Requiem Mass (45 page)

He had to assume the worst; if his identity was known there was a chance that the police would know his London address. On the journey back to London, he had briefly considered abandoning everything in the house but there was too much that he needed, despite what he had in the lock-up. It was risky but if the approach looked clear he would go in.

He had dumped the Cavalier in a busy NCP car park, confident there were no prints, and had approached the house on foot. He’d circled it once, checking all the exits, making sure that the inconspicuous Triumph Trophy he had concealed
was still there. In front of the house the far side of the road was lined bumper to bumper with parked cars. Only two had people in them. A man in painters’ overalls appeared to be waiting for his mate to buy cigarettes at the newsagents. In the other car a man and woman were engaged in earnest conversation.

He moved through the house efficiently, gathering essentials, discarding the rest in a growing pile in the kitchen. Every few minutes he checked the street outside; the pub was almost deserted, there was no passing traffic. Across the road the painter’s van had gone but the couple were still there, just sitting watching his house. His pulse quickened and he moved even more rapidly. There was no time to clear the house properly, which made his next decision even easier. On the kitchen table he quickly assembled an array of plastic, tape and wires into a surreal bird’s nest. Then, picking up a large holdall, and arranging a rucksack between his broad, padded shoulders, he prepared to leave the house.

Fenwick and the firearms unit arrived silently within moments of each other in the yard at the back of the pub. DI Harrington was already there. The firearms officers were immediately deployed along the rooftops and in the pub, with a group sent to watch the road at the back of the mews. Roadblocks had been set up out of sight at either end of the street. Fenwick watched, trying to find comfort in their certainty and efficiency, the silence with which they moved into position. He tried hard to forget Bayliss’ warning.

Fenwick could never recall later what happened next but he read and reread the reports and eyewitness accounts until it became impossible for him to distinguish the elements of personal memory from official record.

They had just called to the unarmed officers to leave the scene, and the last of the armed officers had radioed that they were in position when order dissolved into chaos. There was a roar of throttle from behind the row of mews houses. A black 1200cc motorbike stormed out of a narrow alley, panniers sending sparks from the brick walls, the driver crouched low over the handle bars.

The AFOs hesitated, a shouted order to ‘hold their fire’ echoing in their earpieces. The biker headed straight at the roadblock across the street ahead. Two cars and six officers were unable to stop him. He drove at the tape that stretched across the pavement. It broke like a paper chain as the 235 kilogram bike slammed into it.

There could be no mistaking him now. They were ordered to open fire at their own discretion. Six rounds were fired as he cleared the roadblock; three sent sparks from the tarmac, one perforated the exhaust pipe, another punctured the back pack but the final one appeared to hit the rider as he drove on regardless, the noise from the bike now deafening. The unmarked car screeched into pursuit, paused while those blocking the road moved and then all three raced off. Harrington shouted into the radio and the operations centre confirmed that patrol cars and bikes had been mobilised. Fenwick suggested helicopter support and demanded urgent SOCO attendance at the scene.

There was nothing he could do to help the search for Rowland. It wasn’t his patch, so he decided, with Harrington’s approval, to stay and join the search at the house.

The head of the firearms unit turned to him.

‘Shit! We couldn’t risk hitting the others, sorry. Is he likely to have been on his own? Do you want backup to enter the house?’

‘We’ve no reason to suspect he has an accomplice but yes, I’d appreciate it if you could do a quick sweep of the house before SOCO arrives.’

Fenwick called PC Douglas Adams to him. The man was tense, distraught that Rowland had got away. His capture had become personal to Adams.

‘They’re going to check the house, Doug. Then we can go in and have a look around. SOCO are on their way. He had to leave in a hurry so there could be plenty to see.’

‘He got away, though. And we were so close.’

‘They’ve got everything out looking for him – and I think we know where he’ll be heading if he slips through. Let it go, Doug, our job is here.’

Constable Adams turned away, every one of his fifty years showing in stooped shoulders, every one of his sleepless nights since the attack on Smith showing in his eyes.

The house was given the all clear – no one else was in there. Harrington fed back the news to Fenwick.

