Sam 7, p.16
SAM 7, page 16
The voice of the station announcer cut back in.
‘As Vic Newton traced the tragedy of one victim, officials counted four hundred seriously injured already rushed to hospital and sixty-two dead before the fire broke out – not counting the hundreds of airline passengers who must have perished in the crash. And now back again to Vic Newton at Victoria.’
Again the quiet of the studio was abruptly replaced by a cacophony of noise, magnified by the reporter’s microphone.
‘Vic Newton, Victoria. Now I have followed the last survivor to the temporary dressing station on the station concourse, where teams of doctors and nurses toil over lines of injured. They say the man I saw saved is in deep shock, legs burnt. It’s touch and go if he can live. A Catholic priest in long black cassock stained with blood kneels beside the man, giving last unction. As he smooths the ointment from a tiny pot on to his forehead, the man passes out totally, merciful morphine taking him away. Whether he will live, no one knows. This is Vic Newton at the crash scene, Victoria.’
‘Heard enough?’ asked Gilly. Eckhardt grunted and she switched it off. ‘You’ve got your work cut out to beat those boys, Mr Eckhardt,’ she observed coolly. ‘And this is Gillian Carslake, editor person, telling you so.’
Eckhardt frowned. He disliked being made fun of and even more he resented the truth in her remark. To obtain a news beat on this story was going to be exceptionally difficult. Somehow he would have to find an exclusive angle, one that was his alone.
‘Stop being flip,’ he said, rudely, ‘and tell me what you saw.’
‘Seriously, do you think I ought to make a statement to the police? As an eyewitness. They must want eyewitnesses.’
‘Tell me first.’ He pulled out his little notebook.
‘Well, when I heard that awful grinding, roaring noise, I ran to the window. The plane was huge. It can’t have passed more than fifty yards away. It had a big engine in the tail which seemed to be on fire and pieces were falling off the tail – it looked as though quite big pieces were missing. . . .’
At home in Epsom Jane Donaldson had spent a disordered day. After her husband had left for the city, she sat down and attempted to weigh up the pros and cons of moving to America. Having recovered from her immediate emotional reaction against being uprooted, she had started to calculate. $75,000 a year did sound a colossal amount of money. She telephoned the bank and asked about exchange rates. It really was over £40,000 a year, more than four times Jim’s present earnings. Her enthusiasm cooled a little when the bank manager told her that the Inland Revenue would take back at least two-thirds of it.
‘Oh, but it’s in America,’ she said. ‘We’d be living there.’
‘Tax rates are a lot lower in the United States. How low exactly I don’t know.’ He was getting out of his depth, though he left no doubt in her mind that from what he had heard they would be comfortably off on such a salary.
It was from then on the day fell apart. She wandered round their cramped, modern home, thinking about the larger, more gracious Edwardian houses near the Downs, realizing how unattainable they were on Jim’s salary. She thought of the increasing demands that educating the girls would make on their resources, of luxuries forfeited and unpleasant domestic economies. By the afternoon she had not only convinced herself that her husband had accidentally found the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, she was desperate to question him on a mass of details, like the cost of schools and clothes and food and holidays in America. The bank manager had warned her to take these into account, but she had no idea how to. By teatime she had relapsed into a dreamy contemplation of future comforts. It was only through force of habit that she switched on the television to watch the news at a quarter to six.
The air crash was the lead item, totally eclipsing all other events. She watched horrified and fascinated at the same time, though secure in the knowledge that Jim could not possibly be involved, not when he was still tidying up another investigation.
The phone in the hall rang. Reluctantly she left the television. It was the information officer from the Department on the line.
‘Mrs Donaldson? I’m so sorry I couldn’t telephone before. You heard about the crash at Victoria? Your husband is there. He asked me to ring you.’
Jane felt the breath leave her body. ‘But he can’t be. He’s only just back from America.’
