Heatwave Page 5

  “Come off it Al,” Ash Dutta laughed. “You hate his guts,” he said.

  ***

  Inside the storeroom, conversation of sorts had resumed. There was nothing else to do and, Naomi thought, you can only behave like a rabbit frozen in the headlights for so long before the brain takes over and forces the body to resume some kind of normal functioning. She sat listening, her head resting against the wall, as the conversations split between the various groups. The two mothers talked about their kids – Fliss’s first. The Clarks told anyone that might listen, how they thought everyone should just do as they were told and not antagonise. Their main audience seemed to be the young cashier, Megan Jones. Her voice, gentle and sympathetic, filtered into Naomi’s consciousness without her really listening to the words.

  Dorothy Peel had found a kindred spirit in the ageing Brigadier. They seemed to be exchanging war stories. Dorothy had, apparently been a refugee. And absurdly, given the circumstances, the bank manager, Brian Machin and his two other cashiers were discussing the production of the next quarterly report.

  Well, Naomi supposed. Whatever helped you to cope.

  Her own mind was busy with the dilemma of the man’s voice. She knew that voice. It had been important to her once upon a time, albeit for a brief while. The memory was archived in her brain. The question was which particular file had she put it in.

  “You ok, Naomi?”

  Patrick had said little until now.

  “I’m ok. You?”

  He laughed. “Bored. Can you believe that? I’ve been taken hostage and shut in a cupboard and the only thing I can think of is how boring it is.”

  “I think boring is probably the best scenario,” Harry told him. “We could always play a game?”

  “Eye spy, or something,” Patrick teased.

  “Yes, well…”

  “No dad, I think it’s a good idea. You know any games apart from Eye Spy?”

  “I think I know him,” Naomi said. “Big guy as you called him.”

  “What?” Harry almost squeaked with shock. “I mean how? Where from?”

  “That’s the trouble.” Naomi lowered her voice. “From before. You know.”

  “Ah. Well I suppose that would make sense. But you can’t remember more than that?”

  Naomi shook her head. “Not yet, but it’s in there.”

  “Then you’ll find it,” Harry told her, squeezing her hand. “Pity we can’t let anyone know when you do. It might be of help.”

  “Maybe we can,” Patrick breathed. He shifted position, drawing his knees close up to his chest and taking Naomi’s free hand and sliding it just beneath the hem of his baggy skater jeans.

  “What?” She could feel the small, squarish bulge beneath his sock. “Patrick. Bloody hell.”

  She pulled her hand away and raised her voice, suddenly anxious that their whispered conversation might have drawn attention. “Anyone know any games,” she asked.

  “Apart from I spy,” Patrick added.

  His comment earned him a laugh

  There was a pause in conversation, followed by a string of rather half-hearted suggestions.

  Naomi used the rise in noise level to shift around and move closer to Harry.

  “Patrick kept his mobile,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Hush,” she smiled. “It might be very useful, Harry.”

  “I knew he shouldn’t have had it early.”

  Good job he did, Naomi thought. The tiny Panasonic phone, smallest available had been a sixteenth birthday present. Harry, in a moment of weakness, had given in to Patrick’s pleading and allowed him to have it a week or so early.

  “He took a terrible risk,” Harry whispered. Then “Charades? “ he questioned, in response to a general query. “Do you think we’ve room in here for charades? And what about Naomi?”

  Beside her, Patrick groaned. Party games were his idea of hell. “Oh I can still act out,” she said. “I’ll let Harry and Patrick do my guessing for me.”

  Charades, she thought. Lord but could you get much more absurd. A group of assorted people held captive, as Patrick put it, in a cupboard, playing a party game she heartily detested.

  “Alec’s never going to believe this,” she said.

  “Not sure I believe it myself,” Harry replied. “I’ll go first, shall I. “Now you have to guess, book or film.”

