by Mayo, Simon
‘You need to tell me what’s happening. It’s on the wires.’
Famie got it in a second. Then Sam’s horrified expression confirmed the evidence of her own ears. Famie blanched, hands in front of her mouth.
‘Well?’ said the voice.
Sam stepped forward, ended the call. He stared at Famie. ‘Holy fuck,’ he said.
‘I take it you know the voice,’ said Winstanley.
Famie swallowed twice. ‘That,’ she said, ‘was Andrew Lewis. The IPS bureau chief.’
90
THE TATTOOED MAN was Tomas Beres, a thirty-one-year-old former policeman from Miskolc, Hungary. When he had been dismissed from the service for excessive violence, his brother Gregor had recruited him to the Hungarian Workers Party. He was a willing convert, convinced his country had been captured by capitalism and Jews, then destroyed by the recession, capitalism and Jews. The Beres brothers had campaigned briefly to push the party to a more revolutionary stance but, quickly disillusioned, had quit both the party and the country. Gregor and Tomas had drifted around the fringes of European far-left politics, occasionally taking jobs as hired muscle. A succession of robberies, then the assassination of a troublesome Catholic, centre-right mayor in Poland, brought them to the attention of Russia’s FSB. There was some work, they were told, that it was better for Russia to stay out of. They had stayed as their low-rent hitmen and agitators for eighteen months before meeting Amal Hussain. They had no truck with Islamist terror groups, repulsed by their religiosity and grandstanding, but they were still impressed by their methods and their commitment. When Hussain told them he had work in England, the brothers made themselves available.
Hussain was their recruiter but he had made Gregor the contact for the FSB. Hussain had made it clear to them that he had no dealings with technology. It was, he explained, what had kept him safe and what would keep them safe. He had put together a team. He had promised revolutionary, sectarian work, and 22 May had been precisely that. The brothers had loved it and wanted more. The country had been convulsed by what they had achieved. Money and resources were available. They were in it for part two.
But Coventry had gone wrong almost from the start and now his brother was dead. He had been told to get the rabbi but he never got close. He had seen Hussain slump to the floor, then, distracted, had only stuck two. When the police arrived, so much earlier than they should have, he was working his way to the front fighting an idiot woman who had slashed his hand with scissors. He had stuck her in the end but was too late to help repulse the black woman with her taser. Soon after that, the attack was over. When the shots were fired, he’d played dead, falling near toppled and broken chairs. A discarded jacket, draped over his shoulders, had covered his tattoos. He’d waited for his moment, listening to the chaos around him. He had heard much. In spite of the crazy tattooing of ETB, Hari Roy had been a traitor after all. He had been communicating with a journalist. And now that journalist’s daughter was in a pizza restaurant a hundred metres away. A pizza restaurant they had driven past in the van. Triple windows, a picture of a dancing chilli in the middle. He would go there.
Newly acquired jacket over his shoulders and knife stashed carefully in its newly ripped lining, he had rushed from the cathedral with some of the last of the escaping congregation. They had been herded down the steps, past the angel and devil statue and towards a fleet of ambulances. Their back doors were open, crews ready. Flashing blue lights strobed the piazza. Beres took a proffered bottle of water, waited for his moment, then slid between the ambulances.
He took a hard right along a paved path which looped back past the ruins of the old cathedral. Three retractable yellowstriped bollards had failed to retract, so police and fire trucks were backed up along the path, their lights also flashing. Beres walked fast, hitting the cobblestones within a minute. The sign said Bayley Lane. It rose steeply past the ruined nave on his right, and was lined with some sagging Tudor buildings on his left. Beres kept left. He needed a speed that said he was happy to be moving away from chaos but not so fast that he looked suspicious.
The air filled with sirens. When six uniformed police officers ran in from a side street, he slowed, leant against one of the locked, ancient doors. Like he was taking a breather. Each of them stared as they passed, only the last peeled away, prompting his partner to join him. A few glances back from the others and they were gone. Beres let his hand drift to the lining of his jacket.
‘You need to be out of here, now,’ said the first to stop.
Beres stood up straight. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I am lost.’ Heavy accent, sing-song phrasing.
The policeman pointed at the street they’d just emerged from. ‘Hay Lane. Turn left into it, don’t stop till you’re out of it. Go. Now.’
