Elizabeth

   Leoncini nodded. "Have any of you heard of Lascelles Animal Farm? It’s a few minutes drive from Fourth Precinct’s offices." Blank looks and shakes of heads all round. "It’s a real neat place to take the kids. It’s not a working farm, more like a zoo, only with domestic animals. You know the sort of thing, pigs, goats, sheep, cows, small pets. You can take a short ride in a pony and trap, help with the milking, stroke the rabbits and guinea pigs. It’s been there several years now – started by a group of hippies who decided to settle down – and they do a great job. They take in school parties to teach them about life outside the smog, that sort of community thing. It began on derelict land opposite Friary Park, but eventually they were granted permission to use some of the parkland as well. The council gave some money towards building a little cafeteria."

   Hutch looked impressed.

   "Just before five o’ clock this afternoon several people were waiting in line to board the 390 bus. We’re lucky enough to have several witness statements from a few of them about what happened next."

   "How?" demanded Starsky. "I thought he was holding hostages."

   "Oh yes, he still has about fifteen men, women and children. But he’s also released quite a few in the course of the evening. Course, he’s also killed a few and wounded some others.

   "The clearest and most comprehensive statement is that provided by Mrs Elena Christodoulos, a widow of about sixty, who had spent the afternoon visiting the farm with her four-year-old granddaughter, Leni. I’ll read bits of it out to you, seems the easiest way." He paused while he flicked through a sheaf of papers in front of him.

   "Mr Bridges, can we have some of these statements photocopied?"

   "Sure. Marsha?"

   Marsha was already rising from her chair and walking round to Leoncini. "Just tell me how many you want. There’s a machine next door."

   "Thanks. Four sets, please. No, make it five. We might need a spare." She took them and silently let herself out the door.

   "Okay," Leoncini resumed his briefing. "This is what Mrs Christodoulos had to say:

   "There had been a long gap in the bus service and the line was longer than usual. Leni was bored with waiting and grizzly. Harry Silberman was standing in front of me. He lives in the next street from me but I don’t know him well – just to say hello, how are you doing, that kind of thing. He turned round and asked if he could give Leni a sweet as it might quiet her. I said yes, and it worked. It was then that I noticed the young man standing in front of Mr Silberman. He was glaring hard at Leni and I was glad she’d piped down.

   I kept an eye on him after that because I wanted to avoid any trouble. I noticed that it wasn’t just Leni he was glaring at – he looked real fierce at Mr Silberman. I couldn’t work out why. It wasn’t like he was creating any nuisance. I decided I didn’t want to sit too near him on the bus. He didn’t seem quite right, somehow. You know what I mean?

   The bus finally arrived a few minutes after five. A few of us cheered or muttered, ‘About time too!’ You know how pally people get when they’re all suffering one of the little inconveniences of modern life together? But the young man didn’t join in.

   The young man – it turned out his name was Weeks but I didn’t know that then – sat at the front of the bus on the right-hand side. The pair of seats behind him was free too and Harry sat there. I carried on down the bus with Leni and sat in the row behind Harry.

   Because the service had been so poor earlier, the bus wasn’t far off full, especially towards the rear.

   I was just thinking about what I would give Leni for her tea, when everything went wrong. The young man leapt to his feet. It caught my attention because we had just passed a stop and I thought maybe he’d missed it. But then he began shouting and he pulled out a gun.

   I was terrified and pushed Leni down towards the floor, then threw myself on top of her. I thought we were all going to die. I can’t remember exactly what he was yelling, but it was things like, ‘Stop following me, stop spying on me!’ That sort of thing. I was lying with my head facing into the gangway, so I could still see some of what was going on.

   It all happened so fast. He screamed louder, I think something like ‘You ain’t ever going to spy on me again!’ And he shot Mr Silberman, in the throat I found out later. I was so horrified I couldn’t make a sound. There were a few screams behind me, but not many. I think most folk were petrified of drawing attention to themselves. He was obviously deranged. And most people had dived for cover, like me.

   I heard the bus driver swear and saw him look round at Weeks, but he waved his gun at him and told him to keep going. So he turned eyes front and did what he was told.

   Then he yelled at us all to be quiet. Most folk did just that, he was so scary. But poor Raffaella Gattoni didn’t. She just kept on screaming louder and louder. So hysterical she couldn’t stop, I guess. She’s always been – I mean always was – highly strung. So he marched back towards her and shot her in the face point blank. A few of us got spattered with the mess. I knew then that we were all going to die. It was really quiet.

   We drove on past a couple of stops. The driver just kept driving so we didn’t pick up anyone else. There was still no sign of the police.

   Then the driver tried to strike up a conversation with Weeks. He was a braver man than me. He asked, ‘So why d’you shoot that poor old man?’

   What was really bizarre was that he got a civil answer, no threats. It was something along the lines that Mr Silberman was following him. He thought he was spying on him while he walked round the farm. Mid-afternoon, he went to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. When Mr Silberman came and sat down at the same table, he knew for certain he was a spy. And then of course the poor man had to go and stand behind Weeks in the line for the bus, and choose the seat behind his."

   Leoncini stopped and cleared his throat. Marsha, who had just returned with the photocopies, entering the room as silently as she left, supplied him with a glass of water.

   "Thanks, Mrs Nichols. Would you mind handing round the xeroxes to the other detectives and Mr Buchanan? Then I’d like the same number done of this statement, please." He took a couple of sips before continuing.

   "Mrs Christodoulos’s statement goes on at length until she was released. She’s one observant lady. But that’s the most important part."

   Hutch asked a question. "How long did it take for us to realise something was wrong?"

   "Not long after the events I’ve just read out. Mr Silberman must be one of the luckiest men alive. We actually have his statement – it’s in with those I’ve just asked Mrs Nichols to photocopy. What he says backs up what Mrs Christodoulos heard – he remembers sharing the table. It was busy and there weren’t any free."

