‘But it’s an 0800 number,’ said Sam. ‘That’s usually sales of some kind. I told you it was a pizza company.’
Jo returned with tea. ‘Is that your mystery typist again?’ she said.
Sam showed her the paper.
‘Well you’d better dial it then,’ she said. ‘Use the house phone, we’re ex-directory. Here.’ She handed Famie a cordless handset. ‘If it’s a Busty Belinda-type number will you be relieved or disappointed?’
It was a good question. Famie paused, her finger hovering above the digits.
‘Disappointed,’ she said.
‘Relieved,’ said Sam.
‘Right then,’ Famie said.
Heart racing, she dialled the number, hit the speaker button. The phone rang twice, then a recorded message kicked in. No one breathed. Then a woman’s voice: ‘Thank you for calling the Daily Telegraph Classifieds. Here’s how you can leave your message …’
Famie cut her off, dropped the phone on the sofa.
‘Really?’ she said, glancing from Sam to Jo. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’
‘Well either it’s a scam or someone has left you a message,’ said Sam. ‘And no, we haven’t got a Daily Telegraph to hand. The corner shop might still have one.’
Sam checked his pockets and ran from the room. ‘Two minutes,’ he shouted before the front door slammed.
Jo smiled at Famie. She oozed reassurance and comfort. No wonder Sam was so loyal. ‘You OK?’ she said. ‘Been a crappy time, eh?’
‘You could say that.’ Famie tried to return a smile of equal warmth.
‘Has Sam told you he’s going to quit?’ said Jo. Famie’s startled look told her everything she needed to know. ‘Oh, OK. Well.’ She sat down opposite Famie. ‘He’s going to quit. Had enough. We both have. And when you bailed out, that was the final straw.’
Number fourteen, thought Famie.
Rapid and sustained use of the doorbell took Jo from the room. Seconds later Tommi appeared, jogging Lycra and sweatband competing for attention.
‘How very 1985,’ said Famie. ‘For a moment I thought it was Huey Lewis and the News running in. How are you, Tommi?’
Tommi grunted a reply, snatched up the typed note, then grunted again. ‘Is this it? Is this what I ran round for?’
Famie shrugged. ‘You tell me.’
‘A phone number?’
‘The Daily Telegraph Classifieds number. And to save you asking, Sam’s gone to get one.’
He slumped down next to Famie. He smelt ripe.
‘Shower needed, by the way. Just saying.’
Tommi ignored her. ‘Envelope?’ She handed it to him. He inspected it. ‘You should report this. Who knows who this crazy is, but in the space of a couple of days they’ve found out where you live. Maybe they followed us back from the funeral, who knows. But you should tell the office.’
‘Don’t have one,’ said Famie.
‘Oh yeah. Forgot.’
‘Plus, Lewis couldn’t have been more dismissive if he’d tried.’
‘You showed him the note?’
Famie nodded. ‘Said he’d put it in the crazy file.’
Tommi read the number again. ‘There must be another message. I didn’t even know the Classifieds were still a thing.’
The front door burst open and a breathless Sam appeared, throwing a newspaper to Famie. ‘Their last one. I told them it was for research.’
Tommi laughed. ‘It’s not porn, you know, you don’t need an excuse to buy it.’
Famie was turning the pages rapidly. ‘Anyone know where the Classifieds actually are?’ She found them a few pages from the back. Four columns of small messages. She guessed about a hundred. She ran her finger down the first column. Nothing. The second column. Nothing. The third and fourth, nothing. ‘Huh,’ she said, and repeated the search. ‘Plenty of weirdos but not our weirdo.’
‘Did we get the wrong day?’ said Sam. ‘Maybe it’s tomorrow?’
‘Or never, because he’s just weird?’ said Tommi.
‘Why is this a “he” by the way?’ said Sam. ‘Plenty of weird women out there.’
Famie glanced again at the note with the number. ‘Unless …’ she said, then stopped. Her mind was racing.
‘Unless what?’ Sam and Tommi said together.
‘Unless we’re not supposed to be looking for an ad, we’re supposed to be placing one.’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Tommi.
‘Maybe our weatherman wants to talk. He, or she, wants us to place an ad.’ She looked at three sceptical faces. Shrugged. ‘Just a theory.’
Jo was reading the even smaller print. ‘You have to place an ad by four p.m. We’ve got fifteen minutes if we’re doing this.’
‘We’re doing this,’ said Famie.
She retrieved her laptop from the carrier bag. She posted her ad with three minutes to spare.
20
5 p.m.
JANE HILTON SAT quietly in the corner of Andrew Lewis’s office. Legs crossed, hands held together on her lap. She watched the bureau chief leaf through her report. Four pages, closely typed. He read the first page slowly then sped up as he got to the last page.
‘Yeah yeah, got all that,’ he said as he skimmed the last paragraph. As much to himself as Hilton. ‘What’s your point, Jane?’ he added. ‘As brief as you like. As blunt as you like.’ He flipped his glasses to his forehead, sat back in his chair. His face twitched, then settled in neutral.
Hilton looked taken aback. She hooked a strand of hair behind each ear, brushed imaginary creases from her skirt. ‘Well I’d have thought that was obvious, Andrew.’ She leant in to make it more obvious, forearms resting on her knees, hands still together. ‘Famie and I crossed over in Pakistan by nine months. Your high opinion of her is valid. But during that time she seemed to make a point of working with, and reporting on, the most extreme Islamists she could find.’ She gestured at the sheets of A4 on his desk. ‘I’ve outlined five cases where maybe what was seen at the time as bravery was, in my judgement, borderline reckless. The first is the 2006 attack on the Mumbai local trains. Seven bombs in eleven minutes. Two hundred and nine dead. An outrage, condemned across the world.’
Lewis raised both his hands, palms out. ‘I remember, Jane,’ he said, ‘I remember. Please. You’re not on air. Talk to me like I’m normal. See how that goes.’
Hilton regrouped. Pursed her lips, glanced at the floor. More hair, more creases. ‘I think the right response would have been to have gone first to the mainstream parties. PTI, PAT, Pakistan Muslim League, for example. Ask them for comment. But Famie went straight to Lashkar-e-Taiba, the so-called “Army of the Righteous”—’
‘Who carried out the attack,’ interrupted Lewis. ‘Again, I remember. Go on.’
Hilton took a beat. ‘You incorporate the crazies in your reporting of course. You get to them. But if you ignore the mainstream then our audience get a skewed view of what’s happening. The point I’m making is Famie goes to the extremes. Always has. She distorts and twists. Why talk to the moderates when there’s a guy with a gun to talk to?’