‘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.’