‘You haven’t answered me.’
‘The sex offender,’ interrupted Jack. ‘That’s the answer he wants, just give it to him.’
‘I’d choose neither,’ said Libby. ‘I wouldn’t make that decision.’
‘Then you’d be sending them both to their deaths,’ said the Hacker. ‘How would you feel being responsible for the murder of an innocent man?’
‘I wouldn’t be responsible because you’re the one controlling their cars. You’re the one killing them.’
‘Yet I’d be the one sleeping soundly of a night while you’d remain trying to convince yourself that taking the moral high ground was the right thing to do. But quietly, you’d know that you did the wrong thing.’
Before Libby could answer, the increasing volume of voices in the other room became impossible to ignore. The two security operatives looked to one another then moved towards it, removing electric stun gun-like devices from their jacket pockets.
‘Would it help if I told you that the five of you won’t have to make the decision alone, Libby?’ the Hacker continued. ‘Because the rest of the world will have its say too.’
Suddenly, the double doors opened and the security operatives jumped into position, ready to defend themselves against what was to come. However, ready to enterwere six uniformed police offers, each holding semi-automatic rifles to their chest, flanking two men, two women and trolleys packed with electronic devices.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Jack asked the officer with the most accolades pinned to his uniform.
‘We’ve been ordered by the Home Office and National Counter Terrorism Security Office to escort these people inside this room to assist.’ He thrust a tablet into Jack’s hands. ‘It’s all here.’
‘To assist in what?’
Chapter 22
At the beginning of the day, the inquest room felt vast, airless and empty.
Within the space of thirty minutes, there was disarray. Five jurors, a stenographer and a clerk had expanded to include security operatives, backroom staff, police officers and now a new group of unfamiliar faces.
A man with South East Asian features, peroxide-blond hair, thick-framed glasses and unnaturally cobalt-blue eyes caught everyone’s attention. He strode into the centre of the room, lifted his glasses and gave the available space the once-over. ‘Put the tables here,’ he directed with his finger to a position under the windows. His team moved swiftly, returning from the other room and sliding the tables across the flagstones with a piercing shriek, like fingernails being dragged down a blackboard.
‘Will someone please tell me what is going on?’ Jack asked the police officer in charge. An embroidered badge above his pocket gave his name as Commander Riley. He wore body armour and, like his colleagues, held a semi-automatic rifle in both hands against the lower portion of his chest.
‘We have been escorting a specialist team here to help you,’ he replied.
‘With what? And who told them to come here? I certainly didn’t request them.’
‘The Home Office has given them special dispensation.’
‘But they need clearance, they need to be vetted …’
‘Have no fear, we are no strangers to a crisis,’ interrupted the man with the peroxide hair. ‘And boy, do you have a crisis on your hands. We’ve worked with most of your Government departments over the years.’
‘Then why haven’t I seen you before?’
He eyed Jack up and down. ‘I could ask the same.’
Jack turned to Commander Riley. ‘Get them out of here,’ he growled.
‘You are not in charge of this room, sir. I am and I have clear instructions they are to remain here.’
‘Get me the Home Office on the phone,’ Jack ordered to no one in particular.
Libby and the jurors watched with interest as the latest additions to the room busied themselves unpacking the trolley of electrical equipment and setting up phones, monitors, cables, Wi-Fi routers, keyboards and tablets.
‘Sorry, sir, the line is engaged,’ one of Jack’s assistants said nervously.
‘What, the red line?’
