Kilda Kentmore stepped into the hotel lounge.
What she would have done if refused entry she did not know because what she planned had such an air of inevitability about it, alternatives were pointless. What did these people say? It is written. Well, they were soon going to find out that non-believers could write a fair hand too.
No sign of the Sheikh. Not a problem. Her new sense of fatalism convinced her he’d be along shortly. Meanwhile she’d get the others used to her presence.
She advanced toward the sofa-throne, smiling.
Jamila returned her smile, with added brilliance. The girl looked so happy that for a moment Kilda felt uneasy at what she was going to do to her wedding day. But only for a moment. OK, the girl’s memory of her big day was going to have a shadow over it, but at least if all went well she’d be able to share many anniversaries with her husband.
Kalim said, “Nice to see you, but what are you doing here?”
“I was in Bradford, taking some pictures. And I remembered Jamila saying it was your wedding day today, and when I passed the hotel on my way to the motorway, I thought I’d see if I could get a few shots of you arriving or leaving or something. When I realized that everyone was inside already, I should just have carried on home. Sorry.”
“No. That’s fine. Look, we’re just finishing off in here, so if you’d like to take some shots of us sitting on this silly platform, that ’ud be grand.”
Behind him, his mother viewed the newcomer narrowly, but said nothing as she continued to muster the few remaining tribute-bearing guests.
Kilda moved around the room selecting different angles and pointing her camera at the loving couple from time to time. Finally the last of the guests went into the dining room. Tottie pulled tight the drawstrings on the linen bag into which she’d been dropping all the envelopes containing checks and notes as well as the pouches of coins, flourished it triumphantly to demonstrate its weight and said, “That’s it, all gathered in except for a couple, and I’ve got them on my list. Who’s this then, Kalim?”
Sarhadi introduced Kilda to his mother, who greeted her with a chilly politeness. She felt that family courtesy had necessitated inviting enough people she didn’t like without welcoming gate-crashers.
Kilda said, “Can I have one of you, Mrs. Sarhadi? You look great in that lovely outfit.”
“This is for free, is it?” checked Tottie.
“Aye, Mam, it’s for free,” said her son.
“She does the fashion photos in the glossies,” added Jamila.
“Oh, in that case,” said Tottie.
She placed the linen bag on the edge of the dais, patted her hair, then smiled widely at the camera.
“Lovely,” said Kilda. “Now I’m done. Unless there’s any chance of getting a shot of the bride and groom with the imam who conducted the ceremony. Is he still around?”
“Aye,” said Tottie without enthusiasm. “But you’ll not get near him without a note from the Islamic Council and an intimate body search.”
“Mam!” protested Sarhadi. “No need to be like that. Any road, you’re wrong, here he is now.”
The Sheikh had come into the room and was approaching them, smiling.
Kilda stepped into his path, her camera raised.
Get within three feet and you’ll blow his fucking beard off, Jonty had said.
What about anyone else? she’d asked.
He’d shrugged and said, Well, I’d not want to be in good spitting distance.
How far could he spit? wondered Kilda.
The Sheikh was about six feet away and still advancing.
Then Tottie, revealing the benefit of a good Yorkshire education, said, “Here’s another one barging in. It’ll be the ancient bloody mariner next!”
Everyone’s eyes turned toward the door except Kilda’s.
In the entrance, arguing with the self-appointed guardians, stood Peter Pascoe, his police ID in his hand.
Tiring of talk, he shouldered them aside and strode forward.
“Kilda!” he called.
Now the woman with the camera glanced at him and smiled before taking a step toward the Sheikh, who had come to a halt, sensing something was going on.
“Peter,” she said in a firm clear voice. “Stand still. And make sure everyone else stands still.”
She was right in front of the Sheikh now. The burly banger on the doorway started to advance into the room. Pascoe’s arm swung out and caught him across the midriff with a thud that drove the breath out of his body.
“Everybody stand still!” he yelled. “Dead still!”
Not his best choice of phrase perhaps, but it did the trick.
Everyone froze, the only movement the turmoil of expressions on their faces—bewilderment, alarm, anger, all mingling, each striving for dominance.
And then he added the words which put all other emotions in their pygmy place behind Giant Fear.
“She’s got a bomb,” he said.