Knife Edge : A Novel (2020)

by Mayo, Simon

  ‘Mum, your phone’s ringing,’ said Charlie, passing it over her shoulder.

  Famie took it, recognized the number.

  ‘Hello, DC Hunter,’ she said.

  ‘Ms Madden. Where are you? Are you safe?’ She sounded alarmed.

  ‘I’m safe,’ said Famie. ‘Safe and hiding.’

  ‘Ms Madden, I strongly urge you to report to the nearest police station,’ said Hunter. ‘Hiding is not safe. Not a sensible option.’

  ‘We’re good,’ said Famie. ‘But thanks.’ She could sense Hunter’s exasperation.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re not “good”. My colleagues in Exeter need to speak to your daughter urgently. It is a murder inquiry, Ms Madden, and if she has information—’

  Famie cut across her. ‘Sure. What’s their number, we’ll call them.’ An audible sigh from Hackney.

  ‘I’ll text it to you, Ms Madden. But before you decide how safe you are, you should know there was an attempted break-in at your flat this morning.’

  Famie felt the blood drain again. ‘I’m sorry?’ she said.

  Sam heard the change of tone, put down the tablet. Charlie glared into the mirror.

  ‘One of your neighbours disturbed two men outside your door. They ran off once they were discovered but there is no doubt that they were trying to force it open. The door jamb is splintered but the lock is sound.’

  Famie’s headache was back with a vengeance. ‘You’ve been there?’ she managed.

  ‘I’m there now, Ms Madden. I’m outside your flat at the moment.’

  ‘One minute,’ she said, covered the phone. Famie cleared her throat. Spoke to the car. ‘Two men tried to break into the flat. They ran off apparently.’

  Charlie, wide-eyed, swerved slightly then pulled the car into a lay-by. She swivelled in the driver’s seat, reached for her mother’s hand. Sam, grim-faced, stepped outside.

  ‘What time was this?’ asked Famie.

  ‘About six thirty,’ said Hunter.

  ‘And I seem to recall, DC Hunter, you advising me to stay put. Yes?’ A brief silence. ‘You wanted me to stay in the flat “for my own safety”. And if we had followed your advice, my daughter and I might have been killed. That’s about it, isn’t it?’

  ‘I can understand your concern,’ said Hunter, recovering. ‘It was, as it turned out, fortunate that your neighbour disturbed them.’

  ‘And that we weren’t there in the first place,’ said Famie. She could feel the anger rising in her chest. ‘Here’s some wild speculation for you, DC Hunter. The man or men who killed Tommi Dara last night had more work to do. Me and Charlie were next on the list. As you say, fortunately they were interrupted, but even more fortunately we weren’t there in the first place. You said stay, my daughter said go. Well. I think we’ll stick with our own counsel, thank you. If you text me the Exeter number, Charlie will ring them. Meantime, we’ll carry on hiding.’

  She hung up, switched the phone off, then reached for Charlie’s, turned hers off too. Sam followed suit.

  ‘Thank you, Charlie,’ whispered Famie. ‘For getting us out of there.’

  ‘They came for us?’ said Charlie. The tremor in her voice had returned, unmistakable.

  Famie nodded.

  Two enormous trucks thundered past. The car shook. Sam continued his pacing.

  ‘We’re really not safe, are we?’ said Charlie.

  ‘We’re really not,’ said Famie.

  She glanced around, looking at their surroundings for the first time. The Volvo was parked in the middle of a gravelly lay-by. A high, overgrown grassy bank ran the length of it, an overflowing rubbish bin stood at the exit. Two lanes of traffic her side of a metal barrier, two lanes the other side. And directly opposite, a mirror-image lay-by, complete with its own overflowing bin, was empty, save for an old sofa which had been dumped, then set on fire.

  Famie felt suddenly exposed. A car that was stationary. A lay-by on a busy dual carriageway. Another friend murdered. A Charlie lookalike murdered. The killers trying to break into her flat.

  ‘We should go,’ she said. Famie opened her door to call Sam.

  On the far side of the road, beyond the barrier, a grey BMW braked hard, changed lanes, then pulled into the opposite lay-by. It came to a stop a few centimetres short of the sofa.

  ‘Sam!’

  He’d seen it too, sensed the danger. He jumped in the front passenger seat and Charlie shot the car into the traffic. Horns and brakes accompanied her manoeuvre but they didn’t care.

