Good as Dead Read Online Free PDF
Author: Mark Billingham
we?’ He asked a passing uniform to go outside and fetch the CO19 team leader. Then he waved across a young woman from the other side of the hall. He turned back to Thorne. ‘You met Chivers?’
Thorne nodded. ‘Ex-military?’
‘He told you?’
‘Shot in the dark,’ Thorne said.
The woman arrived at Donnelly’s side. She was somewhere in her early thirties, Thorne guessed; above average height and skinny. Her dark hair was cut in a shaggy bob, and she wore a tailored leather jacket over jeans. She looked relaxed enough, but Thorne could not be sure how much of an effort she was making. Donnelly laid a hand on her arm. She glanced down at it for just a second, before smiling a little nervously at Thorne as the superintendent made the introductions.
‘This is Sue Pascoe,’ he said. ‘She’s here as our trained hostage negotiator and I hear very good things.’
Pascoe shook hands with Thorne and Holland. Donnelly told her they were just waiting for Chivers and she nodded.
‘Done much of this?’ Thorne asked.
‘Enough,’ Pascoe said.
Thorne was not aware of any full-time hostage negotiators in the Met and guessed that ‘trained’ just meant that Pascoe had been on the requisite course. He’d been on one himself a few years before, but one focused on how to cope should you find yourself being held hostage. A weekend at some cheap hotel off the M25, where for many, learning anything had come a poor second to heavy sessions in the bar or trying to pull. It was all the stuff you would expect: forging a bond with your captor; finding common ground; encouraging them to see you as a human being. All those techniques that might help keep you alive as long as possible.
He hoped that Helen Weeks had been on the same course, that she had not been one of those on the sniff or pissing it up the wall.
Chivers came through the doors and took off his helmet as he walked across to join them. Ignoring Thorne, Holland and Pascoe, he acknowledged Donnelly with a nod, his hand falling automatically to the handle of the Glock 17 on his belt, holstered next to a pair of 8 Bang stun grenades.
The superintendent told Thorne to make the call.
‘Nice and easy,’ Pascoe said. ‘Obviously we need as much information as possible, but it’s important to be reassuring. Nothing’s a problem at this stage.’
‘I’ll try and remember that,’ Thorne said. He checked the number on the sheet and dialled, then switched the phone on to speaker as it began to ring.
‘Here we go,’ Donnelly said.
It was answered almost immediately.
‘Helen?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Tom Thorne. Are you all right? Can you talk freely?’
Helen Weeks said that she could. That she was fine.
‘Tell Mr Akhtar that I know about what happened to his son, and that I’m sorry.’
They listened as the message was relayed. Nothing was said in response.
‘Helen? Can I talk to him?’
Helen asked the question, then said, ‘He wants you to talk to me for the time being.’
‘OK, listen. Tell him that I’m willing to trade places. It’s me he asked for, so if he lets you walk out of there, he can take me instead.’ Thorne became aware of Pascoe waving a ‘no’ at him, and of Donnelly gesticulating furiously, clearly annoyed that such an offer had not been discussed with him. He turned back to the phone. ‘Helen …?’
‘That’s not what he wants,’ Helen said.
Donnelly leaned in close to Thorne and whispered, ‘Ask who’s in there with her. We’ve got a witness who claims there was another customer in the shop.’
‘Are there any other hostages?’ Thorne asked.
‘He’s called Stephen Mitchell,’ Helen said. A man’s voice said something, then Helen gave out an address in Tulse Hill.
Donnelly scribbled it down and handed the piece of paper to a uniformed officer who hurried out of the hall.
‘So, what does he want?’ Thorne asked.
The exchange that followed was punctuated by a series of pauses and muffled conversations
Thorne nodded. ‘Ex-military?’
‘He told you?’
‘Shot in the dark,’ Thorne said.
The woman arrived at Donnelly’s side. She was somewhere in her early thirties, Thorne guessed; above average height and skinny. Her dark hair was cut in a shaggy bob, and she wore a tailored leather jacket over jeans. She looked relaxed enough, but Thorne could not be sure how much of an effort she was making. Donnelly laid a hand on her arm. She glanced down at it for just a second, before smiling a little nervously at Thorne as the superintendent made the introductions.
‘This is Sue Pascoe,’ he said. ‘She’s here as our trained hostage negotiator and I hear very good things.’
Pascoe shook hands with Thorne and Holland. Donnelly told her they were just waiting for Chivers and she nodded.
‘Done much of this?’ Thorne asked.
‘Enough,’ Pascoe said.
Thorne was not aware of any full-time hostage negotiators in the Met and guessed that ‘trained’ just meant that Pascoe had been on the requisite course. He’d been on one himself a few years before, but one focused on how to cope should you find yourself being held hostage. A weekend at some cheap hotel off the M25, where for many, learning anything had come a poor second to heavy sessions in the bar or trying to pull. It was all the stuff you would expect: forging a bond with your captor; finding common ground; encouraging them to see you as a human being. All those techniques that might help keep you alive as long as possible.
He hoped that Helen Weeks had been on the same course, that she had not been one of those on the sniff or pissing it up the wall.
Chivers came through the doors and took off his helmet as he walked across to join them. Ignoring Thorne, Holland and Pascoe, he acknowledged Donnelly with a nod, his hand falling automatically to the handle of the Glock 17 on his belt, holstered next to a pair of 8 Bang stun grenades.
The superintendent told Thorne to make the call.
‘Nice and easy,’ Pascoe said. ‘Obviously we need as much information as possible, but it’s important to be reassuring. Nothing’s a problem at this stage.’
‘I’ll try and remember that,’ Thorne said. He checked the number on the sheet and dialled, then switched the phone on to speaker as it began to ring.
‘Here we go,’ Donnelly said.
It was answered almost immediately.
‘Helen?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Tom Thorne. Are you all right? Can you talk freely?’
Helen Weeks said that she could. That she was fine.
‘Tell Mr Akhtar that I know about what happened to his son, and that I’m sorry.’
They listened as the message was relayed. Nothing was said in response.
‘Helen? Can I talk to him?’
Helen asked the question, then said, ‘He wants you to talk to me for the time being.’
‘OK, listen. Tell him that I’m willing to trade places. It’s me he asked for, so if he lets you walk out of there, he can take me instead.’ Thorne became aware of Pascoe waving a ‘no’ at him, and of Donnelly gesticulating furiously, clearly annoyed that such an offer had not been discussed with him. He turned back to the phone. ‘Helen …?’
‘That’s not what he wants,’ Helen said.
Donnelly leaned in close to Thorne and whispered, ‘Ask who’s in there with her. We’ve got a witness who claims there was another customer in the shop.’
‘Are there any other hostages?’ Thorne asked.
‘He’s called Stephen Mitchell,’ Helen said. A man’s voice said something, then Helen gave out an address in Tulse Hill.
Donnelly scribbled it down and handed the piece of paper to a uniformed officer who hurried out of the hall.
‘So, what does he want?’ Thorne asked.
The exchange that followed was punctuated by a series of pauses and muffled conversations