The Dark Horizon, page 21
The snow had stopped, the weather even offering a hint of blue in the southern sky. Dan grabbed a pair of take away coffees, and with a humanitarian afterthought for a barely human creature, one for Loud.
Nigel picked up a quick few shots, colourful details of the rows of spring dresses in one ladies’ outlet and the spangles of the Christmas numbers. For their efforts, each was rewarded with a discount voucher. ‘For the lady in your life,’ the smiling assistant said.
‘How is Claire, by the way?’ Nigel asked, as they made for the escalator and the next floor.
‘Fine.’
‘What’s she up to today?’
‘Having a clear out, I think. There were bits of clothes and suitcases everywhere when I left.’
Nigel nodded thoughtfully, but didn’t reply.
The third floor was a mass of televisions, computers, mobile phones and the latest in games. Screens filled the shop windows, moving fast with the action of pop videos and trailers for films. The ambience had changed again, the lighting harsher, the electronic signs more brash. The time had moved on to 12.25.
‘I reckon we’ve got enough commerce,’ Dan said. ‘All we need now are the lifts and the Sky Garden.’
The two police officers were led through a concealed door to a flight of stairs. Here the glitz of the public face of Resurgam had fled. It was cold concrete, hollowness and echoes, smelt a little of damp, could have been part of a multi storey car park. Up to the fourth floor they walked and emerged into a level which was deserted.
‘Wait here please,’ Denyer said and disappeared through another door.
Adam walked over to a balcony. Below, journalists and paparazzi rushed through the brightness of the lights, interviewing shop managers, photographing the spectacle. But here it was half lit and abandoned, no Christmas decorations, no plants, no flashing signs, the shop fronts dark and empty.
‘Maybe Resurgam isn’t doing quite as well as they’d like us to believe,’ he said.
The far door opened and Dance emerged. Her walk, as ever, was authoritative, but perhaps a little slower, a hint more trepid than usual. Her hair was again pinned up, but this time tighter, with more severity. She shook hands, favoured the men with that politician’s smile and asked, ‘How can I help you?’
‘We want you to consider putting off the official opening,’ Flood replied, with his usual directness.
Dance took the blow without flinching, a true game player. But beside her, Denyer uttered a little gasp. Sacrilege had been spoken in the temple.
‘On what grounds?’ the President of all she surveyed asked.
‘The most important grounds - public safety.’
‘We have received a series of credible threats against Resurgam that leads us to believe it may be subject to an attack tomorrow,’ Adam explained. ‘What happened earlier indicates whoever is behind this is serious and has access to explosives.’
Dance shifted her stance to favour Adam. ‘My security people say that explosion was tiny. It might have been some ridiculous prank.’
‘That’s not my view.’
‘And your evidence?’ Denyer asked, sharply.
‘We believe it was remotely detonated, by someone wanting to send a message. Plus there have been other threats.’
‘Like what?’ said Dance.
‘I can’t divulge…’ Adam began, in his traditional detective’s way, but was interrupted by Flood.
‘We’ve been sent plans of the foundations of this place. Documents that were kept secret for security reasons. Plus, if you hadn’t noticed, a man was nearly killed here on Tuesday night.’
‘And you think all these events are connected?’
‘It’d be a hell of a coincidence if they weren’t.’
‘But still possible,’ Denyer interjected.
‘Let me put this as straightforwardly as I possibly can,’ Flood intoned. ‘Greater Wessex Police are formally advising you to put off the opening of Resurgam. Go ahead and you risk the safety of large numbers of people.’
Dance put a hand on her chin and stared up at the ceiling, to a serpent coiling its way around a sailing ship. ‘Give me a moment,’ she said and paced away.
An attendant welcomed Dan and Nigel to the lift. He wore a uniform so laden with buttons, bullion and braid that it would shame the doorman of one of London’s finest hotels. ‘Hi guys, I’m Jezzy,’ came the portly young man’s chirpy greeting, in a horribly faux American accent. ‘Prepare for the ride of your life!’
