Free The Invisible Code by Christopher Fowler Page A

crucifix and came up in boils.’
    ‘Just testing. My books are out of order.’
    ‘Well, that will give you something to do when you’re home, won’t it?’
    ‘And where’s my marijuana plant?’
    ‘This is a council block. You can’t keep it here any more, the police have dogs.’
    ‘I am the police, you silly woman.’
    ‘I sent it to your office. Honestly, I thought you’d be pleased. It took half a dozen of us to move all your stuff in and lay it out correctly. There’s a nice southerly light.’
    Bryant sniffed. ‘I suppose it’ll have to do.’
    ‘It’ll have to do,’ Alma repeated. She was a large, cheerful woman predisposed to a kind smile, but right now the smile was fading to a scowl. ‘
It’ll have to do?
You ungrateful, miserable old man! You didn’t help me in any way. I had to attend the court hearings and deal with the compulsory purchase order of our old place, then search for accommodation and apply for the flat and deal with the council, a job I wouldn’t wish on a dog, then move everything by myself and reinstall it here without a singlething broken, missing or out of place, and all you had to do was walk out of your old home and into this one with nothing more than the clothes on your back. I still have relatives in Antigua; I could have left you and gone home to live somewhere happy and sunny, but I stayed here. If I wasn’t a good Christian I’d smack you around the head until your ears rang.’
    ‘All right, you’ve made your point,’ Bryant mumbled. ‘It’s very nice. What’s for tea?’
    ‘There’s ginger cake and banana bread laid out in the kitchen, and a spiced chicken salad later.’ She stood with her hands on her hips and resisted the temptation to give him a whack on the ear as he passed.
    Longbright was staying late at the unit, transferring John May’s interview notes. Downloading all the images she could find of Sabira Kasavian, including those in her social-networking profiles, she reassembled them by date and location.
She has a hell of a clothing allowance
, thought Longbright.
Skinny women can wear anything
. There were hardly two photographs where she was in the same outfit.
    Longbright dreamed of a clothing allowance, although that would have been a slippery slope. She would have soon lavished it on impractical corsetry and 1950s sheath gowns.
    The next thing she noticed was how closely Sabira stayed by her husband’s side. In the few photographs that showed her seated with other people at government dinners, she appeared to be mutely listening. Her attitude was demure, as if she had been advised not to speak by her husband.
    Around the end of the last week of May there was a noticeable change in the pictures. Sabira was rarely photographed without a drink in her hand, and appeared introspective, sullen, even startled. In the few Facebookshots she had put up from public events she looked flushed and nervous.
Perhaps her drinking just got out of control
, thought Longbright.
It happens
.
    She spotted something else: a uniformity of style in the official press pictures. Checking the provenance of the images, she found that the same news agency had taken them, which probably meant that Sabira had been targeted by one specific photographer. She called the agency but it was shut for the night, so she checked PhotoNet’s list of clients and found
Hard News
at the top of the supply list. She rang the editor, Janet Ramsey, on her mobile.
    ‘Janice, you’d better have a damned good reason for calling me on my private number,’ Janet warned. The unscrupulous editor was well known to the staff of the PCU.
    ‘Do you have someone at PhotoNet permanently assigned to cover Sabira Kasavian?’
    Janet sounded as if she was in a crowded cocktail bar. ‘I wouldn’t say he’s permanently assigned. We have a special-interest list of public figures and their partners, as I’m sure you’re well aware.’
    ‘I guess you’ve been waiting for her to screw