Page 25 of Famous Last Words

‘Right,’ Maidstone says, finally levelling with him. He holds Niall’s gaze. ‘Pretty suspicious.’

‘It was dry that day,’ Niall says. It had been dry all spring. ‘No mud spray.’

‘Hmm.’

Niall picks up the coffees and begins to get moving. He suddenly has an urge to text Viv. She’ll be thinking he’s staking Deschamps out, wearing riot gear and holding a machine gun. Instead, he’s serving coffee.

Niall is ready for contact, holding the coffees and wearing a bulletproof vest.

He is interrupted by Maidstone, talking into his radio. ‘Engage protocol: negotiator to approach the building in two minutes for first contact.’

Niall is wired up. His bulletproof vest is heavy, sticking the sweat to his back.

The coffees are steady in their tray in his hands, probably cold now, but that’s policing for you: everything takeslonger than you’d think. It tires Niall out, sometimes. Like you have all these instincts and ideas about what to do for the best, and they’re culled and culled by red tape andprocesses.

He stares at the warehouse, his gaze narrowing to focus on the black wooden door.

Amazing where the fear goes, when it comes to it: it just disappears. If you do something often enough and don’t die, then you somehow think you never will, like when you first learn to drive a car and think about crashing all the time, but within a year are steering with your knees and eating burgers.

The riot squad is ready. The inner cordon is a tidal wave of officers, all waiting, their bodies still, shields up. The road is full of people, but it’s utterly silent as Niall walks. Officersw part for him like the Red Sea.

The walk takes him one minute. In his ear, Maidstone gives him the all-clear, and Niall stops at the door.

He pauses there, just listening.

He leans closer, clears his throat. ‘Luke Deschamps?’ he says, one ear to the wood. ‘My name’s Niall.’

Nothing. He waits five seconds. ‘I’ve got a team outside here, with me,’ he says. ‘They tell me you’ve got a gun in there. I wonder if you can help me work out what’s going on?’

Nothing.

‘Nobody wants to come in. Least of all me. I wanted to talk, really, but first – I heard you like coffee, so I got you some. I’m going to place them – there’s four cups here, and some snacks – outside the door. And you have my word that if you open it and pick them up, nobody is going to do a thing. Right?’

On the other side of the door is total silence.

He places them on the ground, on a rubber mat with holes in it, feeling the back of his neck exposed and vulnerable. He straightens up, but still there’s nothing.

‘Starbucks. Lattes,’ he says.

Nothing.

‘So if you’re tired or hungry or thirsty – any of you – they’re here. All right?’

He wonders if the hostages can hear his futile attempts.

‘So – Luke?’ He uses his first name deliberately. ‘I’ll be moving away from the door shortly. And nobody is aiming at you. I don’t lie here. So, anything you want to ask me, you know that I’ll tell you the truth.’

Still nothing. Niall stands back, just waiting, but the coffees go untouched.

‘Now, you’re in control here, Luke,’ he says. ‘You decide whether to stay in or come out.’

This is what all hostage-takers want: control, and certainty. Or at least the illusion of it.

Still Deschamps doesn’t speak.

But just as Naill is about to leave, he hears it. A mumble. Nothing more. He raises a hand, knowing the officer with his eyes on Deschamps through the hole will have more idea than him.

A hand is raised back: continue.

---