Rider (17 page)

When they arrived outside the Belgrave club,
Wilson
issued immediate orders for a fan-formation around the front and rear of the building while the Met police officers were on crowd dispersal duties.

Once his officers were in place,
Wilson
and
Clark
ran in a crouch towards Mickey Brown, head of Intelligence. The sun was down behind the buildings to their left and night was dragging shadows behind it.

‘Give,’
Wilson
said to Brown.

Mickey Brown, six foot three inches of vicious bulldog, had been in Intelligence since his late twenties and had worked closely with
Wilson
’s team on many occasions.

‘Thermal imaging shows us four bodies,’ he said. ‘All in the same room. We’re trying to get a directional mic rigged up but it’s going to be from across the street. We can’t get near.’

‘How soon?’

‘Five minutes, tops.’

‘What’s the scene?’
Wilson
asked. The police officers were stretching tape across either end of the street.

Brown pointed. ‘We have guns on rooftops, there, there and there. Exits are covered and we’ve got more men in the vicinity if they get round us.’

‘They won’t,’
Wilson
said.

He hooked an earpiece over his right ear and thumbed a dial on his radio.

Brown said, ‘They say you’re bringing in the birdie.’

Wilson
nodded. ‘She’s on her way. PSNI picked her up earlier.’

‘I don’t like you bringing civilians to my party, Wilson.’

Clark
scanned the surrounding area. ‘None of us like it.’

‘I’m hoping we won’t need her,’
Wilson
said. ‘But if Bernhard won’t talk to us, he’ll talk to her.’

‘You better be damn sure about that,’ Brown said.

* * *

A police helicopter landed on a helipad at
London
’s
City
Airport
and the door slid back as WPC Scoles ran towards it, pushing a wheelchair.

Detectives Simpson and Parker jumped out of the helicopter and Parker turned back to help Margaret out. They eased her gently into the wheelchair and started back towards the terminal building.

Margaret kept her eyes straight ahead, gripping her clutch bag protectively. The two detectives had tried to argue with her, but Margaret was a woman not to be trifled with; they detoured by her house and allowed her to pack a change of clothes and bring a few personal effects, on the proviso that she be no more than two minutes in the house.

Upstairs, alone in her room as she quickly threw leggings and a sweatshirt into an overnight bag, she had double-checked the detectives were still downstairs and she took her derringer from the nightstand. She had dropped it into her handbag and clasped it shut. Downstairs, as they ushered her out of the house and back into their car, she made a show of opening the small leather clutch bag and pulling out a tissue, in the hope that they’d assume if she had something to hide she wouldn’t have been so forthright.

There had been no metal detectors, no scanners, when they whisked her through airport security in
Belfast
and helped her to board the helicopter.

Now, holding the bag safely in her lap as they wheeled her into the terminal, Scoles said, ‘They’re already at the scene. We have a van waiting outside.’

Detective Simpson said, ‘Is anyone willing to tell us what’s going on?’

‘You know as much as I do,’ said Scoles. ‘It’s Interpol,’ she added, by way of explanation.

‘Secrets and hierarchy,’ Simpson said. ‘Just another day at the office.’

Scoles ran through what little she did know, that Bernhard was holed up in a building, had a hostage—likely Kane Rider—and that Interpol were gunning for it. Margaret’s involvement was nothing more than conjecture.

In the police van, the driver flipped on his blues and they went at speed through the streets of
London
.

Simpson made a call and clarified a few pertinent issues and when he hung up he faced Margaret.

‘This is as much as we know,’ he said. ‘We believe Mr Rider is with your husband and Interpol need to get him out. They have the building surrounded and they have a hostage negotiation team on hand. They’re hoping to end this fairly easily, but if they need you to talk some sense into your husband, they’ll ask for your help. You won’t be placed in any danger and until they require you, you’ll be kept back at a safe distance. Do you understand?’

Margaret closed her eyes and nodded. Her face was ashen.

The driver’s radio squawked and the dispatcher’s tinny voice said, ‘Delta Seven, confirm location.’

‘This is Seven,’ the driver said. ‘Currently pulling off
St Thomas Street
, ETA three minutes.’

Eyes still closed, Margaret breathed through her nose and tried to relax her shoulders. Perturbed by her stillness, Simpson said, ‘Mrs Bernhard? You’re looking a little pale. Are you all right?’

She didn’t answer him.

‘Are you going to pass out, Mrs Bernhard?’

Margaret opened her eyes, hugged her bag for security, and said, ‘I’ll be fine.’

