Knife Edge : A Novel (2020)

by Mayo, Simon

  Martin hurried out with a jug of iced water and four glasses. He set them down, poured, then perched on one of the wicker chairs opposite Famie. His eyes darted between them. ‘So. I assume this is about Mary? I’m sure I never thanked you for coming to the funeral but—’

  Famie held up her hands. ‘Please, Martin, where else would we have been? She was one of the most talented journalists we had. And one of the kindest.’

  ‘That’s a great comfort, thank you. So.’ He looked at Sam, at Charlie, then back to Famie. ‘How can I help?’ He smiled, almost.

  A tiny alarm bell rang in Famie’s head. His manner seemed wrong, forced somehow. He was like a doctor asking patients what was wrong with them.

  ‘I know the police will have been through all this,’ said Famie, treading carefully. ‘I hope you don’t mind the questions, but we’re trying to work out what Mary and her team were working on. What the story was that got them killed.’

  A small nod from Martin. ‘I explained to the police that she never talked about her work,’ he said, sipping at his water. ‘I used to ask her what she was working on, but eventually you stop, you know?’ His tone was flat, expressionless.

  ‘Was she different these last few months at all?’ asked Sam. ‘Did she mention any different names, visit any new places? As far as you know?’

  Martin stared at the ground. Famie wasn’t sure if he was concentrating or gathering himself. He seemed to be struggling. The silence became uncomfortable.

  ‘We didn’t keep tabs on each other,’ he said eventually. ‘I travel a lot, so did Mary. Lots of her life was a mystery to me. A closed book. She would probably have said the same about me.’

  Famie was aware of the adrenalin running again. Sam was writing studiously.

  ‘She was certainly working hard,’ Martin added.

  ‘Harder than usual?’ said Sam.

  ‘Yes, I think so. She was always on the phone. Like, always on the phone.’

  ‘On her laptop?’ asked Sam. ‘Computer?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘Not so much. Not here anyway.’ He looked at Famie. ‘Is that odd?’

  Famie shrugged. Possibly, she thought. ‘Not necessarily,’ she said. She paused, uncertain. ‘Have the police looked at her computer? Her phone?’

  ‘Yup. Don’t think they found anything. Not that they told me anyway.’

  ‘Did she keep a diary?’ asked Sam. ‘A journal of any kind?’

  Martin looked apologetic. ‘Not as far as I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Did she ever mention a Hari Roy or a Toby Howells as far as you know?’ asked Famie, but only because she felt she had to.

  Again, an almost embarrassed shake of the head. This was going nowhere. Famie thought of the visit to Hackney Police Station and the contents of Seth’s laptop. The police would be back here soon enough. She glanced at Charlie and Sam but they were impassive. This was her decision. She decided to tell.

  ‘Martin, I feel as though I should warn you about something.’

  Martin frowned. ‘A warning? About what?’

  Famie sighed deeply. She stared at the ground, then her hands, then, finally, Martin. Charlie and Sam were watching him too.

  ‘The police might ask you about whether Mary was having an affair,’ she said.

  Martin tensed. His back straightened. His face coloured. ‘I’m sorry?’ he said. ‘Really? Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll ask you, yes,’ said Famie. ‘And I think they’re right. I think she was.’

  Martin stood and walked away from the table, beyond the shade, his face in the sunshine. Hands in pockets.

  ‘When was this?’ His voice was quiet but steady.

  ‘We’re not sure, Martin,’ said Famie.

  Silence. Famie and Sam exchanged glances. Charlie was on her phone.

  ‘And this is a police matter?’ he said.

  ‘Apparently,’ said Famie.

  A further silence. Famie’s phone vibrated in her pocket, she stole a glance. An image from Charlie. She glanced up, frowning. Charlie, with urgency, stabbed a finger at her phone. Famie enlarged the screen shot she’d sent. It showed Charlie’s screen with four phones indicated as being nearby. Grey circles, with small type underneath. Martin’s phone, Sam’s phone, Famie’s phone, Amy’s phone. Charlie had circled the last name. ‘Who’s Amy?’ she’d written. Another quick glance at Charlie, who was pointing at the house.

  Martin hadn’t moved. She was going to let him ask the next question. Meantime, he appeared to have a woman inside called Amy. Way to go, Martin. That’s some recovery.

