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Authors: Boris Johnson
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yellow zig-zags on her torso, and an air of Anglo-Saxon indignation.
‘I feel a bit silly reporting it, but I feel it’s my duty. It’s just so uncivilized.’
‘I know, madam,’ said Louise Botting, and passed her a form.
‘Do you know why they do it?’
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘Is there ever any chance of catching them, do you think?’
‘Well, there’s always a chance, I s’pose.’
Behind her in the queue, Dragan groaned.
‘What I would like to know,’ said the woman loudly as she left, ‘is what kind of person would steal my bike seat?’
No one in the room felt able to answer, least of all Dragan, who now bent towards the counter, his muscles still trembling with exertion.
‘How can I help you, sir?’ asked Louise Botting.
‘They killed the traffic warden, didn’t they,’ said Dragan.
‘Did they?’ asked Sergeant Botting, and then listened with mounting amazement. At one point she interrupted him. ‘Did you say you were removing an ambulance?’
‘I told him not to. I was going to tell him not to.’
‘And why are you covered in mud?’
Dragan thumped a weary fist on the attack-proof glass, like a drunk in a benefit office. ‘I swear I am telling the truth.’
Louise Botting summoned the station commander, and together they took a full statement.
‘Are you saying you lifted this ambulance? Right. And where is this ambulance now? They drove off, you say, and you are sure they are Muslim terrorists. I see, Mr Panic. Now, what’s your address? No. 10, Eaton Place, SW1. You’re sure about that. I see.’
Then the station commander took a call, and when he explained its contents to Louise Botting, she looked at Dragan Panic with new and wondering eyes.
She filled in an Initial Crime Report, and timed the incident for 9 a.m.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
0900 HRS
BONG Big Ben struck nine, and on the roof of the Commons, Pickel quivered again.
BONG The cavalcade effortfully turned right towards Chelsea, and the leaves of the Embankment waved beneath the passage of the Black Hawk.
BONG The Ambassador of the French Republic, M. Yves Charpentier, told his official driver to follow the Mall down to Parliament Square and make for St Stephen’s Entrance. Then he sat back on the blue velour of the Renault and buried his nose in the hot black scented crown of his mistress, Benedicte al-Walibi.
BONG In a cave in the tribal areas of Pakistan, not far from the Afghan border, the BBC’s coverage of the state visit was being closely monitored on TV.
BONG The British Prime Minister sat in his small office in Downing Street and gave heartfelt thanks, once again, to the protocol ruling which meant he did not have to attend the speech in Westminster Hall; the theory being that he had proposed the President’s health last night at Windsor, and that was enough. John Major, it had been pointed out, was not there for Nelson Mandela. Nor for Bill Clinton, if his memory served him correctly.
BONG Colonel Bluett of the US Secret Service had decided that it was time to take a more active role in the security operation, and was now being driven in a blacked-out Ford from Grosvenor Square to Scotland Yard.
BONG In the White House in Washington, the Presidential red setter had a beautiful dream, in which he sunk his teeth into the neck of the Presidential cat.
BONG Roger Barlow’s four-year-old heir was sitting cross-legged at school, and looking intently at some pictures of king-killing in old Dahomey.
BONG Jones felt the first drop of perspiration emerge from his temple and run down his cheek.
As Roger and Cameron gained the entrance to New Palace Yard, a taxi drew up. The policeman bent down to look through the window, and then let them through. After twenty-five years everyone knew Felix Thomson. Barlow knew him, too, and offered a mock-salute which was returned, though perhaps a little more mockingly than Barlow, in an ideal world, would
‘I feel a bit silly reporting it, but I feel it’s my duty. It’s just so uncivilized.’
‘I know, madam,’ said Louise Botting, and passed her a form.
‘Do you know why they do it?’
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘Is there ever any chance of catching them, do you think?’
‘Well, there’s always a chance, I s’pose.’
Behind her in the queue, Dragan groaned.
‘What I would like to know,’ said the woman loudly as she left, ‘is what kind of person would steal my bike seat?’
No one in the room felt able to answer, least of all Dragan, who now bent towards the counter, his muscles still trembling with exertion.
‘How can I help you, sir?’ asked Louise Botting.
‘They killed the traffic warden, didn’t they,’ said Dragan.
‘Did they?’ asked Sergeant Botting, and then listened with mounting amazement. At one point she interrupted him. ‘Did you say you were removing an ambulance?’
‘I told him not to. I was going to tell him not to.’
‘And why are you covered in mud?’
Dragan thumped a weary fist on the attack-proof glass, like a drunk in a benefit office. ‘I swear I am telling the truth.’
Louise Botting summoned the station commander, and together they took a full statement.
‘Are you saying you lifted this ambulance? Right. And where is this ambulance now? They drove off, you say, and you are sure they are Muslim terrorists. I see, Mr Panic. Now, what’s your address? No. 10, Eaton Place, SW1. You’re sure about that. I see.’
Then the station commander took a call, and when he explained its contents to Louise Botting, she looked at Dragan Panic with new and wondering eyes.
She filled in an Initial Crime Report, and timed the incident for 9 a.m.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
0900 HRS
BONG Big Ben struck nine, and on the roof of the Commons, Pickel quivered again.
BONG The cavalcade effortfully turned right towards Chelsea, and the leaves of the Embankment waved beneath the passage of the Black Hawk.
BONG The Ambassador of the French Republic, M. Yves Charpentier, told his official driver to follow the Mall down to Parliament Square and make for St Stephen’s Entrance. Then he sat back on the blue velour of the Renault and buried his nose in the hot black scented crown of his mistress, Benedicte al-Walibi.
BONG In a cave in the tribal areas of Pakistan, not far from the Afghan border, the BBC’s coverage of the state visit was being closely monitored on TV.
BONG The British Prime Minister sat in his small office in Downing Street and gave heartfelt thanks, once again, to the protocol ruling which meant he did not have to attend the speech in Westminster Hall; the theory being that he had proposed the President’s health last night at Windsor, and that was enough. John Major, it had been pointed out, was not there for Nelson Mandela. Nor for Bill Clinton, if his memory served him correctly.
BONG Colonel Bluett of the US Secret Service had decided that it was time to take a more active role in the security operation, and was now being driven in a blacked-out Ford from Grosvenor Square to Scotland Yard.
BONG In the White House in Washington, the Presidential red setter had a beautiful dream, in which he sunk his teeth into the neck of the Presidential cat.
BONG Roger Barlow’s four-year-old heir was sitting cross-legged at school, and looking intently at some pictures of king-killing in old Dahomey.
BONG Jones felt the first drop of perspiration emerge from his temple and run down his cheek.
As Roger and Cameron gained the entrance to New Palace Yard, a taxi drew up. The policeman bent down to look through the window, and then let them through. After twenty-five years everyone knew Felix Thomson. Barlow knew him, too, and offered a mock-salute which was returned, though perhaps a little more mockingly than Barlow, in an ideal world, would
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