Ten Days

by Gillian Slovo

  ‘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 stra
ight, 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.’