Closer Still (20 page)

Authors: Jo Bannister

BOOK: Closer Still

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âI didn't
say â¦
!' Daniel heard the hysteria in his own voice and made an effort to calm down. âI think I know what's going on. The phone system's down and I need to tell the police. Help me!'

The man regarded him thoughtfully for perhaps another ten seconds. Then he nodded. âAll right. Mind you, I'm taking a chance. If it turns out you've blown up the town hall after all, you'll have me to answer to.'

Daniel didn't know whether to laugh or cry. âFine. It's a deal. Now
please
, let me through!'

One tweed arm spread wide like a door opening. âLet him through. Let him through, now. The man's got urgent business. Terrorist? Does he
look
like a terrorist? He's a â¦ He's a â¦' Stuck for inspiration he looked down at Daniel and hissed, âWhat are you?'

Daniel hissed back, âI'm a teacher.'

The man looked shocked. âEe, lad, are you sure you want to tell them that?'

A sense of the surreal washed over him and Daniel shook his head. âNo. Silly me. Tell them I'm a competitor on a television game show. Tell them I've got ten minutes to get to Battle Alley. Tell them, if it takes fifteen I'll still get the dishwasher but I'll miss out on the cuddly toy.'

Even the Chinese Whisperers didn't know what to do with that. They stared at Daniel and blinked. Then they stood back.

âThank you.' He took a deep breath and started running again. A shy voice called after him, âGood luck â¦'

Three hundred metres further down the hill he thought he was in trouble again. The log-jam of cars was gradually being broken up, and one of the few he'd seen moving this afternoon slowed to keep pace with him. He stole enough breath from his running to yell plaintively, âLeave me alone! I'm not hurting anybody.'

And Detective Sergeant Voss leant across the passenger seat and said in a puzzled tone, âI can see that, Daniel. But what exactly
are
you doing?'

Daniel staggered to a halt against a lamppost, relief all but sweeping the legs from under him. âCharlie! I was never so glad to see anyone in my life! But why aren't you in the hospital?'

âBecause I'm fine,' growled Voss. âAnd because, with all this going on, there'd be
something
I could do even if I wasn't. Get in. Where are you going?'

His knees still bending both ways, Daniel fell in rather than got in. âBattle Alley. Unless you've got a radio.'

âOf course I've got a radio. Why?'

While Voss was raising Battle Alley, Daniel explained.

Superintendent Fuller didn't ask constables to do something he wouldn't do himself. When he got the message from the Battle Alley radio room he gave it a little thought, offered up a little prayer and stepped out of the cordon, squelching across the mud towards the blockhouse. It was the longest hundred metres he'd ever walked.

Deacon looked up as he approached. âHello,' he observed to the man inside the bunker. âDevelopments.' He got up stiffly and went to meet his colleague.

âThere's no need to look so nervous,' he said when they were out of earshot. âHe's not blowing up anything.'

âI know he's not,' said Fuller. âHe's the decoy.'

Deacon's eyes drilled into him like diamond-tipped bits. â
What
?'

Fuller passed on the message he'd received, and where
he'd received it from. âThey could be wrong, of course.'

âOf course they could,' acknowledged Deacon. âThey very often are. Just, not quite as often as they're right.'

âIs that what he's waiting for? The bang, the puff of smoke.'

âHe was waiting for a phone call. When I told him he wasn't getting one, he was a bit put out â but not enough to rethink the whole thing. If Brodie's right, we can guess why. He knows I'll tell him when the middle of Dimmock hits the stratosphere.'

âWhat do you want to do? If this makes sense to you, we can leave a reduced presence here and pull everyone else back into town. Or we can split our forces and try to cover both scenes.'

Deacon had no idea. âWhat's the situation in town? I mean, if it's already empty â if the evacuation is pretty much complete â¦?'

Fuller shook his head. âPeople found they couldn't reach a safe distance and now they're drifting back. I can keep them out of the town centre. I probably can't keep them from returning to their homes. And if there is a bomb, it could be anywhere.'

