by Mayo, Simon
His bulldog appeared and pointed at a policewoman four desks away, heavily braided cap again under her arm.
‘Excuse me, Famie.’ He raised an acknowledging hand at the Assistant Commissioner. ‘And thank you again for this morning.’
She touched his arm, holding him back.
‘Is it over?’ she said. ‘Is that it?’ She knew it was a dumb question, embarrassed and surprised she’d even asked it. How could he possibly know? She let it hang between them anyway and Lewis seemed to deflate in front of her. For a moment she thought he was about to cry, but instead he mumbled ‘I need to talk to the Assistant Commissioner’ and walked away, the bulldog at his heels.
Famie joined Tommi, Sam and the crowd of end-of-shift workers by the large tinted windows. The plaza was empty. Canary Wharf tube station was still closed, the bike stalls and cafés deserted.
‘They’ll have to let us out soon,’ said Sam. ‘Whatever level of threat there is, we can’t all stay here.’
‘Smells bad enough already,’ said Tommi.
Famie realized she’d been sweating profusely. ‘I smell bad enough already.’
‘And we can hardly all be escorted home,’ said Sam.
Their conversation was muted, one of many huddled discussions happening along the length of the windows.
‘So maybe we have to sleep here.’
Famie’s eyes closed and she pressed her forehead against the glass. Her guts churned.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ whispered Sam.
‘I’m sure you do, Sherlock,’ she whispered back, ‘I’m sure you do.’ She took a breath. He knew, but she was going to say it anyway. ‘When I didn’t get on that team, I was so pissed off …’
‘We remember,’ said Sam. ‘Boy, do we remember.’
‘I had everything they said they were after. I had Pakistan, I had Iraq, I had crime …’
‘Well, whatever it was you didn’t have,’ said Sam, ‘thank God you didn’t have it.’
‘I think I might, Sam. Every day.’ Her breath briefly fogged up a few inches of window.
Famie thought of her daughter and the ten-year-old photo of her running through waves in Cornwall. The straw hat. The blue and white swimsuit Charlie loved so much. That was a good holiday. She thought of her parents – that hadn’t happened for a while – how they’d wanted to come and help when Jim had walked out. And how she’d refused, determined to manage it herself.
What a selfish cow, she thought.
Then the Twitter and YouTube images of the seven dead played again and she saw Seth’s blood smeared over the road. The white of the zebra crossing, the red of Seth Hussain. She fought the nausea, pressing her forehead against the cold glass.
Over the newsroom chatter, they heard Jane Hilton’s clipped tones. Sam and Tommi turned to watch. Standing in front of a permanent, fixed camera she was answering questions from some unseen TV anchor.
‘Shocked and devastated of course,’ she said. ‘The journalists we lost today were some of our finest.’
Famie snorted. ‘Bet she couldn’t name any of them,’ she said to the window. ‘Not one.’
Hilton was nodding at the interviewer’s question. ‘It’s too early to speculate, of course. For the moment we just need to stand with our fallen colleagues.’
‘Oh please spare us the bullshit,’ said Famie. ‘Say how sad you are and get the fuck off the screen.’
Tommi smiled. ‘Just a little too loud, Fames. Heads are turning.’
‘Think I’ll cope,’ she said.
Lewis and Assistant Commissioner Creswell returned then and Sam tapped Famie on the shoulder.
‘Here we go.’
The bureau chief led Creswell to a point in the middle of the newsroom and again, within a few seconds, they had all the quiet they could need. All around the periphery people stood, a few even clambering on to chairs. Lincoln Jeffers, one of the newest subs and the current Slot, spun his chair, then stood too. The AC took a step forward. Mid-forties, short silver hair, broad shoulders. She did a three-sixty sweep of the room.
‘Can I say first that these words are for you alone.’ She projected just as much as she needed to. Measured, Home Counties. ‘I’ll be speaking to the press – the rest of them – when I leave here but you’re entitled to know as much as I can tell you. Your seven colleagues were, we believe, targeted deliberately by seven different murderers, all working together. We don’t as yet have any images of the attackers but we do have eye-witness reports and are working to get some e-fits published. We’ll get some CCTV pictures I’m sure, possibly dash-cam and head-cam images too. Obviously the stories the investigators were working on will need to be examined as a matter of urgency. Please consider their office a crime scene. It has, as you will have noticed, been sealed.’
