by Ted Tayler
The terrorists in the apartment surveyed the scene from a safe distance — no words were necessary. The two men turned from the devastation they caused and removed every trace of their presence in the room. Thirty minutes later, they walked to the lift in the corridor, descended the twelve floors to the street, and went their separate ways. Busy pavements swallowed them in seconds.
Conversations they overheard as they passed by concerned their handiwork. The sense of panic they picked up in the voices was music to their ears. They both smiled on the inside; this was only the beginning.
Half a mile away, the streets next to Heron’s Quay filled with ambulances, police vehicles, and fire appliances. Police erected barriers and cleared the immediate area. The capital’s media swarmed across every inch of ground, as near the action as it could get. Overhead, helicopters circled. The police, security services, and Air Medical Services (HEMS) out of Whitechapel performed an unchoreographed dance routine.
Officers ran into every side street, shouting at every human being they spotted to move as far away from the blast site as possible. General traffic was at a standstill. Every parked car scrutinised in case it posed a threat.
On the rail track, the bomb squad personnel edged their way forwards, checking for any evidence that more explosions were imminent. Colleagues swept the platforms and approach roads, allowing ambulance crews to move forward.
Twenty-seven minutes after the explosion, the first paramedics reached the first car. The scene was one of overwhelming devastation.
Behind them, members of the public who had risked life and limb to scramble along the track helped the walking-wounded thread their way through emergency services personnel. Those fortunate enough to walk unaided were reaching the platform.
There were still passengers trapped inside the rear, two cars crying out for help. Everyone standing near the stricken EMU was aware that the poor devils in the first car had suffered the most. Those crying out as the paramedics dashed past were still breathing, their airways clear. They were not their priority as harsh as that might sound.
The quiet ones demanded their urgent attention.
The paramedics entered the rear of the first car. Ahead of them, a shapeless mound of people. The blast and sudden deceleration of the train threw dozens of passengers helplessly forwards. People lay trapped by bodies and debris. Here and there voices were shouting to get out. Elsewhere they made only moans and groans. The paramedics made rapid assessments as they drew closer. An older woman they passed was beyond help. A man pinned to his seat by a metal bar was unconscious but breathing. On the floor, trapped under the seats lay an elderly couple. The woman’s had a badly broken leg, and she had suffered a collapsed lung. A man, perhaps her husband, lay next to her. He wasn’t breathing. It was going to be a long day.
Minute by minute, the situation moved from chaotic to controlled. The critical and seriously injured were extricated with the help from the fire services where necessary and transferred to waiting ambulances. Local accident and emergency departments had already received dozens of casualties needing various degrees of treatment. Doctors were primed for worse injuries to arrive later, knowing life-saving operations would be necessary, and scheduled routine operations needed deferring yet again.
Hours passed. The only passengers who remained on the EMU were beyond help. Paramedics continued to work on their standard procedures after a bombing. The scene should be as undisturbed as possible. They must preserve dressings, clothing, and belongings of the casualties for forensic evidence. They had to keep pieces of shrapnel from the device itself inside the first car for examination.
The authorities had learned many lessons over the past twenty years. Every scrap they encountered could be the key to determining responsibility. Knowledge added to the vast data security services had amassed increased the odds of preventing the next attack.
They removed the bodies of the eighteen people who perished on the EMU to the nearest morgue. The first bodies arrived at a few minutes before four o’clock. A final body arrived at half-past five. Six hours had elapsed since Sandy Moloney started what turned out to be his final journey. There was a certain irony that the EMU’s captain was the last man to leave.
News bulletins on TV and radio had carried reports of the original incident. As the drama unfolded throughout the afternoon, the scale of the attack became more evident. Derailments are not an uncommon event; often, they don’t result in any injuries. It was a while before the explosion that witnesses reported hearing got confirmed as an IED. Everyone soon forgot thoughts of minor disruption to the network and the passengers involved. The tone of the bulletins grew more sombre as the afternoon progressed.
