Chapter 62
LAUREN
Many years ago, as a uniformed sergeant, Lauren chaired a public meeting at the Civic Centre; an experience akin to being pelted with bread rolls for an hour and a half straight.
-Complaints about littering, dog mess, and children daring to kick balls against residential walls.
Complaints about the police helicopter circling at three in the morning, but also – somewhat paradoxically – complaints about never seeing a copper nowadays.
They’re seeing a fair few now, Lauren thinks, as she heads for the outer rendezvous point.
People are streaming from the buildings on either side of the Civic Centre, PCSOs directing them beyond the outer cordon to the designated safe zones.
It’s bitterly cold, and many of the office workers are in shirt sleeves or thin jumpers.
The children are still making their way to the evacuation zone.
They walk up the pavement in practised pairs, their costumes sparkly and outlandish under hastily buttoned-up coats.
She can hear their excited chatter, too, and, although it’s misplaced, she’s glad they see this as an adventure and not a nightmare.
It’s no adventure for the teachers. One of them – a young woman in a Christmas jumper – is crying, brushing her tears away so the children don’t see.
Another is urging her charges to hurry. An older teacher – more experienced perhaps – is pointing things out as they march briskly away from the Civic Centre.
She has the children spot a fire engine; a police car; an ambulance.
Look for the helpers, Lauren thinks, and she finds herself doing the same; reminding herself that for every bad cop there are a hundred more good ones.
The past sixteen hours have been surreal, but standing here now, amid this organized chaos, the truth feels terrifyingly real.
Fraser had been willing to kill innocent children in pursuit of New Dawn’s ideology.
Blood rushes to her head.
Look for the helpers.
There are many, many helpers. A large white bomb disposal van is parked near the outer cordon, and armed officers in black baseball caps are dotted in pairs around the evacuation zone.
In every direction there are fluorescent jackets, and she feels a flash of pride for all her colleagues putting themselves at risk day in, day out.
Lauren keeps her distance. She listens to the back-and-forth on the radio and pushes her hands into her pockets when she’s tempted to chip in. When you’ve spent years leading a specialist department, it’s hard not to get involved.
All the time, her eyes seek out Fraser. He’ll be here somewhere, she’s sure of it. Where else would he be? She wonders if he’s watching from a safe distance or hiding out in the Civic Centre, prepared to go down in a blaze of glory.
It’s out there now. His name across the airwaves, albeit couched in a narrative designed to minimize gossip and keep focus on the job in hand.
All units, observations please for Detective Sergeant Fraser Hogan.
There is concern for his welfare and officers are asked to report sightings but not engage. Repeat, not engage.
There has been only one sighting: from a PCSO who saw a man he thinks might have been Fraser, leaving the crime scene in the direction of the town centre.
‘I can’t see him now,’ the PCSO had said unhappily, over the radio. ‘He might have gone back inside.’
The police Gold Commander had forbidden anyone to enter the site until the bomb disposal team had arrived, instead positioning officers around the perimeter to report on any movement.
Fraser hasn’t been seen again. Is he still in the Civic Centre? Lauren shivers. It is surreal to think of an entire police force out hunting one of their own. Fraser is – was – a good detective. He’s received commendations, plaudits from members of the public.
There is concern for his welfare.
The careful words will make people believe Fraser has had a breakdown, Lauren supposes, and isn’t it a wild world when that would be the better outcome? Not bad, just mad.
In Northfield Park, the children are clustered in their schools, thirty or so children with three or four teachers apiece.
There are other adults there too, hugging the kids and each other, and Lauren realizes they must be parents.
She wonders if they were all there for the dress rehearsal, or if they’d seen on social media what was happening and dropped everything to be with their kids.
She speaks to the first teacher she comes to. ‘Hi, I’m looking for Elmwood Primary?’
‘We’re from Chestnut Hill, sorry.’ The teacher glances at -Lauren’s radio. ‘Are you police? Do you know what’s happening?’
Lauren is about to tell her that everything is under control – with thirty little faces looking up at her, it’s the only possible answer to give – but she’s interrupted by the radio. She makes an apologetic face and moves away, pressing a finger to her earpiece in explanation.
Then she stands stock-still, taking in what she just heard. Praying for it not to be true.
IEDs found under seats and on the stage.
Improvised explosive devices.
Lauren starts shaking. He really had planned to do it.
He really had intended to sacrifice the lives of all these little kids.
She looks at them all and her teeth start to chatter as though she’s stepped into snow.
Thank God they evacuated. If one of those devices had detonated before everyone had made it out—
‘Lauren!’
She turns to see Nadeeka running towards her, the heels of her office shoes catching on the damp grass.
‘Do you know what’s happening? They said on the news there’d been a bomb threat.
’ As she talks, Nadeeka is checking out each cluster of schoolkids, searching for Elmwood Primary.
Her gaze falls on the woman in the Christmas jumper.
‘That’s Mrs Fairfax! Oh, thank God!’ She runs towards the group. ‘Maya! Nish!’
Lauren follows, scanning the group for Maya’s shimmery costume.
‘Everyone stay where you are!’ The teacher is struggling to be heard over the chatter. She calls to a man with an Elmwood Primary School lanyard. ‘I make it twenty-seven.’ Several of the children are dressed as books; Lauren spots Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and The Worst Witch.
‘Nads!’ It’s Scott, striding towards them, eyes skimming the group to find Maya and Nish.
‘Have you seen the girls? Are you okay?’ Nadeeka fires questions at him, each louder than the last. ‘Where have you been?’
‘The Old Bill held us all at the end of the road for bloody ages. Fucking fascists. I said I needed to find my kids, and the bloke was like, everyone’s trying to find their kids, sir.’
‘Mum!’ Nish comes flying towards Nadeeka.
‘Oh, thank God.’ Nadeeka holds her tight, and as Nadeeka starts crying, Scott puts his arms around them both. Lauren scans the crowd for Maya’s drone costume, but the children are hopping about or running to parents, and it’s impossible to keep track of which kid is which.
‘Where’s Maya?’ Nadeeka says.
‘Count them again,’ the male teacher is saying. ‘There should be twenty-eight.’
Lauren snaps around to look at the teachers, who are now huddled together over a clipboard.
‘There were twenty-eight,’ Mrs Fairfax says. ‘I counted them out as we left the town hall.’ She begins ticking off names on her list, eyes flicking up and down as if she’s marking a bingo card. Her hands are shaking.
‘Mrs Fairfax!’ Nadeeka calls out, breathless. ‘I can’t see Maya.’
The teacher looks up. Her face says it all, and Lauren’s heart plummets. No, no, no . . .
‘Ms Prasanna.’ The teacher’s voice catches. ‘I’m so sorry. Maya isn’t here.’