Читать книгу Ten Days - Gillian Slovo - Страница 12

5.30 a.m.

When Cathy heard the front door closing, she stormed out into the hall: ‘Where the hell have you been?’

Lyndall, who’d been intent on laying her keys softly down on the table, jumped.

‘I asked you a question. Where have you been?’

‘But I left a note.’

‘Yes, and I saw your bed was empty long before I found your note. Why did you sneak out like that?’

‘I wrote you I was with Jayden.’

‘Jayden’s turned into a bodyguard, has he?’ She heard her voice rising.

‘We weren’t in danger, Mum. It was getting light.’

‘Getting light! Getting light! You think that’s going to keep you safe from . . .’ And now she heard a voice inside telling her to stop it. ‘From . . .’

‘I’m sorry, Mum. I heard you up and down all night, so when I saw you were sleeping, I didn’t want to wake you.’

Hearing how shaky Lyndall sounded, Cathy calmed down. And it was true, she had had a terrible night. Every time she’d closed her eyes she’d been assailed by images – of Ruben’s head lolling back, or of his slack body being worked on by the paramedics, or of that sheet covering a face that no longer looked like his.

‘It’s not your morning to be at work,’ Lyndall said. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed?’

‘I can’t. Ruben’s parents need support. And we have to discuss how we’re going to deal with this.’

‘Go and have a shower, then. I’ll make breakfast. In times of stress you need to eat,’ said with such sweet sincerity that it drove off the last of Cathy’s aggravation.

She touched her daughter gently on the cheek. ‘Who’s the mother here, missie?’

‘Well, I am the better cook.’

‘That’s not hard, is it? Tea would be lovely.’

‘Don’t worry, Mum, don’t sweat it. Go take that shower.’

6 a.m.

If this bloody heat goes on much longer, Peter thought, I’ll have to take up residence in the shower. Trying to ignore the dark pooling under his arms, he looked down at the list Patricia had drawn up for him.

As ever, she’d done a thorough job, but knowing how the slightest miscalculation might galvanise the other side or, worse, open the way for a compromise candidate to steal his prize, he was going to check it again. He considered phoning Patricia and asking her to do it with him. But no: she worked so hard. Leave her to her beauty sleep.

She’d divided their MPs into three categories: unquestionably for him, unquestionably against him, and a middle group – by far the largest – of the undecided or the unknown. These were the ones he and his team needed to work on. And all before the recess. It was going to be a tough nine days.

He looked down at the separate columns. There were names of MPs with whom he’d grown up politically, or bonded with on his first day in the House, or plotted with or against, as well as names of MPs who had driven him mad or to laughter, or those whose late-night camaraderie helped him bear the frustrations of political life – all of them now reduced to three categories: for, against or unknown.

That it should come to this.

The prospect of what he knew he had to do, and not the heat, was what was making him sweat. Now it drove him from his desk.

The milky light of dawn had hardened – soon the relentless sun would burn off any nuance. Then the green-carpeted corridors would be full of the people who oiled the wheels of Parliament. But for this moment the House was empty. Nowhere to go and nobody to talk to. He would take a stroll, he thought, before going back to stare at that blasted list.

He walked along the Lower Ministers’ corridor and pushed through the double doors of the Chamber, going round the Speaker’s Chair and into the Chamber proper. Odd to be there when those green benches were empty of the members and the hubbub they created. Odd also to have come this way by the opposition benches. He looked over the line to where he usually sat and thought that if things went well, he’d soon be two paces to the right, directly behind the dispatch box. And responsible for everything. A shiver of anticipation ran down his spine.

I’ll wash my face, he thought, and then get on. Leaving the Chamber, he made his way to the nearest toilet, going straight over to a basin. He switched on the tap and, lowering his head, splashed his face with water before running his wrists under the tap, sighing with the relief of it.

He was about to splash his face again when he heard a sound. Someone groaning? He switched off the tap.

Nothing.

Must have been the antique plumbing system, protesting at this early use. He turned on the tap again and cupped his hands. He was in the process of lowering his head when someone – it was a human sound, not mechanical – groaned again.

‘Are you all right?’

No answer. But he hadn’t imagined the sound. It had come from one of the stalls.

He walked along the line-up, gingerly pushing each door in turn. They swung open, empty, until the last, which, although it wasn’t locked, resisted his push. He pressed against it harder.

‘Watch it, you bastard. That’s my leg.’

He knew that voice. He craned his head around the door to see Albion Hind, member for one of the Midlands constituencies. Albion was half on and half off the lavatory, and his eyes were shut.

‘Albion, it’s Peter.’ At least the man’s trousers were still up.

Albion groaned.

‘Are you ill?’

A ginger opening of one eye. ‘Do I look ill?’

Never the most picturesque of men, Albion looked not so much ill as really awful. His nose was habitually bulbous and reddened from drink, and that long strand of greasy hair that had flopped away from the bald patch it was meant to conceal didn’t help. All as usual. What was new, however, particularly so early in the morning, was the mess of gravy or dark vomit that stained his shirt.