Most eyes flicked back to the investigators’ office, now with yellow police tape running the length of the door jamb. Inside, nothing had been moved: photos, Post-it notes, computers, Blu Tack – a still-life in tragedy. Famie wondered what secrets those soon-to-be examined hard drives would reveal.
‘Many of you,’ continued the Assistant Commissioner, ‘may have had conversations pertaining to what your colleagues were working on. Needless to say, if there is anything you can tell us, please come forward. That investigation has already begun. If you wish to speak in confidence, I’ll leave some of my cards here. My phone and email are on them.’
Famie felt her insides churn again. She’d heard a thousand police statements before. They were routine, formulaic. By necessity, they were perfunctory, cold affairs; here’s what we know, here’s what we’d like to know, here’s how you can help us. But hearing the events of the morning, the deaths of her friends, discussed in this way was deeply distressing. ‘Hard-bitten’ was a cliché often attached to journalists but Famie could tell she wasn’t the only one struggling. Some were biting back tears, others questions. The AC began another three-sixty but there were so many veteran question-shouters present it was just a matter of time before the dam burst. The first of them, Jane Hilton, triggered the flood.
Are we safe here?
Are we safe going home?
Has the killing stopped?
Who do you believe is responsible?
Why did you confirm it as a terrorist attack?
Is the freedom of the press under attack?
Lewis tried to impose some kind of order but the Assistant Commissioner nodded her acceptance of the questions.
‘OK, OK, in brief. I’ll take some of them. Is the freedom of the press under attack? Yes, I think it is. Has the killing stopped? We think so, but we cannot be certain. And are you safe here or at home?’ For the first time, Creswell hesitated before answering. ‘My honest assessment is that I cannot say that you are. Until we know who carried out these attacks and why, no, you are not safe. Here or at home.’
7
‘READY?’
‘Of course we’re ready, Tommi,’ said Famie. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic.’
‘Right then,’ said Sam, ‘let’s be having you.’ He hoisted a small rucksack over one shoulder.
The marbled entrance lobby of the IPS building – elegant, curving steps, angled reception desk, huge TV monitor – was teeming with staff. Around Famie, many were on their phones, huddled in muted, nervous conversations. There was no jostling, no rush for the exit, just a hundred and ninety-two journalists fearful of their journey home, waiting for the doors to be unlocked.
‘Was she off-message?’ said Sam as they all inched forward. ‘You know, just a little?’
‘Certainly not what anyone was expecting,’ agreed Tommi. ‘Coppers are always supposed to be reassuring.’
‘Sure,’ said Famie, ‘if there’s anything to be reassuring about.’
Famie and Tommi were shoulder to shoulder, Sam squeezing in behind them.
‘We don’t have to go,’ Sam said. ‘Lewis said they’d put us up somehow. Get bedding in and everything.’
Tommi shrugged.
‘And I’m sure the dozen or so who took him up on his offer will have a fine old time. The rest of us seem to be taking our chances in the new Wild West.’
Through the revolving doors the police were preparing for the mass exodus. Those posted by the doors held semiautomatic carbines, one hand on the pistol grip, the other resting on the barrel.
‘Well at least we won’t die between here and the tube station,’ muttered Sam. ‘You sure about this, Famie?’
All staff had been offered cabs. Hundreds of London’s black taxi drivers had volunteered to ferry IPS staff home. Currently the only traffic in South Colonnade was the largest cab rank London had ever seen.
‘It is tempting, but what does it solve?’ she said. ‘We get home tonight, but tomorrow? And the next day? Transport Police are everywhere. The tube is open again, it’ll be quicker, and you won’t have to listen to some god-awful talk-radio-inspired shite theory about what’s going on and what we should be doing about it.’
Sam laughed, briefly. ‘You got a point there. Tube it is.’
