‘Quite a mixed bag,’ said Sam. ‘What’s the problem with the play?’
Sophie checked her screen. ‘It features Jesus and his disciples as gay men living in Texas. The playwright got death threats, shows cancelled, you know how it goes. Some local churches are planning to protest.’
Famie looked doubtful. ‘Sounds unlikely to be our thing. Unless they put the play on in the cathedral of course. That might be different. I think we’re looking for something a whole lot grimier than protesting Methodists.’
‘Agreed,’ said Sophie. ‘There’s also this. Warwick University – Hari Roy’s place of course – has an Islamic Society-organized anti-fascist demonstration. That’s where the police presence will be.’
‘You’ve spoken to them?’ said Sam.
‘Made an enquiry,’ said Sophie. ‘They said they were keeping “a watchful eye”. Usual back-up available if needed. On standby.’
‘That’s the shortlist?’ said Famie. She felt underwhelmed. It all seemed so trivial. Hardly the climax to, or the reason for, the murders of eight journalists. She had witnessed quite how mundane the worst terrorism could be, but this all seemed so particularly unremarkable.
‘Yes, that’s the shortlist,’ said Sophie. ‘If this was predictable, the police and security services would have it covered. Until then, this is what there is.’
Famie shrugged. A synagogue meeting, a play, a church service and a student demonstration. Or something else. Take your pick.
Charlie’s hand was up. ‘Excuse me.’ She sounded annoyed, her face furrowed. ‘You all sound like you’re properly reporting on this. Like you all still work for IPS, which you don’t. Apart from you, Sophie. Aren’t we supposed to be hiding? We can’t hide and expect to write anything. I don’t for sure know if we’re safe here, even if it is a shit hole. Maybe shit holes attract these guys. Maybe we should have gone to the Ritz Carlton instead. I don’t know about you, maybe it’s because I’m not keeping busy like you are, but I’m still fucking terrified.’ She flashed wide eyes to the room.
Famie briefly considered reaching a consoling arm towards her but quickly dismissed the idea.
‘But I’m not writing anything,’ said Sam, defensively, ‘just trying to unravel a story. I think that if we can find out what Mary was investigating, we might find Hari Roy. That’s the point.’ Then, to Charlie, ‘And I’m terrified too if that helps.’
‘Me too,’ said Sophie, one hand on her stomach, ‘me too.’ Then she added, ‘Anyone checked the Telegraph today?’
‘Christ, no,’ said Famie, reaching for the tablet, tapping the icon. ‘Should have got a copy this morning but what with one thing and another …’
‘Friends getting killed, you mean,’ said Sam.
‘Yeah, that,’ said Famie, scrolling fast for the personal ads. She found them, scanned at speed. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Bible verses, Viagra ads, lonely hearts. That’s it. Great combo. Whatever Hari is doing, he’s not posting any more.’
Sam slid off the bed, started his pacing.
‘What?’ said Sophie.
‘So we should post again,’ said Sam. ‘When’s the deadline?’
‘Four p.m.,’ said Famie. ‘We’ve got plenty of time. Good call, Sam. Of course we should post. And we need to tell him we’re here. Somehow.’ She reached for her phone. ‘Reckon I’m OK to switch on?’
‘Depends how desperate the police are to find us,’ said Sam, shrugging.
Famie shrugged too. She turned it on, tried to access her account.
‘Huh,’ she said.
‘What?’ said Sophie.
‘No signal.’ Famie hit some apps, tried to call Charlie. She looked at Sam. ‘Phone’s dead. No signal. Nothing.’
Sam reached for his phone, switched on, tapped the screen. He blanched. ‘Me too.’
‘Fuck,’ said Famie. The dread had returned to her stomach.
‘It’s fine,’ said Sophie. ‘They’re work phones. You quit your jobs. You don’t get to use their phones any more. Mine’s OK.’
‘Mine too,’ said Charlie. ‘Panic over.’
Now Famie was up. She walked over to the tiny window that didn’t open. ‘Not really,’ she said. She stared at the restricted view of the car park, the path and the brown grass. ‘Maybe we need to lose the phones. All of them. Whether the police are desperate or not – and only Hunter seems at all interested – the fuckers can trace our phones. Maybe they’re not safe. Maybe they were never safe.’
‘And we don’t even know which particular set of fuckers to be worried about,’ said Sophie.
‘All of them,’ said Famie. ‘Let’s just stick with all of them.’
Sophie and Charlie exchanged glances. Then, with almost perfect timing, both removed the batteries and SIMs from their phones, throwing them on to the bed.
‘Better?’ said Sophie.
‘Great,’ said Sam, infuriated. ‘Now we’re operating totally blind. And deaf. How do we get our ad in the paper now? Ring it through the front desk? Trust Florin to get it right? Not sure that’s entirely thought out.’
Her back to the bed, Famie missed Charlie reaching for the tablet.
‘You were right, Mum,’ she said, framing it between her hands.
‘What?’ said Famie, turning.
‘Crime pays,’ said Charlie.
56
Your favourite highway. Add 7,958,593,262. It’s nearby.
THE MESSAGE SENT. One last message to Hari Roy before it was too late. Too late for who or what Famie wasn’t sure, but too late anyway. The idea had occurred as soon as Charlie had found the way to access the tablet’s phone number (touch apps, touch settings, scroll, touch status, scroll again).
Famie knew it was unlikely he would see her words. It seemed preposterous even to be sending them. But the personal ads had been his idea. It was
