23 hours - the sixteenth hour

15.00. The sound of one of the world’s most famous bells marks the passing of time. The young man sits at his desk and knows that with every minute that passes his job gets harder. Unless the information is found soon it could have left the country and be anywhere. The woman, who is now his PA, walks through the door with coffee. It’s the first mistake she has made, his predecessor drank coffee here for almost forty years. He drinks Earl Grey. He wrestles with this thought for a moment knowing she is in deep mourning. “I drink tea,” he says with a warm smile.

15.05. First edition of the evening paper has an article on the shooting and a separate report on the helicopter crash. There is also a type of ‘comment piece’ about ‘why so many important people’ have been is a series of meetings during the day. There is some speculation about reasons but none are even close to the mark. This will however be the last edition the day that will have a ‘Is she pregnant?’ headline

15.10. Tracey-Rebecca goes to the first public phone at the station and dials her police partner. As soon as he answers she says ‘Hello Pete’. When he replies ‘Hello Trace,’ she knows something is wrong. He always calls her ‘Trellis’. A gun is pushed into the side of his head. ‘Where are you?’ he asks. Without a second thought she lies and says ‘Manchester. I’ll call again when I’m settled.’ She hangs up and runs from the station. The second man at PC Groom’s house looks at a screen. ‘London’ he says with a dead voice.

15.15. Half an hour in and the CRISIS meeting has digested all the information they have. The news that the two ‘rogue’ agents have voluntarily come to the building and their email explanation has been reviewed. There is a consensus, but not total agreement, that their story and behavior stacks up. The Minister does not know who to trust anymore and at 4pm he has to go to see his superior. Today he hates his life however many good lunches it has provided.

15.20. A national reporter receives a phone call from someone who spins a tale so astonishing it brings the world weary cynicism of a seasoned ‘hack’ to the surface. Many of the names he is quoted are national figures and it is only when he ‘Googles’ some of the other names mentioned that he begins to see the links emerge. The phone goes dead. He is left with no proof but enough questions to start a ripple across the sea of the establishment that could cause a tsunami of trouble.

15.25. Faith and I have gone through our story three times and we appear to be believed. We have just covered visiting the man’s wife when we are suddenly asked, “Did you kill her?” We are both so quick and strong with our denial and then Faith states, “She’s been killed then?” A photo of the scene is shown to us. “So either someone has been following us or someone is just behind us in what we now know.” One of the men in the background asks, “What do you know?” “Not a lot,” I say.

15.30. Tracey-Rebecca stands in Trafalgar Square and feels sick and frightened. She knows taking the USB was quite simply the stupidest thing she has ever done and if she could rewind time she would have left it where it was. Slowly an idea comes to her. It won’t automatically save her but it could reduce the amount of attention focused on her. It’s probably her only hope.

15.35. He is still sitting in his pyjamas when the door is opened and he is asked to come out. He goes into the corridor and sees a man and a woman. He has never met them but he knows who they are. They are all asked to move along the corridor and get into the lift. The woman glances at him and once again he just wishes he had got dressed before stating work. The lift door shuts and he fears the worse.

15.40. News of the phone call is relayed to his office. They know she is in central London, they believe she has the USB stick with her. All the research they have done about her points to this being a ‘one-off’ piece of erratic behavior. That doesn’t help in trying to calculate what she will do next. Two members of the Zurich Team have her police partner and his wife held. ‘Needle’ and ‘Haystack’ come to mind. He sips his tea that is now cold.

15.45. The reporter shouts across the news room and the relevant correspondent tells him there is a general press update later this afternoon. After giving him the information of time and venue the correspondent asks ‘why he wants to know’ but the reporter has his head buried in his laptop. He is certainly not going to publicise yet what he has been told. Partly because it just doesn't make sense.

15.50. The lift door opens and we are shown into a very large office waiting room. We are asked to sit down. I sit next to Faith and leave the man in pyjamas to sit alone by the glass-topped table. As we sit and wait the inner office door opens and some of the most important people in the organization file out. I now know whose office we are outside. Faith leans towards me and whispers, “They must believe us if we are being brought here.” “But what else can we tell them?” I say.