Beres mumbled his thanks.
He walked as fast as the police would expect. He could act like a tourist if he needed to, he’d done it many times before. But now he ignored the Gothic tower, the historic graveyard and the quaint pubs; he had been given his orders. The approaching sign, black letters on white enamel, said ‘Hay Lane’. He turned left. Cobbled street and cobbled pavements. More sandstone, more leaning Tudor beams. High-end cafés, tables and chairs in the street. Linen, white towels, perfume. And at the end, the grey sign with the red chilli. The pizza restaurant.
Behind Beres, the sudden appearance of blue and white police tape, rolled out by two policewomen. It stretched across Hay Lane. The cordon was up. He had just made it in time. The pizza restaurant was less than a minute away. A few curious shoppers drifted to the tape to see what was happening. Beres stepped out of their way, head down. Conciliatory. Respectful. Humble. He put his right hand into his jacket, found the Böhler’s handle and gripped it. He winced as the cut in his hand from the idiot woman’s scissors opened again. He gripped it tighter.
At the first of the pizza restaurant’s windows, Beres stopped, peered in. Neat rows of circular stone tables were set out in a tidy rectangle. Only one had two women together. They were both white, both had curly hair, the younger’s wilder, less cared for. The older one had her hands resting on her stomach. He looked from one to the other, then shrugged. The other tables contained four customers in total. Three sat together near the door, one sat near the open kitchen. Four chefs, three waiters.
He walked to the door, pulled out the knife, stepped inside. Sophie looked up immediately. Saw the knife. She stood up and screamed at him. Charlie stood too. Beres ran at them. The two women began tipping tables in his path as they retreated towards the kitchen. Stone, metal, cutlery, crockery and glass all hurtled to the floor in great waves of noise. The other customers stood, the waiters and chefs froze. Charlie hurled a Coke bottle which hit Beres on the ear, then a pizza cutter which missed. Sophie picked up a knife, handed another one to Charlie. They stood a metre apart, crouched, arms out. Furious.
Beres hesitated.
‘Call the police!’ yelled Sophie.
‘Then grab a knife!’ pleaded Charlie. ‘This is one of the fuckers from May twenty-two!’
The three who were sitting by the door bolted. Disappeared up Hay Street. The lone diner ran into the open kitchen. Beres switched knife hands, stepped closer. Sophie landed a tall glass on his head, lip-side first. The shower of shards left a trail of tiny lacerations down both sides of his face. A few dropped into his open mouth and he spat, the force of the expulsion cutting into his upper lip. Still he advanced, still they retreated. As they passed the open kitchen, a sinewy woman with a chef’s cap caught Sophie’s eye. She held up a steaming saucepan. Sophie nodded.
It was clear to all that the man had miscalculated. The man seemed to sense it too. An enraged Beres launched himself at Charlie, knife high. She ducked the knife but the force of him knocked her to the floor. She twisted and rolled, locking her legs around his feet. Lying on her side, she snapped her legs up. Fast and high, calf to thigh. Beres tottered, grabbing a table for balance. Sophie lunged. Her knife wasn’t sharp, its serrated edg
e dulled by months of continual use, but the strength of her attack, the ferocity of her strike, forced it through the tightly packed bones and muscles of his left hand. The capitate bone splintered, tendons severed. Sophie jumped back as he lashed out, the Böhler’s flailing tip finding her temple. It cut from hairline to cheek bone. Losing her balance, tripping over iron table legs, she tumbled to the floor. Crabbed her way backwards. Beres staggered forward.
The sinewy chef appeared next to Charlie. The steaming saucepan had become a steaming two-litre jug and she handed it over. Charlie had less than a second to balance. Some water slopped over her hand, but she ignored the burn. As Beres shaped to strike, Charlie hurled the boiling water. It caught Beres side on. Neck, jaw, cheek, nose, eye, forehead and scalp. He pirouetted one-eighty degrees and dropped the knife, hands held to his rapidly reddening and peeling face.
Two tables landed on his legs.
A waiter locked the door.
91
5.20 p.m.
