Beres hesitated.
‘Call the police!’ yelled Sophie.
‘Then grab a knife!’ pleaded Charlie. ‘This is one of the fuckers from May twenty-two!’
The three who were sitting by the door bolted. Disappeared up Hay Street. The lone diner ran into the open kitchen. Beres switched knife hands, stepped closer. Sophie landed a tall glass on his head, lip-side first. The shower of shards left a trail of tiny lacerations down both sides of his face. A few dropped into his open mouth and he spat, the force of the expulsion cutting into his upper lip. Still he advanced, still they retreated. As they passed the open kitchen, a sinewy woman with a chef’s cap caught Sophie’s eye. She held up a steaming saucepan. Sophie nodded.
It was clear to all that the man had miscalculated. The man seemed to sense it too. An enraged Beres launched himself at Charlie, knife high. She ducked the knife but the force of him knocked her to the floor. She twisted and rolled, locking her legs around his feet. Lying on her side, she snapped her legs up. Fast and high, calf to thigh. Beres tottered, grabbing a table for balance. Sophie lunged. Her knife wasn’t sharp, its serrated edge dulled by months of continual use, but the strength of her attack, the ferocity of her strike, forced it through the tightly packed bones and muscles of his left hand. The capitate bone splintered, tendons severed. Sophie jumped back as he lashed out, the Böhler’s flailing tip finding her temple. It cut from hairline to cheek bone. Losing her balance, tripping over iron table legs, she tumbled to the floor. Crabbed her way backwards. Beres staggered forward.
The sinewy chef appeared next to Charlie. The steaming saucepan had become a steaming two-litre jug and she handed it over. Charlie had less than a second to balance. Some water slopped over her hand, but she ignored the burn. As Beres shaped to strike, Charlie hurled the boiling water. It caught Beres side on. Neck, jaw, cheek, nose, eye, forehead and scalp. He pirouetted one-eighty degrees and dropped the knife, hands held to his rapidly reddening and peeling face.
Two tables landed on his legs.
A waiter locked the door.
91
5.20 p.m.
BRITISH POLICE REPORT FATALITIES IN SUSPECTED TERRORIST ATTACK IN CATHEDRAL
THE HOSPITAL, PROMPTED by Winstanley, had provided Channing Hunter with a private room. It had the unshiftable hospital smell of other people’s sickness mixed with bleach. A framed picture of a summer meadow hung opposite the door, a small oval mirror above the metal headboard. Five refectory-style plastic chairs had been arranged in a horseshoe around the foot of the bed. Famie sat with Charlie, then Sam, a patched-up Sophie and Hari. The DC, in hospital gown, was propped up with pillows, monitors and a drip on one side, Jean Espie on the other.
‘Status update,’ said Espie. ‘She’s lost a lot of blood and her doctors are very unhappy we’re here at all. So if there’s any way this can be brief, they’d appreciate it.’
Hunter raised her right hand, the one without the tubes attached. ‘I’m not a basket case yet,’ she said. Her voice was reedy and weak but she forced a smile. ‘I’ll be fine. And anyway, this meeting isn’t happening. It’s unofficial. You’re just friends wishing me well. Remember that.’
Sam took charge. ‘So one part of the shit storm is over, the other starts now. We don’t know how many cells there are. We know London, we know Coventry. We know nothing else unless Hari can help.’
Hari shook his head. ‘Can’t help. Sorry. I never knew much about the London cell till they turned up. Coventry was it for me. Might be others, might be none.’
‘What did Mary say when she pitched all this to you?’ Famie asked.
Hari frowned, recalling. ‘She only contacted me because I’d contacted her. This is a year back, pretty much. I was desperately keen to be a proper journalist. I wrote to loads of reporters I liked. No one replied. Then, out of the blue, Mary got in touch. Actually rang me. Said she’d kept me on file, and now she had a job. And an offer. She said that there was an organization involved in revolutionary activity. That there was a cell in Coventry and she wanted me to infiltrate it. Report back to her. I wondered about other cells but May twenty-two was the first proof that they existed. No other contacts, as far as I know.’
Famie leant in. She placed a hand on Hunter’s bed frame. ‘Did Andrew Lewis come up at any time? In any context?’
‘No,’ said Hari. ‘I knew his name because I knew about IPS. Mary never mentioned him. But when Hussain turned up, he was obsessed with finding a traitor. Maybe Lewis suspected Mary had hired someone. Binici saved me, to be honest. Said he’d already killed the traitor.’
‘The guy found at Boxer Street,’ said Famie.
Hari nodded. Spoke quietly. ‘Zak BJ,’ he said. ‘I need to tell you more about him. When we’re done with this. But Hussain mentioned someone called Toby Howells who they’d executed after they found him sending messages to Mary Lawson.’
Sam hung his head, Sophie blanched. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she muttered.
‘And, by the way, it was the same guy who killed Howells and Lawson. Name of Kamran. Came from Karachi originally.’
‘Saw him in the church,’ said Famie. ‘Bullet in the head?’
‘Bullet in the head,’ confirmed Hari.
‘Fair,’ said Charlie.
Sam’s turn again. ‘So why was Lewis on that phone? Why is he calling Gregor? If anyone has an innocent explanation, please shout it now.’
A few seconds of silence.
‘Occam’s razor,’ said Hari. ‘Simplest solution wins. The one with the fewest assumptions. I don’t know this guy. But if he’s on the phone to Gregor, wanting updates, either it wasn’t him and you identified the wrong person, or Lewis runs the cells. No other