15.55. The room has emptied out and the Minister has a headache that has grown over the last half hour. He believes the pain to be unbearable but he hasn’t really felt true pain until he opens the door to his balcony and steps out. With just two minutes until his 4pm meeting his secretary opens the office door to see the Minister slumped on the floor. The angle of his head gives the tell tale sign that he is no longer alive

A Strange Tale

The waste from the children’s ward was bagged and dumped in the basement ready for collection and incineration. Or it should have been but the key for the padlock on the metal doors was missing and after a while people stopped looking for it.

So the waste built up. Bags of bandages, splints, plaster casts and other materials that had sheltered and supported damaged children back to health. Bags with memories of pain. Bags full of healing.

For the man who slept rough the fact that the metal doors had not been yanked open and banged shut meant longer sleeps and less shouts of ‘move on’. He knew it couldn't last. Someone would notice and the padlock would be forced. What he didn’t know was it would be him who forced the door.

There was no doubt his life was lonely, made worse by the fact that once he had had a family. A tragedy had robbed him of his loves and with it his life and left him broken.

He drank to make the memories less painful, the hurt deadened temporarily. It started his slide until now no one could see beyond the dirty clothes and the stale smell. No one could see or hear a man who was sobbing on the inside.

As the moon rose that night creating striking shadows at the back of the hospital the man lay awake. The alcohol had not anesthetised his mind and the dark thoughts chased around his head.

At first he couldn’t understand where the noise was coming from believing it must be inside him. It was after many fuzzy minutes that he realised it was from the other side of the metal doors. The sound of soft scratching and a feint voice shouting ‘help’.

He stumbled towards one of the recycling containers and removed a metal bar. Ramming it between the chain and the metal sheet he forced the padlock until it fell with a resounding clang to the floor. He threaded out the chain as quickly and quietly as his shaking hands would allow

The door groaned open and there, standing in the frame opening, with the moonlight dancing across his body was Bandage Boy.

The man fell back his head banging against the cobblestone paving. His eyes shut as the pain racked through his body. He was about to moan when the strangest sensation swept through him.

It was as if all the pain and hurt was being washed from his body. He opened his eyes to see the little Bandage Boy bent over him, his bandaged hand resting upon his chest. As the pain drained away from him so he heard a slight whimpering from the strange little child.

His eyes cleared, the fog in his head gone and he stared at Bandage Boy. A child created and born from plaster casts, splints and bandages was smiling down at him.

As the man reached out towards him the little Bandage Boy crept into his arms to be hugged. The man wrapped his arms around him and held him to his chest. He could feel his heart begin to heal.

23 hours - the fifteenth hour

14.00. He stands on the pavement and looks casually, as a tourist would, at the magnificent building. They would not stint on making their head office as prestigious and grand as possible. Status and appearance is all to them. He gazes at the balconies and wonders which one would open from his office. This will be a long wait and he has to find a suitable place. He looks at the map he has picked up from a nearby hotel.

14.05. Within ten minutes the Minister’s department know that someone is running a search on the young police-woman who was at the scene of the crime. The Zurich team has left flat 17 with a laptop and other belongings. They are out of the back door and into the alleyway to the street as the other team force open the flat door. Within moments the silence is broken by the Leader shouting an obscenity. They know they have been beaten to it and they will have to let the senior know.

14.10. Faith and I contact the department through the secure email from a cyber café. We are vulnerable but it is the only thing we can think of doing. There is an email waiting for us. It takes us a moment to read and a moment to digest. “What do you think?” says Faith turning towards me. “What choice have we got?” I reply. She is about to send a response when I interrupt. “It asks for us both to go. What if only one of us went, we would still have some control.” Faith stares at me.

14.15. The Zurich team race with the laptop and other belongings to London and the office. The leader of the other team has spoken to his senior and both asked the same question, ‘How did someone else get their first.’ For the leader he can only assume that there is a leak or somehow there system has been hacked. Neither is palatable and once he has passed this through to the management group there is general dismay and anger. On top of this the Minister has called for another CRISIS meeting at 14.45.

