by Mayo, Simon
He studied his dying colleague, crouched by his side. The man’s legs were in spasm, shaking violently. His face stared at the ceiling, life draining fast. The leader leant into his eye-line. He told him where and when the attack was planned.
‘It’ll be when we bring the war home,’ he said. ‘The day we ignite the fight against the fascists. And it started right here.’ He wiped one side of the blade on the man’s shorts. ‘Embrace the butcher,’ he whispered. He wiped the other side on the man’s T-shirt. ‘Embrace the butcher.’
36
Tuesday, 12 June, 7.35 a.m.
FAMIE’S PHONE WOKE them both. She pulled it from under the blanket. The screen said it was Sam. ‘Yeah Sam,’ she said, ‘what have you got for me?’
‘You sound like I just woke you.’
‘That’s because you just woke me. Me and Sophe, burning the midnight oil here. What’s up?’
‘I’m coming over. Thought you’d appreciate a ten-minute warning.’
Famie sat up fast. ‘Ten minutes? Are you crazy? No one’s ready in ten minutes.’
Sophie walked past her, waved, and disappeared into the shower.
‘Most people anyway. Why are you coming over, Sam? Is everything OK?’
‘The press have gone, Famie. Your flat is paparazzi-free. I just drove past.’ He was on speakerphone and shouting. ‘I can drive you over if you want anything, or to move back.’
The thought of her own bed and rooms with windows that actually opened was tempting. ‘OK, see you in at least twenty.’ She hung up.
Twenty minutes later they met in the Travelodge car park, slung their bags into his boot.
‘Did you check out?’ he said.
‘Not yet,’ said Famie, ‘but we have our stuff in case.’
‘In case what?’
‘Just in case.’
Famie rode in the front, Sophie behind Sam. The radio played news, turned down to a slight rumble. They all wore sunglasses, and Famie’s baseball cap was back. Sam cracked the driver’s window open.
‘Do we smell or something?’ said Sophie.
Sam laughed, Famie smiled.
‘Course we do. It’s the gin,’ she said.
‘It sure is,’ said Sam. ‘Seeping through every pore. It’s the smell of some serious journalism happening. What time’s your meeting with DC Hunter?’
‘Eleven thirty. Hackney Police Station. We’re going to them, thought it would be safer.’
The traffic had thinned out, the lights in their favour. They’d be at Famie’s flat in ten minutes.
‘What are you going to tell them?’ said Sam, his eyes flicking between Sophie in the mirror and Famie next to him.
‘That I met Amal,’ said Sophie. ‘That I went out with Seth.’
An exchange of glances between Sophie and Famie.
‘And the laptop? The photos?’ said Sam. He sounded surprised. ‘That’s evidence. You know it. You know you have to tell them, however embarrassing.’
Famie stared out of the window. ‘Spare us the lecture, Sam. We’ll decide what they see.’
She turned the radio up. There were reports of an American presidential hopeful, a prison reformer who’d gone to jail and the imminent end of the heatwave.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ muttered Sam.
‘And thank Christ it’s not about us for a change,’ said Famie. ‘Though give it a few hours …’
They swept past Famie’s flat. All clear. Sam parked.
‘Come up, Sam, I’ll make coffee. You know you want to.’ Sam looked unsure, Famie took his head between her hands. ‘Sam, you can be late just this once. You’ve quit already. You have no one to impress. Come and have coffee with us.’
His shoulders slumped. ‘OK, you’ve won me over. Do I get to wash up too like usual?’
The press had all gone but not without leaving their trademark coffee cups and paper bags in an overflowing bin. They stepped inside the hallway. Famie put her key in the door.
‘Three iced lattes coming up,’ she said.
She pushed the door over a few days of post. Two freesheet newspapers, four take-out menus, two utility bills and a plain white envelope with a handwritten address. Famie tossed them all on the sofa. Several days of heat and no ventilation demanded as many windows open as possible, as quickly as possible. Sam and Sophie slumped on the sofa, Famie walked through to the kitchen and switched on the coffee machine.
Sam appeared, handed her the handwritten envelope. ‘You probably should,’ he said. ‘Another Coventry postmark.’
Sophie walked in. ‘Another weatherman forecast maybe. Exciting.’
