Knife Edge : A Novel (2020)

Home > Other > Knife Edge : A Novel (2020) > Page 2
Knife Edge : A Novel (2020) Page 2

by Mayo, Simon


  Ethan James, EMEA editor, the man in shorts, appeared at her shoulder, read the copy.

  ‘And the dead man is Harry Thomas,’ said Famie. ‘Also from Investigations. Serena just confirmed it.’

  ‘Jesus. She got that from the medics?’ he said.

  ‘No. But she and Harry are friends, Ethan. She knows.’

  ‘It’s good to go then.’

  Famie snapped it. ‘That’s two of ours, Ethan. They sit next to each other. Just there.’ She jerked her thumb at the glass. ‘We need the bureau chief,’ she said.

  ‘Agreed. I’ll call him. And I’ll message the other bureaus to hold down non-essential copy.’ The EMEA editor walked away, already dialling.

  The ten faces in the bureau were all looking at her. They knew already, but Famie confirmed it. ‘Kentish Town death is Harry Thomas.’ Hands over mouths. Heads in hands.

  Another phone began to ring, but this time heads turned. It was Mary Lawson’s, a single red light flashing on her console, the shrill tone carrying through the glass. Then other identical tones began until it seemed all the phones in the Investigations cluster were ringing at once. Answerphones kicked in eventually, only for the ringing to start again. Tommi tried their door.

  ‘Locked,’ he said.

  Seven phones ringing.

  Sam Carter said it first. ‘Do we have any ID on the other victims?’ They didn’t, Sam knew they didn’t, but he’d asked the question anyway. The implication was clear. Holy shit, this was going to be a long morning.

  Slot phone. ‘Famie Madden here.’ There was a beat’s pause at the other end, then the sound of a deep breath being taken, enough time for dread to settle in Famie’s gut. ‘Famie Madden,’ she repeated.

  Heads around the bureau turned slowly.

  ‘This is Dr Edmund Alexander from Croydon University Hospital.’ He paused. Famie knew calls like this only led one way. ‘Is this the news agency?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Do you know Seth Hussain?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, he’s a colleague here. And a friend,’ she added quickly. Her whole body tensed for what was coming next.

  ‘Well I’m sorry to inform you that Mr Hussain died a few minutes ago. He had his work ID on him. It had this number on it. I wouldn’t normally do this, of course, but we haven’t got through to his family yet and under the circumstances …’

  Famie’s head was swimming. She made herself answer. ‘Thank you, Dr Alexander. Can I, er, can I ask how he died?’

  ‘Knife wounds to the stomach and chest. He never stood a chance. We did the best we could. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough.’

  Famie closed her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she managed.

  Seth Hussain. The most forensic, focused journalist she had ever come across. A quiet campaigner for human rights back in his native Egypt. And the last man she had slept with. It had been a terrible mistake, of course, but she had accepted his flattery and comfort when it had been offered. She didn’t know who knew. Seth had been quiet, discreet and gentlemanly so it was quite possible that no one knew. Thirty-eight years old, charismatic, brilliant. And gone. She blinked away tears.

  ‘Famie?’ It was Sophie Arnold, the youngest in the bureau. ‘Who was it, Famie?’

  ‘I’m writing it!’ she said, hands trembling.

  DEATH TOLL IN LONDON KNIFE ATTACKS RISES TO THREE – HOSPITAL SOURCE

  ‘Seth Hussain,’ she said, her voice catching, fading. ‘It’s Seth Hussain.’

  For some reason, everyone stood up. As though to remain seated was somehow disrespectful. They stared at each other, at Famie, at the TV screens. Sophie put her hands in front of her face.

  Ethan James appeared again. ‘You OK, Famie?’

  ‘Of course I’m fucking OK,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m too overcome with grief to continue.’

  He recoiled, nodded and hurried away.

  ‘Fucking cheek,’ muttered Famie. A nod from Sam, another from Tommi. She knew she’d have to apologize for that some time but knew too that he would never have checked on a male colleague in that way. She took a breath. ‘OK, so this is clearly a pattern. We need to find the rest of the investigators because—’

  Tommi raised his hand. ‘Just tried them, Famie. No reply from any, I’m afraid.’