  Famie knelt on the back seat, peering at the fast-disappearing BMW. ‘Two men maybe,’ she said. ‘Could be one. Can’t see. No idea. Could be nothing.’ She slumped back into her seat. ‘Good driving, Charlie.’

  ‘Bad driving actually,’ said Charlie, ‘but effective. And it’s two miles the other way before they can get off their side of the road. Assuming they want to.’

  Sam twisted in his seat. ‘We need to assume they want to. We need to assume everyone wants to. Let’s get to the most anonymous hotel we can, meet up with Sophie, and hide the car.’

  55

  12.20 p.m.

  THE TABLET SHOWED a map of Coventry and its surroundings. The white and green was rural, the dark grey was the city. The shading formed a dog’s-head shape, with the hospital in the neck, Boxer Street in the jaw, the central ring road and cathedral at the base of the ears. Instructions were called out and Sam navigated them to the Coventry Travelrest, located on the neck-side of town. In a search for the most anonymous hotel he could find, this was the winner. Famie thought he had excelled himself. Its car park was a four-tier concrete multi-storey, the hotel the same. A matched pair.

  They parked on the third floor in the space furthest from the lift and stairs. Behind a pillar. They traipsed to the stairwell, Sam followed by Charlie then Famie. They marvelled at the cold, dank air, miraculously untouched by the searing heat outside. Stepping over discarded nappies and needles, they swung open the fire door on the ground floor. Back to the inferno. A slabbed path took them across a piece of scorched grass towards the Travelrest. Box-like, with small windows and a khaki-and-brown colour scheme, Famie thought it was perfect. Hideous but perfect.

  Sam pushed the revolving door. They took it in turns to step inside. The lobby was dark, swelteringly hot, and smelt of toilet disinfectant. Two lines of potted bamboos formed a path from the door to the front desk. Beyond the bamboo were a selection of uncomfortable-looking armchairs, a hot-drinks vending machine and a small bookcase with battered, abandoned paperbacks arranged horizontally. Old street maps had been hung on the walls. Light orchestral music played too loudly from invisible speakers. There were no other customers.

  Sophie had booked adjoining rooms in a fake name, texting them confirmation of the numbers. Sam nodded at the young man behind the desk, then peered at his badge.

  ‘Hello, Florin,’ he said. ‘We’re staying with Miss Turner in 203 and 204.’

  The boy frowned, then smiled. He offered a brown envelope which he shook to indicate it had keys inside. ‘From Miss Turner,’ he said. ‘Nice lady. Have a good day.’

  They avoided the lift. Two flights of stairs brought them to a low-ceilinged, right-angled corridor, carpet-tile floors, plain wooden doors. Same overpowering disinfectant. The lightest of knocks on 203, an audible shuffle behind the spy hole, and the door swung open. Sophie, in a printed fringe-line skirt and white T-shirt, stood aside to let them in then shut the door behind them. She hugged Famie and Sam, then, after an introduction, hugged Charlie too.

  ‘Happy to see you guys. Like, seriously happy. This is a grim place to be on your own. The grimmest. Unless you want porn. Then it’s a party.’

  They all sat on the bed, Sophie and Famie against the headboard, Charlie and Sam at the foot. The room was clean, the bed comfy. There were two small bedside tables with old-fashioned angle-poise lamps, a threadbare brown carpet and an oversized flatscreen television next to a flimsy wooden door leading to 204. In the corner, a green plasti
c kitchen chair had been given a thin cushion. One small, sealed window looking on to the hotel’s driveway was the inadequate source of the only natural light in the room. Above their heads, a single bulb with lampshade provided the rest.

  Sophie was desperate for news of what had happened to Tommi. Many tears later she was up to speed on the murder, on Charlie, the visit from Lewis, the call from Hunter, the attack on the flat and Mary Lawson’s tablet.

  Sophie was astonished. ‘You stole it?’

  ‘Don’t you start,’ said Famie. ‘I’ll give it back. But we now know she was reading about a Pakistani terror op on the morning she was killed. We’re still sifting the rest of the info.’

  Sophie produced her laptop, spun the screen. ‘So,’ she said. ‘According to Hari Roy, there’s something planned for tomorrow. Whatever the attack is, Thursday is the day. We have to assume a geographic reason for being in Coventry. We’re nineteen miles from Birmingham, twenty-four from Leicester.’ She shrugged. ‘Could be there, could be here. There’s no obvious reason to attack Coventry but then there was no obvious reason to drive a truck through Nice either. But let’s assume Hari is here for a reason.’ She pointed at the street map she’d pulled up. ‘There’s a meeting at the synagogue on Barras Lane at three p.m., there’s a controversial play at the Belgrade Theatre in town here called Corpus Christi, there’s a prayer service at the cathedral.’