‘I do hope that’s not the case,’ Dan countered, dimming the man’s smile not one Watt.
Nigel set up the tripod so the camera was looking out at the harbour. ‘I’m rolling.’
‘Hold onto your eyeballs!’ Jezzy cried, and with the finest of theatrical flourishes pressed an ornate button.
The force of the acceleration was like a mighty invisible hand pushing down on the tops of their heads, trying to squeeze their bodies through the floor. With a low whine the lift set off up the side of Resurgam, moving at a speed that left each passing level a whispering blur. Before them opened up a view of the waterfront and the Barbican.
Two other lifts zipped past on their downward path, so fast it was quicker than a blink. Within seconds, the ride was over.
‘Behold, the wonder of the Sky Garden!’ Jezzy cried, as the doors slid open.
Slowly, dazedly, still adjusting to the near instantaneous transportation so far into the atmosphere, they stepped out.
‘Look around you,’ Dance said in an unusually quiet voice as she returned to the waiting policemen. ‘Just look - please.’
There was something in her tone, and they did as bid; at the darkness of the surrounds of vacant shops, then the bright lights below.
‘We’ve achieved so much. All the cynics, all the critics said it couldn’t be done. But we raised the investment, we fought to make sure it happened and we did it.’
Dance’s hands had bunched into fists. She took a couple of steps towards a shop front. A small poster on the door read “To Let. Don’t Miss Out, Be Part of the Dream!”
‘Are you locals?’ Dance asked.
‘Look…’ Flood began, but she interrupted.
‘Just bear with me. For what you’re asking I deserve to be heard.’
‘I grew up in Cornwall - Launceston,’ Flood conceded.
‘I was born and raised in Plymouth,’ Adam added.
‘So, we’re fellows? And you love Devon and Cornwall, like me?’
Both men nodded, although Flood did so begrudgingly.
‘Let me be honest with you, then’ Dance continued. ‘We haven’t got quite as many companies here as I’d hoped. Not sold quite enough of the flats, not let all the office space. There are plenty more people interested, but they’re waiting. They want to see how Resurgam goes.’
She tapped a finger on the To Let sign. ‘Resurgam has to be a success. A hundred per cent, unequivocal, undisputed success. If that happens, this wonderful beacon of investment is lit and we thrive. But if not…’
From below came the sound of a string quartet tuning up, the notes slow and melancholy, but rising easily to this level.
Dance turned the sole of her boot on the stone of the floor and adjusted one of the lapels of that fine black coat. Now she spoke again, but this time with the timbre of finality.
‘So, you see what would happen if the opening was put off? Because of a terrorist threat? That’s what you’re asking me.’
Denyer walked over to stand beside her boss. Together, the two women looked to the pair of police officers. Below, the music was slowing, the notes falling, reaching a nadir of sadness.
Flood cleared his throat. ‘I understand, Ms Dance. And I’m sorry. But we’re talking about a matter of public safety, so my advice to you must remain the same.’
It was akin to walking in a wooded sky. Around them was a dizzying mix of trees, plants, clouds and air.
To the distant south lay an expanse of mercury sea. Westwards was Cornwall, farewell county of England, a patchwork of fields and nestling villages. To the north the dark lines of the lurking, brooding Dartmoor. And to the east, the run of rugged coast that gave way to the woodlands and easy Devon countryside of the South Hams.
The whole of the city was set out like a map, the angles of the hills, the glass towers of the university, the dockyard, the lattice of roads and the countless houses. Dan raised a finger and picked out Charles Cross Police Station, his flat and Hartley Park behind it, then the Wessex Tonight studios.
The Sky Garden was laced with paths, wandering a route through the foliage. For such a height it was curiously calm. A display board boasted of some clever quirk of the design which baffled the attack of the wind and made it possible for a range of plants to survive.
Even on a grey winter’s day the Garden felt vibrant with colour. Amidst the greenery heaters protruded, panels of fire to shift the season to a perpetual spring, coddle the plants and welcome the people who came to visit.
