‘Sit down, man. To repeat: I have not asked for your resignation, and I do not intend to. I will not let the red-tops dictate who I do and do not have in my Cabinet. And I will not have my people hounded out for the things they do in the privacy – as long as it’s legal – of the bedroom. I could also do without a reshuffle given the impending election. You’ve made a fairly decent fist of the job so far and, once we have settled our differences, we can pull together. For all these reasons, I propose to keep you on as my Home Secretary.’
Despite himself, Peter felt hope flare. He sank back into the sofa and thought, it can’t be that easy. ‘And in exchange?’
The Prime Minister took a sip of his coffee, grimaced and scraped his teeth against his tongue. ‘What awful swill. It’s full of grounds. She’s right: I never do brew it long enough.’ He put down his cup. ‘And, yes, you’re also right, there is a quid pro quo – or three of them. For starters: I assume that in light of the adverse publicity you will no longer be standing against me?’
Peter nodded.
‘In that case, my first condition is that you do not actively support another candidate. In exchange, and when the time comes for me to retire, I will consider backing you.’
And if you believe that, Peter thought, you’d believe the proverbial anything. But what he said was, ‘And your other conditions?’
‘The second is that you leave the Teddy business with me. Rest assured I will pursue it – and if Yares is the rotten apple, as you think he is, I will get rid of him. But I will do this at the right time, and not in the middle of a riot when the last thing we want to do is undermine the Met.’
‘I’ll think about that. After I’ve heard your third condition.’
‘Of course.’ The Prime Minister sighed. ‘This one is rather personal, I’m afraid, but I can see no other way round it. I cannot have my Home Secretary hounded by the press, which is what will happen if you don’t act decisively. So my third condition is that you either stay with Frances, and for this you need to get her active and vocal support, and give up Patricia Diaz, or you publicly declare your marriage to be over. I’ve discussed both options with Martin. He agrees that we can weather either, as long as there’s no further shilly-shallying.’ The Prime Minister sighed again as he got to his feet. ‘I know this is a big ask, but if you want to stay in post, this is the only way we can see to make it work. Think about it, but not for too long. I’d like an answer,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘within the hour. And best not go running around town until you’ve decided. I would let you stay here, but,’ a glance at the interior of the flat, ‘you may not be entirely welcome. Martin will be waiting for you downstairs, hopefully with some decent clothes. He’ll find you somewhere you can sit and consider your options. We could fetch Frances, if that would help. Or if you’d rather talk it over with Ms Diaz, I believe she is somewhere in the building.’
‘What’s she doing here?’
‘Frances has your security detail to protect her from intrusion, but Patricia Diaz is on her own. As soon as we saw the early editions, we offered her protection. Given the pressure that will be on her, not least to sell her story, we didn’t want to give the press easy access to her. And she was keen. She would like to see you. Understandably.’
10.15 a.m.
What had the Prime Minister been trying to tell him? That’s the question that preoccupied Joshua on the journey back from Chequers. He’d been so busy trying to figure out an answer that his driver had had to point out that he was still sitting in the car after they had arrived at his home. And what followed was a night broken by the hammering of that question: what had the Prime Minster been trying to tell him?
How was it possible that the Prime Minister had been questioning his ability on the day before his first week’s anniversary in the job? Yes, the riots. But they could hardly be laid at his door. And the water cannon had driven the rioters off the streets of Rockham, while the ploy of keeping the press away (for their own protection) combined with newspaper riot fatigue and the huge splash of Whiteley’s affair had kept the incident off the front pages. The gamble that he had taken – that his legacy would be of a liberal policeman who had lowered the bar for illiberal measures – might have paid off. And if the Met Office could this time be believed, the storm that was on its way would be furious enough to put an end to any further rioting.
None of this mattered, though, if the intrigue that the PM had intimated was brewing was about to blow up in his face.
