Knife Edge : A Novel (2020)

by Mayo, Simon

  This time, an answer.

  ‘Hello?’ said the voice from the speakers. ‘Is that Famie Madden?’

  70

  FAMIE FROWNED. ‘YES it is,’ she said. She knew the voice already. Not the one she wanted to hear.

  ‘Ms Madden, it’s DC Hunter.’

  Famie deflated, her exasperation obvious and audible. ‘Christ! We thought you were Hari.’ She raised her eyes to the ceiling, nearly threw the tablet on the floor. ‘What the fuck do you want,’ she added. It wasn’t really a question.

  ‘Where are you, Ms Madden?’ said Hunter. ‘This really is urgent. It concerns the safety of you and your daughter. Threats have been made and we want to give you the protection you need.’

  A moment’s pause. Charlie hooked her arm through Famie’s.

  ‘What sort of threats?’ said Famie.

  ‘Real threats, Ms Madden. Believable threats. Sourced and credible.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Both your names emerged in chatter on jihadi websites.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  A sigh. ‘Really, Ms Madden?’

  ‘Yes, really, Ms Hunter. Which jihadi websites?’

  The exasperation now came from the police officer. ‘When I see you, I can go through the details. I can show you the translated pages. But there is an urgency you don’t seem to understand. You should assume that the people who tried to attack your daughter will try again. If she was my daughter, I know what I’d do.’

  Famie glanced at Charlie, who shrugged. Sam and Sophie looked unsure, certainly unconvinced.

  ‘My assumption is that you’re in Coventry somewhere,’ continued Hunter. ‘Let me at least send a patrol car.’

  ‘OK,’ said Famie, ‘wait up.’ This was all the wrong way round. She was riled and she knew it. ‘To start with,’ she continued, ‘what news of Hari Roy? Do you know any more about him? Surely you’ve found something.’

  Hunter didn’t even try. ‘No, we haven’t found him, no we don’t know any more about your man. Ms Madden, this isn’t a social call, this is an urgent request for you to get some protection.’

  Famie spluttered with indignation. ‘OK, so firstly he’s not “my man”, but that was very revealing about how you see this thing. And secondly, today’s the day, Ms Hunter, you know that, right? Hari’s attack is today. We’ve narrowed the list of possible attack sites to the university, the synagogue and the cathedral. Maybe a theatre. Presumably your guys have done this work too? You did listen to everything we told you?’

  They were all staring at the screen. From the speakers, white noise and silence. The sound of nothing in particular seemed to Famie like something rather significant.

  ‘We did listen. Which is why we’re speaking now.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Famie. ‘Right. The Telegraph and Bob Dylan. You listened to that bit.’

  ‘We can add sixty-one to a number when we need to,’ said Hunter. ‘And you’re in danger. An address for the patrol car?’

  Famie ignored her. ‘What plans are there for today’s attacks?’ she asked. ‘Extra patrols? There must be something. First tell me that.’

  More background noise. An enclosed space, tight, almost dead acoustics. A car maybe.

  ‘The police here know of your concerns,’ said Hunter, ‘they followed up on Boxer Street. They will always respond robustly where they see evidence of criminal activity.’

  ‘So nothing,’ said Famie, disgusted. ‘There are no plans for today and you’re doing nothing. The only person you’re interested in is me. So you know what you can do with that fucking patrol car.’

  She hit the red phone icon, the screen went dark.

  Famie held the tablet in both hands, Charlie, Sam and Sophie stood round her. Famie could smell the shampoo in Charlie’s washed hair. She wondered what had just happened.

  ‘What was that?’ she said.

  ‘That was the sound of us swinging in the wind,’ said Sam. He took the tablet, plugged it to the charger. ‘We’re on our own.’

  ‘No, it was more than that,’ said Famie.

  She’d spent the best part of two decades talking to coppers. Learning their moods, their methods. Understanding the nuances, interpreting the words they used. Eventually, like a parent learning to decode the language of their child’s school report, she got it. The words might all sound fine but what wasn’t being said? What was Hunter avoiding?

  ‘I think that was a fishing call,’ said Famie. ‘She knew I’d say no to the protection. I’ve said no before.’