  She pressed her lips tightly together. The phones in the office behind them started ringing again.

  All the news channels were now rolling with the London attacks; footage from Euston was now augmented with live pictures from Kentish Town.

  ‘Sky have something,’ shouted a voice.

  The footage was of a crowd running away from a stationary double decker bus. There was around ten seconds of it which had been looped.

  ‘That’s King’s Cross,’ said Tommi, walking up close to the monitor. ‘And they look shit-scared.’

  The screen cut to a live shot from outside New Scotland Yard. ‘Live statement!’ called Famie. ‘Sound, please.’ She sat, fingers hovering above her keyboard. As an Assistant Commissioner began a prepared statement, Famie started typing.

  ‘Today has seen another attack on the people of London.’ The AC, cap under one arm, glanced down the lens, then back at her notes. ‘Between six forty-five this morning and seven fifteen, seven separate attacks were carried out in seven different parts of the city.’

  Famie had hesitated over the second ‘seven’ and again on the third.

  ‘Seven?’ yelled Sam. ‘Where did that come from?’

  Famie switched to a headphone feed, carried on typing.

  ‘We appeal for any witnesses to come forward as soon as possible and ask that no one share any images or footage of the attacks on social media. If you have any photos or video of the attacks, please send them to the police. We know the victims’ identities and are contacting their families before any more details are announced.’

  She knows, Famie thought. She knows they all work here.

  When she was done, she snapped it, took off the headphones and heard a commotion. All her team were standing, staring over her shoulder. Spinning in her chair, Famie took in bureau chief Andrew Lewis and two armed policemen.

  ‘Christ, this is bad,’ she said.

  4

  ANDREW LEWIS HADN’T asked for silence but he had it anyway. TVs were muted, conversations halted, phones hung up. Stooped and gaunt, he cleared his throat.

  ‘Erm. I, er …’ He looked at his feet and swallowed hard. ‘I have some very bad news, I’m afraid.’ His voice was brittle. ‘I’ve just had a conversation with Assistant Commissioner Creswell at the Met. They, er … know the identities of all seven victims. And … well …’ He raised a shaking hand to wipe his forehead. He spoke slowly now, each word needing to be wrenched from him. ‘They’re all ours, my friends. Every one of them. All ours. Mary you know about. The others are …’ He took a faltering breath. Famie felt her hand grabbed tightly. ‘The others are Harry, Seth and Sarah, Anita, Sathnam and Brian.’

  Each name was a hammer blow. Lewis’s list brought groans and despair. Heads dropped. Seven was impossible. Famie spun back to check her screens, then back to the bureau chief.

  ‘We have lost staff before, of course, killed doing their duty,’ continued Lewis. ‘The job they loved. But we’ve never had a day like this.’ He paused, gathered himself. ‘However, if you’ll allow me … the grief will have to wait – we honestly don’t know if we’re done yet. It is possible there are other attacks we don’t know about.’ Behind Famie, someone vomited, then ran for the toilets. The stench and the retching triggered other rapid exits. ‘Can all desk editors find their staff, please?’ said Lewis, sounding exhausted. ‘All of them. We need a full roll call, now. Any you can’t account for within fifteen minutes, tell me. The building is in lockdown, I’m afraid it’s not safe for any of us to leave. The police, as you can see, are here already.’

  Famie had reported tragedies before, understood how they unfolded. The shock, anger and guilt that they tri
ggered could be – should be – measured and recorded. She was aware that part of her was doing that even now; she read it in her colleagues’ anguished silence or breathless sobbing, recognized the huddled groups giving physical support to each of the enveloped. But the rest of her was shut down. Too stunned to move. Too shocked to join in.

  The seven dead were the Investigations team. Crime reporters, foreign affairs correspondents, technology specialists. All gone. Famie had sat next to them, joked with them, argued with them. For a long time she had wanted to be one of them. If she did a coffee run, she’d count them in. If she was working late, she could count on at least one of them offering her some of their cold pizza. Given the secretive nature of most of their work, they were a gregarious bunch and Famie enjoyed their company.

  Had enjoyed their company.

