They were all staring at the screen. From the speakers, white noise and silence. The sound of nothing in particular seemed to Famie like something rather significant.
‘We did listen. Which is why we’re speaking now.’
‘Huh,’ said Famie. ‘Right. The Telegraph and Bob Dylan. You listened to that bit.’
‘We can add sixty-one to a number when we need to,’ said Hunter. ‘And you’re in danger. An address for the patrol car?’
Famie ignored her. ‘What plans are there for today’s attacks?’ she asked. ‘Extra patrols? There must be something. First tell me that.’
More background noise. An enclosed space, tight, almost dead acoustics. A car maybe.
‘The police here know of your concerns,’ said Hunter, ‘they followed up on Boxer Street. They will always respond robustly where they see evidence of criminal activity.’
‘So nothing,’ said Famie, disgusted. ‘There are no plans for today and you’re doing nothing. The only person you’re interested in is me. So you know what you can do with that fucking patrol car.’
She hit the red phone icon, the screen went dark.
Famie held the tablet in both hands, Charlie, Sam and Sophie stood round her. Famie could smell the shampoo in Charlie’s washed hair. She wondered what had just happened.
‘What was that?’ she said.
‘That was the sound of us swinging in the wind,’ said Sam. He took the tablet, plugged it to the charger. ‘We’re on our own.’
‘No, it was more than that,’ said Famie.
She’d spent the best part of two decades talking to coppers. Learning their moods, their methods. Understanding the nuances, interpreting the words they used. Eventually, like a parent learning to decode the language of their child’s school report, she got it. The words might all sound fine but what wasn’t being said? What was Hunter avoiding?
‘I think that was a fishing call,’ said Famie. ‘She knew I’d say no to the protection. I’ve said no before.’
‘Then she was checking the number, checking it was you,’ said Sam.
‘And she said the police “here” know our concerns,’ said Charlie, tightening the towel around her. ‘Which means she’s in Coventry too.’
‘She’s tracking then,’ said Sam. ‘Tracking the signal. She knows where we are.’
Famie went to peer out of the sealed window. The ring road was still quiet. A row of three cars and a van waited for access to the roundabout, two slowly circulating lorries made them wait. Their sun visors were down, the early morning light already strong. She smacked the glass. Sam was right. Charlie was right.
‘We need to go,’ said Famie, the reality of their situation settling in her stomach. ‘Before they get here. Grab your stuff.’
Sam and Sophie ran to their room. Charlie, her hair flattened, still dripping, used a corner of the towel to wipe her face.
‘Are we running again?’ she said. The tightness in her throat would have been missed by most.
‘Looks like it,’ said Famie, unplugging the new phones. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie.’
‘What about the tablet?’ said Charlie. ‘Remove the SIM?’ Her hands hovered over the screen. ‘Bring it with us? Hunter would know where we are but Hari could still call.’
Sam and Sophie reappeared. Ready to go. They both looked at Charlie, still in her towel.
‘Tablet or no?’ she asked them.
‘Leave it,’ said Sam. ‘On balance he isn’t going to call.’
Charlie tossed it on the bed.
Famie waved Sam and Sophie off. ‘Like I said, two and two. We’ll follow you out as soon as Charlie isn’t basically naked.’
Sam and Sophie exited through the connecting door. Famie heard them lock it, then the door of 203, then push through to the fire exit door on to the fire escape. Charlie put on yesterday’s clothes. She looked dishevelled, drawn and fearful but she was ready in sixty seconds.
‘Let’s go,’ said Charlie, hands on hips. ‘Wherever it is we are going.’
It was a display of false confidence that made Famie wince. For a moment Charlie was eleven again. Satchel on, fresh-out-of-the-box school uniform on, smiling through the terror.
Jesus, what have I got her into?
One last glance at the tablet. Black screen. No call. No message. Time to go.
Charlie put a hand on the door handle, then stopped. There was running in the corridor. Famie thought it was one person at first, then two. They stopped outside 204. Famie pulled Charlie away, peered through the spy hole.
‘Fuck.’
‘Hunter?’
‘And her plus-one.’
Famie didn’t wait for a knock. Or a boot. She unchained and opened the door.
71
7.35 a.m.
PC JON ROBERTS and his partner PC Glen Talbot, a rookie constable from London, had less than half an hour left on their shift. The atmosphere in the car was convivial, despite Talbot proving what Roberts had long suspected, that he didn’t know one end of Warwickshire from the other. Confusing the rivers Avon and Stour was, as far as Roberts was concerned, a hanging offence. Talbot’s turn to buy breakfast.
Coffee and pastries. A quiet night and a quiet morning. A reported break-in in Kenilworth turned out to be a false alarm, two drivers breathalysed, two drivers passed. And that had been it. The A429 into the city was tree-lined and free-flowing. Just one lane both ways, but with wide footpaths and cycle lanes. Talbot steered with his left hand, wiped crumbs from his beard and uniform with his right.
‘Still annoyed?’ he said.
‘Of course.’
‘Boxer Street?’
‘Of course.’
‘But the crazy woman’s stories checked out.’
Roberts stared straight ahead at the undulating, gentle switchback of a road. Sky-high oaks, left and right, hid the expensive housing from all but the most curious. ‘She knew so much more,’ he said. ‘The old man’s car might have belonged to an Alfred Graham and the student with the messed-up VW might