The ferns were damp with the melt of the earlier snow. Nigel lowered the camera and filmed a close up of a droplet hanging on a leaf, a shot full of detail and beauty, the like of which make the medium of television.
No horticulturalist Dan, the extent of his interest in the shared garden at Hartley Avenue was to sit in it with Rutherford. But here, for once, he could understand the draw of the green dream.
There were so many colours, a waterfall of coned red flowers cascading from a small hillock of rocks, sprays of tiny stars of blue. Flecks of yellow, twinings of white, crescents of violet, pokers of orange. And all against a background of every green the eye can comprehend.
The smells of the display drifted around them, some subtle, just a tint to the freshness of the air, others sweet and exotic. They were an instant transportation across the miles to the Mediterranean. The textures also challenged the senses, from the dainty fragility of the tiniest of flowers to the waving plates of waxy leaves.
Atop a mast flew the Devon flag, the white cross on green, waving proud in the breeze, below it a pennant embossed with a golden “Resurgam”.
The time was twenty to one. ‘Five minutes here,’ Dan said.
Dance and Denyer backed away, cloistered together and held a whispered conversation. They were standing below one of the few fluorescent strips working on this floor. It cast the pair in shadow and light and highlighted their gestures. Denyer was animated, her cropped hair twitching as she spoke. Dance was mainly listening, occasionally nodding, offering the odd monosyllabic comment. There was fascinating material here for those many who had speculated about the dynamic of power in the pairing.
Below, the strings started up again, a chirpier number this time, the notes jaunty and optimistic. A few bars played, then the momentum faltered and the music stopped. Flood just stood, hands behind his back, gazing into space, a memory perhaps of his military days. A man awaiting an enemy’s advance.
Adam wandered a little way past the rows of shops. Each was deserted, fish tanks without a single fish. In the door of the largest was a pile of post, several letters marked from a debt collection agency. Adam paced on, the footfall of his leather shoes loud in the quiet of this forlorn floor.
The two women turned and walked back over. They were moving more briskly now, with determination, kept close together. Allies forever in mind, word and deed.
‘We’ve discussed what you have to say,’ Dance announced, brusquely. ‘Can you definitively tell us there’s likely to be an attack tomorrow?’
‘No,’ Flood replied. ‘But we have to take the possibility seriously.’
‘So what you have is just a theory.’
‘A scenario,’ Adam corrected, ‘Which if played out could result in the deaths of many people.’
‘If.’ Denyer pounced, with strong stress on the single word. ‘If.’
‘I’ve given you my advice,’ Flood told her. ‘If you go ahead with opening Resurgam tomorrow, it will be a matter of record that you did so against the wishes of Greater Wessex Police.’
They stared at each other, the two women side by side, the two men facing them. In the twilight of these strange, forsaken surroundings, silence held the moment. The only movement was the twitching of a shadow under the flicker of a failing light.
Dance took a long breath. When she spoke, she sounded tired but still resolute. ‘You want me to put off the opening when tens of thousands of people are planning to be here tomorrow. When it’s all timed for the peak of the Christmas shopping period. When we worked day and night to get to this point. When all is in place and everything finally ready.’
‘Just give us a few days to catch whoever’s behind this threat,’ Adam said gently.
‘If you’d done your job and caught them already, we wouldn’t be having this problem at all,’ Denyer snapped.
‘Now look…’ Flood began, but Dance put a hand across her aide and said, ‘Let’s not have a scene. Deputy Chief Constable, if we go ahead you’ll naturally ensure security is as tight as it can be?’
‘That’s our duty.’
‘And we have every confidence in the police, of course,’ Denyer added, snidely.
Flood’s complexion was colouring dangerously, the veins on his neck so pronounced they appeared to be struggling to break free. The Tank was readying for battle.
Dance spoke quickly, before he could remonstrate further. Something had changed in her voice. Before, it was uncertain. But now it had the confidence of a familiar script.
