Tearing himself away from the window, Hari sat down next to her. ‘What is the plan, do you know?’ He tried to sound confident but it came out too breezy, as though they were planning a picnic.
Collins shook her head. ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t know about the other targets. Don’t know our target. The shopping centre maybe? A cinema? A school? Christ, I hope it isn’t a school.’
Hari’s skin crawled. ‘Four private schools nearby,’ she said. ‘Wealthy kids. Children of bankers. Jews. Should be quite a haul, if you can cope with it.’
So this is it then. ‘And can you cope with it?’ he said.
She paused. ‘If I have to. You?’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t know yet. I’ll follow you.’
‘OK.’
‘Knives?’ he said.
‘Presumably,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘Maybe a lorry. Depends what London brings with them.’
Hari felt nauseous. He needed some air.
‘Assuming we don’t all get arrested when they get here,’ he said.
Collins shuffled closer.
‘So I was thinking,’ she said. ‘Your car is still up there, at the end of the road. I go out, start poking around in the wrecks. The fash won’t be able to resist. As long as they both come down, I should be able to keep them there for long enough. If London are as punctual as Abi says they will be, both coppers will be with me when the citizens arrive. You and Abi let them in. That’s it. That’s the plan.’
It had some logic to it. It could work. As long as there were only two coppers.
‘And the police know it’s my car,’ he said.
‘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.