by Mayo, Simon
‘Very well,’ said Hunter. ‘I’ll make some enquiries.’
‘Which means what?’ Sam asked.
‘Which means, Mr Carter, that I’ll make some enquiries.’ She put her pen down and looked up at Sam. ‘OK with you?’
‘My God, you people are insufferable,’ said Sam. ‘We didn’t need to come here, as you know, we just thought you’d be interested in a potential terror attack, that’s all. Well, trust me, DC Hunter, this feels like a story to us and we shall be investigating it accordingly. We shan’t mention you by name, obviously.’
He made to get up.
‘Was that a threat, Mr Carter?’ Hunter’s voice was still flat.
‘If doing my job is a threat—’
The DC raised her hands. ‘OK, point taken,’ she said. ‘I could have put that better. We’ll look at twenty-six Boxer Street, we’ll look at Hari Roy.’ She glanced back at Sam. ‘I’ll get on to the West Midlands force. But you must understand this. When there are COBRA meetings happening, intelligence briefings and international coordinated police operations, we’re right at the fringes here.’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe. But Hari could be in an extremely dangerous position, if what he’s told us is right—’
‘I do believe you’re telling us how to do our job, Mr Carter,’ said Hunter, interrupting.
Sam paused. The briefest of nods. ‘I do believe I was. Apologies. But just “looking at Hari Roy” hardly sounds very urgent.’
‘Communicating via the ads in the Telegraph doesn’t sound that urgent either,’ said Hunter.
‘Unless it’s the only safe way you have,’ suggested Famie.
Hunter drew a line across her pad. ‘Agreed. Give me a moment.’ She left the room, closing the door behind her.
Famie, Sophie and Sam stared at each other.
‘Do you think she’s actually requesting a check on Boxer Street?’ said Sam.
‘Or having a piss,’ said Famie. ‘One of the two.’
Sam glanced in the direction of Sophie’s bag. ‘Laptop,’ he said. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘No plan,’ said Sophie.
Sam began to protest, Famie put her hand on top of his.
‘And no lectures, Sam.’
‘It wasn’t going to be a lecture,’ he protested. ‘Just a reminder of—’
‘And no reminders either. No advice. Nothing.’
Sam sat back, beaten.
Hunter bustled back in, resumed her seat. ‘I’ve passed on your information, thank you. I’ve spoken to a colleague in the West Midlands force. So. There was something else you wanted to say. The note wasn’t the reason you asked for a meeting.’
Sam and Famie both turned to look at Sophie.
‘Oh, right. This is my turn,’ she said, fidgeting with a twisted leather bracelet. ‘I don’t think it’s a big deal or anything but I also went out with Seth Hussain. And during that time I met Amal.’
Now she had the DC’s attention. Hunter sat bolt upright.
‘You met Amal Hussain?’ she said, incredulous. ‘How many times?’
‘Five. I think.’
‘Wait here.’
Hunter was gone again. She left the door open.
38
HUNTER RETURNED WITH a jacketless and flushed DC Milne. He took Hunter’s seat, she leant against the back wall.
‘Tell me about Amal Hussain,’ he said, wiping his face with a handkerchief.
Sophie placed her hands in her lap. ‘Well,’ she began, ‘there’s not much to say really. I only met him when I was at Seth’s flat. He usually didn’t stay long after I arrived. We’d exchange a few words – just general greetings, you know – then he’d be gone.’
Milne and Hunter waited for more.
‘That’s about it,’ she said.
‘How did he seem, Ms Arnold?’ said Milne. ‘When you were there. How was he?’
Sophie shrugged. ‘Quiet. Cagey.’
‘Nervous?’ suggested Milne.
Sophie nodded. ‘Possibly, yes.’
‘And how was Seth when you were all there together? The three of you.’
‘A bit tense maybe. When Amal left, he seemed happy to see the back of him, I think. He relaxed a bit anyway.’
‘Did he talk about him when he’d gone?’
‘No, never.’
Milne swivelled. ‘And you, Ms Madden, you say you never met Amal, that he was never round when you were there.’
Famie nodded.
