Famie drove, Charlie slept. The motorway traffic was heavy; Famie stayed at sixty, clinging to the inside lane. The fields of Northamptonshire rolled past without her noticing. The coffees and paracetamol were at last making inroads into her headache. Behind her, Sam had been texting but was now staring out of the passenger window.
‘I spoke to DC Hunter, before we took off,’ Famie said. ‘Told her what was happening.’
‘I’m sure she was thrilled.’
‘Delighted to be woken up certainly. She said she had been taking me seriously. And that after what had happened, she was sure others would too. Which struck me as odd.’
Sam continued to stare out of the window. ‘Suggests she’s been fighting a losing battle. Maybe she’s the only one who doesn’t think you’re a lunatic.’
‘Maybe.’
A sudden clutch of road signs sporting familiar names. They both read them.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said. She saw him nod.
‘Mary’s funeral,’ he said. ‘You, me and Tommi.’ He broke off. ‘Christ this hurts,’ he said.
Mary, Harry, Sarah, Anita, Sathnam, Seth, Brian and now Tommi. Beautiful, loyal and optimistic Tommi. Another death and another funeral to go to. Famie was overwhelmed with the certainty that the carnage wasn’t over.
The next onrushing sign offered an exit at junction sixteen. ‘Of course,’ she said, and left the motorway.
52
10.42 a.m.
THE LAWSON HOUSE was two miles from the village of Ashby St Ledgers, set back from the single-track road and almost invisible to the casual, drive-by observer. The garden was bordered with silver birch trees and thick, dark green box hedges. Famie drove past, pulling on to the first verge she could find. She put her hazard warning lights on, turned the music off.
Charlie stirred. ‘What’s happening?’ she slurred.
Famie handed her a bottle of water. ‘Sam and I are going to see Martin Lawson. Mary’s husband.’ She corrected herself: ‘Widower.’
‘Why?’ said Charlie, coming round quickly. ‘You warning him or something?’ She sat up, stared at Famie. ‘You’re going to tell him about Seth?’ Her mouth stayed open, eyebrows raised.
‘Maybe,’ said Famie. ‘Though we really don’t want to screw his life up any more than it actually has been already. Maybe we can talk around Seth. We haven’t got long anyway. I texted Martin and he needs to be gone in twenty minutes. Called him yesterday but he didn’t pick up.’
‘I’m not sitting out here by the way,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m not paranoid or anything but alone in a car near the first victim’s house seems a bit freaky.’
‘Of course,’ said Famie. ‘Come in with us.’
Famie U-turned and pulled into the Lawsons’ short drive, her nerves jangling. The hedgerow and trees gave way to a newly renovated two-storey Georgian house with wide, shuttered windows and an open front door. As Famie pulled up behind a black Range Rover, Martin Lawson appeared and raised a hand in salute. He stood on the step waiting for them. Greying hair cut very short. Black suit trousers, white shirt and powder-blue tie. A businessman with a business meeting to go to. Mid-fifties, paunchy but stylish, he smiled as Famie walked towards him.
‘My God, Famie, it’s so good to see you!’ He hugged her warmly.
She inhaled tea, toast and cologne. Creed Pure White probably. He’s bearing up, she thought.
‘Sorry to just drop in on you like this, Martin,’ she started.
‘Nonsense,’ he said, ‘just a shame it’s for such a short time. Sam, good to see you. And this is Charlie?’ He embraced Sam, shook hands with Charlie. ‘There’s tea and coffee, I’ll bring it out. Ella and Fred are at school so we won’t be overheard. The shade will last for a while yet.’
Sam shrugged. ‘Anywhere is good. And don’t worry about the teas and coffees. Water is fine.’
They moved to some lilac-painted wicker chairs and a rectangular glass-topped table. A computer tablet and some newspapers were arranged neatly in a pile.
‘I’ll get a jug and be right back,’ said Martin, and disappeared inside.
Famie and Sam sat together, Charlie pulled her chair slightly away. ‘I’ll keep schtum, don’t worry about me,’ she said.
Famie glanced around. The house was set in the middle of an acre of freshly cut lawn; the flowerbeds that traced the treeline border overflowed with hydrangea, peonies and phlox. Greens, pinks, blues and purples surrounded them, running riot across the garden.
‘Wow,’ whispered Charlie, ‘someone’s doing OK.’ To Famie’s frown, she added, ‘I mean financially, obviously.’
Sam leant towards her. ‘Just what I was thinking,’ he stage-whispered.
Martin hurried out with a jug of iced water and four glasses. He set them down, poured, then perched on one of the wicker chairs opposite Famie. His eyes darted between them. ‘So. I assume this is about Mary? I’m sure I never thanked you for coming to the funeral but—’
Famie held up her hands. ‘Please, Martin, where else would we have been? She was one of the most talented journalists we had. And one of the kindest.’
‘That’s a great comfort, thank you. So.’ He looked at Sam, at Charlie, then back to Famie. ‘How can I help?’ He smiled, almost.
A tiny alarm bell rang in Famie’s head. His manner seemed wrong, forced somehow. He was like a doctor asking patients what was wrong with them.
‘I know the police will have been through all this,’ said Famie, treading carefully. ‘I hope you don’t mind the questions, but we’re trying to work out what Mary and her team were working on. What the story was that got them killed.’
A small nod from Martin. ‘I explained to the police that she never talked about her work,’ he said, sipping at his water. ‘I used to ask her what she was working on, but eventually you stop, you know?’ His tone was flat, expressionless.
‘Was she different these last few months at all?’ asked Sam. ‘Did she mention any different names, visit any new places? As far as you know?’
Martin stared at the ground. Famie wasn’t sure if he was concentrating or gathering
