The Balance of Guilt (2 page)

There’s a thin man, eyes wide, face a little flushed. He keeps checking his watch and picking at a thread on the sleeve of his jacket. He’s smartly dressed, with an impeccably ironed shirt and trousers and smells of a little too much cologne. He’s carrying a bunch of flowers, half a dozen red roses. On a small white card, in an unsteady hand, is written,
Be mine, always
.

A middle-aged man holds the hand of a woman. Flares of light flash from the diamond on her finger. He slips a kiss onto her cheek and whispers about the beauty of this place.

And of his bride-to-be.

At the back of the group are a couple of children, wearing matching rugby tops. Two boys. One pushes the other. He pushes back. A woman doesn’t look round, but tells them to stop. She’s intent on a polished bronze plaque, commemorating the men from the Royal Lancers who fell in India in the 19th century. She’s writing in a notebook. The page is headed
Family tree – Exeter end
.

The young man lets his cloudy eyes run over them. And gathers his will.

*    *    *

“Loud” Jim Stone, the engineer, was in his usual fine form. Where some people brought a shining light to life, he radiated a beam of darkness.

‘I’m not happy. I’ve got a bleeding toothache.’ Loud’s thicket of a beard twitched as he chewed at his lip. ‘It hurts. A lot. And I bet it costs me hundreds to get it sorted out. Bleeding dentists.’

Dan handed him the tape and climbed up into the van, picking his way around the engineer’s bulk. Today’s shirt was subdued by Loud’s trademark standards, navy blue with forks of yellow lightning. He must have chosen it to parade his suffering. The engineer was never one to do anything quietly. Dan had sometimes wondered if even after Loud died he would still be complaining about how much his last moments had hurt. He could be the first person to require a sound-proof coffin.

‘Quick edit, if you will,’ Dan ventured. It was coming up to half past twelve. The lunchtime news was on air in an hour. They could get the story cut by around one, leaving plenty of time for the live broadcast.

Loud grimaced and grunted, but began spooling through the tape, checking the pictures, while Dan sketched out a script. Television worked best with short, sharp sentences, written to complement and explain the pictures. So, to begin, perhaps just one line of commentary – “A coordinated series of raids on houses identified by intelligence as being used as brothels.”

Loud edited the pictures of the cops running towards the house. Dan kept quiet as they used the sound of the door being broken in. Sometimes the images needed no words of embroidery. Next came a few lines about the raids, five in all, across Devon, and they dropped in an interview clip of a Chief Superintendent which they’d filmed earlier, the man talking about the links between brothels and organised crime.

To end the report, Dan detailed the number of people arrested and they used the shots of the businessmen being led down the stairs. Loud began a guttural giggling at the sight.

Five to one. Ideal. Nigel had positioned the camera looking back on the house. A police officer stood sentry duty outside. It would make a good backdrop. They were ready in time aplenty, for once.

With just a minor alteration to update the number of arrests, the report would do for tonight’s programme. An enjoyably quiet afternoon was in prospect. Dan mulled over how to spend it. Perhaps some shopping? It was a chore, but a necessary one. The fridge in the flat was in its usual state of bareness, and, more importantly, the beer cupboard was almost empty.

It had been running dry worryingly fast of late, he knew, but sometimes, sitting alone in the flat at night, it was the only way to obliterate the memory of five months ago.

Dan flinched. Yes, some shopping while the high street was quiet, then home and a long run with Rutherford. Perhaps if he got back early enough they could even go out onto Dartmoor. September was the King of the Devon months. The weather was still kind, the evening light beautiful in its mellowness, and most of the tourists had left for the year.

It was a plan. A good walk on the moor with his beloved dog. Dan felt himself starting to relax at the thought.

And that was the fatal error.

Only later did he come to realise it must have been just about that moment, 12.57 exactly, that the bomb went off.

T
HE HILLS WERE LOSING
their summer lustre, starting instead to colour with hints of rust as the land sensed the colder days to come. The drive from Plymouth to Exeter was pure Devon, a guide to the county’s contrasts. Salt and sugar; two dissimilar beauties for contrasting tastes.

