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got downstairs, the situation had escalated. It was now
the lead story. The background image was a distant shot of an idyllic
rural village: red tile roofs and a church tower peeking from a stand
of oaks. The news ticker read: SUSSEX SHOOTING: MAJOR INCIDENT
DECLARED.
    There were two presenters, a middle-aged man and a much younger
woman. The man looked grey and tired. The woman was perky and
over-made-up.
    The man said, '. . . have now confirmed a serious shooting in the
Sussex village of Chilton. As yet the extent of the casualties remains
uncertain, but we do know that emergency services are at the scene
in significant numbers, and the Major Incident Plan for Sussex has
been initiated.' The words tumbled around inside Craig's head and
finally made sense. He picked up the phone to try Dad again, then
had a better idea. Abby.
    The number he wanted was on his mobile, and that was in the
kitchen. He discovered the kids had grown bored upstairs and were
watching High School Musical 2 on the little TV/DVD player.
    'I'm hungry,' Maddie announced.
    'Get yourself some sweets.'
    She gave him a sharp look. Such instant capitulation was unheard
of. It prompted a reminder from Tom: 'Mum says we're not allowed
until after tea.'
    'Is Mum here?' Craig said.
    Tom shrugged. Good enough for him.
    On TV the presenters were speaking to a retired chief constable.
While they nudged him towards ever more newsworthy speculation,
Craig listened to a phone ringing. And ringing.
    Then a slightly peeved voice said, 'Craig? It's been a while.'
    'Did I wake you?'
    'Don't be silly. I have a living to earn.'
    Now he made out the hum of traffic in the background. 'Where
are you?'
    A gentle laugh. 'Classified, my dear. I could tell you . . .'
    'I'm watching News 24 . Something about a shooting in Chilton.'
    Her tone quickly changed. 'That's where I'm headed. What have
you heard?'
    'Nothing. I was hoping you'd know.'
    'Sketchy, but the word is another Hungerford.'
    There was a brief, blunt silence. Hungerford is a small market town
in Berkshire. In 1987 a man named Michael Ryan had gone on the
rampage, killing . . . how many?
    Abby said, 'So what's your interest?'
    He went to speak, but his tongue sat like a dry sock in his mouth.
It was almost a surprise when he heard himself say, 'My dad lives there.'
    Abby Clark was a journalist on The Times . Fifteen years ago she and
Craig had started out together on a local paper in Hampshire. Contact
had been pretty sporadic in the past few years, which was entirely
Craig's fault. She had been greatly amused to hear of his move into
features and sports writing, without knowing much about the reasons
that lay behind it. 'Always in search of the easy life, eh?'
    He hadn't taken offence. He never did with Abby. She could say
the most outrageous things to him and get away with it. 'Because
you've got a crush on me,' she'd once teased him, and she was probably
right.
    Now she sought to reassure him. 'I'm sure it's not on the scale of
Hungerford at all. You know what the initial stage is like. All kinds
of rumours buzzing around. Terrorism, accidents, organised crime.'
If that was supposed to allay his fears, it didn't succeed. 'I've tried
phoning but the whole village seems to be cut off.'
    'The police have probably taken the lines down. Or commandeered
them for their own use.'
    'Maybe,' he said. There was another reason why the police would
cut off the phones, but neither of them said it aloud. A hostage
situation.
    'I'm sure he's fine,' Abby said. 'I'll call you the moment I hear
anything. Okay?'
    Despite everything, he smiled. Her concern was quite sincere, but
this was also work. She couldn't afford to have her mobile tied up for
too long on a personal call.
    He tried his father's number again. No connection. On TV there
was a link to a local correspondent in Lewes, standing outside police
headquarters. The correspondent had been told unofficially that casualty
numbers were believed to be 'significant'. The