A revolting sight. Peter was half tempted to back off, close the door and leave Albion to his own devices. ‘Let’s get you out of here,’ he said.

‘You and whose army?’ Albion’s eyelids shuttered down.

‘Shift.’ Peter pushed at the door.

Albion groaned, but he did inch away from the door, allowing Peter to widen the gap and squeeze in. Not much room to manoeuvre, but he eventually managed to bend over the fallen man. He was assailed by the mix of stale tobacco, soured alcohol and vomit so toxic that it took an effort of will not to rear away. He concentrated on breathing exclusively through his mouth. ‘Lift your arms.’ He pushed his own arms under Albion’s, linking them at the other’s back, and then, saying, ‘Upsy’, he hauled Albion to his feet.

‘I want to stay here,’ Albion groaned.

‘To be spotted by the other side? Or, worse, by a bastard from the lobby? I think not.’

He turned them both round, using a knee to push Albion, and that way manoeuvred the other man, crab-like, out of the stall and over to a wall. ‘Stay here.’

When he let go, Albion slid all the way down to the floor. No point in picking him up. ‘I’ll fetch help,’ he said.

‘Kind of you.’

‘Oh well.’ He was glad that he had bothered.

‘Never figured you for a kind man.’

Just like bloody Albion, adding a sting to his gratitude. Should have let him stew in his own festered failure.

Which thought seemed to transmit itself to Albion. ‘You can’t know what it’s like.’ He was clearly on the brink of tears. The weight of his eyelids seemed too much to bear. They closed while he was saying something that sounded like ‘votes for sale’, although Peter, who now wanted more than anything to get away, couldn’t be sure.

He found a doorkeeper who agreed to deposit Albion in a nearby hotel. Something at least accomplished. It was harder to shake off his feelings of pity for Albion, who, once a high-flyer, had sunk so low. There but for the grace of God, he thought, and then he told himself that this was nonsense. Albion’s many vices were what had done for him; Peter’s would not. Of this he would make sure. He went back to his office, intent on ridding himself of clothes that must now reek of Albion Hind’s failure.

He pushed the door so hard that it banged back against the wall, and when he did, he saw how a slim, dark figure who had been standing by his desk jumped.

‘What the . . .’ His vision cleared. ‘Oh, it’s you, Patricia.’

The sight of her always set his pulse racing. She was a gorgeous-looking young woman, and she knew it, donning a succession of bright colours like this sleeveless yellow summer frock that showed off her bronzed skin to its best advantage. He wanted to compliment her on it but no need: she’d clocked his appreciative regard and it made her smile.

‘I was thinking of ringing you,’ he said.

‘Your wife beat you to it.’

‘My wife?’

‘Your mobile’s off.’

He took it from his pocket – ‘Oh yes, so it is’ – and switched it on, and as it loaded he saw three missed calls from Frances. ‘Did she say what she wanted?’

‘To tell you that the PM’s going to be on at 7.15.’

Of course he was. Trying to steal Peter’s thunder.

‘She thinks they might be planning to ambush him with his latest legalise drugs obsession. She says you should hear it live in case you’re rung for comment.’ Patricia indicated a folder she must just have placed on his desk. ‘I’ve digested the salient facts. The Dutch example’s telling. And the rake-offs of the Colorado and Washington dispensaries should cause some alarm.’

First Frances and now Patricia: his women were certainly coming through for him. ‘That’s extremely helpful.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But now I think I’d better ring . . .’

‘. . . your wife. Yes, Home Secretary. I’ll leave you to it.’ She was smiling as she passed him by.

The scent she gave off was redolent of spring flowers that would long ago have wilted in this heat. Hope she didn’t think the stench that must be coming off him was his. ‘Oh, and Patricia?’

‘Yes?’ The way she looked at him: she was such a coquette!

‘Might be worth turning your keen eye on our new Commissioner. Background. Connections. That type of thing.’

‘Of course.’ She was all business. ‘Anything in particular?’

‘Not sure. He was vetted, naturally, but I think there might have been something missed. Sniff around: see, for starters, if you can find anything about his relationship with the PM. Something peculiar there which might be . . .’ – how should he put it – ‘be . . .’

‘Helpful,’ she said. ‘Of course.’ She slipped out of the room, softly, as she always did.

10 a.m.

The heavy tread that Joshua Yares had been keeping half an ear out for caused him to raise his head. ‘Anil? Would you mind stepping in for a moment?’

‘Of course.’ Deputy Commissioner Anil Chahda, highest-ranking ethnic officer in the British police, retraced his steps and walked into Joshua’s office. ‘How can I help?’

Joshua gestured at the sofas that stood at one end of his vast office.

Chahda was broad with a bullish head, wide shoulders and a stocky frame, and when he sat down on the sofa he seemed to take up the whole of it.

‘How can I be of assistance?’

‘I gather there’s been a death?’ Joshua paused, expecting a response, but when nothing came he said, ‘In Rockham.’

‘Ah,’ an intake of breath. ‘That death. Unfortunate. Male. IC3. Record of mental instability – officers have been called to his home on several previous occasions. On this occasion a member of the public reported that the man was wielding a weapon in a public place.’

