Famie knelt next to Sophie, moved the cursor between the photos. Clicking. Enlarging. Cursing. Sophie’s description had been clinically accurate. It wasn’t exactly porn or anything near, but the nude shot was uncomfortably gynaecological. The rest she could live with.
‘Are there any others?’ she said.
‘Not of you, no.’
‘Of you?’
Sophie nodded. ‘A few.’
‘Did you know?’
‘He said he was deleting them.’
‘Jesus. Sounds familiar. Anyone else, dare I ask?’
It was clear from Sophie’s face that there were.
‘Three,’ she replied. ‘You’ll be mostly interested in the last.’
She clicked and spun again. The photo on the screen showed a grinning woman in the process of showering. It was Mary Lawson.
Famie spluttered in disbelief. She stared at it for a long time, her fingers tapping on the side of the laptop. Eventually she looked away.
‘And the other two?’
Sophie showed her the others. Both darker-skinned, both naked, both looking coy.
‘We’ve got quite the charmer here,’ said Sophie, her words almost a whisper. Famie felt her pain in every word.
‘Well,’ Famie said. ‘First point, we’re in some serious shit here, you and me. But second, if there’s nothing other than smutty pictures, the police never need to see it. What else is there? Have you looked? Please tell me there’s nothing about his terrorist brother.’
She spun the laptop back to Sophie who clicked and tapped.
‘He seems to have used this as an overflow computer,’ she said. ‘There are sixteen documents that I can see, all containing articles he’s written for our website. They all date from September last year to March this year. Then it all stops. So nothing for three months.’
‘Dare I ask when the Mary shot was dated?’ said Famie.
‘February twenty-sixth last year,’ said Sophie.
Another punch to the stomach. Famie’s head dropped. ‘We split on the twenty-seventh. It’s my birthday so it’s one of those break-ups you remember. I thought it was mutual but really it was because he was shagging his boss. He actually left me for an older woman.’
‘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
