PROLOGUEFor a moment,
all he could see was her breast. The pink nipple was taut with lust, the
soft, creamy skin around it smooth and translucent. She cupped it in her
hand, teasing the nipple with gentle, erotic strokes. His eye travelled with
her hand as she moved it lower, his breathing accelerating. Languidly her
legs opened to him, inviting him towards her. As police
officer on duty, he almost failed to hear the telephone ring. Grunting with
annoyance, he muted the television and reached for the receiver, his eyes
remaining on the screen. His arousal
faded as he listened to the words, scrabbling for a pen to write them down. The moment they
had finished he slammed his fist down on the cradle of the telephone to sever
the connection, and began re-dialling the emergency number. The woman was
forgotten. He glanced at his watch, sweat beading his brow. ‘Chief? We've
had a warning. Code words verified.’ He stared at the paper in front of him.
‘We've got fifteen minutes.’ CHAPTER ONEMarch 12th, Ollie Hardman
was not having a good day. He’d guessed it
was going to be a bad one when he’d woken half an hour late that morning, his
hangover beating a military tattoo inside his head. It had been confirmed
when he reached inside his wallet and found the five hundred pounds he had
withdrawn the previous day gone. Even now Ladbrokes was half a grand richer. His rising had
been slow, despite the lateness of the hour. He’d spent five minutes face
down on the bed contemplating the grimy floor of his bedroom hoping the world
would stop spinning. It hadn’t. Bright, wintry sunshine streamed through the
uncurtained window. An acrimonious divorce had put paid to such luxuries as curtains
- not to mention the sofa, wardrobe, dining table and chairs, and as many
fixtures and fittings as his ex-wife had been able to remove from their home
when he was away at a News Editor’s Conference. Ollie had not
been too distressed by the loss of his wife, although his missed the
curtains. He didn’t blame her for leaving; like most journalists, he was
married to his job. In his case, his relationship with He glanced now
at his watch. He’d been on shift since eight that morning and still had more
than another five hours to go. He kicked back
his chair away from the Home News Desk. For once the telephones had stopped
ringing. If the world fell apart, someone else would have to pick up the
pieces for the next five minutes. He moved
through the atrium, glancing sourly up at the immense glass and chrome
structure that was He mooched back
to his Newsdesk with a cup of foul machine coffee, nodding at Sam Hargrave,
the Foreign Editor, as he sat down. Sam’s ‘U’- shaped desk was a mirror image
of his own, positioned so that the two together formed an ‘H’. Thousands of
pounds and God alone knew how many time and motion studies had gone into
proving that this was more efficient than any other combination. Ollie’s
personal opinion was that it put him far too near his boss, Brian Reynolds,
whose task it was to oversee both Home and Foreign Desks and make sure that
no decisions were ever made. Ollie looked up
as Janey, his Newsdesk assistant, returned from her gossip by the printer
bearing a large cup of real coffee and a Danish pastry. ‘Sorry I was so
long, Ollie,’ she panted, throwing her plump figure into the chair on his
left. ‘I nipped out to the Sandwich Bar. Thought you’d prefer it to that
dishwater from the machine-’ ‘Forget the
soft soap. What’s the problem?’ Janey didn’t
bother to contradict him. ‘We’ve only got two crews tomorrow to cover the
whole day - and that includes the early crew. Our glorious leader has
assigned two crews to shoot round the building so that he can present a
documentary on ‘How the hell
am I supposed to cover the entire day’s breaking stories with two bloody
crews?’ Ollie yelled. ‘It’s bad enough today with three. Christie’s got Andy
for her undercover special on the teenage drug ring, and the early crew
knocked off at four. That only leaves us one, and they’re down at Janey looked
sympathetic but said nothing. Ollie scrunched his polystyrene cup and tossed
it into the bin. He knew it was pointless to even debate the Editor’s
decisions. Once Ben Wordsworth had made up his mind, the decision was final
and no correspondence would be entered into. One of these days, a late
breaking story would make a nonsense of their pared-down rosters, and they
would be creamed by the opposition. ‘When’s Christie due back?’ ‘She’ll be at
that party filming until Ollie nodded as
one of the many telephones on his desk began to ring. Thank God it was a
quiet night. He couldn’t wait to get home. March 12th, The driver of
the 18.45 express train from There was no
indication that this journey was different from any other. The computer
proclaimed that everything in order as the train hurtled along the track.