   "But I thought you said he was shot in the throat?" Starsky frowned.

   "Yeah, he was. But the bullet went through without hitting anything major. Missed his veins, arteries, windpipe, the lot. Can you believe it? For that matter Mrs Christodoulos is also damn lucky. The bullet came out the back of his neck in a downward trajectory and wedged high in the seat behind. If she hadn’t been crouching to protect her granddaughter, it would have hit her somewhere in the upper chest."

   Hutch whistled in acknowledgement.

   "And Mr Silberman’s lucky escape explains how we found out about the hijacking. Seems that Weeks decided he wanted Mrs Gattoni’s body dragged to the front. That turned out to be really messy and one of the passengers’s threw up, which didn’t help the atmosphere in the bus. He had a couple of the men throw her out the front doors.

   "When they came to do the same to Mr Silberman, they realised he was alive. They were brave men. They managed to convince Weeks that it wasn’t necessary to throw him off at speed. They feared he wouldn’t survive the impact. So they volunteered to carry him off while the bus was stationary and set him down on the sidewalk. He stood over them all the time waving his gun. They went back inside and the bus pulled away again."

   Leoncini sighed. "That’s when we were brought in. There were pedestrians who saw Mr Silberman being lifted out, and saw Weeks’ gun. They called the police, who also found Mrs Gattoni’s body."

   "That must have been hours ago," remarked Hutch. "What’s happened since?"

   "Nothing very constructive. He began by shooting another hostage, in the arm this time, to prove he meant business when my squad cars came too close."

   "Still alive?" asked Dobey.

   "Yeah, he almost bled to death, but he was eventually among a group released. Weeks drove around for an hour or so, apparently at random. He made the driver pull into a gas station when they were running short of diesel."

   "I take it you let him have more?" said Dobey.

   Leoncini grimaced crossly. "We didn’t have much choice. We managed to start up negotiations while he was on the forecourt. He insisted on a field telephone."

   "Any demands?" put in Starsky.

   "Oh yes, he wanted safe passage to the airport, a private jet to Mexico, and 4.25 million dollars in cash. Would you believe he asked for nothing bigger than a ten dollar bill and wanted a million in singles?"

   "Four and a quarter, not five million?" Dobey sounded mystified.

   "Yeah, he was very specific. By this stage Mr Buchanan had been called in to handle the negotiating."

   "And sadly I achieved less than I’d like. He wouldn’t negotiate himself. He selected one of the passengers. It was the same passenger who’d pulled in the field phone through the window. Weeks had too much sense to get close to the glass himself."

   "So it’s important that he wouldn’t speak with you himself?" queried Starsky.

   "Definitely. If everything’s passing through an intermediary I don’t have the chance to develop any rapport with him and it makes it much harder for me to judge his mental state."

   "Loony toon seems like a reasonable guess," muttered Starsky under his breath.

   Buchanan ignored him. "The other problem is that it lets him shift the responsibility onto the go-between if things aren’t going to his satisfaction. That makes it much easier for him to take retaliatory measures if he doesn’t like what we’re doing. I think Mr Tait chose to pick up the field phone because he figured it would make him valuable to Weeks. That worked up to a point but it was a two-edged weapon. Weeks shot him later on."

   "Shoot the messenger?" guessed Hutch.

   "Yeah, least he’s still alive though. He’ll probably make it."

   "Was that how he forced you to hand over the diesel?" Dobey wanted to know.

   Leoncini stepped back in. "No, but same sort of scenario. We said no, he said yes, finished up by shooting two hostages and having them tossed out of the door. One dead, the other’s okay. He wasn’t much short of a full busload to start off with, so plenty more victims to hand. We gave him the diesel."

   "What you need to do in these cases is to try and wear the hostage taker out", explained Buchanan. "Going in to attack clearly wasn’t going to work, at least not without catastrophic casualties. Having hostages shot at intervals is hard to take but it’s preferable to a whole busload of dead passengers in a premature botched rescue mission."

   Hutch frowned. "You didn’t know for sure how much ammo he had."

   "No," agreed Buchanan. "And would you have been willing to gamble on him being almost out?" Hutch stayed silent. "Besides, we were almost certain because of what we learnt from the hostage injured at the gas station that he had an excellent supply. He’d been boasting to the passengers and rattling the boxes in his pockets."

   "What the hell was he doing going to Lascelles Farm with an arsenal stuffed up his shirt?" wondered Starsky.

   Buchanan shrugged. "Who knows? It’s probably a reaction to paranoid symptoms he’s been experiencing for some time. For all we know he’s been shopping at the local supermarket armed to the teeth for weeks. It’s just the bus passengers’ misfortune that today was the day he finally acted on his delusions."

   "How about a marksman?" asked Dobey.

   "He was clever. He was real good at not exposing himself. He also had hostages on their feet positioned around the bus reporting to him any movements they could see – and forming a good human shield at the same time."

   "So you opted to try and wear him out," Dobey prompted.

   "Yeah, let nature take its course. Tiredness, calls of nature, lack of food and drink, all those things work in our favor over time. But you need to be very patient and not rattle his cage too much."

   Leoncini broke in again. "And we managed to get him to release five hostages in return for the fuel. This group included Mrs Christodoulos and her granddaughter."

   "But once he had the fuel, he broke off negotiations," Buchanan took up the thread again. "He had Mr Tait toss the phone out of the window and had the driver set off. Again, as far as we could tell, the direction of travel was random. I was very disturbed when he stopped talking to us. Not a healthy sign. And we’ve heard precious little about his demands after he first came up with them."

   "And I take it he’s still not talking as the phone in front of you’s not exactly busy?" Starsky commented.

   "If I might interrupt a moment?" Mr Bridges enquired politely. "I think it would be a good idea if Marsha made coffee for us all. You wouldn’t mind, would you, Marsha?" She shook her head. "You don’t have to worry about her running all over the building. There’s a kitchenette right next door."

