Ultimatum

Twenty-two

14.15

If there was one thing that DS Chris Hancock hated most about policework, it was delivering death messages.

According to those in the force who knew him, Hancock had the right temperament and look for it, his sad eyes and hangdog features putting people at ease as he gave them the bad news about the sudden, occasionally brutal, demise of a loved one. He’d done it no fewer than two dozen times during his time in the Met, and every time it had been excruciatingly painful. People tended to react in much the same way. First disbelief, then a profound sense of shock that seemed to sweep over them like a shadow. They were usually very quiet. ‘How did it happen?’ they would ask in hushed tones as the enormity of their loss slowly sunk in.

Only once had anyone ever reacted dramatically. That had been a young mother — thirty-two years old if memory served him correctly. Hancock had had to tell her that her nine-year-old son, an only child, had been killed in a hit-and-run incident at a zebra crossing. She’d fallen apart, screaming, throwing crockery, howling with grief, her voice echoing round the room as she’d turned from an attractive young woman with a welcoming smile into an unhinged, wild-eyed banshee. It was as if she was trying to get rid of all her energy and strength in one tremendous burst so that she’d be too overcome with exhaustion to feel the pain. Hancock had had sleepless nights for weeks afterwards. He’d felt that woman’s loss, tasted it in his mouth. He too was the parent of an only child, a daughter aged seventeen, and he couldn’t begin to imagine what his life would be like if something happened to her.

Now that he was working for Counter Terrorism Command he’d hoped that his days of delivering dark news were behind him, but it seemed they weren’t. It had been only six hours since the first of the three bombs that day but they’d already had their first positive ID of a victim, and he and his colleague DC Marie MacDonald had been tasked with delivering the death message.

The recipient was the owner of a major City-based IT company, a man called Garth Crossman. DS Hancock had done some brief research on Crossman on his way over (he always liked to find out a little about the people he was giving such bad news to, so he could at least try to get some idea of how they were likely to react). A self-starter and entrepreneur who’d left school at eighteen with poor exam results, Crossman had founded Logical Solutions two decades earlier, and was now a millionaire many times over. However, as DS Hancock knew from experience, all the money in the world can’t protect you against tragedy.

At first when they turned up at the front desk of Logical Solutions’ head office in Leadenhall, the receptionist hadn’t wanted to disturb Mr Crossman. Apparently he was in an important meeting with investors. Only when Hancock showed her his CTC ID and told her it was an emergency did she finally relent, suddenly looking very worried.

Two minutes later, Crossman appeared in reception. He was a fit-looking, silver-haired guy in his late forties, a little on the short side, smart but casual in an open-necked shirt and dark, neatly pressed trousers. He fixed Hancock and MacDonald with a welcoming yet puzzled expression — he clearly had no idea what two officers from Counter Terrorism Command could want with him — and after shaking hands, ushered them into an adjoining boardroom.

DS Hancock never saw the point in delaying the inevitable. ‘I’m afraid we have some very bad news,’ he said, looking Crossman firmly in the eye. ‘A woman we believe to be your wife was killed in the cafe bombing this morning.’

Crossman’s face tightened, and Hancock could see he’d had a number of recent Botox injections. ‘I, er …’ He stayed silent for a moment as the shock of Hancock’s message hit home. ‘Oh God.’

‘Would you like to sit down, Mr Crossman?’ asked DC MacDonald, motioning towards one of the chairs round the boardroom table.

‘No, no, it’s OK. How sure are you that it’s her?’

‘There’s no doubt, I’m afraid,’ said Hancock. ‘A DNA sample taken from her body matches the one we already have for her on the central database.’ Two years earlier, Martha Crossman had been convicted of drink driving, making identifying her far quicker and easier than if her DNA hadn’t been on file.

‘I tried phoning her earlier,’ said Crossman, his voice shaking. ‘You know, after I heard about the bomb, and the message said the phone was switched off. I didn’t think anything of it. I mean, you don’t, do you?’ He looked at them both in turn, his eyes wide and gleaming. ‘It’s a terrible shock. God, I’m going to have to tell the children.’ He wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead, and ran a hand down his face. ‘Do you need me to … to identify her? My wife, I mean?’

Hancock shook his head. ‘No, that’s all taken care of. We’ll release the body as soon as we’re able, but it may not be for a while yet.’

‘Did she suffer?’

‘Your wife was very close to the bomber. She would have died almost instantly. In fact, she probably never felt a thing.’

‘And there’s no doubt?’

‘No. There’s no doubt at all. I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you, officers. It must be a very hard job you have to do.’

A long time afterwards, DS Chris Hancock remembered this being the point when he thought there was something wrong with Crossman’s reaction. He was acting more like a politician doling out well-earned praise than a man who’d just lost his wife, but at the time all Hancock experienced was an uneasy feeling he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Crossman must have seen something in his expression. ‘I have to admit, my wife and I were planning to split up,’ he informed them. ‘We’ve had a number of arguments and she was planning to move out in the next few weeks. Even so, it’s still a terrible loss to our family.’ He took a deep breath, and looked up towards the ceiling.

DC MacDonald put a hand gently on his arm. ‘If there’s anything we can do, Mr Crosssman …’

‘No, it’s fine,’ he said, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘I’ll do what has to be done.’

‘It may be best for you not to be alone. We can organize a grief counsellor to come and talk to you and your children.’

‘I really appreciate your offer, but we can manage.’

There was a finality in his tone that told them that they were done here. They left the boardroom and walked back through reception, nodding at the receptionist as they left.

‘God, I hope we don’t have to do any more of those for a while,’ said DC MacDonald when they were outside.

‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Hancock. So far, twelve people — not including the bomber — had been confirmed dead, a figure that was still rising. ‘I always seem to get these jobs.’

‘I thought he took it pretty well in there, considering.’

‘So did I. Too well.’

‘Really?’

He shrugged. ‘There was something about him I didn’t like.’

‘I think you’re beginning to get cynical in your old age, Chris.’

‘I disagree,’ he said, as they got into the car. ‘I can see the good in people. But I can also tell when it’s missing. And it was missing in there.’

Back in the boardroom, Garth Crossman sat in contemplative silence. He’d made numerous presentations in this room to investors, shareholders and clients, yet in many ways the one he’d just made to the two police officers had been the most important. It was essential they believed in his grief, and he was pretty certain they had.

He sat back in his seat and allowed himself a small smile. There’d been some unnerving moments, but so far his plan was working perfectly.

And the exciting thing was, it was only just beginning.