by Mayo, Simon
Famie’s face fell. She looked from Milne to Hunter and back. ‘You think I did what?’
Milne cued Hunter again. She walked over to Lewis’s desk. The two women stared at each other.
‘Ms Madden.’
‘Ms Hunter.’
Famie wondered what could possibly be coming.
‘Ms Madden. Why don’t we talk about your time in Pakistan?’
16
FAMIE’S JAW DROPPED.
‘Pakistan,’ repeated DC Hunter. ‘You were stationed there for three years?’
Famie barely moved. Hunter’s tone was light and conversational but there was no doubting the dangerous territory they were entering. She sat up straight, glaring at her interrogators.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘You want to talk about my time in Pakistan?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said Hunter.
‘Not who killed my colleagues, then? Not what arrests you’ve made or have I remembered anything the investigators might have been investigating? Not that?’ Famie felt her anger rising, knew her cheeks had flushed. The expressionless faces of the DCs in front of her merely inflamed her indignation.
‘We will come back to that of course,’ said Milne.
‘Of course!’ shouted Famie. ‘But first Famie Madden in fucking Pakistan.’ She banged the desk with her fist, rattling the bowl of mints. ‘Genius!’ She was on her feet now, and DC Hunter stepped back against the door. Famie knew she had to get out before she made everything worse. She pointed at each police officer in turn. ‘Everything there is to know – everything – about my years in Pakistan you can get from the records here. It’s the usual mix of trials, elections, rallies, generals, Islamists and bombs. That’s it. You want to talk about Seth Hussain any time soon, you come right back. Until then, I’ve got some job hunting to do.’
DC Hunter stepped aside and allowed Famie out. The door slammed, the glass walls shook.
Famie spun left, ignoring the turned heads, and made for her old team. Most of the UK desks were full; Sam was Slot, head down and typing. She slunk into an empty chair and threw a pencil at him. He looked up and smiled.
‘Not being marched off the premises then?’
‘Not yet. But I swear to God if I’d stayed in there another second I’d have been arrested for assaulting a police officer,’ she said.
She took a few breaths, checked her phone, considered some Chopin. She craved a nocturne the way she used to crave nicotine. She fought the urge, put the phone away, and acknowledged the sad smiles from around the unit. They knew then.
‘Look, guys,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry to go, gutted really, but, well, you know how it is. I need a break, I think.’
Sophie Arnold came over to embrace her, tears in her eyes. Held her for a few seconds. She shook hands with everyone else.
‘Why the shouting?’ asked Sam, gesturing back at Lewis’s office.
Famie explained about Seth, Amal and the EIJ. Then their question about Pakistan. She could tell Sam was unimpressed with her. He was fidgeting, rearranging his crumpled shirt, breaking eye contact.
‘Of course they’re twats, Famie, but they’re twats in uniform,’ he said. ‘And they are running this show now. So go right back in there, tell them about Pakistan, show them all your photos and bore them like you bored the rest of us. Then they can ask you about Seth. Then they can leave and go talk to some real criminals.’
She knew he was right, and so threw another pencil at him.
‘When did you get to be quite so irritating?’ she said.
Sam grinned. ‘Joanna tells me it’s a gift.’
Famie walked back towards the office. She remembered that Sam’s police officer partner was the most understanding of women. She would have given a lot to have had someone in her life who was that tolerant but somehow it had never worked out.
Milne and Hunter hadn’t moved; she was still by the door, he was still in the visitor’s chair. Almost as though they were expecting her return. She perched back on Lewis’s seat and smiled sweetly. In the silence, the hum of the air-conditioning unit sounded almost frantic.
‘So,’ Famie said, assuming they would ignore her brief absence, ‘before we start on Pakistan, can I show you this?’ She spread the weatherman note on the desk, explained how she had come by it and the significance of the words. Famie could tell they merely saw it as a diversion but humoured her anyway.
‘Can I photograph it, please?’ asked Hunter.
‘Of course,’ said Famie. ‘Does it interest you at all?’
Hunter shrugged. ‘We’ve plenty of theories to be going on with if I’m honest with you. This is certainly one of them.’
