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me back,’ Holland said, breathing it in deep. ‘Reminds me of crayons and sweaty socks.’
    Thorne sighed theatrically. ‘I was thinking about the dinner lady I was in love with,’ he said. ‘And a little tosser named Dean Turner who used to steal my milk. Until Margaret Thatcher stole everyone’s, of course.’
    Holland clearly did not understand the reference. ‘You used to have milk at school?’
    ‘Are you Thorne?’
    They turned to see a tall man in full dress uniform walking towards them and Thorne did not need to see the crown on the man’s shoulder to know that he was looking at a superintendent. He was in his early forties, with sandy hair cropped close to the scalp and a nose that looked to have been broken more than once. In a low voice and with a trace of a northern accent, the officer introduced himself as Mike Donnelly and explained that as the local superintendent on call that morning, he had by default become the Silver Commander; the head of the operation on-site. He did not sound overly thrilled about the fact. This could easily be due to a lack of experience in situations such as this, Thorne thought, but might simply be down to the shortage of information thus far.
    ‘So, what do we think Akhtar wants?’
    ‘Me, by all accounts,’ Thorne said.
    Donnelly nodded. He clearly had a habit of nodding and grunting in what sounded like agreement, whenever anybody else was talking. It was a strategy Thorne was familiar with, and one he had not been beyond adopting himself once or twice. It looked as though you were listening, paying attention. It gave the appearance of being thoughtful, even if all you were actually thinking was that you were out of your depth.
    ‘You don’t think this might be a Muslim thing?’ Donnelly looked from Thorne to Holland and back again.
    ‘A thing ?’
    ‘Come on, you know what I mean.’
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘Just throwing it out there,’ Donnelly said. ‘Got to consider every angle at this stage, right?’
    Holland shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’
    ‘That’s not what this is about,’ Thorne said. He told Donnelly what Brigstocke had said on the phone.
    Donnelly thought about it for a while. ‘Now that’s not good news for anyone. Least of all Detective Sergeant Weeks.’ He excused himself, saying he needed to check on how the evacuation was going, then handed Thorne a transcript of the call made by Helen Weeks just over an hour before. There was a small CD player on the table and Donnelly leaned across to press PLAY before he turned and walked away.
    Holland peered over Thorne’s shoulder to read the transcript as they listened to the recording.
Call from 07785 455787. 08.17 am
– Child Protection Unit, Gill Bellinger.
– Gill, it’s Helen, and I need you to just shut up and listen, OK? Pause.
– I’m listening …
– I need you to get hold of a DI Tom Thorne for me. He’s Area West Murder Squad, or at least he was a year or so ago.
Voice in the background. Indistinct.
– It’s very important that you get hold of him, OK? You need to do it now.
– What’s going on?
– I’m being held at gunpoint in a newsagent’s on Norwood Road. Near the junction with Christchurch Road … just up from the station.
Voice in the background. Number 287.
– Number 287.
– Jesus—
– Make whatever calls you need to make, OK? But first get hold of DI Thorne. The man who’s holding us wants him here.
– Who’s holding you?
Voice in the background. Indistinct.
– I need to go, Gill … just get on the phone …
Call ends. 08.18 am.
    ‘Akhtar seems happy enough to tell us exactly where he is,’ Holland said.
    ‘He wanted us here as fast as possible.’
    ‘She sounds nervous.’
    ‘Really, Dave? I can see why you sailed through those sergeant’s exams.’ Thorne saw Donnelly coming back and held up his mobile. ‘Why don’t I call her?’
    Donnelly nodded, but was looking around. ‘Let’s make sure all the key people are listening in first, shall