TANNAHILL EXCUSES HIS WAY THROUGH knots of journalists, heading to the raised stage at the back of the pressroom. Everyone else is already there—Ed Murray, chief press officer, Ian Duncan, commander in charge of Specialist Crime, some woman in a corporate suit he doesn’t recognize who’s probably been drafted in for the same reason he has, namely to improve the diversity and equality optics: one woman—tick; one brown person—tick. Fortunately, the commissioner isn’t there yet, so technically he’s not late, though the CPO glares at him anyway. Tannahill nods a silent greeting to him and the others, takes his place alongside them, and pulls his notes from his pocket, wishing for the hundredth time that the facts they contained were in his head and not in his hand as he turns to face the room.
There are a lot more people here than he had imagined. A lot more. At the back two TV cameras squat on top of tripods, their lenses pointing over the heads of the seated journalists at the lectern standing empty at the front of the stage. The room feels too hot after his brisk walk from the tube and he can feel sweat prickling beneath his jacket and shirt. He blots his forehead with his sleeve, dimly remembering something a police media coach once said about how Richard Nixon sweated his way through the first-ever televised presidential debate and lost the election as a result. Good job he’s not running for president.
He glances down at his notes one last time, his eyes sliding uselessly over the dense blocks of stats, then the burble of conversation stops abruptly and he looks up to see Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis John Rees step onto the platform and take his position behind the lectern.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the commissioner says, his voice a low rumble. “I believe you have all been given a copy of the latest crime statistics, but for the purpose of clarity, and the benefit of the television cameras, I will run through them now, then throw to the floor for questions.”
He lays a single piece of paper on the lectern, then looks back up at the room and proceeds to run through the stats, looking at everyone and no one, never once glancing down at his notes, which makes Tannahill feel even worse about the amateur-hour performance he’s about to give.
He listens to the numbers, his heart sinking lower as the figures get higher: homicide up 6 percent; robbery up 9; domestic violence up 11; knife crime—sorry, “street crime”—with forty-three thousand separate incidents, up 12 percent; total violent crime up 19 percent over the course of the whole year.
Rees opens up the room to questions and Tannahill almost rocks back on his heels with the force of everyone speaking at once. Rees points at a ruddy-faced man in tweeds sitting in the front row.
“Thank you, Commissioner. Bill Nicholson, Daily Telegraph. These figures seem unusually high, any comment on why?”
“Well, post-Covid we are in a particularly challenging economic climate, which traditionally goes hand in hand with higher crime rates. The jump in domestic violence can also be directly tied to lockdown periods caused by the virus, and we expect those numbers to drop back down now. Also, recent technological improvements in crime reporting mean many more crimes are being recorded and categorized more accurately than ever before, particularly in areas such as street crime.” He turns and gestures toward Tannahill. “To give a little more detail and background on these street crime figures in particular I’m going to hand over now to DCI Tannahill Kha—”
“Why do you keep calling it ‘street crime’?” The shouted question cuts Rees off and makes him turn back to the room.
Tannahill scans the crowd for the speaker. “Why do you keep calling it ‘street crime,’” a bald, skinny, suntanned man in running clothes repeats as he stands up and turns slightly toward the TV cameras, “when what you’re clearly talking about is knife crime?”
“Well, the figures include more than just knife crimes,” Rees replies, “and as knife crime does tend to be restricted to the streets, it’s a perfectly accura—”
“What about the woman knifed to death in her house last night?”
The soundman by the TV camera angles a microphone in the bald man’s direction and Rees hesitates, aware that both sides of the conversation are now being recorded.
“Well, as you know I can’t comment on active ca—”
“Lady in Highgate,” the bald man cuts in, addressing the room now, “stabbed to death in her multimillion-pound mansion.” He turns back to Rees. “Looks like ‘street crime’ is no longer confined to the streets.”
Rees pauses for a moment. “Well, as I said, I can’t comment on current cases, so—”
“What if a book explaining how to cover your tracks at a murder scene was found next to this dead woman’s body, a book written by your daughter, Commissioner Rees, would you comment then?”
A murmur sweeps through the room, punctured by the click of cameras and the frantic scribbling of notes.
“No,” Rees replies, “I would not—though I would be very interested to know where you’re getting this information from.”
The bald man smiles. “I bet you would.” He turns back to the room. “Check The Daily website in about half an hour and you’ll see what ‘street crime’ really looks like.” He does air quotes with his fingers when he says “street crime.” “That’s The Daily dot com, always first with the news.” He looks back at Rees, winks, then heads away to the exit.
Hands fly up and the room fills with noise as everyone shouts for the commissioner’s attention.
Rees glances back at Tannahill, as if he’s about to hand the press conference over to him, then he turns back to the room and the clamor intensifies.
Commissioner!
Commissioner!!!
Is knife crime out of control?
Has it left the city streets and spread to the suburbs?
Did your daughter write a book showing how to get away with a crime?
Commissioner!
Commissioner!!!!
Commissioner!!!!!!
Rees scans the room and the noise subsides as he opens his mouth to speak. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, his voice a low rumble beneath the noise of the room. “Any further questions can be directed to the press office.”
Then he steps off the stage and leaves the room.
Tannahill watches, his brain trying to catch up with what just happened. He looks down at the notes, weeks of work rendered irrelevant. The officers next to him start filing off the stage and he follows automatically, glancing across at the room full of journalists, their attention already elsewhere, talking to each other, or into phones hidden behind cupped, conspiratorial hands as they tell their desk editors what just happened here. He was supposed to try and help defuse the bomb of the crime stats, try and “take control of the narrative” by attempting to put a broader, more positive spin on the stories these journalists might write. But there was only one story that was going to run now, and he was lead detective on the case at the center of it.
He steps off the stage, walks through the side exit, and almost collides with Ed Murray, the chief press officer, red-faced at the best of times but now practically scarlet.
“Could be Slade grandstanding to sabotage the press conference,” Murray says, addressing everyone from the stage, who’ve now formed a tight huddle around Commissioner Rees. “Certainly wouldn’t be the first time. I’ll call North London, see what case he might be talking about and issue a denial if he’s got any of his facts wrong.”
“He hasn’t,” Tannahill says, and all faces turn to him. “I came here straight from the crime scene he was talking about. Everything he said is true.”
Murray glares at him as if all of this is his fault. “Including the bit about the book?” he barks.
Tannahill nods.
“Ah, Jesus! Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this before the press conference? Did you not think the press might get hold of it and use it in an ambush?”
Rees holds up his hand to silence him. “If he’d tried to talk to you you’d have told him to stop wasting your time, and isn’t the whole point of an ambush that you don’t see it coming?” He shifts his attention to Tannahill. “Go after the journalist,” he says. “Try and find out what else he knows and how he knows it. His name’s Brian Slade. His dad’s ex-police, which is a whole other story, but basically he knows all the rules so don’t bother trying to lean on him, just offer him an inside line on the investigation, an official one in exchange for cooperation. See what you can find out, then report back to me.”
Tannahill nods but doesn’t move, unsure what the protocol is.
“Go!” Rees says.
Tannahill goes.