Chapter Text
Sally burst into his office. ‘Boss, hostage situation!’
‘Shit! Get back up and eyes everywhere,’ Lestrade responded grabbing his vest and gun. Within minutes, the team were assembled and on route.
‘Who is it do we know?’
‘It’s Jones, boss,’ she replied with tight lips.
‘Fuck!’
Simon Jones was known to be one of the most nastiest, calculating bastards Greg had ever had the misfortune to meet. He was one of those people who would be smiling as he slit your throat from the front, looking into your eyes, saying something to the tune of – I really don’t know how this knife got in my hand...you shouldn’t have pushed yourself so close…you’re technically committing suicide, this is nothing to so with me…I won’t win best person of the year but don’t judge me, sure there’s worse than me….and if you looked real close you would probably see the demons waving right back at you from the pupils of his eyes. Eyes that were soulless, mind conscious less, heart merely there to pump blood and no more. Evil. Jones was well known to the police. He had had run ins with all the departments – vice, drugs, homicide, firearms, terrorism – and such. He seemed to be working his way through them alphabetically and at every turn he eluded conviction for lack of evidence. Oh he was clever, very clever, but as often the case, clever, smug people can come unstuck sometimes in ways that not even their charm and charism can hold the spade as they try and dig their way out of the hole they’ve fell in. Lestrade hated Jones. Hated was probably too polite a word. He was a poisonous thorn in a world of brambles that Lestrade and his team were daily cutting down. He loathed him – entirely. The world, he felt, would sigh in relief the day he died and Greg hoped to be there to watch. Front row.
The scene, when they arrived, was as expected. The street was cornered off, people evacuated, press kept away, air space controlled, police cars and ambulances on standby, armed police poised and there, in a quiet residential road, before all of it stood a small semidetached house.
‘What’s going on?’ Lestrade demanded grabbing the megaphone.
‘All we know is that he’s got a young woman in there with a baby,’ said one of the officers, ‘No demand or communication as yet.’
‘What connection is she to him?’
‘None that we know of. We’re pretty sure she has no connection to him at all,’ he tilted his head backwards, ‘Neighbours opposite have a door camera. We see the woman walking to her house pushing the pram. He comes up behind, looks like they talk, gets a bit heated, she appears to pull away from him, scared, there’s scuffle and he drags her into the house, there’s a scream and …’
‘Fuck!’
Lestrade took a deep breath. These situations were one of the worst jobs they had to deal with. Anything could go wrong.
‘Jones! We know you’re in there. You know you’re surrounded. Let’s talk.’
Nothing. They waited a few minutes.
‘Jones, this is Lestrade. Let’s talk about what’s gong on. We don’t want anyone to get hurt and that includes you. Can you give us a sign the woman and child are ok?’
Nothing. They waited a few minutes.
And so it continued for another half hour, a one sided conversation as Jones remained silent inside the shuttered house.
The afternoon was wearing on. Specialised hostage negotiators were drafted in but they failed to make any impact. They rung the house phone but no one picked up. Thermal cameras used and it was a relief when it detected three bodies in red. But still Jones failed to communicate.
That was the trouble was narcissists. They loved a show as long as they were the starring role and they was no bigger narcissist than Simon Jones. The silence from Jones was just another form of attention. He thought he deserved an Oscar just for walking down the road, sulked if he wasn’t in the paper or on the news, preened himself in applause and compliments – a king amongst snakes. The serpent king. There was no way to reason with madness and delusion.
After four hours, a baby was heard crying and a corner of the front room curtain twitched, Jones it seemed desired to see the scale of attention he had acquired.
Lestrade tried again, ‘Jones. Let one of our officers take the baby. If you let the woman go, an officer will replace her as a hostage.’
Nothing.
Then…’Sir, phone for you.’ An officer passed Lestrade a mobile.
‘Lestrade.’
‘Yes I know.’
‘Jones! Can we talk? Can you tell me if the woman and child are ok?’
‘Mm…no and yes, for now.’
‘Look Jones what is it you want? You can’t stay in there forever. Let’s talk and sort this out…’
‘I only phoned to say I’m a little disappointed in you. So, disappointed. Thought you were a better detective. Thought you’d see the clues I left you. You could have stopped all this.’
