Talbot grinned. ‘I never noticed, I have to say,’ he said.
Roberts glanced at him. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Sure.’
The road peaked by a red and black sign that read ‘University of Warwick’, a narrow lane falling away to the left, and a bus stop with a plastic shelter and bench. A brown and cream double decker stopped, disgorging a steady stream of passengers. Some had rucksacks and holdalls, a few held rolled-up banners over their shoulders, rifle-style. Talbot pulled over, watched them begin their downhill trudge to the campus. A few glanced back at the sudden police presence.
Roberts did a rough count. ‘Sixty-four,’ he said. ‘That’s high. Protest’s not till noon. Why so early?’
‘Breakfast?’ said Talbot. ‘Who knows.’
‘You know what this place is called?’ said Roberts.
Talbot said nothing. Another local knowledge trap.
‘It’s Gibbet Hill,’ said Roberts, watching a group tying scarves around their faces. ‘There used to be a scaffold here. For public hangings.’
Around a dozen masked protesters had hung back, allowing the others to disappear down the hill. They stood in a semi-circle, partially obscured by the bus stop advertising. Two were making calls. One was fixing an anti-pollution mask around her mouth and nose. They all had black canvas bags slung over their shoulders. Some had two bags, their straps criss-crossing the chest.
‘You making this up?’ said Talbot.
‘They left the bodies up for years,’ said Roberts. ‘As a warning.’
Most of the semi-circle now donned bicycle crash helmets.
‘Who did they hang?’ said Talbot, checking the car’s video recorder was working.
‘Revolutionaries, agitators,’ Roberts replied. ‘Thieves, bandits and murderers too. Obviously. But mainly troublemakers.’
Talbot pointed at the nearest demonstrator, black hoodie and jeans, double satchels, who had started filming their car. ‘You think this is trouble here?’
Roberts put his plastic cup in a brown paper bag by his feet, brushed his lap down. ‘Twenty to eight is bloody early for a stand-off,’ he said. ‘So yes, I do. It’s like we weren’t supposed to see this. They’re annoyed that we know they’re here already.’
The police watched the protesters and the protesters watched the police.
‘We should call this in,’ said Roberts.
As he reached for the radio, the woman with the anti-pollution mask peeled away, walked down the hill. The rest of the group followed. The protester with the black hoodie carried on filming.
‘Charlie Victor from Oscar 51.’
Control picked up.
‘We’re at Gibbet Hill bus stop, Kenilworth Road,’ said Roberts. ‘We’ve got at least sixty protesters heading for the university campus. A small group of around twelve have scarves and masks. All of them have bags or satchels. They look organized. They mean business. We’re going to follow them to campus. Request back-up.’
Roberts nodded at Talbot, who turned the car down the hill. Five miles an hour.
The radio squawked back. ‘Oscar 51 this is Charlie Victor. Wait please.’
Roberts and Talbot exchanged glances.
‘Keep going,’ Roberts said, pointing down the hill.
Five miles an hour.
He keyed the radio again. ‘Wait for what?’ he said.
A pause, then another squawk. ‘Oscar 51, can you make a P1 – report of a disturbance at 26 Boxer Street.’
Talbot braked. Stopped the car. A P1. An emergency. ‘What the fuck,’ he muttered.
The radio again. ‘You want that, Jon?’
‘On it,’ he said. ‘Yes I bloody do!’
Talbot swung the car round and returned to the A429. Sirens and lights. Eighty miles an hour.
72
DC HUNTER HAD a new partner. Her ID said Jean Espie. White, uniformed PC, powerfully built. Just out of college was Famie’s guess. At least she wasn’t Milne. Both police officers were sweating and breathless.
‘We were just going out,’ said Famie. ‘You can come if you want. You’d be useful, I’m sure.’ She glared at Hunter. ‘Unless, of course, you have details of those jihadi sites you were mentioning? We could always look at those.’
Hunter was impassive. ‘We’d like to come in.’ Same grey suit, different white shirt.
‘Of course you would,’ said Famie. ‘And if you’d told us you were coming we could have adjusted our plans but sadly, as I said, we’re going out.’
Hunter tried to smile. ‘A few minutes of your time, please, Ms Madden.’
‘No,’ said Famie. ‘No minutes, none of my time. We don’t have any time. Hari is out of time. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’
She made to step around Hunter. Espie blocked her path.
‘What is this?’ said Famie, spinning back to Hunter.
‘This will be an arrest if you don’t sit down.’
Charlie pulled her mother away, Espie shut the door. The four women stood facing each other. Famie and Charlie side by side, backs to the bed. Espie just behind Hunter, backs to the closed and locked connecting door. Two on two.
‘You lied to me, Hunter,’ said Famie, bristling. ‘I don’t trust you, but say what you have to say. Then fuck off. And quite what it is that could be more important than stopping a terror attack I’d love to hear.’ She was aware that Espie’s eyes were everywhere – looking for what, she had no idea – but Famie stuck on Hunter.
Hunter stuck on Famie. ‘Can we possibly sit down?’ she said.
There was a note of exhaustion in Hunter’s tone. It was enough to make Famie pause.
‘Sure.’ She shrugged, then waved her to the plastic chair with the thin cushion.
Hunter sat, Espie leant against the connecting door, Famie and Charlie reversed on to the bed. Espie’s radio spat into life – indecipherable words. She bent an ear, then turned its volume down. Hunter shifted on the cushion, shaping up for a speech.
‘I’m sorry for … surprising you like this. I believe the misdirection was appropriate in the circumstances.’ She alternated her gaze between Famie and Charlie but Famie got most of it. ‘You’re in danger, but you know that. Charlie is in danger, and