  ‘Then she was checking the number, checking it was you,’ said Sam.

  ‘And she said the police “here” know our concerns,’ said Charlie, tightening the towel around her. ‘Which means she’s in Coventry too.’

  ‘She’s tracking then,’ said Sam. ‘Tracking the signal. She knows where we are.’

  Famie went to peer out of the sealed window. The ring road was still quiet. A row of three cars and a van waited for access to the roundabout, two slowly circulating lorries made them wait. Their sun visors were down, the early morning light already strong. She smacked the glass. Sam was right. Charlie was right.

  ‘We need to go,’ said Famie, the reality of their situation settling in her stomach. ‘Before they get here. Grab your stuff.’

  Sam and Sophie ran to their room. Charlie, her hair flattened, still dripping, used a corner of the towel to wipe her face.

  ‘Are we running again?’ she said. The tightness in her throat would have been missed by most.

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Famie, unplugging the new phones. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie.’

  ‘What about the tablet?’ said Charlie. ‘Remove the SIM?’ Her hands hovered over the screen. ‘Bring it with us? Hunter would know where we are but Hari could still call.’

  Sam and Sophie reappeared. Ready to go. They both looked at Charlie, still in her towel.

  ‘Tablet or no?’ she asked them.

  ‘Leave it,’ said Sam. ‘On balance he isn’t going to call.’

  Charlie tossed it on the bed.

  Famie waved Sam and Sophie off. ‘Like I said, two and two. We’ll follow you out as soon as Charlie isn’t basically naked.’

  Sam and Sophie exited through the connecting door. Famie heard them lock it, then the door of 203, then push through to the fire exit door on to the fire escape. Charlie put on yesterday’s clothes. She looked dishevelled, drawn and fearful but she was ready in sixty seconds.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Charlie, hands on hips. ‘Wherever it is we are going.’

  It was a display of false confidence that made Famie wince. For a moment Charlie was eleven again. Satchel on, fresh-out-of-the-box school uniform on, smiling through the terror.

  Jesus, what have I got her into?

  One last glance at the tablet. Black screen. No call. No message. Time to go.

  Charlie put a hand on the door handle, then stopped. There was running in the corridor. Famie thought it was one person at first, then two. They stopped outside 204. Famie pulled Charlie away, peered through the spy hole.

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Hunter?’

  ‘And her plus-one.’

  Famie didn’t wait for a knock. Or a boot. She unchained and opened the door.

  71

  7.35 a.m.

  PC JON ROBERTS and his partner PC Glen Talbot, a rookie constable from London, had less than half an hour left on their shift. The atmosphere in the car was convivial, despite Talbot proving what Roberts had long suspected, that he didn’t know one end of Warwickshire from the other. Confusing the rivers Avon and Stour was, as far as Roberts was concerned, a hanging offence. Talbot’s turn to buy breakfast.

  Coffee and pastries. A quiet night and a quiet morning. A reported break-in in Kenilworth turned out to be a false alarm, two drivers breathalysed, two drivers passed. And that had been it. The A429 into the city was tree-lined and free-flowing. Just one lane both ways, but with wide footpaths and cycle lanes. Talbot steered with his lef
t hand, wiped crumbs from his beard and uniform with his right.

  ‘Still annoyed?’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Boxer Street?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But the crazy woman’s stories checked out.’

  Roberts stared straight ahead at the undulating, gentle switchback of a road. Sky-high oaks, left and right, hid the expensive housing from all but the most curious. ‘She knew so much more,’ he said. ‘The old man’s car might have belonged to an Alfred Graham and the student with the messed-up VW might have friends nearby. But she knew what she was doing. The whole “barely dressed in the street” routine was the moment. We should have arrested her on the spot.’ Roberts finished his coffee, wiped his finger around the inside rim.

  Talbot grinned. ‘I never noticed, I have to say,’ he said.

  Roberts glanced at him. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Sure.’

  The road peaked by a red and black sign that read ‘University of Warwick’, a narrow lane falling away to the left, and a bus stop with a plastic shelter and bench. A brown and cream double decker stopped, disgorging a steady stream of passengers. Some had rucksacks and holdalls, a few held rolled-up banners over their shoulders, rifle-style. Talbot pulled over, watched them begin their downhill trudge to the campus. A few glanced back at the sudden police presence.

