Probably getting their story right, he thought, and said, ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting. I had to take a call from Number 10.’ He went to join them at the table. ‘The PM has now had time to consider his response. In light of the likely danger to DC Jibola’s person should it be made public that he is a serving police officer, the Prime Minister has agreed, reluctantly, to keep the information under wraps. No one else is to be told, at least until we locate Jibola and find out what the hell he’s up to.’ He opened up Jibola’s file. ‘What was he doing in Rockham anyway? It doesn’t say.’
‘That’s a bit of a puzzle, sir.’ As big as he was, DCI Blackstone gave every appearance of wanting to dissolve into the wood of the conference table.
‘Which I need you to untangle. Now, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’ Blackstone took in a deep breath, sucking in his stomach. ‘As you know, Jibola’s file had been mistakenly put in the pile for destruction. As soon as we rescued it, I followed the thread of his Rockham-related history. It appears that the former commander in charge of Rockham, CS Wright’s predecessor, requested assistance with a particularly violent gang in north Rockham a couple of months ago. Jibola was seconded to this task. It was a short operation at the conclusion of which Jibola would normally have been posted elsewhere. But my predecessor, in consultation with MI5, decided that there was a case for further surveillance of the community in Rockham and specifically around the Lovelace.’ A deep breath in and then: ‘In light of the imminent demolition of the estate, several vacant units were given over by the council as temporary accommodation to new immigrants, many of whom originated in the Horn of Africa. It was my predecessor’s opinion that because of the hold that al-Queda-affiliated groups have in some of these countries, particularly Somalia, these newcomers warranted further scrutiny. DC Jibola was tasked, by my predecessor, with establishing himself in south Rockham and getting to know this community.’
‘I see.’ What he really saw was that, by emphasising Rockham’s previous Commander, and his own predecessor, Blackstone was making sure to slough off responsibility for what had happened. And he would get away with it because he was relatively new in the job and everybody knew that the last regime had overseen an absolute fuck-up in all departments but especially in his. Cleaning these particular stables was in fact a central part of Joshua’s brief – and the reason that the PM had championed him in preference to Anil Chahda – and it was clearly going to be difficult. After a decade of lethal exposures about the misdeeds of their undercover ops, SO15 had been buffeted by such a multiplicity of root-and-branch changes it was a wonder the tree was still standing. By the time the merry-go-round had slowed sufficiently to let anybody new on, none of the previous senior management had managed to keep their seats. Which meant a loss of institutional memory. And a lack of anyone to blame.
Anyone, Joshua thought, except me. He glanced over to his desk, where the photograph of him beside the Queen stood in pride of place. If this isn’t resolved and soon, he thought, I’ll be packing it up and taking it home again.
‘Did anybody keep an eye on Jibola? Anybody at all?’
‘One of our operators did,’ Blackstone said. ‘He was supposed to ring in at set times, and he did so until recently. But then he stopped. When his operator tried to reach him, she couldn’t. She tried to track his safe mobile, but it had gone off air. She assumed it was a system failure, a consequence of signal overload in Rockham due to the riots. If she’d been a trained officer, she might have raised the alarm earlier, but you know we have had to outsource technical jobs. We just don’t have the quality of staff any more.’
And, yes, it was true what Blackstone was saying, but it was also true, as the PM had said the other night, that they had to stop blaming their failures on the cuts. ‘You need do something about your scrutiny systems as a matter of urgency,’ he said. ‘But for the moment, let me sum up where we’ve got to.’ He held up his right fist. ‘One,’ raising his thumb, ‘one of your agents has gone rogue on British television. Two,’ his index finger joined the thumb, pointing at Blackstone as if he were about to shoot him, ‘having mislaid his file, you didn’t even know he was in Rockham. Three,’ he unfurled his middle finger, ‘you have no idea where he’s got to. Four,’ he let go of the fourth finger, ‘and five,’ and his little finger, ‘you don’t know why he did what he did, or what he’s planning to do next.’ Hearing himself laying it out so baldly made him realise that, never mind having to take the picture home, if this wasn’t resolved, he’d be the first Commissioner of the Met never to pick up a knighthood.