‘And, forgive me, this was before Ms Arnold here began her relationship with Seth Hussain?’
I know it’s just a question, thought Famie, but you know you made it sound like we’re sluts. She bit her lip, nodded again.
‘I see. Ms Arnold, did Seth ever discuss politics with you?’ said Milne.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Sophie. ‘All the time. He was always campaigning. Human rights and civil liberties in Egypt were his passion. He kept up with a lot of contacts there.’
‘Hmm,’ said Milne. ‘Odd, isn’t it. That one brother is a peacenik, the other a terrorist?’
Sophie recoiled. ‘Peacenik? What kind of a shitty thing to say is that? Campaigning for democracy in a country like Egypt is not being a “peacenik”. It’s not some weak hippy crap. It’s not peaceful in any way. It’s dangerous work that could get you jailed. Or shot.’
‘Or stabbed?’ said Hunter.
‘It had occurred to me, yes,’ said Sophie. ‘He embarrassed the Egyptian government many times. I’m sure they won’t be mourning his death.’
‘Might they have actively sought it?’ asked Milne.
‘They may well have,’ said Sophie.
Milne shifted his weight on the seat, mopped his face again. ‘Excuse the question, Ms Arnold, but what was the status of your relationship?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘When he was killed,’ clarified Milne. ‘Were you still seeing each other?’
Sophie nodded.
‘I’m sorry, you must be devastated,’ said Milne.
‘Of course,’ said Sophie.
A moment of silence.
‘Forgive me,’ said Milne, ‘but you really don’t sound it.’
Sophie glared at him. ‘We don’t all break down in tears, Detective. Even under tactless questioning.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Milne waved his hands. Moving on. ‘Did he ever borrow money from you?’
Sophie nodded. ‘He did.’
‘Do you know what he spent it on?’
She shook her head. ‘I honestly have no idea.’
‘Maybe he gave it to his brother?’
‘Maybe. Maybe he spent it on pizza. Like I said …’
‘Might his support for human rights have been a sham, Ms Arnold? A front?’
‘OK, I’ve had enough,’ said Sophie, standing. Her right hand held the table, her left hand protected her stomach. Famie noticed, and she saw Hunter notice it too.
Milne tried again. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Arnold, I realize this is all upsetting for you but one more question, if I may.’
Sophie sat down again.
‘Was there anyone else at IPS that Seth had been … “seeing”?’ The quote marks were audible. ‘It would be natural of course. And we do desperately need to find out more about Amal.’
Famie felt the ground shifting again. The sense that everything was about to get worse. It was a fair question. It needed a fair answer. In the ensuing silence, she was aware that Sophie and Sam were both deferring to her on this one. Hunter and Milne were waiting for her too.
‘As it turns out, yes,’ she said. ‘We think he had been in a relationship with Mary. Mary Lawson.’
It electrified the room the way Famie thought it would.
‘Mary Lawson?’ said Milne, not hiding his surprise. ‘Happily married, mother of two beautiful children – that Mary Lawson?’
‘Fuck off,’ said Famie. ‘Spare us your moralizing. It’s a weakness of yours, in case no one has told you before. Which I doubt.�
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Milne reddened.
‘But yes,’ she continued, ‘that Mary Lawson.’
Hunter pushed off the wall. ‘You think they had a relationship?’
‘They had a relationship,’ said Famie.
‘How do you know?’ Hunter asked. ‘Did she tell you? Did Seth tell you?’
Famie knew the laptop was a few centimetres from her right foot. She knew it was evidence, she knew she should tell them. If it had been just the Hunter woman there then maybe she would have said something but the thought of this creep leering over the photos of her and Sophie was too much. She glanced at Sophie, who shrugged, then looked to the floor.
‘We just know.’
‘You just know,’ repeated Milne. ‘I see. So when we interview her widower and ask him about this relationship and he asks for evidence, we’ll say that Ms Madden and Ms Arnold just know. Would that be right?’