âHave you told Division?'

âNot yet. I only just got the message. I wanted to ask you how seriously we should take it.'

Deacon frowned pensively. âThey're not jerking you around, if that's what you're wondering. If they went to this much trouble getting you a message, they think it's a clear and present danger. If we can do anything about it, I think we should.'

âAll right,' decided Fuller. âWill you stay with Stretton? I'll leave you enough men to keep him contained, take the rest of them back to town. If there's an explosion, at least we'll be there to control the situation. Maybe when Stretton sees we've twigged his little game he'll give himself up.

âMaybe,' said Deacon doubtfully. âI can't quite make him out. I'm not sure why he's doing this. I'm not even sure what it is he's doing.'

Fuller shrugged. âWe'll get to the bottom of it, one way or another. It just may be too late.'

Deacon's eyebrows climbed. âToo late for what?'

âToo late for him. When I tell Division, their response will be to send a marksman.'

Chapter Twenty-Five

She was fleeing the country? Faith Stretton was leaving her son sitting on two tonnes of dynamite and getting away while the police were whistling up a SWAT team? Brodie didn't believe it. Maybe she didn't know Faith well, but she knew her better than that. She was sharp, snippy, independent, defiant of convention, impatient of constraint. She was â¦

Well yes, she was very like Brodie herself. And Brodie knew there were no circumstances, none, in which she would put her needs ahead of Paddy's.

The road they were on straightened as it dropped off the northern edge of Menner Down onto the rich agricultural levels beyond, the car ahead regaining a little of the lead Graham had been whittling back. The bike picked up speed too, the slipstream whistling past Brodie's helmet and tugging at her sleeves.

By now Faith must know she was being followed. There were only these two vehicles on the road. Someone heading for the supermarket might have put it down to coincidence: someone in the grip of a crisis would know it was nothing of the kind. If it was the sort of crisis that could be sorted out by stopping and explaining, she'd have
done it by now. So it wasn't.

Brodie's thoughts ran on with the wheels on the tarmac. Faith was up to her neck in something, all right â something she considered more important than her son's future. Brodie couldn't imagine anything that big, that bad. Yet the evidence was plain. Four miles away Dev was holed up with his explosives while his mother was heading for the nearest airstrip. And on the far side of the Three Downs, Dimmock police were struggling to contain a terror alert. These facts could not be unconnected. If there was a plot to bomb Dimmock, Dev Stretton had to be part of it.

Why? Brodie asked herself then. Because his skin was darker than hers? If Dev had shared Daniel's colouring, would anyone have linked him to a bomb plot? Well, perhaps â if he'd tried to steal two tonnes of explosives! Still â¦ He'd done something desperately stupid, dangerous and criminal, and however inadequate he must have had a reason. But was that necessarily the killing of shedloads of English people for the greater glory of Islam? Or was he still acting out the consequences of previous events? Long before there was a terror alert, someone had already put his hand to murder. But for the incident at Balfour Terrace â and if Brodie had understood correctly, the meaning of that incident was still not entirely clear, even to the police â would any of them have dreamt of linking Dev Stretton with a terror plot?

His hand? Or hers? That made Brodie forget what she was doing long enough to lose her balance. Graham shoved her back into place with his elbow.

Most murder victims are killed by people they know.
Faith not only knew Joe Loomis, she'd fought with him publicly just days before his death. In any other murder case, that would have been enough to turn the spotlight her way. But when an al-Qaeda terrorist was observed in Dimmock, suddenly the police had more to worry about than the violent but not terribly unwelcome death of a local thug.

And as their inquiries continued, somehow it had come to be assumed that all these events were connected. And maybe that was a mistake. That was why things didn't quite add up, however hard you juggled the figures â even if you got a mathematician to do it. They didn't add up because some of them were apples and some were miles to the gallon.

