Free Java Spider by Geoffrey Archer Page A

Jer.’
    ‘It’ll be there.’
    The computer beeped to warn of a new PA flash. She hit the keys.
    News of the minister’s kidnap was broken to his wife by the Press Association. Mrs Sally Bowen, aged 42, said she was deeply shocked. She’d not seen the TV pictures which so far have only been shown on the News Channel cable network. ‘My husband’s been missing since the end of last week,’ she said, ‘but as far as I know, neither the police nor the government had any idea he’d been kidnapped.’
    ‘Great!’ said Charlotte. Another line for her piece. ‘I’m going to the studio. Tape ready?’
    ‘No prob.’ Jeremy pressed the eject key.
    As she pushed into the studio, she saw Ted Sankey, red-faced with excitement, march into the newsroom in his white trench coat, his mobile phone to his ear.

Four
    Scotland Yard
    07.37 hrs
    WHEN NICK RANDALL arrived in the almost empty Ops Room, the phones were flashing like Christmas, the duty manager struggling to answer them. Randall had just spent forty minutes on the tube from Wimbledon, unaware of what had happened.
    Chris jabbed a finger towards the SIO’s office. Mostyn’s door was open. Randall barged straight in.
    ‘What’s up, sir?’
    ‘Just missed it. Video of him.’ He pointed at a TV in the corner. On it a keep-fit girl was doing hip bends.
    ‘Video of who?’
    ‘Of a duffed-up Stephen Bowen. On the News Channel.’
    ‘Christ!’
    ‘The effin’ wheels have come right off this one, son. Kidnapped.’
    ‘I don’t believe it …’
    Nick gawped at the set as Mostyn filled him in. A caption flashed at the bottom of the screen –
Next news update in four minutes
. Mostyn pushed heavy-framed reading glasses on to his nose to decipher a phone number.
    ‘The duty sergeant’s rung the TV company,’ he said, ‘but it was all hysterical girls. Goin’ to see if
I
can find someone sensible.’
    He dialled the News Channel.
    Randall’s mind, never at its best first thing, began to think of lines of investigation. He remembered the well-meaning types he’d photographed protesting outside Downing Street last week. The worst any of
them
had done was break into an aircraft factory and smash up a fighter bound for Indonesia. It’d be a quantum leap to go in for kidnapping. Need to check his photos though. In case he’d missed some tougher nuts.
    ‘Who’s in charge, love?’ Mostyn asked, when the operator answered. ‘Scotland Yard Security Group here.’
    Nick looked at the DCI’s polyester tie. Worn the same one every day since he could remember, dark and greasy round the knot.
    ‘Mr Sankey? Detective Chief Inspector Mostyn here, Scotland Yard.’ Suddenly Mostyn bristled. ‘Well, I suppose you
could
say we’ve been caught a bit on the hop, yes – but, er, that’s certainly off the record. Now, where’d these pictures of Minister Bowen come from?’
    Mostyn frowned in concentration as Sankey explained.
    ‘Got any idea where it was being beamed from?’ He listened. ‘Europe … Couldn’t be Indonesia?’
    More explanations. He shook his head.
    Randall glanced back at the screen. Pelvic thrusts for a better sex life. He had cable at home and was familiar with the News Channel’s style.
    ‘Tell you what,’ said Mostyn, ‘if I send one of my blokes round, can you give him a copy of the tape and answer his questions?’
    Mostyn pointed at Nick.
    ‘Wendover Street? Fine. It’s a Detective Sergeant Randall. Round in twenty minutes. Thank you, Mr Sankey.’
    He banged down the phone.
    ‘Cocky bugger,’ he growled. ‘Says the pictures of Bowen were beamed to a satellite from Europe but can’t tell where exactly. You’ll have to check it. Hang on …’ He swung towards the TV and turned up the volume. ‘They’re running it again.’
    Nick recognised the blonde girl reporter. Remembered her chocolate brown eyes and nice mouth. Wouldn’t kick her out of bed. Today she looked flustered, panicky. He forced himself to concentrate on what she