Vixen

7

The second explosion was at a teenage disco, situated off Coldharbour Lane. A large hall had been converted by local builders, its aim to keep teenagers away from the main strip in Brixton. So now the kids hit the strip first, scored the dope, then went to the disco. Parents, delighted at the lack of booze, congratulated themselves on their efforts.

Two parents, acting as bouncers, were injured in the blast. The dynamite had been placed in a litter bin sited conveniently at the main entrance. The victims, covered in blood, were on the front page of all the papers with screaming headlines:

BOMBER TARGETS TEENS

Roberts, all control gone, was shouting:

‘They didn’t phone… why didn’t they bloody phone? I mean, play fucking fair, we never even got a chance to answer the ransom demand. What the hell is going on?’

No one knew. Roberts glared at his team. Porter Nash, clearing his throat, began:

‘I met with the Bomb Squad.’

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s the same outfit, same MO. A few sticks of dynamite and the crude timer.’

Brant, lit a cig, exhaled, asked:

‘Any luck on the usual suspects?’

‘No, seems to be a new operator.’

Roberts slammed his hand on the table, said:

‘I’ve to meet the Super in ten minutes… is that what I tell him…? That we figure it’s a new operator? He’s going to fucking lap that up, bound to be commendations all round.’

Porter Nash felt he should say something further, tried:

‘The victims are doing well, the injuries looked worse than they actually were.’

Roberts wasn’t placated

‘Take a look at the bloody tabloids, the damage is already done.’

A silence descended and the atmosphere was thick with recrimination.

The phone rang.