‘I understand that sections in the community dispute this version. They say the man posed no danger and that the police were not in fact called?’

‘I can’t answer to that, sir.’ Chahda shrugged. ‘I’m merely reporting what the IPCC has said.’

‘And I have also been told that there was an earlier incident involving this same man and an officer?’

‘You’re ahead of me on that as well, sir. All I have been told is that the officers who attended called for back-up after the man became violent. It took eight officers to restrain him – others held back members of the public who had become emotional – and in the course of this the prisoner developed breathing difficulties. The officer in charge, who has had advanced CPR training, did his best to revive him, unfortunately without success. There’ll be a post mortem of course. It is always possible that a pre-existing condition might have provoked his collapse. At the moment, however, it’s probably sensible to assume that the cause of death will be related to positional asphyxia.’

‘The officers involved have written up their reports?’

‘Naturally.’

‘And I assume their bodycams will confirm their written statements?’

‘The IPCC has all the footage, sir. They’ll match the reports with it. Although it is worth saying that several of the bodycams were malfunctioning, and, as well, in moments of such confusion the footage does not always illuminate.’

All of which was true. Why, then, did it sound like a series of excuses?

‘Check that they covered the earlier incident as well, will you? And pull the records of all the officers involved. I’d like to know if any of them have been subject to any disciplinary action for misconduct. Just in case.’

‘Certainly, sir. If you think that’s necessary.’ The edge to Chahda’s voice might have indicated that he wasn’t best pleased by Joshua’s interference, but his smile belied this.

‘I gather Chief Superintendent Gaby Wright is in charge there?’

‘She is. A recent appointment as Acting Commander.’

‘I had a look at her stats. I see there’s been a spike in Section 60 stops since she took over?’

‘That’s correct and in my opinion unavoidable. The Lovelace has never been easy to police, and word of its closure has been met by a rise in antisocial behaviour and crime. If I was in CS Wright’s shoes, I would have done the same thing. She’s a good officer. Tough but fair.’

‘No doubt. But given the circumstances, don’t you think it might be worth her going a bit easier?’

‘It might, sir, if she had the numbers. A visible presence on the street would ease things. But she doesn’t have the officers. I put a report on your desk about this.’ Chahda glanced at the high pile of buff folders – priority reading for the new Commissioner. ‘In it, CS Wright makes a special-case argument for more resources. She needs greater visibility and the ability to intervene to head off trouble. Without that, she’s had to resort to the increased use of Section 60.’

‘I see.’ Must read faster, he thought, knowing, though, that if he did, he would find a score of other such requests from other boroughs.

‘I spoke to her this morning, and she has done everything I would have wanted her to. The emergency services have been instructed to attend flashpoints in Rockham only after due authorisation; officers of the TSG will keep a low profile so as not to aggravate the situation; there will be no independent contractors in the Lovelace monitoring tagged offenders; and there is a stay on the execution of arrest warrants in Rockham until further notice. Local officers have also been instructed to display special sensitivity when addressing the question.’

‘Sounds competent.’

‘She is a good officer, sir. I’m confident that everything will go smoothly.’ A pause before: ‘Is there anything else, sir?’

You had to admire the man: he was thorough and to the point. ‘There is something,’ Joshua said. ‘Get somebody to pull out the records of any stops under Section 4 of the RTA 1988 in the central London area for me. Any incident reported in the last three weeks.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘Something I need to check. If you wouldn’t mind?’

‘Of course. I’ll see it done.’

‘Thanks, Anil. And there are also a couple more things. Set up a press conference to brief on the Rockham incident – the bare bones of what happened, the fact that the IPCC will now be in charge of the investigation.’

‘Yes, sir. I can certainly do that.’

‘Thank you.’ He glanced down at his diary. ‘I’ve got a brief window at 1.15, shall we set it for then?’

‘You will be doing the briefing yourself, sir?’

‘I think that’s best, don’t you? First week and all that – give the public an opportunity to get to know their new Commissioner. I trust that’s not a problem?’

‘No, sir, it’s not a problem. I’ll set it in motion for 1315 hours.’ A pause and then: ‘You mentioned two matters?’

‘Yes, I did. Given this is early days for us, I want to make sure that you are aware that incidents like the one in Rockham should be reported to me as soon as they occur. I have no intention of interfering in the chain of command, but I do expect to be kept informed.’

‘Of course you do, sir.’ Chahda nodded to reinforce this affirmation. ‘A report of the Rockham death is highlighted in the summary of yesterday’s events. It is on its way to you. But I will certainly take note that you wish for more immediate notification.’

As ever, a model response. ‘Thanks, Anil.’ Joshua couldn’t help feeling that his determination to take control of the job might have made him slightly overdo his domination of his deputy. ‘That will be all.’

1 p.m.

Cathy was about to head up the gangway when she saw the fox. It was a big one and decrepit, its fur matted and its tail a ragged thing.