‘But there’s some nasty-looking stuff left behind, I think we’re going to need some expert support here. I’ll make the arrangements.’

Two SOCOs arrived, civilian employees, expert in their craft. The older of the two, Dan Crabbott, shook Fenwick’s hand while the young woman with him, Heather Coals, unpacked their gear. Fenwick put on an overall, cap, shoe-covers and thin gloves, and followed them into the house. Doug Adams, without waiting to be asked, did the same and went inside. The SOCOs immediately went into their routine, a photographer dodging round them as they worked. They started from the front door – one on the door itself, the other in the hall.

Fenwick looked around the small sitting room at the front of the house. There was a guidebook to Chichester on a small table, with several pages turned down, other places marked with slips of paper. He gently turned the pages with his gloved fingers, noting the heavy underscorings and marks in the margin. The pull-out plan of the cathedral had been squared and measured, with red lines drawn from the west door to various points in the apse and nave. Fenwick guessed they were entry and escape routes.

From the hall there was a brief exchange between Crabbott and Adams as they walked towards the back of the house:

‘There’s so much stuff in here, I’ve run out of bags already!’

‘You wait till you see the kitchen!’ Doug’s voice was jubilant.

It was the last thing that Fenwick heard for some time.

A blinding flash filled the hall and seemed to flow into the room as a huge compression of boiling air. He saw one of the white-suited SOCOs blown past the door and then forgot everything in an effort to breath. Bolts of pain were driven into his skull through his ears, a huge weight crushed his chest,
forcing his mouth wide in a desperate attempt to gulp oxygen into his straining lungs.

Despite the weight, he felt as if the top of his head was lifting off, carrying with it his shoulders and arms that flew up into the air, beyond his control. He could see the wall of the sitting room bulge as if a giant hand was pushing against it. Then the old lath and plaster gave way and flew towards him, over him, pinning him down. There was a sharp pain on his temple and the sound in his skull of a cricket ball on willow. Consciousness ebbed away as darkness closed around him.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Rumour of the explosion reached Cooper in Chichester, as did the fact that, despite a continuing massive search, the London team had lost all trace of Rowland. It was a little after three and from the pub they had moved to start a search in the cathedral on Fenwick’s previous instructions. They had been there less than an hour and Cooper was torn. He had no idea how Fenwick was, only that he had been rushed to hospital. Nightingale was on her way to act as minder for Anderson, which left him as the only officer on the case with the full history – and he had been committed to helping the Chichester police with their search and inquiries. They hadn’t got a clue what they were looking for or where to start, just anything that Rowland might have left there. He paced the cathedral close, undecided whether to return or stay. If he went they might ignore Anderson’s fears and leave quickly. He elected to stay, suppressing his concerns for Fenwick with frenetic activity.

He left a message for the ACC, hoping he would have the latest information on Fenwick’s condition, but when the man called him back all he would do was confirm Cooper’s decision to stay. He had no more news about Fenwick or the other officers in the house at the time of the explosion. He had taken personal charge of the whole operation.

Jason MacDonald bristled at the world ‘hack’. He hadn’t completed two years’ hard graft on the local paper to end up in a profession undermined by pejorative terms. But neither was
he the idealist he had been at nineteen, with the ink hardly dry on his Media Studies A level certificate. He had lost count of the dog shows, proud mums, car accidents, bereaved relatives and other local paraphernalia that he had covered while waiting for his big break and fame.

On Thursday afternoon, he was stuck in another typical mess, one he had christened ‘mixing the filler’. The subeditor had come up with the bright idea that he should collect background material on preparations at the cathedral in anticipation of Octavia Anderson’s performance on Monday night. He had already filed a ‘local schoolgirl made good’ profile, complete with old photographs and quotations from friends and teachers, and had hoped to be on standby for last-minute news. Instead he was loitering in cloisters, bored and uninspired.

The cathedral was busy, tourists navigating through the last remaining stacks of scaffolding poles, dismantled in honour of the performance. MacDonald had completed an interview on the subject of the latest restoration project, secured a few indignant quotations on the nonsense and costs of removing the scaffolding just for one night’s performance and he was now tempted by a cup of tea and slice of fruit cake in the Refectory Garden Restaurant.