It couldn’t be Jibola. They’d kept a wrap on that: the only person outside of Scotland Yard who knew about it was the Prime Minister, and he wasn’t about to betray Joshua, was he? No, of course he wasn’t: he’d stuck his neck out to ensure that the head of the Met was somebody he trusted. And he would know that Joshua had nothing to do with the disaster of Jibola. If the blame could be laid at any one officer’s door, that officer would have to be Anil Chahda.
And the PM had warned him about somebody on his staff.
It came back to Joshua then how broad had been Chahda’s greeting smile that morning. Joshua had registered it at the time and wondered what it was that could have made Chahda, who wasn’t normally much given to smiling and who had been on duty all night, so happy. And now he thought back to that moment, he thought there might have been an edge of triumphalism in that smile.
Could Chahda have found a way to slough off the blame for Jibola onto Joshua? Could that be what the Prime Minister had been warning of?
‘Commissioner?’
The sergeant down the corridor must be wondering what Joshua Yares was doing stopped rather than striding as he normally did. And the sergeant would be right to wonder: not like Joshua to worry about things before they happened. He stirred himself into motion and, saying ‘Have you checked we have all the papers for the meeting?', swept past the sergeant and into the meeting room.
10.25 a.m.
Peter’s mood picked up as soon as he put on the clothes Martin gave him (all perfect fits: was it part of the Press Secretary’s job to know the inside leg and neck measurements of the entire Cabinet?) and as he ate the breakfast they brought to him. He put aside all thought of his decision while he ate. But after he had used the last piece of toast (how did they also know that he preferred sliced white?) to soak up the eggy residue on his plate, he set the plate aside and replayed, in his mind, the PM’s conditions.
Number one: that he would not give his support to any other leadership candidate. A condition that, given there was no one else he would dream of supporting, he easily conceded.
Number two: that he let the Teddy business lie. Understandable that the PM would only support Peter if he wasn’t going to find himself shafted. And the ‘business’ had had an effect: despite his sanctimonious declarations of principle, the PM’s generosity to Peter was a result of knowing that Peter could easily destroy him. So, yes, Peter could agree to this condition.
Which left number three: that he choose between Frances and Patricia. How to make that choice? Eyes closed, he thought about them both.
Frances first. Which immediately conjured up memories of her reddened fury and of her contrasting white chill as she had ordered him out, and of her final words: ‘You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.’
She was so enraged she might not take him back.
That left him with a question: would he want her to?
‘Be logical.’ Those words said aloud to make him think.
Logically and on the plus side, he and Frances had a life together, a house, a set of friends, a history and a son. Divorce would be to throw all of this away, although Charlie would surely not take sides.
A lot to lose.
In the minus column was the falling away of mutual passion. Not something he could easily repair because, yes, although he’d done wrong to cheat on her, it was a wrong for which he was prepared to take responsibility. He could pretty much bet she would be unwilling to even consider the part that her lack of libido had played in the st
rain within their marriage.
Once his desire for her had been strong, but after her repeated rejections led him into Patricia’s arms, this desire had waned. He still admired her beauty but no longer really fancied her.
Or was he just telling himself that because he thought he couldn’t have her?
Patricia, on the other hand, was available. And fun. She was young. Being with her made him feel young again. And her youth meant that she looked up to him. Not that she didn’t also care for him. Look what she had done for him.
(No, don’t think of that.)
He didn’t have to fight for space with her. He was infinitely better established, and she accepted that without needing to flaunt her superior knowledge, or her contacts, or her strategic brain. (On the other hand, she certainly had less of all three.)
If only he could have both.
The one provided security, the other excitement; the one knew the rules, the other cared nothing for them; the one was ambitious, while – and as this thought occurred, he recognised it as the killer blow – the other was ambitious for him.
The balance weighed, the decision, which was no real decision, made, he stretched across the desk and pressed the intercom. ‘I’m ready now,’ he said. ‘Could you show Patricia Diaz in?’
6.30 p.m.
