‘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.’
‘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,