   Everyone seconded the idea and off she went again.

   Buchanan sucked in his breath and looked dismal. "It didn’t go particularly well after the gas station. He stopped once and re-established communication via the field phone, which he demanded back. But he didn’t care for what we had to say. That’s when he shot Mr Tait and had another passenger toss out the phone again. More random driving. Then around nine thirty he decided he wanted food. This time he demanded a walkie-talkie, not a field phone." He fell silent.

   Leoncini carried on for him. "It followed much the same pattern as the gas deal. He did some shooting, he took on board some food, he released more hostages. Ten this time. James here tried to persuade him to let off all the children. He insisted on keeping one."

   "Did he shoot to kill?" Starsky asked.

   "No, this time he tried out kneecapping."

   "Couldn’t you have targeted him when he tossed out the wounded?" Hutch wanted to know.

   Leoncini looked glum. "He stayed well back in the bus and forced the other passengers to do it."

   "This was when we came up against his new development," continued Buchanan. "He’d retained the walkie-talkie. Suddenly he informs us he’s ordering the bus driver to head for these offices. It made no sense. He’s not on the list of employees. He’s not related to any of the employees as far as we can make out."

   "And we certainly had no involvement with his trial," put in Bridges.

   "I didn’t imagine you did," said Hutch dryly.

   "But there must be a connection somewhere," Starsky insisted. "It just doesn’t make sense otherwise. How about a connection through his cell-mates?"

   "We’ve already tried that," admitted Leoncini. "Zilch."

   "He’s been here since about ten thirty," Buchanan continued. "He was very smooth entering the building. Obviously we had it cleared in advance. We had high hopes that a marksman would be able to take him out as he exited the bus. Much too canny. He had the bus pull right onto the sidewalk so it was only a few yards to the doors and the vehicle made a good barrier between him and us. He surrounded himself with the remaining hostages, about twenty-five individuals, arranging the tallest men closest to himself. And you remember he wouldn’t release that final child?" Everyone nodded. "He gave her a piggy back, so we couldn’t get a sighting. He made her kind of crouch over his head, so we didn’t have a hope in hell."

   "So where is he now, and how did Starsky get dragged into it all?" Hutch wanted to know.

   "He released another ten hostages – not the little girl – then he pressed right on up to the fourth floor," Leoncini explained. "It’s open plan office space. We know he’s settled down somewhere in the middle. He feels safe, I think, because it’s not like being trapped in a little room with only a single way out. But we can’t see him because it’s all little partitions between people’s work areas. We know he hasn’t shifted from the fourth floor. The lifts are locked off and we have members of the SWAT team guarding the stairwells above and below that level. And SWAT team individuals outside are keeping a keen watch through the windows, both to check for movement and to take a chance for targeting him if it presents itself."

   "We need to back up a bit," Buchanan interrupted. "He threw the walkie-talkie down in the lobby. He’s now using the internal phone system. Probably a hopeful sign," he remarked thoughtfully. "When he arrived, he demanded an extension number where he could reach us. And when he settled down on the fourth floor, he called us to give us his extension number. But he wouldn’t talk at that stage."

   "And Starsky?" Hutch prompted.

   "Yeah, that was a complete surprise. He picked up the phone and announced out of the blue that he would negotiate in future only with some cop named Starsky. We managed to keep him talking for long enough to find out that he was with Metro. So we contacted Dobey. The rest you know."

   Hutch thought it prudent to remain silent as to why they had been so slow to contact Dobey about something of this magnitude on his patch. Now wasn’t the time to play politics and Dobey didn’t seem inclined to pursue it.

   "And there was no hint about why he wanted me?" Starsky asked for clarification.

   "None at all," Leoncini assured him.

   "I can make a fair guess though," added Buchanan. "From what you say, it sounds as if he liked you."

   "But that was years ago," Hutch protested.

   Buchanan spread his hands. "People have long memories sometimes for kindnesses received. Starsky might well be the only cop for whom he’s ever felt any affection or trust. It’s probably important that he asked now. It suggests that he’s aware that time’s running out for him and he desperately needs someone who might be on his side, however remotely."

   Marsha arrived with the coffee at this point. By unspoken agreement, the men used the opportunity to take a break and review what they had heard in silence for a few moments.

   Hutch could tell that Starsky was gearing up for another question. "Marsha, has anyone shown you the photo of Weeks?"

   "No, the head of personnel came in earlier and went through our files. She would know everyone employed here."

   Hutch didn’t feel fully confident that the assurances that Weeks had no hidden connection with the firm meant very much. He suspected that the evidence on which they rested was shaky in the extreme.

   "And what about you, Mr Bridges?" Starsky was still pursuing his point. "Have you seen the photo?"

   "I don’t think anyone thought it was worth showing to me. I have virtually no contact with people in the sort of posts he’d fill. He wouldn’t be qualified for anything much more than a messenger."

   "Take a look, both of you." Starsky slid the file across the table.

   Mr Bridges looked first. He frowned. "He does look kind of familiar but I can’t place him. How about you, Marsha? You have a better eye for that sort of detail than I."

   She took the proffered file and removed some sleekly fashionable spectacles from her purse. She took her time and looked carefully, clearly considering her answer. "I’m sure you do recognise him, Edward." She glanced down the table towards Starsky. "We have underground parking beneath the building for senior employees. I’ve seen this man working there as the attendant. For some months, I’d say, but I’m not sure when he started. And not every day. It’s the sort of thing you don’t pay attention to."

   The detectives could see the dawning light in Bridges’ eyes. "You’re right. So why didn’t Anne recognise him?"

   "There might be several reasons," Hutch suggested. "Changed name to hide his criminal past – I don’t imagine your firm would be eager to employ someone with a record. Or possibly one of your employees has been doing some subcontracting on the side."

   "If you’ll excuse me," Marsha said, "I’ll use the other extension in the corner over there to phone Anne Morgan. That’s head of personnel. She might be able to help now we have a lead."