14.20. The little old lady sit for a moment and wonders. After a while she calls the free helpline. The answer she gets doesn’t make her feel happy at all and so she calls the Police. The officer at the other end seems incredulous at her story of two teams of ‘British Gas’ workers going into the flats and British Gas knowing nothing about it. He is about to say she’s lucky to get anyone to come out when she gives the address of the flats and a warning bell goes off in his head.

14.25. Tracey-Rebecca is getting nearer to London and is having to consider what to do next. She needs to speak to someone and the only person she can think of is Pete Groom he police partner. He should be at home as they were on nights so she could risk a call when she gets off the train. He won’t mind, he’s kind of been like a father to her. Not that he will be happy with what she’s done but he might have some advice as to how to resolve it.

14.30. At the station the senior officer pieces together what they know. About twenty minutes ago they get a call from the Department to ask about PC Ellis. When he finds out she is off ill the Department demand more information. Now it seems she was out on the crash this morning, had been interviewed with PC Groom by someone from outside their station and now her phone at home and mobile are not being answered and the desk sergeant has reported strange activity at her block of flats. Two cars are despatched to investigate.

14.35. The man has booked a room with a window overlooking the building. He sits and waits for his target to appear in one of the windows opposite. He knows the target is one of the most senior people in that particular office so it is likely he will have one of the windows with a balcony. He can see all four. It is possible that his office may be so big that it has two of the balconies. He has a particularly good view of the middle two.

14.40. Police are called to a lovely mews cottage where they find a woman shot dead on the living room carpet. The irony of dying in the living room is not lost on the senior policeman. “Call it in Purves. Tell ‘em we need SOCO and murder squad.” He picks up an envelope from the hall table. “And they can start doing a search on a Mr & Mrs Singleton. You can bet the husband did it. See if they can get a trace on him”. The call is put through and the gate is closed and taped off.

14.45. The CRISIS team are meeting. If you wanted a definition of tension you could show a picture of the room. The Minister opens the window to the balcony to let in some air. He goes back to his chair and the circle is complete. The door to the outer office is shut quietly and the Minister speaks. “Right,” he says with more conviction than he really feels, “What do we know?”

14.50. Faith and I arrive outside the building. We are both nervous. We have decided to go in together because any other action may suggest some form of guilt and involvement. Once we go in that’s it. We look at each other and I think we are both wondering how so much could have happened in just one day. At a window opposite a man goes to an envelope and takes out two photographs. He can hardly believe his eyes. Three of his targets are in or near the same building. This could make the job harder.

14.55. On the radio come the first reports of a woman shot dead in her home in central London. Although no names are given the broadcast says the Police are looking for her husband. The suspicion is that it is a domestic incident. The news has already come through to the two different organisations hunting for the USB stick. They know who the woman is and both now suspect that the other is responsible for the ‘hit’. Both are wrong. In a hotel room opposite a man adjusts the sight on his rifle. He now knows for sure which balcony is attached to the man’s office.

Seedy

A packet of seeds free with a magazine. Stuck to cover so that in trying to free them it rips the packet spilling the tiny dusts of life onto the carpet.

A burst of the vacuum and nature is back in its place, a bag. But not all. Underneath the sofa a germination. Hidden in the dark the plant grows strong before making a break for the light.

Wrapping around a leg for support it climbs up and secures its tendrils against the body. Drawing its moisture and food from the host the plant grows big before dropping its seeds to the carpet below and falling upon the cover of the magazine ‘Country Life’.

23 hours - the fourteenth hour

13.00. She sits quietly drinking her coffee. She is listening to the few words that are spoken whilst keeping her head down. It is only her good memory that meant she recognised the man who had ‘taken over’ at the crash site. She is sitting with her back to him. It is clear that they are waiting for further instructions and she has picked up a reference to locating the ‘object’. The USB stick glows hot in her pocket. They don't know where to look but it is clear that they will soon. She decides to get back to the flat quickly and pack a few things.