The advice had been to take the cabs, stay behind or travel in groups. At Famie’s suggestion the three of them, all northeast Londoners, would travel together. Sam and Tommi would escort Famie home, then Tommi said he’d stay at Sam’s. She hadn’t accepted an escort since college days but today she didn’t argue.
‘Lanyards off, IDs away!’ someone near the doors shouted and the few remaining staff advertising their IPS employment hurriedly stowed the evidence. Famie’s was already in a small shoulder bag, Tommi’s in his back pocket.
The glass doors started to revolve and the crowd inched forward again. Outside, the police began to beckon them through. It was the theatre of it that quietened the crowd. Their workplace had been transformed from the mundane into the extraordinary. This was something they’d done hundreds, thousands of times without thinking; now it was covered live as ‘breaking news’, the giant screen in the lobby filling with shots of scurrying staff and departing taxis.
The throng of staff narrowed as it approached the exit, the doors now spinning at a constant speed, spitting out journalists. Tommi walked out first, then Famie and Sam. Two policemen waved them left. ‘Taxis up on South Colonnade, quick as you can, please.’
Famie turned right. ‘We’re taking the tube, thanks.’ She wasn’t sure why she’d felt the need to explain to the officer. Maybe she was still rationalizing it to herself.
As it turned out there were plenty taking the tube option: she guessed maybe twenty others were opting for the steps down to the plaza. Six Transport Police officers stood at the entrance to the station. They nodded at Famie, Tommi and Sam as they walked past.
‘I need a drink,’ said Sam.
‘You need to get home,’ said Famie.
On the escalator, Tommi turned to face his colleagues. ‘Honest question,’ he said. ‘Are you scared?’ He glanced from Famie to Sam. ‘Do you think we’re in danger? Doing this?’
They both said ‘Yes’ together.
‘A bit,’ Famie added, ‘but not much.’
‘So … just a bit of danger?’ queried Tommi.
They walked past another pair of Transport Police on to a sparsely populated platform. Everyone knew everyone else, and when an empty train pulled in all the IPS staff got in the same carriage.
‘Enough danger for everyone to do this anyway,’ Famie said, gesturing around at her colleagues.
Two policemen walked up to the carriage’s doorway; one nodded at a uniformed guard and the doors closed. The officers stood together at one end of the car, eyeing the passengers.
A woman opposite Famie cleared her throat. ‘We’re all IPS,’ she said to the uniforms.
‘We know,’ said one of them. He pulled the ventilation window behind him shut. ‘There was no one on this train till Canary Wharf. Special instructions.’ He adjusted his cap. ‘And we’re sorry for your loss.’
Heads nodded in appreciation.
‘How far are you riding?’ called another voice.
‘Till you all get off. Then we go back and do it again.’
‘So how far are you all going?’ asked the other officer. Most said Waterloo and Green Park, the furthest station being Baker Street. ‘We stay on till Baker Street then,’ he said.
The train pulled into Canada Water but the platform was deserted and the doors opened, then closed.
‘What have you heard?’ said Tommi. ‘About today?’
Both policemen looked unsure of themselves, exchanging the swiftest of glances.
‘Off the record,’ added Tommi. ‘No one will quote you.’
The older of the two, bearded and stocky, shrugged. ‘They wouldn’t tell us, we’re too lowly. We’re as much in the dark as you. Off the record.’
Now it was Tommi who shrugged. ‘So none of us know jack shit then.’
The London Bridge platforms were busy. As they pulled in and the train slowed, Famie, along with most of her colleagues, stared at the waiting passengers – the usual crowd of commuters and tourists, maps, bags and coffees in hand, waiting for the train to stop. She held her breath as the doors opened. She thought about that taxi she had turned down. One of the police officers, the stocky one, walked to the middle of the carriage. Making a show, she reckoned, and she was glad of it.
Of the ten or so new travellers, most sat, a few choosing to stand, the closest just a few metres away. An exhausted-looking woman in her sixties, rucksack on her back, big headphones on her head, held on to the rail with both hands.
Sam was watching too. ‘Why doesn’t she sit down?’ he whispered. ‘There’s plenty of seats.’
