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“Threats?” The chief constable laughed without humour. “We leave that to the hijackers, Mr Hedge.”

  Hedge shifted irritably, annoyed by the fact that the chief constable was so much taller than himself. He bounced a little on the balls of his feet, hoisting himself fractionally. “I meant as to a possible strike-back. Against them, don’t you know.”

  “No need, no need at all. They’ll know very well we could obliterate them at a moment’s notice if we’d a mind to.”

  “And the train.”

  “And the train, yes.”

  There was no need to elaborate: no-one was going to give the order to obliterate anybody in the circumstances. There was the cleft stick, which as matters stood looked remarkably like cleaving eventually round three justices of the High Court, another impossibility.

  Impasse.

  A nice scenario flitted through the mind of Hedge: in it three distinguished judges, wigged and robed, men of the utmost integrity, put self aside and gave themselves up for the greater good. The scenario faded fast; judges weren’t like that. The hijackers would have done much better to have demanded three bishops.

  *

  Hedge was taken on a tour of Durham, by car. He wanted to see the whole layout, to familiarise himself completely with physical Durham so that he could advise when called upon — called upon by the Prime Minister herself, perhaps. If he could impress Mrs Heffer at a time of immense tension he was more than half-way towards a knighthood when the time for retirement came. To assist very basically in the successful termination of a hijack would be the most splendid accolade possible; not only a knighthood loomed but also perhaps advancement in the Service before he retired — Head of Security, even possibly an assistant under-secretaryship in his own right, promotion level with the H of S, but somehow sounding superior.

  Hedge asked a number of keen questions: height of the viaduct, how many police deployed, total numbers available, was assistance required from other forces? If necessary he would see to it that the military were brought in: would that help? He enquired about the actual strength of the viaduct, how it would stand up to an exploding train; he asked about Durham’s foundations, mostly rock it seemed, according to the mayor who wondered, but didn’t say as much, what that had to do with anything at all. He did say that the viaduct wouldn’t stand a chance on its comparatively thin columns and that if that went so would a number of houses and other buildings in the vicinity.

  “We may have to evacuate,” Hedge said.

  “We have already.”

  “Oh. Oh, I see. Yes.”

  “Just the buildings adjacent. Just as a precaution.”

  “Very wise. Exactly what I would have suggested.”

  The car took Hedge up a steep, cobbled street to a wide square flanked by the cathedral, the castle and sundry university buildings, high above the town, high above the Wear flowing placidly past. He was taken along an alley between the buildings and emerged onto a path sloping down towards the town, above the river. From here he had a view of the viaduct and the train: not all that far off. He was watching the train when a hand touched his arm and a voice said, “Excuse me. Are you Mr Hedge, from London?”

  Hedge turned. He saw a parson, a thin man with a nervous blink and one of those modern clerical collars that looked like stamp paper stuck on a mauve band: Durham, of course, was very with-it. He said, “I am indeed, Mr — er —”

  “I’m the dean. You know Pavitt, of course. Hugo Pavitt.”

  “Yes, yes, I —”

  “He telephoned and said you were coming up. I’m so glad you’ve come to our cathedral, so very glad.”

  “He was worried about the stained glass.”

  “Yes, indeed, and so am I.” The dean appeared to be wringing his hands, folding and unfolding them in front of his scrawny body. “Any explosion —”

  “There won’t be one, Dean.”

  “Ah, but you can’t be sure.” A finger was detached from the folding process and wagged in Hedge’s face. “Naturally, we’ve prayed — the Bishop himself — and that should help. But I’m dreadfully worried about Bede.”

  “Bead?” Hedge ticked over. “Ah. The Venerable Bede, yes.”

  “A thousand years of history, Mr Hedge.”

  Hedge said confidently, “He’ll be there for another thousand, Dean.”

  “Holy bones, Mr Hedge. We can but hope so. Have you a few minutes?”

  Hedge looked across towards the train once again: it was taking on a look of permanence. It could probably wait. Hedge caught the eyes of the mayor and the chief constable. They both nodded: Hedge was being offered a tour of the cathedral and Hedge should accept. The Church was important in the life of Durham, perhaps more important than in the case of cathedrals on flat ground; there was such a physical dominance, as though God himself loomed above the Wear. Hedge said, “Yes, most certainly.”

  “It’s very good of you.”

  “Not at all.” Hedge cursed beneath his breath, seeing himself drawn willy-nilly into the Church’s embrace to such an extent that he might have to make promises about special protection for sanctified property, the Venerable Bede and all. After the polite exchanges he was led back along the alley, along a path between closely-cut grass and up to a door so heavy that it pushed the dean backwards until Hedge gave it a shove and the dean almost fell. He clicked his tongue and recovered. Hedge was taken all round; having had experience of the clergy in full spate he forced the pace along the north aisle, across the north transept past the central towers, into the choir with its dark, historic stalls, then into the Chapel of the Nine Altars past the tomb of St Cuthbert, whose remains many centuries ago, said the dean, had been placed with those of Bede.

  “But no longer, do I take it?”

  “No, no. The remains of the Venerable Bede are now in the Galilee Chapel.” The dean jerked his head behind, towards the west end. “It was to do with the Reformation, as I dare say you know.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You see our Rose Window.”

  Hedge looked around and up, vaguely. “Yes.”

  “Simply splendid! Not old — eighteenth century — but of such remarkable beauty. Before that, you see, Cromwell did a lot of damage, so did the Scots army in 1640. As a result so much of our glass is comparatively new. Some of it’s by Easton.”

  “Ah.”

  “And so many people and institutions have contributed. Before we leave you’ll see the window to the west of the north door. That was Marks and Spencer’s.”

  “Really.”

  “All this …” The dean spread his arms wide. “It simply mustn’t be put at risk, shattered by another Cromwell, by another band of brutal Scots.”

  “They’re not here.”

  “I was speaking figuratively, Mr Hedge. The train is not far off.” They retraced their steps, making west towards the Galilee Chapel and the bones of Bede. They came past the entry to the treasury. Just before they came beneath the south-western tower Hedge looked about himself, still vague, feeling he ought to ask an intelligent question. He pointed at something.

  “What’s that?”

  “That is Father Smith’s Great Organ.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  They went into the last abode of Bede. Four immense candles at the corners of the stone tomb, a bunch of flowers in a golden vase at the foot. It was very splendid but Hedge felt no sense of history: Bede had been there a very long time and the world had passed on a good many times since he was interred. It would be a pity, of course, if those ancient bones were scattered in exploded powder but Hedge didn’t think it at all likely that they would be and if there was a blow-up then there were living persons to be considered first. After a reverent interval he made for the exit, followed by the dean. The dean murmured, “If anything should happen, it would be God’s judgment on us all, I suppose.”

  Hedge said, “Frankly at this moment I’m more concerned with judges than judgment, Dean.”

  Except for the mayor who had gone bac
k to the council offices to be handy if required, the rest of the party had remained outside: they were familiar enough with the cathedral and they had used the interlude for mutual consultation. The chief constable walked to the car with Hedge. Hedge said, “You know, of course, that I’ve got a man aboard the train?”

  “Yes. That was good advance thinking if I may say so, Mr Hedge.”

  Hedge made a modest gesture of self-deprecation.

  *

  Shard, though a policeman, was yet human: he had queued with the rest for the lavatories. There was a trickle of water from a tap over the basin and he was able to freshen up a little though the stubble remained on his face and he felt sleazy after a night and part of the morning in his clothes. Leaving the lavatory he had spotted Hedge’s emergence from the limousine and although he had expected this arrival his heart sank: if anyone could bodge it up, it would be Hedge. But Hedge had to be accepted. One thing was certain: when matters got to a difficult pitch, when instant and final decision was called for, Hedge would disappear and come back later either to take the credit or dismiss the blame according to results achieved. Hedge was never a man for decision. In that lay some hope.

  When everyone had used the lavatories and returned to the seats — not in all cases the same seats, since the armed bandits didn’t sort them out with any such consideration in mind — there was a click and the internal communications system from the cab came on. A voice, heavily accented, began speaking.

  “We are awaiting answers,” the voice said. “Our demands have been put.” The voice spoke of the three judges. “Three evil men subservient to an evil government, who give verdicts according to what they are ordered to give. Also we shall want the release of the freedom fighters sentenced to prison by these evil men. This second demand is now being communicated to the British, not from here, but from somewhere in London. Soon a deadline will be announced. If this deadline passes without result, persons among you will be shot. For now, that is all.” The broadcaster clicked off.

  “Sods,” a man next to Shard said in a flat voice. Shard looked sideways. A young man with a decent face, casually dressed but neat. “It’s always the innocents.”

  Shard nodded. “That’s the way it goes. Mind if I ask what you were going north for?”

  “What’s it to you? Not that it matters now.”

  “I’m just interested, that’s all.”

  “The skipper in the lifeboat, trying to keep spirits up with hope for the future?”

  Shard smiled. “Something like that, perhaps.”

  Ian Costermaine said, “I had an interview for a job, that’s all.”

  “All? It meant a lot to you, didn’t it? I’m sorry. Maybe they’ll hold it.”

  “And maybe they won’t. I was scraping the bottom of the barrel. I don’t like the dole queues.” The tone was bitter now, but the young man looked like a fighter rather than an acceptor, possibly a useful man to have handy when the time came, as come it would, for something of a strike-back against the hijackers. In the meantime, he must continue to play it cool, as they would be doing on the ground. Shard, knowing the game better than anyone else aboard the train probably, didn’t want to rock any boats, cross any wires with those outside. And before he did anything at all he would need to have an assurance of success: going off at half cock would lead only to greater danger for the rest of the passengers.

  A few minutes later there was an exodus from the sleeping cars, evidently by order from the gunmen in the cab. The exodus was shepherded by a compliant Sam Frudge, anxious above all for his own skin. Shard recognised Sir Richard Cross and his wife, both of them looking ruffled and upset.

  *

  Lady Cross had protested. “We’re fairly comfortable here. And we’ve paid.”

  “So?” Sam Frudge had asked.

  Lady Cross breathed hard. “We value our privacy. You must know who we are.” She felt the pressure of her husband’s fingers on her arm and the hiss of his voice in her ear. She frowned and said crisply, “Oh, nonsense, Dickie, this man knows, of course he does.” She turned on Sam Frudge again. “Do those desperadoes know, do you think?”

  “Not as far as I know. Now get along, do as you’re told, all right?”

  Lady Cross gasped and reddened. “How dare you! How dare you speak to me like that —”

  “You’re no different from anyone else now. Do as they say or we’ll all get it.” Sam Frudge grabbed hold of her and pushed her away from the door of the sleeping berth, along the corridor. The orders had been firm: all the passengers had to be where they could be watched, none of them left in separate small compartments even though these had been locked. When Lady Cross started to say his conduct would be reported at the very highest level, to Lord Arkwright himself, Sam Frudge gave her an extra shove.

  From his seat Shard looked down into the street. More and more police, and now the army, with armoured personnel carriers. Overhead, two army helicopters. Hedge seemed to have disappeared so far as Shard could see; though from this height it was not easy to pick out individuals, he knew he would recognise Hedge from his pompous strut.

  *

  Their Honours the three justices all lived in London, Judges Prestwick and Orp in Chelsea, Judge Bessell in South Kensington. All three were married. Out of wigs and robes, only Judge Prestwick looked impressive, being a tall man and well-built and with an air of undoubted authority. Judges Bessell and Orp were nondescript, thin with sharp faces like knives and bloodless, almost invisible lips. All three were known to be the harshest-sentencing justices in the High Court and all three were strong upholders of anti-terrorism. They were not in the least worried about current events: Mrs Heffer would not concede, that was absolutely certain. And their persons, already under discreet police guard at all times, were now under very heavy guard indeed from the anti-terrorist squad at the Yard. Beat men patrolled the pavements outside their houses, more men patrolled their gardens, and each of their houses contained two plain clothes officers, well armed.

