Tommi was on his feet, hooking his bag around his neck. ‘And he was recently in hospital,’ he said. ‘And definitely in danger.’ He shoved his laptop into the bag.
‘Are you off?’ said Famie, surprised.
‘I need to check the Toby Howells case,’ he said. ‘Carol’s at Canary Wharf till eleven. Easier to trawl this on her computers.’
Famie followed him from the room and down the stairs to the front door.
‘You wanna come?’ he said, intrigued.
‘I’m good,’ she said, ‘but thanks.’
He nodded, waiting for whatever it was she wanted to say. She wasn’t sure either.
Eventually she said, ‘Carol Leven worth the trip?’
Tommi grinned. ‘Always,’ he said. ‘Best crime reporter out there.’
Famie nodded her agreement. ‘Tommi,’ she said, ‘if there is a link between Hari Roy and Toby Howells, and if that link is anything to do with May twenty-two, we are in seriously dangerous territory here. All of us. This isn’t a game or just another story, this is actually pretty scary stuff.’
Tommi smiled. ‘Are you telling me to be careful?’
Famie smiled back. ‘Fuck off, Tommi.’
‘That’s much better,’ he said. ‘Far more familiar ground. I’ll keep in touch.’ He nodded, stepped outside and clicked the door shut.
A buzz from Famie’s phone. Her daughter’s face on its screen, a quick smile. She sat on the bottom step.
‘Hey you,’ she said. ‘How’s things?’ The sounds of traffic and rapid breathing.
‘Things are not especially great.’ Charlie was walking quickly, running even. ‘I’m coming home. On whatever train I can get.’
Alarm bells started going off in Famie’s head. ‘You’re what? Why?’ She looked at her watch. Eight forty.
‘Because I’m shit scared, Mum, that’s why.’ Definitely running.
‘Keep talking, Charlie. Tell me what’s happened.’
The distorted rattle of heavy breaths. ‘A girl got stabbed in Exeter today. Coming out of the Vue cinema.’
‘In Exeter? Jesus Christ.’ Slamming door, quieter acoustic. ‘You’re on the train now?’
‘Yes, and without a ticket. Gonna be expensive.’ Charlie’s voice was a breathless whisper.
‘I’ll pay it,’ said Famie. ‘What happened to the girl?’ The rustle of fabric crackled down the phone.
‘Mum, listen.’ Charlie was making her voice as small as she could. ‘I was at the cinema too. It happened just before I got out. We got delayed because Emily needed a piss. When we got out people were screaming and this girl was just lying there, holding her stomach. Blood everywhere. But, Mum …’ A deep breath. ‘She looked like me. She had crazy hair and the same rucksack. I noticed her going in. Emily pointed her out and we laughed. From behind we looked the same.’
Famie closed her eyes. She fought to keep her voice calm, to keep the bile from rising in her throat. ‘When was this, Charlie?’
‘About an hour ago. We stayed until the police and ambulance came and she was still alive then. Her friends were with her. We didn’t see the attack so we didn’t say anything. But, Mum, she looked like me!’
‘Where’s Emily? Is she with you?’
‘She’s got an exam tomorrow. Last one. At least I’m done.’
‘When does the train leave?’
‘Two minutes.’
‘Find the busiest coach,’ said Famie. ‘Sit with people. Talk to them. Make friends. All the way. I’ll meet you at Paddington.’
‘Can we keep talking till the train leaves, please?’ said Charlie.
She sounds like she’s ten years old again, thought Famie.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘And you do know that this is probably a coincidence, don’t you. That no one really looks like you. That it was probably a gang thing. Or a mugging. Or a domestic.’
There was a long pause from the train.
‘OK,’ said Charlie. ‘Let’s stick with that one. But you don’t believe it, Mum, and neither do I. I’ll go and make friends.’
42
9 p.m.
THE LAST OF the day’s sun at 26 Boxer Street. Hari Roy, Abi Binici and Sara Collins were in the courtyard. The student, the leader and the woman. Three chairs, three cups, one pot of tea. Despite the heat, Hari sat with a blanket over his legs. His eyes were closed as he listened to the to and fro between the leader and the woman. Binici was explaining again why he thought Zak had run away and why they now had to be extra vigilant. But Hari knew what had happened, had seen the blood stains under the rearranged matting in the hall. Zak was dead, Binici had killed him, and he, Hari, was responsible. He knew that. He had deflected suspicion, sown doubt, and Zak had paid the price. His body could well be still in the house. In the heat and under the blanket, Hari felt his flesh creep.
Wade in filth …
And now he was in terrible danger. He had tried to get ‘left behind’, to convince the leader he was a liability, yet here he was, back on the front line. He’d passed the note to the woman Gyongyi but had no way of knowing if she’d done anything with it. He had to assume she hadn’t. That he was on his own.
It was another airless evening. The street’s open windows and doors made for a backdrop of constant cacophony: music, voices and barbecue clatter that drifted in from all sides. It gave a surprising cover of privacy to the conversation at number 26. Binici was talking – lecturing – about Britain as a failed state, its moral collapse and the self-evident virtue of violent rebellion. The woman, Collins, made the occasional comment but this was not a discussion. It was never a discussion.
‘In 1913 Lenin told his wife that revolution wouldn’t happen in his lifetime,’ said Binici. ‘That they were nowhere. That the Czarist secret police were too strong and the opposition too weak.