  CHAPTER 9

  By three in the afternoon the tapes of the other robberies and preliminary reports had been faxed through. More intelligence was promised, but as all investigations were still active, files would need to be copied before being released and that could take time.

  Alec counted luck on his side that the past two of the five robberies had been on Hemmings patch and he’d been lead officer in the investigation. Time he had already taken to review everything available, was time Alec could initially save.

  The predicted media interest had developed and Alec had assigned extra officers to man the cordons. He had also, in view of the intolerable heat – hottest day yet that Summer – sent an officer out to buy up cool boxes, ice and bottled water, small tokens gratefully received by those on the barriers and even more by the black clad rifle officers slowly baking on the roof opposite the bank.

  Alec wasn’t exactly praying for rain, but the odd cloud or two would be handy, he thought, gazing from the window into an intense blue sky.

  He tried not to think of the discomfort of the hostages, if Sarah’s proposition were correct and they had been confined in that cramped little room.

  Behind him, in the incident room, Hemmings called that he had changed the tape and Alec returned for the next viewing.

  Fortunately, the relevant sections had already been lifted from the CCTV tapes together with the time codes. Some had been worked on, the images cleaned up and digitally enhanced and showed, frame by frame, the robbers entering the bank, each phase of the robbery. Three masked men, blue hold-all, weapons similar to those Andrews had described.

  Nothing new.

  “The leader is definitely a white male.” Sam Hargreaves was thinking aloud. “Witness reports suggest at least one, possibly two black males.

  “They said dark skinned,” Sarah interrupted.

  Alec frowned, wondering if this comment had a point or was just an expression of political correctness.

  Sarah elaborated. “It’s important because one or both could be Asian. We start assuming a gang of three, two of whom are black; we could be ignoring other options.”

  Alec took the point.

  “As it happens,” D.I Hemmings said heavily, we’ve looked at both those options and all possible permutations between. Our list of known Asian Armed Robbers, it has to be said, is short. “

  “And black armed robbers?”

  “A little longer, but not significantly so. They’re scarce creatures round here whatever colour they come in. Summer, we get a drugs problem. Comes in with the holiday makers, diminishes when the season closes. Doesn’t go away, of course, but activity reverts to the sixth form college, the night-clubs and the university as they call it now.”

  Sarah looked puzzled.

  “Used to be the Polytechnic,” Alec explained.

  Hemmings snorted. In his view it had been a second rate Poly and calling it a University had done nothing to improve its status.

  “We get the usual run of stolen vehicles and Alec here, had a rash of ram raids about eighteen months ago. Shoplifters we do in the usual sort of quantity you’d expect per capita of population and we’ve had a couple of high profile murders in the area, past year or so. Armed robbery, in fact, firearms offences in general, don’t register much on either Pinsent’s nor Ingham’s equivalent of an earthquake monitor.

  “I checked. Last armed incident was a fellow with a shot gun, killed himself after his wife left him. That was eight months ago and before that some fool took it into their heads to knock off a couple of post offices with a sawn off, three, four years back. Brought the c
eiling down in the second place, panicked so much he shot himself in the foot. And this place” – referring to Ingham - “is even more virginal. I’m told the ARV crew had to look it up on the map.”

  “Count yourselves lucky,” Sam Hargreaves commented. “Our local unit averages three calls a day.”

  Hemmings shook his head. “I’m being flippant,” he admitted. “We get our fair share of violence – most of it domestics. Like most places, seventy odd percent of our call outs would be better off dealt with by a social worker.” He shrugged. “What I’m saying and I’m sure Alec will agree with me here, is this is not so much unusual as bloody unique and that factor led us to speculate about outsiders moving in.”

  Sarah was shaking her head. “Not sure that fits with the geographic profile,” she said. She pointed at the screen; the freeze frame of a big man in ski mask and long sleeved rugby shirt. “He knows this area. It’s home ground to him. Oh, I’m not saying he hasn’t been away, maybe not active here for quite some time, but he’s local. All incidents have been in rough, thirty mile radius”

  Hemmings produced a manila folder and riffled through it.

