Knife Edge : A Novel (2020)

by Mayo, Simon

  ‘Ouch,’ she said, shielding her eyes with a hand. She took a few seconds.

  When she could bear the brightness, she peered at the note. She held it up to the light. Looked on the reverse, then flipped it again. She felt the indent of the letters on the paper. Who used a typewriter these days?

  ‘You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows,’ she said aloud.

  The nagging bell was still ringing and she reached for her laptop. Repeating her earlier search, she ignored the videos and scrolled further. It didn’t take long. Three more clicks and she was there. Famie read fast, her finger following, underlining each word.

  Terrorwatch International archive 1969. The WEATHERMEN. WEATHERMAN. WEATHER UNDERGROUND. Named after the line from Bob Dylan’s ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ (1965) ‘You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows’, this radical American left-wing terror group conducted a campaign of bombings through the mid-70s.

  Famie’s head cleared fast, her headache lost in the adrenalin rush. She sat on the edge of the sofa, all thoughts of returning to bed fading like the night. The lyric was also the name of this group’s 1969 document which called for the destruction of US imperialism and the establishment of world communism. There were speeches to read, links to banned organizations to follow and whole histories to buy.

  She stared out of the window to the already lightening sky; lines of grey cloud were flecked with egg-yellow sunlight, but Famie saw none of it. She looked back at the note.

  Suddenly she was Slot again; assessing, judging, evaluating. She shook her head.

  ‘Nah,’ she said to the room. ‘You have to say that seems unlikely.’

  14

  Thursday, 7 June

  FAMIE FIXED A pot of coffee and set herself up at the kitchen table. She flexed her fingers, took a deep breath. Three cups later she had composed her letter of resignation. She knew it was too angry and forced herself to walk round the flat a number of times. ‘Leave with grace,’ she heard Charlie say. ‘Why cause more trouble?’ she heard her mother say. She drained the coffee.

  ‘Fuck it,’ she said, and hit send.

  Her phone rang. The display said ‘Andrew Lewis’, then, in smaller letters, ‘Be nice’.

  She picked up. ‘Christ that was quick,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Hello, Andrew. Sorry. I’ve just this second copied you in on an email, and then you called. Anyway, I just quit.’ There was silence. ‘Sorry about that,’ she added. She heard the depth of his sigh, its force rattling the phone’s earpiece.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I was half expecting it. Listen, could you come in, Famie? Something’s come up and I’d rather talk here if you don’t mind.’

  Famie shrugged. ‘Sure. I was coming in anyway. Start saying goodbye to the troops, you know.’

  She showered and dressed, feeling lighter than she had for weeks. In her best T-shirt and favourite jeans she caught the tube. Headphones on, she selected the brightest, jauntiest aria she could think of. She would not think of Harry who had died on the Kentish Town steps and she would not think of Brian who had ended up under the train at Pimlico. Instead she would focus on the tumbling melodies tripping through her head.

  At the Green Park line change, forced to engage with her fellow travellers, she found the ordinariness of the rush hour upsetting. London was back to normal. The trains were on time, the carriages were full. It felt to Famie like a collective, city-wide shrug of the shoulders. Recent headlines had been all about keeping calm, carrying on and the spirit of the Blitz, but she was sure that most had concluded that this was, quite specifically, an attack on journalists. So, unless you were one, you didn’t have to worry.

  Ungrateful bastards, she thought.

  However, in a month’s time she wouldn’t be one either. So what did that make her? Maybe the terrorists had won, maybe she was running away.

  She had resigned to the head of Human Resources, Gibson Perks, a man she considered a patronizing fool. She knew he was sensitive about his name so Famie had always made a point of calling him Gibbo, even opening her resignation email with a brisk ‘Hi Gibbo’. She looked forward to their imminent meeting. He would, she imagined, be sitting with bureau chief Andrew Lewis, and that conversation would be tougher. He was a man who cared about his staff, knew what it took to file a good story, and when the strikes were called last year he was the first one out. Famie knew he would be sad and disappointed in her. Might even try to talk her out of it. But her mind was made up.

