‘Oh fuck,’ said Famie.
57
1 p.m.
THE TRANSIT VAN had been parked for too long. Its occupants were hot, sweating heavily and restless. Six citizens sat in the back, two up front. The rear of the van was seatless, a large green rug and a brown blanket the only attempts to provide comfort. They sat three and three. Hari sat by a wheel arch, with Collins wedged next to him on one side, and a stocky man with a tuft of red hair on the other. On the other side sat two white men and one brown. Hari remembered the brown-skinned man was called Kamran but he’d forgotten the others. Kamran was lean, no more than twenty, clean-shaven, and looked as though he’d just stepped out of a college lecture. The white men were very white, one with an arm full of tattoos, the other with a mouth full of uncomfortably protruding teeth. The killers of 22 May. The only light came from two darkened windows at the rear of the van. Burger and chip wrappings were scattered everywhere, the smell of vinegar and grease working hard to obscure the stale sweat of the occupants. They knew they had to wait. They just didn’t want to wait in a sauna.
Tattoos cracked the door an inch, and the slightest of breezes drifted inside.
Hari closed his eyes, sat on his hands. The men he was sharing the van with had executed seven between them. Maybe more. Slit throats, stabbed lungs and hearts. It’s what they did. That and God knows what else besides. Hari wondered which of them had killed poor Mary. Teeth guy? Tattoos? Kamran? It didn’t matter. Each of them could have done it and any of them could have been tasked to kill his sisters too. He’d known this moment was coming for weeks, but now it was here he wondered if he’d get by without vomiting. Wondered if he’d be able to stop his hands from shaking. Wondered whether he would make it out alive.
He could hear the muffled talk from the front. Driver and passenger. The lighter voice was Binici’s, the heavier basso profundo was from a powerhouse of a man called Gregor. The London Citizens’ obvious leader, he radiated menace. Mousey-blond beard, bald, with grey, darting, intelligent eyes. A boxer’s nose, a boxer’s biceps. To Hari, their words were indecipherable, reduced to a low rumble by the metal panel that divided them, but the raised voices, the to-and-fro, were unmistakable.
They had left the house in Boxer Street as soon as Binici had briefed the newly arrived London Citizens. All of his comments had been addressed to their leader. In front of him, Binici had become deferential, his whole manner transformed. He had poured them all water in the kitchen, then sat himself on the worktop. He had explained that the fash were out front. That there were door-to-door enquiries and that they may well return. The decision was obvious, but it was Gregor who had taken it. They had to leave, immediately.
Collins, Binici and Hari had each led the way in twos and threes. Hari had been teamed with Tattoos and Kamran. Binici went with Gregor and Teeth. Collins had taken Red Head. Her route took them from the courtyard over three fences to a twisting alley. They had regrouped at adjoining cafés, staying in their ‘teams’ while Binici and Gregor retrieved the van from its parking space near Boxer Street. Teeth had stayed at a table by himself. No words were said. When the van drove past the cafés then parked in a side street, the ‘teams’ took it in turns to amble away, then climb inside.
That was three hours ago. Since then, the van appeared to have been driving in circles. City centre, cobbled streets, ring road, narrow lanes. And now not moving at all.
‘Recce or accommodation?’ said Hari.
It was a question intended for Collins but it was Kamran who answered.
‘It’s somewhere to stay,’ he said. ‘Your house is bad. You guys fucked it all up. Now we need somewhere.’
Hari clocked the accent.
‘No one fucked up,’ said Collins, her voice casual, controlled. ‘There was an accident in our street. The police came to call. It was unfortunate. End of.’
Kamran looked unimpressed. He looked away. A slight shake of his head. ‘This van, this stink, all of it, says you fucked up.’
OK, leave Sara alone, thought Hari, we can do this inside. Or not at all maybe.
‘You from Karachi?’ he asked.
Kamran blinked, surprised. ‘Not any more,’ he said.
Well that’s that conversation shut down, Hari thought.
From the driver’s seat, the sound of a phone ringing. Quickly answered. Hari exchanged glances with Collins. No phones, no computers, no technology. They were the rules. Simple, effective. And now broken. He strained to hear the half of the conversation that was leaking from the cab, then realized everyone was doing the same.
‘Accommodation,’ said Collins, finally answering Hari’s question. ‘That’s my guess. We need to be off the streets. We need to hide.’
‘We need to rehearse,’ said Kamran.
Hari’s stomach flipped again.
The engine fired and Tattoos slammed the back door shut. The van spun round, Collins leaning into Hari, her head touching his. Then when the manoeuvre had been completed, she stayed there. Hari held his breath. They’d been butted up against each other anyway, legs and torsos pressed together, but that could be put down to the cramped conditions. Now she was sending the signal. Opposite, Kamran, Teeth and Tattoos all noticed. Collins straightened up.
Job done.
Sara Collins’ guess had been correct. Accommodation had been found. When the doors opened again, the van had been backed on to a tarmac drive and Hari and the others eased themselves into the comparative cool of the afternoon. Hari stretched, prised his shirt from his skin, took a three-sixty. They were in the heart of an industrial estate studded with drab, functional sixties warehouses fronted with high roll-up garage doors. Large painted signs pointed
