by Mayo, Simon
‘They do. They said so.’
‘They’ll have gone to the campus looking for me. Home too. When they don’t find me, they’ll be back here for certain.’
‘Why would they come back?’ she said. ‘They’ve been already.’
Said too much. Hari scrambled up to get a quick glance at the road to cover his awkwardness. No change to report. ‘You told them I’d been to your classes. And that I was terrible at them. Thanks for that by the way. They’ll want to retrace their steps. It’s what they do, isn’t it?’
She shrugged, unconvinced. He moved the conversation on.
‘Who did they think lived here with you?’
‘Tom Jarrod. It’s the name Binici wrote on the rental papers.’
‘Time to tell him your plan?’ Hari said.
She checked her watch. ‘Almost. One other thing,’ she said.
‘Go on.’
She looked awkward. Hari hadn’t seen that before.
‘Tonight is dangerous for me,’ she said. ‘The night before an operation, men get … demanding. I don’t know these new arrivals. And after what happened earlier, I don’t know about Binici either. So. I need to say that I’ll be with you tonight. And then actually stay with you.’ She raised both hands, palms out. ‘We’re not screwing or anything but they don’t know that.’
Hari was sure he was reddening. ‘Me?’ he said, surprised. ‘But you can look after yourself, Sara.’
‘I can,’ said Collins. ‘Trust me, I really can. But it’s a numbers game, Hari. I’ve heard so many bad stories. It’s just easier this way.’ She stared at him. ‘This isn’t pretending any more, Hari. This is revolution. Bad things will happen. This’ – she waved her arm around the room – ‘has all just been pissing about. But it’s about to get fucking scary, so if we can make life easier for ourselves we should. I trust you. So. You watch out for me, I’ll watch out for you. Comprende?’
Hari nodded. ‘Comprende,’ he said.
50
7.57 a.m.
DRESSING GOWN PULLED tight and flip-flops slapping the pavement, Sara Collins exited number 26, turned right and headed for Hari’s smashed-up car. She ignored the police; if she did her job correctly, they’d be following her anyway. She shuffled across the road just to make herself as obvious as she could, a red revolutionary rag for the fascist bull. Most houses in Boxer Street had their windows wide open already and a street’s worth of breakfast routines spilled out into her path. Music, voices, television, radio, washing up, hoovers, the clatter of life.
Collins was twenty metres from the yellow police incident tape when she heard the slamming of car doors behind her. She smiled and picked up her pace to where the white van had smashed into a row of cars. The van was gone but Hari’s car, the Ford Galaxy and a Fiat Punto were still there, doors, mirrors and windows caved in or missing altogether. The road had been perfunctorily swept to keep it open, but a carpet of glass and twisted metal lay underneath the vehicles.
The tape stretched around two lampposts, the pavement, the three damaged cars and two large orange bollards, one placed by the Punto, the other by Hari’s VW. Collins ducked under the tape. The Ford Galaxy was the worst hit. Both right-side doors were gone, the windscreen and rear window shattered. The chassis had buckled on impact, with the metal floor ripped open and both front seats thrown forward on to the dashboard. Tiny squares of glass littered the interior. Collins peered into the wreck then crouched and picked up an empty Coke tin from the rubble.
‘Are you looking for something?’
She looked up to see one of the policemen staring at her through the still intact passenger window. He was on his own. Late thirties, cap on, no jacket.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Is this Alfred Graham’s car?’ she said.
‘Is it what?’
‘Your colleague, the one who knocked, told me who these cars belonged to. I’m sure he said it was an Alfred Graham who owned this. Or Graham Alfred maybe, I’m not sure.’ She put the can back.
‘It’s Sara Collins, isn’t it?’ said the policeman. He held up his ID. ‘PC Jon Roberts, Coventry Police. You need to leave the car alone. Step behind the tape.’
Collins stayed in the crouch, checked her watch. Seven fifty-nine. She glanced down the street. The other policeman, the bearded driver, was out of his car and, one hand on its roof, was staring at her.
‘It’s just I remember him now. I’m sure I do,’ she said. ‘He’s a tall man. Kind. Always helping others.’ She pulled out some chocolate wrappers from behind the pedals, folded them together, then put them in the pocket of her dressing gown.
