‘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 Police, 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.’