Java Spider (8 page)

Marples stood up and stretched.

‘Tit and bum time for our dear viewers,’ he announced. ‘
Coffee
time for me. Thanks Charlie.’

He squeezed past her into the corridor.

‘If it was men in Y-fronts he’d still be watching,’ quipped the director when Marples was gone.

‘Bitch,’ said Charlotte. She was about to follow Marples out when the line six satellite monitor began to flicker. The ‘snow’ had gone. Instead, colour-bars and a caption.

‘What the hell’s that?’ the director snapped.

Words on the screen. Flashing.

URGENT TO NEWS CHANNEL
–
ROLL TO RECORD
.

‘We’re not expecting another feed, are we?’

‘No … no we’re not,’ Charlie answered, puzzled. Then she shivered. A weird feeling that something was about to happen. ‘Get a tape across it, quick!’

‘Must be a mistake …’

‘Or not. Get a tape running. Record the bloody thing!’ she yelled, angry at his inaction.

‘Tech Centre!’

‘Seen it. We’re recording line six.’

‘Good man.’

For thirty seconds the caption continued to flash, then the screen went to black. Two seconds later it was filled by a face. In the control room there was a communal gasp.

‘My God!’ Charlie choked. ‘It’s
him
! What’s happened?’

Stephen Bowen. A purple swelling on the left cheek. A cut on the jutting chin. Defeat in the usually confident eyes. Hair tousled, pale-blue shirt stained with blood. The minister opened his mouth to speak, flinching as if it hurt to do so.

Charlie reached for the intercom.

‘Tom!’ Voice taut as a violin string.

‘Yes?’

‘Are you watching line six?’

A pause.

‘Am now. Who the fuck is it?’

‘Stephen Bowen!’

‘Chri-ist! Are you recording?’

‘Yes. Hang on, he’s saying something …’

‘
I’m a prisoner. The people who have me say I’ll never be free again unless the British government stops selling weapons to Indonesia
.’

Voice weak and stilted.

‘
They say the equipment Britain’s selling will be used against people on the island of Kutu, who are being murdered and tortured by the Indonesian army, so that their homeland can be dug up for gold and copper
.’

Not his, the words. Memorised and recited.

‘
I will not be harmed so long as the British government tears up the arms contract that I signed last week and gets the United Nations to demand the full implementation of human rights in Indonesia
.’

Bowen’s eyes flicked sideways as if for fresh instructions. Then he picked up a placard and held it across his chest.

STOP ARMS SALES TO THE INDONESIAN MURDERES
it read. Then the picture went to snow.

‘Tom!’ Charlie screaming into the intercom. ‘You’re going to run that now, right?’

A moment’s pause. ‘Have to check it out first.’

‘What’s there to check?’ she seethed.

Marples was scared. Terrified of taking decisions. Always sought Sankey’s approval.

‘Tom, we’ve got this on our own. It’s a scoop! It’s news! We
have
to break into this swimsuit crap.’

On the station output a Baywatch blonde was removing the top half of her bikini.

‘
Now
, Tom!’ Charlie screamed. ‘I
know
the story. I’ll ad-lib it.’

‘OK,’ he conceded tensely. ‘I’m on my way. Get in the studio, Charlie.’

‘Tech centre!’ the director bellowed.

‘Cue it again from the top?’

‘You got it.’

‘And line up that clip reel I cut,’ said Charlie, turning in the doorway. ‘Listen for my words. I’ll make the cue clear.’

She sprinted through the newsroom, checking her top was free of coffee spills.

Mandy, bleary-eyed, was taking her coat off at the newsdesk, having arrived for the day shift. ‘Ring PA,’ Charlie shouted to her. ‘Tell them we’ve got an exclusive on Bowen and to watch us.’

She pushed through the thick door to the studio, trying to write a script in her head. She was handed an earpiece. Through it she heard Marples brief the presenters.

‘Coming to you in ten seconds, Charlie.’

She gave a thumbs up.

‘Tell us all you know! And good luck.’

The presenters took their cue.

‘We’re sorry to break into that swimsuit feature, just when things were getting interesting,’ the young man grinned, unable to change his style, ‘but we’ve got some fast breaking news that’s pretty sensational. The News Channel has just learned that the Foreign Office minister Stephen Bowen has been kidnapped. We’ve just received the first exclusive pictures of him, filmed by his captors. Our reporter Charlotte Cavendish is here to explain. She’s been following the story. Charlie? What can you tell us?’