There were many foxes that haunted the estate – more of them recently since the Lovelace had begun to stink of blocked drains and rotting rubbish, and especially in this heat – but she had only ever spotted them at night or in the early morning, and then just out of the corner of her eye. But this one was limping forward in the full light of day, and when its path crossed with hers it did not run away. She stopped and it did too. She looked at it and it held her gaze. Its legs, she saw, were shaking. She shut her eyes.

When she opened them again, the fox had gone. Too fast a disappearance, surely, given how sick it had seemed?

She’d not had enough sleep; she shook herself into motion.

The door to Ruben’s parents’ place was ajar. She gave the bell a quick press to warn them that she was there, and then she walked in and down the corridor.

For the second time that day, she couldn’t help but be struck by the pictures of Ruben that lined the walls. They brought such a lump to her throat that she quickened her pace. But there was no escape. The living room, which she soon reached, was also dominated by a large full-colour portrait of Ruben that hung above the mantelpiece. It was Ruben on one of his better days, lit by an open smile.

Despite the room containing a vast array of objects – plastic flowers, china shepherdesses, a large red plastic heart, a sign that flashed the word ‘smile’ in neon, as well as many gilt-framed photos of the wider family – Cathy’s gaze kept being pulled back to this portrait. And every time she looked at him, and he seemed to look back, that same thought occurred: that she did not know what she would do if Lyndall were to die, never mind in such a terrible way.

‘Mrs Mason, you’re back, and with provisions for us all.’ Ruben’s mother’s face was blotched by tears, but her voice was strong and she even managed a smile. ‘Here, let me unburden you.’ She took the bulging carrier bags from Cathy and passed them to another woman. ‘There are plates in the kitchen,’ and to Cathy: ‘We were looking at the albums. Come, join us.’

The room was crowded – relatives, friends and neighbours rallying as word of what had happened spread. There were many, including the Reverend Pius and Marcus, she knew well, but there were also many with whom she had only a nodding acquaintance and some she had never met. They were united by what had happened, and as the crowd parted to let the two women through, Cathy was greeted by a smile here and an embrace there.

Such a warm inclusivity in this most terrible of times. Yet in the midst of it, Ruben’s father, who was standing at the other end of the room, looked very much alone.

‘The police didn’t bother to tell us he was gone.’ He had been saying this when Cathy had first arrived early that morning, and he was still saying it. ‘Our friends had to bear that strain. Nobody else cares. His death didn’t merit more than a small mention, and only in one newspaper.’

Reverend Pius shifted to one side to make room for Cathy on the black settee that was jammed against a heater. Just as in Cathy’s flat, the heater was on and the room was boiling. No one seemed to notice, or if they did they didn’t seem to care.

‘When we went to the police station to ask them what had happened, they didn’t even offer to seat us,’ Ruben’s father continued. ‘We can’t say nothing, they told us, except that someone phoned them to complain about Ruben’s behaviour. We told them: that cannot be. Everybody knew Ruben. Nobody would have rung the police, not without first asking us. All the man reply is: you have to speak to the IPCC. He wouldn’t come out from behind his bulletproof glass and look us in the eye and speak to us, human being to human being. We are the ones who have suffered such great loss, but he was the one to feel unsafe.’

‘Come now, Bernard.’ Ruben’s mother patted the place beside her. ‘Come, look.’

Her husband came to the settee, but as she turned the page of the album, he wasn’t really looking. She stopped and reached up to take his hand and squeeze it. He squeezed hers back. A beat as they looked at each other, and then she dropped her hand and turned another page.

‘He was such a happy child.’ She pointed at a photograph of the young Ruben, circa five years old. He was kneeling on a patch of grass, holding a football and smiling up into the lens. ‘Always wanting to know everything. Full of love.’ She blinked back tears and carried on scrolling through a detailed record of the growing boy.

It was hard not to be drawn into the pleasure that she took in each of the images of her son, her fingers occasionally dropping to the page to stroke his face. It was even harder not to see her agony and the adjustment demanded of her to come to terms with what had happened. Her tenses continually had to be fast-forwarded into a present in which she could not yet bring herself to believe. ‘This friend,’ she pointed to a photo of Ruben with another boy, ‘is a favourite who he sees . . .’ a pause, ‘saw almost every week. He is here now.’ She pointed to a youngish man who was sitting, solitary, on a hard chair. Noticing her pointing finger, he dropped his head and covered his eyes with a hand. ‘He’s a good boy,’ she said, before going back to the album. She sped up, pages turning almost carelessly, creating a flickering blur out of Ruben’s childhood until at last she stopped.

It was a photo of an adolescent Ruben. Facing the camera. No smile or other welcome. A blank and uncompromising stare.

Ruben’s mother’s eyes had filled with tears. ‘He lost his bearings,’ she said. ‘All of a sudden he went somewhere in his head and we found we could not follow where.’ She turned another page. ‘We were visitors only on occasion.’ And there was the adult Ruben, the one Cathy had known and the one above the mantelpiece, and he was smiling. ‘Sometimes, with the medication, then he would come back to us.’

‘To us, perhaps, but not to himself.’ This from Ruben’s father. ‘He said what the doctor gave him put him in the grave,’ that last word reverberating in a room that fell silent.