Famie smiled. ‘Thanks,’ she said. To his look of puzzlement she added, ‘I thought it was just me. Being paranoid. “People behaving strangely on the tube” will turn out to be a big subject.’
Sam snorted, put his hand in front of his mouth in embarrassment, then joined in the laughter from his colleagues. The woman, oblivious, stared at the floor.
As they approached Green Park, Famie, Sam and Tommi stood, acknowledged their friends and waited by the doors. Famie caught her reflection in the glass, then looked away. How she looked was how she felt – devastated. Her glasses hid the shadows around her eyes but the tube lights found every line, every imperfection. ‘This is no way to live,’ she said.
They walked the connecting corridors and escalators in a grim silence. On the platform once again – ‘next train one minute’ – Famie thought she’d had enough. ‘You guys don’t need to do this. Go home.’
Sam and Tommi didn’t move.
‘Are you mad?’ said Sam. ‘We’re sticking to the plan. We deliver you to your door.’
‘Like you’re a pizza,’ added Tommi.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll be sure to tip you a few quid.’
The Piccadilly Line train was surprisingly quiet and they sat in adjacent seats. Sam looked around. The nearest passenger was at the other end of the carriage and, slumped over the arm rest, appeared to be asleep.
‘So,’ said Sam, his voice as quiet as he could make it, ‘what were they working on? The investigators. Do we know?’
Tommi shook his head slowly. ‘No idea. They never really spoke to me, to be honest.’
Both men looked at Famie. She chewed her lip.
‘I’ve been trying to remember. Mary did talk vaguely about a big story she had. Said they’d dropped everything to see what they could do with it.’ She looked at her friends. ‘And that’s it.’ She shrugged. ‘The whole point of being an investigator is that you don’t talk about the investigation. So it’s not surprising if no one knows about it.’
The sleeping man woke up and lurched upright. They all watched him until he slumped again.
‘Wow we’re suspicious,’ said Tommi, ‘even of him.’
‘Especially of him,’ said Sam. ‘We have to be, don’t we? Until we know who the killers are, don’t we have to be suspicious of everyone?’
Famie put her head in her hands. ‘W
hat a life we have to look forward to,’ she said.
Her headache was back and suddenly she couldn’t wait to get home. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I just need to do this.’ She fished out her headphones, hit play on her phone. She knew Sam and Tommi would be raising eyebrows but she didn’t care. Eyes closed, her Magic Flute had work to do. A few brief moments of peace, then she felt her sleeve being tugged. The train was slowing.
‘Our stop, I think,’ said Sam, loudly.
Famie nodded. ‘I can hear you,’ she said, ‘but I can also hear Mozart. And he’s winning.’
The doors opened and they walked to the steps.
‘Fucking Mozart’s not taking you home though, is he,’ said Sam.
Famie, aware she was being annoying, removed the headphones. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘A bad habit.’
‘Feel better?’ asked Sam.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did we miss something?’ said Tommi, taking a left out of the station.
‘You did,’ said Famie. ‘You missed everything. You should try it some time.’
‘Will it make me as miserable as you?’ asked Tommi.
‘Quite likely.’
They walked to the park that led to Famie’s flat. A pink and white ice cream van was by its entrance, the vendor ensconced behind a newspaper. Famie hurried them into the grounds.
‘My God, I’m even worried about the ice cream seller,’ she said. ‘This is so bad …’
The green spaces of Arnos Park opened up in front of them, one tree-lined path snaking through the centre, a narrower, circuitous route forking left and right. With the exception of a few dog-walkers and a sleeping tramp on a bench, they had it to themselves.
‘Surprisingly empty,’ said Tommi, the note of suspicion unmissable.
‘I’m not normally here in the early afternoon,’ said Famie, ‘but you’re right. Pretty deserted.’
‘In a bad way?’ said Sam, unsure of what Famie was thinking. ‘You want to re-route?’
The wide-open space should have been reassuring but Famie hesitated. Even with her friends, she felt vulnerable, exposed. She resisted the urge to put her headphones back on. Six dogs, four dog-walkers and a hobo was hardly Mean Streets.