‘Someone they were searching for.’
The PM made a tutting sound. ‘Not my place to interfere, but you do understand, don’t you, that your job is to get control of the streets, not to stir it up? If that means taking up the suggestions Peter made . . .’
Peter, was it? Not Home Secretary, or that arsehole who’s after my job, but Peter.
‘. . . then I suggest you give them every consideration. It’s up to you, of course. You’re my choice as Commissioner, and I’ll back you all the way. But we can’t have anarchy, especially with the economy in such a fragile state.’ He glanced ahead to where one of his men was tapping his watch. ‘If that’s all . . .’
‘There is something else, Prime Minister. I need to tell you something.’ Seeing the man with the microphone still hovering: ‘For your ears only.’
Another tut. ‘I have to get this slap off. Come with me to the make-up room.’
He strode away with Joshua following. Once in the room he asked for privacy. He grabbed a bunch of tissues onto which he slathered cold cream and began wiping the heavy layer of slap from his forehead and his cheeks. ‘What’s so urgent?’
‘It’s Molotov Man.’
‘You’ve picked him up, have you? Now that is good news.’
‘We haven’t picked him up, Prime Minister. Not yet. Although we are pulling out all the stops.’
‘Keep pulling them. The sooner you find him, and the sooner you lock him up – or, even better, put him on a public pillory, which is what the tabloids are after – the better.’ Having wiped away the thick layer they’d used to cover up the sun damage on the right side of his face, the PM began to work on the left.
‘But we have a problem, Prime Minister. Banji, the name by which this man is known in Rockham, is his cover—’
‘His cover?’ The PM used the mirror to fix Joshua with a stare.
‘Afraid so. His real name is Julius Jibola.’
The Prime Minister let the tissues fall and turned to look at Joshua. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
‘I am, Prime Minister. Molotov Man, aka Banji, real name Julius Jibola, is one of our undercovers. And he’s missing.’
Tuesday
STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL
Submission to the internal inquiry of the Metropolitan Police into Operation Bedrock pertaining to the Rockham disturbances and related matters
Submission OB/MPS/CC/28
To: The Office of the Inquiry into Operation Bedrock
From: The Office of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service
The chairman of the inquiry into Operation Bedrock requested the minutes of a meeting concerning DC Julius Jibola that took place at the Office of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police on
On investigation, no minutes were found, nor any summary of the discussion. Both the then Commissioner and the then Deputy Commissioner have confirmed that there was no minute-taker present.
On further investigation, the diaries of both men confirmed the meeting as having commenced at 7 a.m. The logbook of the staff of the Commissioner recorded those present as:
Metropolitan Police Commissioner Joshua Yares, chairing.
Deputy Commissioner Anil Chahda, also present as Acting Head of SO15.
Detective Chief Inspector Derek Blackstone, in command of the formerly named National Domestic Extremism and Disorder Intelligence Unit, NDEDIU.
Chief Superintendent Gaby Wright, acting officer in command of Rockham.
There are no available notes from any of the participants on the discussion points of the meeting.
7.05 a.m.
CS Gaby Wright was on her feet in front of a screen and now, at a nod from Joshua, she clicked the mouse to produce a blurred black and white image. ‘This is the reception room of the Rockham nick, two days ago at 13.55. This,’ she pointed at the screen, ‘is the man we now know to be DC Julius Jibola.’ Another click and the man began moving towards a glassed-in desk. He was clearly speaking, although the picture was mute.
‘Turn the sound on.’
‘I can’t.’ A quick curt smile. ‘The recording facilities malfunctioned and with the station besieged it wasn’t safe to bring in anybody to fix the problem. We have picture but no sound.’
The man’s mouth was open, his hands moving in wild gesticulations.
‘Did the desk sergeant at least take down what he was saying?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. The station was hard-pressed with people either reporting damage to property or enquiring about missing relatives. All other active officers being out on patrol, or guarding the exterior of the station, the desk sergeant had little support.’ She pointed at the screen where the man, still talking, had stopped some feet away from the desk. ‘Jibola anyway never reached the desk.’
