As for Whelan’s office: that was more fodder for the gossips. His predecessor, Dame Ingrid Tearney—a sweet old lady who drank fresh blood for breakfast—had occupied a room in the grand, and grandly visible, section of Regent’s Park whose windows overlooked the park itself, and whose walls were dappled in summer by the shadows of waving branches. But Whelan had decided that his place was among his staff, most of whom laboured away hidden from sunlight, if you didn’t count the spring-effect bulbs. And so he’d taken one of the smaller offices on the hub, an open-hearted gesture which immediately endeared him to the junior spooks, but put everyone else’s back up.
“By mid-afternoon, the flash-mob announcement had been retweeted over four hundred times and a page had appeared on Facebook. This was the work of one Craig Harrison, twenty-two, unemployed, of Bristol. We’re almost certain he’s innocent of anything more than an enthusiasm for public mischief, but the fact that he didn’t actually attend the gathering sounded alarm bells. His story is that he couldn’t afford the train fare to London, but nevertheless wanted to be part of what he describes as a ‘messin’ bang.’ Once the penny had dropped that a bang is precisely what ensued, Mr. Harrison was quick to add that this is a slang term for a party, and he was not admitting prior knowledge of the attack. Investigation has borne out his claim to poverty, but as we speak, Mr. Harrison’s interrogation has yet to be concluded.”
But a few ruffled feathers aside, things had gone smoothly so far. Claude Whelan’s breezy entrance may have made papers rustle, even blown one or two from unregarded shelves and cast them fluttering to the floor, but it hadn’t caused locks to fall apart, or twisted handles on doors best left shut. “That chap Whelan,” a voice Down the Corridor had remarked, “underneath it all, he’s One of Us.”
Sometimes, that’s all it takes.
“So what about the event itself? Our bomber can be reasonably assured of a crowd turning up, because his target audience will respond to the call of Twitter. That would have been enough for some of his ilk, but no, he wants an actual party to happen, because he knows that that will magnify the horror of the event a hundredfold. A thousand. Now, I’m not going to apologise for showing you the footage again, though God knows we’ve seen it often enough already, but the definition here’s higher than we’ve managed so far. Here’s what we have.” He raised a hand and clicked his fingers. “There. Now we’re looking at the CCTV film. The shopping mall, the kids arriving, the trio with the music machine.” He waved an imaginary baton at a point in the air behind him. “And
He paused, as if allowing his invisible audience to soak in the invisible scene he’d freeze-framed.
“These three boys. We know from the radio chatter that at least one of Westacres’ security guards, one Samit Chatterjee, guessed something was up when they appeared. Good for him, though sadly he was among the victims. The boys are Jacob Lee, Lucas Fairweather and Sanjay Singh. All sixteen, all at the same local school, inseparable friends according to reports. None with any known involvement with any extremist groups, none with any kind of police record . . . except for Fairweather.”
With a gesture, he aimed his imaginary baton at Fairweather, around whose non-existent image a black circle was no doubt appearing.
“Fairweather was cautioned last June after being arrested at a party that got out of hand. The party was in a house belonging to the parents of another schoolfriend. They were away, and their son’s planned party ended up being tweeted about—initially by Fairweather—so the expected hundred-or-so guests morphed into a mob about two thousand strong. It made the national press, and brought the unfortunate parents storming back from holiday eager to press charges on ringleaders. Fairweather, like I say, was one of them, and while charges weren’t actually brought, he enjoyed fifteen minutes’ notoriety. And that, we think, is what attracted the attention of our bomber.”
Another pause. Perhaps the film moved forward a few jerky frames. Perhaps it remained frozen on the image of three youths, one of them carrying a large black holdall; all of them—boys, bag, futures—now blasted into nothingness.
“On the same morning the first tweet went out, Lucas Fairweather received a text message from a pay-as-you-go mobile. It read, ‘Lucas, want some laughs?’ He replied ‘Who U?’ ‘Friend,’ the stranger replied. And so it went on. The full transcript is in your folders. By the thirty-eighth exchange, Lucas Fairweather and the stranger, who was calling himself Dwight Passenger, were the best of friends. And Passenger had persuaded Lucas to provide the music for the flash-mob. Excuse me.”
Claude Whelan took a sip of water from the glass on the table in front of him. Then said:
