The journey to the hospital had taken only a few minutes, and I sat with Dee in the ambulance, holding her hand whilst the paramedic attached her to a drip and a variety of machines.

The hospital was a modern brick building of two storeys, sporting a colourful blue sign depicting the name of a well-known provider of private medicine. The sign below read ‘No A&E facilities’. I wondered why we had come here, until Dee was wheeled in and was in the operating theatre within two minutes.

I waited in the lobby with Don Fisher and Lavender, who had followed the ambulance in the paramedics’ sitting ambulance, basically a Volvo Estate car. A Doctor approached us and explained that Dee would be treated and back in her room within the hour.

“Now, if you will come with me, young lady, I need to examine you,” the doctor said. Lavender stood up to accompany the doctor, as did Don Fisher. Lavender frowned and said “Dad!” and Don Fisher sat back down.

As they disappeared into a room, a police car drew up outside. A young policewoman came into the lobby and addressed us both.

“Mr Hammond, Mr Fisher, my name is Andrea Farrell and I am the police constable assigned to guard your two rooms for the night. The hospital has kindly assigned Ms Conrad and Ms Fisher companion rooms next to each other on the first floor. We can go on up and wait for them there, if you’d like.”

It didn’t sound like a question, and so we both followed her to the lift. Once we emerged from the lift we entered a corridor that was more like a hotel than a hospital. It didn’t have that hospital smell which is prevalent in all NHS premises, but smelled like a newly built hotel. WPC Farrell checked the piece of paper in her hand and led us to rooms 35 and 33. The doors were close together.

Andrea opened number 35 and said, “This room has been assigned to Miss Conrad.” We followed the WPC inside, and looked around. The room was spacious and beautifully decorated, and could easily have passed as an upmarket hotel. The cream painted walls were adorned with tasteful, bright watercolours. The bed looked as though it contained enough technology for space travel, and against the wall stood a sofa and a matching armchair with a high back. On the wall opposite the bed hung a flat screen TV which was operated from the bed via a remote control.

“The sofa folds out into a bed, should you wish to stay the night,” WPC Farrell informed us.

I saw the brightly lit en suite bathroom, with its sandy coloured marble effect tiles and full sized bath, and I suddenly felt grubby. I realised that we had all been wearing the same clothes since Friday.

“I’ll be next door, Josh,” Don Fisher said, his hand resting on my shoulder.

“OK,” I answered, noticing that his face was pale and drawn. All the worries of fatherhood seemed to be resting on his shoulders. Seeing him vulnerable and exposed as he was made me realise that, no matter how rich you may be, you can’t keep your kids entirely safe.

I decided I should have a bath, and rang downstairs for extra towels. A nurse arrived in the room a few minutes later. She laid the towels and some other linen on the bed.

“I thought you might need these,” she said, holding up a pair of plain white boxer shorts. “They look the right size.” She grinned at my obvious embarrassment as she held them in front of my groin.

“Also, if you’re staying overnight, you might need these.”

She laid out what looked like a lounge suit consisting of dark blue track suit trousers and a matching zip up top. The colourful hospital logo was embroidered on the left had side of the chest. To my dismay it looked a lot like the Arsenal football club badge.

“If you need anything else, just let me know. Oh, by the way, you can see the Emirates Stadium in the distance from this window.” She left, closing the door behind her. I went to the window and closed the curtains.

Chapter 7 9

Tottenham Press, Commercial Road, London. Sunday, 5pm.

Inspector Boniface and DCI Coombes left the Tottenham Operations Room as soon as the operation was over, arriving just after the paramedics had left. They had been here for almost three hours and the scene was still buzzing with people.

The last of the bodies had just been taken away in the coroner’s black van, and some of the crime scene investigators had also gone, but the doctor was still in the building.

The armed response team had been quizzed by the Internal Investigations Branch, standard procedure in a fatal shooting, and their recollections matched the findings of the crime scene investigators. Now they were all piling into cars and minibuses to return to base.

The doctor, still wearing his white protective overalls and plastic overshoes, strode over to the two senior detectives.

“What a bloodbath. Six suspects, five of whom are dead, and a hostage shot twice. There is some good news, if you can call it that. We only took one of them down. Preliminary analysis suggests that Sonny Holloway was killed by a machine pistol, almost certainly by the suspect who was killed by the firearms squad. Then, it gets confusing. We know that one of the hostages shot the last man but there were two more bodies upstairs. My best guess is that the one on top killed the one underneath before our last man killed him.

If you’re keeping score, we killed one, three were killed by other suspects and the hostage shot one. With one still alive, that’s all six accounted for, gentlemen.” The doctor removed his latex gloves and unzipped his overalls.

“You’ll have the full report tomorrow,” he volunteered as he walked away.

***

DS Scott and DS Fellowes had joined the two senior detectives and were reporting their findings. DS Scott offered to lead, and Fellowes nodded.

“All firearms used in the shootings today have been recovered and bagged. Additionally we discovered a small armoury in a steel lockbox concealed in the paint store. The contents have been logged and removed. There were two blocks of RDX explosives in there, as well. DS Fellowes also had a memorable find.”

DS Scott looked at Fellowes, who took up the story. “Hidden with the spare wheel was a carefully wrapped painting. It has Churchill’s signature on it and is probably the one De Montagu sold to Hickstead. As we suspected, it had been kept in Hickstead’s safety deposit box.

Also concealed in the body panels were necklaces, bracelets, rings, cash in numerous currencies, and a collection of gold Krugerrands in a coin collector’s album. There were at least a hundred in there, and they usually sell for about five hundred pounds each.

Best of all, there’s a holdall in the office packed with fifty pound notes. The bag weighed just over twenty three kilos. A million pounds in fifties weighs twenty two kilos. What’s the betting that the numbers match those given to us by Fisher’s bank?”

Suddenly the weariness lifted from all four men and they smiled. Tomorrow Lord Hickstead would come looking for a deal, fondly imagining he still had the bargaining chip of hostages. That interview would now be much more enjoyable. The four men all shook hands, and Boniface spoke.

“You three go home and get some rest. I’ll call in at the hospital and see if our victims want to see his Lordship squirm tomorrow. I think they deserve that.”

Chapter 80

Highbury Clinic, Blackstock Rd, North London. Sunday, 5:30pm.

I sat on the edge of the bed talking to Dee when she was awake. If we stopped talking, even for a few seconds, her eyelids would flutter and she would be drifting away again. The doctor explained that she would be ‘dopey’ until she had enjoyed a good night’s sleep.

There was a tap on the door.

“Come in,” I shouted, and Dee opened her eyes.