A Class Apart Read online

  Chapter 5 – Press Conference

  Jasmin Sharma sat in the hospital restaurant on the tenth floor, worried that her journalist’s instincts might have deserted her. Thank goodness for Dave Sturn. She’d had many reasons to be grateful for his professionalism and quick thinking over the past three years of their working relationship. Getting that footage of the kid in the reception area had probably saved her job and the fact that none of the other journalists had managed to get so much as a photo would mean that footage was gold dust. All the same, she wished she had been there.

  However, she had a contact that needed to be made. Tommy had said that the parents of one of the victims came into the restaurant every day at this time.

  “That’s them,” said Tommy nodding at the man and woman who had just entered the large open-plan room. Jasmin looked up and saw a couple in their late 40s or possibly early fifties. The man had silver hair and a body like a lamp post. The woman was slightly plumper but with dark black hair. They were dressed very smartly but their clothes lent them an old-fashioned air. The manner in which they walked across the floor, the cut of the man’s jacket, the way the woman appeared slightly detached – it made them seem older than they probably were. Mr and Mrs Randerson. Jasmin recognised them straightaway. She had never met them but she had done some very thorough research on each of the known bomb victims and their families.

  Jasmin and Tommy watched the Randersons in silence as they picked up a tray and peered inquisitively at the array of sandwiches on offer. Jasmin observed the look on their faces as they examined each roll, sandwich and wrap. As though they were studying the menu at The Ritz thought Jasmin, with amusement. From her research, she knew that the Randersons lived in a three-bed detached house close to the M4. Philip was their only son. Mr Randerson worked for a large accountancy firm, while Mrs Randerson did a lot of unpaid charity work. It occurred to Jasmin that there might be some pretensions of grandeur in the manner of the couple. A belief in their natural superiority to their neighbours perhaps? Or a desire to keep up with the Jones’s; have a better car, the bigger garage, and the metaphorical greener grass?

  Tommy had selected a table for himself and Jasmin, and had chosen it well. Once the Randersons had paid for their meal (Mrs Randerson had left the money on the counter in front of the cashier, rather than handing it to the girl, noted Jasmin), they had to walk past her and Tommy to take their seats. As they did so, Tommy stood up and greeted them deferentially.

  For a second, Jasmin felt as though maybe Tommy had made the most terrible faux pas. Mrs Randerson looked as though her food had suddenly putrefied and the stench had just reached her nostrils. But then Mr Randerson spoke.

  “Ahh, hello Tommy,” he said affably. “Good to see you again. A well-earned break from your trolleys eh?”

  Patronising prat, thought Jasmin. But she was impressed that they knew Tommy’s name. He was obviously a bit of a character.

  “Yessir,” said Tommy, and Jasmin smiled at his well- judged, respectful tone. Tommy obviously had to deal with a lot of people and knew how to get on their good side. It certainly seemed to strike the right note with Mrs Randerson.

  “Bless you, Tommy,” she trilled. The tone of voice, while apparently kindly, made it sound like she was trying to be the beloved lady of the manor. However, pleasantries exchanged, the Randersons were keen to move on.

  “This is Miss Sharma,” Tommy continued. “She’s one of the TV journalists. She’s a friend,” he added, a little shyly.

  Jasmin was delighted to note the subtle change in the Randersons’ body language. Immediately, the slightly glazed and distant looks were replaced by expressions of keen interest. Mrs Randerson extended her hand graciously.

  Jasmin stood up slowly and flicked her hair. She made sure everyone in the restaurant noticed her in her red pencil skirt and Hermès scarf combination. She shook Mrs Randerson’s hand and smiled coyly at Mr Randerson.

  “Jasmin Sharma,” she said, simply. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Oh, I’m Glennis Randerson. My husband, Dennis.”

  It was like meeting the Queen, thought Jasmin, and then realised how amusing ‘Glennis and Dennis’ sounded.

  “Are you BBC?” asked Mrs Randerson keenly.

  Jasmin could feel her throat thickening as she answered.

  “No, 24/7 Interactive News,” she replied with exaggerated importance.

  “Oh...” said Mrs Randerson, in a tone that clearly implied disappointment. “Well, keep working hard and who knows.”

  Jasmin momentarily envisaged battering Mrs Randerson with her tray and, when that broke, attacking her with a shrink-wrapped tomato roll. What was it with the Beeb anyway?

  She smiled courteously.

  “Indeed, and I suppose we shouldn’t really be talking anyway,” Jasmin turned down her smile and returned to her seat. Tommy took his cue and did the same.

