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.’
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
