The Assistant Commissioner had been just about to drop off when the piercing whine of the all-clear siren roused him. Edward Gatehouse was sitting at the bottom end of a long, polished, cherry wood table in an enormous meeting room in the Home Office. From a full-length portrait opposite him, the stalwart bulldog features of the current Prime Minister, represented in a previous incarnation of his as Home Secretary, glared down at him in rebuke. He shouldn’t have had the Burgundy with his lunch. That was a definite mistake. He rustled the papers in front of him and cleared his throat loudly to confirm that he was fully alert. At the other end of the table and at its head, the Home Secretary, Sir John Anderson, was attempting to make himself heard above the noise. Since he himself spoke in a monotonous drone, he was not being particularly successful. Eventually, the siren stopped. The Home Secretary paused and looked at the ceiling as if that had been the source of the noise that had been so presumptuous as to interrupt him. “Did everyone hear that or shall I repeat myself?”
A general muttering noise from the assembly encouraged Sir John to repeat himself.
“I was saying that now we have heard the reports from the representatives of the AFS, the ARP, the LDV and the WVS1, I would like to turn to a particularly unsavoury subject. Assistant Commissioner Gatehouse is here to represent the Commissioner and the Metropolitan Police Force. Assistant Commissioner, the floor is yours.”
A.C. Gatehouse sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Supreme Being for activating the siren just before his turn arrived and stood up. Facing him around the table was a group made up of nineteen men and one woman. Some of the men were uniformed and some were not. The non-uniformed men were all sombrely dressed, none more so than the sepulchral figure at the head of the table. The lady wore a black dress, enlivened by a bright red flower in her buttonhole, the only spot of colour in view.
The A.C. began reading. His report principally consisted of a list of statistics, most of which had been supplied by the local forces of the city’s outer suburbs, concerning the bombing attacks to date on London. Much of this was a duplication of information already provided in the earlier reports made to the meeting, but his audience listened quietly, without comment. In due course, the A.C. arrived at the final passage of his report. “And now let me turn to the reported incidence of looting so far recorded by our officers.”
Sir John Anderson rapped his pencil on the table and raised his eyebrow.
“Yes, listen to this everyone. This is shocking. Most shocking.”
“Bexleyheath reports eight looting incidents of which officers were made aware in respect of which four arrests have been made to date. Bromley reports ten incidents with three arrests. Croydon twelve incidents, four arrests…” He carried on to the bottom of his list and then concluded. “Of course, gentlemen and lady.” He nodded with a toothy smile to the representative of the WVS. “These are reported incidents. No doubt there have been other unreported incidents.”