  There was a stilted utterance from the back of Mrs Randerson’s throat, as she clearly wanted to say something but was caught in a quandary. She looked to her husband for reassurance. Even without looking at them, Jasmin could sense the unspoken exchange.

  Mrs Randerson sat down a little tentatively, moving Tommy’s tea and doughnut aside and flicking spilled sugar out of her personal space.

  “Tommy,” said Mr Randerson in an overly avuncular manner. “Don’t want to hold you up, my dear fellow. I’m sure you’ve got work to do.” He lowered his voice politely. “I think a patient has urinated in one of the lifts. I nearly stepped in it.”

  “It was disgusting,” said Mrs Randerson, looking away.

  “Yeah, err, no probs. Sorry Miss Sharma. I’ll buy you a doughnut next time.” He smiled at Jasmin, obviously reluctant to leave.

  “Catch you later Tom-Tom,” she winked at him.

  Mr Randerson took Tommy’s seat.

  “How is your son? Philip, isn’t it?” asked Jasmin.

  Mrs Randerson warmed, visibly.

  “Oh. How kind of you to remember. Yes, Philip. He’s in a coma. Dr Soames says he has the worst injuries out of all the children!”

  She made it sound like an achievement, thought Jasmin.

  On the 36th floor, the lift doors opened, and a cleaner called Harry Jacobs emerged into the corridor, carrying his mop and bucket. Harry had his iPod in his pocket and headphones in his ears. He was 26. Cleaning was a job and he just got on with it. It was boring, but what you gonna do?

  He hated coming up to the 36th floor though. It was plain spooky, that’s what it was. The top five floors of Brent Valley General weren’t even used. There were no patients, no staff; just long, empty corridors and wards full of empty beds. It was crazy. Something to do with funding, or politics, or some other crap that he didn’t even care about anyway. He still had to clean it. That’s what the contract said. So he got on with it, listening to his dubstep. It stopped him getting freaked out.

  As usual, he started with the nearest ward. He opened the door and nearly jumped out of his skin. There was a body lying on one of the beds. A bloke, in his fifties maybe, wearing a tweed jacket. It was the body of Ryan Hawkins. Harry didn’t want to look too closely. He didn’t know if the guy was dead, or who he was, and right now he didn’t care. He just wanted to get down to reception and get them to call the police. He backed into the corridor.

  Harry cried out in shock. He hadn’t expected anyone to be behind him. There was a patient crouched on the floor, leaning against a wall. It was a kid, presumably, and he thought it was a girl. But it was hard to be sure because of all the bandages that covered the poor thing’s body. She was facing away from him, and he could hear her making a strange noise. It sounded like sobbing.

  “You all right?” asked Harry, looking around him. At the far end of the corridor, he noticed another patient. Another kid, he was fairly sure, also wearing a dressing gown and covered with a lot of bandages. That one seemed to be milling around aimlessly. What was this? Hospital hide and seek? He had to go a
nd get someone in authority.

  The girl on the floor started moving. She was still crouching down, but she seemed to be in pain. He couldn’t just leave her.

  He knelt down. The girl looked at him. There was something almost inhuman about the eyes behind the bandages. She started speaking, but he couldn’t really understand all that she was saying. Her voice seemed guttural.

  “Help me... Am I dreaming?”

  “No luv, you’re not dreaming. But I think we need to get you and your friends back to bed. It’s not safe up here.”

  He looked at the ID tag on the girl’s wrist. ‘Emma Venton. Southall Ward.’

  “Please... Please... In my head...”

  Harry looked around desperately. Should he leave them? He had to get help. He looked hopefully around him. The other patient had disappeared down another corridor. He was alone with the girl.

  Suddenly her hand reached out and grabbed his throat. At first Harry was too startled to react. Then he felt the pain in his throat, the bulging of his eyes, his head feeling like it was going to explode. He saw the girl’s eyes. He thought he saw a tear rolling down the bandaged cheek. Then he blacked out. It was the last thing he ever saw.

  On the tenth-floor restaurant, Mrs Randerson had warmed to her theme of criticising Dr Soames.

  “Clearly, Philip is not getting the best treatment. I suspect Dr Soames is not really up to the job. I’m not blaming him, as such! He’s clearly a very competent doctor under normal circumstances. But these aren’t normal circumstances are they? We’re talking about the biggest news story of the year, aren’t we?”

  “At the moment it’s the biggest story in the world,” Jasmin asserted, sitting back in her chair.

  “Exactly. And what my poor Philip has been through... well, he needs the very best care doesn’t he? It doesn’t reflect very well on the hospital, or Great Britain, if the eyes of the world are on us and our children aren’t being looked after.”