  Eventually he turned round, walked back to the table. ‘How did they find out?’ he said. His arms folded, his tone resigned. ‘Does everyone know?’ This question seemed to be directed at Sam.

  ‘Not everyone,’ he said. ‘But quite a few.’

  ‘You don’t sound surprised,’ said Famie.

  Martin shook his head. ‘I knew. Well, I found out.’ He perched again. ‘It’s the Egyptian, yes?’

  Sam and Famie nodded.

  ‘And, Martin,’ said Famie, her voice dropping a register. She paused. ‘There are photos. Seth took photos. Of Mary.’

  Martin closed his eyes, said nothing.

  ‘We thought you’d prefer to hear it from us,’ said Famie. ‘I’m so sorry, Martin.’

  He sighed. ‘What sort of photos?’

  ‘Naked shots,’ said Famie. ‘Not posed.’ Hardly a comfort, she thought.

  Martin didn’t move. Then a deep breath. ‘You knew this Seth Hussain, yes?’

  ‘We did, yes,’ said Famie. ‘I did particularly.’

  ‘And? You liked him?’

  ‘I did, Martin. Great reporter. Just turns out to have been a dick. I’m sorry.’

  Martin shook his head. ‘Will this come out?’ he said, then shrugged. ‘Of course it will. Stupid question. It all comes out in the end. I’ll need to tell the kids, I suppose.’

  ‘How are they coping?’ said Famie.

  ‘They’re coping,’ said Martin. ‘Just about. Ella better than Fred, I think. We’ll get there, Famie.’

  ‘If you need any help …’

  ‘I got some, thanks.’

  Hello Amy, thought Famie.

  Martin looked at his watch, and they took the cue.

  ‘We’ll head off, Martin,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry about the whole shitty mess, really I am.’

  They embraced briefly.

  ‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ he said. ‘You’re right. Hearing all that from the cops would have been a nightmare.’

  Famie lingered over one of the newspapers, scanning the headlines. A May-twenty-two-free zone for a change.

  ‘They’re yesterday’s,’ said Martin.

  ‘Could I have one for the car?’ asked Famie. ‘Conversation is getting a little dull.’

  He waved expansively. ‘Help yourself. Of course. Still the journalist then, Famie.’

  She cringed, theatrically. They said their goodbyes.

  As Famie spun the car out of the drive, she handed the newspaper to Charlie. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever stolen anything before,’ she said. ‘But it seemed like a good time to start.’ From the folded pages of The Times slid a black tablet computer.

  53

  ‘MUM, YOU’VE GONE mad.’

  ‘Just wait.’

  ‘No, seriously. You’ve gone mad. And got me worried.’

  Charlie was in the back, Famie in the driving seat, Sam in the front passenger seat. They were on the dirt track Famie had used to U-turn. They were parked up, facing the main road and shielded from view by a line of thick-trunked sycamore trees and wild, white-flowering hawthorn. The engine was off, the windows open. The honey and almond scent of the hedge filled the car. No one noticed.

  ‘They’re coming,’ said Famie.

  They could all hear the sound of a powerful car approaching, its low revs rumbling through the hedgerows.

  ‘Range Rover,’ muttered Sam, ‘incoming.’

&nbs
p; Martin Lawson’s car swept sedately past in a matter of seconds, rolling past the track at around twenty miles an hour. His passenger – a woman, late twenties, short black hair, singlet and sunglasses – was in view for just enough time for Famie to say, ‘He’s gone for the younger model. What a surprise.’

  ‘She could be the nanny,’ suggested Sam.

  ‘Probably is the nanny,’ said Famie. ‘How totally predictable.’

  ‘And so what?’ said Sam. ‘Even if he is shagging the nanny, even if the Lawsons’ marriage was a sham, what’s it to us?’

  He had a point, Famie knew that.

  ‘And why have you stolen his tablet?’ said Charlie, again.

  Another good point. Maybe they had the same answer.

  ‘There’s something here,’ said Famie, waving her arms. ‘In the tablet, in the immaculate house, in the immaculate garden, in his demeanour, his manner. Now a beautiful young woman at his side. You notice he didn’t invite us inside? Did he seem like a grieving husband to you?’

  Charlie pushed herself forward, between the seats. ‘Mum, why did you steal the tablet?’

