Java Spider (50 page)
Authors: Geoffrey Archer
Then she was gone, running through customs control with her rucksack on her back to grab a taxi into town.
Randall watched her go, trying to pretend he didn’t feel a sense of loss.
Twenty-three
The following Monday
London 09.15 hrs
WHEN HE WALKED
back into the Security Group Ops Room at Scotland Yard, Randall knew he’d returned to the fold.
‘Nice tan,’ muttered a colleague. ‘Good holiday?’
‘Get your leg over?’ shouted another.
They knew where he’d been of course. Weren’t supposed to, but when one of their own got a sunshine trip to the other side of the world envy pushed the word around.
Mostyn stood in the doorway of his office, hands on hips, impatient for a debrief before morning prayers.
The 747 had landed Randall back in London on Saturday morning. A Special Branch car had taken him to hospital for a change of dressing, then Debbie had collected him. A huge hug from her and he felt back on dry land. She’d wanted to whisk him home and mother him, but instead he’d persuaded her to drive him to a sports ground near Wormwood Scrubs to watch the final minutes of the Scotland Yard League match he should have been playing in. Special Branch were three goals down.
He
’d have saved them.
On the flight back from Darwin he’d thought long and hard about the taped confession in his bag and come to the unhappy conclusion it was legally worthless. Without other evidence or Bowen himself in the witness box repeating what he’d said about the million-pound
commissions
for him and Keith Copeland, there could be no case. Bowen was dead and so was Sumoto – Copeland’s co-conspirators. If the only evidence against him was the taped word of a half-demented man close to death, the DPP would never press charges.
‘Assistant Commissioner Stanley’s chuffed to buggery,’ Mostyn growled as he pulled out a chair for Randall to sit on. ‘Says he’ll be able to retire now with a great big grin on his face.’
Randall gave his account of Stephen Bowen’s final hours. Mostyn listened with rapt attention. No mention of the confession. No mention of a tape. Randall had other plans for it.
Fifteen minutes later a Branch car dropped him by the gates to Downing Street. The PM had asked for a meeting – to thank him personally for trying to save Stephen Bowen.
South Devon
The woodland leaves had turned in the past week. The banks of the estuary were now a mottled yellow. Charlotte had wrapped herself in her mother’s Barbour before setting out across the sandbanks in her wellies. A crisp wind whistled in from the sea. She felt cleansed by its purity.
She’d arrived back in London the previous morning, exhausted but aglow from the praise for her exclusive on what had happened in Kutu. The dramatic footage of her capture and the story of her escape from a gun
battle
between rival factions of the Indonesian armed forces had turned her into a national celebrity over-night.
Although keen to bask in her new-found fame, another priority had preoccupied her on arriving home. At Heathrow airport she’d discovered there was a flight to Plymouth in less than an hour. She’d phoned her mother to warn her, then taken it.
Verity had collected her at the airport and driven her to Sandpiper Cottage, shocked and a little angry that her daughter should have taken such risks for her work.
Charlie had sat alone with her father out on the terrace, wrapped up against the wind. As swans drifted by, she’d told him gently about the cemetery in Kutu and what she’d learned there. She’d assured him she understood, and begged him to talk about it at last. To open his heart. Eventually he had.
It had been terrible to watch him weep. Fifty years of grief and guilt flooding out from the dam which she had broken. Terrible too to learn later from her mother that she’d returned home last Thursday to find him sitting by the telephone with a revolver in his hand.
Charlie stood in the middle of the stream, the shallow water swirling round her boots. She looked back at the cottage, emotionally and physically drained, wondering if it was right for her to have done what she’d done. Wondering if her father
would
now find peace before he died.
There was a flight back to London after lunch. She’d decided to be on it. She needed to get her life back in order. To see her flat and her cat. To end her meaningless relationship with Jeremy. And above all to be with people. To tell them modestly of her exploits and to bask in the warmth of their admiration.
And, if he would let her, to talk it through with the only person in the world who would ever understand.
