‘Your time might be better spent drafting your own resignation letter.’
The Prime Minister pushed his glasses to the end of his nose. ‘You’re determined to get your pound of flesh?’
‘You’ve left me no other choice.’
‘You know it wasn’t I who released your diaries?’
‘So you say. Just as you played the innocent in relation to those photographs. I hope you understand why I can no longer be bothered to keep up a pretence of believing you.’
‘Have it your own way.’ The Prime Minister set his reading glasses aside. In doing so he must also have pressed some hidden button because there came an immediate knock on the door. Just one knock, which brought the Prime Minister up onto his feet. ‘Somewhere I need to be,’ he said. ‘So if you’ll excuse me.’
‘Of course, Prime Minister.’ Peter got up. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.’
‘Again, have it your own way.’ The Prime Minister came out from behind his desk and moved past Peter to the door. ‘Your official car and bodyguard will be withdrawn as of this moment. I suggest you wait or else risk being run down by my security and mobbed by the press. I wouldn’t advise the back door either: the paps have cottoned on to your presence, and they’re waiting to ambush you. Martin will help you with a more dignified exit strategy from the building. In the meantime, he’ll find you somewhere to sit. While you’re waiting for the all-clear, I’d suggest that you watch one of the satellite news programmes. There’s going to be an item shortly that you will want to catch.’
10.15 a.m.
Was the PM about to resign?
That’s the thought that kept coming at Peter after they stuck him in a poky room that adjoined the office of the Garden Room girls. He switched on the television and sat down on a rickety chair – the only one available – to watch pundits blathering on about what was assumed would be his imminent resignation.
‘Whiteley has proved himself an able Home Secretary,’ one of the pundits was saying, ‘even though his appointment was a sop to the hardliners in the Party. But recent rumours that he was about to launch a leadership bid deepened an already wide gulf between the two men. The Prime Minister must be relieved that Whiteley has now been caught, metaphorically speaking, with his hands in the till.’
‘Metafuckagorically speaking,’ he told the room. If thoughtless cliché was all it took, maybe he should consider television punditry as his next career.
He switched off the sound and sat watching as the camera moved off the three talking heads and on to an item on the rising immigration figures – preparation, he assumed, for his political obituary. One relief of stepping down: he would no longer have to try to solve this particularly unsolvable problem.
The item was brought to an abrupt stop, replaced by a headshot of the programme’s anchor. He unmuted the TV ‘. . . has scheduled an impromptu press conference,’ he heard. ‘We’ll come back to our report of rising immigration levels later, but now we’re heading over to the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, where the Prime Minister is about to make a statement.’
Cut to the Prime Minister in front of a microphone, and beside him Joshua Yares.
If he was just about to resign, why he was doing it there and next to his Commissioner? Could they be so joined at the hip that they were going to commit hara-kiri together?
Wishful thinking: it was much more likely that the coward was trying to save his own skin by throwing Yares to the lions. Not that Peter would let him get away with that. Even if Yares went, he was going to go public with the story of Teddy’s arrest.
‘I am here today,’ the Prime Minister began, ‘to share something that has caused me and my wife considerable pain.’
Hold on a minute: what was that emaciated boy, it must be Teddy, the Prime Minister’s only son, doing there?
‘It’s a pain we share with other parents.’ The Prime Minister – what a ham – lowered his head. He stood that way in silence, stretching the moment long enough to force out a clearing of someone’s throat back in the studio. As if in response, the PM raised his head to looked straight at the camera. ‘It has been brought to my attention that my son, Theodore, was recently arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol and under suspicion of having in his possession a small quantity of a Class C drug. In the normal course of events, he would have, and should have, been charged. But someone in the MPS, acting without consultation, buried the report of the incident. As soon as I knew of this . . .’
As soon as? What a lie.
‘. . . I asked the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police to investigate. I can assure you that the guilty party, who has now been identified, will not only lose their job but a docket will be sent to the Crown Prosecution Service with a view to charging them with perverting the course of justice. You will understand that, given the continuing investigation, I cannot provide any further information.’
Unbelievable. Peter’s jaw was gaping wide.
And still the Prime Minster kept on. ‘For the present, I am here to hand my son Theodore over to the police where . . .’
Even more unbelievable: the man was humiliating his own son so he could stay in power.
‘. . . he will be charged with the offences of which he is accused. I regret having to do this in public – I don’t want my son to suffer excessively just because of who his father is – but in the light of recent disturbances, I wanted the country to know that all those who break the law, and that includes the Prime Minister’s son, must be held to account for their behaviour.’ A pause and a blink that wetted his gaze. ‘My wife and I will stand by Teddy during this difficult time and help him learn the error of his ways. As I am sure all of you concerned parents,’ looking straight out at his audience, ‘who have recently been in this same position will do.’
The clever bastard. By exposing his son, he had neutralised Peter’s only weapon. And in doing so, he was also coming out as the grand conciliator. Listen to him:
‘We have been through a difficult time. The dedication of our police and the refusal of the law-abiding majority to have any part in the disorder have now hopefully laid our recent troubles to rest. It is time for us to take stock and to repair our wounds.’ He stretched out an arm and laid it on the jutting bones of his son’s hunched shoulders.