It had been three days since Jayden had been anywhere near the market. Head down, he made his way along the empty street, and the closer he got to his destination, the slower he moved. The only thing that kept him going forwards was the promise he’d made to Cathy although what made him want to run away was the fear that she had got it wrong. He was sure they would still hate him; he only kept going because he knew that Cathy would ask him how it had gone, and he always had been a bad liar.
He could see before he reached the shop that it was all boarded up. They might have gone away. The thought brought a sigh of relief even though he knew in his heart that they had nowhere else to go and he could anyway see an open door-wide gap in the boarding.
He walked quietly now so they wouldn’t hear his approach, although how this was going to help he couldn’t have said. And then, because he couldn’t slow himself down any more, he reached the gap. He looked into the darkness.
‘There you are, Jay Don.’ Mr Hashi stepped forward.
He had a broom in his hand. Like the last time.
But this was not like the last time. Mr Hashi was smiling. ‘Have you come to help in the clear-up?’
Jayden nodded.
‘You know I cannot pay you. I have no business.’
‘I don’t want money,’ he said. ‘I want to help.’
Another smile, although this time Mr Hashi laid down the broom before sweeping the top of one arm across his face as if wiping something away. ‘I spoke wrongly,’ he said, ‘when we met. I was upset. Even then I knew it wasn’t you who attacked my shop. But I was upset.’
Jayden nodded. Looked down at his feet. Shuffled from one to the next. Didn’t know what else to do or where else to look.
‘Mrs Mason, she told me what happened to you,’ he heard Mr Hashi saying. ‘She told me how they locked you away for what they think you are. Just like those others destroyed my shop for what they think I am.’
Jayden swallowed. Wondered what words to offer in reply. Felt Mr Hashi’s hand lightly placed on one of his.
‘I forgot that life is also difficult for you,’ Mr Hashi said. ‘My mother, she did not forget. She, how do you say, offered me the hell for what I said to you.’
‘Gave you hell.’
‘Thank you, Jay Don. I need you also for language guidance.’
Mr Hashi’s hand was still on his.
Telling himself that in Mr Hashi’s world it didn’t mean anything when men held hands, Jayden did not pull away.
‘Mrs Mason, she is a good woman,’ Mr Hashi said. ‘A truth-sayer. They are precious.’
Jayden nodded.
‘My mother also,’ Mr Hashi said. ‘But we are not all so fortunate.’ Which was the closest Mr Hashi had ever got to showing that he knew how difficult Jayden’s mother was.
‘Still, we must try to do our best,’ Mr Hashi said. ‘And to keep to the true path.’
It was all right for Mr Hashi to speak like this, but how was Jayden supposed to know where the true path was?
‘Mrs Mason helped me find it. That is what friends are for.’
He thought about his one true friend, Lyndall.
‘It is not always easy,’ Mr Hashi said.
And then he knew where his path led. He had to help Lyndall do what she needed to do. Before it was too late. He said, ‘Can I come tomorrow, Mr Hashi? There’s something I’ve got to do.’ And when Mr Hashi nodded and dropped his hand, Jayden smiled, saying, ‘See you tomorrow,’ and walked quickly away.
7.05 p.m.
'Of course I am standing by my Home Secretary,’ the Prime Minister was saying. ‘He’s doing an excellent job. That’s what matters to me, and that’s what matters to the country.’
Cut to footage of Peter Whiteley arm in arm with a young woman, confirmation of his marriage break-up, which had headlined the evening news.
‘Given the recent tension between the two men and rumours that the Home Secretary was about to challenge the Prime Minister,’ the announcer was saying, ‘it is intriguing that the Prime Minister has gone out of his way to support Peter Whiteley.’
‘Who cares?’ Cathy asked the empty room.
‘The Prime Minister’s Press Secretary has denied rumours that there was a backroom deal between the two men.’
She aimed the remote at the TV and tried to click it off.
‘Perhaps the unrest in the streets has convinced them to settle their differences.’