BRITISH POLICE REPORT FATALITIES IN SUSPECTED TERRORIST ATTACK IN CATHEDRAL
THE HOSPITAL, PROMPTED by Winstanley, had provided Channing Hunter with a private room. It had the unshiftable hospital smell of other people’s sickness mixed with bleach. A framed picture of a summer meadow hung opposite the door, a small oval mirror above the metal headboard. Five refectory-style plastic chairs had been arranged in a horseshoe around the foot of the bed. Famie sat with Charlie, then Sam, a patched-up Sophie and Hari. The DC, in hospital gown, was propped up with pillows, monitors and a drip on one side, Jean Espie on the other.
‘Status update,’ said Espie. ‘She’s lost a lot of blood and her doctors are very unhappy we’re here at all. So if there’s any way this can be brief, they’d appreciate it.’
Hunter raised her right hand, the one without the tubes attached. ‘I’m not a basket case yet,’ she said. Her voice was reedy and weak but she forced a smile. ‘I’ll be fine. And anyway, this meeting isn’t happening. It’s unofficial. You’re just friends wishing me well. Remember that.’
Sam took charge. ‘So one part of the shit storm is over, the other starts now. We don’t know how many cells there are. We know London, we know Coventry. We know nothing else unless Hari can help.’
Hari shook his head. ‘Can’t help. Sorry. I never knew much about the London cell till they turned up. Coventry was it for me. Might be others, might be none.’
‘What did Mary say when she pitched all this to you?’ Famie asked.
Hari frowned, recalling. ‘She only contacted me because I’d contacted her. This is a year back, pretty much. I was desperately keen to be a proper journalist. I wrote to loads of reporters I liked. No one replied. Then, out of the blue, Mary got in touch. Actually rang me. Said she’d kept me on file, and now she had a job. And an offer. She said that there was an organization involved in revolutionary activity. That there was a cell in Coventry and she wanted me to infiltrate it. Report back to her. I wondered about other cells but May twenty-two was the first proof that they existed. No other contacts, as far as I know.’
Famie leant in. She placed a hand on Hunter’s bed frame. ‘Did Andrew Lewis come up at any time? In any context?’
‘No,’ said Hari. ‘I knew his name because I knew about IPS. Mary never mentioned him. But when Hussain turned up, he was obsessed with finding a traitor. Maybe Lewis suspected Mary had hired someone. Binici saved me, to be honest. Said he’d already killed the traitor.’
‘The guy found at Boxer Street,’ said Famie.
Hari nodded. Spoke quietly. ‘Zak BJ,’ he said. ‘I need to tell you more about him. When we’re done with this. But Hussain mentioned someone called Toby Howells who they’d executed after they found him sending messages to Mary Lawson.’
Sam hung his head, Sophie blanched. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she muttered.
‘And, by the way, it was the same guy who killed Howells and Lawson. Name of Kamran. Came from Karachi originally.’
‘Saw him in the church,’ said Famie. ‘Bullet in the head?’
‘Bullet in the head,’ confirmed Hari.
‘Fair,’ said Charlie.
Sam’s turn again. ‘So why was Lewis on that phone? Why is he calling Gregor? If anyone has an innocent explanation, please shout it now.’
A few seconds of silence.
‘Occam’s razor,’ said Hari. ‘Simplest solution wins. The one with the fewest assumptions. I don’t know this guy. But if he’s on the phone to Gregor, wanting updates, either it wasn’t him and you identified the wrong person, or Lewis runs the cells. No other options.’
Famie nodded. ‘Hari’s right, isn’t he?’ Her voice was exhausted, dredging the words up from somewhere. ‘No other options.’
‘And you’re sure it was him?’ said Sophie.
Famie nodded again. ‘I am.’
‘Me too,’ said Sam.
Hunter shifted slowly under her blankets. ‘So this is where it gets tricky. And I’m assuming all of this is off the record.’
Nods around the horseshoe.
‘DC Milne is my superior. One of the investigators on this case at the Met. He’s knocking around the hospital somewhere. He told me to ignore Famie’s theories. Said they were “the ravings of a menopausal lunatic”.’
‘To be fair, he’s not wrong on that,’ said Charlie.
‘Actually, agreed,’ said Famie.
Brief laughter in the room.
‘Which explains the total lack of interest from the police,’ Famie added. ‘With the notable exception of DC Hunter here.’
Hunter nodded her acknowledgement.