Famie avoided looking at Sam. She knew what he would be thinking because most of her was thinking it too: that they knew Mary had been ‘seeing’ Seth because he had naked pictures of her, that Seth was a serial womanizer and pervert, and that it was quite possible Mary had met EIJ-supporting Amal Hussain. But the photos added nothing and took away everything. One more indignity. One final embarrassment.
‘That would be right,’ she said.
Hunter stood next to Milne. ‘Ms Madden …’
‘Ms Hunter.’
The DC looked exasperated. ‘You wanted me to take you seriously,’ she said, ‘to take action on the suggestion that a terror attack is imminent. I did that. Thank you for bringing it to our attention. But you have to take us seriously. If your colleague Mary Lawson was in or had been in a relationship with one of the victims, we need to know. And as that victim was the brother of an Islamist extremist, we really need to know.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Sophie said, ‘and how long before the press get to hear of it? How long before one of your esteemed colleagues sells the information to the papers? I’d give it a couple of days. Probably less.’
Milne, redder than ever, was about to object when Hunter cut across him.
‘Ms Arnold.’ She fixed Sophie with a wide-eyed stare, her eyebrows raised. ‘You might be feeling particularly … emotional at the moment. Vulnerable even.’ Her words were delivered with a knowing sensitivity.
Famie saw Sophie flush with realization. Hunter saw it too.
‘I understand that. You came here to tell us about Hari Roy and about how you think he is warning us of something terrible that is about to happen. If you have anything, anything at all, that might help us prevent that, please help us.’
Sophie looked at Famie. Famie understood.
‘We’d like DC Milne to leave the room, please,’ Famie said. ‘We came voluntarily, we are not under investigation. And we’d like him to leave.’
Milne shot a furious glance at Hunter, then got up and walked out of the room. He slammed the door behind him.
‘What you tell me now, I have to share with my colleagues,’ said Hunter. ‘Just so you know. Just so we’re clear.’
Sophie nodded. She reached into her bag and placed the laptop on the table.
39
1.45 p.m.
Marseille
ALWAYS THE SAME. The jug of iced water and bottle of orange juice. The table under the blue and white Olympique de Marseille flag. The Café Montelu, rue d’Endoume, Marseille. Always the same. Sometimes he was there, usually he wasn’t, but he paid well, so the proprietor made sure the routine was set in stone. If that was how his wealthiest client wished to proceed, that was fine with him. Today he was there, and he was early.
Amal Hussain poured the water into a worn glass tumbler, and drank it in three swallows. He wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, then the condensation from his fingers. He folded the napkin as small as it would go, then dropped it into a plastic bin at his feet.
He was a squat man, round-shouldered and brooding. He sat hunched over the table as though protecting it from prying eyes. He wore his black hair long, tied in a bun. Some strands had fallen loose, framing a wide, doughy face. Beneath his trousers, a fixed-blade boot knife was strapped to his ankle.
The café was empty save for an elderly couple by the door. They were already well into their second bottle of rosé. Hussain ignored them. There were nine empty wooden tables, each set with cutlery, large salt and pepper grinders and olive oil. Two large floor-standing black fans pushed the smells of pine shrubs and fried fish around, without any noticeable cooling. The glass front door and all the windows were open. Football memorabilia hung on the whitewashed walls – photos of teams and players mixed with blue and white pennants, scarves and shirts.
Amal Hussain had no interest in football, couldn’t name a single Marseille player, even the ones whose faces stared down at his corner table. The café was no distraction for him, which was why he liked the place. There were usually no women, the only music came from the kitchen’s small, ancient radio, and the talk was rarely of politics or religion. He didn’t trouble them and they didn’t trouble him.
Hussain checked his watch, poured the orange juice. He had no phone, tablet or laptop, just a copy of Libération folded at his side. No computers, no emails, no texts. His rules. Any messages he received were typed or handwritten and he burned them all. No money changed hands. He was invisible and untraceable. He waited for his visitor.
The corner table gave its occupant a clear view out of the café and up the chaotic, claustrophobic street outside. Early afternoon was quiet, less traffic, fewer shoppers. Hussain preferred it that way. So when a man in khaki shorts, pale blue linen shirt, sunglasses and a white beanie hat appeared from the market square, strolling affably along the road, buying fruit then a pastry from a street vendor, Hussain was the only one who took any notice.