He bunched the fist again. ‘And there is the not insignificant matter of Jibola’s liaison with Cathy Mason waiting to blow up in our faces. How that could have been allowed is beyond my comprehension.’
‘The deployment of undercover is inherently risky.’ This from Chahda. ‘Under RIPA . . .’
‘Yes, Anil, thank you. Being familiar with the RIPA rules of engagement, I know all about the get-out clause of collateral intrusion. But the key word is ‘proportionality’. This particular intrusion happened twice and over many years, which is neither necessary nor proportionate. Jibola should have been kept miles away from the Masons, not sent, unsupervised, back to Cathy Mason’s bed.’
‘This was Jibola’s first mission in Rockham, sir,’ Blackstone said. ‘His meeting Mrs Mason must have either been an unfortunate coincidence or a manoeuvre by him.’
‘Is it not your job to ensure that such coincidences or manoeuvres cannot occur?’
‘Perhaps it is, sir, but the only way my predecessors could have known that Jibola had had a liaison with Cathy Mason is if he had informed them, which, it appears from the files, he did not.’
Joshua held up a hand to stop Blackstone from going on. ‘I’m glad you mentioned the files,’ he said, ‘because they bring us to another astonishing oversight. Jibola’s last meeting with a psychologist was more than two years ago. He should have been re-seen.’
‘It happens,’ DCI Blackstone said, ‘especially when an officer is in the field.’
‘Yes, it happens,’ Joshua said. ‘But it should not have happened to Jibola. The psychologist who last saw him said,’ he leafed through the folder until he found the page he was looking for, ‘and I quote: "Although DC Jibola does did not want to be reassigned to a regular beat, it is my opinion that the man is not psychologically equipped to withstand the stresses of undercover work. If it is not possible to remove him, careful and regular scrutiny of his state of mind is advised." Which,’ Joshua looked up, ‘never happened. And please don’t waste more of my time with tales of lost files and changing S015 command structures. It is your job to keep track of your files, just as it is your job to keep track of what your agents are up to.’ He closed the file with a bang. ‘CS Wright is doing her best to clear up this mess. If she needs more officers, give them to her. In the meantime, find out who in the force Jibola might have confided in. I suggest you start with his IC3 colleagues. Ask them what they know, but for God’s sake keep a lid on this.’ He pushed the file away in disgust. ‘Jibola was once married. Has it occurred to you that his former wife might know something?’
‘Should I interview her?’
‘Thank you, DCI Blackstone, but . . .’ thinking that he didn’t want to hear about the failure of any more surveillance cameras or of files going missing, ‘I’ll see to it myself. I’ll let you know what I find. Thank you, gentlemen.’
‘But, sir?’
‘Yes, Anil?’
‘What about the girl?’
‘What about her?’
‘Wright should be tasked to pick her up. Squeeze out what she knows.’
‘We can’t start detaining minors on fishing expeditions.’
‘From what I hear, police stations within a ten-mile radius of Rockham are overflowing with minors courtesy of Wright’s snatch squads.’
‘Wright is, if you forgive the pun, right. If the girl turns out to be Jibola’s
daughter, detaining her could look vindictive. Leave her alone. Do not attempt to dig up any dirt either on her or on her mother. If a future FOI request ever exposes that we spent public money investigating something as innocuous as who Lyndall Mason fancies on her Facebook page, or how many people liked Cathy Mason’s tweeted cookery tips, heads will roll.’
9 a.m.
Heat blasted down, bouncing off the buildings, and especially any shiny surface, before rising back up from tarmac that these days had to be gritted to stop the roads from melting. Cathy fanned out her loose top, trying to cool herself but without result: the air was just too dry and too hot. But as she made her way round towards the front of the imposing Magistrates’ Court she felt a drop of water landing on the back of her neck. And another, this time on her head.
