Private London

Chapter 65

I hadn’t felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle so much since my days in Iraq.

Back then, marking out a minefield in the middle of no-man’s-land was like playing Russian Roulette every day. Sam was right. Parliament Square is a big open space located at the north-west end of the Palace of Westminster, or the Houses of Parliament as they’re called on the bottles of that old brown sauce.

I was standing with my back to the Robert Peel statue, as ordered. Presumably they had picked that depiction of the founder of the first metropolitan police force in the world as some kind of ironic joke.

If it was, then I wasn’t laughing. I was scanning the area. The man who gave his name to the British ‘Bobby’ was on the south-western edge of the large green that was in the middle of the square. Around it stood, among other buildings, the Collegiate Church of St Peter at Westminster – or Westminster Abbey to you and me – the smaller Anglican church of St Margaret, the parish church of the Houses of Parliament, and 100 Parliament Street, headquarters of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.

And from where I was standing I could have picked up a stone and thrown it at the Middlesex Guildhall, which is home to the Supreme Court of the United Kingdom. Like I said, I think Hannah Shapiro’s abductors were tweaking our noses a little. Still, you could understand why the area was so popular with tourists.

Especially on a Sunday.

There were four major roads into the square and a Tube station right by it.

I looked at my watch. A couple of minutes or so to go.

Sam Riddel was somewhere close by, but I couldn’t see him. Not that he was going to be able to do a great deal if something bad went down. In addition we had people stationed on each of the roads into the square and by the entrances to the Tube station.

It was the second hot day in a row. Certainly breaking records for the time of year. I looked at my watch again. Showtime.

My phone went. I checked the ID: Brad Dexter. ‘Yes, Brad?’

‘You got a big crowd marching down past me, Dan. Heading into the square. They just appeared from nowhere.’

The phone beeped again, another incoming call: Suzy this time – different street, same message. And again. And again. All four watch stations saying the same thing.

All hell broke loose.

First came the noise. Megaphones and chants. Then the people. Random groups seemed to join together as hundreds started pouring in from St Margaret Street, Broad Sanctuary, Great George Street and Bridge Street. Banners were unfurled as they all headed towards the green.

A group of black-faced Border-style Morris dancers were capering about in outlandish costumes, heading towards me as more and more banners were unfurled. The chanting grew louder.

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 some 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.