‘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.