‘What are the others?’
‘Oh, let me see. The usual list. Jews, Masons, the Royal Family, immigrants, spacemen …’
‘And now Weathermen from Ashby St Ledgers?’
‘It fits a pattern, shall we say? But I’ve got a copy, thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ Famie sighed. ‘So, you wanted to know about Pakistan?’
The cherubic DC Hunter picked up where she had left off. ‘Seth Hussain’s brother Amal was active in Egyptian Islamic Jihad, an affiliate of al-Qaeda. Al-Qaeda are very active in Pakistan – you must have had contact with them.’
‘Why must I have had contact with them?’
‘Isn’t that what journalists do, Ms Madden, cultivate contacts to get stories, report what’s happening?’
Famie stared at Hunter. Maybe it had been a mistake to return after all. She fought to keep it civil. ‘We report the news, Ms Hunter. We aren’t spies or MI6, we’re journalists. Pakistan is a tough place to report from but I’m proud of the work we did and the stories we broke. If you don’t talk to the hardliners, you’re not doing your job.’ Another deep breath. ‘I was also delighted to come back home.’
DC Milne’s turn. ‘So in your three years there you never had any contact with al-Qaeda or any other terrorist organization?’
Famie hesitated. ‘Not AQ directly, no,’ she said, ‘but other groups certainly. Affiliates. They don’t wear a uniform, you know, or wear badges. You can’t always tell who you’re talking to; some army guys often seemed quite sympathetic to the Islamist cause. You never really trusted anyone. But if you’re reporting from Pakistan, there are unsavoury men you have to speak to.’
Milne sat on the edge of his seat. ‘So it’s possible that some of your contacts were in sympathy with al-Qaeda?’
‘That is what I’ve just said, yes. Some obviously, others less so. Like I said, they don’t wear badges. You might be a Russian spy or a Chinese agent, DC Milne. I can’t tell.’
Milne ignored the sarcasm. Both DCs wrote on their pads.
‘And your colleagues?’ he said. ‘Might they have been Islamist sympathizers too?’
‘We seem, Detective Constable, to be, if you don’t mind me saying, a long way from the deaths of my friends.’ The strain in Famie’s voice was clearly audible.
Milne nodded. ‘Maybe. Maybe,’ he conceded. ‘Unless Seth Hussain was, in spite of everything, actually in regular contact with his brother. And unless Amal had been demanding money from his brother. Quite a lot of money as it turns out.’
Famie felt a prickling sensation on her neck and scalp. A profound uncertainty took hold of her. Seth had always been adamant that he had no communication with his brother and that the silence between them had lasted several years. She had had no cause to doubt him. She had never given his honesty a second thought. He was the campaigning journalist and activist – of course he was telling the truth.
‘How do you know this?’ she said. Then added, ‘Wait. Don’t tell me. You found another phone in his flat.’
Milne made an expansive gesture with his hands. ‘In one, Ms Madden.’
Christ.
Famie was aware of two sets of eyes watching and analysing her every expression. She tried not to show her embarrassment and anger but she was a poor actor. She was mad with herself, mad with Seth and mad with these
bloody police officers who had just stolen her memories.
‘Just one more question, if we may, and then we’ll leave you in peace,’ Hunter said. ‘Did Seth ever ask you for money?’
The coup de grâce.
Famie put her hand in front of her mouth. Her eyes brimmed. She felt old certainties crumble. Yes, of course the answer was yes. It had been their running joke: he was always penniless, she always paid for him. She had lent him small amounts that he was always on the verge of paying back. She squeezed her eyes shut, propelling hot tears down her cheeks.
She nodded.
‘We think most of it ended up with his brother,’ said Hunter.
17
THE STUDENT HAULED himself back into the attic, pulled up the ladder and listened. Satisfied it was safe, he pulled the typewriter on to his knees.
In the silence before he typed, he recalled the woman from the funeral. He had noticed her in the coverage of all the previous funerals. Stylish. Black beret. Aviator shades. He’d assumed she would attend the seventh. Directing traffic in the field-turned-car park had been inspired. He had just rocked up and done it. No one had asked who he was and the orange beanie hat he wore had covered some of his face. And, he hoped, distracted from his brown skin. There weren’t too many like him in Ashby St Ledgers.