Sam grimaced.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
Famie took the envelope. The other letters had been typewritten, this was biro-written. Small, meticulous handwriting. She peered at the stamp. ‘Posted yesterday.’ She dug her nail into the envelope, sliced it open. Inside was a printed card from a hospital and a folded sheet of paper tucked behind it. Famie unfolded the piece of paper. No address, no signature. Three lines of writing, the same neat script as the envelope. She scanned it quickly then read the message out loud.
‘I work in the University Hospital, Coventry. A young man insisted I send this to you. He said he was in trouble with a woman. I think he’s telling the truth. I hope you can help him.’
Famie handed the note to Sam then picked up the card. She flipped it in her hands. ‘Huh,’ she said. Her address had been scrawled in the top right corner. Similar biro to the envelope, different handwriting. Hurried. Messy. She flipped it again. It was a cheaply printed postcard requesting hospital users to write comments in the spaces provided. Around the edges, more handwriting. In clear black capitals it read ‘SEE THAT MY GRAVE IS KEPT CLEAN’.
‘What the fuck?’ said Sophie.
‘That’s our guy,’ said Famie.
‘And definitely a guy,’ said Sam. ‘A guy in trouble with a woman.’
Famie made the coffees, thinking fast. ‘Is he telling us he’s about to die? Because that’s a desperately sad note to pass on.’
‘It can’t be that, can it?’ said Sam. ‘Surely not. We don’t know who he is or where he is.’
Sophie was on her phone. ‘It’s the main hospital in Coventry. New-build in 2006. Used to be the Walsgrave.’ She showed them a Google map.
‘So we know he’s in Coventry,’ said Famie, ‘we know he’s trying to message us, and we know he’s having to go to these ridiculous lengths to send cryptic messages. Might still be a fruitcake.’
‘Not another Dylan song, is it?’ asked Sophie.
Famie grabbed her laptop, opened it on her lap, typed in the words. She gaped. ‘Holy shit, he’s done it again. It’s not Dylan but it is another song.’ She spun the screen.
‘A Texas blues song by Blind Lemon Jefferson,’ read Sam. He hit play and the kitchen filled with a scratchy guitar and vocal from, the screen said, 1928. ‘Why is he sending this?’
‘We got one music reference,’ said Famie, ‘so he’s sending another. Read the lyrics.’
Sam scanned and summarized. ‘Essentially it says there’s one kind favour I’ll ask of you, see that my grave is kept clean. Then it says, “Did you hear that coughing sound? Did you hear them church bells tone? Means another poor boy is dead and gone … see that my grave is kept clean.”’
The kitchen was quiet. ‘That’s one heavy song,’ said Sophie. ‘Sounds like he’s given up.’
‘But why would he tell us that?’ said Famie. ‘Why tell some folk you don’t know that you’re about to die, or give up?’
‘Unless that isn’t what he’s saying. What’s the story no one is reporting?’ said Sophie. ‘Maybe he’s saying something else. Anyone know anything about Blind Lemon Jefferson?’
Sam started a search.
Famie picked up the card again. Stared at it blankly. ‘Is there anything new in the Telegraph? Has anyone checked?’ She fanned herself with the card.
‘Me,’ said Sam, scrolling through music hist
ory websites. ‘I checked. Nothing. Obviously I’d have told you …’
‘We’ve never struggled to understand him before,’ said Famie. ‘One look, one Google search and we’ve had it. What are we missing?’
‘Put it on again,’ said Sam.
Famie hit play. An image of a bespectacled, squinting young African-American, guitar on his lap, appeared on the screen.
‘He’s blind. We’re blind,’ said Sam, scrolling. ‘He was from Coutchman, Texas, considered the father of Texas blues. You want more?’
Famie downed her coffee. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘This needs to be obvious. It’s either the song or it’s him. Title and artist. You said we’re blind. That’s right, we are. So “blind” and “lemon” and “Jefferson” all come into play. Does that take it somewhere?’
‘Sure there’s nothing else on the card?’ said Sam. ‘All blank?’
Famie looked again, flipping the card in her hand. She held it up for them both to see.