He poured more water and waited. Eventually the visitor ambled into the café, glanced around at the empty tables, removed his hat and earbuds, then pulled up a chair opposite. He tossed the earbuds into his hat, then placed a copy of Le Monde on the table in front of him. Folded, it fitted perfectly within the place setting.
The proprietor appeared from the kitchen, glanced at Hussain, who shook his head. The proprietor ducked back again. Hussain poured his visitor a tumbler of water, then clinked his own against it.
‘Salut, salut. Ça va?’ His accent was recognizably English-educated Egyptian.
The visitor shrugged. ‘Ça va,’ he said. He was unshaven, with a flushed, serious face. The rim of his collar was dark with sweat.
Hussain pointed at his paper. ‘Your Le Monde for my Libération, yes?’ he said.
‘It’s a good swap.’
Hussain handed the man what he had come for. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ he said. ‘They’re both full of shit.’
The visitor shrugged.
They exchanged newspapers. Hussain unfolded Le Monde, dislodging a brown rectangular envelope which he pocketed.
‘For tonight?’ he asked.
‘For tonight,’ said his visitor, ‘as you requested. The last flight. An unfortunate business.’
Now Hussain shrugged. ‘Family business. But business none the less,’ he said. ‘And I will finish it this time. It is a blasphemy, Leo, you understand that.’
‘Of course.’ The visitor spread his arms magnanimously. Forgiving. ‘You must act as you see fit. Of course. My friends are grateful for your commitment.’
Business concluded, he picked up his hat, recovered the earbuds and stood. ‘I hope to see you again soon.’ He bowed slightly.
Amal nodded. ‘You will hear from me on Thursday, after our work has been concluded.’
40
3.40 p.m.
DON HARDIN HAD engineered a tea in the University’s Social Studies building. The small ground-floor canteen was packed, each of its square orange tables surrounded by six or seven students. Some were still studying, open reference books propped up against ketchup bottles, but most were talking or sharing video
clips on their screens. A despairing handwritten sign behind the counter read, ‘We don’t need to hear your music. It’s why headphones were invented.’
Just one table had a lone occupant. Hardin had made a beeline for his friend, explained his plan.
‘You’re actually demonstrating?’ Bathandwa Bambawani had interrupted her cake-eating, the sponge halfway between the plate and her open mouth. ‘Shouting, marching, placards? All of that?’
Hardin looked sheepish. ‘I’m still a priest in the Church of England, BB,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how I’ll respond. But yes, I’m going. I’m not sure I’ll be shouting. I won’t have a placard. But I will march.’
‘But you’ve always said you’re not a flag waver,’ said Bambawani. ‘That you find zealots deeply troubling.’
‘Still do,’ said Hardin. ‘Imagine being so certain about anything! So certain you want to shout at people! I’ve never been able to do that. But the more I thought about it, the more certain I got. If you can’t join an anti-fascist march, there’s not much point in any of the gospel really. We try to be one religious community in the Chaplaincy. Of course I should be there. All the chaplains should be there.’
‘You know that some of the Antifa groups have quite a reputation, don’t you? Direct action. Property damage. Physical violence sometimes. That kind of thing. Tends to be as much anti-capitalist as anti-fascist. Quite a mixed crowd, to put it mildly.’
Hardin nodded, his brow furrowed. ‘I know that. I’ve done my homework.’ He appreciated her concern and smiled, briefly.
‘Could be a baptism of fire, Don!’
‘I can handle baptisms, BB.’
‘Dog collar?’
‘Yes, obviously.’
‘Robes?’
‘I should think so. Some of them.’
‘It would certainly get you noticed.’
‘That’s the point, BB. I need to stand for something. And be seen to be standing for something.’
Bambawani raised her eyebrows, curious. ‘What else is going on here, Don?’ She smiled.
‘How do you mean?’ he said.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I think your new daughter has, in her very few weeks on this earth, turned your head.’ Bambawani’s smile got bigger. ‘I’m not surprised of course. It’s amazing what we women can do.’