  ‘Quite a mixed bag,’ said Sam. ‘What’s the problem with the play?’

  Sophie checked her screen. ‘It features Jesus and his disciples as gay men living in Texas. The playwright got death threats, shows cancelled, you know how it goes. Some local churches are planning to protest.’

  Famie looked doubtful. ‘Sounds unlikely to be our thing. Unless they put the play on in the cathedral of course. That might be different. I think we’re looking for something a whole lot grimier than protesting Methodists.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Sophie. ‘There’s also this. Warwick University – Hari Roy’s place of course – has an Islamic Society-organized anti-fascist demonstration. That’s where the police presence will be.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to them?’ said Sam.

  ‘Made an enquiry,’ said Sophie. ‘They said they were keeping “a watchful eye”. Usual back-up available if needed. On standby.’

  ‘That’s the shortlist?’ said Famie. She felt underwhelmed. It all seemed so trivial. Hardly the climax to, or the reason for, the murders of eight journalists. She had witnessed quite how mundane the worst terrorism could be, but this all seemed so particularly unremarkable.

  ‘Yes, that’s the shortlist,’ said Sophie. ‘If this was predictable, the police and security services would have it covered. Until then, this is what there is.’

  Famie shrugged. A synagogue meeting, a play, a church service and a student demonstration. Or something else. Take your pick.

  Charlie’s hand was up. ‘Excuse me.’ She sounded annoyed, her face furrowed. ‘You all sound like you’re properly reporting on this. Like you all still work for IPS, which you don’t. Apart from you, Sophie. Aren’t we supposed to be hiding? We can’t hide and expect to write anything. I don’t for sure know if we’re safe here, even if it is a shit hole. Maybe shit holes attract these guys. Maybe we should have gone to the Ritz Carlton instead. I don’t know about you, maybe it’s because I’m not keeping busy like you are, but I’m still fucking terrified.’ She flashed wide eyes to the room.

  Famie briefly considered reaching a consoling arm towards her but quickly dismissed the idea.

  ‘But I’m not writing anything,’ said Sam, defensively, ‘just trying to unravel a story. I think that if we can find out what Mary was investigating, we might find Hari Roy. That’s the point.’ Then, to Charlie, ‘And I’m terrified too if that helps.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Sophie, one hand on her stomach, ‘me too.’ Then she added, ‘Anyone checked the Telegraph today?’

  ‘Christ, no,’ said Famie, reaching for the tablet, tapping the icon. ‘Should have got a copy this morning but what with one thing and another …’

  ‘Friends getting killed, you mean,’ said Sam.

  ‘Yeah, that,’ said Famie, scrolling fast for the personal ads. She found them, scanned at speed. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Bible verses, Viagra ads, lonely hearts. That’s it. Great combo. Whatever Hari is doing, he’s not posting any more.’

  Sam slid off the bed, started his pacing.

  ‘What?’ said Sophie.

  ‘So we should post again,’ said Sam. ‘When’s the deadline?’

  ‘Four p.m.,’ said Famie. ‘We’ve got plenty of time. Good call, Sam. Of course we should post. And we need to tell him we’re here. Somehow.’ She reached for her phone. ‘Reckon I’m OK to switch on?’

  ‘Depends how desperate the police are to find us,’ said Sam, shrugging.

  Famie shrugged too. She turned it on, tried to access her account.

  ‘Huh,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ said Sophie.

  ‘No signal.’ Famie hit some apps, tried to call Charlie. She looked at Sam. ‘Phone’s dead. No signal. Nothing.’

  Sam reached for his phone, switched on, tapped the screen. He blanched. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Famie. The dread had returned to her stomach.

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Sophie. ‘They’re work phones. You quit your jobs. You don’t get to use their phones any more. Mine’s OK.’

  ‘Mine too,’ said Charlie. ‘Panic over.’

  Now Famie was up. She walked over to the tiny window that didn’t open. ‘Not really,’ she said. She stared at the restricted view of the car park, the path and the brown grass. ‘Maybe we need to lose the phones. All of them. Whether the police are desperate or not – and only Hunter seems at all interested – the fuckers can trace our phones. Maybe they’re not safe. Maybe they were never safe.’

