Carnage. Maxime Chattam

and he was more presentable than the hulking Lamar, approaching forty and still wearing an eighties anorak over his enormous shirts. At least today he had spared them his beige and brown striped woolly hat. He had forgotten it in his hurry this morning.

      ‘Lamar,’ Capparel went on, ‘you’ll have to come to the press conference as well, but … er … stand a little behind.’

      Lamar guessed that he would be there to provide the local colour. He would be the token black face to satisfy political correctness.

      ‘Sure,’ he mumbled.

      He turned to Chris. ‘Hang in there, buddy. Your parents are on their way.’

      And then he left with Newton Capparel, who was already running over his spiel for the cameras.

      The black mouths of the cameras were poised to swallow whatever they were offered and Lamar retreated into the shadows. He detested these corners of buildings flooded with light for filming, nests of microphones pointed up at your chin. After a few minutes the floodlights began to generate warmth despite the autumn wind ruffling everyone’s scarves. The effect was surreal, and Lamar found the whole scene disturbing. It was inappropriate and lacking in respect, he thought, whilst being aware that he was out of step with the modern world and its media needs.

      Capparel’s ‘coordinating’ meant that he would benefit from everyone else’s work without lifting a finger. He would write the final report and take all the credit. Lamar was used to his methods, common to all the big shots in the NYPD, who had their eye on a political post in the medium or long term.

      Shortly before eleven o’clock Lamar left the school to return to Precinct 13 on 21st Street in Lower Manhattan where he worked. He got out of his car and went to buy a cup of coffee before going in. He shared his office with one of the teams from the Manhattan homicide squad. As he went into the large room, he heard two men swapping notes and whispering over the file in front of them. The rest of the chairs were empty except for the one opposite Lamar’s. Doris Kennington. She was Lamar’s favourite work partner. As tiny as he was tall, she was a slim blonde, a bundle of nerves and muscle, a keen practitioner of combat sports and the only woman Lamar knew who never missed a single episode of Ultimate Fighting.

      ‘Aren’t you supposed to be working on the massacre in Harlem?’ she said in surprise.

      ‘Capparel has stolen the show.’

      She raised an eyebrow in a gesture that spoke volumes about what she thought of Capparel.

      ‘Mrs Pathrow called from Bellevue Hospital,’ she reported, consulting her notes. ‘Her husband has just died, so the attempted murder charge has been changed to homicide and the DA wants to talk to you about it.’

      Lamar nodded. ‘Is that it?’

      ‘Yes. Maddox and Rod have gone to the West Side. Someone found a body on an apartment balcony. A good start to the homicide day.’

      Lamar quickly checked his emails then grabbed his famous woolly hat and went off to the DA’s office.

      Doris watched him leave with his apologetic stride, his interminable arms hanging by his slim thighs, his orange anorak in one hand. Lamar was a phenomenon, as singular in appearance as he was sensitive inside. A giant who lived on his own and devoted himself to his investigations. Doris felt a pang to see him leave.

      Her eyes went back to the TV, which was silently showing images of the high-school massacre on a loop.

      East Harlem Academy was the starting point of a virus.

      The source of an epidemic.

      Evil was now spreading across the city.

      Very soon it would be manifest everywhere.

      And would kill, again and again.

      Doris leant over and extinguished the tube of doom.

       3

      ‘What hope is there for a world in which the young have gone mad?’ asked the journalist. The voice crackled in the depths of Lamar’s old Pontiac.

      Three weeks had gone by since the killings in Harlem.

      There had been another massacre at a high school in Queens a few days ago. Twenty-two dead and thirty-one wounded. The crazed gunman, a pupil at the school, had fled after his shoot-out. He had been found at home, having killed himself with a shot to the head.

      Neither Lamar nor his closest colleagues had attended – it was outside their jurisdiction. Detectives from Queens had speedily concluded their investigation.

      Two teenagers in ten days had opened fire on their schoolmates. The media were obsessed with the story. New Yorkers were beginning to agonise. The entire city trembled in incomprehension.