Knife Edge : A Novel (2020)

by Mayo, Simon

  Hari opened his eyes. Binici, fully in the house’s shadow, was smiling and shaking his head. White collarless shirt, black baggy trousers. Collins, sitting in the last corner of the yard with sunshine, wore large-framed shades, a loose-fitting grey T-shirt and denim shorts.

  ‘Tomorrow, Sara, tomorrow. When the others get here. Then we can plan. Then your training will be for the benefit of all the cells. They are all watching, you know. Every citizen is waiting for us. As we waited for May twenty-two, they wait for us. When we move, they move. Hearts on fire, brains on ice.’

  Hari stirred and they turned. He pulled the blanket higher. In truth, his throat and stomach were largely recovered but the blanket gave him some cover, a shield between him and the madness in front of him.

  ‘What sort of work is it?’ he croaked out.

  ‘Noble work,’ said Binici. ‘Historic work.’

  ‘Suicidal work?’ Under the blanket, Hari held his breath.

  Binici removed his glasses, wiped them with a cloth, replaced them and blinked twice. ‘We are the vanguard. Our duty is to lead, not to conform. There are always dangers associated with storming the palaces of the ruling class. Of course there are. But we are smarter. We are prepared. This is progress, citizen, and progress can have a price.’

  So yes, then, Hari thought.

  Change the world …

  From somewhere not far away, a screech of brakes and the percussive thumps of metal-on-metal collisions. Hari jumped, then instinctively turned his head to the street.

  ‘That’s close,’ he said.

  Binici and Collins were on their feet. They waited. Suspicious.

  ‘Too close,’ said Collins.

  They ran inside. From the hall they heard shouting – two, maybe three male voices – then screaming. From the bay window of the upstairs room they could see a white van had crashed into a number of parked cars and then stopped, blocking the road. The van door was open. A crowd was gathering, some had hands in front of their faces, others were making calls.

  ‘Someone’s under the wheels,’ she said.

  ‘Doesn’t involve us,’ said Binici.

  Hari was silent. He could see that his car was one of those hit by the van. The rear passenger door had caved, its window smashed. The van had then buried itself in the Ford Galaxy beyond. He strained to see what was happening. Might this be a police operation? A rescue? Had the woman in the hospital passed on the note after all? Or was it just an accident, of no significance to anyone other than the injured and the owners of the damaged cars?

  Collins, at his shoulder, realized what they were looking at.

  ‘That’s your car, Hari,’ she said.

  ‘I just realized that,’ he said.

  Binici stiffened. ‘You’re parked up there?’

  Hari nodded. ‘Left it there after the drop.’

  ‘That’s too much of a coincidence,’ he said. ‘Stay inside. We all stay inside.’ The wail of multiple sirens, approaching fast, stoked the leader’s nerves. ‘It’ll be ambulance, then police. This street will be full of them. Shut the windows. Close the curtains. The house must look empty. We are not here.’

  As the emergency services arrived in Boxer Street, Hari, Collins and Binici sat in silence and near-darkness. The kitchen table held three glasses of water, which they sipped regularly. The door to the yard was locked, the blinds lowered. The air was heavy, the temperature unbearable. Hari wiped his face with his already-damp shirt. They listened to the engines, the hissing of brakes, the slamming of doors, the running, heavy steps, the squawking of the radios.

  Hari glanced at the faces opposite him. Binici and Collins were interpreting and reacting to every sound from the street. Hari thought of a submarine film he’d seen, its crew terrified of the patrolling enemy ships and their depth charges. Eyes everywhere, twitching faces, danger in every reverberation.

  For Binici and Collins, everything was a threat.

  ‘We are not here,’ Binici repeated in a whisper, ‘we make no sound.’

  No talking on the bridge, thought Hari. He was sweating like the others but his hands, folded, out of sight, were trembling too. He was as terrified as he’d ever been. He was sure this was some kind of operation – Binici was right. It was just too much of a coincidence. Was he supposed to rush out, to run away and turn everyone in? Did they expect him to react first? He screwed his eyes tight. Find what you need. Know that I am here, he thought. Understand the danger.