There were no malfunctions. The weather was clear. Judy Coleridge
entered the driver’s cab and smiled. ‘Last run for
you tonight, Tobe?’ The driver
glanced at his watch and grinned back. ‘Always takes the longest, doesn’t it?
Never mind, should be back in time for The
Bill.’ He yawned. ‘Busy tonight?’ ‘You’re not
kidding. It’s like the bloody rush hour out there. To be honest, I’d better
get back. Just thought I’d say hi.’ Toby
acknowledged her with a wave over his shoulder as she left the driver’s cab.
She passed along the swaying train, steadying herself as she paused between
carriages. The automatic doors hissed open as a lurch of the train put her in
range of its sensors, and she adjusted the ticket machine against her stomach,
pulling the straining tunic around her ample frame. She knew she could do
with losing a few pounds, but she was too happy at the moment to think about
that. She smiled
softly as she contemplated the tiny diamond solitaire on her left hand. It
had only been there for three weeks, and still felt new and a little alien.
She kept stealing glances at it as she punched the tickets of the passengers
in the crowded carriages. A group of
pensioners waved at her as she moved towards them, and Judy waggled her fingers
back in greeting. Probably going on to see a show in Judy tapped the
legs of a young girl who was resting her crepe-soled shoes on the seat
opposite her, and the girl whipped her feet down with a guilty start. Her
boyfriend nuzzled her ear, and the girl blushed. God, they make me feel old,
she thought wryly. She glanced at
her watch as she edged around battered suitcases, trying not to disturb two
sleeping children cradled in their parents’ arms. A charter flight must have
just landed at Gatwick. A bag of Duty Free rolled along the shelf overhead.
Judy opened her mouth to warn them as it bumped against the sill. The cry never
came. The one hundred
and eighty seven passengers on the train felt the crash before they heard it.
The carriages swung crazily from the rails and lurched to the right. The
lights inside them flickered and died.
In the darkness, the carriages hung skewed at a forty-five degree angle, and
seemed to hover, as if deciding which way to fall. A child plunged screaming
through the window, breaking glass slashing his body as he fell. Screams
echoed up and down the corridor, and the piercing wails of terrified children
filled the air. Then the frozen
tableau came to life and the train teetered and plunged down the embankment.
The eight carriages twisted away from each other, their couplings snapping
apart like cotton. People spilled from the train and were crushed beneath its
weight as it fell. As if in slow motion the carriages tumbled down the steep
slope, rolling over and over, the metal of their sides bending and ripping
like tissue paper. Trees skewered them through the windows, impaling
passengers thrown against the glass. With a thunderous roar, three carriages
slammed into a row of small houses hugging the bottom of the slope. The walls
collapsed and disintegrated under the impact, the carriages embedded in what
were once bedrooms, living rooms, homes. Dust flew upwards, and the sound of
breaking glass and tearing metal filled the night. As abruptly as
it had started, the noise stopped. The debris of train and houses finally
came to rest. For a moment, it was quiet. And then the
screaming began. Notting Hill Gate, March 12th, Christie
Bradley surreptitiously glanced at her watch as she made a show of smoothing
back her bright-gold hair, wondering how to execute a strategic withdrawal
from the earnest young man talking to her without seeming unforgivably rude.
She decided she didn’t care if she did seem unforgivably rude. Slowly she
reached down to the message master clipped to the waist of her black silk dress,
and switched the delayed action button. Ten seconds later the shrill bleep
pierced the pounding thud of the music, and Christie unhooked it thankfully,
reading the blank LCD screen with an expression of profound concern. ‘Terribly
sorry, must dash,’ she said, easing her way around the startled young man. He
stared blankly after her. Christie forced
her way through the throng of sweaty bodies crowding the underground cellar.