  She turned in her chair. The team had sat in two lines, three on one side of a long desk, four on the other. Each had a phone, a computer screen and a keyboard, two servers sitting under the desk. There were no drawers, no filing cabinets, no in-trays. There was barely any office detritus save for the photos where Mary had sat, a new pad of Post-it notes left by Sathnam and a large ball of Blu Tack somewhere between Anita and Sarah. It occurred to Famie that it didn’t look like a used work station at all. It looked sterile. It looked wiped clean. In comparison with her desk – most desks – the Investigations team had set new standards of cleanliness.

  ‘You know what the coppers will say.’ It was Sam. She had forgotten he was there. He too was staring at the empty chairs.

  Famie nodded. ‘They’ll say it looks like someone’s tidied up,’ she said. ‘Cleared evidence away. Interfered.’

  ‘That’s because it does look like that.’

  Famie managed a smile. ‘Then we’ll have to explain that they were always like this. It’s what made them good.’

  ‘And weird,’ suggested Sam.

  ‘And weird,’ agreed Famie, and she felt her legs start to shake.

  Her phone lit up. Four missed calls. Famie called her daughter back, and she picked up immediately.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Charlie, I …’ A shriek then a burst of sobbing came from the other end. ‘I’m OK, Charlie,’ Famie said, pushing through the muffled tears and shielding her mouth from the cacophony around her. ‘We might be here a while but I’m OK.’

  Her daughter managed some words at last. ‘Mum, thank God! They woke me in the flat, told me to ring and not look at the news. When I couldn’t get you …’

  Famie walked away from her desk. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie, it kicked off as soon as I started the shift.’ She took a breath. ‘But how did you know …’

  ‘It was a Facebook thing. Names were out there, Martha here saw it, put it together.’

  ‘Really?’ said Famie, momentarily annoyed at the protocol breach. ‘Well it’s bad here, I can’t pretend otherwise.’ She caught herself thinking how much she wished Charlie would be there when she got home; her daughter knew what the pause meant.

  ‘I’ll come home,’ she said. ‘I can be there by four.’

  Famie’s response was instinctive, urgent. ‘Absolutely not, Charlie. We don’t know when we’ll be allowed home, there are armed police here. It’s … not really safe.’ Her voice was tight, her pitch high.

  ‘Mum, you sound terrified.’

  Famie felt the tears come again. ‘Maybe. I hadn’t realized till just now but I guess that’s right. We lost seven today, maybe more. So “terrified” feels about right.’

  ‘Seven?’ Charlie’s voice was more of a gasp.

  Famie closed her eyes, shook her head. ‘We just heard.’

  ‘Who …’ began Charlie, ‘did you … know?’

  Famie didn’t think she could, or should, say it out loud. But it was her daughter and she wanted to tell her. ‘It’s the investigators,’ she whispered. Famie caught the sudden intake of breath.

  ‘Mum, I’m so sorry.’

  Famie gripped the side of her chair. Said nothing. She had told Charlie when she’d applied to be on the Investigations team. Told her too how infuriated she’d been when she was turned down. There was a silence, and Famie knew what was coming. Knew it would be the first uttering of the question everyone would be asking.

  ‘Who would do this, Mum?’ Charlie whispered.

  It was too soon for this, way too soon. ‘I have no idea. Look, I have to go. I’ll call you tonight.’ Famie hung up.

  Sam pushed a coffee in front of her. ‘This one has sugar,’ he said.

  Famie forced a smile.

  He nodded at the phone. ‘And was that you being reassuring?’

  ‘Yup, that was it,’ she said, sipping from the plastic cup. ‘Pretty impressive, huh?’

  ‘You answered,’ he said. ‘You’re alive. If I was Charlie, I’d be pretty damn happy about that.’

  ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

  ‘Second of many.’

  Famie messaged her father, sister and ex-husband. She took a breath.

  A seasoned reporter called Jane Hilton stood on her chair. Grey Agnès B. suit, long layered auburn hair. She shouted above the melee. Urgent, shrill. ‘We need to tell this story, we need to get this out there!’

  ‘Doing it!’ yelled a voice.

  Hilton nodded. ‘It’s the same as for Charlie Hebdo in 2015 and the Capital Gazette in ’18,’ she said. ‘This is the same. Just the same. These are journalists killed for being journalists. We owe it to Mary and her team to tell the world what’s happened.’