When he saw the Madden woman arrive, it had been like an electric shock – he’d felt the adrenalin course through him. After the funeral she had read his note two, maybe three times before handing it to her colleagues. They had, in turn, studied his paper and envelope then handed it back. He hoped he had chosen wisely. She looked sharp, he thought, intelligent. Strong. The two men who accompanied her were deferential, letting her take the lead. In their conversations, it was they who seemed to be looking to her for the answers.
And now he knew where she lived. The unopened mail casually tossed on to the back seat of her car had told him everything he wanted. An unexpected bonus.
He threaded a blank sheet of paper into the rollers and began to type.
18
Friday, 8 June, 2.40 p.m.
FAMIE HAD BARELY slept, her mind racing. The heat was part of it – she had changed her T-shirt twice – but mainly it was the realization that she was in all kinds of trouble. She’d spent the previous afternoon and the morning tidying the flat and researching the EIJ, and a few hours ago had messaged Sam. She needed to talk and she needed to drink. Sam had told Ethan James he needed some time out, and was excused. Sam and Famie had met in a pub, then, with Sam getting hungry, they’d taken an Uber back to her flat. They both rode in the back. Their driver left his radio on, playing loud. Famie was miserable, Sam was reassuring.
‘Seth borrowing money means he was terrible with money, that’s it,’ Sam said. ‘Doesn’t mean he funnelled every twenty-pound note to al-Qaeda.’
Famie groaned. ‘This is so bad, Sam. I am so screwed.’ Her words were only slightly slurred. She closed her eyes.
‘I bought him a pizza once, you know,’ said Sam. ‘Spicy chicken I think it was. And he ate it all, Famie. Didn’t give it to the nearest terrorist, didn’t even try. Imagine that.’
She snorted. ‘And the coleslaw?’ she said. ‘Did you see what happened to that too?’
‘Good point, Fames. Maybe he posted it to Syria.’
Elton John was playing, and the driver turned the volume up even more.
Sam leant in closer to Famie. ‘The police have to follow every lead, Famie, you know that. They’re having hundreds of these conversations.’
Famie held up her hands. ‘Enough consolation already. Appreciated and everything, but they seemed deadly serious to me. They think they’re on to something, and who am I to say they’re not?’
The car turned into Famie’s road and Sam grabbed her arm. ‘Shit,’ he said, and leant forward far enough so that the driver could hear. ‘Pull over, please. Soon as you can.’ The driver checked the satnav on his phone and was about to protest, but Sam intercepted. ‘Now! Pull in here!’ The car swerved into the side of the road.
Famie sat up, suddenly alert. ‘What is it, Sam?’
He pointed across the fifty metres to her front door. ‘Visitors.’
Outside her block of flats, a small gathering. Six men and women were taking it in turns to buzz Famie’s intercom. One had a small camera on her shoulder.
Famie slumped back into her seat. ‘You have got to be kidding me,’ she whispered. ‘Oh my God. I know the police leak this stuff all the time but this really sucks.’ She slipped lower in the seat. ‘Fucking journalists.’
Sam leant forward again, gave the alarmed Uber driver a different address. ‘And turn around, would you? Don’t drive past that crowd.’
Famie looked up at him. ‘Back to yours?’
‘You got a better idea?’
‘Nope.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Will Joanna mind? Bringing strange women home can go down badly, I’ve heard.’
Sam smiled. ‘I’ll text her now, let her know what’s happening. I’m sure the food will stretch. And if you can keep the strangeness to a minimum, we’ll be fine.’
‘Wait,’ said Famie. Then, to the driver, ‘Hang on a second, please.’ She turned to Sam, grimaced. ‘Favour?’
‘You mean as well as putting you up for the night?’
‘Yes, as well as that. Please. I need my laptop. And a change of clothes.’ She fished out her keys. ‘Any chance?’
Sam sighed. ‘Sure. I’ll get the laptop but I’m not rummaging in your knicker drawer if that’s OK. Then Jo really would kick off.’