   "Please, go ahead," Dobey waved her politely over to the little side table with the phone.

   Dobey folded his hands across his stomach. "Back to the Weeks and Starsky connection. How did he react to hearing that Starsky was here?"

   Leoncini and Buchanan exchanged glances. Buchanan spoke. "He doesn’t know yet. We didn’t want him to demand Detective Starsky go in immediately he arrived. We needed time to fill him and his partner in properly." He looked across at the two detectives. "There was some risk he’d see you arrive but we judged it remote. The SWAT team out on the roofs can’t see our man, but they can see whether there’s any movement on his floor. They had orders to inform us if he sent anyone to look out the windows. And we were certain he wouldn’t risk exposure himself. If he had, you wouldn’t be needed here now."

   "You gonna tell him then?" asked Starsky softly.

   Buchanan thought about it for a minute. "Generally I would do a great deal to prevent an untrained negotiator from meddling in one of my cases. But I think I have to adapt here." He pulled in a deep breath and then expelled it. "I think you should be the one to do the phoning."

   Starsky was already on his feet. "Hold on a minute," Hutch said sharply. "Do you have any advice for my partner on how to handle it?"

   Buchanan shrugged. "Sorry, not really. Weeks is too unpredictable. Until I have some material to make deductions from, I’ve no idea."

   "Basically your position is ‘Go ahead and I’ll tell you afterwards if it was a stupid thing to say’." Hutch’s voice had acquired an aggressive edge. He didn’t like the sound of this at all.

   Buchanan refused to be intimidated. "Yeah, I guess so."

   Starsky tried to catch Hutch’s eye. He could see Dobey was preparing to restrain his partner before he blew up. Hutch was still glaring at the negotiator. "Hutch," he said softly, a breath above a whisper. Hutch looked across instantly. Whatever he read in Starsky’s eyes made him back down. Dobey relaxed. Leoncini looked impressed.

   "Well, Cap’n, you ready for me to make the call?"

   "Go ahead," he nodded. "The only advice I can offer is use your instincts. They’re usually good."

   Buchanan pushed back the vacant chair next to him for Starsky to sit down, then thrust a slip of paper at him with Weeks’ extension number scrawled on it.

   Starsky sat down, drew a deep breath, then looked across at his partner. "Hutch?"

   He came round the table to occupy the chair Marsha had vacated and pulled it close to Starsky’s. He leaned in so that he could listen.

   Starsky had raised his finger to dial when Marsha cut in unexpectedly from the side of the room. "You do realise you can put the phone on loudspeaker, don’t you?"

   "Um . . . no," said Hutch. "How?"

   "Will it pick up everything from this room if I do?" asked Starsky.

   "Yes, it’s very sensitive." Hutch experienced a horribly ill-timed flashback to his earlier conversation in the Torino with his partner. He quickly stuffed it back where it came from. "Everything said in the room would be picked up, so we’d all have to be really quiet. But the rest of you would be able to hear what Weeks was saying," she explained, looking at the officers and Buchanan.

   "Okay, put it on loudspeaker," advised Buchanan.

   She walked over to make the necessary adjustments and told Starsky that he should speak normally in the general direction of the microphone.

   Starsky dialled. The phone rang for a long time and he began to think Weeks wasn’t going to pick up. But he was wrong.

   "Yes?" came a very insecure man’s voice.

   Starsky guessed it wasn’t Weeks: too shaky and probably too old. He introduced himself and asked to speak to Weeks. Everyone listened tensely to the rustlings and mutterings at the other end.

   Then another voice: "This is Tony Weeks. Starsky?"

   "Yeah, how ya doing, kid? I didn’t know you’d moved back to your old neighborhood. I’m sorry to find out you’ve been inside – I thought I’d dissuaded you from a life of crime when you were a kid."

   "Might have worked too if my ma hadn’t moved me away. So why didn’t you hear when I was picked up, it being your precinct and all?"

   "I got shot about eighteen months ago. It was bad. I couldn’t work for months."

   "Jeez, sorry to hear that. You’re doing okay now though?"

   "Yeah, good as new."

   Hutch listened. The conversation sounded so normal it was surreal. This man was worrying about Starsky being shot in the line of duty when he’d left a trail of death and mutilation halfway across the city?

   Starsky pressed on. "So what can I do for you, Tony?"

   Silence filled the room. Hutch thought that maybe he’d refuse to reply. But no. "I’m in deep shit here."

   "I know, Tony. So what can I do to help?"

   "You still got that negotiator there? Buchanan?"

   "Yeah, he’s here in the room with me."

   "I don’t trust him. I want to talk to you instead."

   "I’m here. They tracked me down for you and hauled me in, just like you asked. Go ahead."

   Whatever reply Weeks might have been preparing to make was lost in the cacophony that burst over the open line. There was the sound of screaming. Weeks’ voice cut through the racket bellowing "Shut up". A chair (chairs?) fell over noisily. Then a gunshot rang out. Someone – Weeks? – slammed the phone down at the other end.

   Dobey looked worried. "What in hell’s name was that?"

   "Don’t sound hopeful," Starsky muttered. "You got all your men under control?" he demanded of Buchanan. "Is the SWAT team still sitting on the stairs or did they get tired of waiting and decide on finishing up quick and going home before midnight?"

   Buchanan leapt for the other extension and made a call. Then he turned back to the others. "Nothing to do with us. It was sparked off by something happening in the room. Call his number again, Detective Starsky."

   To everyone’s surprise, the phone was picked up almost immediately.

   "Tony, hi, it’s Starsky again. That sounded really scary. Want to tell me what happened?"

   Tony sounded jittery when he spoke. "Dunno. Some of the hostages started shouting. They panicked, I guess. I had them all sitting down on chairs. Don’t like them standing above me. I yelled ‘Shut up’ at them and then the Chinese man jumped up. I figured he was going to attack me." His voice wobbled.