The batteries were dead; she kept forgetting to buy more.
‘Frances Whiteley, the Home Secretary’s wife, was unavailable for comment.’
She got up and switched it off.
It was blisteringly hot in the lounge. Dark as well, which, given the hour, was odd. She padded, barefoot, to her open front door and stepped out.
Almost as dark and the air so heavy it was like breathing water. She looked up and saw clouds, and not those white puffs that had floated in recently only to dissolve into the blue. This was a solid mass of black storm clouds that was sweeping in over the estate. To the east, where the covering was less complete, shafts of yellow streaked across the sky, making the incoming storm loom even more ominously.
She looked across the balcony to Elsie’s house. Door shut as it had been for days. Elsie must be in a bad way what with Jayden still refusing to have anything to do with her. Cathy thought about going over. But she was too weary to withstand the accusations she knew would be forthcoming.
Poor Jayden, she thought, although at least by the smile on his face on his return from the market she knew he must have made it up with Mr Hashi. One good outcome she’d facilitated. If only she could be as effective with her own daughter, who was still basically not talking to her.
She drew herself up. She’d try a fresh tack, she decided: be a better mother by fixing the kids a meal.
Back in the kitchen, she clicked on the radio.
‘For all of you who’ve seen the fire and, if the weathermen have finally got it right, are about to see the rain, that was James Taylor Fire and Rain,’ the DJ was saying. ‘Next Let it Rain – any excuse to re-play Eric Clapton – but before that, in the news, the Home Secretary, Peter Whiteley . . .’
She turned the radio off.
She went to the fridge that had become their makeshift larder. But one for the cultivation of bacteria, it seemed, with everything going off. What a terrible housekeeper she was, to add to her other faults. She set herself to emptying the fridge, separating the rotten from the still vaguely edible. She ended up with a pile to throw away and some limp salad leaves – and she’d recently eaten enough salad to last a lifetime.
She should go shopping. But it was getting late and she no longer felt like coo
king. Which did not mean she could not provide.
She went down the corridor, knocked on Lyndall’s door and immediately went in.
Lyndall and Jayden had been sitting close together on the floor, although at her appearance they jumped apart.
‘I’m going to order in. What do you fancy? Pizza? Chicken? Curry? Come out and tell me when you’ve decided and,’ looking at Lyndall, ‘there’s also something I need to talk to you about.’
They joined her in the lounge, Jayden still smiling and Lyndall sloping in with that sulky expression of hers.
‘So what’s it going to be?’ Cathy kept her voice deliberately light.
‘Chicken,’ Jayden said.
‘Good choice.’ She reached for her mobile but then another thought occurred. ‘It’s still light. If anything’s going to kick off, it’ll happen later – if it doesn’t rain. Why don’t we eat out?’
They both nodded.
‘But before we do,’ she said. ‘Something I wanted to say . . .’ She paused. She had to find a way of talking to Lyndall but didn’t know how she was going to. She tried again. ‘It’s about Banji.’
‘I told you.’ Jayden was looking not at Cathy but at Lyndall.
Who shook her head.
‘You promised you’d tell her.’
Another silent refusal.
‘What’s this about?’
‘Go on. Tell her.’
Lyndall swallowed.
‘Go on. Or I will.’
She’d never seen Jayden this assertive.
Was there something between them, she wondered, and then, this thought driving her to sink down into the nearest seat, could Lyndall, history repeating itself, be pregnant? She wanted and needed to know, and simultaneously did not. She sat trying to calm herself. Waiting.
‘Thing is, Mum.’
She looked down at her lap.
‘Thing is, I know where Banji is.’
7.30 p.m.
A rap at Joshua’s door, which opened to reveal a grinning Anil Chahda. ‘We’ve got him, sir.’
‘Jibola?’
Chahda nodded.
Problem solved – and the coming storm, which was already darkening the sky, might well resolve the rest. ‘Did he give himself up?’
Ten Days Page 29