Jungle music reverberated off the grey concrete walls, a heavy, pulsing
rhythm that lacked either tune or lyrics. She pulled up the thigh-high black
suede boots she was wearing and smoothed her silk dress down. The things she
did for a story. A tall,
unappealing youth dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and wide jeans blocked the
doorway as Christie reached the kitchen. His unnaturally bright eyes raked
her body, his interest obvious. ‘Can I help
you, gorgeous?’ Christie took
in the greasy hair and glazed expression. This boy might not be selling the
drugs she was chasing, but he clearly knew a man who did. Christie smiled,
arching one eyebrow with exactly the right amount of mingled anticipation and
disdain. ‘I’m open to
suggestions,’ she said, smoothing her dress with a gesture that invited his
eye to follow her hand. ‘Anything to offer?’ The youth
leered. ‘Don’t go away.’ Christie
nodded. The microphone she had just activated should be able to pick up his
every word when he returned. She reached for
a half-empty wine bottle on the sticky table in front of her, pouring a
generous slug into a plastic cup, then
replaced the bottle amongst its dozen empty fellows as she scanned the
room for her cameraman. Knowing Andy, he was probably already upstairs with
the juvenile sex siren he had started chatting up the moment he walked
through the door. ‘How’s it
going?’ Christie smiled
as her producer, Dom Ryan, appeared at her elbow. ‘At last, a friendly face.
I’m beginning to remember why I tried to forget my student days.’ ‘Don’t worry,
another few years and you won’t remember anything.’ Christie
laughed. Dom was only twenty-one, and had been assigned to the production
team at She nudged Dom
as she noticed at an attractive man moving through the crush of people, the
long-haired teenager at his elbow. ‘Find Andy, quickly. I need some pictures
if I’m going to get enough to stand this story up.’ Dom’s eyes
glittered. Christie Bradley was one of International News Network’s top
correspondents, and not without good reason. In the three years she had been
with It was hardly
surprising his interest was more than professional. The reporter was one of
the most arresting women he had ever met. Her green eyes gleamed from beneath
dark lashes, changing from near-grey to deepest malachite depending on her
mood. Her lips were a little too full,
her cheekbones a touch to high, for her to be considered classically
beautiful, but she had it: that
indefinable something that was impossible to buy or emulate. Dom forced his
attention back to the story as the dealer reached Christie. ‘Looking for a
little fun?’ ‘Depends what’s
on offer,’ Christie said smoothly. ‘What did you
have in mind?’ Suddenly the
shrill tone of Christie’s bleep cut through the conversation. The young man
backed off in panic as she reached for it. She sighed.
Great. Goodbye to forty-eight hours hard work. She spun the
display towards her. It had to be important for the Desk to be bleeping her
and risking the whole story. She turned towards the staircase, heading for
somewhere quiet enough to use her mobile. Dom was right behind her as they
struggled past people up to the landing, and shut the door to the pulsating
cellar down below with relief. ‘Hi, Ollie,
Christie here.’ She said
nothing more as she scribbled in her
notebook, then shut the phone and ended the call as her cameraman finally
appeared at the top of the basement stairs. ‘Andy, get the crew car and
follow me. I’ll take my own; we may need the extra wheels when we get there.’ ‘What’s the
story?’ Andy asked, falling in beside her as she ran down the steps towards her
car. ‘Train crash
near a village called Heathley, halfway between Dom nodded as
Christie tugged off her suede boots and reached into the back of her MG,
pulling out a pair of black jeans. He glanced in the side-mirror as she slid
them on beneath her dress, which she pulled over her head without ceremony.
He prayed his excitement did not show as she revealed a breathtaking glimpse
of creamy white breasts and hard, pink tipped nipples, before tugging on an
outsize sloppy joe jumper over her jeans. ‘Never travel
without this lot,’ she grinned at him, slipping on a pair of worn trainers.