  Thirty minutes after the crash, the tangle of noise that was the accident’s aftermath subsided. In the quiet, Hari picked out new sounds. Doorbells. Door knocks. Door-to-door enquiries. Getting closer.

  Binici emptied his glass, replaced it, wiped his mouth. He folded and unfolded his arms, pulled at his shirt where it was sticking to him. ‘We don’t answer,’ he whispered.

  ‘Then they’ll come back,’ said Collins.

  ‘We’ll be gone by then.’

  She leant closer to Binici, hands flat on the table. ‘And what if they come back in two hours? Or tomorrow morning? What then? Let’s give them what they want, then they’ll move on. Leave us alone.’

  Binici was silent, uncertain.

  ‘They’ll want to know if we saw anything,’ said Hari. ‘If we know anything. And when the answer is no, they’ll go away.’

  Binici had a neck muscle twitching and felt a sudden need to rub his scalp.

  The body is still here, thought Hari. Somewhere. No wonder you’re scared.

  Their two-tone doorbell rang.

  And now the police are at the door.

  43

  ‘I’LL GO,’ SAID Collins.

  Binici grabbed her arm. ‘You’ll stay.’

  She pulled away. ‘I’m white. I’ll go.’

  He hesitated. The doorbell rang again.

  Collins persisted: ‘I’m the only white British here.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Be the only one here, period. Quick as you can. Get rid.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Coming!’ she shouted in a voice Hari hadn’t heard before – higher-pitched, overtly feminine. She ruffled up her hair, rearranged her T-shirt, then switched the hall lights on.

  Binici pulled Hari from his chair, unlocked the door into the yard and they stepped outside. The air was fresher, cooler now, but Hari barely noticed. The leader pulled the door shut as the front door opened. Both men pressed their ears against the glass.

  ‘Oh! Sorry, I was asleep. Shit. Is everything OK? What’s happened?’ Collins sounded surprised, flustered.

  The police officers identified themselves.

  ‘There’s been a road traffic accident outside number seventy-eight. A woman has been knocked down and four vehicles are involved.’

  Not a local accent, more like Yorkshire, thought Hari. Mid-thirties. Maybe older.

  ‘Did you hear or see anything?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Collins, ‘I took a sleeping pill. I was crashed out upstairs. I only just heard you ringing the bell. Who was hurt?’

  ‘A young woman has gone to hospital. Mid-twenties, white, black hair. She doesn’t live here then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does anyone else live here?’

  Binici tensed.

  ‘No, just me.’

  Spoken with conviction, Hari thought.

  ‘Really?’ said the other officer. Hari assumed he was now checking some notes. ‘We have a Tom Jarrod listed here.’ Local accent, a friendly enquiry. Very dangerous.

  ‘We had an argument. He moved out.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘It’ll be six weeks now,’ said Collins. ‘Looking for new lodgers if you’re interested. Trying to avoid students. Bloody unreliable they are.’

  ‘So there’s no one else living here.’ Copper number one getting to the heart of it.

  ‘Just one person paying double rent,’ said Collins. ‘That’s me. Fucking nightmare, if you’ll pardon my French.’

  There was a pause in the conversation. Hari ima
gined two sceptical officers peering past Collins into the hall. Binici’s spartan aesthetic would guarantee they’d see no shoes, no coats, no post. No embarrassing give-aways. But they weren’t leaving.

  ‘Three parked cars were damaged,’ said the local copper. He read their number plates. ‘They belong to …’ His voice dropped away slightly: Hari assumed he was reading. ‘Alfred Graham, Asmira La and Hari Roy.’ He left the names hanging.

  In the yard, neither man breathed. Hari felt fresh sweat run down his back.

  ‘Do those names mean anything to you? We’re trying to locate them – their cars are pretty messed up.’

  Hari didn’t know what he wanted Collins to say. When she spoke, it was with an audible shrug.

  ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Asmira I know – she’s OK, right? It’s not her in hospital?’

  ‘Is she white?’

  ‘No. Of course. Sorry.’ A small embarrassed laugh. ‘And Hari I know, I think. Did a class at the university once. I’m a martial arts instructor there. He was terrible. The other guy you mentioned – Alfred someone? – I can’t help you with, I’m sorry. I wish I could be more use.’