She took her cue from the light on the camera.

‘For the past twenty-four hours there’s been a mystery about the whereabouts of Foreign Minister Stephen Bowen,’ she began, too excited to be nervous. ‘He didn’t return home at the weekend after a visit to Jakarta, where as these pictures show,’ – she glanced down at the monitor to check her clip reel was rolling – ‘he signed an agreement for Britain to sell Indonesia half a billion pounds’ worth of ships and submarines.
He
was due back in England at the end of last week, but he failed to turn up in his constituency for weekend meetings. The News Channel along with other media was asked by 10 Downing Street not to report the matter because, they said, his absence was due to
personal
problems. Well, just a few minutes ago, we discovered the real reason. Mr Bowen has been taken prisoner. His kidnappers have sent us these pictures of him by satellite.’

She heard the director cue the new tape.

‘As you can see, Mr Bowen has received facial injuries,’ she ad-libbed. ‘It appears he was forced to read this message from his captors.’

She stopped talking to let Bowen’s words come through.

‘
Perfect
.’ Marples’ voice in her ear. ‘
We’ll come back to you out of the video for a comment on what you think it’s all about
.’

Charlotte grimaced. What she knew about the human rights situation in Indonesia could be written on a postage stamp.

‘
Cue Charlotte
…’

‘As I said, the story has only
just
broken … We’ve no details yet as to how this happened … or where Mr Bowen’s being held …’ Her throat was beginning to dry. So was her mind. ‘But … British arms sales to Indonesia have provoked protests in this country and abroad for many years …’ she was floundering, ‘and last week demonstrators paraded outside Downing Street.’

‘
Wind up, Charlie
.’

‘We’ve no idea who’s responsible for the kidnap at this stage. It’s not clear the government knows either. A statement from the prime minister is expected soon. This is Charlotte Cavendish for the News Channel.’

The last line had been a guess. No idea what the PM
would
do. She turned to the presenter, who linked into the next item – Hollywood Diary.

She began to shake. The technician took her earpiece from her.

‘Terrific, doll,’ he mouthed.

Back in the newsroom – pandemonium. Mandy had a phone to each ear, puffy face taut and bewildered.

‘PA missed the start of the tape,’ she yelled, spotting Tom Marples racing in from the control gallery. ‘When are we running it again?’

‘In ten minutes. On the half hour.’

‘They’re asking can we give them a transcript?’

‘Oh
yes
,’ Marples mocked. ‘This place is crawling with bloody typists looking for something to do.’ He swept an arm round the still largely empty newsroom.

Charlie perched on his desk, scribbling notes.

‘We’ll do it as a sandwich again,’ he told her. ‘Top and tail in vision, but edit together the file footage and the kidnap stuff. Got time? Eight mins before you’re on air again.’

‘Can but try.’ She sprang to her feet.

‘Ad-lib the script again. You were brilliant.’

She sprinted for the booth, hoping a video-editor would be waiting with the tapes.

Jeremy was.

‘I thought you were doing the late shift today,’ she needled.

‘I am. But I knew you’d be here so I came in early.’

His doe-like gaze made her shudder.

‘Fine. Have you got the tapes?’

‘Clip reel and the hostage stuff.’

‘Stick down fifteen seconds of Bowen in Jakarta, and about ten of him with his wife. There’s pics from the last election. Then the kidnap shots. The whole thing.’

Jeremy started spooling. Charlotte grabbed the phone.

‘Mandy? Charlotte here. Who’ve you rung so far?’

‘No one. They’ve been ringing
us
. Foreign Office, police. The BBC, SKY and ITN. And Sankey on his car phone. He’s negotiating to let the opposition have the pics …’

‘But you’ve not rung the wife?’ Charlotte interrupted.

‘No.’

‘OK. I’ll do it.’ She rang off and scrabbled for the number, then dialled again.

Engaged. ‘Damn!’ Should have rung her immediately. Not enough hands, that was the News Channel’s problem. She dialled again. Still busy.

She logged on to the edit-booth terminal and checked the PA wires. Still in the ‘flash’ phase – one-liners updating the story as it unravelled.

She checked her watch. On air in three minutes.

‘Three mins, Jer.’

‘It’ll be there.’

The computer beeped to warn of a new PA flash. She hit the keys.