‘What are you doing?’ PC Roberts walked round the front of the Galaxy, stood behind her. ‘Ms Collins, step away from the car. Behind the tape.’
Collins kept rummaging. ‘Needs a tidy, don’t you think?’ she said, reaching again into the car.
The constable stepped over the tape. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Go back to your house.’
The sound of a radio news bulletin’s opening headlines. Eight o’clock. Collins climbed into the car.
From the bay window, Hari switched his attention to the police car opposite. The bearded officer had stepped out of the car to watch his colleague’s approach. He had stretched, radioed once, put his sunglasses on. He had seemed nothing more than curious initially, but now slammed his door shut and jogged to join his colleague. Binici, at Hari’s shoulder, was muttering. Turkish, Hari assumed. It sounded like a chant, a prayer, an incantation.
‘Now would be good,’ said Hari, glancing left to the other end of the street.
‘And now is good,’ said Binici.
The prayer had worked. On the main road, a plain white van was approaching the turn into Boxer Street. Slowing, indicating left. It edged into view before stopping just shy of the corner. Two faces strained at the windscreen, peering, twisting. Looking for parking, looking for cops, looking for trouble.
‘Stay here,’ Binici said. He flew from the room, then took the stairs in a few jumps. ‘Be ready on the door!’ he called from the hall, then slipped noiselessly from the house.
He was alone. It would only be for seconds but for the first time in days, Hari wasn’t being watched. Run. Hide. Last chance. Next stop the butcher’s shop. But stage left was Binici and the London goons, stage right were the cops. The fash. If he hid with a neighbour, in a shed, in a cellar, he’d be too late to stop Binici’s revenge. Same equation, same algorithm, same result.
Paralysed, Hari watched both dramas. Binici checked right then jogged left. Hugging the wall, he briefly disappeared from view before reappearing crossing the road at the T. He held up a hand. The men in the van didn’t respond. Hari swept right. One policeman was bent over, hand on the car roof, the other stood face on to Collins. Both were concentrating on getting the mad woman out of the car. Hari swept left. The van and Binici had disappeared. Boxer Street was clear.
Three minutes past eight.
He looked right. Collins was still inside the car, both policemen were crouched.
He looked left. Still nothing.
Right. One policeman was climbing inside the car.
Left. Still nothing.
Right. Collins was coming out. He saw one bare leg, then the next – the bearded policeman was pulling her out. She stumbled and was caught, losing her flip-flops. She brushed glass from her dressing gown. She walked herself back into her flip-flops.
She’s all out of stalling. Thirty seconds left of this pantomime. Maximum.
Four minutes past eight.
Left. A delivery van turned the corner, trundled past Hari at 26, pulled up at 39. Hazard lights flashing, the van sat squarely in the middle of the road, completely blocking Hari’s view of Collins and the police. He saw a uniformed woman leap from the cab, music blaring, parcel in hand, and ring the bell.
‘Be ready on the door,’ Binici had said. That was now. Whatever was happening, with Binici or Collins, London ‘citizens’ or Coventry Polic
e, he needed to be downstairs.
As he scrambled down the staircase he saw fast-moving, darting shadows at the door. Ducking, pushing. Too many for Collins and the police. The lightest of knocks. Hari tugged the door open and five men ran in with Binici, breathless, sweating, wordless. They wore black tops with black trousers and grey caps. They were light of foot, wide-eyed and totally wired.
The London Citizens, the killers of May twenty-two, were in Boxer Street.
51
9 a.m.
London Ramada hotel, M1 junction 2
FAMIE SAT ON the scorched grass bank that framed the car park. The Volvo’s front wheels were two metres away, a paper cup of black coffee steaming on its bonnet, another cradled in her hands. High cloud cover was keeping the temperature, for now, in the mid-twenties but she swallowed the hot drink in large gulps. When it was drained, she stood and reached for the second. This one would last longer.
