Famie had reported tragedies before, understood how they unfolded. The shock, anger and guilt that they triggered 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.