He shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
Tommi was standing now, staring at the photo of Hari. ‘And he fits this how?’
Famie stood alongside him. ‘Whatever the investigating team were looking at, EIJ, ISIS, whatever, he’s trapped in it somehow and he’s trying to get out. And if his instinct is to tell a journalist at IPS, he must have had some contact with us in the past. Some family connections maybe.’
‘And does he?’
Sophie put her hand up. ‘Can’t find any yet, still looking.’
‘So, best guess,’ said Famie. ‘He’s a guy on the inside, recruited for a cause he thought he believed in. Now he’s changed his mind. Maybe when the seven were killed. He needs an out.’
Sam clambered to his feet, iPad in hand. ‘Found his family. Mother, grandmother and sisters live in Leamington.’ He wrote the address on the whiteboard. ‘If Hari’s in danger, so are they.’
‘Do we let the police go there first?’ said Sam. ‘It’s the same as the hospital. Can we make enquiries without putting them at risk?’
‘We might have to,’ said Famie.
‘Discreetly and unofficially,’ said Sam.
‘It’s all I have,’ she said.
Tommi was updating the whiteboard, writing ‘husband spoken to’ alongside Anita’s name. ‘We’re stuck, aren’t we?’ he said. ‘Seven dead, a number of killers, one dissident. Or whatever we’re calling Hari. We need to loosen this up a bit.’
‘What aren’t we asking?’ called Sophie. ‘Be wild.’
‘Is Hari one person?’ said Sam. ‘Might the messages have come from more than one person?’
Sophie took a deep breath. ‘OK. I’ll say it as the police have already asked me. Might Seth have been involved in some way? Perpetrator and then victim? Just putting it out there.’
There were nods of appreciation.
‘Sounds unlikely to me,’ Sophie added, ‘but we need to consider it.’
‘It would need us to ditch everything we knew about Seth,’ said Sam.
‘Some of us have done that already,’ said Famie. ‘Better get with the programme. We know he was duplicitous. We know he was capable of lying, regularly and with astonishing ease. We know he had money issues, that he borrowed from everyone, and that his brother is a member of an Islamist terror organization. We’ve given the police his laptop. Apart from the porn, we don’t think there’s anything of interest.’
Sam, visibly uncomfortable, tried a question. He fidgeted with his hands as he spoke. ‘Listen, this is bad, I know, and you would be quite within your rights to say no, but you said there were other women on the laptop?’
‘Two others,’ said Sophie.
‘Who were they?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘No idea.’ She glanced at Famie, who nodded consent. ‘I copied all the contents of the laptop,’ she said. ‘Sent it to Famie’s Dropbox.’
‘You still have the photos?’ said Sam.
Famie nodded.
‘Look, we need to identify the other women. We should see the photos. It kind of matters who they are.’
Both women nodded.
‘Agreed,’ said Famie, pulling her laptop close. ‘But you don’t get Sophie and me into the bargain.’
‘Listen, Famie—’ Sam began.
‘I’m joking,’ said Famie. ‘Relax, Sam, honestly.’
He smiled awkwardly but didn’t relax.
Famie hit the keys, copied and dragged the photos till they were on one page, then spun the screen. Two women were shown in adjacent pictures. On the left a naked woman, mid-thirties, was shown in profile – light brown skin, slim build, black hair to her shoulders, hands covering her face, either in embarrassment or possibly applying face cream. On the right, a shot of a younger woman stepping out of the shower and reaching for a towel. Her skin was darker, her smile enigmatic. Embarrassed too, possibly.
Famie zoomed in on her face. ‘So. The other woman is too obscured, lucky her, let’s focus on this one.’ She was late twenties, brown hair, brown eyes, plucked and shaped eyebrows, a wide, surprised face. A small scar across the bridge of her nose.
‘Don’t think she’s IPS,’ said Sam.
‘Don’t recognize her,’ agreed Famie, ‘but she may work elsewhere in the building. We need to check that fast.’
Tommi had his hand up, the other stabbing away at his keyboard, his eyes on the screen. He noticed the silence and looked up. ‘Sophie said what aren’t we asking. It’s always a good question. So I’ve just accessed the crime reports for May twenty-two, the day of the murders. And if the question is how many murders, the answer isn’t seven. It’s eight.’
It was as though all the air had been sucked from the room and they were all operating in a vacuum. The silence was sudden and complete.
Tommi looked around the room. ‘We stopped counting when Anita died. Seven in half an hour. We told that story. And we got it right. No more IPS staffers died after that. But this guy’ – he tapped his screen – ‘Toby Howells disappeared on the same day, the twenty-second. His body was found three days later. Stabbed, then hidden around the reservoir in Edgbaston. It’s not a million miles from Coventry. He was black, a student, twenty-one. He had a tube of crack on him so it was put down to drugs, gangs, the knife crime epidemic and so on.’
‘So why isn’t it just that?’ asked Sam.
‘It might be,’ conceded Tommi, ‘but the messages on his Facebook page say things like “RIP Toby, gutted. Loved your writing, man.” And this: “Gonna miss you all the way. Was convinced you’d be the next Reggie Yates.” Three of the posts link to articles he’d written online for the local paper.’
Sam looked up. ‘So this kid was a wannabe journalist and he was knifed on the same day as Mary, Seth, Anita and the others. It might be a coincidence of course …’
The room was silent.
‘Honestly, Tommi, it might be,’ said Sophie. ‘That’s quite a jump from seven IPS investigators to a kid at uni.’
Famie did a quick online search. It took five seconds. She scanned the pages in front of her. Her tell-tale adrenalin kick told her everything. ‘Unless,’ she said, her voice tight with excitement, ‘our Hari was