  At Canary Wharf she texted Sam and Tommi to let them know that she had quit as she had said she would, and was on her way into work to say her farewells. In the plaza she paused for the scrolling news ticker. ‘London terror attacks: three further suspects sought. New statement from Home Secretary today. Victim’s wife asks for calm.’ Famie removed her headphones and reached for her pass. She glanced at her old ID photo encased under the plastic; a glasses-free, serious-looking, fatter-faced thirty-something stared back. She remembered that Charlie had been particularly difficult when the picture was taken – tantrums, bed wetting, even swearing at her teachers. Famie fancied she could see the stress in her laminated eyes. She’d be happy not to see it every day.

  Famie bounded up the steps to the IPS building, rode the lift to the fourth. As she gazed out at the cavernous newsroom, the tables and computers fully loaded, her stomach tightened. This was what she was losing, this was what she was saying goodbye to. She reached for the typewritten windscreen note in her bag, pulled it out. Read it over.

  ‘So be it,’ she said, reassured. ‘Let’s do this.’

  Across the floor, and as expected, Lewis was in his office with Gibbo hovering outside. Famie kept her head down and reached it without anyone noticing she was in. ‘Hey Gibbo,’ she said to Perks’s back, then knocked and entered. A tidy office, glass on two sides, framed photos of family and certificates on the other two. The desk held only a computer screen, a phone and a bowl of sweets. Unlike many journalists of his generation, there were no trophies in Lewis’s office. No photos of his reportage, no souvenirs of Berlin, Chechnya, Johannesburg or Rome. It was one of the reasons Famie liked him.

  Andrew Lewis finished his call, beckoning her to the single chair on the other side of his desk. Perks had followed her in and had to stand.

  ‘Mint?’

  Lewis offered Famie the bowl. She shook her head. He unwrapped one, slipped it in his mouth.

  ‘Well,’ Lewis said, exhaling sharply. ‘As I said, I can’t say I’m surprised. Utterly miserable of course, but not surprised.’

  She thought he looked slightly better than he had at Seth’s funeral. There was at least some colour in his cheeks, but only just.

  ‘How many?’ asked Famie.

  ‘You’re the twelfth,’ he said.

  ‘Thirteenth,’ corrected Perks, bowing slightly as he spoke, ‘Brook Hitching. This morning too.’

  Lewis ignored him. ‘I suppose there’s no point in arguing …’

  ‘None at all,’ said Famie.

  ‘Thought not.’

  She stared at her soon-to-be ex-boss wondering if he too was considering his position. The wrong side of sixty and clearly bruised by the forced reorganization, it wouldn’t be a surprise.

  ‘You could be the fourteenth, Andrew. You must have considered it,’ Famie said.

  Perks rustled his papers. ‘Ah. I’m not entirely sure that is—’

  ‘Oh do fuck off, Perks,’ said Lewis, wafting his hand at him. ‘Wait outside, there’s a good management stooge.’

  Famie snorted. Perks flushed, pursed his lips and slipped out.

  ‘Class,’ chortled Famie, ‘particularly as you are management.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘That’s certainly what it says on the door, though I seem to have a low tolerance for bullshitters like Perks these days.’ He pushed his glasses up to his forehead. ‘And, yes, of course I’ve thought about getting out. Mary certainly wants m
e to quit.’ He leant back in his chair, stretching. ‘But I’ve been selling the bright new streamlined future, Famie, I can hardly bail on it now.’

  He pointed at the paper in her hand. ‘What’s with the note?’

  She had almost forgotten she had it.

  ‘Who do you think killed them, Andrew?’ Famie said. ‘Who did it? The papers speculate all the time but you’ve done crime stories all your life – what’s your best theory?’

  Lewis wheeled his chair forward, leant his elbows on the desk. ‘The police seen you yet?’

  ‘Just the once,’ said Famie. ‘I was seriously useless, I’m afraid. Couldn’t recall a single conversation about what they were investigating. He seemed frustrated with our computers. Wanted to know where we store our work, keep the files. Sounded like they couldn’t find much. Have they made any progress?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. Apparently all the investigators’ work files stop on March the first. After that, everything went off book. That’s what I’m told.’

