The driver who took Chaudhry and Malik was an Iraqi who treated his ten-year-old manual Toyota as if it was an automatic, doing most of the journey in second gear. They chugged along at low speeds, the engine screaming whenever they went above thirty-five miles per hour. The car stank of garlic and stale vomit despite a Christmas tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the driving mirror. Arab music was blaring from the stereo and the driver was constantly drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the beat.
Malik twisted round in his seat as they headed west.
‘Can you see anyone?’ asked Chaudhry.
‘There’s a woman in a hatchback who’s been behind us for a while.’
‘Where?’ said Chaudhry.
‘Behind the van,’ said Malik. ‘The grey one.’
Chaudhry saw the Volvo and he laughed. ‘There’s a kid in the back seat,’ he said.
‘So?’
‘So no one takes a kid on a surveillance job,’ said Chaudhry. He slapped Malik on the leg. ‘There’ll probably be two people in the car, both adults, and the car will be new or fairly new. A saloon, not an estate or a sports car or anything out of the ordinary. Maybe a van.’
‘And you know this how?’
‘I read,’ said Chaudhry.
‘Read what?’
‘Books. It doesn’t matter.’
‘Fiction,’ said Malik. ‘You’re talking about those Andy McNab books you’re always reading.’
‘He was in the SAS,’ said Chaudhry. ‘He knows his stuff.’
The minicab lurched to the side to avoid a bus that had stopped suddenly and the driver screamed abuse in Arabic. ‘Fucking buses,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘You see that? You see that bastard?’
‘Yeah, we saw him,’ said Chaudhry.
‘Bet he doesn’t have a licence. You know how many drivers don’t have licences in London?’
Chaudhry ignored him and looked over his shoulder again. There was a motorcycle courier about twenty feet behind their minicab. He had a tinted visor and a fluorescent vest and Chaudhry frowned as he tried to remember whether he’d seen the same man in Stoke Newington. Then the bike indicated left and turned into a side street.
‘I think we’re okay,’ said Malik. ‘He would have thought we’d be going by tube so he probably just had a couple of people waiting for us on the pavement. I reckon they were fuming when we got into the cab. Serves John right, playing games like this. And don’t forget the receipt. He’s bloody well going to cover our expenses.’
Chaudhry thought Malik was probably right: the traffic was heavy and he couldn’t see how a car could be following them, especially considering how erratic their driver was.
When the cab dropped them at the station entrance Chaudhry paid the driver and took a receipt, then stood on the pavement looking around.
‘What?’ said Malik.
‘Just checking,’ said Chaudhry. A minibus pulled up and five teenagers in sports gear piled out.
‘It’s pointless,’ said Malik. ‘He knows we’re coming here so he’s bound to have people waiting for us. Whatever we do they’re going to see us. They’re probably looking at us right now.’
They looked towards the platforms. A man in a grey suit walked by, talking into a mobile and pulling a small wheeled suitcase. Two uniformed drivers were heading for the exit, deep in conversation. Two teenage girls in school uniforms were giggling as they shared an iPod, one earpiece each. A blond-haired young man with a large rucksack was studying a map. He looked up and made eye contact with Chaudhry, then he smiled and walked over to him.
‘Bayswater?’ he said. ‘You know Bayswater?’ He had a Scandinavian accent and Chaudhry could smell alcohol on his breath.
Chaudhry pointed in the general direction of Bayswater and the young man thanked him and headed off, folding up his map.
‘Do you think he was one of them?’ asked Malik.
‘They wouldn’t talk to us,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Look, all we can do is go to Reading and tell John who we saw. It’s not as if we can shake them off, even if we spot them. Come on.’
They went over to the ticket machines and Chaudhry used his credit card to buy two return tickets to Reading. The next train was due to leave in ten minutes so they walked to the platform, boarded the train and found two window seats with a table between them.
There were already a dozen or so people in the carriage and a few more arrived before the train departed. Malik looked around, frowning.
‘Could you make it more obvious?’ asked Chaudhry, taking a Galaxy tablet from his pocket. He had stored several textbooks on the computer and he figured he’d get some revision done while on the train.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re staring.’
‘I’m trying to see who might be following us.’
‘So you don’t have to stare. They’ll be with us all the way to Reading if they are following us. And don’t forget that they know where we’re going; they’ll probably be waiting for us in Reading anyway. Why don’t you make yourself useful and get us something to eat?’ He pointed towards the front of the train. ‘There’s a restaurant car down there. And get me a Coke or something.’
‘John’ll pay us back, right?’
Chaudhry grinned. ‘Get a receipt.’
As Malik headed out of the carriage, Chaudhry looked around. There were two suited businessmen working on laptops at one table, and an old couple sharing a bag of crisps directly behind them. Sitting at the rear of the carriage was a grey-haired man wearing dark glasses, which Chaudhry initially thought looked suspicious until he saw the seeing-eye dog, a golden retriever, sitting under the man’s table.
He settled back in his seat and started reading an anatomy textbook.
Malik returned after ten minutes with two paper bags containing soft drinks, sandwiches and muffins. He sat down and handed a receipt to Chaudhry. ‘You’re his mate so you can get the money from him.’
‘I wouldn’t say he’s a mate,’ said Chaudhry, slipping the receipt into his wallet.
‘He chats to you more than to me, have you noticed that? And when he calls it’s you that he phones.’
‘That’s alphabetical,’ said Chaudhry, popping the tab of his Coke.
‘What are you reading?’ asked Malik.
‘Anatomy,’ said Chaudhry.
‘Got anything I can read?’
Chaudhry held up the tablet. ‘This is all I’ve got,’ he said. His mobile rang and he took it out and looked at the screen. ‘It’s John.’
‘I told you he always calls you,’ said Malik, folding his arms.
Chaudhry pressed the green button to take the call.
‘How’s the sandwich?’
‘What?’
‘The sandwich. Cheese, right?’
‘Cheese salad,’ said Chaudhry. He looked over at Malik and pointed at the phone and then mouthed, ‘He knows what I’m eating.’
‘I just wanted you to know I’m in the Novotel, room 608. Come right up and knock on the door.’
‘Okay,’ said Chaudhry. ‘How do you know what sandwich I’ve got?’
‘I know you’ve got a sandwich and a can of Coke and Harvey’s got two chicken sandwiches and a muffin, and I also know that Harvey asked for a receipt because he probably thinks I’m going to reimburse you.’
‘Are you on the train?’
‘I told you, I’m in the room. I’ll see you when I see you.’ The line went dead and Chaudhry stared at the phone in amazement.
‘What?’ said Malik.
‘He knows what we ordered. He knows you asked for a receipt. One of his people must have been in the restaurant car.’
Malik sipped his Coke. ‘At least we know someone’s watching out for us,’ he said. ‘But bloody hell, they must be good.’
Shepherd opened the door to the hotel room just as Chaudhry was about to knock. Chaudhry froze with his mouth open in and his hand in mid-air.
‘Hello, lads,’ said Shepherd.