Rain: what a relief. She looked up. Only to find that the sky was the same cloudless blue as it had been for days. For weeks. For getting on a month now. She sighed. The water must have dropped out of the air-conditioning unit in the wall above her. She moved out of range and around the corner, weaving past knots of people congregating outside the court. She went up the steps and through the revolving doors into a grand wood-lined entrance hall that was also heaving with people.
A voice saying, ‘What are you?’ sounded in her ear. She turned to see a man in a blue guard’s uniform who, having sidled up to her, was waiting for her reply. When she didn’t give him one, he repeated the question, ‘What are you?’ adding, when she still did not respond: ‘Solicitor? Solicitor’s Clerk? Accused? Relative? Journalist? Sightseer?’
‘I’m looking for a probation officer I know.’
He grimaced. ‘Good luck with that. Probations’ rooms have been given over for solicitor interviews, so probation will be either in the holding cells, where you can’t go, or they’re in the magistrates’ chambers, ditto as before, or in court. Try the courts. Solicitors might be able to point you in the right direction.’ And then, as the revolving doors disgorged a fresh batch of newcomers: ‘Bag on the conveyor, through the security arch. Courts One and Two up the stairs and to the left. Three and Four, same thing but to the right. All in session. Have been for the last forty-six hours,’ he lifted a hand to wipe a brow beaded with sweat, ‘and counting.’
She put her bag on the conveyor and stepped through the security arch. On the other side, a security guard asked her to open the bag, subjecting it to a quick rummage before dismissing her. She was still zipping the bag up when he added, ‘Keep moving,’ underlining the instruction by waving her on.
‘Don’t block the way. Keep moving.’
She pushed through the crowd and up the stairs.
Both courts to the left were full, but when she crossed the landing and opened the door to Court Four no one stopped her from going in.
The room at least was cool. And quiet save for the burbling air conditioner that was undercut by quiet sobs. She stood a moment, getting her bearings. She saw two young men seated in the wood-enclosed dock, both with their heads bowed. To the side and slightly in front of them was a raised table backed by the same dark wood panelling that lined the rest of the courtroom. Behind this table were three people locked in muted conversation. On a desk in front of them, and also facing into the room, was a lone man: must be the clerk of the court. Then there were a couple more tables, for lawyers she presumed – she’d have had to cross a rope to reach them – and after those, benches that must be for the public.
There was only one unoccupied seat in the public section. To reach it, Cathy had to push past the weeping woman. She sat down hurriedly beside her as the magistrate in the middle of the three turned to address the men in the dock.
‘Hodan Sharif and Steven Chapman, you have pleaded guilty to burglary and handling stolen goods.’ The magistrate looked across at the men, one of whom was gripping the wooden rail so tightly that the stretched skin of his knuckles was almost white. ‘In deciding your sentences, we have given full credit for these guilty pleas and we have taken reports as to your circumstances into account. But, in reaching our decision, we have also paid heed to His Honour Judge George Mullholland’s recent guidance when he said that in the face of civil disorder, the judiciary’s job is to pass sentence on behalf of a justifiably terrified public. It is for this reason that, although we recognise the part that rehabilitation plays in any sentence, we have in your case placed emphasis on the need to punish and thus deter others from committing similar offences. Please rise.’
As the two got to their feet, the woman sobbed louder.
‘Hodan Sharif,’ the magistrate continued, ‘you have pleaded guilty to the charge of handling stolen goods. Although you weren’t amongst those who broke into the Carphone Warehouse, you said that as you were passing the premises one of the looters handed you two cases for the iPhone8 worth £34.99 each and asked you to keep them for him. You said that you took the cases as a favour and that you planned to hand them back later. When you were arrested, the cases were still in your possession. You are of good character, having no record of any previous offence. Yours is a tragic case in that your father is recently deceased and you have become the breadwinner for your mother and younger brother.’
The woman beside Cathy began to wail.