‘What clues? Jones!’ And the line was cut dead. Lestrade immediately phoned back but it was clear that Jones had physically cut the line, there would be no more communication.
Greg stood there in shock as the team looked at him. Clues? Had he missed some clues which could have prevented all this?
Suddenly, a shot was fired slapping him into the present and blood splattered over the curtain for all to see. This led to armed officers storming the house and a frantic few minutes to determine and control the situation.
More shots fired. Silence hung heavy in the air.
‘Need medical assistance now. Female shot. Baby safe.’
‘Jones dead.’
It transpired that Jones had shot the woman, intending to kill her. She was in a bad way, blood was absolutely everywhere. Paramedics took over and she was taken quickly, not giving any word on her chance of survival. The baby was safe but dehydrated and Jones had been shot dead by the armed police.
Back at the yard they pieced together what information and evidence they had. It became clear that Jones had indeed picked the woman at random. There was no connection but then narcissists rarely needed a reason just an excuse, which their twisted minds could easily conjure up.
The adrenaline now gone, the shock of the incident brought a solemn atmosphere in the office as they worked. Greg had to do a brief press conference, never easy with a mutinous press, but one question shouted out haunted Greg. ‘Could this have been prevented?’ Thought you were a better detective…you could have stopped this…thought you’d see the clues….disappointed….disappointed….
Slumping down in his office chair, he said,
‘Fucking hell! What a bloody mess Sally. The woman’s now fighting for her life. Can’t blame the press on this one.’
‘I know,’ she said, ‘At least Jones is dead. One good thing has come out of today.’
‘That one ‘good thing’ doesn’t justify an innocent woman dying!’
‘We don’t know she’s dead yet, sir.’
‘Sir,’ Michael’s said leaning through the open door of Lestrade’s office, ‘She’s pulled through. Operation successful.’
‘Thank goodness!’ sighed Greg, head in his hands. ‘Not sure I could have lived with myself if she had died.’
‘You did everything you could this afternoon sir,’ Sally said quietly, ‘It was team effort, not your personal responsibility.’
‘When you’re a DI Sally, it is personal! I am responsible for it all! Just make sure you’re ready for this when it comes to you because guilt and memories are what you live with, forever.’
She said nothing, just nodded her head seriously. Guilt and memories.
By early evening, Lestrade sent his team home. No one was in any fit state to work anymore and tomorrow would be intense enough dealing with paperwork, investigations and briefings over the incident. A civilian nearly died. A young mother. The only regret Greg had, as he sat alone in his darkened office, was the fact that he hadn’t pulled the trigger himself which killed Jones. Still, that was probably a blessing, since he would most likely be on a murder charge by now.
‘Go home Lestrade. You look done in.’ Greg lifted his head from his hands, where it had been resting. The super stood in the doorway. ‘You did your best, your team’s behind you and I have no doubt as to your professionalism during the situation. Go home.’
‘But she nearly died.’
‘But she didn’t – ‘
‘I should have dealt with it differently - ’
‘No! You cannot control the madness in the world, especially when Jones was wearing the badge and crown.’
‘Feels like I failed today. Could’ve so easily gone wrong, not that it went completely right.’ He hung his head again, tired and emotional.
‘Go home and don’t come in tomorrow till after 10am,’ sympathised the super, then left.
Greg stayed another half an hour, just trying to collect his thoughts and some energy before leaving. Thought you’d see the clues I left... he checked his emails for anything that might arouse suspicion as a clue, then his post, anything left on his desk, thought you were a better detective …disappointed…he paused, tears welling up, how he hated that word.
Standing and collecting his phone to go, he saw a text.
[6:42pm] Are you ok Gregory? I heard about this afternoon. The young woman will live I hear, and Jones is dead, some semblance of justice for you I hope after a difficult day. MH
Greg didn’t reply. Mycroft had told him he would be late tonight, meetings and time zones keeping him from returning for dinner, so there was no rush to head home just yet. Besides, whether at home or here he was alone in his head with guilt and memories.