  “Well, exactly,” said Jasmin, the cogs in her brain turning as she tried to gauge what it was that Mrs Randerson aspired to. “You know how the Americans are with their children. They are like you – their children are everything.”

  Mrs Randerson beamed. She prided herself on being a good mother.

  “Well, my poor Philip. He’s a very special boy, and only the very best is good enough.”

  “It must be awful for you. I’m not a mother myself, so I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like, or what you’re going through. A lot of my friends work for the US networks, and they’re on the phone to me every night asking ‘How are the children? Have you spoken to the parents? Everyone out here is so worried and we’re not hearing anything.’ They think we’re backwards here in Britain.”

  “Really? They’re that concerned out there?” Mrs Randerson’s curiosity was piqued.

  “Oh, they’re crazy about this story. And, of course, if it happened that side of the pond – well, you and Mr Randerson would probably have been invited to the White House! That’s how important it is to them. My friend who works for Fox keeps saying,” – Jasmin put on her best American accent – “‘Jazz, what the hell are you Brits playing at? Why haven’t you let those poor folks talk about what they’re going through? Where the hell is your Prime Minister? Why can’t we show those folks that we’re rootin’ for ‘em?’”

  Mrs Randerson was wide-eyed now, all barriers broken down. Mr Randerson appeared to be doing some mental calculations, probably financial.

  “It feels wrong,” Mrs Randerson realised. “The police have no right to tell us to not talk to the media. Why shouldn’t we?”

  “Does seem a bit Nazi,” agreed Jasmin, delighted that the Randersons had been so easy to convince. “Although of course they can’t stop you. Frankly I think if the police tried to gag you, they would have the US marines on their case faster than you can say ‘Uncle Sam’.”

  The Randersons nodded vigorously in agreement, clearly enjoying the mental image of having the US marines as their loyal defenders.

  “24/7 Interactive News is a global news station,” said Jasmin. “We’re bigger than BBC news in the States.”

  Mr Randerson edged himself closer.

  “Would you be interested in doing some kind of feature on us?”

  “You mean on Philip?” asked Jasmin, sincerely.

  “Yes, yes of course,” added Mr Randerson, hastily.

  “I think we could. In fact, it might be easier and better for Philip if we had him treated in the US by the very best doctors. That way the British police would have no jurisdiction anyway. We’d pick up the tab for his treatment, of course.”

  “You would?”

  “Naturally.”

  Mr and Mrs Randerson sat back and looked at each other with self-congratulating smiles.

  “I think that will be for the best,” said Mrs Randerson, pleased that she was finally being accorded the appropriate respect. “I told Dr Soames that I had no confidence in his ability to look after Philip. He tried to be all superior with me. But you know what they say – pride comes before a fall. He’d just finished telling me how he was the best person to look after my Philip and the next minute he’s lost a patient!” Mrs Randerson virtually snorted the word ‘patient’.

  “Lost? You mean one of the children... died?” asked Jasmin, genuinely thrown.

  “No. Lost. The boy in the bed next to Philip. One minute he’s there, then the next minute Soames has lost him.” She cackled.

  Mr Randerson took up the story.

  “He was found by another doctor wandering around down in reception. Nobody knew how he got down there.”

  James Blake, thought Jasmin. The boy found in McDonalds. This was an intriguing piece of information, which did nothing to explain how the boy had got there. Mrs Randerson interrupted her train of thought.

  “Oh, and dear – you could be a mother one day. If you dress a little less, you know, tartily, I’m sure a nice young man will want you.”

  Later that afternoon, a calm had descended on Uxbridge Ward. James Blake was asleep in his bed. Roger and Yvonne Blake were getting ready to leave, albeit reluctantly. They wanted to go and see Samantha again before they returned home. Yvonne kissed her son as they left. James stirred and smiled.

  “Can you bring me some sausage rolls tomorrow, Mum?” he asked, sleepily. Yvonne Blake made a note in her diary to cook a batch tonight.

  The Blakes left the ward. Nurse Winter came over to see James. Nurse Winter was very pretty and James always managed to find some extra energy to talk to her. He wished he had brushed his teeth. She sat on his bed.

  “You gave us one heck of a scare, young man,” she scolded, playfully. “How did you get down to the ground floor?”

  Having not been present when James disappeared, Nurse Winter had not appreciated quite how unbelievable the event had been. Dr Soames had been unwilling to give any more details, other than that the patient had gone missing. James didn’t understand what had happened either, so was reluctant to discuss it. He just shrugged. The nurse tucked him into his bed. James was a good boy. The staff were all very fond of him. He was polite, didn’t complain about his condition and was caring towards the other patients. She had felt quite touched as she watched James reading to Philip Randerson yesterday evening.