‘I can hardly go on camera in a cocktail dress when I’ve got mangled bodies
in the background.’ ‘What
happened?’ Dom asked, as Christie flung a map at him. ‘No idea. Train
just came off the rails and plunged down the siding. Hit a row of houses.’ Dom shivered at
the thought of the carnage that must be awaiting them. He had never even seen
a dead body. Until he had joined The police tape
fluttering in the wind told them they’d found the right place. Christie
leaped from the car and left Dom to park as she ran towards a policeman,
waving her Press card. ‘Christie Bradley, ‘If you’d like
to move your car back to the end of the road, Miss Bradley, there’ll be
someone along soon to take care of you,’ he said blandly. ‘Don’t cross the
tape, please. We don’t want the efforts of our rescue workers hampered.’ Christie
scowled. If she waited for someone to find her, she’d end up corralled into a
Press cordon and any chance of some decent pictures, let alone the real
story, would be gone. But there was little she could do until Andy arrived.
She walked back towards the MG and unlocked the boot, extracting a six-pack
of lager that she had bought for the party and then forgotten. Handing one to
Dom, she weighed up what to do. She needed to recce the scene to find a good
position for the engineers to set up the links so that she could transmit a
live piece back to the studio for the Late News at ten. The rescue
teams suddenly switched on their floodlights, slicing open the darkness
around her. Christie was shocked at the carnage, far worse than she had
expected. Three houses had been completely destroyed, several others untidily
sliced in two. A bed hung suspended in mid-air, half in and half out of a bedroom.
In one living room, she could see the television still playing. Two teenage
boys approached and hovered near her
elbow. ‘You a reporter?’ She nodded
without really listening. ‘Bleedin’ mess,
ain’t it?’ one of the boys said conversationally. ‘Can’t exactly
see much from here,’ Christie said crossly. ‘Got a great
view from my bedroom,’ the boy volunteered. Christie’s
pulse quickened. She had the feeling something was a little out of kilter
here. There were too many police were here already, ahead of the emergency
rescue services. Her reporting instincts told her that she was witnessing the
result of more than a routine points failure. She leaned into
the car. ‘Dom, look out for Andy,’ she murmured. ‘The minute they arrive, get
them as close as you can for some wide-shots and general views of the area.
See what else you can find out, then get back to me with the GVs.’ She
straightened up and handed the boys a can of lager each. ‘Christie Bradley, A young
policeman watched in astonishment as, moments later, a stunning blonde and
two young boys marched straight towards his police tape and lifted it, then
walked calmly past him. ‘Hey, you can’t do that!’ ‘How else am I
supposed to reach my house?’ Christie said indignantly. ‘Number 32.’ ‘I’m sorry,
miss, but I can’t just let you go through there -’ ‘Me mum’ll kill
me if I don’t go home,’ one of the boys said. ‘She said she’d ground me if I
bunked off again.’ The policeman
hesitated. Christie smiled brightly at him and shot through the gate of the
boys’ house before he could stop her. The front door opened, and a startled
woman dodged out of the way as the two boys bowled past her, hauling Christie
after them. The younger one stopped halfway up the stairs and leaned over the
banister. ‘It’s all right, mum. It’s the TV!’ One look from
the boy’s bedroom satisfied Christie that the trouble she’d undoubtedly just
caused Ollie was worth it. She couldn’t have a better vantage point. She
pulled out her mobile and called the Newsdesk, her script already forming in
her mind. ‘Ollie,
Christie here.’ ‘Where the fuck
are you? Andy’s going crazy.’ ‘I’ve sent Dom
to find him. I’m inside the bedroom of one of the houses on the road by the
crash. Don’t ask why, just send me three hundred pounds. Where are links?’ Any material
she shot could be beamed to the ‘We’re working
on it,’ Ollie said. ‘They’re all out at the moment, covering the by-election.