  Roberts did a rough count. ‘Sixty-four,’ he said. ‘That’s high. Protest’s not till noon. Why so early?’

  ‘Breakfast?’ said Talbot. ‘Who knows.’

  ‘You know what this place is called?’ said Roberts.

  Talbot said nothing. Another local knowledge trap.

  ‘It’s Gibbet Hill,’ said Roberts, watching a group tying scarves around their faces. ‘There used to be a scaffold here. For public hangings.’

  Around a dozen masked protesters had hung back, allowing the others to disappear down the hill. They stood in a semi-circle, partially obscured by the bus stop advertising. Two were making calls. One was fixing an anti-pollution mask around her mouth and nose. They all had black canvas bags slung over their shoulders. Some had two bags, their straps criss-crossing the chest.

  ‘You making this up?’ said Talbot.

  ‘They left the bodies up for years,’ said Roberts. ‘As a warning.’

  Most of the semi-circle now donned bicycle crash helmets.

  ‘Who did they hang?’ said Talbot, checking the car’s video recorder was working.

  ‘Revolutionaries, agitators,’ Roberts replied. ‘Thieves, bandits and murderers too. Obviously. But mainly troublemakers.’

  Talbot pointed at the nearest demonstrator, black hoodie and jeans, double satchels, who had started filming their car. ‘You think this is trouble here?’

  Roberts put his plastic cup in a brown paper bag by his feet, brushed his lap down. ‘Twenty to eight is bloody early for a stand-off,’ he said. ‘So yes, I do. It’s like we weren’t supposed to see this. They’re annoyed that we know they’re here already.’

  The police watched the protesters and the protesters watched the police.

  ‘We should call this in,’ said Roberts.

  As he reached for the radio, the woman with the anti-pollution mask peeled away, walked down the hill. The rest of the group followed. The protester with the black hoodie carried on filming.

  ‘Charlie Victor from Oscar 51.’

  Control picked up.

  ‘We’re at Gibbet Hill bus stop, Kenilworth Road,’ said Roberts. ‘We’ve got at least sixty protesters heading for the university campus. A small group of around twelve have scarves and masks. All of them have bags or satchels. They look organized. They mean business. We’re going to follow them to campus. Request back-up.’

  Roberts nodded at Talbot, who turned the car down the hill. Five miles an hour.

  The radio squawked back. ‘Oscar 51 this is Charlie Victor. Wait please.’

  Roberts and Talbot exchanged glances.

  ‘Keep going,’ Roberts said, pointing down the hill.

  Five miles an hour.

  He keyed the radio again. ‘Wait for what?’ he said.

  A pause, then another squawk. ‘Oscar 51, can you make a P1 – report of a disturbance at 26 Boxer Street.’

  Talbot braked. Stopped the car. A P1. An emergency. ‘What the fuck,’ he muttered.

  The radio again. ‘You want that, Jon?’

  ‘On it,’ he said. ‘Yes I bloody do!’

  Talbot swung the car round and returned to the A429. Sirens and lights. Eighty miles an hour.

  72

  DC HUNTER HAD a new partner. Her ID said Jean Espie. White, uniformed PC, powerfully built. Just out of college was Famie’s guess. At least she wasn’t Milne. Both police officers were sweating and breathless.

  ‘We were just going out,’ said Famie. ‘You can come if you want. You’d be useful, I’m sure.’ She glared at Hunter. ‘Unless, of course, you have details of those jihadi sites you were mentioning? We could always look at those.’

  Hunter was impassive. ‘We’d like to come in.’ Same grey suit, different white shirt.

  ‘Of course you would,’ said Famie. ‘And if you’d told us you were coming we could have adjusted our plans but sadly, as I said, we’re going out.’

  Hunter tried to smile. ‘A few minutes of your time, please, Ms Madden.’

  ‘No,’ said Famie. ‘No minutes, none of my time. We don’t have any time. Hari is out of time. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’

  She made to step around Hunter. Espie blocked her path.

  ‘What is this?’ said Famie, spinning back to Hunter.