‘Come, Bernard.’ She patted the space beside her. ‘Come sit.’

He was a vigorous man, in his sixties, muscled from many years labouring in a packing house. But now, as he lowered himself onto the settee, he looked much older and also much more frail. ‘My son was never violent,’ he said. ‘He never raised a serious hand. Neither against his mother or me. Or any other human being.’

‘He did get frightened.’ This from his wife. ‘If you touched him wrong.’

‘He was a good boy.’ His voice once more filled the room. ‘And he was a good man. He was my light.’

1.15 p.m.

‘Home Secretary?’ Peter’s Parliamentary Private Secretary, who had slid into the office noiselessly as he always did, gave one of his self-deprecatory little coughs.

‘Yes?’ He still had much to do, and Frances, who hated to be kept waiting, was imminently due. ‘What is it?’

‘Commissioner Yares phoned.’

‘He did, did he?’ He nodded to Patricia to make sure she was paying attention. ‘And what did he want?’

‘To tell you that there has been a death in Rockham.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ But why – is what he didn’t say – am I being interrupted by this news? ‘Another knifing?’

‘No, an accident. The police were involved.’

‘I see.’

‘I would have kept this for my end-of-day summary rather than bother you with it now, but Mr Parsons, the Member, as I’m sure you are aware, whose constituency includes Rockham, has advised us he has asked the Speaker’s permission to raise a question abut the incident.’

‘Has he indeed?’ And Joshua Yares had thought to warn him. Perhaps he was trying, harder than Peter had anticipated, to be cooperative.

‘The Commissioner will be briefing the press. He wanted you to know that as well.’

Perhaps not so much cooperative as dotting the i’s and crossing his t’s, something for which he was a stickler, especially when it came to covering his own back.

‘Oh, and your wife is waiting in the lobby.’

‘Good God, man, why didn’t you say so?’ He was already on his feet and slinging on his jacket, saying to Patricia, ‘We’ll have to go on with this when I get back.’

Another little cough. ‘You have an appointment with the Taiwanese ambassador, Home Secretary, on your return from lunch.’

So he did. Nothing to be done save for: ‘Let’s finish up in the lift,’ and then to his PPS: ‘You’ll look into the Rockham business?’

‘Yes, Home Secretary. There’ll be a report in your box tonight.’

1.16 p.m.

A quick glance at the mirror to check everything was where it ought to be and then Joshua Yares strode through the door and into the claustrophobic room with its duck-egg soundproofed walls and grey blinds that shut out even the slightest hint of daylight. Lucky it was air-conditioned or keeping his jacket on would have been nigh impossible.

Chahda and the head press bod were already at the table that had been raised onto a podium in front of a backdrop of Met logos. As the cameras flashed – so many of them, he knew, because the press were also using this first appearance to build up a store of stock photos – he seated himself between the two.

His statement, on one single piece of paper, was there neatly in front of him, but it was worth giving the photographers, and the TV cameras at the back, a little more time to satisfy their cravings. As he sat, unsmiling, and the cameras flashed, the head of press leant over to whisper, ‘Should I set up a confab with the CRA?’

He shook his head: ‘Not for this one.’ There would be plenty of other occasions for him to get to know those members of the Crime Reporters Association to whom the Met would entrust sensitive information, and he didn’t want them to think he was making capital out of a tragedy. ‘Shall we begin?’

‘Absolutely, sir. Ladies and gentlemen.’ The press man’s raised voice had produced an immediate hush. ‘Our new Commissioner of the Metropolis, Commissioner Joshua Yares, will read a short statement. There will be no questions at this time,’ and then turning to Joshua: ‘Commissioner?’

‘Thank you, Mark.’ A quick glance at the paper and he had memorised what was written there. He looked up. ‘And thank you all for coming. It is my sad duty to inform you that yesterday in Rockham, in response to a call from the public, police officers attended a community centre on the Lovelace estate. When a man in his early thirties became violent, the Rockham officers took measures to restrain him. Unfortunately, the man developed breathing difficulties. Officers gave him CPR until an ambulance arrived to take the man to hospital. He was pronounced dead on arrival. At a request from the man’s parents, we will not, at present, be releasing the man’s details. My office is liaising with the parents, and I would ask you, on their behalf, that once their son’s name is released you give them the privacy they will need to come to terms with their loss. As in every case where a death occurs in police presence, the Independent Police Complaints Commission has been put in charge of the investigation. Any further questions should be addressed to them. Thank you. That is all.’

He was already on his feet and beginning the short walk away as questions were fired at him, such as: ‘Do you think this is a bad omen?’ and ‘How’s the first day otherwise?’ and that one he knew would be inevitable: ‘Will you comment on the rumour that the Home Secretary is less than delighted at your appointment?’ All of which he ignored, taking care to keep his expression neutral without discounting the gravity of the news he had delivered, and then at last he was out and he could let his breath go.

1.20 p.m.