  ‘All of it?’

  Lewis spread his arms. ‘Emails are there, work files and contacts are not.’

  ‘That must be a lot of paperwork somewhere,’ said Famie.

  Lewis shrugged. ‘Presumably. But they wouldn’t tell me anyway.’

  He hesitated, and Famie took the opportunity to place her note on his table.

  ‘It was on my windscreen at Mary’s funeral.’

  She watched while he read and reread the words.

  ‘It’s Bob Dylan,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t say.’ Lewis sounded offended. ‘“Subterranean Homesick Blues”,’ he said. ‘I have the vinyl.’ He flipped the paper, handed it back. ‘And? Why are you showing me this?’

  Famie could tell he was unimpressed.

  ‘It’s not just that it’s Dylan,’ she said. ‘The words have been associated with the American Weathermen. They set off bombs in the seventies.’

  Lewis rubbed his forehead. ‘I know that too, Famie, but what has that to do with anything?’

  She could feel the wind leaving her sails. Saying it out loud had sounded ludicrous. ‘Just thought someone might be trying to tell me something, that’s all. And the fact the words are associated with political violence is interesting. Isn’t it?’ She glared at Lewis with more defiance than she felt.

  He reached for a box file, pushed it towards her. She guessed the contents.

  ‘Green ink time?’

  He nodded. ‘And all the email equivalents. Every crazed conspiracy you’ve heard of and some you haven’t. All with their personal “insights” and “evidence”.’ He mimed the quotation marks. ‘Shall I add yours to the pile?’ He offered her the note back.

  Famie bridled. ‘Oh come on, Andrew, that’s unfair. And patronizing. It was addressed to me. Left for me. It means something. And so no, I won’t add it to your crazy pile.’ She stood up, snatching the paper back. She would have walked out too but, realizing this might be their last meeting, bit down on another retort.

  Lewis was on his feet. He spread his arms. ‘OK, I’m sorry if my tone was wrong. I do that quite a lot apparently. And …’ He sighed again. ‘There’s something else you should know before you ride out on your high horse.’

  Famie waited, eyebrows raised.

  ‘It’s what I wanted to talk to you about …’

  ‘What is it, Andrew?’

  ‘How well did you know Seth’s brother?’ he asked.

  ‘Amal?’ she said, surprised by the question. ‘Saw him at the funeral. But didn’t know him at all. They barely spoke. Why?’

  In the second-long pause before Lewis gave her an answer, Famie guessed it wouldn’t be good.

  ‘Because,’ said Lewis, ‘he’s EIJ. And he’s disappeared.’

  Christ. Famie sat down. Egyptian Islamic Jihad. No wonder Lewis had dismissed her windscreen note.

  ‘Disappeared?’

  ‘Syria probably. Iraq possibly. They’re looking for him. It’s their best guess.’

  Famie felt the ground move underneath her. It would just be a matter of time before the police came back to her.

  Lewis saved her the next question. ‘And yes, they know about you and Seth.’

  She nodded. ‘Of course they do.’ It was barely a whisper. ‘And EIJ? Seriously? Seth was an atheist and … and a human rights campaigner, for Christ’s sake. And he has an Islamist terrorist for a brother?’

  They kept a brief silence.

  ‘Left Stansted for Berlin the day after the funeral,’ Lewis said. ‘Then he disappears.’

  Another silence.

  Eventually Famie spoke. ‘Well. You have to say it’s a pretty strong lead,’ she said.

  Lewis nodded. ‘Stronger than Bob Dylan anyway,’ he said.

  15

  FAMIE WAITED FOR the police in Lewis’s office. The detective who had left his card was, it turned out, already in the building, speaking to officers on the ground floor. DC John Milne had answered her call on the first ring. He’d be ten minutes. Andrew Lewis said they could use his office and left her to it. She watched him exchange words with Perks then smiled at the HR man’s obvious irritation.