* * *

Eyes closed, she swayed with the movement of the police van and allowed her mind to remember peaceful times—Ryan on his sixth birthday, clomping up and down the garden wearing only his swimming trunks, a pair of her high heels and a string of beads around his neck; Ciarán reading bedtime stories to their son about dragons and wizards and mischievous elves who’d sooner steal your shoes than mend them; Ryan at five, waving at her from a merry-go-round as she prayed he wouldn’t fall off and called for him to hold on tight.

Margaret and Ryan had always been very close, brought closer still by the loss of his father during his formative years. Ryan’s confusion was more about his father’s illness than his own sexuality. He had never formally come out; it was something that Margaret had always seemed to know, something accepted as truth without spoken word, like a devout Catholic’s belief in Christ.

He had once tried to say the words. By that point, she had known for many years, though he was never exactly camp or effeminate. Perhaps not all mothers know these things, but the close bond they had shared awarded her with an insight of uncommon clarity.

They had moved into David’s new-build home and Ryan had started his GCSE year at school, where he had met and quickly fallen in love with Kane. She had never suspected for one minute that the sixteen-year-old equivalent of true love would have been the real thing. Not many people find real love so early in life, although she had been seventeen when she met Ciarán.

She had met Kane a handful of times in those first few months, watched from the pedestal that Ryan had placed her on as the two boys’ friendship grew and developed. He had stayed for dinner and she had seen the smiles and hooded exchanges between them.

When Ryan had come to her one evening as she prepared their evening meal, always enough in the pot for Kane in case he decided to stay long enough to eat, David tapping violently on his computer keyboard in his office above them, Ryan had ventured, ‘Mum?’

‘Wash your hands,’ Margaret had said. ‘Grab me some basil, will you?’

Ryan had complied, standing shoulder to shoulder with her as he watched her chopping the green leaves. He remained silent throughout.

Scraping the basil from the chopping board into the pan, Margaret said, ‘What’s on your mind, darling?’

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Is Kane staying?’ Kane had come over with Ryan straight from school and they had been playing video games in his room all evening.

‘That’s the thing,’ Ryan said. He offered no more.

Checking on the oven, Margaret said, ‘His Mum’ll think we’ve kidnapped him soon enough. We should have her over.’

‘Can Kane…’ Ryan tried.

‘Can Kane what?’

‘Do you mind if he stays over?’

She frowned at the oven and turned the temperature down. ‘Of course not, honey. If his mother’s all right with it.’

‘Cool,’ Ryan said. But he didn’t leave her side.

‘It’ll be ready in ten minutes,’ Margaret said.

‘Mum?’

‘Yes?’

‘What I mean is,’ Ryan said, and paused momentarily. ‘Can he stay over in my room?’

The words were heavily laden and dripping. Margaret wiped her hands on a tea towel, neatly folded it before she answered him. ‘Yes, love.’

She watched Ryan chew on his upper lip. ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’ he asked.

She held his shoulders, smiled at him, kissed his forehead. ‘Yes, love. I know what that means. You’ll be careful, won’t you?’

He nodded, his face full of relief and excitement. When he left the kitchen she turned back to the pot on the stove. She closed her eyes and laughed giddily.

‘It means I don’t have to make up a spare room,’ she said to herself.

And as the police van rocked and sped through the streets of
London
, as she was pushed towards a destiny she could not imagine, she clung to that heart-to-heart conversation with her only son, and realised that life was all subtext. People refrain from saying what they really mean. What is not said is far more important that what is spoken.

* * *

When Margaret’s police van swung into view at the end of the street, behind the police cordon,
Wilson
keyed his radio. He, Clark,
Dixon
and the others had spread out around the front of the building, crouched and protected behind parked cars.

‘She’s here,’ he said. ‘We need to keep her behind the tape for now.’

Clark, two car lengths along the street, nodded and said to her radio, ‘
Dixon
, get on it.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ came his professional reply. He ran down the street to the tape line as Detective Simpson wheeled Margaret down the van’s ramp.

Simpson fitted a small earpiece to Margaret’s ear and said, ‘The trained negotiator is going to be on the end of this. He’ll give you constant direction on what to say and how to say it, if and when they need you, okay?’

Just then, the front door of the Belgrave Gentleman’s Club swung open.

Everyone tensed, their weapons trained on the dark entrance.

A figure stepped out. Slowly.

Uttering a curse,
Wilson
saw that it was Kane. He was naked to the waist and strapped to his chest was an explosive device. A release cable ran from the base of the bomb to an ignition switch in his hand. Kane’s thumb was already pressed down on the button.