There was quite a bustle in the atrium – more visitors than usual crowding around the front desk – so Peter leant his head in so as to hear what Patricia was telling him. While listening to what she had to say, he also looked to where Frances was standing at the centre of a circle of his staff. She had on her beige frock with pink trimming that toned perfectly with her peach complexion and wavy blonde hair. She was so attractive, he thought, a judgement with which the men fawning on her were bound to concur. One of them said something in response to which she threw back her head, elongating her neck, and laughed, and although he wasn’t close enough to see them, he knew she must be treating the men to a flash of those perfect white teeth. He felt such pride watching her, and another feeling that he was almost ashamed to name. He knew it, however, for what it was: a slight jealousy that she was so at home in this world that, despite his high status, sometimes made him feel like an outsider, and a fat one at that.

‘What I’m trying to say, Minister . . .’ Patricia must have registered his inattention. She raised her voice to pull him back.

‘Not now,’ he said.

Frances had already turned her head to look at him. She frowned.

Could he have done something to annoy her? But, no, she was smiling again as she said something to the men, who responded by parting to let her through. He must have imagined it.

But he soon realised that she really was annoyed. Not that she said as much. But by her turning away of her cheek when he had gone to peck it once they were outside, and by her brisk nod at his driver and his bodyguards, and by the way she sat beside him in the car, poker straight, and pushed an errant blonde hair firmly back into place, he could tell that something was bothering her.

‘Dog been playing up?’

‘Why would she be?’ Her tone was pinched. She was definitely annoyed.

Perhaps she was feeling unacknowledged.

‘I tried to ring you back this morning,’ he said, ‘but you didn’t answer.’

She shrugged.

Yes, that was most likely it. And he had been remiss. ‘Would I be right in thinking you had something to do with the Today item?’

‘Nobody tells Today what to run.’ Her voice was clipped. ‘Except perhaps the DG – and it’s doubtful, even in his case, that he can.’

‘Well, thank you for your efforts in the aftermath.’

Her nod was curt, giving nothing away.

Oh, Lord – looked to be a day of sulks. All he needed.

‘I think I struck the right balance between giving the PM support and also representing the mainstream view of the Party,’ he tried. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Yes, Peter.’ She sounded dutiful. And clearly bored.

He looked away and in doing so caught his driver’s eye. He pressed a button and the glass screen that divided front from back went gliding up.

‘There’s been an incident involving the police in Rockham,’ he said, ‘resulting in the death of a member of the public. Timothy Parsons is planning to ask a question in the House.’

‘That dreadful man.’ He had hoped that her annoyance, whatever its cause, might fade in the face of the thing that really engaged her – the intricacies of politics – and so it proved. ‘Bitter as well: resents the fact that he was passed over in the last reshuffle. Not that he deserved another chance after the mess he made in Transport. And now he’s asking questions to catch you out – and from our side of the House.’

‘It is odd, especially since he’s not exactly known for his social conscience. Rumour is he does his best to steer clear of surgeries: too many needy people.’

Frances frowned. Good – a sign she had her thinking cap on. ‘The PM has Parsons up to it,’ she said. ‘Despite the reshuffle, Parsons remains his man.’

She was, as ever, right. Parsons’ name had been top of the list of those who would never in a million years vote for Peter. ‘But why would the PM set his dogs on this death?’

‘He has gone out on a limb on the drugs issue,’ Frances said, ‘throwing the party into uproar. The opposition are jumping on the bandwagon, quoting police resistance to the measure. So if he can provoke the country into concern about the police, he thinks he might be able to turn the tide. He can’t do it himself, so he’s recruited Parsons.’

Which put a new complexion on Yares’s phone call: ‘Of course that must be it. How clever of you.’

She smiled. Not so much the ice queen now. ‘We should talk about the lunch. Our table is close to some fairly influential Party funders. We will not be sitting with them, I’ve made sure of that. We don’t want to give too much away until we are sure we have all our ducks in a row. All we need at the moment is to meet and greet, with a word or two in relevant ears. I’ll make the running. You follow.’

‘Don’t I always, darling?’

Too frivolous. She turned her head and looked at him. Sharply.

Knowing that it always took her a while to come out of one of her glooms, he should have been more careful. ‘I depend on you,’ he said.

‘Do you?’

That acid tone again.

Irritation rising, he thought, that’s it, I give up. She, of all people, should know how burdened he was by work and responsibility. She certainly did know that the Home Office was the most perilous of all the great ministries of state, never mind the dangers attached to trying to unseat his Leader. And yet here she was playing her own petulant games. He had no patience for it. Not any more. If she wanted to tell him what was bothering her, she should come out with it. In the meantime, he would hold his tongue. He turned his head away from her to look out of the window.

Uniform blue sky. Women in skimpy clothes lying on brown grass. Roses that had flowered and withered before their time. Bloody heat. He found himself wishing for the end of summer even before the real summer was properly underway.

‘Are you having an affair?’

‘What?’ Of all the things that might be bothering her, this was one that had never occurred to him. ‘An affair?’ Ridiculous echo. Must do better.

‘Just answer the question, Peter.’

‘I will. If that’s what you want. But before I do, do you happen to have a suggestion as to who I might be having this supposed affair with?’

