First Response

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:

‘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!’

The onlookers scattered like sheep.

‘Thank you,’ said Wilson.

‘What’s your name?’ asked the sergeant.

‘Emma. Emma Wilson.’

‘Well, you’ll be fine, Emma Wilson. Just organise me an inner cordon and find somewhere for the appliance and ambulances when they arrive.’

‘Yes, sir. The JESCC, right?’ The Joint Emergency Services Control Centre was where all the emergency vehicles would gather.

‘That’s it,’ said the sergeant. He looked at O’Sullivan. ‘And you are?’

‘Connor O’Sullivan, sir.’

‘Okay, Connor O’Sullivan, I need you to park your car across the road to block it off until we get more officers here.’ He pointed at a line of houses overlooking the pub. ‘As soon as you’ve done that, work those houses. Anyone inside, tell them to keep well clear of the windows and warn them that we might have to evacuate them. If you come across anyone who seems especially police-friendly then ask if they’d allow a room to be used as a control centre. A little old lady with a big teapot would be favourite.’

‘Yes, sir, th-th-thank you,’ stammered O’Sullivan, but the sergeant was already jogging over to his colleagues who had positioned themselves either side of a parked car, their weapons covering the front door of the pub.