Sam shrugged. ‘Looks blank,’ he said. ‘So maybe “lemon” is the word. Maybe that’s it! We used it as invisible ink when we were kids.’
Sophie laughed. ‘Really? That’s a thing?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘You just heat it up.’
Famie stared at the card’s blank boxes. That adrenalin rush again. She placed the card on the coffee machine’s stainless-steel hot plate. Famie, Sam and Sophie stood to watch. Brown letters started to appear within seconds. Famie grabbed Sophie’s hand. The writing was hurried but the words clear.
In the first box: MY NAME IS HARI ROY
In the second box: FROM 26 BOXER STREET
And in the third box: URGENT! TERROR ATTACK THURSDAY!
37
9.20 a.m.
THEY CLIMBED INTO a black cab, switched off the intercom, shut the connecting glass. The driver got the message, turned up a talk station. Famie and Sophie sat in the back seats, Sam in the fold-down facing them. Hackney Police Station was twenty minutes away. Famie’s heart was still racing, her nerves jangling. She was wired. She had a name. The messages were coming from a real person and his name was Hari.
‘Facebook photo.’ Sophie held up her phone, used her fingers to enlarge it. It showed a cheery round face, clean-shaven, light brown skin, spiky black hair. A blue and white striped T-shirt, a can of beer held up to the camera. She flipped the phone, read from his profile. ‘Hari Roy. Second-year student at Warwick University, studying Politics. British Indian, mother’s family originally from Bengal. Nothing on his father. Twin sisters, can’t see how old they are just yet. He’s single.’
‘Christ, you got that already?’ Famie was impressed.
Sophie shrugged. ‘Just standard,’ she said.
‘When did he post last?’ said Sam.
‘Hmm,’ said Sophie. ‘Nothing for a few weeks. He’s not on Twitter or Instagram. Not as far as I can see anyway.’
They all looked at each other with ‘what-happens-next’ faces.
‘I want to call the hospital,’ said Sam, ‘but I guess we should wait until we know what the police say. If journalists start making enquiries about a Hari Roy then who knows what that will trigger.’
‘But he’s asking us for help,’ said Famie. ‘If we assume our guy is telling the truth, that he’s not mad and that there is a terror attack planned for Thursday, we either convince the police to act or we go to Coventry to follow up ourselves.’
Sam and Sophie looked unconvinced.
‘This is our story,’ she said. ‘This might have been Mary’s story. Now we have to stay on it.’
‘You quit, remember?’ said Sam. ‘I’ve quit too. Sophie’s still there. Tommi’s hanging on. But we’re out. We’re hardly the new investigators.’
The three of them stared unseeing through different windows.
‘And is Hari the story or is Amal the story?’ said Sophie.
‘And would Mary have known about Amal?’ asked Sam. He looked between the women.
Famie closed her eyes. ‘Christ, this is messy. I didn’t think so. I thought they had nothing to do with each other, but Sophie knows better.’ She held her hand out to Sophie, cueing her in.
‘Seth and Amal certainly saw each other. I was with them both. It’s quite possible Mary was too.’
‘So,’ said Sam, ‘the first journalist to die may have been friends with—’
‘Too strong,’ interrupted Sophie. ‘Wouldn’t have happened.’
‘May have known,’ Sam corrected himself, ‘an Islamist terrorist. The brother of her boyfriend. Or former boyfriend. That makes Amal the story, doesn’t it? That’s what the police will say.’
They exited the cab at a modern office block, its ground floor painted blue. Blinds covered the windows, signs in many languages covered the double doors.
‘Christ, is this it?’ said Sam.
Famie paid the driver.
‘Looks like a charity shop under siege,’ said Sophie.
‘It’s just safer,’ said Famie. ‘It’s why I suggested it.’
In her flat they had stared at the hospital comments card for a long time, wondering if it had any other secrets to reveal. After ten minutes they’d decided it had done its work and Famie had phoned DC Hunter. Said they’d be early. The DC had said she would be waiting for them, and within a few seconds of the receptionist placing a call she appeared through a plain wooden door. Same grey suit, white shirt, silver buttons. She nodded at Famie, unsmiling.
‘All three of you?’ she said.
Famie did the introductions.