‘As a matter of fact, I do. I’d say it was your Special Adviser.’

‘With Patricia?’ Incredulity hyped up his voice.

She was in contrast very calm: ‘Do you have another Special Adviser?’ When he didn’t say anything, she continued: ‘I thought not. So, Peter, tell me, are you having an affair with your Special Adviser, Patricia Diaz?’

‘Is that why you phoned Patricia this morning? Were you checking up on me?’

He caught his driver’s eye again. He hoped the soundproofing worked, especially when Frances raised her voice to say, ‘Answer the question. Are you and Patricia Diaz having an affair?’

‘No.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We are not.’

‘Is that the truth?’ She was looking at him fiercely, as only Frances could.

‘Yes, it is the truth. Cross my heart and hope to die.’ He did it. He crossed his heart. ‘There. Does that satisfy?’

He could see, by the softening of her expression, that it did.

He reached across for her hand. Thank goodness she gave it to him. ‘Whatever made you think I was having an affair?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Your early rising. Your late returns. The way she looked at me when you both stepped out of the lift.’

‘The way she looked at you.’ Echo again, but needs must. ‘Come on, darling, that’s absurd. As for the hours I keep: the House is your second home and has been for most of your life. You know how extreme the demands are, especially when one becomes a minister, never mind a secretary of state.’

‘Yes, I do know. And I also know many MPs play away from home. Daddy led the hunt, if you remember.’

Not that he or, come to that, most of the country could forget. Her father (thankfully now deceased) had been a notorious philanderer. His womanising, played out in public, had caused his wife, and his four daughters, awful misery.

‘I would never do that to you.’

‘You had better not.’

He squeezed her hand. ‘I need you, Frances, by my side. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise that.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

So plaintively asked, her question both warmed and annoyed him. ‘You have to trust me.’

‘I do. I will. But if you betray my trust . . .’

She didn’t complete her threat because by then they had arrived.

3 p.m.

The Lovelace was subdued. Doors open and people outside on the landings to escape the heat, but even the smallest of children, who couldn’t know what had happened, didn’t seem to have the heart to play. As for the adults, what conversation there was, was carried out in voices too soft to be overheard.

If it had been me, Cathy couldn’t help thinking, if it had been me. She kept checking her watch, wondering whether Lyndall should already have arrived home from school, and this despite that she knew it was too early. If it had been me . . .

She kept an eye out for the fox, but even that proved no distraction. Had it been real? And if it was, had it been sick? Or worse, rabid? Perhaps she should go home and phone the RSPCA.

She didn’t feel like going home. With the meeting due at her place later, she needed provisions. She counted the change in her purse: if she was careful, she could manage.

It was so humid that her skin was moist with perspiration and her throat raw. She needed water and she needed it now. Since she was just then passing the local Londis, she stepped in.

It was a small outlet, run by one of the Somalian newcomers to the area whose daughter went to school with Lyndall, and it was usually a relaxed place. But what she heard when she stepped in was a voice raised in anger.

‘What the fuck do you mean you can’t?’

She knew that voice and the man who, with his back to her, banged a fist against the counter: ‘You’ve got no right to refuse.’

‘Banji?’

He whirled round, looked at her and then looked right past her.

‘Banji. It’s Cathy.’

‘You think I’m such a fucking muppet I don’t know who you are?’ He turned back to the counter behind which Mrs Sharif was standing. ‘Just sell me a can – I’ve got the money – and I’ll get out of your fucking way.’

Mrs Sharif shook her head.

He slammed both hands down on the counter and pushed on them: he was about to vault over. And would have done so had not Cathy run up to grab him by the arm and pull him away from the counter.

‘What the fuck?’

She could smell his breath, sour and stale. ‘Mrs Sharif can’t sell you alcohol.’

‘Why the fuck not?’

‘Because she hasn’t got a licence.’

‘Oh.’ Fury mutating into something closer to confusion. ‘Hasn’t she?’

She could see Mrs Sharif inching along the counter. She was heading for the telephone at its far end.

The last thing anybody needed was more police. ‘Come on.’ She tugged at Banji’s arm. ‘Come, let’s get some air,’ and to Mrs Sharif: ‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he doesn’t come back.’

He let her lead him out of the shop, but once they were outside he shook her off. ‘Call this air?’ He seemed unsteady on his feet.

‘Are you drunk?’ But he’d given up all intoxicants. Or at least he’d told her that he had. ‘Are you?’

‘Are you?’ he said in imitation of her voice.

Walk away, she told herself, and not for the first time.

She did not walk away.

He looked awful. His trousers and dirty white T-shirt were what he had been wearing yesterday, and they were both now so crumpled he must have slept in them. Or not slept at all, which was probably the case: the whites of his eyes were pink.

‘What happened?’ The last she’d seen of him he’d been let off by the police with a caution.

The fury seemed to drain out of him then. In its place: a misery that crumpled his expression as he said, ‘They killed him.’

‘Yes.’ She felt herself relax. ‘They did.’

‘And I didn’t stop them.’

She reached out a consoling hand.