  ‘In case,’ said Famie. ‘In case there’s something there. Chances are there’s nothing and I can just take it back. Innocent mistake.’

  Sam was uncomfortable, annoyed even. ‘“In case”?’ he said. ‘Really? That’s not good enough, Fames, and you know it. The tablet isn’t going to be Mary’s, is it? It’ll be Martin’s, or one of the kids’. So a total waste of time. And what’s your plan for the password?’

  Charlie, from the back: ‘You can barely remember your own, Mum, never mind finding someone else’s.’

  ‘OK,’ Famie said. ‘If my idea doesn’t work, we’ll just drive back in and I’ll put it back. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Charlie said after a short pause, and handed the thin screen to Famie.

  She spun it over in her hands. On its polished base, Famie pointed to a small piece of adhesive plaster that had ‘LawsonFam01’ written in biro. ‘Exhibit one,’ she said, and typed the password into the on-screen box. ‘Wouldn’t have nicked it if I hadn’t seen this.’

  The next screen offered four accounts: Mary’s was top left, Martin’s top right, Freddie was bottom left, Ella bottom right. Each had a jokey, face-pulling selfie for its wallpaper. They all looked so happy. Famie swallowed hard, hesitated only briefly. She touched Mary’s photo and another password box appeared. She tried ‘LawsonFam01’ again. Turned down, no entry, nothing doing. She folded her arms.

  ‘That’ll be the family code,’ said Charlie. ‘Ella or Freddie will have written it because one or both of their parents was incapable of remembering it. Imagine that. Now it’s just the individual code word for Mary’s account we have to guess.’

  ‘I’m not guessing,’ said Famie. ‘That would be dumb.’

  ‘You know Mary’s password?’ Sam was astonished, unbelieving.

  ‘No. I know Sophie’s password for the laptop. Seth gave it to her. It’s just possible Seth gave Mary the same one.’

  ‘Which is?’ said Sam.

  ‘First three words of the Egyptian national anthem.’

  ‘Which are?’ said Charlie.

  ‘No idea,’ said Famie.

  Charlie Googled it first. ‘It’s “My country” three times,’ she said, ‘which in Arabic is “bilady” three times.’

  She spelt it out, Famie typed it in the box.

  ‘No numbers? No caps?’ said Sam.

  Famie hesitated, capitalized the first word, hit enter. Rejected.

  ‘You might have only one guess left,’ Sam said.

  A small van shot past the end of their track, closely followed by another de luxe 4×4. Famie found herself holding her breath, expecting trouble, but the engines faded to nothing. For a brief moment the only sound in the car was the singing of blackbirds and thrushes.

  ‘I’ll call Sophie,’ said Famie, once she was sure the birds were their only company.

  She answered on the second ring.

  ‘Sophie. The password for the laptop. Is it “bilady” three times?’

  Somewhat surprised, Sophie came back with, ‘Er, yes, that’s right. Have you got the laptop back from the police?’

  Famie ignored the question. ‘Any capitals or numbers or fancy shit?’

  ‘Just like it is on the page,’ said Sophie. ‘Capitals for all of them, commas after the first two.’

  ‘Thanks. See you later.’

  Famie hung up, then typed with precision. Pressed enter.

  ‘Bingo,’ she said.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Sam.

  ‘Always knew you were a secret tech genius,’ said Charlie. ‘What happens now?’

  Famie angled the screen so both Sam and Charlie could see. A generic blue wallpaper was scattered with icons, haphazardly spaced.

  ‘Messy,’ muttered Charlie.

  Each icon was a newspaper app, the title of the paper typed in small letters below the logo. Famie scanned the familiar titles: Times, Telegraph, Guardian, New York Times, Daily Jang, Times of India, Le Monde, Süddeutsche Zeitung, El País, the Australian, Washington Post. The last badge was, on closer inspection, a black folder icon with ‘locals’ written underneath. She tapped the folder. A long list of web addresses appeared.

  ‘Huh,’ said Famie.

  ‘That looks like every decent local paper in the country,’ said Sam.

  ‘And some not so decent,’ said Famie. ‘This tablet is a reference tool. It’s all of her newspaper reading in one place.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Charlie.

  ‘But no help for us,’ said Famie.

  ‘Depends what she’s been reading,’ said Sam. ‘Browsing history?’

  Charlie found it. The screen filled with links to articles and sites.

