No one spoke for a long time. Ariana Grande played on the speakers, the A425 traffic flowed easy, the parched fields of Northamptonshire radiated heat and dust.
Eventually Sam broke the silence. ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean anything,’ he said, his words slow and uncertain. ‘Not really. Just that she read the article before she left the house. Then when she got to London, she was killed. That’s it.’
Charlie glanced at her mother in the mirror, ready to defer to her. Famie stayed quiet. She knew her daughter was about to disagree.
‘True,’ said Charlie. ‘But doesn’t it feel, I don’t know, more significant than that? This is your world, not mine, but I’m just saying it shows what she was thinking just before she was killed.’ Another quick look at Famie, then back to the road.
Famie sighed. ‘It does,’ she said. ‘We all know it does. You’re right, Sam, of course – technically it’s a nothing. She could have been ordering wine, shoes or shirts, but one minute she’s reading about a terror plot, the next she’s killed in one. And she’s been shagging the brother of an EIJ terrorist, for Christ’s sake.’
‘EIJ and the Taliban are—’ began Sam.
‘Not the same,’ acknowledged Famie. ‘Agreed. Obviously. Not the same.’ She caught another look from Charlie. ‘And I’d been shagging him too. Fair point.’
‘I wasn’t going to say.’
Famie smiled. ‘Didn’t need to. Maybe we should check the other articles. Look for a Waitrose delivery or something.’
Sam and Famie tapped and read. The next article was the Times of India on the same TTP story, adding the detail that Indian security forces were increasingly alarmed about the extent of Islamist collaboration. One of the arrested was a member of Lashkar-e-Jabbar, a fringe militant group from Srinagar.
‘Heard of them?’ asked Sam.
‘Nope,’ said Famie. ‘But I never worked in India. I covered Lashkar-e-Jhangvi, the LeJ, out of Afghanistan, and the rest was all al-Qaeda. There were loads of fringe groups back then, breakaways, factions. I don’t suppose much has changed.’
Charlie turned the music down. ‘Is Mary reading this on the twenty-second too?’ she asked.
Sam checked the screen. ‘Yes. Just before the Jang story.’ He tapped the screen again. ‘She read the front pages of the big UK papers first, then the Times of India, then the Jang from Pakistan. Then left the house.’
Famie stared through her window. Petrol station, flower stall, dual carriageway, caravans. ‘And waiting for her at Euston station, a man with a knife who wanted to stop her telling this bloody story she was writing,’ she said.
‘And he did,’ said Sam. ‘He succeeded. So now we need to tell it for her. And the other six.’ A pause. ‘Make that seven,’ he said.
The rest of the links took Sam and Famie to a series of articles in a vast range of journals. Immigration statistics from Germany, education in Mexico, Cuban austerity, abortion clinics in the southern United States. They were precisely what Famie thought Mary would have been reading. And of absolutely no use to them.
‘Mum, your phone’s ringing,’ said Charlie, passing it over her shoulder.
Famie took it, recognized the number.
‘Hello, DC Hunter,’ she said.
‘Ms Madden. Where are you? Are you safe?’ She sounded alarmed.
‘I’m safe,’ said Famie. ‘Safe and hiding.’
‘Ms Madden, I strongly urge you to report to the nearest police station,’ said Hunter. ‘Hiding is not safe. Not a sensible option.’
‘We’re good,’ said Famie. ‘But thanks.’ She could sense Hunter’s exasperation.
‘I’m afraid you’re not “good”. My colleagues in Exeter need to speak to your daughter urgently. It is a murder inquiry, Ms Madden, and if she has information—’
Famie cut across her. ‘Sure. What’s their number, we’ll call them.’ An audible sigh from Hackney.
‘I’ll text it to you, Ms Madden. But before you decide how safe you are, you should know there was an attempted break-in at your flat this morning.’
Famie felt the blood drain again. ‘I’m sorry?’ she said.
Sam heard the change of tone, put down the tablet. Charlie glared into the mirror.
‘One of your neighbours disturbed two men outside your door. They ran off once they were discovered but there is no doubt that they were trying to force it open. The door jamb is splintered but the lock is sound.’
Famie’s headache was back with a vengeance. ‘You’ve been there?’ she managed.
‘I’m there now, Ms Madden. I’m outside your flat at the moment.’
‘One minute,’ she said, covered the phone. Famie cleared her throat. Spoke to the car. ‘Two men tried to break into the flat. They ran off apparently.’
Charlie, wide-eyed, swerved slightly then pulled the car into a lay-by. She swivelled in the driver’s seat, reached for her mother’s hand. Sam, grim-faced, stepped outside.
‘What time was this?’ asked Famie.
‘About six thirty,’ said Hunter.
‘And I seem to recall, DC Hunter, you advising me to stay put. Yes?’ A brief silence. ‘You wanted me to stay in the flat “for my own safety”. And if we had followed your advice, my daughter and I might have been killed. That’s about it, isn’t it?’
‘I can understand your concern,’ said Hunter, recovering. ‘It was, as it turned out, fortunate that your neighbour disturbed them.’
‘And that we weren’t there in the first place,’ said Famie. She could feel the anger rising in her chest. ‘Here’s some wild speculation for you, DC Hunter. The man or men who killed Tommi Dara last night had more work to do. Me and Charlie were next on the list. As you say, fortunately they were interrupted, but even more fortunately we weren’t there in the first place. You said stay, my daughter said go. Well. I think we’ll stick with our own counsel, thank you. If you text me the Exeter number, Charlie will ring them. Meantime, we’ll carry on hiding.’
She hung up, switched the phone off, then reached for Charlie’s, turned hers off too. Sam followed suit.
‘Thank