Across the capital, in many households, family members waited for news. The DLR carried one hundred million passenger journeys each year.
Many Londoners rode the EMUs daily, either to and from work or to school or college. The cars ferried people to business meetings, shopping trips, and social outings. Until they heard from their loved one, nobody could be sure they hadn’t been on the Lewisham-Bank train that left the terminus before noon.
In Vincent Gardens, Belgravia, Geoffrey Fox awaited the return of his wife, Grace.
Geoffrey had been in their small, rear garden after lunch. Grace travelled by bus and train to meet a school friend in Greenwich. This visit was a regular occurrence, on a Monday. The mode of transport might have changed in recent months, but Grace kept in contact with as many old friends as possible. There were fewer and fewer each year. Time was short and precious.
He pottered in the flower borders and trimmed a few overhanging bushes. He was careful not to do too much damage. Then he planned to sit on the seat they often shared and studied his efforts. The late morning showers had scudded through, and now a warm sun peeped through the clouds. Their sheltered spot was a sun-trap. Geoffrey rested his eyes and fell asleep.
Three o’clock had come and gone when he awoke. He rechecked his watch. Grace should have been home by now. He returned indoors, and called upstairs, in case she had only just come indoors. There was no reply. He stood at the bottom of the stairs. Perhaps, he should call Daphne? To check whether they chatted longer than usual, and Grace caught a later train.
When he replaced the phone, Geoffrey was worried. Daphne had told him she dropped Grace at the DLR station in Greenwich at the same time as always. She begged Geoffrey to ring back with news.
It was rare for Athena’s parents to watch TV during the day. Geoffrey couldn’t stand the nonsense between the music on the radio, so he was happy to do without entertainment, apart from his Times newspaper. That kept him abreast of everything he needed to know. It often occupied several hours of his day as he made his way through one thoughtful article after another. He switched on the television.
Geoffrey Fox perched on the arm of a leather settee as he watched the rolling news report from Heron’s Quay. Grace would have been on that train. She could be injured or even worse. It was time to call their daughter, Annabelle Grace Fox-Bailey. He hoped she was at Larcombe Manor with her husband, Phoenix. Whatever needed doing, those two would want to be involved. He returned to the hallway, picked up the phone, and dialled.
“Daddy?” asked Athena, surprised to hear from her father.
“I’m afraid your mother travelled on that train today, darling,” said Geoffrey. “I haven’t heard from her.”
“Sorry, Daddy,” said Athena, “we returned from the North of England in the last hour. Phoenix and I have been travelling for hours. What train? Where did this happen? Why did Mummy go on a train without you?”
“She visits Daphne, her old friend from Greenwich most Mondays. They have coffee somewhere together, and then your mother comes home. Taxis in London cost the earth these days, and now we’re eligible we’ve picked up Freedom Passes, and Sixty Plus Oyster ID Cards. That provides us with free bus travel and concessions with the Senior Railcard on off-peak Oyster fares.”
Athena was incredulous;
that didn’t sound like Daddy. He always travelled first-class everywhere. She couldn’t have helped the Olympus Project without her share of the family fortune she inherited when reaching twenty-five.
“I don’t know why you two are scrimping and saving, Daddy. Forget that for the time being. Tell me what’s happened.”
“Mummy takes the bus to Tower Gateway, and then travels to Greenwich, with one change of line. The whole trip takes her fifty minutes. On her return trip, she was due to change at Westferry from the Lewisham-Bank line. When she reached Tower Gateway, it was only a fifteen-minute walk home. The walking has been part of her exercise regime these past weeks. The consultant still reckons she’s overweight and putting too much strain on her heart.”
“So, where did this accident happen?” Athena asked.
