Famie stared at the card’s blank boxes. That adrenalin rush again. She placed the card on the coffee machine’s stainless-steel hot plate. Famie, Sam and Sophie stood to watch. Brown letters started to appear within seconds. Famie grabbed Sophie’s hand. The writing was hurried but the words clear.
In the first box: MY NAME IS HARI ROY
In the second box: FROM 26 BOXER STREET
And in the third box: URGENT! TERROR ATTACK THURSDAY!
37
9.20 a.m.
THEY CLIMBED INTO a black cab, switched off the intercom, shut the connecting glass. The driver got the message, turned up a talk station. Famie and Sophie sat in the back seats, Sam in the fold-down facing them. Hackney Police Station was twenty minutes away. Famie’s heart was still racing, her nerves jangling. She was wired. She had a name. The messages were coming from a real person and his name was Hari.
‘Facebook photo.’ Sophie held up her phone, used her fingers to enlarge it. It showed a cheery round face, clean-shaven, light brown skin, spiky black hair. A blue and white striped T-shirt, a can of beer held up to the camera. She flipped the phone, read from his profile. ‘Hari Roy. Second-year student at Warwick University, studying Politics. British Indian, mother’s family originally from Bengal. Nothing on his father. Twin sisters, can’t see how old they are just yet. He’s single.’
‘Christ, you got that already?’ Famie was impressed.
Sophie shrugged. ‘Just standard,’ she said.
‘When did he post last?’ said Sam.
‘Hmm,’ said Sophie. ‘Nothing for a few weeks. He’s not on Twitter or Instagram. Not as far as I can see anyway.’
They all looked at each other with ‘what-happens-next’ faces.
‘I want to call the hospital,’ said Sam, ‘but I guess we should wait until we know what the police say. If journalists start making enquiries about a Hari Roy then who knows what that will trigger.’
‘But he’s asking us for help,’ said Famie. ‘If we assume our guy is telling the truth, that he’s not mad and that there is a terror attack planned for Thursday, we either convince the police to act or we go to Coventry to follow up ourselves.’
Sam and Sophie looked unconvinced.
‘This is our story,’ she said. ‘This might have been Mary’s story. Now we have to stay on it.’
‘You quit, remember?’ said Sam. ‘I’ve quit too. Sophie’s still there. Tommi’s hanging on. But we’re out. We’re hardly the new investigators.’
The three of them stared unseeing through different windows.
‘And is Hari the story or is Amal the story?’ said Sophie.
‘And would Mary have known about Amal?’ asked Sam. He looked between the women.
Famie closed her eyes. ‘Christ, this is messy. I didn’t think so. I thought they had nothing to do with each other, but Sophie knows better.’ She held her hand out to Sophie, cueing her in.
‘Seth and Amal certainly saw each other. I was with them both. It’s quite possible Mary was too.’
‘So,’ said Sam, ‘the first journalist to die may have been friends with—’
‘Too strong,’ interrupted Sophie. ‘Wouldn’t have happened.’
‘May have known,’ Sam corrected himself, ‘an Islamist terrorist. The brother of her boyfriend. Or former boyfriend. That makes Amal the story, doesn’t it? That’s what the police will say.’
They exited the cab at a modern office block, its ground floor painted blue. Blinds covered the windows, signs in many languages covered the double doors.
‘Christ, is this it?’ said Sam.
Famie paid the driver.
‘Looks like a charity shop under siege,’ said Sophie.
‘It’s just safer,’ said Famie. ‘It’s why I suggested it.’
In her flat they had stared at the hospital comments card for a long time, wondering if it had any other secrets to reveal. After ten minutes they’d decided it had done its work and Famie had phoned DC Hunter. Said they’d be early. The DC had said she would be waiting for them, and within a few seconds of the receptionist placing a call she appeared through a plain wooden door. Same grey suit, white shirt, silver buttons. She nodded at Famie, unsmiling.
‘All three of you?’ she said.
Famie did the introductions.
‘Follow me,’ Hunter said, and held open the door. A stark, undecorated corridor led to ‘Interview Room 2G’. Four chairs, two on either side of a solid wood table, a small fan on the floor and the penetrating smell of disinfectant.
Famie sat with Sophie, the laptop in a bag between them. Sam was opposite. The DC pulled her chair away from the table until she could set it against the wall. She produced a notepad as she sat, then leant down to switch on the fan. Hot, stale air blew around the room.
‘So,’ she said to Famie, ‘you wanted to see me. It sounded important.’
‘Yes,’ said Famie, ‘it is. You remember the note on my windscreen? You took a photo of it.’
‘I do, yes.’
Hunter’s face stayed neutral but Famie sensed her disappointment already.
‘Well, we’ve been communicating with him.’ Famie, in spite of herself, paused apologetically. ‘Through the personal ads in the Daily Telegraph.’ Hunter’s raised eyebrows told Famie everything she needed to know. She rapidly explained the sequence of notes and messages, then produced today’s post. ‘And then this came.’ She handed the hospital card and covering note to Hunter. ‘The words around the edge are a song by Blind Lemon Jefferson. That was the clue. The words in the boxes were written in lemon juice. We heated the card.’
Hunter waited for more.
‘It’s a type of invisible ink.’
Hunter’s eyebrows were working hard. ‘I’m aware of that fact,’ she said. ‘Every kid knows that.’
Sophie handed Famie her phone.
‘This is Hari Roy. I think he’s in trouble. I think he’s caught up in something and he wants help. Who knows why he’s picked on me but this is a credible warning about a terror attack. We thought you should know.’
Hunter studied the image. ‘Credible?’ she said, her tone flat. ‘Why do you think it’s credible?’
Famie felt her neck redden. ‘DC Hunter, we are all journalists at IPS. We report stories