Downing Street
Nick Randall stepped from the door of Number 10, nodded at the man from the uniformed branch and headed down the pavement towards Whitehall.
From the moment he’d arrived, the PM had been jittery, as if expecting something. When Randall told him Bowen had accused him of putting his hands in the till, he’d feigned astonishment and outrage. But the charade had ended when Randall told him copies of the tape might soon find their way to the media.
Randall wasn’t proud of what he’d done, but had convinced himself there’d been no alternative. If the courts couldn’t dish out justice, there were times when others had to.
He sniffed deeply at the crisp autumn air, relieved that his confrontation with Copeland was over. Then, halfway towards the Downing Street gates, the rolling boom of an explosion stopped him dead in his tracks.
‘Oh no …’ he moaned.
The Revenue Men were saying ‘welcome back’.
Without another thought he took the cell-phone from his pocket and called the Ops Room.
‘Abingdon Green,’ snapped Chris, the duty sergeant. ‘Opposite parliament. Where the TV crews interview MPs. No warning and loads of casualties. Can you make it? I know you’re meant to be off today …’
‘On my way.’
TV crews.
Charlie
.
He ran through the gates, sprinted down Whitehall, weaved through the cars and buses jammed solid in Parliament Square and flashed his ID at a panicking constable trying to shoo away the crowds.
‘Yeah, OK,’ he said, pushing Randall through.
He heard the tinkle of glass falling from shattered windows. A woman screaming. The wail of sirens.
On the green opposite the St Stephen’s entrance to the House, there were bodies everywhere. Some sitting, clamping handkerchiefs to bleeding faces, some lying flat, well beyond doing anything for themselves. Three or four tripods and cameras lay on the grass like toppled cranes.
‘Anti-Terrorist Branch,’ Randall puffed, showing his card to a uniformed inspector stumbling around in a state of shock.
‘I was just over there.’ The officer swung an arm towards parliament. ‘We watch this lot like a hawk. Then a bomb went off in the middle of ’em. Out of thin air … TV people. And a couple of MPs.’ A fresh burst of sirens distracted him. ‘Bloody ’ell! Look at that …! Chaos!’ He strode towards the road, yelling at his men to clear a way for more ambulances.
She
couldn’t
be here, Randall told himself. Probably not even back in the country. But he looked, just to be sure.
Paramedics swarmed round the injured. A gaggle of nurses in blue ran from the Embankment to help. There was a hospital nearby and they’d come on foot.
Hell, thought Randall. Utter bloody carnage. He looked round for someone to talk to, to piece together what had happened. Then he saw a Branch car pull up and DCI Mostyn get out. He walked over to him.
‘Je-esus!’ Mostyn wheezed. ‘Don’t like this. The bastards are switching from businessmen to politicians. Talking of which …’ He prodded Randall in the chest. ‘Heard the news?’
‘What?’
‘PM’s resigned. It was on the radio in the car. Just now.’
‘Oh, really.’
Mostyn frowned at his lack of surprise.
‘Suppose you got wind of this at your little
tête à tête
this morning.’
Randall pursed his lips.
‘Anyway, don’t just stand there, find us a prime witness so we can nail these bastards.’
Randall smiled fleetingly. He glanced round. So … his turn of special duties was over. He was back to the old routine, chipping away at the coal face, hoping for a glint of gold.
He walked to the end of the green where the injured looked more
compos mentis
. Striped plastic incident tape was being unrolled to seal off the site from the road. Suddenly, beyond it, an argument broke out. A young constable telling two TV newsmen to move their cameras back.
Randall stopped. The media were gathering in strength. He scanned the faces of the reporters – amongst them a young, blonde woman …
No. Not her. He told himself to stop being daft.
He turned away, aiming for a likely witness. But his hand slipped into the pocket of his jacket to check that he still had Charlie’s
card
.
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Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781448151615
Published by Arrow Books in 2004
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Copyright © Geoffrey Archer, 1997
Geoffrey Archer has asserted his right under the Copyright. Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
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First published in the United Kingdom in 1997 by Century Books
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ISBN 9780099549512