Camera crews from Sky News and the BBC arrived at the scene about twenty minutes after the cops. That had been about an hour or so ago. We were the day’s big story. BBC1 dropped its scheduled programming to show the action as it unfolded.
Charlotte seemed remarkably calm. She’d handcuffed me to her wardrobe with cuffs that looked a damn sight more Ann Summers than Scott & Bailey, and made contact with the senior officer, DCI Laurie Rouman.
Speaking slowly and clearly, she informed him that she had four hostages, including two police officers, one of whom was injured. In return for their safe release, she wanted a police helicopter to take her and her father to a destination of her choice, and as a goodwill gesture she was prepared to release the injured officer immediately.
Rouman said he’d get back to her. She told me to look out the window again. Crowds had started to gather along the lane – held back by a police cordon. Three quarters of an hour later, with clearance from the Home Office sought and obtained, her mobile rang. Charlie spoke briefly to Rouman, then hung up and beamed, “Game on.”
She uncuffed me and made me carry Gary Shaw, who was now semi- conscious, down the stairs. I left him outside the back door, and watched through the glass as the paramedics came and collected him.
Charlie found her father in the office. He was in a bad way.
“I'm putting you back in the cellar Mr Tyler,” she said. “There’s nothing we can do now except wait for the helicopter.”
At least that meant the execution was off. One way or another, we’d have closure today. But then again the pits had closures, it’s not always a good thing.
***
Charlotte Stevens packed a travel bag, throwing in passports, cash, credit cards and a change of clothes. Everything had gone horribly pear-shaped, but at least she could still get her father away from the wreckage. She had friends in Normandy; they could hang out at their farm until she figured out what to do next. Back in her room, she switched on the TV for the Six O’Clock News. She was pleased with the coverage. The BBC report had highlighted many of their political demands, while Sky News was running them repeatedly across the bottom of the screen. If nothing else, the message was getting across.
When Sky cut to a profile of William Broadwick, she tutted and switched back to the Beeb.
Half an hour later, her phone rang again. DCI Rouman informed her that the chopper had landed in a field about half a mile from the house.
“So how are we going to do this then?”
“What would you suggest?”
“Okay, you’ll need to drive us to the helicopter. Withdraw all your men from the yard and send in one vehicle. I shall let my father out first, then John Baker and the other police officer, Mr Tyler, who will both be free to leave the farm. Finally I shall come out with William Broadwick. I shall have him at gunpoint. We will both get in the car with my father and be driven to the helicopter, where I will give the pilot my instructions. If I am convinced that you are not trying to double-cross us, I shall then release Broadwick.”
“We won't double-cross you.”
“There may be fatalities if you do.”
“That is understood.”
“Good, my father will be out shortly.”
She turned out her bedroom light and watched the armed police withdraw from the farm, then she went down to the office and collected the old man. She led him to the back yard, kissed his forehead and said “Wait for me in the car Dad, with the nice driver.”
She took a deep breath, picked up the Beretta and unlocked the door to the cellar. She saw Harry Tyler and Johnny Baker at the bottom of the steps – Baker now untied, by Tyler she guessed, but that didn’t matter. To his left sat the shit-stained gibbering wreck of William Broadwick.
“Okay, this is what is going to happen,” she said as she walked down the stairs. “Mr Broadwick is going to stay sitting where he is and you two are going to follow m...”
She never got to finish the sentence. She couldn't. Mick Neale was standing over her fallen body, swinging his axe handle.