Famous Last Words

Chapter 12

12

Niall

Niall’s brain works quickly. It isn’t Deschamps; it isn’t a man at all. Therefore, it is Isabella Louis.

And her police officer husband is somewhere on the scene.

Shit.

‘Hello?’ she says again, her voice a whisper.

Camilla’s eyes are saucers, staring at the phone, then up at Niall. He needs to get her away from it. He doesn’t have clearance for her to speak to anybody except Luke. She could jeopardize the whole thing: relatives often act in unpredictable ways.

And he needs to make sure Isabella’s husband, George, isn’t anywhere nearby, either.

He holds a hand up to a uniformed officer and gestures for him to remove Camilla, feeling regret at her hurt and dumbfounded expression. She looks a lot like young Viv: big eyes, lots of hair, and Niall feels a sympathetic lurch in his gut, but, nevertheless, he turns away from her, needing to concentrate.

Niall scans the RVP for George Louis, but he isn’t here.

‘Hello, Isabella,’ Niall says into the phone while the officer removes Camilla. Only ten seconds or so have gone by. He hopes it’s not been too long.

Nothing. No response, but the call is still connected.

‘Isabella?’ Niall says into the phone. ‘I know you must be scared but – I need you to talk to me, if you can.’

Nothing.

Maidstone approaches Niall and sits down too close to him, clearly unable to help himself, and begins making gestures. Niall waves him away.

‘If you can’t talk for fear, please tap the handset three times,’ he says.

More silence at the end of the phone. Niall strains to listen. Nothing. Maidstone drums his fingers on the desk. Niall’s whole body is full of adrenaline.

He turns and watches the police: hunched over laptops, fingers to ears. At any moment, Deschamps might grab for the phone. Niall feels a stab of something, guilt maybe, that he’s always pretending to be just one man, talking softly to criminals or victims, when really there’s a whole team of police there. A tactical commander listening to every word.

He turns again, trying to ignore his audience, the pressure he’s under, the resources being directed at this exchange. He gazes out of the window towards where his call is coming from. Armed police surround the warehouse like an ugly grey swarm. The warehouse sits there, impassive in the light.

Maidstone points to the phone. ‘Isabella?’ he mouths, and Niall nods, but he’s irritated. He can’t concentrate under this scrutiny.

On the line, Niall can hear nothing. No breathing, no shouting, nothing. ‘In case you didn’t hear, it’s three taps, if you can’t speak,’ he says.

Silence. Niall turns to look at the phone, to check it’s still connected, and as he does so, he hears them. Three delicate taps. Three scared taps.

‘All right, Isabella. I heard those,’ he says, holding a hand in the air.

Maidstone is scribbling on a piece of paper. Ask her if she’ll put LD on.

Niall shakes his head.

Maidstone gestures to Niall, but Niall can’t work out what he’s trying to say and, right now, he needs to be concentrating. He stands up.

‘If you are Isabella, this time tap twice,’ he says.

Two taps.

Shit. He needs to concentrate. He strides away from Maidstone, who ought to know better than to interrupt him at a crucial moment like this.

‘Is Deschamps near you? Two taps for yes.’ Two taps.

Maidstone rises to his feet, and so Niall steps towards the open pub doors, irritated.

Maidstone catches his eye, looking reproachful, but Niall ignores him. He’s just as able to take a call outside as he is in the official RVP.

Niall’s breath is held. Deschamps could be right behind her. He could be forcing her to take the call. He could have his pistol in the small of her back. And all Niall has is taps.

Niall looks up at the sky. Cerulean blue, a perfect summer’s day. His forehead is sweating as he decides what to do next.

He’s gazing down the road, thinking, when he hears it: running footsteps. A commotion of some kind behind him. He whirls around, a finger in his ear, closely listening to Isabella, and stares. And there he is: a uniformed officer, low rank, dark hair and eyes, hands outstretched. It’s George Louis, being flanked by two police officers, trying to run towards Niall.

‘That’s my wife!’ he shouts. ‘That’s my wife on the phone! I heard you say her name as you came outside!’

Niall looks at him in shock and has a strange, prescient feeling that this has been his first mistake. They should’ve kept him away. It was fucking stupid to allow him to come to the scene, a loose cannon. Shit, shit, shit.

‘That’s my wife! Let me in there,’ he cries, and Niall closes his eyes. He shouldn’t have taken the call outside.

He gestures for the coppers to control him, to hush him up. They cover his mouth and he strains against them, pulling at their hands. His eyes are round with shock and fear. Niall looks at him for a second, and suddenly he doesn’t see a copper: he sees a scared husband, struggling against the authorities, his own colleagues, as they try to contain him, and keep him safe.

Eventually, to Niall’s horror, he manages to wrench the officer’s hand from his mouth. ‘That’s my wife,’ he bellows at full volume. ‘If you’re listening, hostage-taker, we’re going to come in and we’re going to fucking kill you.’

Every single hair on Niall’s back and neck rises up. He stays on the line, but turns to stare at the warehouse. There is no way Deschamps didn’t hear that down the line.

Within seconds, there is a movement at the door to the warehouse. The slightest thing. Something you could miss but that nobody will.

Everybody in the vicinity sees it and holds their breath. It’s silent. George is contained. Tens of the police crouching diligently around the warehouse aim their guns towards the door. Radios crackle, but, otherwise, the air is quiet and still and blue with police lights, like they’re deep in the ocean.

The door moves again.

And then.

In a single, fluid, silent motion, the armed police move forward like army troops advancing at war. Niall stands there, unarmed, in the centre of it, the phone still in his hand, just watching the door open slowly, slowly, slowly. The police cock their guns with a collective crack as a figure emerges, all in black, and Niall unconsciously braces himself for gunfire.