  “Ex residents, convicted for armed robbery, released in the past two years,” he said.” He produced a second list. “Aggravated assault and GBH. Locals released past two years – we’re aware of the theory of escalation too, you know and we’ve looked at the Geographical data.”

  Sarah, not in the least bit fazed by Hemmings tone, scanned the list. “These are all currently local residents?”

  Hemmings nodded. “We’re working through a second list of those that might still have family links, and we’ve run down the usual suspect that were arrested but not charged. So far. Nada.”

  Alec’s mobile began to ring, the landline, as though taking its cue, pealed out also. Hemmings picked it up and listened. “I’ll be right down.”

  Alec was still speaking. Hemmings waited until he’d finished.

  “Maria Childs, you know the woman released this morning? She’s feeling well enough to talk. I’m going over.”

  “Hold off on that, I need you here.”

  “Oh?”

  “That was Andrews, they’ve contacted the families of all those we know to have been inside, got them over at the station.”

  “Right you are,” Hemmings nodded. “I’ll put the Childs lady on hold or send someone.”

  “Did you ask about the baby.”

  “They told me. It’s going to be fine. You’d better get off then. I don’t envy you this one.”

  He turned with an expansive grin back to Sarah Milton. “Now, young lady, you have any more bright ideas about my robbers, then.”

  Alec exchanged a look with Sam Hargreaves, who shrugged. Alec gained the impression that he was quite enjoying the show. Sarah, he noted, was practically bristling. All in all, Alec felt quite glad to be getting away.

  ***

  There were six people assembled in the interview room, chairs positioned awkwardly about a table that was too small to accommodate them – six, plus an extra one for Constable Andrews and a spare for Alec. The collection of cups testified to them having been there for a while; or to Andrews’ attempt to keep them occupied. Alec took a moment to observe through the wired glass panel in the door.

  There was an older man, he guessed might be husband to Audrey Shields. He held a plastic cup between his hands and stared stoically into its depths. Two couples, parents, he guessed of the two younger tellers. One of the women was in jeans and an old shirt. It was paint splattered as though she’d been decorating and spared no time to change.

  Would you change? Alec asked himself. Would you even think about it.

  The man holding her hand wore grey trousers and a white rugby shirt emblazoned with a company logo Alec could not quite make out. Both were dark haired, faces pale with strain, the man’s tanned skin acting merely as an overlay of colour.

  The other couple had their backs to him. They sat side by side, but not touching. Together, but apart and careful to keep a good space of air between them even in this most emotional of times.

  Divorced? Alec wondered.

  The woman had neat, fair hair, dyed, but skillfully so. He was balding. He wore a suit despite the heat.

  The final woman sat alone facing the door. Her red hair pulled back from a white face, looked natural, wayward and wavy. Alec could just make out freckles standing in relief against the pallid skin. She looked too young to be Brian Machin’s wife. Machin was pushing fifty. He doubted this woman was more than twenty five. She saw him looking, fixed him with a stare, the sudden, increased rigidity of her slender frame alerting the others who, as one, turned towards the door.

  Alec opened it and stepped inside.

  He was greeted by a wall of questions. “Any news, what’s going on, they’ve told us almost nothing. How could you let this happen?”

  Alec raised his hands in surrender, then waved them into silence. “I’ll tell you everything I know,” he said, “but you have to be prepared to listen. Questions after?” He glanced around the table form face to tense, expectant face until he had a nod or acknowledgement from each. “Good, “ he said quietly. “My name is Detective Inspector Alec Friedman and I’m the officer in charge. At just after eleven o clock this morning there was a raid on the bank on High Street. Four armed men entered. Constable Andrews, spotted them going in. He alerted headquarters and what should have happened next was that our people arrived quietly and discretely to arrest the men as they emerged.”

  “So, what went wrong?” The red haired woman stared at him.

  “And you are?” he asked gently.

