By Pauline

In the anti-terrorist incident room tension was palpable. Just a three hour warning of a second bomb and the search was failing. A sick lone wolf terrorist naming themselves

Timothy McVeigh in a perverted homage to the Oklahoma Bomber was out there somewhere. Who knew where and who they were- man or woman, young or old, living in London or commuting to kill.

‘Hopkins,’ Detective Inspector Downer shouted, ‘Anything new from social media?‘

No ma’am. We’re still trying to track all of McVeigh’s accounts.’

Speed it up,’ she snapped.

Turning to another detective, she barked, ‘What about CCTV? We know when and where McVeigh planted the first bomb. There must be something.’

‘We’ve got traces, ma’am. We know what he was wearing then: combat trousers, hoodie, dark trainers. We see him walk away, but then he disappears.’

‘Look harder, Cutler. He’s swapped clothes or gender or something. Get on it.’

Downer needed to get a grip. She was sounding hysterical. With less than an hour left. The danger to Londoners. Her stomach knotted with fear. Not helpful, she realised.

They needed a breakthrough: a tip off, someone recognising McVeigh, something from the officers searching drains, buildings, sheds, suspects’ homes. Informers took risks, could give valuable information but were unpredictable. She just needed one helpful call. And NOW.

Above the hubbub, she heard her phone. Another false lead she feared.‘Yes!’ She yelled.

She’d recognised the voice at once. There was hope. This was the one helpful call.

250 words