Sunglasses and baseball cap, fresh blue T-shirt, same old headache. She’d taken the paracetamol Charlie had given her before crashing into bed at around four a.m., she took some more now. Behind her, the continuous rumble and roar of the M1, in front of her, the glass-and-tile low-rise that had given them all of three hours’ sleep. Sam had rung at seven; devastated, inconsolable. He was on his way to them. He said he had to come and Famie hadn’t argued. Her phone vibrated twice in quick succession. Charlie was on her way out with some snatched breakfast, Sam was in an Uber. She didn’t reply to either.
Famie noticed a slight tremble in her hands as she raised the new cup. She knew she was scared, but hadn’t realized it showed. She held the coffee tighter. The shaking disappeared. Get a grip, woman. She had been shot at in Islamabad, carjacked in Lahore and had witnessed two suicide bombings in Karachi. She had been felt up on a train, called an English whore and a Jewish bitch. It had been, some of it, perilous, stomach-churning work but she had accepted it as part of her assignment. She was a journalist in a war zone. It’s what happened.
Yet here she was, hiding, fearful, trembling, in an English car park. Afraid for her daughter, afraid for a man she didn’t even know and mourning another dead colleague. This was different. This was family. No wonder her hands shook.
Charlie brought pastries and fruit. Same denim shorts, a loose-fitting cream cotton shirt, shades and an olive army-style cap. ‘We can get more but I didn’t want to draw attention.’ She perched the plates on the grass and sat down.
‘We’ll need more coffee,’ said Famie. ‘Sam’s here in two. He just texted.’
‘Is he coming with us?’
‘Don’t know. Probably.’
‘I’ll get the refills,’ said Charlie. ‘Then we should go.’
She stood, brushed the dried grass from her shorts, and disappeared beyond the car. Famie had tried to argue they should do everything together but had received short shrift.
‘Too much?’ she had said.
‘Too much,’ Charlie had replied. ‘Pretty sure we’re OK here. As far as we know anything.’
Famie had just finished the world’s driest croissant when her phone buzzed. ‘Here’ it said. She stood to see a grey Prius looping slowly around the car park. She raised her hand, the car stopped, and Sam tumbled out. He ran to Famie like they were lost lovers. His legs buckled a few metres from her and she grabbed him. They embraced, and he buried his face on her shoulder. She felt his chest heaving and held him till he was cried out. When he pulled away they slumped to the grass.
Sam cleared his throat. ‘They killed him, Fames. Killed Tommi, I’m sure of it. That’s eight of us. Christ.’ He turned to look at her, his eyes filling again. ‘And now I don’t know what we’re doing.’
‘I think we’re hiding, Sam. That’s the best I can do. Me and Charlie.’
Sam nodded. ‘Hiding is good.’
‘You joining us?’
‘After what happened to Tommi, yes. I think I should.’
‘We’re hooking up with Sophie later too. What did Jo say?’
Sam’s shoulders slumped. ‘We argued. She’s a copper. She trusts the system.’
‘And you’re a journalist who doesn’t …’
‘That’s what it boiled down to. I told her to take leave and disappear but I don’t think she will.’
‘Coppers don’t hide, I suppose.’
‘Cops from Zim certainly don’t. Tough breed.’
‘Did you tell her about Charlie?’
‘I did.’ Sam wiped his eyes, produced some old sunglasses. ‘She was shocked, you know. She gets it. And she said she’ll liaise with Exeter and get what she can from Hackney.’
‘She knows we’re disappearing, right?’
‘She’s in no doubt about that.’
Charlie arrived with a cardboard tray of coffees, another paper bag of pastries perched on top.
‘You with us?’ she said to Sam.
‘Thought I’d be useful,’ he said.
‘Always,’ said Charlie. ‘You, Mum and Tommi went through a lot.’ She stood awkwardly by the car bonnet. ‘I’m so sorry about what happened, Sam.’
‘I know that, Charlie. Thanks anyway.’
‘We should go, Mum.’
‘Agreed,’ said Famie, scrambling to her feet. ‘Hard to think we’ll find a more anonymous corner of Britain to hide in, but I’m all for trying.’
Famie drove, Charlie slept. The motorway traffic was heavy; Famie stayed at sixty, clinging to the inside lane. The fields of Northamptonshire rolled past without her noticing. The coffees and paracetamol were at last making inroads into her headache. Behind her, Sam had been texting but was now staring out of the passenger window.
