They scanned the room. A single bed, duvet, bed made. Twenty or so books on his shelves, some rotting apples on a plate on his desk; their sweet vinegary smell made Hardin wince. A laptop charger plugged into the wall, no laptop. A photo of two young smiling girls stuck on the back of the door.
Hardin peered under the bed. ‘The laptop’s under here,’ he said.
‘OK,’ said Bambawani. ‘Leave it there. We don’t need to move anything.’
On the wall above the bed, a battered poster, peeling away from the wall at one corner. Bambawani reached out and stuck it back again. It showed a white hammer and sickle against a livid background. Beneath the sickle, in yellow type, the letters CPI-M. Then, in brackets, in case the reader was unsure, the words COMMUNIST PARTY OF INDIA (MARXIST). Bambawani and Hardin stared at it for some time.
Eventually Bambawani spoke. ‘Like I said, Don, he seemed secular to me.’
A knock at the door, then it swung open. ‘Hello?’ A frowning white face, stubble, baggy shorts and stripy T-shirt. Possibly pyjamas, possibly day wear. ‘Can I help you?’ he said. ‘I’m Paul. I live next door.’ He jerked his thumb at the left-hand wall. ‘I heard you … rattling around.’ He sounded both suspicious and surprised.
Bambawani introduced herself and Hardin, explained their business.
Paul relaxed, stepped into the room. ‘We haven’t seen him much, to be honest with you.’
‘Really?’ said Hardin.
Paul found another frown which said ‘Why should I trust you?’ Then he noticed Hardin’s dog collar and shrugged. ‘He was always part of everything,’ he said. ‘Start of the year he was always here. Cooked his meals with us, you know. Then he started going to some weird meetings. He got all political. Saw him hanging out with an older woman. She was nice, like, don’t get me wrong. But not a student. Not from here anyway. He went with her more and more. And with us less and less.’
‘And in recent weeks?’ said Bambawani.
‘In recent weeks barely at all. Drifts in sometimes. Probably joined a cult or something. Got a job. No idea.’
‘How did he seem?’ asked Bambawani. ‘When you did see him.’
‘He seemed fine,’ said Paul. ‘Busy,’ he added.
‘How so?’
‘Preoccupied.’
‘Should the university be worried?’
Paul thought about that. ‘Nope. Don’t see why. Don’t sweat the small stuff,’ he said. He looked from priest to academic. ‘Anyway. Shouldn’t you guys know? Isn’t that the kind of shit you’re supposed to tell us?’
Hardin and Bambawani exchanged glances.
‘Yes,’ Bambawani replied, ‘that’s exactly the kind of shit we should know. But I’m not sure we do. Thank you for your help.’
Paul shrugged. ‘Any time,’ he said.
27
Monday, 11 June, 5.30 a.m.
WHEN FAMIE HAD said disappear, she meant a cheap hotel at the end of the Piccadilly Line. Sophie had packed clothes, toiletries and the laptop, Famie had borrowed some T-shirts. What Sophie couldn’t lend, Famie had bought from a market trader on the High Road. It wasn’t quite her smartest underwear but it would last until she got her flat back.
The hotel was a two-storey celebration of 1960s concrete and glass. Equally it could have been a school or police station. A blue and green painted board offered rooms and WiFi for £49.95.
Famie and Sophie’s box room somehow managed to be twin-bedded, with beige and cream carpet, beige and cream walls, beige and cream curtains. A television was bolted to the wall; a kettle, cups, biscuits and tea bags sat on a brown plastic tray. Famie had taken the bed by the door, Sophie the bed by the window. The first-floor view showed a row of bins and an almost empty car park. They had spent the weekend lying low, drinking the tea and eating the biscuits. The TV had been on but unwatched – it masked their endless, looping conversations on Seth, Amal, Mary, and what to do with the photos.
Their second morning there dawned courtesy of an early bin lorry. They were both showered and dressed by six a.m.
At Famie’s suggestion, Sophie had fired off an email to explain her absence from work. It said she was ‘seeking support counselling’ and asked for compassionate leave.
‘How long till breakfast is served?’ she asked.
‘A whole hour,’ said Famie. ‘Which means it’s time for more shortbread.’
She reached for the replenished tray and threw a wrapped biscuit at Sophie, keeping one for herself.
‘So here we are,’ she said, ‘two journalists, one retired, one pregnant, on the run. Holed up in the glamorous Southgate Travelodge and eating the classic breakfast of the hungover traveller. I can’t go home because reporters are stalking me. You’ve left home to avoid the same reporters stalking you. We are both victims of a bastard prick womanizer who happens to be dead. He is also the father of your baby.’
‘If I choose to have it,’ added Sophie.
‘If you choose to have it,’ repeated Famie. ‘You met the bastard prick womanizer’s terrorist brother a number of times but haven’t told the police.’
‘Let’s try BPW for short,’ said Sophie.
‘OK,’ said Famie. ‘And neither of us has told the police about the BPW’s laptop which has compromising photos of both of us.’
‘And Mary.’
‘And poor Mary. And the other women.’
‘Which we might delete, even if they’re evidence of some kind.’
‘Yup. Apart from that, it’s all good.’
Famie finished the shortbread.
‘You missed out the Telegraph,’ said Sophie.
‘Ah, correct,’ said Famie. ‘We are waiting for a communication from a weirdo who leaves messages for me. Either on my car or in the post. Or maybe in the bloody Daily Telegraph.’ She took a breath. ‘Is that it?’
‘That’s it,’ said Sophie. ‘Let’s go find a newsagent.’
They found a twenty-four-hour supermarket that sold them a paper and a greasy-spoon café that sold them breakfast. Two portable fans were already working hard blowing hot air, fine carbon particles and frying pan fumes over the handful of early customers. Famie and Sophie perched around a Formica-topped table with large plastic ketchup and mustard bottles. Seth Hussain’s laptop was in a drawstring bag on a third chair. A small, tinny radio played a country song so loud it was unrecognizable. The clientele was all male. Two read a tabloid paper, the other three stared at their phone screens. None of them looked up.
Over fry-ups and stewed coffee, they found the Classifieds. There was no doubting which message was for Famie. This one was in capital letters. Famie shivered as she read it.
FREAKS ARE REVOLUTIONARIES
AND REVOLUTIONARIES ARE FREAKS.
She showed Sophie, who read it aloud. ‘Another quote. Must be.’ She tapped the keys on her phone. ‘There.’ Sophie held up the screen. Large green letters, italicized, low-res: ‘A declaration of a state of war. Communiqué number one. From the Weather Underground.’
‘Them again,’ said Famie.
She took the phone. The document was dated 1971. There were thirty-four lines, the words and lines double-spaced. Three were italicized. The freaks line was one. ‘Tens of thousands have found that protest and marches don’t do it’ was another. ‘Within fourteen days, we will attack a symbol or institution of Amerikan injustice’ was the last.