‘He was the duty PI, Mrs Donaldson. I’m sure he’ll ring you himself as soon as he can.’
She replaced the receiver, dazed. How could they do this to her? How could they! She went back into the sitting room, switched the TV off and poured herself a stiff drink, her anger gradually mounting. This was once too often, she told herself. She was damned if she would stand for it. Jim hadn’t yet been back twenty-four hours.
Commander Thompson was planning his next moves. There was little he could do inside Victoria Station until the blaze was completely extinguished. So long as it lasted, the ‘foreground’ was the Fire Brigade’s responsibility and theirs alone. Without a fire there could be, and sometimes was, friction over which service was primus inter pares, as the old Latin tag put it. Logically, Thompson felt, the police should have overall control of any disaster situation, because they were responsible for public order and the preservation of life. But in a typically British way, the relationship between the emergency services was largely undefined. Even the government, in the shape of the Home Secretary, could not give orders to the Police Commissioner, only advise him or request his force’s assistance. This independence, unrealized by the average British citizen, was a major bulwark of democracy. At the same time so was the lack of police power over other official agencies. Thompson recognized both these aspects of his job, and that, at this immediate moment, he would have to control the multitude of interests involved in this crash as much by strength of personality as by legal right.
Just how rapidly the pressures of the outside world were mounting was evidenced by the requests and queries coming in to the mobile police station. Going over them quickly with Sturgess, Thompson was amazed. The last fifteen minutes had seen calls from the airline’s insurance brokers, from two more embassies, the Israeli and the Italian, both of whom believed citizens of their countries had been on board, from the Social Services Department of the Westminster City Council, from the City Engineer, and from the Home Secretary’s private office.
‘I’ve had the Department of Trade on the blower again too,’ remarked Sturgess equably. ‘Did you realize that the guy in the raincoat, Donaldson, was God in disguise? Well, he is. For the record, he has power to require anybody to make a statement, to impound anything he thinks fit, to go anywhere and to penalize anyone who interferes with him.’
‘Sounds worse than a Coroner.’
‘On a par, and incidentally, that’s another one who’s been on. The Coroner’s office want to discuss the mortuary.’
‘We’d better have a briefing,’ said Thompson. ‘Now.’
‘I’ve taken the precaution of asking the key people to assemble.’
Sturgess allowed himself a smile. After a year with him, he knew the commander’s habits fairly well. One that Thompson had never lost dated back to his Marine commando days. He would call in all the subordinates concerned with an operation, listen to them summarize their own problems, then issue his orders.
‘Bring them in,’ said Thompson. ‘What are you wasting time for?’
As Sturgess rose and went to the caravan door, Thompson reflected that this was as much a battle as any military one, a battle against death, destruction, and disorder; a fight to bring a key part of a great city back under control. It could only succeed if he coordinated it as firmly as a general commanding his troops.
As eight people, led by Chisholm and the Transport Police chief superintendent, and including a woman in a green WRVS uniform, filed in through the narrow doorway, the figure of the Fire Brigade’s incident officer appeared too.
‘Fire is surrounded, sir,’ he announced.
Thompson checked the time. It was 5.34 p.m. Then he welcomed his small audience as they stood cramped around the table.
‘We’ll have to keep this short, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘It sounds as though the fire’s been contained.’ He nodded to the ambulance officer. ‘The injured come first. How is your side of it going?’
‘The situation’s desperate but not serious, as one of my men used to say. We’ve close on sixty ambulances from all over London involved now. In the last hour and five minutes since we started, that is’ – he consulted a sheaf of notes in his hand – ‘we’ve taken two hundred and twenty-one casualties away. But there are almost that number lying out on the eastern station concourse and on the Ebury Bridge end of the platforms waiting to be moved. That’s serious enough, but there are seven medical teams here now dealing with them. What is desperate is finding beds to send them to. And then actually driving them there through the rush-hour traffic.’
‘Didn’t we clear routes to the designated hospitals?’ Thompson queried.