To the north was the bleak glowering expanse of Dartmoor, rising from the road and topped with the dark scatterings of its jagged granite rocks, the famous tors. To the south, the gentler, classical countryside of the long slide away to the sea. The oblongs and angles of fields of crops; all greens, yellows and browns, the lines of hedgerows and woodland and the odd nestling village.

Today though, there was no beauty to the drive, hardly even a passing notice, no interest except in getting it done and as fast as possible. It was 45 miles, and Dan had followed the dual carriageway so many times, but never had the journey felt so laboured.

Today was different.

Most radio stations had begun rolling coverage of the bombing. For the first ten miles, an eyewitness spoke of a flash and shattering boom within the nave. Of a silence, sheer with shock. And then people screaming. Piercing and hysterical. And running, blind and blinkered, in all directions, to anywhere and everywhere, just away. And of blood and injuries and body parts littering the ancient stone floor.

Dan noticed the car’s speedometer creeping up.

They had dropped the lunchtime outside broadcast, thrown all the kit into the back of the satellite van, run to their cars and gone. There were no thanks and friendly goodbyes to the police officers they had been working with, no apologies to the group of people who had gathered to watch the spectacle of live television in action, no hint of hesitation or delay.

This was no time for niceties.

They passed the twin towns of Buckfastleigh and Ashburton, cut into the edge of the moorland. A pair of steeples rose from the slate rooftops, along with the tower of the Benedictine Abbey. The journey was half done. A herd of Friesian cows crossed an overpass spanning the road, moving slowly, tended by a young man on a quad bike.

Now the car’s radio shrieked with the hysterical voice of a woman. She was breathless and babbling, about the scores of police, fire crews and paramedics converging on the greens around the great historic building. About the hoses trained on the magnificence of its gothic stone columns and statues. About the crying and sobbing. And the stretchers, covered in blankets and carrying lifeless forms that were once the shape of people.

Dan checked his mirror. Nigel was right behind. The look on the cameraman’s face said he was listening to the radio too.

They crossed the River Teign, shallow and fast, churning white waters, and the levels of its flood plain. A ramshackle flock of sheep drank at a cutting in the bank, the order of a camp site on the opposite side, the rows of colour of its hardy tents fewer now as another tourist season faded.

The voice on the radio changed. An Inspector Humphries was saying the region’s emergency plan had been put into action. The police’s investigation was at a very early stage. He could confirm only that a bomb had exploded and it was a suspected suicide attack. There were unconfirmed reports of several deaths and scores of injuries.

The Inspector concluded by quietly saying that yes, these outrages were often carried out by teams of attackers. And no, he could not rule out the possibility that other bombers might be in the area. Armed police were at the scene. The public were being asked to look out for any suspicious activity, particularly involving people carrying rucksacks.

Dan found his mouth felt very dry.

The road climbed the long ascent to Haldon Hill. A pair of horses grazed in a clearing. The darkness of the gathering forest closed in around the traffic, only the white tower of the Belvedere breaking through the tree line.

They slowed to round a chugging tractor and topped the hill. Below stretched the panorama of the Exe Valley, lit bright by the sunshine, miles of plain, and the city of Exeter. The brick and glass towers and halls of the university one boundary, the grey lines of the airport and motorway the other.

A tail of black smoke was rising from the city’s centre, first winding, then dissipating, a dark smear on the blue sky.

The road shifted steeply downwards. The car radio hissed and crackled. A man was repeating the words, “I just can’t believe it”, over and again. The presenter was adding his agreement. Dan’s mobile rang, but he ignored it.

They turned off the A38 and reached the outskirts of Exeter. The main road in to the city was conspicuously clear. But outbound it was gridlocked. The faces in the windscreens were pale, taut and drawn.