As he made his way slowly around the covered cloister, a worried-looking middle-aged man in a tweed jacket brushed past him in a rush for the nearest exit, obviously keen to improve the reception on his mobile phone. Naturally curious, MacDonald followed and lingered. He could make out little from the one-sided conversation but the whole incident seemed out of place and sufficiently interesting for him to postpone his cup of tea and return to the cathedral when the man did.

MacDonald listened as the man in the patched tweed jacket conferred with one of the seated tourists. Their heads were close together but he could make out the words ‘casualties’, ‘hospital’ and possibly even ‘bomb’. His lingering became purposeful. From a vantage point in a chair at the rear of the nave MacDonald watched the man’s progress. In the following five minutes he had talked with another five ‘tourists’, each of
whom was paying particular attention to a different part of the cathedral.

At first he had assumed they were enthusiasts, studying the masonry or some of the many works of art. After further observation he realised they were not students but searchers. Each, as discreetly as possible, was looking for something. His thumbs pricked. Fascinated and excited he started tracking the searchers. He noticed that they kept to a strict patch and searched it thoroughly before moving on to the next. They were working in a grid. Something was happening and the middle-aged man in tweed was at the middle of it all.

At exactly 3.15, the man left the building again and MacDonald followed, discreetly this time, pausing to read his guidebook in a pool of shade as the man dialled.

‘Hello? Yes, it’s Cooper. Put me through, would you?’

He started to pace as he waited. ‘Yes? Hello … hello. Sir, yes it’s Cooper.’ His voice, raised because of poor reception, carried clearly to MacDonald standing stock-still in the shadow.

‘What news?’ There was a long pause. MacDonald saw the man’s shoulders sag, his knees almost fold. His free hand flew to his head. ‘Dead? Oh no … dear God! He was only eighteen months from retirement. My missus knows his wife – they were devoted to each other. We’ve got to get this bastard, sir. … I’m sorry. Yes, yes, I’m all right now. And Fenwick. He’s not …’ The man’s voice tailed off. ‘Thank God. But they’re keeping him in? … I see. And the others?’

There was another long pause. MacDonald strained to hear the murmur from Cooper but failed. The man covered his eyes and leant heavily against the stone wall. ‘Dear Lord. Sorry, sir … Yes, I think it would be right for you to go yourself but take a WPC. Doris, Doug’s wife, was never strong … No, I’ll stay here as we discussed; no nothing yet. Sir, give Fenwick my best, could you, if you see him? Thank you.’ The man broke the connection and stood, eyes shaded for several moments before returning slowly to the cathedral.

MacDonald could not believe his luck. The man was obviously security, or police, and whatever was going on was
tied up with a bombing somewhere that had only just happened. The journalist couldn’t decide whether to follow Cooper or call in and find out what was going on.

He ran back to the cathedral. The searchers were all there, huddled around the font listening to Cooper. There were about half a dozen of them. MacDonald knew enough about local police budgets to realise that six men in one place meant something significant was underway – and linked to a bombing elsewhere!

He risked a dash outside to call in and find out what was happening. Within five minutes he had learnt of the bomb in South London; no names yet but police had been involved, perhaps among the victims. One fatality, others in hospital. There was talk of Arab extremists but it was all vague. MacDonald asked for any further information to be called in to him at once. It would be; the secretary in the paper office had a crush on him and would do anything he wanted.

A gaggle of young mums with a miscellany of children in pushchairs and on reins crossed his path on the way to the café, calling to two older children straggling behind. ‘Debbie! Tom! Come on, hurry up.’ For some reason MacDonald thought of the name Cooper had mentioned: Fenwick. Why did he know that? And why had these mothers made him think of the name again. MacDonald was good at crosswords, loved puzzles, aspired to put his own definition of ‘investigative’ into journalism. There was a connection to be made and he was missing it. He walked back to the nave and sat down. The searchers were still searching. Nothing appeared to be happening.