‘What a total prick,’ said Sophie. ‘He must have transferred these pictures deliberately.’
‘At least we were his favourites, then,’ said Famie.
They both snorted.
‘One more thing,’ said Sophie. ‘The last document was sent via Mary, and at the top of the email he wrote this.’
Another spin.
Famie read out loud. ‘Hi M. Here’s the piece on the President you asked for. The last before we all go quiet. You’ll get the next one on parchment.’ She looked up at Sophie. ‘And this is the last document?’
‘It is, yes.’
‘No more pictures of old women in showers?’
Sophie’s smile was a pained one. ‘None.’
‘No PS sorry for being a total dick?’
‘No.’
‘So it all goes quiet in March,’ said Famie. ‘By arrangement.’
Sophie shut the laptop. ‘They must have started their new investigation in March,’ she said. ‘One that needed electronic silence.’ She unplugged the computer and placed it between them. ‘So, what do we do with this? I wanted to delete the photos as soon as I saw them but got scared. What do you think?’
Famie said, ‘I think delete. They’re photos of us. We have every right.’
‘And the Mary photo?’ said Sophie.
‘Stolen,’ said Famie. A pause. ‘OK. I know. Evidence, yes. But stolen evidence.’ She felt suddenly exhausted. ‘Do you have coffee? I need some drugs before we decide. Caffeine will do.’
Sophie produced a cafetière and a small bag with an elastic band around it.
‘I’ll make it, Sophie, you get dressed.’
‘Are we going somewhere?’ Sophie suddenly sounded very young indeed.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Famie, ‘but if we need to move, if the press or police do arrive, it might help if you’re wearing proper clothes. Fetching as your pyjamas are. And please don’t tell me Seth bought them for you.’
Sophie grimaced. ‘Birthday present from my parents.’
She stepped into the bedroom, opened the blind.
Famie studied the couple in the family photo above the fire. Mid-sixties, smiling, the mother with curly hair also. ‘And they know nothing of all this?’
‘Correct,’ called Sophie, who was undressing by the door. ‘That’s another conversation that’ll take gin.’
Seeing her momentarily naked, Famie thought that maybe there was a slight bulge to be seen after all.
‘How many weeks are you?’ she called.
‘Twelve.’
‘Going to keep it?’
There was no reply.
Sophie dressed in ninety seconds. Denim dungaree-dress, blue T-shirt, trainers.
Famie smiled at her. ‘We suddenly have a lot in common, you and me,’ she said. ‘And pretty soon the press will find us.’ She put an arm around Sophie. ‘So before that happens, we need to disappear.’
26
Sunday, 10 June, 12.30 p.m.
Warwick University, four miles from Coventry
THE ACADEMIC WAS five six, gangly, with an eager-to-please smile. A livid orange scarf was tied turban-style in her black curls. Dr Bathandwa Bambawani approached the accommodation block with a priest for company. The chaplain was an awkward six two, with the sunken face common in men who have lost too much weight. Reverend Don Hardin chatted easily with his friend, always happy to be helping with pastoral work. She had called in at the Chaplaincy as she passed. He had stopped his post-service tidying and taken a walk.
‘Happy to pause the clear-up,’ he’d said. ‘I can always come back to finish off.’
‘How was the service?’
He shrugged. ‘I was lacklustre. They were forgiving. That’s about the most of it.’
‘Well I fancied some company, Don,’ she said. ‘And missing students are a nightmare. For everyone. Sometimes they don’t want to be found. Sometimes they’re not even missing. Sometimes they’re actually in trouble. But finding out which is which … You’re a pastor. I could do with some support.’
‘And happy to help, BB.’
Bambawani nodded. ‘Thank you. How’s the little girl doing?’
Hardin’s face clouded. They walked a few paces in silence. ‘It’s tough,’ he said. A few more. Bambawani gave him the space he needed. ‘She just looks jaundiced to me,’ he said eventually, ‘like all the time. And way too quiet for a four-week-old baby. But the midwife was reassuring. Said she was doing OK.’
‘And is she a medically trained and qualified midwife?’ asked Bambawani.
‘Eh?’
‘Does she, maybe, know more about medicine than you?’
‘Oh,’ said Hardin. ‘Yeah. S’pose so.’
‘Well then.’
There were six identical student blocks. Three facing three, the slight incline between them laid with wide paths and grassy banks. A semi-circle of women sat on one, books open, phones busy. Each block had four floors studded with scores of windows, almost all of them pushed wide open. A vain attempt to catch some non-existent breeze. Just one window was shut. The academic and the chaplain stood under block C, looking up.
‘Guess which is his room,’ Bambawani said.
Hardin squinted. ‘Third floor, second along?’
‘Correct.’
They were hesitating by the block’s stairwell. By leaning against the brickwork they could stand in the shade.
‘No one has seen him for a good few days,’ Bambawani continued. ‘Missed an exam, which is unlike him. I’m his personal tutor, Don, I should know what’s happening. I need at least some idea before we go to his family and then the police. His scores have been impressive until the last few months.’
‘You know him?’ asked Hardin. ‘You have loads of students.’
‘I do. Well, I thought so anyway. I liked him. Earnest. Clear-eyed. Committed to the courses he was on. Courteous. Always asked me about South Africa. About Durban. He’s the only student in five years who’s asked me to teach him some words in Xhosa.’
The chaplain smiled. ‘I like the sound of this guy. What words did you teach him?’
‘He wanted to be able to greet his grandmother. She speaks Bengali, I think, but he thought he’d try Xhosa. Thought she’d like it. Said she considered herself a citizen of the world.’
Hardin waited. ‘Well? How do you greet a grandmother in Xhosa?’
‘Molo makhulu,’ said Bambawani.
‘Nice,’ said Hardin. ‘Very useful. I’ll remember. Was our student religious at all?’
The academic pondered the question. ‘Don’t know. Hindu by culture certainly but seemed secular to me.’
Hardin laughed. ‘Everyone seems secular to you, BB. When we find a copy of the Vedas on his desk you can buy me a drink. He might even have a bible somewhere, you never know.’
Bambawani removed a key from her jacket pocket. She turned to Hardin, eyebrows arched. ‘If we find a bible in there, I’ll come to Mass myself.’
The student’s room was a furnace. Curtains wide open, the sun had super-heated the room. Hardin dived for the window lever, pushed down and flung the pane as wide as it would go. ‘Good grief,’ he muttered.