13.05. In a dark van the message comes through to the Zurich team that the computer must be located within Oldfield House, there are approximately fifty flats to visit and search. They leave the van where it is to avoid too much presence and walk towards the flats. They know they may be only minutes in front of other search teams and they must be quick and effective.

13.10. We have sent the email that details what we know and the telephone number of the man who took my briefcase and who he works for. We must now move again to keep safe. We have told them we will contact again in one hour to see if we have further instructions or if we have been cut adrift. I pick up a copy of the early evening paper and see that the helicopter crash warrants a few paragraphs on page 5. It’s funny how geography and celebrity make such a difference to news coverage. I expect we should be grateful.

13.15. She leaves the flat with a large holdall containing clothes, money and passport. She has no idea why she is reacting like this but she can sense she is in deep trouble. The impulse to take the USB stick was certainly the stupidest thing she has ever done and now it has turned her stomach and her life upside down. She goes straight to a cashpoint and withdraws the maximum her account will allow. Now what?

13.20. The Department now has the same area location for the USB and the team from the Coffee Bar once again leap up and leave their tables. On this occasion Ed has been expecting it and they tip well. The leader has the information on the names the flats are registered to and none are bringing up any links or cross references. They are about twenty minutes away. As they walk briskly ahead of them the Zurich team are already inside the building.

13.25. “Ah, good afternoon,” the smartly dressed man says to the elderly lady who opens her door. “I’m from the Gas Board,” He flashes identification into the gap between the edge of the chained door and the frame. “We have had reports of a gas leak in the building and we have to check every flat I’m afraid. From her view into the corridor she can see another man standing at the door further down the hall. The pushes the door to and slides the chain out before opening the door fully and letting him in.

13.30. The man leaves the Zoo and makes his way toward the Underground station. He boards the train going south on the Northern Line and finds a seat. He checks around him and notes the fellow passengers. All occupied many with the tell tale wires for ear pieces. He takes the envelope from his pocket and slits it open with his finger. He doesn’t bother to count the £50 notes, they wouldn’t dare short change him. He takes out the photographs and stares at the portraits. These are the bungling amateurs who have messed up everything.

13.35. Tracey-Rebecca gets to the train station and uses a public telephone box to call the police station to say she is ill and won’t be in for a couple of days. She puts on the pathetic washed out voice of people calling work pretending to be sick and then hangs up. She boards a train and sits back facing forward. If she sits with her back to the direction of travel she feels sick. On this occasion she now feels sick already. Her mind is racing with thoughts of how she can escape this situation.

13.40. Faith and I have had a bite to eat and are working on the form of words we will use when we contact the department. We have one chance and we have to get it right. Finally I have the upper hand as my skills in communicating seem to have her respect. It’s amazing how close to someone you can get in less than eight hours. It’s stupid but I feel I could spend the rest of my life with her, if we have any life in the future. These people don’t play games.

13.45. The man’s wife opens the door and finds herself violently pushed up the hallway and into the front room. Within the seconds the light stain from coffee that is still visible on the beige carpet is subsumed with a rich blood red. The man moves from room to room searching and leaves within moments with a plastic bag. As he walks up the path a motorbike pulls up and takes the bag before speeding away. The man lifts out the next photograph from his inside pocket. It is a face he recognises.

13.50. The old lady has told him what she knows about all the people in the flats. He has struck gold, she has knowledge and gossip to fill her empty life. As he mentally ticks off the flats with her identifies those that will be empty as the inhabitant will be out during the day and therefore they can break in. With every ‘safe’ flat he texts the door number to the team. “Flat 17?” he asks, “James Kent.” “Oh,” the old lady says, reveling in the fact that she has more knowledge than the gas board, “He sublets his flat.”

13.55. Back at the ‘office’ a search is run on Tracey-Rebecca Ellis and within seconds it throws out her background. No one can believe that it is an accident that someone who was on the scene of the crash could also have a flat in the building where the USB stick was activated. Within moments the man leaves the old ladies flat and the entire team enter flat 17 and start their search. As the door to the flat closes the team from the coffee bar enter the building. The leader knocks on the first door. A little old lady opens it slightly. “Hello,” he says showing a card, “I’m from British Gas.”