‘But my theories are right,’ Famie continued, ‘and it means we’re the only ones who know about Lewis. What do we do with it?’
Hunter deflected. ‘So what did Lewis hear back when he called? Anything?’
‘Nothing,’ said Sam. ‘No one spoke. I cut the line.’
‘So he knows someone heard him,’ said Hunter. ‘And the official statement out there is that all the cell are dead or in custody.’
‘So he knows he’s in trouble,’ said Sam. ‘At the very least. Which makes Hari’s position tricky again.’
Hari laughed. A brief, humourless outburst. ‘And makes Andrew Lewis a traitor. Yes?’
Reluctant nods from all in the room.
‘And makes your boss complicit,’ said Sophie to Hunter. ‘Or an arse.’
‘Or both,’ said Hunter.
Charlie raised a hand. ‘I don’t know Andrew Lewis like you guys do,’ she said, ‘but this makes no sense. Your top man. In charge. Journalism is his life. Why would he have anything to do with killing journalists? Sounds crazy.’
‘Same old reasons,’ said Sam. ‘Always the same. Money, sex, power, religion. Maybe all four, maybe just one or two. Who knows.’
‘I think we can discount religion in Andrew’s case,’ said Famie. ‘I really don’t see him as an undercover Islamist. But the others?’ She looked sceptical. ‘I mean, he’s worked everywhere. China, the States, Japan. You name it. Last foreign posting I think was Chechnya. Which would finish anyone off. Desk job and management beckoned. He seemed OK with it.’
‘But all of this is academic,’ said Sam. ‘If Lewis is behind this, it’s over to you, DC Hunter.’
‘Channing, please.’
‘OK, Channing. But you, or someone, needs to act fast. Hari needs protection. His family need protection. And Lewis needs taking down.’
Hunter closed her eyes. Took a breath. ‘OK, well, like I said, this is tricky. But I’ll be off work for a few weeks with this.’ She tapped her left side. ‘I’ll have to go high. I can get you protection, Hari. Pass it off as press harassment or something. It’ll do for now.’
Sophie fished a small card from her bag. ‘And this might do after that,’ she said. ‘Picked it up when the Assistant Commissioner called.’ She placed it at the foot of Hunter’s bed. ‘It’s got an email and a phone number. High enough?’
92
Friday, 15 June, 1
0.55 a.m.
BRITISH POLICE SAY SIX DEAD IN CATHEDRAL ATTACK, INCLUDING PRIEST, WITH A DOZEN MORE SAID TO BE CRITICALLY INJURED
POLICE CONFIRM TERROR INCIDENT LINKED TO MAY 22 ATTACKS – STATEMENT
FAMIE ARRIVED FIRST, headphones on. Sophie and Sam arrived together, left her alone. They knew how this worked. When her music finished, she’d be back. Until then, they could whistle.
They all stood in the Peterson-IPS marbled entrance lobby without speaking. Their silence said it all. Famie was nervous. She glanced at the television screens above the reception desk out of habit, took no notice of the news show that was running. She realized she hadn’t even checked the huge scrolling news ticker outside. It was a different time.
She took off her headphones, hugged Sophie then Sam. ‘Ready?’ she said.
‘We just need to get this over,’ said Sophie.
Eleven o’clock. It was time. On cue, the main entrance door spun round and the Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner stepped through. She was followed by two armed officers, carbines held ready. Left hand on the barrel, right index finger curled around the trigger. Then came DC Hunter, leaning on crutches having swiftly discharged herself from the hospital, and two senior plainclothes officers from the West Midlands force. The Assistant Commissioner nodded at Famie as she passed, leading the way up the polished staircase. Famie, Sam and Sophie followed at a respectful distance. No one spoke. Everything had already been said.
Four floors to climb. Their small group made a big noise. Hard leather and hard rubber-soled shoes clicked and squeaked on the marble.
As she climbed the stairs, Famie thought of Tommi Dara. How they had, all of them, reported on 22 May. The terrible rush-hour deaths and images. The growing realization they were reporting the murder of their colleagues. The row of empty desks next to her. And Seth. Sweet, loving, unfaithful, catastrophically abusive Seth Hussain. One Bastard Prick Womanizer to beat them all. She touched Sophie’s hand as they reached the fourth-floor landing. Same thoughts, she guessed. With added baby.