Dan turned up the volume. A reporter was at the scene of the attack. She was describing the crowds of people milling around. The relentless ringing of mobile phones as panicked people called those they knew were in the city. The frightened families looking for mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, sons and daughters. They were wailing, shouting and screaming, calling out the names, pushing and pulling at people in the crowd, checking faces.

The hugs of relief as some were reunited, too emotional even for tears. The continuing anguish of the many still searching.

The roar of the police helicopter hovering in the air. The impending arrival of the security service, FX5, and SO15, the Counter-Terrorism Branch of the Metropolitan Police.

Always these things happen to someone else, a woman was saying. Always.

But not today. Today, it happens to us.

One more road. One last turning.

The air was full of sirens. Streams of people were walking, jogging, stumbling away. Some were sitting, smoking, propped against walls and buildings. Others sat on benches and car bonnets with heads bowed or just staring. Eyes wide, filled with fear.

Terrorism had come to Devon.

*    *    *

They parked just inside the remains of the medieval wall, on double yellow lines, but it wasn’t the kind of day to worry about that. Nigel scrambled the camera, tripod and microphone from the boot of his car, Dan helping. Police cars kept rushing past, their blue lights washing from the glass of the shop fronts. They jogged across the road and into the green.

Professionalism dictated they started filming at once. But not today, not on this story.

Dan and Nigel stopped, stood still, and joined the crowd around them in simply staring.

The famous view which had graced tens of thousands of newspapers, magazines and postcards, websites and billboards, and recreations from artists’ canvases to schoolchildren’s notepads, the very symbolic heart of Exeter, had been defiled.

The magnificent stained glass window of the façade had been destroyed by the force of the explosion. The cobbles were strewn with jagged fragments of rainbow glass, many shining in their spectrum of soft colours as they caught the afternoon sun. Some of the pieces were larger, one depicting a green valley and running river, cut in half by the blast. Another, the body of a shepherd, the words
find redemption
beneath. Others were shards and splinters, angled edges of blue and red.

Wessex Minster had been blinded.

‘Shit,’ Nigel hissed. ‘Just – well – shit.’

From the peak of the open arch, a trail of smoke wound up towards the sky. The once bright stone had been blackened with charcoal stains. A few lonely fragments of sharp glass around the base of the window had survived the blast. Dan, squinting, could make out the remnants of a disciple’s robes and half a cross.

He breathed out heavily. Around him, in the crowd, people were pointing, some shaking their heads, others just staring, but for such a mass of people there was a remarkable silence.

They could sense the violation. No words were needed. All understood the hatred unleashed here today. The desire to anger, rage and outrage. To spit bile into the face of society.

Dan reached out a hand and gently held Nigel’s shoulder.

‘Sorry,’ his friend whispered, slotting the camera onto the tripod. ‘I just – well …’

Dan stood behind him, watching Nigel’s back as he captured the scene. As they filmed, another slice of the window slowly peeled from the stone frame and clattered onto the cobbles.

A low moan echoed through the crowd.

A couple of paramedics emerged from the side door of the Minster, supporting an elderly man. Bandages covered his head. They walked slowly towards a waiting ambulance. A couple more emerged, carrying a stretcher. A child was lying upon it, her blonde hair trailing. They could hear her crying.

Dan shuddered. He suddenly felt a lonely stranger in a hostile land.

And recording, writing and reporting this the most futile gesture of an ephemeral life.

He was vaguely aware of some noise. Words. Close to his ear.

‘Are you OK?’ Nigel was asking.

‘Err, yeah. A bit – shocked, but mostly yeah. Why?’

‘You were muttering to yourself.’

‘Was I? Oh, right. Sorry, I was just, err – thinking. OK, you keep getting the pictures, I’ll start finding us some interviews.’

Dan pushed his way through the throng, to one of the benches surrounding the green. He held up his press pass as a symbol of unquestionable authority, gathered his breath and called, ‘Was anyone inside the Minster when it happened?’

Faces turned. A few shaking heads. He tried again, but still no luck. Dan hopped down, picked his way to another bench and tried once more. This time a young woman raised a slow hand.

