All the Hidden Truths

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The sight that greeted her was an embarrassing government inquiry waiting to happen. Students were streaming out of every building: most from the main reception doors, trampling over one another like cattle, many of them screaming. Others were appearing from fire escapes and side doors, with no effort being made to corral them. Some were running for the safety of undergrowth at the campus perimeter, stupidly crossing open stretches of tarmac and grass where they could have been picked off by sniper fire. Worse: many more were milling around close to the buildings, and staring open-mouthed at the upper floors. As Birch pushed open the door, the car filled with the shrill pinging of the college fire alarm: a sound seemingly designed to incite chaos.

A few metres away, Park and two male uniformed officers were crouching in the shadow of a police panda car. Park was talking on the radio: Birch could hear her voice. There should be four of them, she thought. That was who Park had meant when she said someone had gone inside: her partner.

“Christ,” Birch hissed. She pushed her driver’s door out to its widest point, and stepped from the car in a crouch. The door wouldn’t do much to protect her from a bullet, depending on the type of gun, but being behind it felt better than nothing.

“PC Park.” Birch had to shout over the fire alarm and the general student cacophony. The girl looked up, her face a mask of terror. “It’s DI Birch. How long since the last shot was fired?”

There was a pause. “I don’t know, ma’am,” the girl yelled. “I’m sorry. I think it’s . . . it might be a good fifteen minutes now.”

“Okay.” The car was alive with chatter: voices on every channel, dispatch communicating with ambulances, fire, and those all-important guys with guns. Birch reached behind her.

“Charlie Alpha, this is Birch,” she said. “I’m at the scene. Where the hell’s this armed response unit?”

A female dispatcher replied: it seemed all hands had been brought on deck, and in the midst of her panic, Birch felt glad the smarmy male voice was gone.

“This is Charlie Alpha. DI Birch, are you the commanding officer at the scene, over?”

Birch crouched behind the scant cover of her car door. A male student whipped past, heading for a patch of trees. “Oh my God,” the boy said, apparently to her. “I think Liz is dead. I think she’s dead.”

She watched him until he made it to a decent hiding place, then turned back to look at Park and the two constables. One of the men had begun to cry, though he was trying to hide it.

“Oh Jesus, Charlie Alpha,” Birch said. “I think I must be.”