Private London (Private 4)

Until the summer of last year there had been a permanent protest camp set up on the green. A ragbag assortment of tents, flags and slogan banners, with straw bales used for toilets. The camp called itself the Democracy Village.

Originally the protest consisted of just one man, Brian Haw. He set up the site in 2001 to protest against the suffering caused by the sanctions imposed on the Iraqis in the 1990s. However, as events unfolded in Iraq he stayed to protest against the invasion and occupation. The more recent self-styled Democracy Village was not aligned with him and when the people had been evicted a year ago they’d vowed they would be back.

A number of smaller demonstrations had already taken place but this looked like a large-scale organised one. As this kind of protest was illegal in the square they obviously hadn’t made any public announcements about it.

I looked at my watch again and my phone vibrated in my pocket. I took it out, flicked the lock off and clicked on the incoming-message icon. It read: ‘Don’t forget to pay the piper.’

I looked across the square.

The black-faced dancers in black, yellow and green rags and with feathers in their hats were about fifty yards or so away now. People were milling around them. One of them was holding out a gaudy cap as if to collect money. But it was neither the time or place for that – unless they were looking to collect big, of course.

I could see why they had picked this time and place now. It was absolute chaos. The dancers didn’t seem to be in any hurry, mind. They were dancing and twirling, shouting and clattering sticks.

I’ve always hated Morris dancers. Now I wished I had packed so

me serious heat. Do the whole world a favour right there and then!

I looked at them. None of them was big enough to be Brendan Ferres. That was for sure. The guy with the collecting hat was tall but nowhere near as wide as Ferres and he was wearing black-rimmed glasses. One of the dancers in the middle didn’t seem too enthusiastic. Smaller-framed than the others. Hard to tell from this distance, but my guess was that it was Hannah. She was surrounded at all times. As one dancer twirled away another jigged in. They were corralling her.

Just as well I didn’t bring the shotgun. Like I said, I would have been sorely tempted to take them all down. Wasn’t my call, to make though, and the instructions from Harlan Shapiro through Jack Morgan had been explicit. No heroics. No improvisation. Just pay them the agreed amount and get Hannah home safe.

I put my hand in my pocket, putting it around the bag of diamonds, clasping it tight.

And then everything went to hell in a handcart.

Chapter 66

A LARGE GROUP of uniformed policemen came running past the dancers, heading straight for me.

DI Kirsty Webb followed closely behind.

The crowd milled past the dancers who had stopped dancing and were watching me. The lead dancer pointed his finger at me like the barrel of a gun and mimed pulling the trigger. Then they were lost in the huge crowd that surged around them. I tried to give chase but at that moment the riot police arrived and a wall of perspex shields and raised batons blocked my way.

‘What the hell are you doing here, Kirsty?’

‘We got a call!’

‘What are you talking about? Got a call from who?’

Kirsty held her warrant card up and led me past the riot police who were attempting to ‘kettle’ the demonstrators behind us.

‘Division got an anonymous call. Telling us the missing package will be delivered at the Robert Peel statue here at ten o’clock. We got here as fast as we could.’

‘Yeah, well, you just might have served her a death sentence.’

She glared right back at me. ‘You got the same message, I take it? Seeing as you’re here.’

‘Something like that.’

She shook her head. ‘When, Dan? When did you get the message?’

I didn’t answer.

‘You already knew, didn’t you? Last night, all the time you were fucking me, you knew! And you didn’t tell me.’

Kirsty slapped me across the face. Hard.

Felt like old times.