with the volume of information being sent through to them from the Central Control Room at Hendon, where all phone traffic relating to the attacks had been directed, was making things next to impossible. They’d already had a reported sixty claims of responsibility for the bombs as well as separate bomb threats for a total of thirty-seven locations within London, including four in the City of London financial district, and right then Arley was wrestling with the decision of whether or not to extend the evacuations to all prominent buildings within the Square Mile.
A bank of TV screens showing real-time CCTV footage of central London took up the whole of the wall, and they recorded vividly the problems the police faced. All the major roads, including the A40 and Marylebone Road, both of which were needed by the emergency services, were gridlocked. On a screen somewhere in the middle, a thick pall of smoke could be seen above Paddington Station. The latest reliable report said that there were already thirteen dead and as many as sixty injured at Paddington, while the number of injured had risen to nine at Westfield, although thankfully there were still no fatalities. But for Arley, what it all meant was that there was no point taking risks with public safety.
‘We need to make a decision on the Gherkin, ma’am,’ said a young male officer manning one of the phones. ‘We’ve just had a second bomb threat against it.’
‘Evacuate it,’ she answered, raising her voice above the noise. ‘In fact, evacuate every building we get a threat against.’ Arley wasn’t at all sure she had the authority to make this decision, but there was no time to worry about that now. The important thing, she knew, was to keep making decisions. ‘And let’s clear this bloody place out. Anyone who does not have to be in here, get out. Now.’
‘Ma’am, I’ve got the head of Westminster Council on the line,’ said someone else. ‘He wants to speak to you urgently.’
‘Find out what he wants and I’ll call him back.’ The last thing she wanted to do was waste time talking to someone from the council.
A female officer stood up at the end of the room, a phone cradled in her shoulder. ‘I’ve got Brian Walton of London Transport on the line. He wants to know if they can keep a bus service running from zones three through to six.’
‘Have we had any specific threats against buses?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘If there haven’t been any, he can. If there have, he can’t. Find out and let him know.’ She had to delegate as many tasks as she could to keep her head above water amid the chaos that was all around her. ‘And can we try and get some cameras on the scene at the Stanhope Hotel? I want to see what’s going on there.’
‘Ma’am?’ Her secretary, Ann, was tapping her on the shoulder. ‘You’re wanted in the commissioner’s office. DCS Stevens is going to take over in here.’
Arley snapped out a few more orders, repeated her demand that anyone who shouldn’t be in the room must leave, then went out into the corridor. Like most police officers, she craved the excitement of a crisis, and she had a cool enough head to cope with one, which was the main reason she’d travelled as far as she had in the Met. More than one colleague had hinted that it might also be down to the fact that she was a woman, but her bosses knew better than that.
Chief Commissioner Derek Phillips was one of the good guys, a copper’s copper with the best interests of the people beneath him at heart, but Arley sometimes wondered if he had the necessary decisiveness to deal with a major incident. It wasn’t just that he looked more like a comfortably off accountant than a police officer; his stewardship of the recent student protests in London, when the students had been allowed to go on the rampage virtually unhindered, had seen him become a hostage to events rather than the person in control of them.
He was standing behind his immense
A bank of TV screens showing real-time CCTV footage of central London took up the whole of the wall, and they recorded vividly the problems the police faced. All the major roads, including the A40 and Marylebone Road, both of which were needed by the emergency services, were gridlocked. On a screen somewhere in the middle, a thick pall of smoke could be seen above Paddington Station. The latest reliable report said that there were already thirteen dead and as many as sixty injured at Paddington, while the number of injured had risen to nine at Westfield, although thankfully there were still no fatalities. But for Arley, what it all meant was that there was no point taking risks with public safety.
‘We need to make a decision on the Gherkin, ma’am,’ said a young male officer manning one of the phones. ‘We’ve just had a second bomb threat against it.’
‘Evacuate it,’ she answered, raising her voice above the noise. ‘In fact, evacuate every building we get a threat against.’ Arley wasn’t at all sure she had the authority to make this decision, but there was no time to worry about that now. The important thing, she knew, was to keep making decisions. ‘And let’s clear this bloody place out. Anyone who does not have to be in here, get out. Now.’
‘Ma’am, I’ve got the head of Westminster Council on the line,’ said someone else. ‘He wants to speak to you urgently.’
‘Find out what he wants and I’ll call him back.’ The last thing she wanted to do was waste time talking to someone from the council.
A female officer stood up at the end of the room, a phone cradled in her shoulder. ‘I’ve got Brian Walton of London Transport on the line. He wants to know if they can keep a bus service running from zones three through to six.’
‘Have we had any specific threats against buses?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘If there haven’t been any, he can. If there have, he can’t. Find out and let him know.’ She had to delegate as many tasks as she could to keep her head above water amid the chaos that was all around her. ‘And can we try and get some cameras on the scene at the Stanhope Hotel? I want to see what’s going on there.’
‘Ma’am?’ Her secretary, Ann, was tapping her on the shoulder. ‘You’re wanted in the commissioner’s office. DCS Stevens is going to take over in here.’
Arley snapped out a few more orders, repeated her demand that anyone who shouldn’t be in the room must leave, then went out into the corridor. Like most police officers, she craved the excitement of a crisis, and she had a cool enough head to cope with one, which was the main reason she’d travelled as far as she had in the Met. More than one colleague had hinted that it might also be down to the fact that she was a woman, but her bosses knew better than that.
Chief Commissioner Derek Phillips was one of the good guys, a copper’s copper with the best interests of the people beneath him at heart, but Arley sometimes wondered if he had the necessary decisiveness to deal with a major incident. It wasn’t just that he looked more like a comfortably off accountant than a police officer; his stewardship of the recent student protests in London, when the students had been allowed to go on the rampage virtually unhindered, had seen him become a hostage to events rather than the person in control of them.
He was standing behind his immense
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