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