‘In any other circumstance,’ the magistrate raised her voice, ‘you might have been eligible for a non-custodial sentence. But because you went, voluntarily, to the scene of great disorder and participated in a manner in which no law-abiding citizen would have, we hereby sentence you to six months’ imprisonment.’ And then, looking straight at the wailing woman, ‘Madam, please.’
The woman was so lost in her grief that she didn’t seem to register that the magistrate was addressing her.
‘I can see how distressed you are,’ the magistrate said. ‘But you need to leave this court. If you don’t, I will have to ask the usher to remove you.’
When the woman continued to wail, Cathy leant over to say into her ear, ‘If you don’t go, they’ll drag you out.’
At which the woman seemed suddenly to snap to. She got up, pushed through to the end of the row and made her way to the door. There was an agonising silence, everybody watching while pretending not to.
When she got to the door, she stopped. She turned, slowly, to look at the dock. Tears to match hers were streaming silently down a face that was quite clearly her son’s. The woman shook her head and left.
‘Steven Chapman,’ the magistrate said, ‘you have been found guilty of the burglary of six mobile phones, an Android tablet, batteries, chargers and a USB cable to the value of £940. Your probation report indicates that your life has also not been without difficulty, and this has led you into crime. According to the report, you have recently shown a willingness to turn your life to better purpose by volunteering in a day facility for learning-disabled adults, something which we applaud. You have four previous convictions, three of which are more than five years old, so we will not consider them. Your latest conviction, however, was only two months ago when you were arrested for travelling on a bus without having paid the fare, a sign of your continuing refusal to obey the laws of the land. Given the seriousness of your offence, your previous convictions and the constraint on this court that prevents us from imposing sentences longer than six months, we are referring you up to the Crown Court for sentencing. You are remanded in custody until such time as a judge can consider your case.’
As the policeman behind the dock began to lead the two away, the magistrate glanced at her watch. ‘We have been sitting since 5 a.m. This court is now adjourned. We’ll resume at 11.15 a.m.’
9.30 a.m.
Patricia looked scrumptious, Peter thought. Like a sunbeam in her short orange skirt, a pair of strapped yellow sandals and a yellow top over which she had layered some kind of off-white chiffony affair. Watching her sashay over, he felt the regret of having to end it with her, even as he knew that this is what he had to do.
Not here, though. Not in the office. And not now either.
>
Soon.
She said, ‘Sorry to bother you, Home Secretary,’ his PPS being in the room, ‘but the Home Affairs Select Committee has requested your presence this afternoon.’
‘For what?’
‘They want to ask you about a solvent factory. I assume it bears some relationship to your time in Environment.’
Solvent factory: it rang no bell other than as a recent potential flashpoint in Rockham. But then Environment, his first step up the ministerial ladder before his meteoric rise, was political pre-history as far as he was concerned.
‘I’ve called up the files so we can work out what it’s about but, if you’d rather, I can tell them that you’re tied up and will speak with them at a later date.’
He nodded. No reason for him to jump when the pompous arse of the select committee cracked the whip. ‘What time are they sitting?’ He glanced down at the list of his day’s appointments.
‘Two to four.’
Which, Patricia would also know, was scheduled for discussions with her. And there were things to talk about. As well as . . .
No. He must not think of that. He had made up his mind. It was over. Or would be when he told her.
‘What should I tell them?’
Such short notice: he could easily cry off. But hold on a moment. Think hard. Even though he normally would have excused himself, he had to keep in mind that these were not normal times. He needed to demonstrate how cooperative he was. And he needed to be seen.
Should he phone Frances, he wondered, and ask her opinion – something that he would normally do.
The thought of lifting the phone and speaking to her seemed to weigh him down. No need, he told himself, to keep running back to Mummy. He would, and he did, make his own decisions. Which in this case was that, because his enemies might use a no-show to start a rumour that he had something to hide, he would attend. ‘Fit them in at 3.30,’ he told Patricia. ‘That’ll give us time to catch up on what they might want. And also on those other issues.’
Ten Days Page 21
