‘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 me 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.’