There was one last holding of the camera’s gaze, in which Peter saw a glint of victory that he knew was aimed at him, before the Prime Minister steered his son out of shot, leaving a gibbering journalist to try to sum up the emotion that he, that the whole country, must be feeling at this public exhibition of a father’s pain.
‘Enough.’ Peter cut off the sound before throwing the remote so hard that it hit a wall, rebounded and, still travelling at speed, went straight through the window.
10.30 a.m.
‘I’m sorry it has come to this,’ Joshua said.
A tightening of Anil’s Chahda’s shoulders. ‘I didn’t do it.’ He had his back to Joshua.
‘So you say. But the record clearly indicates that it was you who pulled the arrest warrant and you who returned it in altered form.’
‘I pulled it because you asked me to. I returned it when you gave it back to me.’
‘I did not ask you to tamper with the record.’
‘And I did not tamper with it.’
‘We can keep going round this circle,’ Joshua said, ‘but we’ll only end up in the exact same place. Which is that an inquiry might exonerate you, but it might equally decide that you have a case to answer. If you resign now, you will leave with your record intact.’
‘But once I’m no longer around to protect myself, you’ll go for me.’
‘That’s unfair, Anil, and you know it. Yes, if it can be proved that you changed the record, you will be charged. But it has to be so proved. If you leave now, it will be with the glowing reference of the last Commissioner – I have not been in post long enough to amend it.’
‘Are you telling me to resi
gn?’ A pause before he added, still with his back to Joshua, ‘Sir?’
‘I’m not telling you to do anything. I’m just laying out your options. But while you’re thinking about it, I think you should remember that the arrest record is not the only issue. There is also the not inconsiderable problem of Julius Jibola. You had oversight of SC&O10: the buck stops with you there as well.’
‘I was given charge because the unit was malfunctioning. Blame cannot be laid at my door. Not if you’re being fair.’
Until then Joshua had been sorry that Chahda was facing such an ignominious end to his career. But to use that ‘fair’ word! It was pathetic and it was trite – part of the undertone that many a copper had to listen to when collaring someone, or escorting them to the custody suite, or sitting opposite them in the interview room, or hearing them pleading on the stand. It was always those same types who talked about fairness, the ones who, though they broke the law, considered themselves special enough to get away with it. Kids, really, who refused to grow up. How on earth had one of them managed to climb to the top of the Met?
‘Leaving aside the issue of the altered record,’ Joshua said, ‘if anyone was to find out that you bugged the Masons without judicial approval and against my express orders, you’d be out on your ear.’
‘It’s how we found our man.’
‘And it’s also how we know that Jibola was Lyndall Mason’s father. And once we know it, we cannot un-know it. Can’t you see what an impossible predicament that puts us in?’
Now at last Anil Chahda did turn round. His eyes were moist. And bloodshot. ‘Are you sacking me?’
‘I will.’ In contrast to Chahda’s slump, Joshua drew himself up. ‘After due process, of course. You can try to stick it out. I wouldn’t advise it. So what I’m suggesting – and it is only a suggestion – is that you go. Now. Voluntarily. It will be so much easier on you if you do.’
6.15 p.m.
‘What a minging bastard that Prime Minister is,’ Lyndall said as the news moved on to examining the mystery of the resignation of the Deputy Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service. ‘How could he do that to his own son?’
Jayden shrugged. ‘At least he went with him.’
Sitting on a hard chair, a little way off from where the two were snuggled together on the sofa, Cathy felt cold.
The storm that had killed four people (one by lightning, one by drowning and two from falling trees) and flooded many a house had also brought temperatures down to a seasonal low. Since the council’s solution to the communal boiler problem had been to decommission it, things were likely to get very cold in the Lovelace, especially if, as they were saying it might, the temperature dropped any further.
‘I bought some lamb,’ she said. ‘I’m going to fix us a stew.’
No response from Lyndall, which, given that she had said not a word to Cathy either before school or since coming back, was no surprise. And at least Jayden was there to favour Cathy with his open smile and his murmur of appreciation, even though Lyndall had soon cut it off by entwining her long legs around him. When he shouted at her to get off and tried to get away, she gave a whoop and launched herself at him.
Leaving the two tussling on the sofa, Cathy went to the kitchen. She could hear them laughing as she cut onions, which caused her eyes to stream – or at least that’s what she told herself. She fried the onions (she’d forgotten to buy garlic, so she’d have to make do without) and then added the meat – probably too early, but experience had taught her that most stews were forgiving even of her own deficient skills. They’d eat together, she thought, by which time Lyndall might have decided to climb off her high horse, and then later they could go together to the canal (she’d go even if Lyndall tried to stop her) and see if they could find Banji.
And then?
A shout from the living room – ‘Is something burning?’ – shook her back into the present moment.
She turned down the heat and began to stir the stew vigorously. Probably a mistake, since she ended up scraping up the burnt bits and mixing them with the rest, creating an unappetising-looking gunge. It needed more liquid. She’d use water to thin it at the same time as she threw in a tin of baked beans. She reached up into the cupboard for the tin just as someone rang the doorbell. ‘Get that, will you?’
