He drew back, stripped off his jacket, then edged around to the front of the car. Placing one foot on the fender, he gingerly levered himself up onto the bonnet, feeling the suspension sinking under his weight.
He stiffened, shutting his eyes for a second, but still seeing the image of the mercury tilt switch behind his closed lids.
The shock-absorbers had steadied now and he breathed again. Twisting into a sitting position, he ripped out a length of insulating tape, cut it with his pocket knife and stuck it across the windscreen. Two minutes later the glass was crisscrossed with the stuff. He had absolutely no way of knowing if the movement of a falling segment could trigger the alarm sensor, or how great a change in air pressure would do the same job. Trying to cover both possibilities, he spread his jacket over the windscreen before picking up the wheel brace.
Finally he looked back up the street, praying for a sign that Al Pritchard had returned. That the awful decision had been taken from him. All he could see was the police car, still at the junction with Charles II Street and now having staunched the flow of pedestrians. But he was aware that he must act quickly while the street was clear. At any moment more people could break through the cordon in panic and find themselves walking straight towards the car bomb.
Weighing the brace in his hand, he lifted it and struck once, hard, just above the dash, his eyes closing in reflex as he did so. Nothing happened, the screen chipped but intact. He tried again, applying more force. The glass gave with a mushy crackling sound, frosting instantly.
Slowly, very slowly, he pulled away his jacket from the whitened screen and began to breathe again. It had all held together. Inside, hopefully, the air pressure had remained constant.
He reached forward and, with extreme care, began picking away at the trillions of clustered white diamonds. Just a small hole, that was all he wanted. Above the dash, behind the alarm module. Small enough not to cause a dramatic shift in pressure, big enough to insert the nose of the wire-cutters.
Blood was beginning to trickle from his unprotected fingers and it was seeming to take for ever as, in his mind’s eye, he could visualise the face of the Memo Park timer as it edged towards zero…
Then he was through, a tiny aperture cleared behind the alarm. But now he must be exceedingly careful. Normally cutting the power supply could be expected to activate the relay and cause the current to flow through the alarm circuit. He squinted through the hole until he was able to identify the actual alarm leads. Inch by inch, he edged in the clippers until he found purchase on the flex. Snip, so simple. And nothing happened. Then he was safe to move onto the lead that fed to the power supply from the cigarette lighter.
Another snip. He’d done it, hardly believing his own good fortune. Luck was certainly a lady tonight. At least so far.
Quickly he swivelled round on his buttocks, lifted his feet and kicked in the windscreen, the glass caving into the interior in great flexible chunks. He followed through, squeezing in over the dash until his feet landed on the front passenger seat. Turning awkwardly, he bent down to the TPU. The small plywood box was half hidden and there was a strong natural impulse to pull it clearly into view. But it could be fitted with a tilt switch, a trembler or even a pressure plate for all he knew. Instead he climbed over into the rear section wriggling between the bulky headrests.
Landing upside down in an ungainly heap, he struggled to right himself, his heart freezing each time he felt the suspension dip.
It was hot work, the car seeming airless and his legs cramping up on him as he crouched on the floor in the narrow gap behind the front seats. At last he traced the flex from the TPU that led through to the explosives in the boot. One careful halfway cut, insulating the end; then a second finally to separate the bomb from its timing and power unit.
And it was done.
His shirt was now sodden with perspiration, his face dripping and his eyes stinging with salt. He reached, exhausted, for the courtesy light and stripped away the boobytrap flex before throwing open the rear door. Feeling near collapse he just lay in the confined space, gulping down great draughts of cool night air, his eyes closed in a very private moment of ecstatic relief.
‘Well, if it isn’t our intrepid tick tock man,’ Appleyard said.
Harrison opened his eyes. His friend was standing, grinning, Al Pritchard behind him.
‘And just what the hell are you doing?’ the Senior Expo thundered.
‘Lending a hand,’ Harrison replied, struggling out from his squashed position. He could see now that more police reinforcements had arrived to control the crowds.
‘And how would it have looked if you’d blown yourself up, Tom?’ Pritchard’s voice was quavering with suppressed anger. ‘You’re not on our payroll, you’ve got no equipment, you’re just a bloody adviser.’ He indicated the curious faces of a few passersby who were now coming past, just as Harrison had feared. ‘How many of these people would you have killed if you’d set the damn thing off?’
Harrison brushed himself down and picked up his jacket from the bonnet, too tired to argue. ‘I made the best decision I could at the time, Al. Sorry if that upsets your sensibilities.’
‘I want you off the Section.’
It had been a long day and frankly he was past caring. ‘Then put in an official request, Al, it’s your prerogative. We’ll only know whether or not my decision was right when you examine the TPU. I haven’t touched it in case our friend AID AN attached something nasty. And I’d use a barrow to open that boot if I were you.’
‘Thank you for that treasured advice,’ Pritchard replied stiffly.
As Harrison moved away, Les Appleyard climbed into the car for a better look at the TPU.
Casey appeared with one of the police officers from the patrol car; they were both laughing, the Haymarket now fully cordoned off, the street clear of civilians.
She rushed towards Tom and threw her arms around his neck. Her cheeks were warm and damp with tears of relief, but she was too overcome to find the words she wanted.
‘One lady returned safe and sound, sir,’ the policeman said. ‘Tried to make her go, but she insisted on helping. Thought we ought to make her a special constable.’ He plonked his hat on her head.
She laughed, finding her voice. ‘That’s Americans for you, policemen of the new world order.’
Harrison didn’t want to spoil her moment of glory, but there was still a risk until the boot of the Renault had been opened and cleared. ‘Time to go home, Sheriff Mullins, let’s get you a cab.’
As they began to walk, Appleyard called from the Renault. “Thought you’d like to know, Tom, there were three minutes left on the timer.’
Al Pritchard glowered.
They eventually found a street where traffic was moving and hailed a taxi.
She gave the driver her address in Fulham before explaining: ‘It’s my new bachelor-girl pad. It’s not much, a small flat, but it’s home. I’m on an end with only one attachment.’ She paused, aware she’d put it badly. ‘Does that make me sound disabled?’
He laughed, already surprised at how easy he found it to relax in her company. ‘Not disabled, just plain uncomfortable. I think you just mean your flat’s in a semi.’
‘Well, if it sounds uncomfortable, that’s because it is. We only moved in yesterday. Still living out of boxes which all ended up in the wrong rooms. It was all such a rush really. I didn’t have to leave the old place so quickly, but after Seven Dials I just didn’t want to have anything more to do with my ex. You see, Randall could have picked up Candy before all those bombs went off. But he was just too busy. Busy, busy, busy.’ She placed her hand on his arm. ‘Why don’t you come in for coffee? I might even be able to find the biscuits. We can have a Welcome-To-My-New-Home party.’