  Famie found the word ‘grandstanding’ occurring to her. ‘Getting the story out there?’ she said. ‘What the fuck does she think we’ve been doing?’

  ‘And what is the story exactly?’ muttered Sam.

  Famie scrolled through her phone. ‘Let’s find everyone first,’ she said. ‘For now, that’s the story.’ She pulled a weathered sheet of A4 from a drawer. ‘I’ll call the top five, you call the bottom five. Then get our numbers in.’

  Famie made the calls. She had five pick-ups out of five, Sam just three. ‘No reply from Natalie or Meera. Both went to answerphone.’

  ‘Christ.’

  Famie took her numbers to Andrew Lewis. The bureau chief and his secretary, a bulldog of a woman, were ticking names on what looked like an old printout.

  ‘We’re missing Natalie Lloyd and Meera Elon.’

  Bureau chief and bulldog both nodded, underlining and crossing out without looking up.

  Famie hesitated. ‘Andrew—’

  ‘I don’t know any more,’ he said, cutting her off. He pushed his glasses to the top of his head, flattening his unkempt white hair. ‘I’ve got a call with Peretti in ten minutes, maybe he’ll know more. Though it’s early hours in New York so it’s just as likely he’ll know less.’

  ‘Need a quote, Andrew, I’m Slot.’

  ‘I’ll message it to you.’ He flicked his glasses back to the bridge of his nose and she was dismissed.

  Famie bustled her way back to her desk. If Carlo Peretti, the global head of news, was involved, their fear must be that the agency was being targeted worldwide.

  Famie slumped at her desk. More missed calls. Berlin and Rome this time.

  ‘Nothing like mass murder to bring old friends to life,’ she said.

  5

  THE STORY OF 22 May was soon being told in a series of images that came to appal and fascinate the world. They followed in sequence. The first victim had fallen just short of Euston’s main entrance. Three different Twitter accounts had posted their shock and outrage accompanied by graphic images of her blood-soaked clothes and twisted, tangled body. The Kentish Town ‘coffee and blood’ shot, with Thomas’s body sprawled across several steps, became the front-page picture of that day’s London Evening Standard. The Hussain video showed a slumped man on a zebra crossing and a livid, smeared blood trail marking his crawl to the kerb. The 259 bus pictures were considered the most disturbing – few news outlets ran the images of a woman who had been virtually decapitated �
� but within hours the video had been shared millions of times. There was grainy footage of running passengers at Pimlico followed closely by a man and woman bleeding into a grass verge. By eleven a.m., despite police appeals, it was possible to watch an edited online montage of London’s bloodiest rush hour since 7/7.

  Famie’s shift was barely three hours old.

  6

  FAMIE WAS PERSUADED to relinquish the Slot chair at midday. She’d argued to complete the shift but her trembling hands had given her away. She’d snapped fifty-three stories, and all but one were about the IPS attacks. The link between the murders was established quickly and when armed police appeared outside the Peterson-IPS building the connection was confirmed. Andrew Lewis’s statement, when it finally came, paid tribute to the astonishing bravery and professionalism of the journalists who had died. There was no mention of the Investigations team.

  Lewis, his face candlewax-grey and beaded with sweat as he walked into the office, was the first to offer support. As Famie prised herself from the chair he held out his hand. ‘A tour de force, Famie. Exemplary.’

  She took his hand briefly. ‘We played catch-up, Andrew. All morning. That’s the truth. And I did what anyone else would’ve done. Just don’t offer me any fucking counselling and I’ll be fine.’

  Lewis dredged up a grin. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  She looked around the acre of newsroom, now packed with journalists, security and police. ‘Always wondered how you report the news when you are the news.’ She answered her own question before her boss could open his mouth. ‘And the answer is, you just report the news.’ She felt the beginnings of a headache nagging at the back of her skull. ‘Being Slot was easy, Andrew. That’s the truth of it. But now it’s all real. Everything I snapped is real. It’s all true. It feels like the worst fucking shit show of all time.’

  Lewis bowed his head slightly. ‘That’s really what my statement was aiming to convey. You have, as ever, expressed it more … succinctly.’

 

‹ Prev