  ‘And we don’t even know which particular set of fuckers to be worried about,’ said Sophie.

  ‘All of them,’ said Famie. ‘Let’s just stick with all of them.’

  Sophie and Charlie exchanged glances. Then, with almost perfect timing, both removed the batteries and SIMs from their phones, throwing them on to the bed.

  ‘Better?’ said Sophie.

  ‘Great,’ said Sam, infuriated. ‘Now we’re operating totally blind. And deaf. How do we get our ad in the paper now? Ring it through the front desk? Trust Florin to get it right? Not sure that’s entirely thought out.’

  Her back to the bed, Famie missed Charlie reaching for the tablet.

  ‘You were right, Mum,’ she said, framing it between her hands.

  ‘What?’ said Famie, turning.

  ‘Crime pays,’ said Charlie.

  56

  Your favourite highway. Add 7,958,593,262. It’s nearby.

  THE MESSAGE SENT. One last message to Hari Roy before it was too late. Too late for who or what Famie wasn’t sure, but too late anyway. The idea had occurred as soon as Charlie had found the way to access the tablet’s phone number (touch apps, touch settings, scroll, touch status, scroll again).

  Famie knew it was unlikely he would see her words. It seemed preposterous even to be sending them. But the personal ads had been his idea. It was worth another shot. And it was risk-free. She could do it from the room. She could do it from a number that couldn’t be traced to her. Or any of them. She doubted Martin Lawson or his children knew the tablet’s number. So if anyone called, it had to be Hari Roy.

  She explained the message to Sophie. Charlie and Sam were there already.

  ‘Highway 61 Revisited,’ she said. ‘Famous Dylan album. If he sees it, he’ll understand. He adds the sixty-one to the seven billion figure and that’s the tablet’s number. He’ll make the call. Whether he can do anything about it, that’s something else altogether.’ Famie glanced at the battery indicator which had just turned red. Nineteen per cent. ‘Gonna need a charger,’ she said.

  ‘Surprised you didn’t steal one of those too,’ said C
harlie.

  ‘Next time,’ said Famie. ‘But we’ll definitely need one. If Hari Roy has this number, we need the tablet charged. Always.’

  ‘There’s a shopping centre ten minutes away,’ said Sophie, ‘I’ll go find one.’

  Sam put his hand up. ‘I’ll come too. We’ll buy some burner phones while we’re at it.’

  With Sophie and Sam gone, Charlie slept. Famie chained the door. Was room 203 of the Coventry Travelrest any safer than her flat? Yes, she thought. Probably. It depended on who was doing the looking. It depended on who was doing the killing. Her and Sam’s phone disconnection was probably, as Sophie had said, the inevitable result of leaving IPS. No work, no work phone. Even so, it troubled her. Another trouble to go on top of the others. I’m sorry for your troubles. Isn’t that what Andrew Lewis had said? Yeah, well. Not as fucking sorry as I am, she thought.

  Famie eased her way back on to the bed, propped herself up next to her daughter. She stared at the tablet. How long would nineteen per cent last? Thirty minutes or three hours? She knew it would depend on the age of the tablet and how the battery had been charged but the overwhelming feeling of time running out won the day. She logged on again. Browsing history. Show all.

  Eighteen per cent.

  She wondered how much anyone’s online reading really revealed about them. Famie took a deep breath. Maybe everything she read would be purely superficial and a waste of precious battery, but in the absence of any other clues, this was all she had. Fighting drowsiness, she hit the keys.

  Articles from the world’s press followed one after the other. The latest American presidential hopefuls. Climate campaigners in Canada. Declining law and order in South Africa. Useless, useless, useless, thought Famie. The future of the monarchy in Thailand, an oil scandal in Nigeria, a new chairman for the Bundesbank. All useless. Then three articles about the Real IRA and the Continuity IRA were followed by two on the Maoist Communist Party of Turkey. When that was followed by a CIA analysis of the People’s Liberation Army of Manipur, Famie realized she wasn’t sleepy any more. In all, Famie read fifteen articles about extreme far-left groups around the globe. Some of the organizations she knew, most she did not. The Thieves in Black, Anti State Justice and the Informal Anarchist Federation followed each other in a bloodcurdling parade of ideological ranting, guerrilla warfare and economic sabotage. This, Famie realized, was a thread. She checked the dates. Six weeks before her death, it was clear that Mary Lawson was extraordinarily interested in terror groups of the far left.