‘They came for us?’ said Charlie. The tremor in her voice had returned, unmistakable.
Famie nodded.
Two enormous trucks thundered past. The car shook. Sam continued his pacing.
‘We’re really not safe, are we?’ said Charlie.
‘We’re really not,’ said Famie.
She glanced around, looking at their surroundings for the first time. The Volvo was parked in the middle of a gravelly lay-by. A high, overgrown grassy bank ran the length of it, an overflowing rubbish bin stood at the exit. Two lanes of traffic her side of a metal barrier, two lanes the other side. And directly opposite, a mirror-image lay-by, complete with its own overflowing bin, was empty, save for an old sofa which had been dumped, then set on fire.
Famie felt suddenly exposed. A car that was stationary. A lay-by on a busy dual carriageway. Another friend murdered. A Charlie lookalike murdered. The killers trying to break into her flat.
‘We should go,’ she said. Famie opened her door to call Sam.
On the far side of the road, beyond the barrier, a grey BMW braked hard, changed lanes, then pulled into the opposite lay-by. It came to a stop a few centimetres short of the sofa.
‘Sam!’
He’d seen it too, sensed the danger. He jumped in the front passenger seat and Charlie shot the car into the traffic. Horns and brakes accompanied her manoeuvre but they didn’t care.
Famie knelt on the back seat, peering at the fast-disappearing BMW. ‘Two men maybe,’ she said. ‘Could be one. Can’t see. No idea. Could be nothing.’ She slumped back into her seat. ‘Good driving, Charlie.’
‘Bad driving actually,’ said Charlie, ‘but effective. And it’s two miles the other way before they can get off their side of the road. Assuming they want to.’
Sam twisted in his seat. ‘We need to assume they want to. We need to assume everyone wants to. Let’s get to the most anonymous hotel we can, meet up with Sophie, and hide the car.’
55
12.20 p.m.
THE TABLET SHOWED a map of Coventry and its surroundings. The white and green was rural, the dark grey was the city. The shading formed a dog’s-head shape, with the hospital in the neck, Boxer Street in the jaw, the central ring road and cathedral at the base of the ears. Instructions were called out and Sam navigated them to the Coventry Travelrest, located on the neck-side of town. In a search for the most anonymous hotel he could find, this was the winner. Famie thought he had excelled himself. Its car park was a four-tier concrete multi-storey, the hotel the same. A matched pair.
They parked on the third floor in the space furthest from the lift and stairs. Behind a pillar. They traipsed to the stairwell, Sam followed by Charlie then Famie. They marvelled at the cold, dank air, miraculously untouched by the searing heat outside. Stepping over discarded nappies and needles, they swung open the fire door on the ground floor. Back to the inferno. A slabbed path took them across a piece of scorched grass towards the Travelrest. Box-like, with small windows and a khaki-and-brown colour scheme, Famie thought it was perfect. Hideous but perfect.
Sam pushed the revolving door. They took it in turns to step inside. The lobby was dark, swelteringly hot, and smelt of toilet disinfectant. Two lines of potted bamboos formed a path from the door to the front desk. Beyond the bamboo were a selection of uncomfortable-looking armchairs, a hot-drinks vending machine and a small bookcase with battered, abandoned paperbacks arranged horizontally. Old street maps had been hung on the walls. Light orchestral music played too loudly from invisible speakers. There were no other customers.
Sophie had booked adjoining rooms in a fake name, texting them confirmation of the numbers. Sam nodded at the young man behind the desk, then peered at his badge.
‘Hello, Florin,’ he said. ‘We’re staying with Miss Turner in 203 and 204.’
The boy frowned, then smiled. He offered a brown envelope which he shook to indicate it had keys inside. ‘From Miss Turner,’ he said. ‘Nice lady. Have a good day.’
They avoided the lift. Two flights of stairs brought them to a low-ceilinged, right-angled corridor, carpet-tile floors, plain wooden doors. Same overpowering disinfectant. The lightest of knocks on 203, an audible shuffle behind the spy hole, and the door swung open. Sophie, in a printed fringe-line skirt and white T-shirt, stood aside to let them in then shut the door behind them. She hugged Famie and Sam, then, after an introduction, hugged Charlie too.
‘Happy to see you guys. Like, seriously happy. This is a grim place to be on your own. The grimmest. Unless you want porn. Then it’s a party.’
They all sat on the bed, Sophie and Famie against the headboard, Charlie and Sam at the foot. The room was clean, the bed comfy. There were two small bedside tables with old-fashioned angle-poise lamps, a threadbare brown carpet and an oversized flatscreen television next to a flimsy wooden door leading to 204. In the corner, a green plastic kitchen chair had been given a thin cushion. One small, sealed window looking on to the hotel’s driveway was the inadequate source of the only natural light in the room. Above their heads, a single bulb with lampshade provided the rest.
Sophie was desperate for news of what had happened to Tommi. Many tears later she was up to speed on the murder, on Charlie, the visit from Lewis, the call from Hunter, the attack on the flat and Mary Lawson’s tablet.
Sophie was astonished. ‘You stole it?’
‘Don’t you start,’ said Famie. ‘I’ll give it back. But we now know she was reading about a Pakistani terror op on the morning she was killed. We’re still sifting the rest of the info.’
Sophie produced her laptop, spun the screen. ‘So,’ she said. ‘According to Hari Roy, there’s something planned for tomorrow. Whatever the attack is, Thursday is the day. We have to assume
