Ben Aaronovitch - Broken Homes

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.

It 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.