could find about the layout of the shop and the man who owned it to the team from Specialist Crime. A few more had come down from Helen Weeks’ unit in Streatham, volunteering to help, but now found themselves with little to do.
Donnelly was at the monitors with Sue Pascoe when Chivers walked across to join them.
They studied the pictures for a while.
‘Phones?’ Chivers said.
Pascoe shook her head. ‘He’s making us wait.’
They had quickly established that there was a landline in the shop, but just as quickly discovered that Akhtar had taken the phone off the hook. Calls being made every fifteen minutes to the mobiles registered to both Helen Weeks and Stephen Mitchell were going straight to voicemail.
‘In for the long haul, I reckon,’ Donnelly said.
Chivers shrugged. ‘Up to you.’
‘Up to Mr Akhtar, I would have thought.’
‘Only if we let him have control of the situation.’
Donnelly stared at the screen. ‘I’m open to suggestions.’
‘Look at those shutters.’ Chivers pointed at the monitor. ‘They’ve already been twisted up at the bottom, see? That’s just kids or what have you. Wouldn’t take us long to get through those.’
‘Long enough for him to do something.’
‘We need to get this sorted quickly,’ Chivers said.
‘What we need ,’ Pascoe said, ‘is to open a channel of communication with our hostage taker.’
‘At least let us get Tech Support in here.’ Chivers was looking at Donnelly. ‘Get some microphones up on the roof, take a listen to what’s going on in there.’
‘Too risky,’ Pascoe said. ‘If he thinks there’s anything like that going on, he might do something stupid.’
‘We don’t even know the gun is loaded.’ Chivers stabbed at the monitor again. ‘He’s a newsagent , for Christ’s sake.’
Donnelly looked at Pascoe. She shook her head.
‘We do something without really thinking it through,’ she said, ‘and he’ll be the one making the news.’
NINE
Helen listened, waiting and hoping for some reaction.
Akhtar had been in his shop for ten minutes or more, while for most of that time, from the front of the building, a woman’s voice had echoed – crackling and tinny – through a loudhailer.
‘We just want to talk, Mr Akhtar. We need to know that everyone’s all right in there. If we could start some kind of dialogue on the phone, we could begin talking about how we’re going to resolve this. How we can get you what you want without anybody getting hurt.’
When he finally came back into the storeroom, Akhtar was carrying an armful of chocolate bars and bags of crisps. He stood a few steps away from where Helen and Mitchell were chained to the radiator and stared down at them.
‘So, what do you think?’ Helen asked.
‘What do I think about what?’
‘Should we maybe just switch my phone on at least?’
Akhtar blinked, licked his lips.
‘If you don’t communicate with them—’
‘I already said ,’ he shouted. ‘When I’m ready .’ He stamped his foot like a petulant schoolboy and shook his head as if clearing it or trying to refocus. Then he smiled suddenly at Helen and Mitchell, calmly opened his arms and dropped the crisps and chocolate at their feet. ‘It’s lunchtime,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid this is the best I can do.’
Helen watched him walk back to the desk and pick up the gun. As far as her stomach was concerned, she did not know where fear ended and hunger began.
‘It’s time to eat,’ he said.
She slowly pulled a chocolate bar towards her with her free hand and tore at the wrapper with her teeth. She bit into it, then nodded towards a packet of crisps. ‘I don’t think I can open that with one hand,’ she said.
Akhtar said, ‘Sorry.’ With the gun still pointed at them, he bent down slowly, opened the two bags of crisps that were closest to him then nudged them across the dirty linoleum floor with his foot.
Mitchell did not seem interested in the food. He never took his
Donnelly was at the monitors with Sue Pascoe when Chivers walked across to join them.
They studied the pictures for a while.
‘Phones?’ Chivers said.
Pascoe shook her head. ‘He’s making us wait.’
They had quickly established that there was a landline in the shop, but just as quickly discovered that Akhtar had taken the phone off the hook. Calls being made every fifteen minutes to the mobiles registered to both Helen Weeks and Stephen Mitchell were going straight to voicemail.
‘In for the long haul, I reckon,’ Donnelly said.
Chivers shrugged. ‘Up to you.’
‘Up to Mr Akhtar, I would have thought.’
‘Only if we let him have control of the situation.’
Donnelly stared at the screen. ‘I’m open to suggestions.’
‘Look at those shutters.’ Chivers pointed at the monitor. ‘They’ve already been twisted up at the bottom, see? That’s just kids or what have you. Wouldn’t take us long to get through those.’
‘Long enough for him to do something.’
‘We need to get this sorted quickly,’ Chivers said.
‘What we need ,’ Pascoe said, ‘is to open a channel of communication with our hostage taker.’
‘At least let us get Tech Support in here.’ Chivers was looking at Donnelly. ‘Get some microphones up on the roof, take a listen to what’s going on in there.’
‘Too risky,’ Pascoe said. ‘If he thinks there’s anything like that going on, he might do something stupid.’
‘We don’t even know the gun is loaded.’ Chivers stabbed at the monitor again. ‘He’s a newsagent , for Christ’s sake.’
Donnelly looked at Pascoe. She shook her head.
‘We do something without really thinking it through,’ she said, ‘and he’ll be the one making the news.’
NINE
Helen listened, waiting and hoping for some reaction.
Akhtar had been in his shop for ten minutes or more, while for most of that time, from the front of the building, a woman’s voice had echoed – crackling and tinny – through a loudhailer.
‘We just want to talk, Mr Akhtar. We need to know that everyone’s all right in there. If we could start some kind of dialogue on the phone, we could begin talking about how we’re going to resolve this. How we can get you what you want without anybody getting hurt.’
When he finally came back into the storeroom, Akhtar was carrying an armful of chocolate bars and bags of crisps. He stood a few steps away from where Helen and Mitchell were chained to the radiator and stared down at them.
‘So, what do you think?’ Helen asked.
‘What do I think about what?’
‘Should we maybe just switch my phone on at least?’
Akhtar blinked, licked his lips.
‘If you don’t communicate with them—’
‘I already said ,’ he shouted. ‘When I’m ready .’ He stamped his foot like a petulant schoolboy and shook his head as if clearing it or trying to refocus. Then he smiled suddenly at Helen and Mitchell, calmly opened his arms and dropped the crisps and chocolate at their feet. ‘It’s lunchtime,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid this is the best I can do.’
Helen watched him walk back to the desk and pick up the gun. As far as her stomach was concerned, she did not know where fear ended and hunger began.
‘It’s time to eat,’ he said.
She slowly pulled a chocolate bar towards her with her free hand and tore at the wrapper with her teeth. She bit into it, then nodded towards a packet of crisps. ‘I don’t think I can open that with one hand,’ she said.
Akhtar said, ‘Sorry.’ With the gun still pointed at them, he bent down slowly, opened the two bags of crisps that were closest to him then nudged them across the dirty linoleum floor with his foot.
Mitchell did not seem interested in the food. He never took his
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