Brodie tried to focus on what she knew or could with confidence surmise. Faith was on the run. Dev had been cornered in an attempt to steal explosives that was so cack-handed he must have wanted to attract police attention. It was a diversionary tactic. But he wasn't making a political point â he was trying to protect his mother. Maybe they both thought that when the truth came out he'd be in less trouble than she would. But if Faith killed Loomis, the very least Dev would have to answer for was perverting the course of justice. Maybe he'd think it was worth it, but Faith couldn't believe that. Could she?

The lane swung round to approach the airfield. It wasn't Heathrow or Gatwick; it wasn't even Ronaldsway. It was a flat field with two bits of tarmac on it, one running approximately north to south, the other crossing at an angle. The control tower was rather like the explosives
bunker at Crichton Construction, except with a second storey made mostly of glass and a windsock perched on top. There was a hangar â except if you'd seen it in a field with cows in it you'd have said there was a barn â and that was it. No terminals, no restaurants, no Duty Free, no Customs. Just the strip, one car parked beside the squat little tower and a helicopter on the tarmac.

The airstrip was inside the no-fly zone and should have been shut down. But the helicopter was sitting on the tarmac with its engine ticking over.

Paddy would have known what kind of a helicopter it was. She'd have known the engine size, the rotor diameter, the hovering ceiling and quite possibly the test pilot's name. But Brodie never went through a plane spotting phase. The only aircraft she knew by name were Concorde and the Spitfire, and it was neither of those. She supposed it was executive transport for the successful smaller company, a guess in which she was helped by the green and gold livery and the elegant scrawl along the boom:
The Green & Pleasant Leisure Company.

A man was standing beside it. Over Graham's shoulder Brodie saw him look up at the sound of the approaching car; and again and more sharply when he heard the second engine.

Faith Stretton didn't lift her foot from the accelerator until the man was waving frantically at her. Then she braked hard enough to skid on the grass, and she flung open the driver's door before the car had come to rest.

Even so, she was barely halfway out before Graham had fishtailed to a halt beside her. Brodie climbed down from
the bike, slapping her helmet into his chest as if he was the one who owed her an explanation. While the men watched, slightly confused and slightly appalled, the women picked up the argument exactly where they'd left it off.

âHow
could
you?' yelled Brodie. âThat boy's ready to lay down his life for you! And you're prepared to
let
him?'

âStay
out
of this!' spat Faith. âYou have no idea what's going on here! Go back to your incomplete teasets and broken figurines, and let me sort this out!'

âIt's too
big
!' cried Brodie. âYou can't sort it out! They think he's a terrorist!'

âExcuse me,' said the man with the plane. âWhat is happening? Who â¦?'

Faith didn't let Brodie answer. âIt'll be all right. We worked it out. Once you reach France it'll all be over. No one's going to get hurt.'

âYou reckon?' hooted Brodie, shrill with disbelief. âListen to me. I know something about the police. And I'm telling you, some sharp-shooter from Counter Terrorism will have him in their cross-hairs just about now, on the basis that a big explosion in a field is better than a small explosion in a town centre!'

They might have worked it out, Dev Stretton and his mother, in the wee small hours of the morning when anything can sound possible, but they hadn't considered that. They'd thought it was clever to use the terror alert as cover. They hadn't realised how serious the situation already was, or how much more serious it would become. They never guessed that this was one of those rare occasions when, even in Britain, the consequences of acting first and
asking questions afterwards were seen as less frightful than doing it the other way round.

Now she thought about it, the implications crashed through Faith's face like falling masonry, taking the colour with them. Instinctively she looked over her shoulder, back the way she'd come. âNo,' she whimpered.

âYes!' insisted Brodie. âAnd I know he doesn't want to hurt anyone, but the police think he's a suicide bomber. Even if Daniel's managed to get a message to Jack at the site, they still think it's bombers he's acting as a decoy for. When they get a clear shot they'll take it. This is
big
! They're worrying about hundreds of lives, you stupid woman, and not so much about the guy with the TNT.'

âExcuse me,' said the man with the helicopter again, still polite but more firmly. âWill someone please tell me what you are talking about? Things are going on that I am not aware of.'