   Buchanan wrote on a piece of paper, "Getting tired," and put it in front of Starsky.

   He nodded and carried on. "Tony, shooting the hostages isn’t such a great idea. We all want to get them and you safely out of here. Shooting makes people panic. We all need to keep calm."

   "I know." Weeks sounded bizarrely contrite. Hutch heard the young teenager he had been six years ago. "I have an idea, Starsky . . ." He stopped as if waiting for permission to speak.

   Buchanan raised his thumb in the air.

   "Tell me, Tony."

   "I’m getting really tired here and I’m sick of all these hostages. The kid’s getting whiny too."

   "It’s way past her bed-time."

   "Yeah, I guess so. And the man I shot – he’s bleeding bad all over the floor. It’s really upsetting everyone."

   "Tony, have someone apply pressure to the wound, hard, it’ll help. Can me and my partner come in and bring him out?"

   "Yeah, that was my idea. If you would come up here and be with me, I’d let all the hostages go."

   "What about my partner? Can he come with me?"

   "You still with Hutch?"

   "Yeah, haven’t managed to get rid of him yet."

   "Er . . . I’m not sure." The hesitation came across strongly.

   Buchanan looked at Starsky significantly and mouthed, "Push!" Hutch unconsciously moved still closer to his partner’s side.

   "Tony, I need Hutch to help me carry the wounded man outside. I can have paramedics waiting in the stairwell, but you wouldn’t want them to come in, would you?"

   "No, that sounds okay then. It’s just I don’t feel comfortable around him. Too much ice. What was it I would call him? The Ice Queen. You wouldn’t think gold could be that cold and fierce. He wasn’t very friendly to me, you know. I could tell he disapproved of you helping me and being my friend. Let me think a minute . . . . Okay, he can help you shift the man and take the other hostages away, but he’s not staying here."

   "Okay, Tony. I need a few minutes to organise the paramedics. We’ll give you a call when we’re on our way up."

   "That’s fine. Oh, I forgot. No weapons."

   "Okay, no weapons. But you don’t mind flak jackets, do you?"

   Silence. "Okay, Starsky. The jackets are all right. Just no weapons. I’ll be waiting for your call." The phone went dead.

   Starsky could sense the impending explosion from his partner. It wasn’t long coming. "Starsk, you need to renegotiate that right now. Sending you in alone is not an option. There won’t be anyone to cover your back and he sounds a complete nutcase."

   Starsky shook his head. "It’s the best deal we’re going to get. All the remaining hostages go free and he trusts me. I can probably talk him down, no problem."

   "NO!" Hutch’s shout was uncomfortably loud, even in so large a room.

   Starsky glanced at Dobey, willing him to stay out of it for now. Across the table, Leoncini looked on in obvious fascination. "Hutch," he said quietly. He laid a hand gently on his partner’s arm where it lay on the table and squeezed. Hutch subsided visibly. "It really is the best deal going. Better than Buchanan managed. And we need to act fast, not give him time to regret freeing his hostages."

   Buchanan nodded in support. "Another factor to consider is Week’s clear dislike for you, Detective Hutchinson. Your presence is more likely to cause things to go wrong than help your partner. Weeks is jealous of you. By all means go and help bring down the wounded man and the hostages. That should give you the chance to observe the layout of the floor, which might come in useful later."

   "You mean if Starsky’s injured," Hutch muttered.

   "No, I mean in all sorts of possible outcomes. But I promise you that if you remain with Weeks, there’s a much higher chance of disaster. He doesn’t trust you. You annoy him. You scare him. That’s the last thing we want. And Starsky’s right. The less chance we give him to reconsider, the better. My vote is we move now."

   Dobey nodded. "I don’t like the sound of Starsky being alone up there any more than you do, Hutch. But I don’t think we’re going to get a better offer. Giacomo?"

   "Yeah, I agree."

   "Okay, so we’re agreed." Starsky was already stripping off his leather jacket and removing his gun. "Order the flak jackets. I want a word in private with Hutch. We’ll be in the kitchenette. Marsha?"

   "Next door on the left as you leave the room."

   Starsky put his hand on the small of Hutch’s back and gently propelled him outside. As he shut the door behind them, he heard Buchanan on the phone chasing the flak jackets and Dobey quizzing Marsha about whether her talk to the personnel manager had revealed anything further.

********

   Hutch thought that the kitchenette was definitely large enough to merit the full title of kitchen rather than the diminutive. He turned round to shut the door, then rested his forehead against it. He felt embarrassed by his outburst.

   "I’m sorry, Starsk. It was unforgivable to leap in like that."

   Starsky tugged him round and placed a finger on his lips. "Shush. No, I’m not mad at you. It’s no different than the way you’ve always acted. You would always have kicked up a stink about me going in alone like this."

   Hutch frowned as he considered. "Yeah, you’re right. Okay, I’m not sorry. I think you cut a lousy deal with Tony. And I wouldn’t trust him an inch. Half the time he sounds like the teenager we knew, half the time he sounds like a psycho. Don’t turn your back on him."

   "No, I wasn’t planning to. Stop worrying, I’ll be all right."

   "Don’t make promises you can’t keep," Hutch said wistfully.

   "Okay, just stop worrying! And if I need the cavalry, don’t be late."

   Hutch didn't bother to reply. He knew there was no more to be said. He briefly felt a fierce urge to kiss his partner. He dismissed it: it was not the time to start mixing work and private life. He knew without a doubt that their partnership would not survive that sort of confusion.

   So he opened the door. As he walked back to the boardroom, he shrugged out of his jacket and began removing his gun holster.

   Dobey nodded in greeting when the pair reappeared. Hutch felt he was being silently assessed to see if he was ready to go along with the plan. Presumably he satisfied his captain’s scrutiny as nothing was said.

   Buchanan looked up from the file he was studying. "The flak jackets should be here any minute."

   "Did your personnel manager turn up anything?" Hutch wanted to know from Marsha.

