It was a couple of streets away, two minutes’ walk. Coe kept his hands in his pockets, and had the look of an adolescent on a forced excursion, except – River noticed – his eyes never stayed still: he checked out everything, traffic and pedestrians alike. River had the feeling he expected the worst on a continuous basis. What he’d do when and if it showed up, River didn’t know, but Shirley was always banging on about him carrying a knife. Handy that at least one of them was tooled up, but how a blade was going to help if a bunch of paramilitary maniacs made an appearance was a question best unasked. Not that that was going to happen, River reminded himself – even Coe had said as much, and it was his fault they were here in the first place.
The meeting hall looked like a primary school: red-brick, with green windows and pipework. It sat behind a low wall into which iron railings had been set, and with a gateway big enough for cars. This was manned by private security guards, their uniforms official-looking at a distance, but their belts weighed down by so much fussy nonsense – radios, torches, puncture repair kits – that you couldn’t take them seriously. But maybe he was just jealous. A fully fledged member of the security services, River carried about as much weight as a supermarket trolley wrangler.
Coe said, ‘Looking at your future?’
‘Shoot me now,’ said River, before remembering who he was talking to.
‘Don’t worry, you’re not likely to finish up a car park attendant. Current scenario, that would be a happy ending.’
It was nice Coe was finding his voice, but River wished he’d shut the fuck up.
‘Let’s separate,’ he said. ‘Make sure Team Abbotsfield haven’t got the building staked out.’
As if, he thought.
On the other hand, stranger things had happened.
Miles away: a little later, another public meeting.
The library was on a side street, and from a distance could have been any municipal building: health centre, brothel, tax office. A flyer taped to the door announced the evening’s event. ZAFAR JAFFREY WILL BE SPEAKING ON THE IMPORTANT ISSUES FACING THE COMMUNITY, AND ANSWERING QUESTIONS ABOUT HIS CANDIDACY FOR MAYOR. A thumbnail photo confirmed Louisa’s impression that Jaffrey was a looker. There were rows of chairs at the back of the room, beyond sets of free-standing bookshelves; some occupied already, though the event wouldn’t begin for thirty minutes. Returning to the car, she’d clocked the other vehicles lining the road. All were empty. There were vacant parking spaces too. Louisa thought about taking a photo, to show people in London.
Back in the car, Shirley sat with folded arms. Despite the sunglasses, she weirdly resembled a Buddha. ‘All I’ve eaten today is a bunch of Haribo,’ she said.
‘Remind me whose fault that is?’
‘We could have stopped at a service station.’
‘We could have gone for a candlelit supper,’ said Louisa. ‘Only I took an executive decision to get on with the job.’
‘Who put you in charge?’
My wheels, my rules, Louisa thought, but didn’t say. There came a point when squabbling with Shirley reached a brick wall: you could either bang your head against it or walk round.
So she said, ‘Jaffrey’s talk starts in half an hour. It’s scheduled to last forty minutes, with a twenty-minute Q&A. One of us should go inside, the other stay out here, and …’
‘Secure the perimeter?’
‘I was trying not to say that,’ she admitted.
‘That’s not really a one-woman job,’ Shirley said.
‘Yeah, no, I didn’t say it was an ideal plan. But it is a plan.’
‘Are you armed?’
‘No. Are you?’
‘I wish.’
‘There’s a monkey wrench in the boot.’
‘Dibs.’
Shirley with a monkey wrench, Louisa thought: yeah, that was someone you’d want on your side. She might look like a mini-Buddha, but she didn’t share the same attitude to peace and oneness and all that. Though, in her defence, she’d given a few unsuspecting souls a nudge in the direction of reincarnation.
She took her phone out, Google Earthed. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a rear entrance. The building backs onto something else, an office block, I think.’
‘What about the roof?’
‘It looks like, you know, a roof. There’s a skylight.’
‘They don’t seem the subtle sort.’
So descending through a skylight was Shirley’s idea of subtle. Interesting. And what did they think they were doing, Louisa wondered; a question she’d successfully avoided until now. The crew who’d massacred Abbotsfield weren’t taking prisoners, they were spraying bullets. Waving a monkey wrench wasn’t going to put them off. And Shirley and Louisa only had one monkey wrench between them.
