Famie nodded. ‘Hari’s right, isn’t he?’ Her voice was exhausted, dredging the words up from somewhere. ‘No other options.’
‘And you’re sure it was him?’ said Sophie.
Famie nodded again. ‘I am.’
‘Me too,’ said Sam.
Hunter shifted slowly under her blankets. ‘So this is where it gets tricky. And I’m assuming all of this is off the record.’
Nods around the horseshoe.
‘DC Milne is my superior. One of the investigators on this case at the Met. He’s knocking around the hospital somewhere. He told me to ignore Famie’s theories. Said they were “the ravings of a menopausal lunatic”.’
‘To be fair, he’s not wrong on that,’ said Charlie.
‘Actually, agreed,’ said Famie.
Brief laughter in the room.
‘Which explains the total lack of interest from the police,’ Famie added. ‘With the notable exception of DC Hunter here.’
Hunter nodded her acknowledgement.
‘But my theories are right,’ Famie continued, ‘and it means we’re the only ones who know about Lewis. What do we do with it?’
Hunter deflected. ‘So what did Lewis hear back when he called? Anything?’
‘Nothing,’ said Sam. ‘No one spoke. I cut the line.’
‘So he knows someone heard him,’ said Hunter. ‘And the official statement out there is that all the cell are dead or in custody.’
‘So he knows he’s in trouble,’ said Sam. ‘At the very least. Which makes Hari’s position tricky again.’
Hari laughed. A brief, humourless outburst. ‘And makes Andrew Lewis a traitor. Yes?’
Reluctant nods from all in the room.
‘And makes your boss complicit,’ said Sophie to Hunter. ‘Or an arse.’
‘Or both,’ said Hunter.
Charlie raised a hand. ‘I don’t know Andrew Lewis like you guys do,’ she said, ‘but this makes no sense. Your top man. In charge. Journalism is his life. Why would he have anything to do with killing journalists? Sounds crazy.’
‘Same old reasons,’ said Sam. ‘Always the same. Money, sex, power, religion. Maybe all four, maybe just one or two. Who knows.’
‘I think we can discount religion in Andrew’s case,’ said Famie. ‘I really don’t see him as an undercover Islamist. But the others?’ She looked sceptical. ‘I mean, he’s worked everywhere. China, the States, Japan. You name it. Last foreign posting I think was Chechnya. Which would finish anyone off. Desk job and management beckoned. He seemed OK with it.’
‘But all of this is academic,’ said Sam. ‘If Lewis is behind this, it’s over to you, DC Hunter.’
‘Channing, please.’
‘OK, Channing. But you, or someone, needs to act fast. Hari needs protection. His family need protection. And Lewis needs taking down.’
Hunter closed her eyes. Took a breath. ‘OK, well, like I said, this is tricky. But I’ll be off work for a few weeks with this.’ She tapped her left side. ‘I’ll have to go high. I can get you protection, Hari. Pass it off as press harassment or something. It’ll do for now.’
Sophie fished a small card from her bag. ‘And this might do after that,’ she said. ‘Picked it up when the Assistant Commissioner called.’ She placed it at the foot of Hunter’s bed. ‘It’s got an email and a phone number. High enough?’
92
Friday, 15 June, 10.55 a.m.
BRITISH POLICE SAY SIX DEAD IN CATHEDRAL ATTACK, INCLUDING PRIEST, WITH A DOZEN MORE SAID TO BE CRITICALLY INJURED
POLICE CONFIRM TERROR INCIDENT LINKED TO MAY 22 ATTACKS – STATEMENT
FAMIE ARRIVED FIRST, headphones on. Sophie and Sam arrived together, left her alone. They knew how this worked. When her music finished, she’d be back. Until then, they could whistle.
They all stood in the Peterson-IPS marbled entrance lobby without speaking. Their silence said it all. Famie was nervous. She glanced at the television screens above the reception desk out of habit, took no notice of the news show that was running. She realized she hadn’t even checked the huge scrolling news ticker outside. It was a different time.
She took off her headphones, hugged Sophie then Sam. ‘Ready?’ she said.
‘We just need to get this over,’ said Sophie.
Eleven o’clock. It was time. On cue, the main entrance door spun round and the Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner stepped through. She was followed by two armed officers, carbines held ready. Left hand on the barrel, right index finger curled around the trigger. Then came DC Hunter, leaning on crutches having swiftly discharged herself from the hospital, and two senior plainclothes officers from the West Midlands force. The Assistant Commissioner nodded at Famie as she passed, leading the way up the polished staircase. Famie, Sam and Sophie followed at a respectful distance. No one spoke. Everything had already been said.
Four floors to climb. Their small group made a big noise. Hard leather and hard rubber-soled shoes clicked and squeaked on the marble.
As she climbed the stairs, Famie thought of Tommi Dara. How they had, all of them, reported on 22 May. The terrible rush-hour deaths and images. The growing realization they were reporting the murder of their colleagues. The row of empty desks next to her. And Seth. Sweet, loving, unfaithful, catastrophically abusive Seth Hussain. One Bastard Prick Womanizer to beat them all. She touched Sophie’s hand as they reached the fourth-floor landing. Same thoughts, she guessed. With added baby.
Into the newsroom. Cavernous, quietly buzzing. A room lit by neon and screen. Two hundred stories being written and all of them about to be forgotten. The Assistant Commissioner strode down the lines of desks, reporters standing in a wave as she passed. Famie spotted Jane Hilton moving in for a better view. Ghosting towards the story. She tried to ask the AC a question but it fell on deaf ears. Famie smiled as she drew level, leant in. ‘Shocked and devastated,’ she said. ‘Interview me later.’ She didn’t wait for a response.
Ahead, the glass office of the bureau chief. Andrew Lewis was at his desk. Computer screen, bowl of mints. His head was down, typing. Someone tapped on his door and he looked up. Famie leant left to catch everything now. She saw smiles for the Assistant Commissioner. Puzzlement and worry for the armed officers and Hunter. Then Lewis