   "Nothing concrete. But it seems highly probable that there’s some private subcontracting going on. I can recall the faces of four attendants. But there are only three in our records. However, we have no idea who Weeks’ contact is. We’d need to pull time sheets for the real attendants and try to work out who was theoretically on duty on the days I saw Weeks. The trouble is that I don’t recall exactly when he was on duty."

   "Thanks for trying, anyway. It’s probably not relevant at present." Hutch frowned slightly. He hated to be without information that might have potential value.

   The arrival and fitting of the flak jackets kept them all busy. The paramedics appeared just as the last loops were being fastened. Hutch hated wearing them. They were too heavy. He felt restricted and clumsy.

   Starsky made the phone call to announce their imminent arrival. Tony sounded eager. At least he picked up the phone after only a couple of rings. Hutch noted that he no longer forced a hostage to act as a go-between.

   He, Starsky and the two paramedics began their march up the stairs to the fourth floor. Hutch was very aware of the unaccustomed jacket dragging on his shoulders.

   Starsky told the paramedics to wait on the landing below, which was where the two SWAT men were stationed. Then he and Hutch went on alone.

   Double doors, again in a dark wood, separated the stairwell from the work area. A porthole window in each gave them a limited view of the interior. Starsky motioned to Hutch to stand back. He knocked on the glass.

   He heard Weeks’ voice inviting him in. He’d been assured that the security system that would normally require a code to be punched into a pad at the side of the doors was turned off. But it was still a relief when the door yielded to his pressure and swung inwards.

   "Is it okay if I come in, Tony?" He didn’t want to run any unnecessary risks.

   "Yeah. Is Hutch with you?"

   "Sure, you said it would be all right for him to help me with the wounded man. Can we both come in?"

   "Okay, just don’t make any sudden moves."

   Starsky and his partner stepped into the room. It was large, running right through the building. A long row of broad and high windows ran down each side. But they couldn’t see Weeks or the hostages, who were concealed in the forest of partitions around the desks in the central space.

   "We can’t see where you are, Tony. Too many partitions."

   "Just keep on walking forwards."

   They did so, making sure that Starsky took the lead.

   Weeks was holed up in a large open area right in the centre of the floor, completely protected by partitions. He smiled in delight to see Starsky and frowned uncertainly at Hutch.

   The hostages were behind him, sitting on the floor or chairs. They looked either petrified or blank. A man lying on the floor, heavily stained with blood, was clearly the casualty. A middle-aged woman was applying pressure to a thigh wound. The little girl was sitting on a man’s knee dozing. Hutch was grateful that she felt secure enough to do so.

   Starsky asked permission to go and deal with the injured man. "I think he’s okay," Weeks said, sounding nervous.

   "Um, Starsky, I’ve been thinking. . . ." Hutch’s heart sank, then started beating overtime. "I know I said you could help Hutch carry him down to the paramedics, but I really made a mistake there. If I let you go down the stairs, you might not come back to help me. So I’ve decided that Mr Brotzen over there can help Hutch carry him and you can stay here."

   Hutch bit his tongue. Nothing he said would convince Weeks to do what he wanted. He had to leave it to Starsky. "We did agree Tony. And I’d rather help Hutch myself. Mr Brotzen’s too old to be lugging dead-weight down the stairs."

   Hutch saw a wintry look close down Weeks’ face. The teenager had disappeared. Starsky saw it too and decided this wasn’t the moment to push. He shrugged as if he didn’t care. "If it’s okay with Mr Brotzen, it’s okay with me. What do you think, sir?"

   Mr Brotzen looked astonished to be drawn into the discussion but played his role coolly. "I’ll manage."

   Weeks looked relieved and the cold faded away. "Okay, that’s good. Off you all go. I’m sorry you’ve all been kept out so late. And I’m sorry the bus driver got lost. Maybe the police will organise rides home for you."

   Hutch was relieved that none of the hostages opted to dispute his version of events. They all gathered together in a herd and looked to him for a lead. He and Mr Brotzen managed to haul the Southeast Asian man to his feet and stabilise him between them. He moaned alarmingly but was still conscious.

   "It’s going to be okay, sir. We have paramedics waiting just down the stairs. You’ll soon be feeling a lot more comfortable."

   He began heading out of the partition jungle. Any hope that Weeks would follow to ensure he left and thus expose himself to the SWAT sharpshooters on the surrounding roofs proved vain. As he looked back, he saw him sit down on one of the chairs.

   He made eye contact with Starsky and then kept going towards the door. It seemed a very long way and he half-expected a bullet in the back. He had never realised that Weeks disliked him so intensely. Perhaps he hadn’t at the time; maybe it was all a later interpretation of how he had felt as a teenager.

   He successfully transferred the wounded man into the care of the paramedics, who strapped him efficiently onto their stretcher. When they were finished, he set off down the stairs, sending everyone else in front of him. He could hear that some of the hostages had begun to weep. The little girl was still asleep.

********

   He was met at the boardroom level by Dobey.

   "Well done, Hutchinson," he nodded his approval quietly before addressing the group of former hostages.

   "Now, if all you people would come this way, we will supply you with food and hot drinks, restrooms, blankets, and any extra clothing you may need. You are welcome to phone relatives to reassure them you’re safe.

   "We’ve summoned a doctor who will give each of you a preliminary examination to check that there’s no damage done and he’s already on his way. We’re lucky the hijacker selected offices equipped with every convenience – there’s a first-aid room one floor down from here which we can use for the examinations. We’ll send each of you down with a police escort who will remain outside the door. There’s no possibility of Weeks showing up uninvited but we want you to feel safe. Should the doctor recommend that anyone ought to go to a hospital, there are ambulances outside. And if anyone wishes to go to a hospital anyway, just let us know.

   "One other thing: we’re going to have to ask you to remain here until we can debrief you.