“The train derailed at Heron’s Quay just before noon. It wasn’t an accident, darling. On the news, they said there was a bomb; someone left an IED on the tracks. I’m watching the latest news now. Emergency service people are scrambling over the train and the tracks. It’s a mess. It had to be a terrorist attack, but nobody has claimed responsibility yet. If Mummy was in the first car…”
“Phoenix and I will be there by six o’clock; if we can get hold of our helicopter pilot at such short notice. You stay by the phone. We’ll find out where they are transferring the survivors. As soon as we know something, either Phoenix or I will call. I love you, Daddy. Try not to worry. Mummy will be fine.”
Geoffrey replaced the phone and walked into the lounge. On the screen, there were wide-angle shots of the three-carriage EMU. Paramedics hustled three stretchers along the track carrying casualties. Those poor beggars must at least be alive, though Geoffrey thought, or they would move much slower.
It was fast approaching four o’clock. The live feed ended, and in the studio, the newsreader updated the confirmed number of casualties.
“Seventy-three passengers are continuing to receive treatment at the A&E departments. A further one-hundred and three have been released with minor lacerations and bruising. Those that remain in the hospital include twenty-eight with serious, life-altering injuries. Eight of those twenty-eight are critical. At this time, the death toll is eighteen. Screens are being erected by the track, to allow the removal of the bodies of the deceased. That operation will start in a few minutes.”
The programme switched to one of the hospitals where a senior doctor confirmed the number of fatalities and sent his condolences to the families. The leading causes of death were due to severe trauma associated with crush injuries. As for those on the critical list, the next twenty-four hours were vital. When pushed on whether the number of deaths might rise, he said it unlikely that the eight would make it through the night.
Geoffrey sank into a chair and waited for the call he hoped never came.
CHAPTER 2
At Larcombe Manor, Athena and Phoenix confirmed their plans; Biggles was en route from Filton airfield. He would land on the grounds in ten minutes. They were to fly to Fairoaks, a small airfield south-west of London. Forty-five minutes after take-off, an Olympus driver would drop them in Vincent Gardens one hour later.
Athena rang her father.
“We’ll be with you by six, Daddy. Any news?”
“Nothing yet, darling. All the survivors are out of the train. Only body bags to bring out now.”
No matter how hard she tried, Athena couldn’t hold back the tears. She wanted to hold her father and take away the pain. Where was Phoenix? He had gone to the ice-house to find out what information Giles and Artemis had gathered. Athena could hear Biggles approaching.
Athena stood, drying her eyes by the window. Phoenix was standing on the lawn waving to her as Biggles came in to land. She waved back and headed for the nursery door. Maria Elena and Hope were inside playing.
“We need to shoot off again,” she told the nanny, “can you feed this one and put her to bed? I’ve no idea when we’ll be home again.”
Athena gave their daughter a quick cuddle and kissed her forehead.
“Night, night, poppet,” she said and dashed away before the tears returned.
“Something’s up,” thought Hope.
Athena emerged from the main building onto the lawn and ran towards the helicopter. Phoenix was already seated. Biggles waited until she had fastened her belt, and then he was up and away, on a heading for Surrey.
“Any news?” asked Phoenix.
“Daddy was in a state,” she replied. “He knows the casualties are now out of the train, no matter how major or minor their injuries. The bodies are leaving as we speak. He said there were eighteen fatalities. What did you learn?”
“Artemis had details of those recorded as having left the hospital after treatment. Your mother’s name wasn’t among them. She was still checking on the rest. Several will stay in overnight.”
“Did Giles have any clues this was imminent? Who might have carried out the attack?
“Nobody has claimed it so far,” said Phoenix, “but it has certain hallmarks that point to Islamic State. Giles is monitoring the usual websites and forums. As I left, he had captured feed from CCTV cameras in Canary Wharf. He may find something. I asked him to investigate what trackside stretches are picked up by nearby cameras. Maybe we can identify who planted the device. Giles reckoned it had to be a remote detonation, so that means hunting for the best vantage points, and finding out who was in them at the time the bomb exploded. The problem is that vantage points are in the hundreds. That’s why people pay big bucks to live or work there.”
“You haven’t asked the obvious question yet,” said Athena.