  “Emily Machin. My father is the manager. Why didn’t it happen, the way it was meant to do.”

  “Because,” Alec sighed. He’d thought of many ways to wrap this up, to disguise the truth, knowing what fools it would make them see when it got out. “Because a young officer with far more enthusiasm than experience, got the call and raced to the scene, sirens blaring and lights flashing. The robbers were alerted, took hostages and shut themselves up inside.”

  “You’ve sacked him, I hope?” This from the suited man.

  “Oh, Roger, for goodness sake, That’s not going to help.”

  “Incompetence,” he exploded. “That’s what it is. I expect…”

  “Please,” the dark haired man in the logo’d shirt leaned across the table. “Surely all of that can wait. What’s done is done and we need to know what we can do to get our kids out. Your dad too, he added.”

  “And my wife,” the lone man spoke.

  “Sorry, the dark man apologised. “I sort of assumed you were another father.”

  “Your wife must be Audrey Shields,” Alec confirmed.

  “Yes. I’m Jack. She’s not well, you know, this could…kill her.” He swallowed hard and then went back to staring into the depths of his cup.

  “I know, ”Alec told him. “We’ve spoken with George Tebbut, the under-manager. He told us about your wife’s condition. We’re doing everything we can to bring this to a swift resolution.”

  “Which means what, exactly?”

  Alec turned his attention back to suited man. “Mr…?”

  “Barron. My son, Timothy, is in that bank.”

  My son, Alec noted, not ours. “Mr Barron. I can’t reveal our method of operations, I’m sure you understand that. But I will tell you we’ve got two skilled and experienced negotiators on site and everything is progressing as we’d expect at this stage.” The fact that the hostage takers were refusing to communicate with anyone, including the negotiators was something he didn’t think they needed to know.

  “How can we help?” the other father asked. “I’m…we’re Megan’s parents. Megan James.”

  “What about Maria,” his wife asked. “Haven’t you been able to get hold of her husband? I thought he’d be here. He’ll be worried sick when he hears.”

  “Maria Childs was released very early on,” Alec told them. She’s in hosp
ital, being checked over, but apart from being terribly shocked, she’s going to be fine. The baby too,” he added. He saw relief in the woman’s eyes. “Were she and Megan close?”

  “Good friends, yes. We were so thrilled when we heard about the baby…”

  “Has she been able to tell you anything?” Emily Machin wanted to know.

  “I’ve got an officer with her,” Alec side-stepped.

  “Then no,” Emily concluded. “She could tell you nothing.”

  “I didn’t say that, Miss Machin.”

  She scowled, then subsided into stony silence.

  He took a deep breath and released it slowly. It was hot in the interview room. Everyone, with the exception of Emily Machin, looked ready to melt. His collar was damp and rivulets of perspiration ran down his back with embarrassing regularity. He dare not lean back in his chair for fear of leaving a moist imprint on the plastic.

  He thought, briefly, of his people manning the cordon. They’d be cursing him despite the provision of ice and water. He’d insisted on them wearing stab vests at all times when they might be exposed. The paramedics they had on standby were more likely to be treating heat-stroke than anything related to the raid.

  “I know,” he said carefully, “that working in a bank requires a high level of confidentiality, but we all make reference to work at home, even if only in passing. What we’re trying to establish is how many people might have been in the building this morning. Did any of your families ever talk about regular customers, for example, or if Monday mornings were particularly busy times?”

  There was a silence. These strangers eyed one another as though reluctant to disclose anything lest it made their loved one out to be less than discrete. Megan’s mother was the first to break,

  “Meg used to talk about an elderly gentleman that came in. He’d been in the army, she said. Always tried to come to her counter. He used to flirt with her, she said.”

  “Not in any bad way,” Megan’s father added hastily. “She wasn’t worried by it or nothing. Said he was a nice old gent. Lonely, she thought. He never seemed to have anyone with him and she always tried to have a few words.”