For the first time Brodie took enough notice of him to identify the accent and, putting it together with the sturdy frame and short wavy hair, to realise she knew him. âIt's Mr Tarar, isn't it? From the country club?' She looked again at the aircraft. âThis is yours?'

âAnd you are Mrs Farrell, I believe. Yes, the helicopter is mine. That is of no importance. Please tell me, who is believed to be behind a plot to blow up the town centre and for this reason is liable to be shot?' And the tremor barring the words said he already knew the answer.

Her voice a stunned ghost, Faith said: âDev is.'

Another of those massive silences stretched and grew. There were three big engines turning over in the immediate
vicinity â a car, a bike and an Avco Lycoming aero-engine â but the silence swallowed them all, sucking the sound into itself.

Finally Tarar said to Faith: âYou planned this.' His voice was calm, but it was the same kind of calm as the silence â a calm that had swallowed fury.

Faith didn't know how to answer him. âNo. At least â¦ It was Dev's idea. He thought they'd lift the no-fly zone if they believed they had the mad bomber cornered.'

âWhy didn't you
tell
me?'

âPervez, there hasn't been time!' Then, acknowledging that while it was the truth it wasn't the whole truth, she added in a small voice, âAnd I was afraid.'

âAfraid I'd change my mind?'

âYes.'

He considered. He breathed out a sad little sigh. âYou were right.'

From the way she held his sleeve it was clear that Faith Stretton and Pervez Tarar were old friends. âNo!' she insisted. âThis is what Dev wants â what he's risking his life for. It's his call. Not yours, not mine â Dev's. You don't have the right to refuse him!'

He didn't shake her off. His eyes were compassionate but unyielding. âI'm sorry. I know what I said. But I'm not going anywhere while my son is in danger.'

âWas that a plane?' Through the open crack of the blockhouse door Dev Stretton's voice sounded suddenly alert.

Deacon cast a weary eye at the sky. âNo, a helicopter.
Oh â¦' There shouldn't even have been a helicopter aloft just then.

âDoes that mean they've lifted the no-fly zone?'

âMight do,' shrugged Deacon. âMaybe they've got your mates, and decided the risk of you flying a concrete shed into a tall building is one worth taking.'

The witticism was lost on Stretton. âI don't have any mates.'

âIf you're looking for sympathy, you're doing it all wrong.

Dev Stretton struggled to make himself clear. âI mean, this isn't a conspiracy. It's just me. You can't have picked up the other guys because there aren't any.'

Deacon shuffled, trying to ease the ache in his lower back. âBut if there were, I expect that's what you'd tell me anyway.

Stretton gave a faintly desperate little chuckle. âI expect it is. Listen, Superintendent. Would you believe me if I told you this was nearly over?'

Deacon considered. âI might.'

âGood. Because it is. Keep me company for another half-hour, then I'll come out with my hands up or any other way you want, and we'll go back to your place and I'll tell you everything. Including why I killed Joe Loomis.'

Deacon's expression didn't flicker. âYou killed Joe Loomis.'

âYes. I'll tell you everything that happened. Just be patient another half-hour.'

Deacon didn't really do patient. The closest he ever got was no bloody alternative. âGive me something to think
about while we're waiting. What do you know about Daoud?'

âThat won't fill half an hour. I know nothing about him.'

âHe is dead, you know,' said Deacon. âHe can't get at you now. Well â unless he comes back to haunt you. But with seventy-two virgins waiting, who would?'

âReally,' said Stretton, âI don't know him. I don't know anything about him.'

âHow about the Dhazi cousins?'

The visible half of Stretton's brow frowned. âThere's a Rafiq Dhazi who works in the building society.'

âThat's where you know him from? He runs your ISA?'

Stretton shook his head. âI don't know him. I've seen the name on his lapel badge.'

âThen tell me this,' said Deacon. âAre you a Moslem?'

Stretton bristled. âNot that it's any of your business, but no.

âYou get my town in a muck sweat and
anything
to do with you is my business,' Deacon said forcibly. âA Christian, then?'