‘He looks angry.’
‘Angry and also, according to the desk sergeant, largely incoherent. From drink, the sergeant assumed. He was raving about a murder, which my sergeant only later pieced together must have been a reference to the unfortunate death in the Lovelace community centre. As you can see,’ the pointer indicated a line of people, ‘there was a queue. When Jibola was told he’d have to wait his turn, he threatened to access the interior of the station by barging through the security doors. The sergeant said that in that case he would have Jibola arrested. Jibola’s response was to exit the police station.’ She fast-forwarded to the man turning and walking out. ‘Assuming he was just another drunk, and with no support, the desk sergeant let him go. He was later caught on CCTV heading south-west away from Rockham High Street.’
‘Hold on a minute.’ It was all Joshua could do not to let his jaw rest where it had dropped. ‘Are you telling me that one of our own entered your station with the intention of reporting an incident in which your officers had been involved, an incident that ended in the death of a member of the public, and your desk sergeant failed either to take a statement or refer him to you?’
‘Unfortunate, I grant you.’ Another one of those quick smiles.
‘Unfortunate?’ He was going to wipe that smile off her face. Preferably after he’d ripped the insignia from her neatly turned-out uniform. ‘It’s not unfortunate; it’s disastrous. Especially when we know that DC Jibola was telling the truth about having been at the community centre. And this we know because, as you have just informed us, he was handcuffed after remonstrating with your officers, before being let go with a caution. But when he comes into your station with the clear intention of reporting what he saw, your desk sergeant first ignores him and then threatens him with arrest.’
What a catalogue of incompetence, and all in his first week.
‘It beggars belief.’
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Chahda leaning forward as if about to leap to Gaby Wright’s defence. Do it, he thought, I dare you. And then I’ll have you, too.
‘Do you have any idea what this is going to look like if it gets out?’
‘I know what it looks like, sir.’ An unruffled Gaby Wright now demonstrated how capable she was of defending herself. ‘But it isn’t like that. There was no earthly way that the desk sergeant, a capable and experienced officer, could have guessed that a man he had never met, or heard about, and who was behaving in an erratic and threatening manner, was one of ours. If he had known, he would have acted differently. But he didn’t know. None of us did.’ Another of those humourless smiles.
‘Okay.’ Joshua breathed in and on the out-breath said, ‘Let’s move on. How close are you to finding Jibola?’
‘We’ve got nothing concrete, sir, at least thus far. We searched the rooms he was renting. They were bare: no trace that he’d ever even been there. We’re continuing to search the Lovelace, and we’re also doing a sweep of the empty buildings by the canal. If we don’t find him in any of these locations, we may have to conclude that he has left Rockham.’
Thus shifting the problem off her patch. Joshua glanced down at Jibola’s file. ‘This woman
,’ pointing at a photograph, ‘Cathy Mason. Might she know where he is?’
‘I talked to her at some length, sir, and I don’t think that she does. She’s a credible witness who said that DC Jibola, who she knows only as Banji, had recently turned nasty. Apparently he hit her. She was so upset she burnt everything she’d ever had from him. He appears to have successfully hidden his true identity and his position as a police officer – she still thinks he’s a van driver. She never visited his rooms and didn’t know where they were.’
‘A Molotov-throwing undercover agent who manages to maintain cover. Wonders will never cease.’
‘If you say so, sir.’ Another quick tweak up of those red lips. ‘But while I believe Mrs Mason to have been telling the truth, and that Jibola has successfully kept her in the dark, I suspect her daughter, Lyndall, of knowing something. Perhaps even Jibola’s whereabouts. Take a look at this.’