Famie gave him the keys, the alarm code and details of where to find the computer. She watched him push his way past the waiting journalists and ignore their questions. She lowered herself down into the footwell behind the driver’s seat. ‘Go, Sam,’ she muttered.
The driver craned round to look at her. ‘You in trouble?’ he asked.
‘In a way, yeah,’ she said. ‘Sorry about this.’
He shrugged. ‘Not a problem. You OK with the radio?’
She smiled. ‘Yeah, I’m fine with the radio.’
‘I’m Mazzie,’ he said.
‘Famie. And thanks for keeping these floor mats clean.’
He looked delighted.
Five minutes passed, then he turned again.
‘Your friend is coming back.’
Thirty seconds later Sam opened the back door, his crumpled shirt pulled loose from his trousers. He handed a carrier bag to Famie.
‘You are an angel,’ she said. ‘I’d kiss you if I didn’t think that Joanna would somehow instinctively know about it.’ She looked inside the bag. One laptop, some post and a hoodie.
‘It’s not exactly a change of outfit but it was on the floor in the lounge,’ said Sam, slightly breathless. ‘Might be useful.’
She pulled it on, tugging the hood over her head, then clambered back on to her seat.
‘What were the journos asking?’ she said. The Uber was moving again, the radio quieter than before.
‘Oh,’ said Sam, ‘usual stuff. “Does Famie Madden live here? Do you know her? Have you seen her lately?” That kind of thing.’
‘“Have you been through her underwear drawer?”’ suggested Famie.
Sam laughed. ‘Of course. The question on everyone’s lips.’
She checked the charge on her laptop, then glanced at the post. Her heart started to race. She pulled a letter from the bag.
‘Jesus, look at this.’ It was the quietness of her voice that caught Sam as much as the tremor. She showed him an envelope with her name and address on it. Written with a typewriter. Sam blanched.
‘He knows where I live, Sam,’ she said.
There was silence between them.
‘Could you drive a bit faster, Mazzie, please?’ she said.
19
3.30 p.m.
FAMIE DECIDED NOT to open the envelope until they were at Sam’s house. She’d been about to tear it open in the Uber but Sam had
put his hand on hers and flicked his eyes towards the driver. ‘Wait,’ he’d mouthed. She had forced herself to drop the letter back into the carrier bag. The rest of the journey had passed in silence.
‘Good luck,’ called Mazzie as they got out.
Sam’s front door opened as they arrived. They both stepped inside the tiny terraced house and Jo Carter first embraced her husband, then offered her open arms to Famie. She accepted. It was her first proper hug since Charlie left and it felt good. Five three, with shoulder-length black hair held back with a silver band, Jo was prettier than Famie remembered. Plain grey sweatshirt, faded jeans, broad smile. She moved swiftly, ushering them both through to the lounge. A sliding garden door was half open, and the room smelt of cut grass, fresh flowers and some kind of cooked chicken. Famie slumped on to their sofa, a saggy, wilted beast, livened up with the addition of half a dozen brightly coloured cushions. She clutched the carrier bag on her lap.
‘Thanks, Jo, I’m sorry for the imposition.’
Jo cut her off. ‘Please, no apology needed. Sam’s told me what the deal is. Food is on the way, the spare room is made up whenever you need it. Oh, and Tommi said he’d be round in fifteen. Didn’t want to miss the fun.’
Famie and Sam watched her leave the room.
‘I did well, didn’t I?’ said Sam.
‘You certainly did,’ said Famie. ‘You must have hidden depths, unknown to the rest of us. Is Jo South African? I forget.’
‘Zimbabwe,’ said Sam. ‘Some South African in the mix, but mainly Zim.’
She took the deepest of breaths, then exhaled through pursed lips, as though controlling a sharp pain. ‘So. Can’t wait for Tommi. Let’s see what our weatherman has to say for himself.’ She tore open the envelope, removing a single sheet of folded paper. She unfolded it. In the middle of the sheet, just above the fold, was a row of typewritten numbers. She read them twice, three times. ‘Huh?’ she said, and held out the sheet for a clearly impatient Sam.
He frowned. ‘0800 272 4362. Is that it?’