Flash Flood

Chapter Twenty-two

The policeman was on his way back to the entrance of St Paul’s Cathedral, carrying cups of tea for himself and Canon Victor Dibben. Out in the streets, car alarms and burglar alarms sang. A double-decker bus stood at the top of Ludgate Hill, abandoned. A few metres away, the river lapped at the bottom steps. St Paul’s was on a hill and had just escaped the flooding. Now it was full of people taking refuge inside.

As the policeman rounded the corner and started up the steps, he saw that the Canon was speaking to a man outside the entrance.

‘Come inside,’ he was urging him. ‘It’s warm.’

‘I don’t need to come in,’ said the man in a Spanish accent. ‘I just need to get to Charing Cross Station. Where is it, please?’

It was more than an hour since Rebro had shut down and the policeman’s radio was no longer functioning. The CCTV cameras in the area would have lost power long ago. Moreover, he’d lost his partner. He felt very alone.

Especially now — for he suddenly realized that there was something very strange about that man asking Canon Dibben for directions.

His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his checked coat, and he looked as if he must have been walking for a long time: his black hair was plastered against his head, his clothes soaked.

Nothing unusual about that — so what was it that was making the policeman’s instincts prickle?

From the interior of the great building came the sound of several hundred people, talking softly, moving around. Crowds of them had come in to shelter from the rain, but this man was asking for directions to Charing Cross Station. Was that what was odd, that he preferred to remain outside? Everyone else who had staggered up the steps had been exhausted, seeking only warmth and something to eat.

Then it hit him — and he automatically tried to contact his station on the radio before he remembered he couldn’t: it wasn’t working. He was sure that a picture of the man the Canon was talking had been circulated around the stations that morning. He was José Xavier, a Basque separatist terrorist who had been arrested last night along with his accomplice, Francisco Gomez. The two of them had been taken to separate police stations to await transfer to the high-security station in Paddington Green for questioning.

But if it was indeed Xavier, where were his handcuffs? Maybe he had escaped before they had managed to cuff him.

The policeman decided to stay out of sight and went back down the steps. If the terrorist saw his uniform, Canon Dibben might be put in danger.

The Canon was still talking to the terrorist. ‘We have hot tea and biscuits inside,’ he told him. ‘Are you sure you won’t have some? You must be exhausted.’

The terrorist did look for a moment as though the thought of food might tempt him in. Go on, José, the policeman willed him. You need food. Have some food. Then I’ve got you.

But Xavier moved away into the rain. As soon as he left, the policeman hurried up to the entrance, thrust both polystyrene cups into the hands of the Canon, then turned up the collar of his black raincoat. ‘You’d better go inside,’ he said to him. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I have to make an arrest.’

The policeman set off into the rain. He knew he couldn’t let José Xavier walk away. The man was a dangerous terrorist. He had helped plant a car bomb in Madrid that had injured 65 people. If he let him go free, he might be a danger to other members of the public.

The policeman followed the terrorist down a small side street, unhooking the cuffs from his belt as he did so and checking they were open so he could snap them on quickly. He jogged along until he was close behind the check-coated figure. If he acted quickly, surprise would give him the advantage. The terrorist wouldn’t expect to be spotted here.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

The terrorist turned round. The policeman’s hand was on the cuffs, ready to snap them onto the man’s wrist. He grabbed his arm and started to twist it up into an immobilizing position.

Just as he noticed that the man was already wearing handcuffs, though obviously split apart, he felt a red-hot pain in his stomach.

He saw the glint of the blade as it flashed out of his abdomen, his blood smearing the bright steel with red. As the blade came towards him again, he tried to fend it off with his hands, but he was already growing weak and his reactions were sluggish. As the blade went in once more, his entire body was filled with pain and his legs buckled.

José Xavier watched the policeman crumple to the ground, the handcuffs dangling uselessly from his fingers. His blood pooled on the wet pavement though the relentless rain was already hosing it away. The policeman’s eyes didn’t seem to register him any more, they were completely fixed on his internal world of pain.

José looked around. No one had seen the incident — and anyway, in this flood nobody cared about anything but saving their own skin. He bent down and shook the policeman’s arm until he released the handcuffs. Then he pulled off the policeman’s black waterproof coat and swapped it for his own, throwing the checked coat he’d been wearing over the policeman to hide the spreading pool of blood.

José picked up the policeman’s hat, then turned his back on the huddled shape and continued on his way.

He had a rendezvous to make at Charing Cross.

‘General Chambers, I’ve had a report about the Prime Minister.’ The RAF corporal turned away from her desk to address him.

The General and the Chief Commissioner had been studying a map of the flood zone that Meena Chohan had helped to compile, but hearing the corporal’s news the General went straight over to her workstation. ‘And?’

The corporal took her headset off. ‘It’s not conclusive news, I’m afraid, sir. His staff say he was going to Gleneagles to play golf. His security filed the flightplan as per normal procedures and are going to get back to us with his exact position.’

The General let out a long, frustrated noise. He had prepared a briefing dossier to bring the Prime Minister up-to-date on what had happened and it had to be delivered as soon as possible. ‘So he could be anywhere between here and Scotland?’

‘That’s right, sir. But we should soon know exactly where he is.’

The General crossed to the controller, whose screen was showing a map of all the rescue helicopters and where they were. ‘I want one of those helis standing by to go to the PM as soon as his location is confirmed. Top priority.’

Meena looked down at the reflection of the Puma in the water. They were over Epping Forest, but now the tops of the trees below looked like a paddy field. She wondered what her home near Chelmsford would look like now. Well, not long and she would find out.

‘Hey, Dorek? Do you think you could drop me at Brentwood playing fields? I’ve missed my lift home with Mike from the Flying Eye.’

Dorek made a minute course correction. ‘Don’t see why not.’

Meena smiled. ‘Thanks. I’ll mention you on the breakfast show tomorrow.’ She’d said it automatically, then caught herself. ‘If there is a breakfast show tomorrow …’

A voice came through on Dorek’s headset; he listened to it for a moment, then stated his position. ‘Just passing over Epping Forest.’

The voice squawked in Dorek’s headset for a moment, then he replied, ‘Roger,’ and changed course again. The helicopter swung around in a big circle and began to head back the way it had come.

‘What’s going on?’ said Meena. ‘Why are we going back?’

‘Sorry, Meena, you won’t be going home for a while. This takes priority. We’ve got to go see someone.’