They should be with you in an hour. It’ll be tight, but we should just make
the Late News at ten. We’ll try to get the satellite dish down to you for
your live two-ways later.’ ‘Time they get
the signal established, the world and his wife are going to be here,’
Christie snapped. ‘If you want an exclusive, you’d better get them here in
thirty, max. If you need me, you can get me on my mobile.’ ‘Can you give
me a phono before you go?’ Ollie said quickly. ‘We’ve newsflashed the
details, but you’re the first on the scene. Sixty seconds will do fine.’ ‘You need
pictures to tell this story, Ollie, you know that,’ Christie retorted. ‘If I
waste time giving you a phono now, we could lose any chance of some decent
shots. Anyway, it won’t tell you anything you don’t know already.’ ‘It tells us
you’re there, and the BBC, ITN and CNN aren’t,’ Ollie said crisply. ‘OK, ready when
you are,’ Christie said, rapidly composing her thoughts. ‘Three...two...one...At
the crash scene tonight...’ Swiftly
Christie gave a concise account of the little information she already had,
drawing a lightning picture of the scene of the tragedy in a few strong,
clear words. As soon as she finished, she signed off with Ollie and put down
the telephone. She guessed she would have half an hour before the whole area
was declared off limits to the Press, and she didn’t intend to waste it. She left the
two boys waiting for Andy and went into the back garden. The wrecked
carriages loomed above her, illuminated by arc lights and sparks from cutting
equipment. Two firemen carried a covered stretcher down the slope of the
embankment. A waiting ambulance man directed them towards the next door
garden which had been commandeered by the rescue services. Three similar
shrouded bodies already lay there. She turned back
to the house as Dom, Andy and another cameraman arrived. ‘You got through
OK?’ ‘The copper on
the gate’s given this house up as a lost cause,’ Dom said. ‘OK, let’s get
going. Dom, liaise with Ollie for me. As soon as that links truck gets here,
you give me a shout. Tell him I need at least two more crews, and we’re going
to want a lot of back up. We’ll go live as soon as we possibly can. Jimmy,
cover any pressers that come up, Dom can ask questions if necessary. Andy,
you and I should get some pictures before this whole thing becomes a no-go
area. Then we’ll have to get to the links truck and get ready to go live with
what we’ve got.’ Without
checking to see if Andy was following, Christie edged discreetly towards the
embankment where the nearest carriage lay sprawled on its side at the end of
the garden. She could hear the hiss of the cutting gear as the rescue workers
tried to free those trapped in the wreckage, and the hum of the generators
that supplied power to the floodlights. She moved
beyond the circle of the arc lights into the darkness. Low branches whipped
at her hair, and she heard Andy curse as he caught his camera in some tangled
bushes. Suddenly she ran up against a wire fence. Beyond it, the slope of the
embankment towered, seeming far steeper now she was at the bottom of it. ‘Can you manage
to get up this with your gear?’ she asked Andy. Andy grunted.
‘Done worse.’ The eight
carriages sprawled across the embankment to their right. They approached the
wreckage nearest to them, and Christie realised that it was not a carriage,
but the engine of the train. She gazed at it for a moment, wondering why her
senses were instantly alert. ‘There’s
something wrong with the engine,’ she whispered after a few seconds. ‘It
shouldn’t look like that.’ ‘Looks OK to
me,’ Andy said, already lining up the twisted metal in his viewfinder. ‘Apart
from the fact that it’s been squashed to bits, of course.’ Christie left
the cameraman filming the rescue teams busy cutting survivors from the
wreckage, and sidled forward, keeping to the shadows. No-one had told her
specifically not to be where she was, but she was in no doubt of the
authorities’ reaction should she be discovered. As she moved
towards the main carriages, she felt like a spirit moving invisibly through
another world. The bulk of the wrecked train loomed, dark and threatening,
all around her. Groans and cries for help emanated from the tangled metal.
Christie stopped, appalled by the feeling of helplessness that washed over
her. Andy finished
filming a shot of a teenage couple being carried from the debris, their arms
still twined around each other, their bodies mangled and still. They were clearly
dead. ‘Let’s go,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I’ve got what we need. We don’t
want someone to see us and confiscate the tape. As they headed
back to the ‘Follow them,’
Christie whispered. ‘Something’s going on here, I know it.’ They edged
towards the track, using the activity around the engine as cover. Andy zoomed
in on the ground the two men were examining. ‘It was
definitely an explosion, no doubt about that,’ one man said, crouching down.
Christie suddenly realised he was actually at the edge of a huge crater that
the engine’s bulk had prevented her from seeing before. ‘Bastards,’ the
other said bitterly. ‘What’s the point the buggers giving us fifteen minutes
warning when they don’t tell us which fucking track they’ve put the device
on? Christ, there must have been two hundred people on this train.’ The two men
moved out of earshot, but not before Andy had recorded every word. |