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?’
Famie checked the envelope. ‘That is most definitely it,’ she said. ‘I admit to some disappointment. I was hoping for another riddle, not the phone number of some dodgy helpline.’