‘Maybe this Hari told them. Maybe he’s part of it.’
Famie sighed. ‘Maybe. Who knows?’
Charlie wiped her face. ‘I called Dad,’ she said.
Famie froze. ‘OK,’ she said, flatly.
‘When I got here,’ said Charlie. ‘When you were saying goodbye to Sam. He didn’t pick up though.’
‘Well. I’m sure he’ll call you back.’
‘Are you?’
‘Not really.’
‘Just thought he should know,’ said Charlie.
‘Of course.’
‘And, Mum. Look at me. Why wait for the morning? Seriously. If the copper gave you her card, use it. Tell her now. A girl in Exeter died instead of me. That doesn’t wait till morning.’
Famie’s head swam with whiskey and emotion but she knew her daughter was right. If someone had tried to kill Charlie, what was she waiting for?
‘I’ll get the number,’ she said.
She retrieved the card from her bedroom. When she returned, Charlie was out of the bath and wrapping the towels around her again.
‘What’s her name again?’ said Charlie. ‘This policewoman you’re calling.’ Famie held the card up. ‘Detective Constable Channing Hunter,’ read Charlie. ‘OK, let’s do it.’
Lid down, Famie sat on the toilet. From the street, the sound of a car engine and a muted door closing. Charlie tensed. Famie stepped into her bedroom, peered through the curtain.
‘Black cab,’ she called. ‘I doubt it’s ISIS.’
Charlie joined her. She had wrapped a towel around her hair, turban-style. Her face, red and glowing, was still etched with worry. ‘Who is it then?’
‘Couldn’t see.’
In the bathroom, Famie’s phone rang. She stepped back in to retrieve it. ‘Huh,’ she said. ‘Really?’ The screen display read ‘Andrew Lewis. Be nice.’
‘Who is it, Mum?’ Charlie’s voice was suddenly fearful again.
‘It’s my boss. My ex-boss. This won’t be good.’ She answered. ‘Andrew? It’s nearly two a.m., for Christ’s sake. What’s up?’
A deep intake of breath from the phone. ‘What’s up is that I’m outside your house,’ said Lewis. ‘I saw the light was on. I checked. I’m sorry, Famie, but I need to come in.’
47
THERE WERE FIFTEEN stairs to the front door, then two locks and a security chain. In the time it took to descend those steps and unlock, Famie had imagined every possible disaster. What could possibly have triggered a home visit from the bureau chief? She flung the door open.
‘Andrew. What the fuck?’
Lewis looked wrecked. Shirtsleeves, suit trousers, stains on both. He’d lost the tie. Behind his glasses, his eyes were bloodshot. His hair was at all angles. He smelt of alcohol.
‘Like I said, I need to come in. The taxi will wait.’
‘Sure.’
Famie stepped aside, let him climb the stairs first. He grasped the wooden banister, hauled himself up. Fumes drifted in his wake.
‘My daughter Charlie is here too,’ Famie said to his back. ‘We … have just been talking.’
Lewis reached the top of the stairs.
‘Straight on, Andrew.’
Famie followed him in. He was standing with a steadying hand on a table. He flipped his glasses to the top of his head and she realized he had been crying. ‘Andrew, what is it?’ She stepped towards him but he held up both hands.
‘It’s Tommi,’ he said, his voice a croaked whisper. ‘I got a call. He was in a crash.’
That gut-flip again. Followed by the crushing realization. She swallowed hard. ‘You wouldn’t be here if he’d made it.’
Lewis shook his head slowly. ‘He didn’t. Dead at the scene.’ He wiped his face with his hand. ‘Bus driver said he’d appeared from nowhere. Said he didn’t even have time to brake.’
Famie slumped on the sofa. Numb. Regretting the Jack Daniel’s.
‘But he’d just gone in to talk to Carol Leven,’ she said. ‘He sent us all the information from his chat. He …’ She checked herself. ‘He was following a lead.’
Lewis stood with both hands on the table, fingers splayed. ‘I spoke to Carol. She said she offered him whisky. He took a couple of small bottles with him when he went.’
Famie frowned. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning he’d been drinking.’
‘That’s bollocks and you know it. He could drink that ten times over and he still wouldn’t walk in front of a bus by mistake.’
She stood up, paced the room, the enormity of what had happened still sinking in.
‘That’s number eight, Andrew,’ she said, a tremor in her voice. ‘You know it. IPS journalist number eight. It’s an assassination.’
Lewis looked uncomfortable. ‘We can’t say that, Famie. It could be, I grant you. It was my first thought too. Many will make the link as we have.’ He wiped his face again. ‘But the bus driver stopped. He reported that Tommi fell in front of his bus. And we know he’d been on the whisky. They’re the facts.’
‘They’re some facts,’ said Famie. ‘You’ve missed a few. First, he wasn’t “on the whisky”, he’d drunk some whisky. Big difference. Second, IPS journalists are under attack and being killed. That’s the big one. And fact number three? Tommi was following a hunch that there were other deaths on the twenty-second. He makes an enquiry, he falls in front of a bus. Don’t tell me that doesn’t sound fucking suspicious.’
Famie could feel the colour in her cheeks, knew she was getting loud. Charlie clearly thought so too – she appeared in the doorway fully dressed, hair almost dried. Famie recognized the look she gave her: she was taking control.
‘Oh hi. I’m Charlie. Think we met some years back.’ Composed. Apparently clear-headed. Famie took a moment to be impressed.
Andrew straightened, stuck out his hand. Preposterously formal. ‘Er yes, I’m sure that’s right.’
‘Charlie,’ said Famie. She pressed her lips together, dropped her head. ‘Tommi got run over. Killed by a bus.’ She felt the tears now, the act of saying the words out loud making them real. ‘The driver says he fell in front of him. Apparently.’ She wiped her eyes.
Charlie nodded her understanding, took her mother’s arm. She was listening, thought Famie.
‘When was this?’ said Charlie.
‘Just
