Fortress

22

Sarah Garvey reached for her phone, which was buzzing like a trapped fly on her bedside table. She glanced at the time — 2:25 a.m.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Home Secretary.’

It was Halford, the Metropolitan Police commissioner.

‘No problem, John,’ she lied. ‘I’d only just got to bed.’

After giving him such a hard time in COBRA she had made a mental note to be more positive.

‘We’re just getting reports of a fire at an ex-servicemen’s hostel in Redditch, probably the result of an explosion.’

‘Fatalities?’

‘Too early to say. But, looking at the footage, I’d say almost certainly. The front of the building’s been blown out. Several passers-by taken to A and E. Should have a clearer picture in an hour.’

There was an energy to his tone that had been absent at their meeting. She guessed why. This was off his patch and was sure to take the heat off the shooting.

‘Hold back as long as you can on the details. Let’s be very careful what we feed to the media. Nothing, repeat nothing, suggesting a bombing until it’s confirmed by forensics. And even then let’s discuss what we say first.’

‘Well, I’d advise you to prepare for the worst. An eyewitness reported seeing a disturbance in the doorway as if someone was being stopped from going in.’

‘Okay, thanks for that.’ She put on the light and found the TV remote.

BBC News was already there, with a reporter standing at the end of a cordoned-off street. Behind her rose a thick funnel of smoke from the flames, which fire-fighters were battling.

‘… and although the police have yet to confirm that this was a bomb, fire-fighters have just ruled out a gas explosion—’

Her report came to an abrupt halt as she ducked to avoid a flying bottle, which smashed to the ground a few feet behind her. The camera panned round to reveal a group of T-shirted and tattooed men, shouting and gesticulating angrily from behind a police tape.

Right, Garvey thought. We might as well be at war.