Broken Homes (PC Peter Grant) (34 page)

Then I had to wait about two minutes for the metal to cool off, which made me wonder whether I could get Varvara Sidorovna to teach me the
formae
for that freeze-ray she kept flinging at me.

Finally I used the end of my baton to prise the door open and, keeping the baton extended and ready, I stepped inside the flat. If she’d really moved out or been evicted then she certainly believed in travelling light. The flat was dirty in the way I remembered from the last time I lived with a bunch of male coppers, not squalid but unkempt with dirt accumulating in the corners. My mum wouldn’t have tolerated it. In the bedroom, underwear hung halfway out of drawers, the duvet was rumpled and the pillows had fallen on the floor. The living room was nasty with a filled ashtray acting as a centrepiece for a stained coffee table – no obvious signs of paraphernalia, I noticed.

Out in the hallway of the flat Toby sneezed, raising a little cloud of tan-coloured dust. I hadn’t noticed him follow me in.

Dust covered half the hallway and was concentrated in front of the door of a storage cupboard to the left of the front door. I could see where heavy boots had ground the dust into the imitation wood flooring.

‘Many men have passed this way, Toby,’ I said and remembered Stephen’s complaint about the drilling. ‘Carrying heavy DIY equipment.’

Stromberg had designed Skygarden to be supported by nine big pillars that ran up the height of the tower. He’d tried to keep them from intruding into his nice rectilinear flats, but four of the flats on every level ended up with the rounded circumference in what was supposed to be their bathroom. Stromberg’s solution was to pretend that he’d always intended the bathrooms to be the size of a telephone box and build a ‘cupboard space’ around the curved side of the pillar.

I think I must have subconsciously known what I was going to find, because I found myself opening the cupboard door very carefully. When I saw what was inside I stopped breathing.

A grid of holes had been drilled into the concrete of the support pillar and then stuffed with a material that looked exactly like grey Plasticine. From their squidgy ends protruded grey cylinders which sprouted wires which were neatly gathered and fed down into a grey container the size and shape of cashbox that had been securely duct-taped to the pillar.

I wondered what would happen if I just yanked all the detonators out at once. Then I noticed a yellow post-it note that had fallen to the floor below the box. I picked it up and read,
This device has been fitted with counter measures. Please do not tamper, as being blown up often offends.

I
t was the utter brazenness that frightened me. Whoever had planted the explosives hadn’t been worried about anyone seeing them. Which meant what? That they assumed nobody would break the County Gard seals? Or, worse, because they’d detonate too soon for anyone to find them?

I couldn’t remember a single step of any procedure relating to the discovery of a bomb, but I was pretty certain that step one wasn’t hyperventilating.

No, step one was to scream for help, but in a measured and sensible fashion. And don’t use your mobile or airwave, in case the RF set off the detonator. Since Emma had walked out of her flat with just the clothes she was wearing, the first thing I did was check her landline – not a wireless handset thank god – and found it had a dialling tone. I punched 999 and identified myself to CCC who asked me to confirm where I was exactly and that a bomb was on the premises.

I remembered Stephen complaining about the noise of the drilling, but he’d said that it was downstairs from the flat and I didn’t doubt his hearing – not when it came to rock and concrete. If there was more than one drill site, then the chances were that more bombs had been drilled into the support pillars. My friendly neighbourhood Faceless Man was going to pancake the building in a controlled explosion.

‘Not just one bomb, they’ve drilled into the primary supporting structure,’ I said. ‘I have reason to believe that they plan to bring down the whole building, for which they would need multiple IEDs at multiple locations. They also left a note saying that the IED was booby trapped.’

The Met has a tin ear for operational mnemonics, and the one for being the first officer on the scene at a major incident is SADCHALETS.
Survey;
oh god there’s a bomb.
Assess;
oh god there’s more than one bomb and everyone in the tower will die.
Disseminate;
oh god there’s a bomb, we’re going to die, send help. For the life of me I couldn’t remember the CHALETS bit –
Casualties, Hazards
, something, something and I remembered that the last S stood for
Start a Log
because it was such an obvious cheat.