  Famie paced the floor. Amal Hussain being EIJ was a big deal. It was going to mess up her life for sure, but she couldn’t deny the logic of the story. It wasn’t exactly a breakthrough, but when DC Milne came through the door, she knew it would be the first thing on his mind. There would be opening pleasantries of course, he’d pretend to be concerned for her welfare, ask after Charlie and so on. Then it would be the terrorist links of her former lover.

  She took one of Lewis’s mints.

  John Milne was exactly ten minutes. She watched him stride across the newsroom floor, his eyes already on Lewis’s office. In his wake, a diminutive woman hurried to keep up. Famie resumed her pacing. She admired the police, had often needed the police, but that didn’t mean she had to like dealing with them.

  ‘Famie Madden?’ The knock had been perfunctory, then a head was in the doorway.

  She nodded, and Milne slid in. Six two, white, mid-fifties, safari suit, the khaki jacket worn thin and the trousers shapeless. The wardrobe of a man who cared little for presentation, Famie thought.

  ‘DC Milne,’ he said, wafting his ID. ‘We met a couple of weeks back. And this is DC Hunter.’ He gestured to the round-faced black woman, who nodded at Famie. Grey suit, white shirt, cropped hair. She too showed her ID. A polite smile.

  ‘Well,’ said Famie, looking around. ‘Welcome to my office, make yourselves at home.’

  She sat behind Lewis’s desk, Milne folded himself into her recently vacated seat, Hunter leant against the door. Famie thought she’d get things started. Save the ballet.

  ‘Shall we talk about Seth then or do you want to go straight for his brother? I’m happy with either.’

  Milne opened his mouth to speak but Famie wasn’t stopping.

  ‘When I met you before, DC Milne, I had no idea that Amal was EIJ. I hadn’t seen him before the funeral. Not once. Just pictures – you know, Seth had a few. Not many. He didn’t speak about him much. Not at all really. I asked him about his brother every now and then but he just shrugged and said they had fallen out a while back …’ Famie realized she was rambling, talking too fast and suddenly nervous. She took another mint.

  Milne grasped the moment. ‘If I may?’ He ran a hand through his thinning sand-and-salt-coloured hair. ‘And let me say at the outset that I apologize for the personal nature of these questions. It must be a very upsetting time for you and everyone here.’

  Manchester, thought Famie, though softened by years down south in the Met.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, slower now, ‘and no need to apologize. I know how this works. What do you want to know?’

  Milne pointed at his colleague. Her cue. DC Hunter pushed herself off the door.

  ‘How long had you known Seth Hussain?’

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Famie. ‘This might save you both some t
ime. Here’s all of it. We first met when he joined the Africa desk here about three years ago. We were an item for about six months. We split up February last year. It was mutual. There you go.’ She folded her hands in her lap.

  ‘Was it a sexual relationship?’

  Famie snorted. ‘Seriously?’

  Blank faces from Milne and Hunter.

  ‘Yes it was. Very much so.’ Too much detail, she thought, think before you speak.

  Hunter checked her notes. ‘So you only began seeing each other after he’d joined the Investigations unit?’

  Famie nodded. ‘Actually it was at the party he held to celebrate his promotion to Investigations,’ she said. ‘To begin with I thought he was just being sympathetic because he’d got the job and not me – I’d applied too and was pretty devastated – then I realized he was hitting on me.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘I allowed myself to be consoled,’ she added.

  Milne frowned. He had a heavily lined, sun-damaged face, and it creased now. He leant forward. ‘So this relationship only started after he’d become an investigator. Why do you think that was?’

  Famie ignored his patronizing tone and just shrugged. Then a withering smile. ‘I hadn’t needed consolation before? Who knows?’ She pointed back at him. ‘How did you end up with Mrs Milne? Or Mr Milne? Or no one. But if you’re suggesting, as I think you are, that he only targeted me because he was an investigator, then that is clearly nonsense.’

  Milne let that settle, before adding, ‘Actually that isn’t what I was suggesting. Quite the opposite.’

  Now it was Famie’s face that frowned. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning,’ said Milne, slowly, ‘that you only targeted him once he became an investigator.’