  ‘So this Hari Roy is parked in the road, he was a client, but you haven’t seen him?’

  ‘Correct. There’s lots of student accommodation in these streets. Any uni kid will know people around here. I’ll look out for him though.’

  Thanks and farewells. The door closed. Hari exhaled deeply, Binici touched his arm, mouthed ‘wait’. Collins went back upstairs. Hari stood motionless, still listening. She’d be watching from the bay window again, tracking where the police went next. If it was next door, he and Binici would hear them from the yard. It was no more than twenty metres away. Sure enough the rattle of the door knocker at number 24 was answered and the same questions asked of their neighbour. Binici’s shoulders relaxed. He opened the back door and they slipped back inside. The kitchen was still dark.

  ‘She did well,’ said Hari.

  ‘Your car is a problem,’ said Binici.

  ‘It is,’ agreed Hari. ‘We need to go.’

  ‘We can’t. The citizens arrive at eight tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Shit.’ Hari stared at Binici. ‘And what if the police are still outside?’

  Binici didn’t reply.

  Collins returned, switched the lights on. She glanced between Binici and Hari. ‘I think it’s a straight-up accident – they’re knocking up the whole street – but we’ve got a whole load of heat at exactly the wrong time. Our new arrivals won’t like it.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Binici. ‘The fash will have to be moved.’

  Hari frowned. ‘And how is that going to happen?’

  ‘I’m sure Sara can manage something,’ Binici said.

  His tone was flat, but Collins bridled.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning you’ll think of something,’ said Binici. ‘You were getting on fine with the fash who just called. You can do that whole flirty dumb routine you did again.’

  Hari could see the anger in Collins’ face. She moved to stand face to face with Binici, shifting her balance from foot to foot as she talked. ‘You’re the leader, Abi, we know that. We’re on operations, we know that, and we have a job to do. We know all of that.’ She leant closer. There was barely a centimetre between them now. ‘But if you talk like you’re my fucking pimp again, I swear I’ll kick your bollocks so hard you’ll be limping till Christmas.’ She waited a beat then stepped back.

  Hari held his breath. Collins’ words hung between all three of them. Behind the browline glasses, eyebrows raised, Binici’s eyes didn’t blink. When his left hand slipped into his trouser pocket, Hari tensed. He knew what that meant. The leader was wired. Every muscle was stretched, every vein was pumping. His authority had been challenged, violence had been threatened. He couldn’t let that stand.

  But she had stepped away. The challenge was over. His hand came out of his pocket, empty. He folded his arms.

  ‘I misspoke,’ he said.

  Collins nodded.

  ‘I’ll make some tea,’ said Hari.

  44

  10.20 p.m.

  IPS AT NIGHT was a quieter, more sedate place, but in the opinion of many old hands somehow at its most potent. Freed from any UK-centric news cycle, the rest of the world took centre stage. Europe may well be sleeping but the Americas were wide awake, buying, selling, consuming. Soon Tokyo, Mumbai and Beijing would join them and set their agendas for the day. Where they led, the rest of the world would follow.

  On the way into Canary Wharf, grabbing the WiFi at successive stations, Tommi had messaged some thoughts to Sam, Sophie and Famie.

  ‘There’s not much time. We need to be on the same page. Questions for Leven. What do we know about Toby Howells? Might the crack have been a plant? Do we know the murder weapon? Was he in a gang or associated at all with gang activity? What journalist contacts did he have (if any?), what do the cops really think? Did he know Hari Roy? Will post replies here.’

  Carol Leven had joined IPS at the same time as Tommi but instead of diversifying into economics, politics and the EU as he had done, she had stuck with crime. All of it. Domestic, violent, international, cyber, organized. If you needed trends, stats or leaky police officers, Carol Leven was a one-stop shop.

  Tommi hailed her from across the newsroom, walked briskly to her desk.

  ‘I got your message,’ she said. ‘Why the interest in Howells?’ She was unsmiling, perfunctory. Five six, pale, unlined skin. Her eyes hadn’t left her screen.

  ‘Just a tip-off. Maybe the drugs were a plant,’ he said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  He shrugged. ‘Meaning maybe he wasn’t killed for the usual shitty old reasons. Territory. Trade. Pride. Family. That kind of thing. And if I knew any more, Carol, I wouldn’t be here, talking to you.’