  If anyone was worried, it was Lady Bessell in South Kensington, where the judge’s house was almost the last bastion of Britain in a neighbourhood containing very many Arabs with very many wives, once oil-rich but still far from badly off. Yashmaks were everywhere, scuttling past or filling Rolls-Royces that periodically discharged wives en masse at palatial front doors that had once opened to the English upper classes.

  From her upstairs drawing-room Lady Bessell looked down in concern.

  “Bertie,” she said.

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “Some of those dreadful people could be part of the hijack. The bosses behind the scenes, I mean. They could have pointed the finger at you.”

  “Oh, I think not. That was pointed the moment I passed sentence in the Old Bailey! A fact of a judge’s life — that’s all.” Judge Bessell gave a dry cough. “Pray don’t alarm yourself, my dear. All will be well.”

  “I don’t see how. If you’re not handed over, they’ll kill people. What do we do then?”

  Judge Bessell’s face grew more than ever knife-like and he uttered a judgment, knowing perfectly what his wife was getting at: that the blood of the innocent would be on his head. He said carefully, “We do nothing. We await developments. That is our role.”

  “I don’t think that’s good enough, Bertie. Think of the future. What other people are going to think.”

  Judge Bessell opened his mouth then clamped it shut again. It was no use going on; it sounded as though Mavis believed he and Prestwick and Orp should draw lots for a sacrifice. There could be other people around who might think the same — three lives, or perhaps just one life if the hijackers could be made to compromise, against hundreds aboard the train. It was not a nice thought — judges shouldn’t be cowards — they would all lose stature. But what annoyed Judge Bessell more than anything else was that Mavis should think unctuously (and he was convinced she did) of the blood of the innocents when her own father had been a fox-hunting squire and she had ridden
to hounds herself.

  6

  As the Crosses came past, a man and his wife got up and went in the direction of the toilet compartment at the end of the coach. Later they could find other seats: Shard reached out and touched Sir Richard’s sleeve.

  “Two seats, Sir Richard,” he said quietly. “I suggest you take them.”

  Cross looked startled that someone should know him: the faces of the Treasury were seldom very public. But he pushed his wife into a seat and sat himself, facing Shard and Costermaine. He asked, “Have we met?”

  “In passing only. I’m a police officer.” Shard was aware of a reaction from the young man at his side, a reaction of surprise not of hidden guilt. “We’ll keep that to ourselves for now, Sir Richard —”

  “Yes, indeed. My job too.” They had spoken in whispers, although with the to-ing and fro-ing of the displaced sleeping berth passengers no-one was taking any notice. A couple moved past with two children, a boy and a girl, both of them tense and nervous, half crying. The parents looked to Shard like professional people, a wife with perhaps a high-powered job — she had that aspect, had Sue MacAllister. Shard said nothing further. Sir Richard Cross leaned over his wife and peered down towards the street and the roundabout. He seemed reassured by the sight of so many policemen and others, by the businesslike personnel carrier and its occupants, all armed. With all that around, the hijackers couldn’t win out. Shard heard him whisper this to Lady Cross, who just nodded but didn’t look in the least convinced. Shard wondered what might be passing through Sir Richard’s mind: it would be an unusual experience for so powerful a man, in a financial sense, to be held helpless by a bunch of gentry from the Middle East, and the moneybags wouldn’t avail him now.

  If the hijackers knew who he was, his background, his job, would become a danger in a very positive sense.

  And they did know: at least, so much Shard assumed when a moment later one of the hijackers came along, looking to right and left, with a sleeping berth attendant behind him.

  “There,” the attendant said, pointing. “That’s him.”