  “You’re a brave young man,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll be out playing football with your friends again soon.”

  James felt himself drifting off. He’d been given some more medicine and the doctor had told him that it would make him drowsy.

  He thought he was seeing Philip wake up. He believed that he was watching Philip stand up and come and stand next to James’s bed.

  Then he realised it was a dream. Nurse Winter suddenly jumped up from James’s bed. James couldn’t quite register why at first, until he realised that some kind of alarm was going off in the ward. The nurse was suddenly at Philip Randerson’s bed. She was clearly trying to determine the reason for the alarm, but appeared to b
e perplexed. There was a flurry of activity from the corridor and James saw Dr Soames come running in too. But as soon as he reached the bed, the alarm stopped. James could see that Dr Soames now wore the same baffled expression as Nurse Winter. Mr and Mrs Randerson came running into the ward, almost as if the alarm had been some kind of personal summons for them.

  “It’s all right darling, Mummy’s here,” James heard Mrs Randerson say as she soothed her son. She turned to the nurse accusingly. “You must have left him!”

  “Excuse me?” said Nurse Winter, taken aback.

  “He doesn’t like being left alone. Don’t do it again, do I make myself clear?”

  Then James could keep his eyes open no longer and he drifted off to sleep.

  Jasmin Sharma would normally be depressed at the thought of attending another of Chief Superintendent Alan Harden’s dreary press conferences. This would be the fourth in four days and in each one so far he had simply announced that progress was being made, appealed for witnesses and asked for restraint and understanding from the media. Privately, he had also laid down the law to the journalists, making it clear they were not to cross him.

  Today, Jasmin was hyped up. She could feel the blood racing through her veins. She found herself playing with the buttons on her blouse. Her breathing was faster. Her brain was working overtime.

  Harden had released very few facts about the case and had not even attempted to give a credible reason as to why he was maintaining such a tight grip on information. Officially it was to prevent the investigation and plight of the survivors from being turned into a media circus. Jasmin didn’t believe it.

  It intrigued her as to why Harden was so paranoid about publicity. Why the police presence at the hospital site at all? She had numerous theories, but what she wanted was facts. She was determined to find out what Harden was keeping from them.

  Each press conference had been conducted in the open air, in the grounds of the hospital. The police had set up a mobile incident unit on the edge of the car park near A&E. Harden would stand in front of a lectern, using the hospital and a large cardboard stand with the Metropolitan Police logo emblazoned on it as a backdrop. Harden used the mobile incident unit as his office when he was on site. Typically, there were at least two or three other uniformed officers in or around the unit at any given time.

  Jasmin had observed the comings and goings of Harden and his officers over the last few days. She had a borderline-illegal plan that she was putting into operation today.

  At five o’clock exactly, in the late afternoon sunshine, Chief Superintendent Harden began his press conference to a dutiful crowd of cameramen, reporters, photographers and other interested parties. He was joined by the Clinical Director of Brent Valley NHS Trust, Ivan Reddington. Reddington was a tall, very fit and powerful-looking man in his 50s. Jasmin dallied for a few seconds to look at him. She’d had a brief affair with Reddington a few years ago, when she was 18 and studying journalism at university. She had covered a story at this very hospital and interviewed Reddington. His wife had never found out. Jasmin and Reddington hadn’t spoken or even made eye contact throughout the last four days.

  Jasmin could see Dave Sturn station himself near the front and begin recording for 24/7 Interactive News.

  Jasmin stood at the back of the assembled throng, holding her bag in one hand and a cold cup of coffee in the other. As Harden started talking, she accidentally-on-purpose tipped the coffee all over the front of her crisp white blouse. It felt disgusting. She made a play of trying to discreetly recover from the shock, pulling the blouse away from her skin where it was sticking. Several nearby members of the throng lost interest in Harden and looked at her. She mouthed an apology to everyone and scampered into the nearby mobile incident unit.

  As she was well aware, PC Nelson was on duty. Nelson was the young officer whom Jasmin had spoken to by the lifts earlier that day and whom she had cultivated a friendship with over the last 48 hours. He was the only officer on duty in the cramped and hot cabin. He looked up, startled by Jasmin’s dramatic entrance and appearance.

  “Ohh, thank the maker it’s you!” said Jasmin, boldly. “I’m such an idiot, look, I’m soaked. My lovely blouse.” Jasmin started unbuttoning it. PC Nelson stood up from behind his desk and tried to speak, but no words came out.