She pulled the lid off the tin. The whiff of something sulphurous: could it have been spoilt by the heat? She poked a finger in. And the bell rang again.
‘Please, somebody answer the door.’
She heard footsteps – Jayden’s (well, she shouldn’t have expected Lyndall to do anything she asked her to) – heading for the door. She licked her finger. It didn’t taste great but that might be because the ketchup she’d used was so sweet. And even if the beans were a bit off, more cooking would stop them from doing any damage. She stirred the contents of the tin into the pot.
‘It’s the man off the telly,’ Jayden said.
She glanced up to find him standing at the kitchen door. ‘Which man?’
‘The copper who was stood next to the Prime Minister. He says he wants to talk to you.’ He was standing eyes downcast and shifting from one foot to the next.
She said, ‘Don’t worry. It can’t have anythingto do withyou,’and, forgetting that she had failed to put an apronon, wipedher hands on her thighs.
Blast it – now there was a long streak of tomato. She hurried to the door.
She also would have recognised Met Commissioner Joshua Yares from the news, even if he hadn’t straightaway introduced himself, which he followed with, ‘Can I come in, Mrs Mason?’
‘What for?’
‘Something I need to talk to you about.’ She looked over his shoulder where she saw several of her neighbours standing. He had seen them too. ‘In private.’
She nearly told him no. She wanted to. But something about his gaze, something almost pleading, made her step aside.
He took off his peaked hat as he walked over her threshold. Which is when, she later realised, she knew. But at the time, she didn’t know she knew. She led him to the sitting room.
‘What do you want?’ This from Lyndall, who got off the sofa to stand, feet akimbo, hands on her hips.
‘If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs Mason?’
‘Go to your room, Lyndall.’
‘Why should I?’
‘I said go to your room.’ Her voice was raised and her expression fierce. ‘And take Jayden with you.’
Red with fury, glaring at her mother, and with the lower half of her mouth set into an ugly frown, Lyndall swept past, almost pushing Cathy out of the way, and stomped down the corridor, followed by a sheepish Jayden.
‘Close the door,’ Cathy called out after them.
As soon as the door banged, the policeman said, ‘Why don’t you take a seat, Mrs Mason?’
Another clue. She knew. And protected herself by simultaneously not knowing.
‘Do you mind if I also sit?’
She shook her head.
He sat. And said, ‘I’m afraid I have bad news.’
‘Banji?’ No one else it could be.
A nod. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that your friend Banji has been found dead.’
‘Did the police kill him?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘We found him hanging. It’s too early to be certain, but it looks most likely that he killed himself.’
7 p.m.
They were shown into a room in the morgue. She and Lyndall together.
She hadn’t wanted Lyndall there, but Lyndall said she’d never forgive her mother if she wasn’t allowed to go, and much to Cathy’s surprise the Commissioner – who had come with them – had weighed in on Lyndall’s behalf. He said he was sure that Cathy must know that Banji had been previously married and, since the separation had never been formalised, his wife would be the one to claim the body.
‘And she might not want you around,’ he’d said.
She didn’t ask why such a high-ranking policeman
was paying so much attention to a single death, or why his wife wasn’t the one to identify him, or how he knew so much about Banji, including the existence of the wife. Later she would wonder about that.
In the moment, she went into the room. It was small and narrow, with half walls painted white and glass above waist height. There was a bench in the middle of the room on which there was what must be a body. It was covered by a white sheet. No other furniture save an upright chair.
There was a man there. Pale and tall, wearing a sparkling doctor’s coat and – and for some reason this detail stuck with Cathy – his mousy-brown hair had been gelled to stick up in spiky tufts.
‘Take your time.’ He was waiting by the body.
She felt Lyndall’s hand slipping into hers and remembered those many other times when, about to cross the road, her young daughter had done the same thing. Remembered thinking – how could Banji have foregone the pleasure of knowing his child and feeling so much trust?
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
Lyndall, her eyes full of fear, nodded.
‘Come on, then.’ Hand in hand they made their way over to the bench.
‘When you’re ready, I’m going to pull back the sheet,’ the man said. ‘So that you can see his face. Let me know when you’re ready.’
She felt the tightening of Lyndall’s grip. She squeezed her hand. Said, ‘We’re ready.’
The sheet was withdrawn and there he was. Not the man she had known. A wax resemblance: a honey skin greyed, two brown eyes closed and bulging, a fleshy mouth that no longer had any colour and that was turned down to a forbidding line.
She said, ‘Yes. It’s him.’ Lyndall’s fingers digging into her palm. ‘It’s Banji.’
‘Thank you.’ The man made ready to pull the sheet back up.
‘Don’t.’ This from Lyndall.
He dropped the corner of the sheet and stepped away. ‘Take your time.’ He went to stand in the corner of the room.
‘We want to be with Banji,’ Lyndall said.
‘Stay as long as you want.’
‘Alone.’
Cathy could feel how Lyndall was trembling.
Ten Days Page 32
