Page 34 of End Game
William glanced up at the CCTV screens to see uniformed officers, several with search dogs, carefully checking the stadium. Only when they had scoured every inch would he give the all-clear and allow the public to enter the arena.
William’s mobile phone began to ring. ‘Paul?’ he said, as he picked it up.
‘We had a call from a phone box in Dublin this morning,’ said Paul, ‘a tip-off about a potential IRA threat. We were told to look out for a black van coming off the 13.45 ferry at Holyhead, but the caller hung up before telling us who they were or what they might have planned. And before you ask, I’ve already spoken to the local police. They’ve identified a black van that came off that ferry, with two people in front, and heaven knows how many in the back, and it’s heading south.’
‘Could be a ten-pence terrorist who made the call,’ said William, ‘or a genuine tip-off. Either way, we can’t take the risk. Get someone to pull the van over if it enters the Greater London area and check it out.’
He put down one phone just as another rang.
‘Security have given me the all-clear, Commander,’ said the stadium manager. ‘Can I open the gates and let the public in?’
‘Yes,’ said William. He switched his attention from one CCTV screen to another to watch a steady stream of early spectators making their way through the turnstiles, before going in search of their seats.
Two phones rang at once. He picked them both up.
‘Some good news, sir,’ said Jackie. ‘The taxi drivers have called off their protest and traffic is almost back to normal.’
Before William could feel relieved, the voice on the other line added, ‘Not completely back to normal. I’ve got a roguecabbie who’s blocking the south side of Tower Bridge and holding up a line of vehicles as far as the eye can see, and he’s refusing to budge.’
‘Then deal with it, Sergeant,’ said William, as yet another phone began to ring.
William had a feeling it was going to be a very long night. Still, if rogue cabbies were the worst he had to deal with, he’d count himself lucky – but then he thought about Miles Faulkner, and looked back up at the screens.
•••
The sergeant switched off his radio and approached the taxi driver, hoping he could defuse the situation. ‘Your mates have called off the protest and gone back to work,’ he said calmly.
The cabbie ignored him.
‘You’re blocking one of the main routes to the stadium, mate, and causing an almighty traffic jam, so I’ll have to ask you once again, will you please move your vehicle.’
The cabbie gave him a warm smile, removed the keys from his cab, and with an exaggerated sweep of an arm, tossed them into the Thames. ‘Why don’t you move it yourself, mate?’ he said.
The young sergeant took a pace forward, intending to arrest the man, but the cab driver dodged to one side, jumped up onto the railing of the bridge and stared down into the flowing river below him.
‘I don’t think that would be wise, sir,’ said the sergeant, trying to remain calm.
‘Possibly not,’ said the cabbie, ‘but it will be you who’s left to explain to your superiors why the stadium’s half empty, not me.’
The sergeant advanced another pace, and the cabbie gave him an even bigger smile before he jumped into the river.
The policeman ran to the edge of the railing, leant over and watched as the cabbie disappeared below the water. A Marine Policing Unit boat reached him just as he came up for the third time.
‘That was lucky,’ said a gawper who was hanging over the bridge. The sergeant didn’t bother to tell him that the river police had been out in full force patrolling the Thames since dawn, checking for any security threats and possible holdups to the opening ceremony.
Another voice came over the radio. ‘What shall I do with him, Sarge?’ a young constable asked, as he clung onto a soaking, shivering man.
‘Take him to the nearest hospital and tell them exactly what happened,’ replied the sergeant. ‘I’m not altogether convinced the poor devil jumped because of a cabbie protest, so let’s be thankful he’s still alive.’
He turned around to face his officers and made a decision. With the keys at the bottom of the Thames, they’d simply have to push the cab up onto the pavement and leave it there.
•••
Miles Faulkner and Booth Watson made their way to an executive box that normally held four – but then sharing, particularly with strangers, was another of Miles’s no-nos. Looking around, they could see the stadium filling: thousands of people making their way to their seats. The noise of excited chatter growing by the minute.
Miles’s mobile rang.
‘The cyclists are ready for the off,’ said Collins. ‘Far morehave turned up than last week. When the leader told them what he had in mind, some left, but those who remained look even more determined.’