   I know you must all be anxious to go home, but anything you can tell us about tonight might help our colleague. The man who exchanged himself for your safety is Detective David Starsky. I think you owe him all the help you can provide."

   There were muted murmurs of agreement. Hutch admired his captain’s ability to project an air of calm assurance. Dobey led the rescued hostages through into the boardroom.

   Hutch turned back to the wounded man. The paramedics were occupied in some emergency measures to stabilise his condition before carrying him the rest of the way down to the ambulance. "May I have a moment with him?" he asked.

   The paramedics nodded. "Not too long, we want him in hospital as soon as possible."

   Hutch leaned over the stretcher. "What’s your name, sir?"

   "Mr Lee. Sorry, no speak good English. Refugee."

   "I understand. Can you tell me, do you have any idea why Weeks shot you?"

   The man closed his eyes for a moment. "I not understand. He tell me ‘Stand up’. I stand quick. He shoot."

   Hutch thought back. Then he realised that it had been a language problem. "I’m sorry, sir. I believe that what he actually said was ‘Shut up.’ When you stood, he thought you were going to attack him."

   "Need to improve my English." Despite his pain, Hutch detected a glimmer of a smile on the refugee’s face.

   "Yeah, I guess so. I won’t detain you any longer, sir. Someone will be in contact with you for a statement when you are more comfortable in the hospital. Do you understand or should I go through that again."

   "No, I understand. Thank you."

   The paramedics finally moved off towards the stairs. Hutch went into the boardroom again, conscious that this time there was no Starsky at his side. And also conscious that he had no idea of what was going on two floors up. He wouldn’t hear anything, not even a gunshot.

   The boardroom looked quite different from when he had left it. It seemed much smaller, purely because it was now full of people. Enough officers had been called in to take the witnesses’ statements so that they wouldn’t have to wait in line. Men were bringing in chairs from surrounding rooms to accommodate everyone.

   Marsha was on her feet liaising with a man and woman in uniform. Hutch caught the word "coffee" and guessed she was explaining where they could go to start producing drinks.

   Leoncini was occupied on the phone in the corner ordering blankets to be brought up and making arrangements to procure some hot food. All modern conveniences indeed, Hutch thought. It seemed they had decided to heat up soup in the kitchenette next door.

   A knock at the door heralded the arrival of four SWAT men. Hutch heard Dobey delegating them to escort the ex-hostages, a few at a time, to the nearest washrooms so that they could freshen up. Again, Marsha was there to give information.

   It was a hive of activity and Hutch felt left out. No one had allocated him a job. He seemed to be the only person in the room at a loose end. Even Bridges was busy. He’d taken on the task of looking after the little girl while the man who had been holding her gave his statement. She’d woken up now and appeared to be chatting animatedly with her new friend. Hutch guessed that the formal lawyer might also be a doting grandfather – he seemed very at ease in his role.

   Buchanan was sitting in with one of the witnesses while her statement was being taken. Hutch guessed that he was eager to sift through the new information in the hope of building up a better picture of what made Weeks tick. Not that it was going to help Starsky. Whatever Buchanan deduced now, they had no way of letting his partner know.

   His eyes were drawn irresistibly to the boardroom table. Starsky’s jacket lay draped carelessly across it, his holster and gun sitting forlornly in their nest of leather. Hutch found the reminder that Starsky was unarmed deeply disturbing.

   And the phone they’d used to contact Weeks sat there balefully as if in quarantine. Obviously people were using the phone in the corner to make any calls to ensure that Weeks always had access.

   He willed it to ring. He already felt desperate to have some confirmation that Starsky wasn’t in trouble. But of course it remained silent. He knew it was going to be a long, painful night. Now that he wasn’t busy, his tiredness was making itself felt. He yawned and rubbed at his face. He struggled out of his flak jacket and eased his holster back on.

   The seat in front of the phone was vacant so he took it.

   Before long Dobey turned up at his elbow. "Hutch, we have cans of soup on the way to heat up for everyone. Should be here any minute now. Will you go and help Marsha organise that? She says there are bowls and spoons in the kitchenette cupboards, so we don’t have to stoop to plastic cups."

   He got to his feet, collected Marsha and went to investigate the kitchenette. A vivid memory of Starsky’s finger resting on his lips plucked fiercely at Hutch as he opened the door. He dismissed it firmly.

   The cans were already piled on one of the counters, alongside several loaves of sliced bread. Hutch wondered who had known where to find an all-night supermarket. Marsha found an apron in one of the drawers – Hutch thought with amusement that nothing seemed to shake her adrift from her unflappable efficiency – and swiftly had four pans sitting on the rings. Soon she had him carrying through bread and steaming bowls on a tray she conjured from somewhere. The ex-hostages and hungry police were kept happy and Hutch was kept busy.

   He noted as he came and went that the atmosphere in the boardroom was subtly changing. The survivors had begun to accept – for now at least – that they were truly free and were beginning to relax. A couple were becoming quite boisterous with euphoria.

   Eventually he was able to tell Marsha that they were the only two left without food. She poured out two final bowls and made Hutch sit down with her at the little kitchen table. He realised that she had a knack for making people do what she wanted without seeming to push. He would far rather have been sitting by the phone in case Starsky or Weeks rang. Instead he found himself sitting down dipping bread in soup.

   They ate in silence for a while, then Hutch remarked, "You know that you and Mr Bridges don’t have to hang around any longer, don’t you? You’ve been a huge help, but if you wanted to go home and get some sleep that would be okay."

   She smiled. "Yes, I know. Captain Dobey made it clear while you were bringing down the hostages. We don’t want to leave. I’ve worked for Edward for years – most of my working life, in fact. This firm means a great deal to me. I’ve invested a lot of myself in it over the years. Neither he nor I feel it would be right to abandon the offices till everything’s resolved. I know this is only a building, not human lives. But it’s still important to us."

   Hutch nodded his understanding. "We certainly wouldn’t want to force you to go. And you’re quite safe here."