  ‘This will be an arrest if you don’t sit down.’

  Charlie pulled her mother away, Espie shut the door. The four women stood facing each other. Famie and Charlie side by side, backs to the bed. Espie just behind Hunter, backs to the closed and locked connecting door. Two on two.

  ‘You lied to me, Hunter,’ said Famie, bristling. ‘I don’t trust you, but say what you have to say. Then fuck off. And quite what it is that could be more important than stopping a terror attack I’d love to hear.’ She was aware that Espie’s eyes were everywhere – looking for what, she had no idea – but Famie stuck on Hunter.

  Hunter stuck on Famie. ‘Can we possibly sit down?’ she said.

  There was a note of exhaustion in Hunter’s tone. It was enough to make Famie pause.

  ‘Sure.’ She shrugged, then waved her to the plastic chair with the thin cushion.

  Hunter sat, Espie leant against the connecting door, Famie and Charlie reversed on to the bed. Espie’s radio spat into life – indecipherable words. She bent an ear, then turned its volume down. Hunter shifted on the cushion, shaping up for a speech.

  ‘I’m sorry for … surprising you like this. I believe the misdirection was appropriate in the circumstances.’ She alternated her gaze between Famie and Charlie but Famie got most of it. ‘You’re in danger, but you know that. Charlie is in danger, and you know that too. You say Hari Roy is in danger and the attacks are today. But here’s my problem. There’s another theory doing the rounds.’

  ‘Meaning?’ said Famie.

  ‘There’s another theory being discussed by colleagues,’ said Hunter, ‘which has you far closer to the original crime.’ She paused. ‘How would you describe your relationship with Mary Lawson?’

  ‘What?’ spluttered Famie. ‘Why are we—’

  ‘Answer the question, please.’

  Famie felt Charlie’s arm through hers. She knew what it meant. She breathed deeply. ‘She was … was my friend. An inspiration. To me, to everyone.’ Famie stopped there, anticipating the next question.

  ‘Who stole your boyfriend.’

  Charlie’s arm tugged slightly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Famie, flatly. ‘Who stole my boyfriend, if you want to put it like that. So what?’

  Another inaudible burst from Espie’s radio. Hunter gave a pained smile.

  ‘This other theory I mentioned has you incensed, under
standably, at Seth Hussain’s and Mary Lawson’s betrayal. And that your time in Pakistan gave you contacts with all kinds of fringe groups. Paramilitaries, criminals, terrorists.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Famie. ‘You think I killed Seth and Mary? Because I was mad at them?’ She gave a short, percussive laugh. ‘And the rest of the team were what? Collateral damage? You must be out of your mind.’ She stood up. ‘Really this is pretty desperate stuff.’

  Charlie tugged her down again. ‘What do you think of this theory, DC Hunter?’ she said.

  Hunter nodded at Espie, who produced a thin grey cardboard file. She handed it to Hunter who removed a few sheets of A4.

  ‘You invited us to go through your records of your time in Pakistan,’ she said. ‘You said that everything there is to know about your time there we could get from the IPS records.’ She handed the papers to Famie. ‘So we did. The first two sheets are a list of those meetings and, as far as we could ascertain, who was present. As you said, the usual mix of army and politicians with a few warlords here and there.’

  Famie flicked through the sheets which had been fastened with a small metal clip. ‘Someone has been busy,’ she said. The last sheet was a photo of Seth and Amal Hussain together. Heads and shoulders, suits and ties. In this image, Seth was the happier of the two. His smile seemed warm and unforced, Amal was expressionless. Like he didn’t know anyone was taking his picture. There were other people around them – Famie could see shoulders and hair at the edges of the picture – but the brothers were the focus. She turned it face down on the bed.

  ‘Seen that before?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Recent?’

  Famie looked again. ‘I’d say so, yes.’ She replaced it face down, returned to the other pages.

  ‘The second sheet has only five names on it,’ said Hunter, ‘but each one you met in Pakistan and each one is, or has been in the last year, active in London. Three work in the embassy, one has a jihadi website, the other works for “community groups”.’ She mimed the quotes.

  ‘You mean a gangster?’ asked Famie.

  ‘Pretty much.’