He jumped as if her touch could burn. ‘I was watching out for him.’

‘You did what you could.’

‘Well, it wasn’t fucking good enough, was it?’ His face was screwed up in rage, an unaccustomed sight coming as it did from a man whose manner these days was a non-committal containment that made him seem almost devoid of emotion.

Not so in the past. Then he had been quick to anger. And then he had also drunk a lot and taken other things besides.

‘I lost my phone,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Are you deaf or what? I lost my fucking phone.’

Okay, she thought, so he lost his phone. She took hers out of her pocket. ‘You can use mine.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. Violently. ‘What if she rung back and you answered?’

She must be his wife – his ex-wife. That he’d had an acrimonious break-up was one of the few personal details he had let slip.

‘You could number guard it,’ she said.

He backed away even further. ‘You don’t understand.’ He’d raised his voice again – ‘Nobody does’ – and hardened as he glared at her. ‘I’m all alone.’

Such accusatory self-pity, as if he was so much worse off than everybody else. ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ she heard herself saying. ‘Use my phone. Or don’t. Just do me a favour and stop whining.’

There: the end of tiptoeing around him in case something she did made him leave her. Let him go if he wanted to. It would be better if he did. She looked at him, straight, waiting for his bite-back.

He threw his head back and laughed. Long and hard, and he kept his balance while he was doing it. He isn’t drunk, she thought.

A memory of that previous night: Banji held down and unable to get the police to hear what he was telling them – that they were killing Ruben. It must have been unbearable. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.’

He took her by surprise again. He reached out and touched a gentle finger against her lips. ‘Don’t be sorry. Be feisty. It suits you, Cathy Mason.’

So many lightning changes of mood: a dance she couldn’t follow.

But then Banji was a man who never would be followed. ‘Catch you later,’ he said. ‘Something I have to do,’ and he walked away.

10 p.m.

‘It’s late,’ the Reverend Pius said. ‘And we’ve had a productive meeting. We are agreed. We’ll set off from the Lovelace tomorrow at three, and others will join us outside the police station. We’ll support the family while they seek an explanation from the police about their actions in relation to Ruben. Once they’ve been given that, we will disperse. Thanks, everybody, for attending and to Cathy for opening her home to us.’ He stretched and tried to conceal a yawn that anyway sounded out.

No wonder he was tired: he’d had to work hard to contain the rage that had at moments threatened to burst out.

‘That was well chaired,’ Marcus said.

Cathy nodded her agreement, although she was distracted. One final look around the room as the crowd that had packed her living room thinned confirmed it. ‘Banji wasn’t here,’ she said.

‘Were you expecting him?’

‘After last night? Yes, of course.’

‘Well, you know what Banji’s like.’ Marcus got to his feet and also yawned. ‘They seek him here, they seek him there, the Lovelace seeks him everywhere.’

He said it so sweetly it made her laugh, but still: ‘You’ve never liked him, have you?’

‘I don’t like him.’ Marcus shrugged. ‘I don’t dislike him. I don’t know him. Does anybody?’

Yes, she nearly said. I do. But then she thought back to the way Banji had behaved that afternoon, and then to their more distant past, and she realised that she never had been able to predict what he would do.

‘You better come.’ Pius, who had left the room, suddenly reappeared.

‘Why?’

‘It’s your daughter.’ Before she had time to press him, he was gone.

She went after him as fast as she could, weaving her way past knots of people still picking over what had been discussed. She had to stop herself from knocking some of them to the ground. It was a short distance to the hall, but it seemed to take an age to get there. Then she found her progress even more impeded. People were moving forward but so slowly. She could not understand it. She stood on her tiptoes and looked over their heads to see that the crowd, instead of dispersing, was standing just outside the door.

What had this to do with Lyndall? She’d been in and out during the meeting – bored, Cathy had assumed.

‘Excuse me.’ One last push and she was over the threshold.

‘Look.’

Pius was smiling, and when she looked to the place he was pointing at, she understood why.

The night was aglow. Not with a fire that burnt – that had been her first thought – but with a soft, shimmering light. It was like looking at a cluster of stars, except this light came not from the sky but from down below.

‘Your daughter and her friend did this.’

So that’s why Lyndall and Jayden had been out so early. They must have gone to the wholesalers to buy tealights, which, in their glass containers, they had placed at regular intervals across the Lovelace. Down one of the gangways the river of light went and up another, as if following a route. And, yes, that’s what they were doing. The kids had marked out Ruben’s last walk with light and, yes again, her eyes confirmed it because there, in front of the community centre, was a great cluster, so many of them that it was from here that the impression of burning had come. A great flowing mass of light.

She looked and she looked. Her vision seemed to blur.

‘Magnificent.’ Pius’s voice in her ear. ‘And to think they keep lecturing us that we have a problem with our youth.’

She nodded but could not speak.

Lyndall must be here somewhere. She had to find her. She scanned the crowd and sure enough there was her daughter standing next to Jayden.

She could not speak, but she could do something better. She clasped her hands together and she put them over her heart and lowered her head and held it there, not in prayer but in appreciation of the great gift that they had been given.