   She looked up from her bowl. "But your partner isn’t, is he?" Worry replaced her usual mask of cool competence. "It must be difficult" – she paused as if assessing whether she had chosen the right word – "agonising for you, knowing he’s up there somewhere and there’s nothing you can do. Those poor people are so relieved to have escaped with their lives that I think they’ve almost forgotten it isn’t over for you."

   He shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. "I’m used to it." He too assessed what he had said. "No, not used to it. But I accept it, we both do, it’s part of the job."

   She looked thoughtful but said nothing more.

   Shortly afterwards, they returned to the boardroom. It remained crowded but the chair by the phone was still unoccupied. He sank down wearily.

   It wasn’t long before Dobey came to join him. "Hutch, you look like the walking dead. I want you to take a break."

   "I’ll be fine. I just need to be doing something. Maybe I could help take statements or something."

   "Hutchinson, it wasn’t a request. You have a choice. You can rest your head on the table here and take a nap. Or you can go lie on the floor in a corner out of everyone’s way. But you’re closing your eyes and keeping them closed."

   He shifted restlessly. "It won’t make any difference. I’m not going to get any sleep while Starsky’s up there visiting with the neighborhood psycho. I might just as well be gainfully occupied."

   "I said it’s an order. You need a break. No arguments. The way you look at present you won’t be fit to help your partner when he needs it." He scanned the room. "Marsha, can you bring some blankets over here for Hutch, please?"

   Hutch knew he’d been manipulated but felt too weary to fight back. He let Marsha wrap the blanket round his back and shoulders, leaned his head forward and rested it on his arms. He felt Marsha place a hand on his back. "I’ll see if I can find a cushion for padding," she promised.

   She seemed able to produce anything. The cushion arrived. He readjusted himself. Despite his insistence to Dobey that he wouldn’t sleep, he drifted off, lulled by the quiet murmuring of voices around him.

********

   He came to with that horrible sense of disorientation that strikes when you wake up somewhere unfamiliar. He realised when he raised his head off the cushion that his neck was stiff. He circled it slowly to work out the kinks.

   The room was restored to something more nearly approaching its previous state. The freed hostages had all disappeared, presumably to their homes or the hospital. The cops taking statements had all gone. So, he thought, back to the original group.

   Leoncini was stretched out on the floor, covered by a blanket. Buchanan was sitting within arm’s reach of the phone, a couple of yards from Hutch. Dobey was at the head of the table again, sifting through statements and making notes. Edward Bridges and Marsha Nichols were sitting close together at the opposite end of the table, talking quietly.

   What made the room seem so different from when he first saw it was its sheer untidiness. Chairs were scattered everywhere in little clumps. Footprints marred the pristine cream of the carpet. Someone had had an accident with tomato soup. Blankets were piled higgledy-piggledy in a couple of corners. Surprisingly, there was none of the expected debris of cups and bowls underfoot. On reflection, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising: Marsha had presumably taken at least some clearing up in hand.

   He had no idea of the time: three thirty-five, according to the expensively austere boardroom clock on the wall above the door.

   Dobey had heard him stirring and was looking at him down the table.

   "Any news from Starsky, Captain?"

   "No, Hutch, you know I’d have woken you if anything started up. Feeling more rested?"

   Hutch thought about it. "Yeah. Wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee."

   "I’ll rustle one up. Need to stretch my legs anyway." He hoisted himself heavily out of the chair and waddled stiffly out of the door. Hutch followed his example, stretched comprehensively, and began pacing slowly round the room to start his circulation moving again.

   When Dobey returned with coffee for those still awake, he wordlessly handed Hutch a sheaf of statements to wade through. He sat down again near the phone and started reading. Nothing gave him any deeper insight into Weeks’ state of mind. He kept going in the fragile hope that there was some gem hidden somewhere amongst all the words for him to find.

   The phone rang. Hutch’s hand snaked out and captured the receiver before Buchanan had a chance to react. He registered the annoyance on the other man’s face as he pressed the handset to his ear. He ignored Buchanan’s silent demand for possession.

   Would Weeks recognise his voice? He opted for a neutral, "Hello."

   "Captain Dobey, hi." It was Starsky’s voice. Hutch realised that he wished to conceal Hutch’s potentially unsettling and threatening presence from Weeks.

   "Are you okay? Christ, it’s been hours!"

   "I’m fine, Captain. We’re both a little tired. I thought you would be worrying by now so I asked Tony if I could call. He agreed it was a sensible idea."

   "Have you made any progress?" Hutch asked urgently.

   "No, we’re fine."

   "So you think you’ll be up there for much longer?"

   "Yeah, sure hope so."

   "Can you persuade Weeks to let you call in progress reports on the hour?"

   "I’ll ask."

   Hutch heard muffled voices at the far end.

   "Perhaps, he’s not too sure. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me, Captain. Speak to you later." The line went dead.

   Buchanan was not pleased. "If that had been Weeks, it could have seriously undermined Starsky’s position."

   Hutch knew he had a point but was unwilling to admit it. "It wasn’t Weeks," he snapped.

   Dobey stepped in to defuse any argument before it started. "So what did he have to say, Hutch?"

   Hutch related Starsky’s end of the conversation for the others to analyse. Leoncini had been woken by the ringing and had come back to sit at the table.

   "So," Buchanan summed up their predicament. "He might be able to call us in an hour’s time but he might not. That’s not helpful. It doesn’t give us any firm basis for a decision to send in a SWAT team if he doesn’t contact us."

   Dobey intercepted Hutch’s attack. "Mr Buchanan, sending in a SWAT team on that sort of evidence would be premature. I won’t sanction any attack without more definite evidence that all other options are exhausted. I value Detective Starsky highly and will not risk him in order to resolve the situation more speedily when a longer-term approach seems likely to result in a more desirable outcome."

   Leoncini nodded his support. "I agree. No SWAT team until we know it’s a workable option."

PART FOUR