‘Commander,’ the ambulanceman spoke with heavy emphasis. It was extraordinary how everyone assumed that because London had a bevy of famous teaching hospitals, those same hospitals would have empty beds. That had been one of the lessons of the Moorgate tube train disaster: the hospitals had not been adequately warned of the numbers they would be expected to accept. ‘Commander,’ he repeated, ‘the Westminster, St George’s and St Thomas’s were full twenty minutes ago. None could clear more than fifty beds and considering St George’s is officially no longer accepting casualties, we were lucky to get any in there at all. I’ve just spoken to our control at Waterloo and the current batch will fill up St Stephen’s, the Middlesex and Guy’s, even allowing that we’re already transferring their less ill patients to other places. And even to St Stephen’s, in the Fulham Road, the round trip is taking nearly twenty-five minutes in this traffic. Control have had to designate hospitals as far away as the London in the East End and the West Middlesex out at Isleworth. The driving’s a nightmare, especially with the worst injured being brought out last. It’s going to be more than half an hour now before we get some of the major surgery cases through the doors of a hospital, let alone on to an operating table.’
Thompson turned to a large street map which Sturgess had contrived to hang up. He could see the ambulanceman’s point. To reach Isleworth meant the ambulance drivers were heading down the Great West Road along with a mass of homeward-bound commuters, while going east along the Mile End Road to the London Hospital would be as bad.
‘Colin,’ he said, ‘call the Operations Room and ask if the other divisions can clear routes to these hospitals. Give my inspector the details,’ he said to the ambulanceman, and turned to Chisholm, whose height was forcing him to stoop uncomfortably under the low roof of the caravan. ‘Peter, what are your problems?’ Then before Chisholm could reply, he added, ‘Once this fire is out, you’re going to have one hell of a lot more dead bodies to cope with. Not to mention lost property. Have you enough men?’
‘We’ve brought in railway police from Waterloo, Charing Cross, Paddington and several other stations. London Transport have sent men too. I’ve ninety-eight all told. They’ve got plenty on their hands, though. All the entrances to the station are being manned. We’ve been able to go on working on the east side in spite of the fire. The snag is space. As you’ve heard,’ Chisholm glanced at the ambulance officer, ‘the concourse is fully taken up with casualties. So are the bars and buffets on that side. I’ve allocated the eastern booking hall to railway passengers’ luggage – stuff we can be sure is railway luggage, that is. The problem is mortuary space. At present we’re using the cab road that runs up between platforms 7 and 8 and screening it off with portable notice boards. I reckon we’ll need another temporary mortuary over on the other side. Up along platform 17 would do. That could be screened off easily. Even before the fire the corpses were no sight for the squeamish.’
A quiet, educated voice cut in. ‘As the commander knows, Atlantic Airlines have retained me to deal with the identification and repatriation of the victims from the aircraft. My staff are already bringing two thousand polyurethane recovery bags. I would be happy to help with the railway dead also.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Chisholm burst out, ‘there aren’t going to be two thousand corpses.’
The man who had spoken, a slightly built figure, soberly dressed in a grey suit, held out his hand to Chisholm.
‘Forgive me, I should have introduced myself. Peter Denman of Hanson’s. With respect, Chief Superintendent, not all the bodies will be intact. I speak from experience.’
‘Mr Denman,’ said Thompson decisively, ‘I’d be glad if for the moment you’d deal with all the victims.’
‘I have asked the London District Headquarters for mortuary space in either Wellington or Chelsea Barracks.’
‘You settle the details and keep me informed.’ Thompson set that matter aside crisply and addressed another man in ordinary clothes. This was the City of Westminster’s Social Services Director.
‘You’ve opened an emergency rest centre?’