  He stared at her, she stared at the screen.

  ‘These are the crime scene photos I’ve seen,’ she said. She clicked on two images, one showing a close-up of a bruised black face with cuts above both closed eyes and a broken nose. The other, with a wider angle, a lacerated neck and a knife-wound to the heart.

  ‘That’s very dead,’ Tommi muttered. ‘Weapon?’

  ‘A heavy knife. Not found, but the blade is maybe three centimetres wide.’

  Tommi typed at speed.

  ‘And the crack?’

  ‘Small bag. Eighty, ninety pounds’ worth maybe.’

  ‘If he was trading, or just out of bounds, wouldn’t they have taken that? Why leave it?’

  Carol shrugged. ‘Small fry. Not worth bothering with. Possibly.’

  ‘Or planted,’ said Tommi.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Carol, ‘or planted. Howells hasn’t had any gang contact that I can find. I’ve spoken to three contacts who know this patch, they each said they knew nothing about any hit and had never heard of Howells. He wasn’t on the police’s radar either.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Ambitious. Decent marks at his college, hard worker. Not a bad writer, read a couple of his pieces. I’ll send them to you.’ She hit some keys, looked up at Tommi for the first time. ‘It’s an odd one certainly. I hadn’t really focused on it till you messaged me. His girlfriend said he’d been away a lot recently. Said he had a commission. That he’d been excited. Had had a bit of money. And then he was dead. She’d explained it all to the police but they had the drugs angle to work on, so for them he was just another dead black druggie.’

  ‘You spoke to her?’

  ‘Just now.’

  Tommi smiled. ‘You’re good.’

  She returned to her screen, said nothing. He typed, then sent.

  ‘A commission,’ he said. ‘And they paid. That’s gotta be unusual. Who commissions a kid to write anything?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Might the girlfriend know?’

  ‘I’ll send you her number. You can do the work.’

  Tommi knew when he was dismissed. He began to put aw
ay his laptop. ‘Interested?’ he said.

  ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘Not the same. It’s not neat and tidy if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Is anything you do neat and tidy?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘But not often. Whisky?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Whisky,’ she repeated. She opened a drawer, inside which sat a square box of miniatures. Room for twelve, there were three missing. ‘For the journey home, Tommi. Benefits of the late shift. Take what you want, I’m trying to cut down. Why are you interested in Howells anyway? It’s not your beat.’

  Tommi picked out a couple of the small bottles. ‘Tell you some time. It’s complicated.’ He pocketed the whisky. ‘While you’re logged in,’ he said, ‘any chance you could search for Howells in our system, just to see if anyone else has been interested in him?’

  A clatter of keys. A ‘no results’ sign appeared.

  ‘Nah,’ she said, ‘no results’ showing again in its own window. ‘Bye, Tommi.’

  He took the lift to the ground floor, pausing by the glass doors to make sure he’d sent everything that Carol Leven had given him. Files sent, answers sent, he checked the last tube times then walked the short distance to the station. He hesitated at the top of the escalator and messaged Howells’ girlfriend, introducing himself, apologizing for the direct contact and asking for a conversation in the morning. Then he walked swiftly down the escalator.

  A fifty-minute journey, he spent the time getting his notes in order and drinking the whisky. Its battery running low, he stowed his laptop in his rucksack at King’s Cross, alighting twelve stops later at Cockfosters. The guards nodded their goodnights as he exited the ticket barrier, and Tommi was out. His walk home was a brisk ten minutes, past the BP garage and Trent Park cemetery. Aware of his computer bag and solitude, Tommi’s pace was brisk. The street was wide, well lit and, for nearly midnight, busy. Instinctively he walked close to the road.

  Two cars at the garage, one driver filling up, one driver paying. Tommi made the briefest eye contact with the one by the pump before the man returned to checking the dials. Tommi considered buying some late-night chocolate but instead opted for haste and health. He marched on. On the other side of the road, heading south, an old camper van trundled past, windows down, the driver and his passenger singing loudly. A black cab then an Uber driver with a single passenger followed close behind. It wasn’t until they had all passed, and their engines had faded to nothing, that Tommi heard the footsteps.