‘I was. I’d just come in the door to have a look round. All I saw was …’

‘Hang on,’ Dan interrupted. Nigel had spotted her and was pushing his way over, holding out the microphone.

She could only have been in her early twenties, had short dark hair and a cute, freckled face. ‘I’m not sure I want to be on telly,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘Not after … this.’

Dan smiled, reassuring, but firm. ‘This story needs to be told. And you’re the one to do it. What’s your name?’

‘Rosie.’

‘What a beautiful name. It suits you.’

She gave Dan a look that suggested his charm had proved as effective as firing custard pies at the walls of a castle. Perhaps another angle of approach, then. Experience had equipped him abundantly.

‘Rosie, it’s easy enough. I just want you to tell me what happened. All the words I come out with can never let the viewers know what it was really like in there. Only you can do that.’

She still didn’t look convinced.

‘You do realise it’s nothing short of your duty? You’ll be helping to set down history.’

Dan thought he heard Nigel groan. But now she looked more impressed.

‘Well, since you put it like that. I’d just walked into the door – I was going to join one of their guided tours – and I was looking at the ceiling when there was this noise …’

‘What was it like?’ Dan prompted. ‘Describe it to me.’

‘It was like a crack to start with, then a really loud boom. It echoed all around the Minster. It was deafening. Then there was a crashing noise, like glass shattering. That must have been the windows blowing out.’ Her expression darkened and her voice fell. ‘Those beautiful windows. There was this hot wind, it felt like a hurricane battering me. Everyone stopped. Then people started screaming and shouting. But some weren’t screaming … they were lying on the floor – just lying there, still. And there was blood. Seeping onto the ground. There was smoke coming from over by the big window. Everyone was running, trying to escape. Then I just got out.’

The time was approaching three o’clock. They were well on the way with compiling the report. Time for one quick call, to a trusted source of information and friend.

‘I’m a little busy,’ replied Adam, in a strained voice.

‘I guessed you would be. But I could do with a word. I take it you’re at the Minster?’

‘Me and every other detective we’ve got.’

‘Can you spare me a minute later on?’

‘Maybe. We might well need your help on this one – again.’

Dan kept working his way through the crowd and found another eye-witness. The man was a little closer and had seen a bright flash of light as the bomb exploded. He’d also spoken in faltering, but eloquent terms about the injuries. People staggering out of the Minster, holding their heads, pouring with blood.

It was brutally graphic for a daytime news programme. But with a story like this there was no way to soften the sense of shock.

A police media liaison officer bumbled through the crowd and informed the hacks that a press conference would be held shortly. The Deputy Chief Constable, he hinted, had important information, but the man would tell them no more.

Dan called the newsroom as he waited. They were sending Craig,
Wessex Tonight’s
main anchor to present tonight’s programme live from the Minster. It was a standard news technique to mark the importance of a story.

Loud had arrived, and somehow managed to talk his way through security and drive into the Minster grounds.

‘They could only see the front of the van on their monitors,’ he explained. ‘I told ’em I was the police canteen wagon. That always works.’

He’d changed his shirt to a plain, navy model, which he kept in the van for serious stories, but was still holding his jaw. ‘Bloody inconvenient time for a big story,’ he grumbled. ‘I was hoping to get off to the dentist later.’

More satellite trucks were arriving, and journalists too. There was now a crowd of about fifty hacks, and half a dozen camera crews. In the dishonourable tradition of the disreputable media, the first thing many wanted to know was where to get a decent coffee.

A café at the end of the run of shops facing the Minster was doing good trade. Its owners had placed a chalkboard outside reading, “Still open, two fingers to the terrorists!” Other shopkeepers were doing the same, cameramen filming them.

Armed police were patrolling the green. They walked past in their pairs, eyes continually scanning the crowd, hands ready on semi-automatic rifles. Rumours had been spreading of more suicide bombers. Knots of people were leaving now, most hand in hand or with arms wrapped around each other. Strangers shook hands and patted shoulders. It was a day for the comfort of companionship.