‘Follow me,’ Hunter said, and held open the door. A stark, undecorated corridor led to ‘Interview Room 2G’. Four chairs, two on either side of a solid wood table, a small fan on the floor and the penetrating smell of disinfectant.
Famie sat with Sophie, the laptop in a bag between them. Sam was opposite. The DC pulled her chair away from the table until she could set it against the wall. She produced a notepad as she sat, then leant down to switch on the fan. Hot, stale air blew around the room.
‘So,’ she said to Famie, ‘you wanted to see me. It sounded important.’
‘Yes,’ said Famie, ‘it is. You remember the note on my windscreen? You took a photo of it.’
‘I do, yes.’
Hunter’s face stayed neutral but Famie sensed her disappointment already.
‘Well, we’ve been communicating with him.’ Famie, in spite of herself, paused apologetically. ‘Through the personal ads in the Daily Telegraph.’ Hunter’s raised eyebrows told Famie everything she needed to know. She rapidly explained the sequence of notes and messages, then produced today’s post. ‘And then this came.’ She handed the hospital card and covering note to Hunter. ‘The words around the edge are a song by Blind Lemon Jefferson. That was the clue. The words in the boxes were written in lemon juice. We heated the card.’
Hunter waited for more.
‘It’s a type of invisible ink.’
Hunter’s eyebrows were working hard. ‘I’m aware of that fact,’ she said. ‘Every kid knows that.’
Sophie handed Famie her phone.
‘This is Hari Roy. I think he’s in trouble. I think he’s caught up in something and he wants help. Who knows why he’s picked on me but this is a credible warning about a terror attack. We thought you should know.’
Hunter studied the image. ‘Credible?’ she said, her tone flat. ‘Why do you think it’s credible?’
Famie felt her neck redden. ‘DC Hunter, we are all journalists at IPS. We report stories every day. We sift, analyse and judge. It’s what we do. We don’t know what’s going on here but, in our consideration, this is worthy of your attention.’
‘Would IPS report this?’ Hunter asked.
‘IPS would investigate it,’ said Sophie. She leant into the table, placed both hands palm down. ‘You’ve got a name, you’ve got an address, you’ve got a warning. Why wouldn’t you take this seriously?’
Hunter considered that, then nodded. She wrote on her pad. �
�Ms Madden. This is, as you know, a huge police operation. It’s the largest I’ve seen. Bigger than 7/7. Its scope is huge. It’s multi-force and it’s international. Everyone involved has an opinion about who was responsible and who we should be targeting.’ She took a breath. ‘I’ve heard many different theories. But there are two things we all agree on. The first is that the e-fits are next to useless and that our gang knew how to hide from the CCTV. The second is that this was a sophisticated attack by a sophisticated terror group.’ She looked from Famie, to Sam, to Sophie, then back to Famie. ‘And so therefore not someone called Hari who writes in lemon juice.’
Famie made to speak but Hunter raised her hand.
‘And actually I have another point, since you’re here.’
Famie braced herself.
Hunter looked to the ceiling, as though searching for words. ‘What would you say to those who might criticize your work? That you have, in the past, after a terrorist attack, not pursued the most reliable of sources?’
Famie felt Sam’s restraining hand. She brushed it away. ‘What would I say, DC Hunter? Christ, really?’ Famie forced herself to stay calm. Held her hands together, palm to palm, against her chin. Took a deep breath. ‘In any big organization, DC Hunter, you find feuds. Rivalries. Jealousies. This place must be the same. You might loathe DC Milne, for example. His superiors might find him an insufferable prick.’ She looked at Hunter for affirmation, got nothing back. ‘IPS is the same. No difference. It’s the professional and the personal. You’ve obviously been speaking to Jane Hilton, who has hated me, undermined me, since Pakistan. She was wrong then and she’s wrong now. A bitch then and a bitch now.’ She stared at Hunter. ‘That’s it really.’
The DC waited for more. ‘I see,’ she said, when there was silence.
Sam leant forward. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Famie might have followed a more … idiosyncratic path than Jane Hilton. But in Pakistan? You should know that she was right. Her reporting was impeccable.’
‘I see,’ Hunter said again, clearly uncertain. She checked her notes.
‘So,’ said Famie. ‘Boxer Street.’