“What? Why was Grace using the DLR?” asked Phoenix.
“Precisely,” said Athena, “you need to have a serious talk with Daddy when this is over.”
“Look, we’ve more urgent things to confront,” said Phoenix, taking hold of Athena’s hand. “Let’s pray we find your mother sat up in a hospital bed, wondering what the fuss is.”
“I have a bad feeling, Phoenix,” sighed Athena. “Daddy will fall to pieces without her.”
The flight with Biggles lasted the time he had told them at take-off, to the minute. The private airfield was well-equipped, and the driver in the limousine was waiting for them to arrive. Within a minute of touching the tarmac, the car was gliding through the gateway from the airfield. They joined the flow of traffic travelling the three miles before joining the M25. Sixty minutes later they had arrived in Vincent Gardens,
Athena stood on the doorstep with Phoenix and rang the doorbell.
Geoffrey Fox answered, his face grey with worry. Phoenix thought he’d aged a decade since he saw him at the christening seven days ago.
“Come along in you two,” he said. “I’ve been by the phone, listening to the radio, but I’ve heard nothing yet. Surely, they’ll send a police officer around, won’t they? Or will they send an automated message to my phone?”
Athena led her father through to the lounge and got him seated.
“Tea or coffee?”
“Tea, please,” replied Geoffrey.
“Right, I’ll get drinks organised. While you and I keep one another company, Phoenix will make the phone calls.”
Phoenix joined his wife in the kitchen.
“Get the relevant numbers from Giles,” she said. “We can’t call him in the ice-house and give Daddy an insight into what goes on at Larcombe. Find out what progress he’s made on the CCTV leads. Then you can try to find which hospital Mummy went to; there’s still time to visit this evening. If we’re looking at the worst-case scenario, we need to face it tonight. We have important operations to see carried out over the next few days.”
“Either way, you must stay here at least for tomorrow,” said Phoenix. The kettle had boiled; Athena made the drinks and carried them through to the lounge. Geoffrey sat with his head in his hands.
“God knows how I’ll cope if she’s gone,” he said.
“We could have lost her on several
occasions in the past four years, Daddy,” said Athena, wrapping her arms around her father. “We’ll get through it together if we must.”
Phoenix was in the hallway calling Giles.
“I need the contact details for each of the A&E departments involved. If other numbers are necessary for morgues, or what have you, then can you provide those too, please?”
“Of course,” said Giles, “are you ready?”
Phoenix wrote the numbers for each of the hospitals where they transported casualties.
“The emergency services commandeered only one morgue,” said Giles, and relayed the number.
“Thanks, Giles. Anything new?”
“Our eagle-eyed former police officer caught sight of a possible bombing suspect. Artemis saw a man on a side street parallel to the DLR, four hundred yards from the blast site. He carried a rucksack over his shoulder. He was a Muslim dressed in European-style clothing. The surrounding crowds were animated, alerted by the explosion thirty minutes earlier, but he passed by without a glance. I agree with Artemis; the guy looked too calm.”
“I’ll leave you to carry on the search,” said Phoenix, “he may not have been working alone. If we can place this man, or any companions, near the exit to a high-rise building in the locality, then we can eliminate the time difference. The vantage point is what we’re seeking. Find that, and no doubt they will have spent those minutes super-cleaning the flat, or office they used; this wasn’t a random attack by a lone bomber. It has all the signs of being highly organised. Ask Artemis to identify this man. I want to know who we’re dealing with.”
“Will do, Phoenix,” said Giles. “I hope you hear good news on your mother-in-law. She’s a lovely lady. Maria Elena and I enjoyed her company at the christening. Mrs Fox was so happy, and we could tell she doted on little Hope.”
“Thanks, Giles,” replied Phoenix. “I’ll start by ringing the last number you gave me. Let’s hope the others aren’t redundant. Grace and Geoffrey are the only grandparents' Hope will ever have, so they’re doubly precious.”