  “I’m on camera in 15 minutes and I can’t go on like this,” gushed Jasmin. “Fortunately I always carry a spare top.” She produced a black garment from her bag and held it up proudly for him to see. She dropped her bag on the floor.

  “Errrr,” tried PC Nelson, but got no further.

  Jasmin quickly finished unbuttoning her blouse and tossed it to PC Nelson, who caught it and held it in front of him like it was an unexploded bomb.

  “Ahh. Actually, I need to change out of this too,” Jasmin added, pointing at her white bra, which was also coffee stained. She pretended to notice the inner office. PC Nelson tried to be gentlemanly and not look too hard.

  “Could I just quickly whip it off in there? Won’t be a second.”

  Forgetting that he could get into a massive amount of trouble for allowing a reporter into Chief Superintendent Harden’s office, PC Nelson just nodded.

  “I’ll leave the door open but don’t look,” called out Jasmin as she dashed into the office. She was shameless! But she’d get over it. In fact she just had.

  She removed her bra and changed into her clean top in seconds. She looked through the office window. She could see Harden in mid-flow, gesticulating as he talked. If only he knew! Jasmin had been holding a digital recorder wrapped up in the replacement black top. She placed it, and her folded-up bra, behind a row of bulging folders on the top of a filing cabinet. If it was discovered she’d be in trouble, but she could easily make up some lie to explain its presence. Lies came very easily to her. Hopefully Harden wouldn’t even look. She crossed her fingers that he would follow his set pattern and return to his office after the conference, where presumably he would telephone his superiors.

  Jasmin was in and out of the office in less than 30 seconds. She apologised to PC Nelson, picked up her bag and dashed out of the door.

  “Hey, what about your blouse?” PC Nelson shouted after her, holding up the wet garment.

  Jasmin stuck her head back round the door.

  “I’ll collect it once I’ve done my report. Cheers officer, you’re a pal.” And she was gone.

  PC Nelson returned to his paperwork but, 15 minutes later, he realised he hadn’t accomplished a thing.

  Jasmin returned to the mobile incident unit an hour and a half later. She had seen Chief Superintendent Harden return to his office after addressing the media, then watched as he left in his car. When she went back to the unit she saw PC Nelson; fortunately he was on his own again. She apologised, collected her blouse and said, with embarrassment, that she’d even left her bra in Harden’s office. Before Nelson could stop her she dashed in and then back out, waving the garment at him.

  “That’s the closest he’s come to a decent bust all week,” she joked. Then she was gone. PC Nelson couldn’t help but chuckle.

  Now she was sitting in Dave Sturn’s car, both of them drinking tea and eating the shortbread biscuits that Dave had thoughtfully obtained from the hospital shop. They started listening to the recording.

  “Don’t spill your tea on that top,” said Dave, taking a bite from a biscuit. Jasmin smiled and stole the remainder of the biscuit. In the recording, Harden could be heard clomping into the mobile incident unit. He exchanged a pleasantry with PC Nelson. Jasmin noted with amusement how Nelson deliberately didn’t mention her little visit to his superior’s office. There was the sound of a door closing. Silence for a few minutes. Then Harden could be heard talking on the phone. He must be talking to his boss because he used the word ‘sir’. So it must be the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

  Harden was updating the Commissioner on the investigation. Jasmin was initially a little disappointed at just how little the pol
ice seemed to know. She had assumed Harden had been lying to the press when he said facts were scarce. Turns out they really were. Harden seemed to be on the defensive regarding the success of his investigation. But then came the revelation. Harden was clearly losing patience with his boss, as he raised his voice.

  “With respect, Sir, this was no typical car bombing. We know beyond all doubt that there were no actual explosives used. The car exploded because its petrol tank heated rapidly until it combusted. What we haven’t got the slightest clue about is what could have burned through the bonnet to achieve that effect and why it was done at exactly the moment that the school bus went past! My gut tells me they were going for the coach.”

  There was a pause. Harden was obviously listening to the voice at the other end. Then he cut in again.

  “With the CCTV knocked out, how the hell can I work out who rescued the poor buggers from the coach? Perhaps it was the Boy Scouts! I’m more concerned about whether the coach as a whole was targeted, or if they were after one specific kid.”

  More silence, then:

  “Well naturally, Sir, but I don’t want to start a panic. I can’t post officers at every ward, revolving door, khazi, or till at McDonalds! So if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to find out why this is happening and to try to protect those poor kids in case the same nutter strikes again!”

  The phone was slammed down with a loud crash.

  Jasmin and Dave Sturn looked at each other. They had found their story.