First Response

FULHAM (10.45 a.m.)

Eddie Cotterill sighed as he pushed open the door to the Fulham Road post office and saw there were at least a dozen people queuing, with only one member of staff on duty. He did a quick calculation in his head — twelve people, two minutes a pop, he was going to be there for a good twenty-five minutes. And half the queue were elderly, which meant they’d be moving slowly, and a scruffy student type was holding five boxes, which Eddie figured would each have to be weighed and probably need Customs forms. He looked at his watch. Ten forty-five, and he had to be in the office at eleven because a client wanted to view a two-bedroom flat that had just come on the market. Eddie prided himself on always being punctual, so his godson’s birthday card would just have to wait.

He turned to go out but his way was blocked by a bearded Asian man wearing a long coat. Eddie held the door open for him. ‘After you, mate,’ he said.

The Asian didn’t seem to hear him, just pushed his way past. He smelt rancid, as if he hadn’t bathed for several days. ‘You’re welcome,’ muttered Eddie, though, having lived in London for most of his twenty-eight years, he was well used to rudeness in all its forms.

He kept hold of the door as the man joined the end of the queue. There was something wrong about him and it wasn’t just the smell. He was nervous, and seemed to have a twitch that made him flick his head to the left every few seconds. He had dark circles around his eyes as if he hadn’t slept for days. Eddie frowned but decided he had better things to do than worry about an Asian guy with mental-health issues. He was about to let go of the door when the man shouted, ‘Allahu Akbar!’ and grabbed at the arm of the woman in front of him. He fastened something metallic to the woman’s wrist, then stepped back, raising one hand in the air. ‘Stay where you are or you’ll all die!’ the man shouted.

Eddie was already running down the street, the birthday card fluttering to the pavement.