‘We have, Commander, and with the help of our friends here,’ he indicated the blue uniformed Salvation Army captain, a Red Cross official and the WRVS lady, ‘we should be able to cope. We could be accommodating as many as two thousand people tonight, what with guests evacuated from the hotel, stranded railway passengers, children who’ve lost their parents and others.’
The Salvation Army captain chipped in. ‘We’ve taken over two hundred into the Buckingham Gate hostel already. Not hospital cases, but not fit to go home either. Suffering from mild shock, most of them.’
Thompson thought for a moment, then spoke to the lady, whom he had met on various occasions before.
‘What have you brought along, Mrs Dean?’
‘The regional office have sent two vans down. We have masses of tea, sandwiches, blankets.’
‘I would prefer you to see to the firemen and the other rescue workers. There are a good five hundred around now. They’ll be at it all night and they’ll need food and hot drinks.’
The lady, organizer of thirty unpaid spare-time workers for the Women’s Royal Voluntary Service in Westminster, was just starting to ask what more was needed when the fire officer reappeared at the doorway.
‘Fire out, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Thompson calmly, then spoke to the group.
‘I won’t keep you any longer. There’s enough to do. Please remember that the main casualty bureau is at Scotland Yard where they’ve opened the Operations Room. The Deputy Assistant Commissioner will be in control there now. It is essential to keep lists, not only of casualties, but also of every person you accommodate, if possible of everyone you give treatment to. We’re going to have a list of missing persons as long as Buckingham Palace Road. Every old lady in Britain who thinks her granddaughter might have been on a train to Brighton will be ringing up, and there are going to be more than a few people genuinely unaccounted for. Please keep Inspector Sturgess here informed.’ As the group filed out, he caught Chisholm by the arm. ‘I should like to go round the station with you, Peter,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have to let the press in now.’
‘There are pick-up points and power for the TV round on platform 1. They use them for State occasions but they’re a long way from the wreckage.’
‘That’s the TV’s problem, not ours,’ said Thompson shortly, ‘I’m concerned with keeping them out of the Fire Brigade’s way.’
As the two men stood poised to leave, the sergeant operating the radio called out, ‘Half a tick, sir. Important message coming up.’
He finished scribbling on a pad, then tore off the sheet of paper and handed it across to Sturgess, who read it out. ‘Home Secretary and Police Commissioner expected arrive Victoria 6.20 p.m. No special arrangements required.’
Thompson and Chisholm looked at each other and exchanged ironical smiles.
‘Well, Colin,’ said Thompson, ‘what are you waiting for? You’d better start not making those arrangements.’
He stepped down out of the caravan. Overhead a helicopter circled, the insistent clacking of its rotor blades adding to the noise as fire appliances revved up their engines and more ambulances braked to a halt, joining a queue of vehicles picking up casualties. As the two men crossed the forecourt to enter the station, the police press officer hurried across from the Neathouse Place.
‘It’s all hell in there, sir,’ he exclaimed. ‘There must be a hundred and fifty reporters waiting and a dozen film crews.’
‘Tell them the Home Secretary and the Commissioner will be here at twenty past six and they can watch as we show them what’s going on.’
‘Suppose we cordon off the corner of the main concourse where the arch leads through from the eastern side?’ suggested Chisholm. ‘Restrict them to a small area there.’
‘If you don’t, they’ll be all over the place,’ said the press officer. ‘Look at them!’ he pointed upwards to the neighbouring buildings. Photographers were clearly visible up on the parapets and roofs overlooking the station. ‘They’re on Terminal House, they’re everywhere.’
‘So much for evacuating the office workers,’ commented Thompson, bitterly, then added resignedly, ‘You two had better work out the access for the press as fast as you can. Then allow them in beforehand. They’ll need to film the brass arriving.’ Despite the annoyance the press caused him, Thompson had a basic understanding of their requirements. ‘And no arc lights without the Fire Brigade’s consent,’ he added. Then he separated from Chisholm and the press officer and made his own way into the station from the forecourt, thinking about where precisely he might take the Minister.