The operator asked me whether the device was Falcon.

I told her that this was a Falcon-involved operation, but that the device appeared to be ordinary. There was another couple of seconds while this was digested. They told me to leave the vicinity of the device right away, but before I hung up I told them that Lesley was downstairs and gave them her mobile number.

Then I hung up.

I crept back into the corridor and looked at the bomb. It really did look like Plasticine and there was a screaming bit of my brain that was persistently trying to convince the rest that that’s all it was.

The Major Incident Procedure Manual has a long list of things the first officer on the scene is supposed to do and at the end, with its own section number, are the words,

The first officer on scene must not get personally involved in rescue work in order to fulfil the functions listed above.

The first response vehicle would be less than two minutes away, the London Fire Brigade no more than five. The first priority would be to evacuate, and they’d start at the bottom and work their way up. I was already on the twenty-first floor – there were five balcony floors between me and the roof, each consisting of two-storey flats. If I worked my way from where I was, then I might get them clear before the building went.

And this is where the Job kills you, because there was no way I could run downstairs and leave them to their fate. No matter what the Major Incident Procedural Manual says.

How long, how long? I checked my watch and glared at the bomb.

‘If this was a film you’d have a countdown on the front,’ I said. ‘In large glow-in-the-dark LEDs.’

Then at least I’d know how long I had.

I walked briskly, there was no point in running I had to pace myself, back out onto the walkway. With Emma gone there were only two occupied flats on the twenty-first floor. I headed for the first with Toby yapping at my heels. Either he’d picked up on my panic or he still thought it was time for walkies.

I rang the doorbell.

You don’t bang on the door and shout police first time, especially not in a place like Skygarden. It’s hard to believe, but in some sections of society the police are not looked upon as the dependable guardians of law and order. Yelling police loudly can often cause residents to pause before answering the door, some because they’ve had bad experiences either here or abroad, some because they don’t want to get involved, and some because they need to flush whatever it is they need to flush down the toilet before they let you in.

A small brown boy opened the door and looked up at me with wide-eyed surprise. I asked if his parents were at home and he fetched his father to whom I showed my warrant card.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I told him before he could speak. ‘I need you and your family to leave your flat immediately and make your way downstairs.’

‘What have we done?’ asked the father.

‘Nothing, sir,’ I said. ‘We’re evacuating the whole building. Please, sir, you have to leave immediately.’

He nodded and walked back into the flat talking quickly in what I thought was probably Tamil. Raised female voice – the mother? She wasn’t buying.

Come on, come on.

I strode into the hallway and did my best to loom authoritatively in the kitchen doorway. The woman jumped when she saw me and shut up. I gave her a polite but firm nod.

‘Ma’am, you have to leave the building now,’ I said. ‘Your lives are at risk.’

She turned to her husband and barked orders. I retreated back the way I’d come as the young boy and what I took to be his two sisters were shooed, jacketed and ushered out the front door in less than a minute. I guided them to the emergency stairs and as the father went past me I scooped up Toby and thrust him into the startled man’s arms.

At the next flat along there was no response to the ring, the loud knock and the shouting. I looked through the letter box and it seemed empty.

Time was passing.

How long, how long had I got?

I left what I hoped was the empty flat and jogged up two flights of stairs to the twenty-third floor. They say that in this situation the vital thing is that you have to avoid panic, which is why you don’t shout, ‘There’s a fucking great bomb, run now or die.’ But avoiding panic isn’t easy when the mental state you are aiming for is the sense of fear and urgency that lies just below full blown panic.

Three occupied flats on this floor, two seemed empty and the third was inhabited by a Polish couple who, gratifyingly, were out of their flat practically before I’d finished my first sentence.

How long?

By my watch I’d called it in ten minutes earlier. The LFB would be handling the inner cordon, the arriving police would be pushing back the outer cordon.

How long is a piece of string?

