Thorne looked at him. ‘Well, I’ve not made an arrest as yet, if that’s what you want to know.’
‘What I want to know is how likely it is that you can give the man in that shop what he’s asking for. How likely and how long.’
‘There’s no way I can answer that.’
‘Well, you might have to think of one.’
Thorne kept smiling. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Listen, I need to think about what my options are,’ Chivers said. ‘Do you understand?’ He jabbed a finger in the direction of the newsagent’s. ‘When he runs out of patience.’
‘Oh, I understand,’ Thorne said. ‘Because I’m not an idiot, you know?’ He shouldered open the doors and turned towards the hall. ‘Sounds to me though like you’re the one that’s getting impatient.’ He took a few steps. ‘Maybe you should relax a little, mate. Take it easy , you know, instead of living on a prayer. One day at a time, sweet Jesus.’
Chivers stared for a few seconds, until the penny dropped. ‘Song titles,’ he said. ‘Funny.’
Donnelly was waiting at the monitors and as soon as he saw Thorne and Chivers approaching, he gave Pascoe the go-ahead to make the call. Pascoe nodded and made final adjustments to the headset she had connected via Bluetooth to her mobile.
Thorne saw that photographs of the two hostages had been taped to the edges of the monitor. He presumed that Pascoe had done it. A reminder to herself that they were dealing with human beings.
Stephen Mitchell was grinning in sunglasses and a garish shirt. A holiday snap, presumably provided by his wife.
The picture of Helen Weeks had clearly been faxed over from the Met’s HR department. A straightforward ID photograph, but Thorne recognised the woman he had last seen at a funeral more than a year before. The soft features and ash-blonde hair. She looked serious in the picture, but this too was how he remembered her. Heavily pregnant with a dead boyfriend, there had not been much to smile about back then.
Next to him, Pascoe dialled. She moved the small microphone into position and cleared her throat.
Not an awful lot to smile about now, Thorne thought.
Helen Weeks’ phone rang three times, then Akhtar answered. They all looked at one another anxiously as the newsagent’s voice rang out from the speakers.
‘Hello.’
‘Javed… this is Sue Pascoe. I spoke to you yesterday.’
‘I know who you are.’
‘I need to speak to Helen. Is that possible?’
‘What, you need to speak to her because you have something to say or you need to check that she is all right?’
‘Can I speak to her?’
Akhtar’s voice faded a little as he said, ‘They want to know that you are all right.’ Then, after a second or two, Helen shouted, ‘We’re both fine, Sue. I could murder a decent cup of coffee and a sausage sandwich though.’
Pascoe said, ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ but Akhtar had come back to the phone.
‘Is that acceptable?’
‘Yes, thanks, Javed.’ She glanced at Thorne. There was an odd formality to Akhtar’s voice that she had often heard in those who spoke English as a second language. But there was an unmistakable tightness there too. ‘So how was your night?’
‘It was fine,’ Akhtar said. There was a long pause. ‘How was yours?’
‘It was good, thanks. Listen, is there anything we can do to make you all a little more comfortable in there? Anything-’
‘We’re fine,’ Akhtar said. ‘Nobody’s coming in, OK? No policemen dressed as pizza delivery men or any of that.’
‘I understand,’ Pascoe said. ‘Nobody’s coming in, Javed. We just want to do anything we can to help while we try and get everything sorted out the way you want.’
‘Is Thorne there?’
Pascoe looked to Donnelly. He nodded. ‘Yes, he’s here.’
‘Let me talk to him.’
Pascoe took off her headset and handed it to Thorne. He sat down and adjusted the microphone. Said, ‘I’m here.’ Pascoe made ‘calm, calm’ gestures with her hands and Thorne nodded, thinking that there was someone else he needed to tell that he wasn’t an idiot. ‘I’m listening, Javed.’
‘No, I’m the one that is listening. I want to know what you have found out about my son. About what really happened to him.’
‘Did you get my message?’ Thorne asked. ‘Did Helen tell you what I said?’
‘That you believe me? Yes, she told me.’
‘That’s good.’
‘So now it’s up to you to make people believe us. The fact is, I don’t care one way or another what you believe as long as you find out who murdered my son. And I am not a fool, so please do not keep telling me that these things take time.’ The voice was tighter still now, the anger surfacing fast. ‘It did not seem to take very long for your colleagues to decide that Amin had killed himself. It took less than an hour for the jury at that ridiculous inquest to confirm it. I only hope that you can prove that they were wrong just as quickly.’
‘I’m doing everything I can, Javed. I’m-’
‘You are sitting out there, talking on the phone,’ Akhtar said. ‘How is that going to help either of us? How is it going to help your friend Miss Weeks?’
Thorne looked at Pascoe and searched for something to say, but before he could come up with anything the line had gone dead.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Thorne asked Donnelly if he could speak to Nadira Akhtar again before he left. Told him that, with luck, she might be able to suggest where he should be going.
‘You think she knows something that will help?’
‘Not a clue,’ Thorne said. ‘But I haven’t got any better ideas.’
‘Listen, wherever you go, make sure you stay in touch, OK?’ The superintendent was walking with him to the classroom that had been set aside as a family liaison area. Donnelly was rather more casually dressed today, in short-sleeved white shirt and black tie. Dispensing with the jacket and hat gave the impression to fellow officers and interested civilians alike that he was mucking in with the rest of his team, rolling up his sleeves. Though it might just have been because he was sweating. ‘And obviously, if you have any communication with Helen Weeks, you let me know straight away.’
‘I have been,’ Thorne said.
‘So what was all that about on the phone?’
‘All what about?’
‘Your message.’
‘You know what it was.’
‘Is it true?’ Donnelly stopped outside the classroom. ‘Do you think he’s right about what happened to his son?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Thorne said. ‘But whether I can prove it and give him what he wants in time is a different question.’
‘He hasn’t given us any kind of time limit.’
‘You heard him just now.’ Thorne nodded back towards the hall. ‘And a certain firearms officer with his cock where his Glock should be is getting decidedly twitchy, if you ask me.’
Donnelly flashed him a warning look as he knocked on the window in the classroom door and beckoned to the WPC inside. He told her that Thorne needed to talk to Mrs Akhtar and the officer stepped out, looking grateful for the chance of some air, or perhaps just a change of company.
The desks had been pushed back against the walls and a few plastic seats set up in a circle in the middle of the room. There was a low table with tea and biscuits. A few magazines were scattered about, but Nadira Akhtar did not look as if she felt much like flicking through Take a Break or OK!
She was sitting on a chair near the window.
Thorne saw the open holdall beneath one of the desks as he carried a chair across to join her. Clothes and a flowery washbag. ‘Did you sleep here last night?’
‘I wanted to,’ she said. ‘The house is empty anyway.’
‘Where’s your son?’
‘He has a family of his own to take care of.’ She looked at Thorne for the first time. ‘He will come back later but I am happier being on my own, to be honest with you. We argue.’
‘About what?’
She waved the question away.
‘Couldn’t your daughter stay with you?’
‘I told her to keep away.’ She shook her head, then tucked a strand of greying hair back beneath her embroidered headscarf. ‘I do not want her to see her father like this. To see how much he is frightening everyone.’ She looked towards the door. ‘To be around all these people who hate him.’