Good as Dead Read Free Page A

heavy padlock was clearly an exterior door which Helen presumed opened out on to the alleyway that ran along the back of the shops. She guessed that the unpainted plywood door led to a toilet.
    Akhtar said he was sorry that things were a little cramped and told them to stand against the one bare wall. He asked Helen if she had a mobile phone. She told him it was in her handbag. He told her to slide the bag across the floor towards him and told the man to slowly do the same with his mobile phone. Then, once he had taken a seat at the desk, he ordered them both to sink down on to their backsides. Without taking his eyes from them, he rooted around in one of the desk drawers before tossing two pairs of metal handcuffs across to Helen.
    ‘Off the internet,’ he said. ‘Top of the range. Same as the ones you use, I think.’
    Helen reached across and picked the cuffs up from the floor. ‘It’s not too late to stop this,’ she said. ‘Whatever it is you’re doing, things are not too serious yet, OK? I mean I can’t say for sure you’ll stay out of prison, because of the gun, but if you let us go now I’ll do everything I can to make sure that it’s not too bad. Are you listening, Mr Akhtar?’
    He smiled at Helen, a little oddly. Said, ‘I would like you to handcuff one another to the radiator pipes. There is one at either end, see?’
    Helen exchanged a look with the man slumped next to her, and nodded. She reached across and cuffed his right hand to the small pipe that ran down into the floor. When she had finished, though it had now become somewhat awkward and took rather longer, he did the same to her left hand.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ the newsagent said. ‘The radiator is not on, so you will not get too hot.’ He looked at Helen. ‘Nice weather, like you said.’
    Helen could see that he was trying to make a joke, but she could also see the tension in his face and hear the tremor in his voice. She could see how frightened he was.
    This was not necessarily a good thing.
    Satisfied that his prisoners were secure, Akhtar stood up and walked back out into the shop. The man handcuffed next to Helen stared at the archway for a few seconds, then, apparently satisfied that the newsagent was not coming straight back, he turned to her.
    ‘You’re a copper, then?’ Perhaps it was because he was trying to talk quietly, but his voice was soft and high. He was well spoken with just a trace of a London accent.
    Helen looked at him and nodded.
    He had short hair and was wearing a blue suit and patterned tie. He reached up with his free hand and yanked the tie loose, tore at the top button of his shirt. He was sweating.
    ‘So what are you going to do?’ he asked.
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘What are you going to do about this ?’
    Helen looked at him. ‘Well, there’s not really a lot I can do. Not right this minute.’
    The man’s head dropped. ‘Shit.’
    ‘The first thing is that we need to stay calm, OK?’
    ‘You don’t understand, I’ve got a meeting this morning,’ he said. ‘A really important meeting.’
    Helen almost laughed, but the impulse vanished when she saw the desperation on the man’s face. She knew that such a reaction was not uncommon. She had heard about some of the victims of the 7 July bombings, stumbling up on to the street covered in blood, keen to tell police and paramedics that they would skip the visit to the hospital, thank you very much, that they needed to get to this or that appointment. This ‘inverted’ panic was a natural instinct in some; a refusal to accept that a situation could really be as serious as it was.
    It’s only a little bit of blood. It’s just a gun …
    ‘I think your meeting’s going to have to wait,’ Helen said.
    They stared at one another for a few seconds, until she saw the wash of acceptance slide across his face. He nodded slowly and sat back against the radiator. Said, ‘I’m Stephen, by the way.’
    ‘Helen,’ she said.
    They both turned at the sudden