Another click of her mouse, another black and white image. ‘This was captured yesterday at 10.51 a.m. by fixed CCTV camera 4947, which is on the southernmost corner of Rockham High Street at the intersection with Berkshire Road. This,’ she set the picture moving and pointed at a young woman walking away from the camera, ‘we believe to be Lyndall Mason. She progressed along Rockham High Street to be captured on CCTV here,’ she fast-forwarded before pausing the footage, ‘here,’ and then again, ‘here. As you can see, in two of these three moments she is looking around, which could indicate that she is checking to see that she is not being followed.’ She set the images rolling again. ‘At 11.03, Lyndall Mason was caught on CCTV turning the corner here,’ another click, ‘into Pringle’s Yard, a dead end with no operational surveillance cameras.’
‘DC Jibola would have had good knowledge of any visual black spots in the area.’ This from Anil Chahda.
‘We assume so. And now if I fast-forward,’ another series of rapid mouse movements brought up a succession of CCTV photographs, ‘these were taken by the same camera at the intersection of Pringle’s Yard and Rockham High Street over a period of thirty minutes. You will see from the timeline that runs under them that Lyndall Mason did not come out of Pringle’s Yard. The first CCTV re-sighting of her was over forty-three minutes later, here,’ a still of the figure walking towards the camera, ‘on Rockham High Street at 11.47, shortly before she arrived back in the Lovelace, where I was speaking with her mother. Scrutiny of CCTV cameras in the area yielded no further information on her route. She must have circled round to the High Street avoiding all the cameras.’
‘So what was she up to?’
‘That’s what we wanted to know, and so early this morning,’ she closed down the screen and replaced it with another on which was a fresh picture of the deserted dead end, ‘I sent an officer to examine Pringle’s Yard. As you can see, one end of the yard, here, appears to be blocked by a substantial fence. On closer examination, however, my officer detected an unevenness in the fence poles.’ She tapped her laptop and the image was magnified. ‘This pole, here, has been worked free of its top mooring. It can be pushed aside to create a space wide enough for a slim figure to squeeze through. We can’t prove that this is what Lyndall Mason did, but there is one further piece of available evidence,’ another click, which brought up an aerial photograph of what looked like wasteland, bordered in the distance by a canal. ‘This was captured by India 95 during routine surveillance. It shows the area beyond Pringle’s Yard. We think that this,’ she pointed at the screen, at a distant dot which, when she enlarged it, might have been a person, ‘is Lyndall Mason. The times fit. And if you look at her right-hand side, you will see that this young woman appears to be carrying something, just as Lyndall Mason was.’ More clicks and they were back to the CCTV where a plastic carrier bag was hooked over the girl’s right arm. ‘If it is Lyndall Mason, she was heading for the canal. This is why we’ve expanded our search to include the buildings, some of them abandoned, that line its banks.’
‘Why don’t you just ask the girl where she went?’ This from Chahda, a question that earned him a quick glance that looked close to a rebuke, and when Gaby Wright said, ‘I did start to question her,’ her smile was undeniably chilly, ‘but her mother would not allow me to continue. Lyndall Mason is a minor. Given DC Jibola’s relationship with Mrs Mason, I thought it better not to push it. Not until I had taken advice.’
DCI Blackstone, a big man and overweight, who’d been slumped back in his chair as if none of this had anything to do with him, now sat bolt upright. ‘It’s not possible, is it, that DC Jibola is Lyndall Mason’s father?’
‘It is possible, yes. The dates of the first liaison between Cathy Mason and DC Jibola make it so. But when I asked Mrs Mason, she denied it.’
‘Thank fuck for small mercies.’
‘As an extra precaution, we obtained sight of Lyndall Mason’s birth certificate,’ Gaby Wright said. ‘The mother is given as Cathy Mason. There is no mention of any father. But I still think the girl knows something.’
‘Then pull her in.’ Again roughly from Anil Chahda, which earned him another sharp look.
Gaby Wright kept her eyes focused on Joshua rather than his deputy. ‘Can do, sir. If you think that’s what I should do?’
‘Hmm.’ Hers was a careful move that made him responsible for any mistake. ‘Leave the girl alone,’ he said. ‘At least for the time being,’ ignoring Chahda’s grimace to get to his feet. ‘Thank you, CS Wright. You must be anxious to get back to your beat. Let me show you to the lift.’ And then to the two men: ‘Wait here for me, will you?’
