No different from those secret handshakes all the coppers and judges had, that’s what Allen reckoned.
He slipped the rosary beads back into his pocket and watched Bridges sip his beer. He had very short, reddish hair and wore a dirty denim jacket over jeans. His pupils were dilated and Allen could see that he had got himself high recently.
‘Still on the gear, then?’
Bridges nodded slowly and raised his glass in a salute. ‘Nothing cut to shite with laxatives either.’
‘Where’s the money for that coming from?’
Bridges nodded across towards the fruit machine. ‘Them.’
‘Piss off.’ It was the same kind of story Allen had tried on those two coppers earlier.
‘I swear,’ Bridges said. ‘I just drift around the pubs emptying those things once the punters have filled them up for me. I’ve got a mate works for the company, told me how to beat ’em.’
‘For real?’
‘Piece of piss, I’m telling you.’
‘Yeah, well tell me then.’
Bridges put a finger to his lips and giggled.
While Allen downed the rest of his drink, Bridges rummaged in his pockets then slammed a fistful of change down on the bar. Ignoring the coins that rolled on to the floor, he turned to Allen as though he’d just had a revolutionary idea. ‘Let’s make a night of it.’
‘What have you got in mind?’
‘Let’s get completely off our faces,’ Bridges said. ‘See if we can find a couple of birds who are up for it.’ He reached for his rosary beads again and waved them in front of Allen’s eyes like a hypnotist’s gold watch. ‘Come on… a great big “fuck you” to Barndale.’
Allen stared at him. He was starting to feel the booze kick in himself, but Bridges looked well out of it, and bearing in mind the day Allen had had, the mood he was in after his visit from those two smartarse coppers, he certainly fancied getting into the same state himself.
‘Sounds good,’ he said.
Pascoe and Donnelly sat drinking coffee in the small room behind the stage. There were no more than a couple of hours to go before the overnight team came back. One more phone call to Helen Weeks, a briefing for the new boys and girls and they would be away.
‘You’re doing well, by the way,’ Donnelly said.
Pascoe looked at him, swallowed her coffee. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘Just wanted to let you know.’
Pascoe turned away, not wanting the superintendent to see her blush, to see what the praise had meant to her. Almost immediately she began to wonder why he had told her. Was it perhaps because he fancied her a bit and was trying to gain favour? Or did he simply think she was the sort that needed reassurance?
Neither explanation made her feel particularly good.
‘I’m pleased that’s what you think,’ she said. ‘Don’t think I’m not… but I just wondered why you felt the need to mention it. Is it because you don’t believe I’m… confident?’
‘No. I mean I think you are -’
‘Because I am.’
Donnelly raised his hands in mock-surrender. ‘I know, I know. Look, I just thought you were a bit nervous when you arrived, that’s all, but you’re doing a great job and I wanted to let you know that I’m impressed. That’s it. No hidden agenda.’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t suggesting that.’
‘I think it’s part of my job to make sure everyone on the team’s feeling positive about themselves,’ Donnelly said. ‘Every bit as much as they are about the operation. People work better, simple as that.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘So, are you still feeling positive? About what’s happening?’
‘Yes, I am,’ Pascoe said. ‘There’s no increase in references to violence and no insistence on face-to-face negotiations. We’ve got a hostage taker demonstrating no more than mild to moderate anxiety and a hostage with at least basic training in dealing with her situation.’
‘Right… ’
Donnelly had grunted and nodded three or four times as Pascoe had been speaking, but she got the impression he had been looking for something other than chapter and verse from the hostage-negotiator handbook. ‘I think it’s looking good,’ she said.
‘You still think we should wear him down?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Provided the state of play stays the same.’
‘Of course.’
Donnelly nodded again, and not for the first time Pascoe saw an uncertainty that bothered her. She would have been far from happy had the officer in control of the operation been one of those hard-arses unwilling to listen to those around them, but she was nervous nonetheless. Donnelly was starting to look increasingly like someone who needed others to make decisions for him. Who took advice only because it meant he could duck responsibility if things didn’t work out.
‘It was impressive,’ he said. ‘The way you squared up to Chivers earlier.’
‘I was just fighting my corner.’
‘It was good,’ Donnelly said, smirking.
‘Was it?’
‘I don’t think he’s used to people taking him on, you know?’
It had been good, and Pascoe smiled remembering the look on Chivers’ face. Thorne had clearly been impressed too, and she in turn had enjoyed watching him give every bit as good as he got.
Still impossible to say, Bob…
Donnelly said he was going to have another coffee and asked if she wanted one. She handed her cup across. He filled it from one of the vacuum jugs and handed it back to her.
‘Are you married, Sue?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Just asking, that’s all.’ Donnelly slurped at his coffee. ‘I mean I noticed there wasn’t a ring, so just wondered… ’
‘I don’t think that’s part of your job, sir,’ Pascoe said. ‘Is it?’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Though Helen knew what time it was and that it would be dark outside, the light in the storeroom never changed. With no windows to the back and the shutters down in the shop itself, the sickly white wash of the flickering striplight had remained constant and, exhausted as she was, Helen knew that once again there was little possibility of sleep.
Akhtar was lying on his camp bed. He had one arm folded across his eyes, but Helen knew that he was awake.
The most recent call with Sue Pascoe had been brief and uneventful, which Helen knew was a good thing. It was becoming routine. The woman was good at her job, Helen decided; businesslike, but as friendly as she was required to be. Helen guessed that she could also be firm if the need arose, but for now she was doing all that was necessary to keep Akhtar calm and relatively relaxed.
Helen had once again reassured Pascoe that she and Mitchell were fine and in good spirits and, when the call had ended, Akhtar had thanked her for continuing to lie. He had made her more tea, asked her if there was anything she would like to watch on the television, before moving across to his bed and settling down.
Now, while he was still awake and feeling well disposed towards her, she decided to ask him a favour.
‘Javed… ’
He sat up and looked at her.
‘Can I call Thorne?’
‘Why?’
‘I understand why you didn’t want me to call my sister,’ she said. ‘But if I could speak to Thorne, then maybe he could call her. I just need to know that my son’s all right.’
When Akhtar looked at the phone on his desk, Helen knew that he was going to agree. She was still surprised when, instead of pointing the gun and sliding the handset across the floor, he left the gun where it was and handed the phone to her. It was as close as they had been to one another since Akhtar had bent down to uncuff and then remove Stephen Mitchell’s body.
‘Thank you,’ Helen said.
Akhtar nodded and returned to sit on the edge of his bed. ‘So you can tell them how well I am treating you.’
Helen dialled and the call was answered every bit as quickly as she had been expecting. Thorne had obviously recognised the number.