News of the minister’s kidnap was broken to his wife by the Press Association. Mrs Sally Bowen, aged 42, said she was deeply shocked. She’d not seen the TV pictures which so far have only been shown on the News Channel cable network. ‘My husband’s been missing since the end of last week,’ she said, ‘but as far as I know, neither the police nor the government had any idea he’d been kidnapped.’

‘Great!’ said Charlotte. Another line for her piece. ‘I’m going to the studio. Tape ready?’

‘No prob.’ Jeremy pressed the eject key.

As she pushed into the studio, she saw Ted Sankey, red-faced with excitement, march into the newsroom in his white trench coat, his mobile phone to his ear.

Four

Scotland Yard

07.37 hrs

WHEN NICK RANDALL
arrived in the almost empty Ops Room, the phones were flashing like Christmas, the duty manager struggling to answer them. Randall had just spent forty minutes on the tube from Wimbledon, unaware of what had happened.

Chris jabbed a finger towards the SIO’s office. Mostyn’s door was open. Randall barged straight in.

‘What’s up, sir?’

‘Just missed it. Video of him.’ He pointed at a TV in the corner. On it a keep-fit girl was doing hip bends.

‘Video of who?’

‘Of a duffed-up Stephen Bowen. On the News Channel.’

‘Christ!’

‘The effin’ wheels have come right off this one, son. Kidnapped.’

‘I don’t believe it …’

Nick gawped at the set as Mostyn filled him in. A caption flashed at the bottom of the screen –
Next news update in four minutes
. Mostyn pushed heavy-framed reading glasses on to his nose to decipher a phone number.

‘The duty sergeant’s rung the TV company,’ he said, ‘but it was all hysterical girls. Goin’ to see if
I
can find someone sensible.’

He dialled the News Channel.

Randall’s mind, never at its best first thing, began to think of lines of investigation. He remembered the well-meaning types he’d photographed protesting outside Downing Street last week. The worst any of
them
had done was break into an aircraft factory and smash up a fighter bound for Indonesia. It’d be a quantum leap to go in for kidnapping. Need to check his photos though. In case he’d missed some tougher nuts.

‘Who’s in charge, love?’ Mostyn asked, when the operator answered. ‘Scotland Yard Security Group here.’

Nick looked at the DCI’s polyester tie. Worn the same one every day since he could remember, dark and greasy round the knot.

‘Mr Sankey? Detective Chief Inspector Mostyn here, Scotland Yard.’ Suddenly Mostyn bristled. ‘Well, I suppose you
could
say we’ve been caught a bit on the hop, yes – but, er, that’s certainly off the record. Now, where’d these pictures of Minister Bowen come from?’

Mostyn frowned in concentration as Sankey explained.

‘Got any idea where it was being beamed from?’ He listened. ‘Europe … Couldn’t be Indonesia?’

More explanations. He shook his head.

Randall glanced back at the screen. Pelvic thrusts for a better sex life. He had cable at home and was familiar with the News Channel’s style.

‘Tell you what,’ said Mostyn, ‘if I send one of my blokes round, can you give him a copy of the tape and answer his questions?’

Mostyn pointed at Nick.

‘Wendover Street? Fine. It’s a Detective Sergeant Randall. Round in twenty minutes. Thank you, Mr Sankey.’

He banged down the phone.

‘Cocky bugger,’ he growled. ‘Says the pictures of
Bowen
were beamed to a satellite from Europe but can’t tell where exactly. You’ll have to check it. Hang on …’ He swung towards the TV and turned up the volume. ‘They’re running it again.’

Nick recognised the blonde girl reporter. Remembered her chocolate brown eyes and nice mouth. Wouldn’t kick her out of bed. Today she looked flustered, panicky. He forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying, then Bowen’s bruised face came on.

‘Bloody hell!’ He sucked his teeth and listened to the minister’s shaky statement.
Kutu
? Have to get the map out.

Then the girl spoke again.

‘
… a question the government is sure to be asked is how the whereabouts of a Foreign Office minister can be unknown for the best part of a week, without the alarm being raised. This is Charlotte Cavendish for the News Channel
.’

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, chuck,’ Randall breathed.

‘SIS must be shitting themselves,’ Mostyn mumbled, glad it wasn’t the Yard that was responsible for ministers’ security abroad. ‘Right … Here’s the address. Get on over there, collect the tape and find out what they’re not telling us. And remember. I’ve morning prayers at nine thirty. I’ll want a report before then.’