7.20 a.m.
Peter hefted the tray onto his wife’s bedside table. ‘Here you are, darling.’
Frances surveyed the orange juice he had freshly squeezed, the two boiled eggs (three and a half perfect minutes), the sourdough toast and a pot of tea – strong, as she liked it. ‘My, you have gone to town.’ She picked up the glass and took a tiny sip of juice before putting it back on the tray. ‘Pity I’m not that hungry.’
‘Thought you’d be ravenous.’
She broke off a bit of toast and fed it to the dog, which was lying beside her on the bed. ‘How so?’
‘Well, you know, after last night.’ As soon as he said it, he knew he shouldn’t have, this realisation confirmed by the onset of her deep frown.
Stupid of him. He must take it slower. Be more mindful of her feelings. She was bound to be bruised, if not by his behaviour – her performance in bed showed that she had believed him – then by the fact that someone had been malicious enough to send those pictures. He leant across to kiss her, lightly, on the lips. ‘Can I get you anything else, darling?’
‘No, thank you.’ A pause and then, ‘Did someone ring while you were downstairs?’
‘Yes.’ So she was still a bit suspicious. ‘The PM did. He wanted to thank me for being – how did he put it? – oh yes, a proficient caretaker while he’d been tied up in the negotiations. He said he was going to take over the chairing of COBRA and that I, of course, am welcome to attend.’ And then, seeing Frances laughing: ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Oh, you know.’ She patted the dog’s silky head.
‘Not sure that I do.’
‘I was just thinking that you politicians are a bit like dogs.’ She puckered her lips to bless the dog’s head with a kiss. ‘Especially of the male variety.’ Which she followed by more butterfly kisses. ‘Aren’t they, Patsy-watsy?’
‘Frances!’
Frances lifted her head. ‘The PM was leaving his scent on your patch.’
Something rather gleeful in the way she delivered this sentence. He almost called her on it but then, seeing her smile turn to a frown, and recognising this to be her thinking frown, he held his tongue. And held it some more as she continued to be lost in thought.
There followed an extended silence through which he could hear the tick of his bedside alarm and the soft snuffling of the dog, who settled herself in Frances’s lap and went back to sleep.
Tick, tick.
; He looked down at his bare feet.
Thought, soon time to cut my toenails again.
He looked up again and at his wife. The straps of her cream negligee had slipped off one shoulder to expose that paler cream of her breast.
Tick, tick.
He contemplated stretching out to slip the strap off the other shoulder, but he knew better than to dare, especially when she was thinking.
Tick, tick.
And then, at long last, her gaze came back into focus.
‘The PM thinks,’ she said, ‘or at least wants you to think, that it’s still all to play for. We know he’s a weak leader at the best of times, and that these aren’t the best of times. He’s likely to handle the situation badly. But if by some miracle the riots help rather than harm him, you’re going to have to up your game. You’ve not got much time left: the Party will never countenance a new leader too close to the election. We need a plan of attack.’ She hiked the strap of her negligee into place. ‘You’ve already gone a long way to convincing the public that police failures helped stoke the disturbances. Your best bet is to continue to hit the PM’s Commissioner. Chahda’s the key: by promising him the top job, you’ve got him on side. But it’s not enough for him to hint that he has the ammunition to topple Yares. You need to find out what it is.’
‘He’s so cautious. He told us about the misconduct of the Rockham police, but that’s a matter of record. I bet there’s something else – I know there is. What I don’t know is how I am ever going to get him to spill the beans.’
‘Well,’ she shrugged, ‘either you’ve got to be more persuasive. Or’ – a beat – ‘you will have to trap him into telling you what he knows.’
‘Trap him? How?’
‘He has a reputation as a lady’s man. Why not exploit that?’ Another drawn-out pause and then, ‘Patricia’s charming, isn’t she? And from what I’ve seen of her, I reckon she’s game. Why not set her on Chahda?’
7.35 a.m.
As Joshua opened the door, the two men’s heads sprang apart.
Ten Days Page 20