‘I spoke to DC Hunter, before we took off,’ Famie said. ‘Told her what was happening.’
‘I’m sure she was thrilled.’
‘Delighted to be woken up certainly. She said she had been taking me seriously. And that after what had happened, she was sure others would too. Which struck me as odd.’
Sam continued to stare out of the window. ‘Suggests she’s been fighting a losing battle. Maybe she’s the only one who doesn’t think you’re a lunatic.’
‘Maybe.’
A sudden clutch of road signs sporting familiar names. They both read them.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said. She saw him nod.
‘Mary’s funeral,’ he said. ‘You, me and Tommi.’ He broke off. ‘Christ this hurts,’ he said.
Mary, Harry, Sarah, Anita, Sathnam, Seth, Brian and now Tommi. Beautiful, loyal and optimistic Tommi. Another death and another funeral to go to. Famie was overwhelmed with the certainty that the carnage wasn’t over.
The next onrushing sign offered an exit at junction sixteen. ‘Of course,’ she said, and left the motorway.
52
10.42 a.m.
THE LAWSON HOUSE was two miles from the village of Ashby St Ledgers, set back from the single-track road and almost invisible to the casual, drive-by observer. The garden was bordered with silver birch trees and thick, dark green box hedges. Famie drove past, pulling on to the first verge she could find. She put her hazard warning lights on, turned the music off.
Charlie stirred. ‘What’s happening?’ she slurred.
Famie handed her a bottle of water. ‘Sam and I are going to see Martin Lawson. Mary’s husband.’ She corrected herself: ‘Widower.’
‘Why?’ said Charlie, coming round quickly. ‘You warning him or something?’ She sat up, stared at Famie. ‘You’re going to tell him about Seth?’ Her mouth stayed open, eyebrows raised.
‘Maybe,’ said Famie. ‘Though we really don’t want to screw his life up any more than it actually has been already. Maybe we can talk around Seth. We haven’t got long anyway. I texted Martin and he needs to be gone in twenty minutes. Called him yesterday but he didn’t pick up.’
‘I’m not sitting out here by the way,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m not paranoid or anything but alone in a car near the first victim’s house seems a bit freaky.’
; ‘Of course,’ said Famie. ‘Come in with us.’
Famie U-turned and pulled into the Lawsons’ short drive, her nerves jangling. The hedgerow and trees gave way to a newly renovated two-storey Georgian house with wide, shuttered windows and an open front door. As Famie pulled up behind a black Range Rover, Martin Lawson appeared and raised a hand in salute. He stood on the step waiting for them. Greying hair cut very short. Black suit trousers, white shirt and powder-blue tie. A businessman with a business meeting to go to. Mid-fifties, paunchy but stylish, he smiled as Famie walked towards him.
‘My God, Famie, it’s so good to see you!’ He hugged her warmly.
She inhaled tea, toast and cologne. Creed Pure White probably. He’s bearing up, she thought.
‘Sorry to just drop in on you like this, Martin,’ she started.
‘Nonsense,’ he said, ‘just a shame it’s for such a short time. Sam, good to see you. And this is Charlie?’ He embraced Sam, shook hands with Charlie. ‘There’s tea and coffee, I’ll bring it out. Ella and Fred are at school so we won’t be overheard. The shade will last for a while yet.’
Sam shrugged. ‘Anywhere is good. And don’t worry about the teas and coffees. Water is fine.’
They moved to some lilac-painted wicker chairs and a rectangular glass-topped table. A computer tablet and some newspapers were arranged neatly in a pile.
‘I’ll get a jug and be right back,’ said Martin, and disappeared inside.
Famie and Sam sat together, Charlie pulled her chair slightly away. ‘I’ll keep schtum, don’t worry about me,’ she said.
Famie glanced around. The house was set in the middle of an acre of freshly cut lawn; the flowerbeds that traced the treeline border overflowed with hydrangea, peonies and phlox. Greens, pinks, blues and purples surrounded them, running riot across the garden.
‘Wow,’ whispered Charlie, ‘someone’s doing OK.’ To Famie’s frown, she added, ‘I mean financially, obviously.’
Sam leant towards her. ‘Just what I was thinking,’ he stage-whispered.