in their way. She’d had enough dealings with the Anti-Terrorism Branch and the Special Branch before they’d been amalgamated into the new, bespoke CTC. She knew they thought they were the lords of creation and that people like her and her team were put on this earth to do their grunt work. Bad enough that there were likely dozens dead from a terrorist bomb. Traumatic enough for her team without having to deal with a bunch of outsiders who didn’t know the ground and didn’t have to take responsibility for their actions. They wouldn’t be the ones left to mop up the consequences of shattered relationships among communities and between those communities and the ones left behind to police them.
‘Any figures yet?’ she asked, knowing it was pointless to complain to Brandon, as powerless in this as her team was.
‘At least twenty. There will be more.’
‘And the rest of the crowd? Where are we evacuating to?’
‘Contingency plans say the school playing fields further down Grayson Street. But I suspect most of them are putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the stadium. It’s going to be a nightmare, getting witness statements for this one.’
‘We’ll do our best. I need to go, we’re nearly there,’ Carol said, recognizing the swaying view through the windscreen. People were streaming past on either side, forcing the ambulance to slow to walking pace. It was like one of those war movies where an army of refugees were desperately fleeing the enemy.
At last, they made it into the parking area behind the Vestey Stand. Already, the cars parked there were blocked in by police cars and fire engines. The ambulances were parked along the outside edge, ready for a quick getaway. Even as Carol jumped out, one of the other ambulances sped past them, blues and twos.
From the outside, the stadium looked virtually untouched. There was a small hole in the outer skin of the towering stand, but it looked innocuous. The clues to what had happened here were elsewhere. Hoses from the fire engines and the stadium’s hydrants snaked along the ground and in through the turnstiles. Firefighters moved purposefully towards the stand, looking like astronauts in their protective gear. Paramedics hustled to and fro with assorted bits of kit. And in dribs and drabs, the injured, the dying and the dead were brought forth, carried and stretchered by paramedics and police.
Carol could barely take it in. Bradfield looked like Beirut. Or Bangladesh. Or some other faraway place on the news. It looked like the aftermath of a natural disaster, everyone caught on the hop, nobody really knowing what to do but somehow getting done what was essential. People milled around, some purposeful, others less so. And at the heart of it, the injured, the dying and the dead.
She pulled herself together. She had to find out who was in charge, gather her team and do what she could to secure the seat of the explosion. First, she fastened her ID on to the outside of her jacket. Then Carol approached the nearest uniformed cop. He’d just helped an elderly man with blood running down one side of his face into an ambulance and was about to head back to the stand. ‘Constable,’ she called, running the short distance over to him. He stopped and turned. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat, his uniform trousers filthy. ‘DCI Jordan,’ she said. ‘Major Incident Team. Who’s the officer in charge?’
He looked at her with a glazed look. ‘Superintendent Black.’
‘Where can I find him?’
He shook his head, ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve been up…’ he waved his arm towards the stand. ‘Match day, he’s usually up in the top deck. He’s got a cubicle up by the media centre. You want me to show you?’
‘Just point me in the general direction,’ Carol said. ‘You’ve obviously got more important things to do.’
He nodded. ‘You could say that. Take the end staircase all the way up. It’s the first one you come to on the left.’
In the mouth of the stairwell, she came up against a young constable who looked completely terrified. ‘You can’t go up there,’ he gabbled. ‘Nobody’s allowed. It’s not safe, it’s not been cleared by the dogs. Nobody up there, the super’s orders.’
‘That’s who I’m looking for. Superintendent Black.’
The young lad pointed to where two fire engines stood together in an L-shape. ‘He’s over there. With the fire chief.’
Carol weaved her way across. People were sitting on the ground, parts of them bleeding. Paramedics moved among them, performing a primitive triage. Some they dealt with, some they sent to ambulances, others they summoned stretchers for. Waves of firefighters passed through, their presence somehow reassuring. It was the 9/11 effect, Carol thought. Since then, firemen with their chiselled, smoke-blackened faces and the deliberate walk imposed by their bulky gear had become iconic.
Among the injured, other fans wandered around in a daze. The police were checking them out, making sure they weren’t obviously injured, then encouraging them to leave the stadium area. All around her, faces in shock, eyes blank, lips bitten. She picked her way through the chaos, wondering how the hell she was supposed to treat this as a crime scene.
To her amazement, she recognized one of the casualties. Staggering towards her, the familiar bulk of Tom Cross. She hadn’t seen him since he’d left the force seven years before, but he was unmistakable. He was grey faced and filthy, leaning on a paramedic who was clearly struggling under the weight. Cross caught sight of her and shook his head. ‘Just catch the fucking bastards,’ he said, his voice thick and phlegmy.
‘Is he OK?’ she asked the paramedic.
‘If we can get him to hospital in time. He’s been a proper hero, but he’s taken a bit too much out of himself,’ the man said.
‘Let me help,’ Carol said, trying to get Cross to lean on her.
‘Never mind me,’ he snarled. ‘Go and do your job. You can buy me a drink when it’s all over.’
‘Good luck,’ she called after him.
When she finally reached the makeshift command post, she was already feeling overwhelmed by the task ahead of them all. She found Black and a senior fire officer poring over an architect’s drawing of the stand. ‘We’ve got the fire under control,’ she heard the fireman say. ‘Apart from the furnishings in the boxes, there’s not much that’s combustible.’