Another two flights of stairs to the twenty-fifth floor, where not one flat had a County Gard steel door, so I went straight to Betsy’s flat. By this time the palm and side of my right hand were bruised from banging on doors, so I used the handle of my baton to knock.

I heard Betsy yelling, ‘Hold your horses I’m coming.’

She was genuinely shocked when she saw me.

‘Peter,’ she said reproachfully. ‘You’re the filth.’

‘Betsy, listen to me,’ I said quietly. ‘Someone has planted bombs all over the tower. You, Sasha and Kevin have to get out right now.’

Betsy’s mouth opened, then shut. ‘On your mother’s life,’ she said.

‘On my mother’s life,’ I said. ‘You have to get out now.’

She looked over my shoulder and then back at me.

‘Are you the only cop on the spot?’ she asked.

‘Lesley’s downstairs,’ I said. ‘I’m the only one this far up. More on their way.’

‘You done this floor yet?’

‘No, I came here first,’ I said.

‘Good boy,’ said Betsy. ‘Tell you what, me and Kevin will clear this floor for you.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘But don’t hang about, and don’t use the lift.’

‘After,’ she said, ‘you and I are going to have a little chat about lying to your neighbours.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ I said.

‘Well, get on with it then,’ she said.

God bless busybody community matriarchs, and all that sail in them.

I found myself at the top of the next two flights without any clear memory of having run up them. Four occupied flats on this floor, one of which was Jake Phillips’. I left him to last – I reckoned he was going to be trouble.

I rang the first doorbell and the next door neighbour, a white man in his mid-forties emerged.

‘Are we evacuating?’ he asked. ‘Only it’s on the news.’

‘Yes sir,’ I said. ‘If you’d like to make your way down the stairs as quickly as possible.’ Or you could go back inside your flat and watch yourself explode on TV.

The next door in front of me opened to reveal a ridiculously good-looking West Indian woman in her early thirties who gave me such an open and friendly smile that I was temporarily taken aback.

‘Can I help you, Officer?’

‘We’re being evacuated,’ said her neighbour.

‘Are we?’ she asked, and I explained quickly that for their convenience and continued existence they might want to think about leaving the tower just about as fast as their legs could carry them. If it was not too much trouble.

‘What about my boys?’ she asked.

‘Are they in the flat with you?’ I asked.

‘No they’re at school,’ she said.

‘So are mine,’ said her neighbour. ‘They go to the same school.’

‘Would you like to see them again?’ I asked. ‘Then please make your way downstairs as fast as possible.’

It still took me another two minutes to get the pair of them to the emergency stairs.

How long?

More than twenty minutes. The LFB would be in the tower, clearing it floor by floor. Everybody Walworth Road nick had handy would be securing an outer cordon and setting up the Scene Access Control. And tucked away in a non-obvious place, to avoid secondary devices, would be the Rendezvous Point with one of the specialist control vehicles with a CCTV camera on a pole. It would be filling up with mid-ranking officers who were nervously contemplating the fact that for the time being the buck was stopping with them.

Third flat, no response and when I looked through the letter box I found it was fitted with a protective box on the inside that blocked the view. I couldn’t tell if there was someone in the flat, so I blew the lock out and barged my way inside. My sleep’s troubled enough without them pulling a body out of the rubble and comforting me with the words ‘Well, you weren’t to know.’

There was nobody in the flat, but at least now I knew.

They also had a couple of a cans of Coke in the fridge, one of which I nicked.

‘Go away,’ shouted Jake as soon as I rang the doorbell. It sounded like he was in the hallway, and I think he’d been waiting there just so he could tell me to go away.

‘Jake,’ I said. ‘The building’s going to blow up.’

He opened his door with the chain on and glared at me through the gap.

‘I might have guessed,’ he spat. ‘Blogtavist – hah. What are you, Special Branch?’

‘I’m with the Serious Fraud Office,’ I said because
I’m with the small department that deals with magic
often raises more questions than I had time to answer. ‘We’ve been investigating the developers.’