‘I believe that to put off the opening would be to show cowardice when courage is demanded of us. It would be to give in to terrorism. That is not our way, and never will be.’
The belief was pouring back into every feature of her face, the determination shining through. The rhetoric was gathering force, the words rising to a rousing finale. The politician, the orator, the stateswoman was in command once more.
‘I have no intention of becoming the first leader in this country’s history to submit to coercion, to bow to the forces of darkness. We stand undaunted, we will move forwards without fear and we shall win through. So, if you’ll excuse us, we have work to do to prepare for tomorrow – as no doubt have you.’
CHAPTER 22
This late afternoon, for once, there was no hesitation at the front door. The tiredness wouldn’t permit it.
The time was coming up to five, the dense darkness of the midwinter settled upon the land. The perpetual cold accompanied it, a partner in crime, harder, sharper now than during the daytime hours.
To get home at such a time was a rare indulgence. One of Lizzie’s encyclopaedia of edicts was that reporters must be in the broadcast gallery when Wessex Tonight graced the airwaves. In fairness it was a standard of the industry; there could always be last minute queries about the story, or updates which needed to be added.
On this afternoon though, she had discovered an unusual mercy. The way Lizzie expressed it could have been kinder, but, as the old saying goes, you can’t have everything.
‘Hell, you look rough,’ she commented, as she stood in the edit suite to approve the report. I hope you’re not coming down with something.’
Dan was about to voice appreciation for his editor’s pastoral concern, when the words were strangled in his throat.
‘It’d upset our plans for tomorrow. Plus you’ll have breathed your germs all around here.’
‘I’m just tired.’
The incredulity in her voice could have blown the light bulbs. ‘Tired?!’
‘I have been working quite hard on this story.’
‘You’ve been working adequately, yes. Get home early then. I want you fresh for tomorrow. It’s a big day. Bed by nine for you, got that?’
The bizarreness of Dan’s boss telling him what time to retire meant no retort was necessary, or indeed possible. He packed his satchel and made to slip out to the car park when Nigel intervened.
‘Off home?’
‘Given half a chance.’
His friend’s avuncular face registered the sarcasm and Dan apologised. ‘I didn’t mean to be sharp, I’m just feeling jaded.’
‘That’s ok. It’s been quite a time.’
Dan was about to get into his car when he noticed Nigel had taken out his phone and was involved in some rapid texting.
‘What you up to?’ Dan asked. ‘Got a date?’
‘Just, err - checking on the boys.’
It was mostly dark in the car park, but Nigel was blushing. A kind, honest and open man, he could compete with a nun for the inability to lie convincingly.
‘It must be some new woman,’ Dan said to himself, and tied a mental knot to find out more tomorrow. So, the evening was his. And for once Dan could honestly say he was looking forward to seeing Claire. The tiredness wasn’t unpleasant, like an invisible duvet. It was pushing away any concerns for the future and thoughts of the conversation that must someday come. But not now, not just yet, not for a while.
A night on the sofa, hopefully with the input of some of the pasta that Claire cooked so well, a film, a tin or two of beer, Rutherford at their feet, would be just what Dan needed. And if he didn’t make it to bed by nine o’clock, as instructed, then it would probably be soon after.
He pushed open the flat’s door to find Claire in the hallway. She was dressed in a coat and surrounded by a couple of suitcases and a pile of boxes. And she was crying.
A day which had gone so well now fell over the edge of the cliff.
Dan had found a rare quarter of an hour over coffee to give Phil some words of advice. As so often, the young man just needed some reassurance. News is a selfish trade, with few journalists having time for much outside of their story of the day.
‘You’re well on the way,’ Dan soothed. ‘Lizzie’s already trusted you with some important reports. That’s the highest praise she can give.’
‘But she never says anything about how I’m doing,’ he replied.
‘And she never will. That’s just her way. But she’ll soon pipe up if she sees something she doesn’t like. Take silence as appreciation.’
