‘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