  ‘We need to look at those,’ said Famie. ‘All of them. There must be something in Mary’s reading which links her to what they were working on. We know her team were off-grid on this one but surely her reading material will show us something. Charlie, can you drive? I need to work on this.’

  Charlie nodded, reached for her door. ‘We’re keeping the tablet?’ she said.

  ‘We’re keeping the tablet,’ Famie replied. ‘Crime pays. It’s my new slogan.’

  54

  STARTING AT THE top, Famie worked her way through Mary Lawson’s reading list. Charlie was driving, her music playing. Sam and Famie sat together in the back, the screen between them. Some of the links were to newspaper websites, others to specific articles.

  ‘They’ll be in chronological order,’ said Sam.

  Famie tapped the first link. Her stomach flipped.

  ‘Christ, it’s May twenty-second,’ she said. ‘The last thing Mary read before she was killed.’ The time and date of last viewing were displayed at the top of the page. ‘Five twelve a.m. So she’s reading this first thing, before leaving the house. The Daily Jang.’

  ‘Where’s that from?’ said Charlie, glancing in the rearview mirror.

  ‘Pakistan,’ said Famie. ‘Karachi. An English translation.’ She scanned the story. ‘It’s a piece about some arrests of a terror cell near Jinnah International Airport. Joint operation between police and security forces. They arrested mainly Uzbeks and some Europeans. Believed to be TTP again.’ To Charlie, she added, ‘That’s the Taliban in Pakistan.’

  No one spoke for a long time. Ariana Grande played on the speakers, the A425 traffic flowed easy, the parched fields of Northamptonshire radiated heat and dust.

  Eventually Sam broke the silence. ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean anything,’ he said, his words slow and uncertain. ‘Not really. Just that she read the article before she left the house. Then when she got to London, she was killed. That’s it.’

  Charlie glanced at her mother in the mirror, ready to defer to her. Famie stayed quiet. She knew her daughter was about to disagree.

  ‘True,’ said Charlie. ‘But doesn’t it feel, I don’t know, more significant than that? This is your world, not mine, but I
’m just saying it shows what she was thinking just before she was killed.’ Another quick look at Famie, then back to the road.

  Famie sighed. ‘It does,’ she said. ‘We all know it does. You’re right, Sam, of course – technically it’s a nothing. She could have been ordering wine, shoes or shirts, but one minute she’s reading about a terror plot, the next she’s killed in one. And she’s been shagging the brother of an EIJ terrorist, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘EIJ and the Taliban are—’ began Sam.

  ‘Not the same,’ acknowledged Famie. ‘Agreed. Obviously. Not the same.’ She caught another look from Charlie. ‘And I’d been shagging him too. Fair point.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say.’

  Famie smiled. ‘Didn’t need to. Maybe we should check the other articles. Look for a Waitrose delivery or something.’

  Sam and Famie tapped and read. The next article was the Times of India on the same TTP story, adding the detail that Indian security forces were increasingly alarmed about the extent of Islamist collaboration. One of the arrested was a member of Lashkar-e-Jabbar, a fringe militant group from Srinagar.

  ‘Heard of them?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Nope,’ said Famie. ‘But I never worked in India. I covered Lashkar-e-Jhangvi, the LeJ, out of Afghanistan, and the rest was all al-Qaeda. There were loads of fringe groups back then, breakaways, factions. I don’t suppose much has changed.’

  Charlie turned the music down. ‘Is Mary reading this on the twenty-second too?’ she asked.

  Sam checked the screen. ‘Yes. Just before the Jang story.’ He tapped the screen again. ‘She read the front pages of the big UK papers first, then the Times of India, then the Jang from Pakistan. Then left the house.’

  Famie stared through her window. Petrol station, flower stall, dual carriageway, caravans. ‘And waiting for her at Euston station, a man with a knife who wanted to stop her telling this bloody story she was writing,’ she said.

  ‘And he did,’ said Sam. ‘He succeeded. So now we need to tell it for her. And the other six.’ A pause. ‘Make that seven,’ he said.

  The rest of the links took Sam and Famie to a series of articles in a vast range of journals. Immigration statistics from Germany, education in Mexico, Cuban austerity, abortion clinics in the southern United States. They were precisely what Famie thought Mary would have been reading. And of absolutely no use to them.