I watch as she sits down at the table. She is very nervous. Her face twitches every so often and I wonder if this is a result of living in Syria; some sort of shell shock.
‘Here you are,’ I say, placing the mug of tea in front of her. ‘Sugar’s on the table if you want some.’
‘Thank you,’ she says, but as she takes a sip her hands start shaking and the tea splatters down her front.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, putting the cup down. ‘Clumsy.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I reply, handing her a tea towel. ‘It was probably my fault. I over-filled it. I hope it hasn’t spoiled your nice dress.’
She dabs at the damp stain, her hands still shaking, then she puts the towel on the table and cradles the half-empty cup.
‘So you knew my sister,’ I say, sitting down next to her.
‘Yes, a little,’ she says. ‘We only met a couple of times but she was very kind. She wanted to help me.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘That sounds like Kate,’ I say as I take a sip of tea. ‘She wanted to help everybody. She was born that way.’
‘I was so sorry to hear of her death,’ she says.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It was a huge shock. You were out there too then, were you?’
‘Out where?’
‘In Syria,’ I say. ‘You were with her?’
‘Oh no,’ she says. ‘I’m not from Syria. I live in the house next door to your mother’s. My name’s Fida.’
I put my cup down, my heart thudding.
‘Paul’s house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you the one who had my sister arrested?’
‘Yes, but that was all a big mistake.’
‘A big mistake?’ I spit. ‘As I understand it she was forced to leave Herne Bay because you called the police. If you hadn’t done that she wouldn’t have gone to Aleppo. She wouldn’t be dead.’
‘It was a misunderstanding,’ she says, looking at me pleadingly. ‘If you’ll let me, I can explain.’
‘I don’t want you to explain,’ I cry, my heart pounding. ‘It’s too late. My sister’s dead.’
‘But I need to tell you something,’ she says. ‘I need . . . I need your help. I have –’
‘I’d like you to leave,’ I say, getting up from my chair.
‘Please just let me speak,’ she cries.
‘Listen, love, I’m not interested,’ I say, folding my arms. ‘Now clear off.’
She stands up and I march her to the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, turning to me, ‘I just wanted to –’
‘Did you not hear me?’ I cry as I yank the door open. ‘I said get out.’
36
I step back inside the house. I’m glad that the last thing I did was stand up for my sister. Now I can get on with it. I grab another bottle of wine in case I need it. But as I make my way up the stairs I hear a clattering noise. I turn and see a pile of post lying on the doormat.
On the top is a bulky Jiffy bag. I bend down and pick it up. It’s probably something for Paul – no one sends anything to me. But then I see my name printed in capital letters and the logo of Kate’s newspaper printed on the back. I tear open the parcel, wondering what it can be. Looking inside, I see a thin black object. I pull it out and hold it in my shaking hands.
A Dictaphone. It’s cracked and pock-marked and the plastic casing has melted in parts but I can still make out what it is. Surely it’s not . . .
There’s something else in there. I put my hand back inside the Jiffy bag and ease out a piece of paper. I take it and the Dictaphone into the kitchen then sit down at the table to read.
Sally,
I want to convey my deepest condolences for the loss of your sister, Kate. She was a brave and brilliant woman and the finest journalist I have ever worked with. This Dictaphone was found by one of the rescue workers close to where she was last seen. It was sent to the newsroom but, on listening to the contents, it seems it is more of a personal item than a professional one as you will hear when you play it.
I am working closely with the MoD and the consulate in Syria and will be in touch as soon as I have any more news for you.
In the meantime, if I can be of further help to you at this difficult time please do not hesitate to get in touch.
Best Wishes,
Harry Vine