‘No sound, though?’
‘Unfortunately not.’ He gestured at the screen. ‘Their tweets are starting to come through now, all with the hashtag ISIS6.’
‘Who’s Silver Commander there?’
Lumley looked at his notepad. ‘Inspector Ross Edwards.’
‘Can you get him for me?’ Kamran went back to his desk to get his coffee but realised the mug was empty.
Inspector Adams rushed into the suite. ‘There’s been another, sir. An ARV’s on the way. A pub in Marylebone. The Grapes.’
‘How many hostages?’ asked Kamran.
‘We don’t know for sure. But a pub at lunchtime. Dozens, maybe.’
Kamran sighed. ‘Okay. As soon as you’ve found out who the Silver Commander is at the pub scene, let me know. In the meantime make sure Fire Brigade and Ambulance know what’s going on and where they’re needed. And we’re going to need one of TfL’s traffic experts in here. All those road closures are going to play havoc with the traffic flow.’
‘I’ve had Transport for London on twice now asking if they should close the Tube down.’
‘That’s not our call,’ said Kamran.
‘That’s what I said and suggested they call the mayor’s office. They did and the mayor passed them back to us.’
Kamran’s brow furrowed. It looked as if no one wanted to make a decision, which during a crisis tended to be par for the course. No one was ever punished for indecisiveness but plenty of careers had been ended by a wrong decision taken in the heat of the moment. ‘I’ll talk to him,’ he said.
Adams smiled his thanks and left. Lumley stood up. ‘Inspector Edwards is holding on line two.’
‘Thanks, Joe. Do me a favour and get me a coffee, and as soon as I’m done with Inspector Edwards, see if you can put me through to the mayor.’
Kamran picked up the phone and sat down. ‘Ross, long time no see. How’s the wife?’
‘All good, Mo. The chemotherapy’s taking its toll but the doctors are pleased with her progress.’
Kamran had been Edwards’s sergeant at Savile Row police station almost a decade earlier and the two men had always got on well together. Their paths had continued to cross, and a few months earlier they’d had a catch-up drink during which Edwards had revealed that his wife had been diagnosed with breast cancer. ‘Give her my love, please.’
‘I will, Mo. Thanks.’
‘So how are things there?’
‘We’ve one ARV and we’re waiting for more. The floors have been cleared and within the next five minutes or so we should have the whole centre to ourselves. I’m waiting for a negotiating team and until they arrive we’re keeping our distance.’
‘We’re getting a live feed from the video in the shop. Are you seeing it?’
‘I’m in the security centre now. So yes.’
‘Looks to me as if there’s only the one way in and out.’
‘That’s right, there’s no back entrance to the shops.’
‘Are you planning on a face-to-face negotiation?’
‘I was going to leave that up to the experts, Mo. There’s a phone in the shop we can use. Just be aware there’s a lot of glass around. If he does detonate it’ll cause mayhem.’
‘Okay, we’ll be watching on the video feed but keep us posted.’
‘How many others are there?’
‘Five plus you. The first was in Brixton, then the Southside shopping centre, followed by Fulham, Kensington and Marble Arch. And I’ve just been told about a pub in Marylebone.’
‘This is a fucking nightmare, isn’t it?’ said Edwards.
‘You said it.’
MARYLEBONE (12.08 p.m.)
‘Shit! Please tell me we’re not the first on the scene,’ said PC Connor O’Sullivan, as he brought the patrol car to a halt outside the Grapes. There were half a dozen people standing on the pavement looking at the pub but none of them was wearing uniform and there were no emergency vehicles in the street.
‘Luck of the Irish,’ said the PC in the front passenger seat, Emma Wilson.
‘This isn’t funny, Emma,’ said O’Sullivan. He had been with the Met just three years and Wilson had even less experience. They had been heading out to offer home-security advice to a couple of pensioners in St John’s Wood when the call had come in and there had been no one else to take it. A reported suicide bomber and hostages. O’Sullivan’s heart was racing and he fought to stave off the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. A suicide bomber? A fucking suicide bomber? His hands were shaking as he turned off the engine.
‘Where are the ARVs?’ he muttered.
‘En route,’ she said. ‘We just have to hold the fort until a senior officer gets here.’
‘So we just stay in the car, right?’
‘No, Connor, we get out and do our job.’ She patted his knee. ‘We’ve been trained for this. We just follow the protocols and we’ll be fine.’
‘A fucking suicide bomber, Emma.’
She forced a smile. ‘It’s a major incident and we treat them all the same,’ she said. ‘SADCHALETS, remember?’
O’Sullivan nodded. He remembered the mnemonic:
S — Survey the scene.
A — Assess the situation and gather information.
D — Disseminate the information to the control centre.
C–Casualties: check the number of dead and injured. Hopefully none, so far.
H — Hazards: identify the existing hazards. Presumably a deranged suicide bomber.
A — Access and Egress for emergency vehicles.
L–Locate: confirm the exact location of the incident.
E — Emergency services and evacuation: list which will be needed.
T — Type: assess the type of incident and its size.
S — Start a log and review safety.
‘But there’s only two of us. How do two of us do all that?’
‘We’re just the first. There’ll be more on the way. We just start the ball rolling.’ She patted his knee again. ‘It’ll be fine.’
O’Sullivan reached for his hat and opened the door. He pressed his transmit button and spoke into his radio: ‘Bravo Delta Three responding to the incident at the Grapes.’
‘I’ll clear the area,’ said Wilson, as she got out of the car. She hurried over to the onlookers. ‘Folks, please clear the area, it’s not safe here.’
‘They said there’s a suicide bomber in there,’ said a teenager in baggy sweatpants and Puffa jacket.
‘Which means you all need to move away,’ said Wilson. ‘Now!’
She looked over her shoulder. O’Sullivan was still on the radio, reporting to the control room. To be honest, she felt as out of her depth as he clearly did. They were just PCs and this was a major incident.
‘So it’s true?’ said a young woman with a toddler in a pushchair.
‘Yes, it’s true,’ said Wilson. ‘Now come on, move along.’
‘Let me get a selfie first,’ said the woman, turning so that her back was to the pub. She raised her smartphone and pouted for the camera.
‘Folks, you’re really going to have to move,’ said Wilson. She was close to shouting but no one appeared to be paying her any attention.
O’Sullivan jogged over to join her. ‘Fire and Ambulance are on their way.’
A black BMW SUV screeched to a halt behind their patrol car and three armed officers dressed in black ran over. ‘What the fuck are these civilians doing here?’ shouted a sergeant.
‘I was just moving them along, sir,’ said Wilson.
‘Well, bloody get on with it,’ snapped the sergeant. ‘You need to establish an inner cordon immediately. Where’s the Silver Commander?’
‘There’s no one else here at the moment,’ said O’Sullivan.
‘Well, consider me acting Silver,’ he said. He lifted his chin and glared at the crowd of onlookers. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you need to clear the area now!’ he shouted. ‘Anyone still here in ten seconds will be arrested for obstruction. I need you to be at least one hundred yards from here. Move!’