on the terrace, smoking. Kamran went to join him.
The terrace ran almost the full length of the building and looked north towards the river. Off to the left was Lambeth Palace, the home of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and beyond it the Houses of Parliament. Directly in front of them was the top of the London Eye. Off to the right was the eighty-seven-storey glass skyscraper known as the Shard. It was one of the best views in London and a prime location for watching the riverside fireworks on New Year’s Eve, as Kamran knew from experience. He had been on duty the two previous years and both times had managed to catch the displays.
‘Not a smoker are you, Mo?’ asked the captain.
‘Gave up years ago,’ said Kamran. ‘You okay?’
‘All good,’ said Murray. ‘Just getting my thoughts together. That basement gets bloody claustrophobic at times.’
‘It’s because it’s underground, no natural light,’ said Kamran.
Murray nodded. ‘Hell of a day.’
‘Yeah, you can say that again.’
‘You’ve never seen suicide bombers up close and personal, have you?’ asked the captain.
‘Thankfully, no,’ said Kamran. ‘You?’
‘Once in Iraq and three times in Afghanistan. They’re difficult to figure out.’ He blew smoke up into the air and the wind whipped it away. ‘It’s like they want to die. No fear at all. Their sole aim is to blow themselves up and take as many people as they can with them.’
‘How did you deal with them?’
‘You kill them. That’s the only way. You can’t talk to them, you can’t reason with them. All you can do is slot them before they blow themselves up.’
‘I think we have a different situation today,’ said Kamran. ‘I don’t think it’s about killing people.’
‘You can’t be sure of that,’ said Murray. He blew more smoke up into the air. ‘My second tour in Afghanistan, there was a young kid who hung around our base. We called him Wrigley because he was always asking for chewing-gum. His dad was a metalworker and he made these pens out of machine-gun casings. Sold them as souvenirs at a dollar apiece. I bought a couple. We let him wander around the base, do odd jobs, practise his English, that sort of thing. Then one day he turned up wearing a different jacket. Bigger than his usual one. He got to within about fifty feet of our main command tent before we realised what he was up to.’ Murray shuddered and his hand shook as he took another pull on his cigarette.
‘A suicide vest?’ said Kamran, quietly.
Murray nodded. ‘The wind lifted the jacket. There were tubes of explosive wrapped around his body, studded with dozens of his father’s pens. My mate Bunny Warren saw it first and shouted a warning. We both fired but I’m not sure who got the killing shot in. Either way we blew his head off and the bomb didn’t detonate. If it had done,’ he shrugged, ‘well, I probably wouldn’t be here telling you the story.’