Ten Days (22 page)

All he needed.

‘Not now,' he said. ‘I'm busy.' And shut the door in her face.

10.20 p.m.

Wires snaked past Joshua's polished shoes as he stood behind a hard-board panel that hid him from the cameras. From this place, even though he could clearly hear what was being said, his only vision was via a tiny monitor over which a man with earphones and a clipboard was coiled.

He could have sat out the PM's interview from the comfort of the Green Room. He had started there. But as word spread through the building, he was inundated by producers of increasing seniority, all of them trying to persuade him to appear on their programmes. Even here, inside the studio, someone had sidled up to whisper in his ear that he was the man of the hour and that the nation needed to hear what he had to say. Next time I come, he thought, as he tried to sugar his refusal with a smile, I'm going to bring a bodyguard.

He concentrated on listening to the PM, who, without hesitation or the slightest raising of his voice, dismissed the suggestion that he had disappeared just as England started to burn, slapping his interviewer down pleasantly enough by outlining the success of the negotiations that would lead to the creation of a slew of new British jobs. Then to the riots, where he mixed grave concern at what had happened – and what was happening (they were playing the footage behind him) – with a vow to show no mercy to the malfeasants.

It was a good performance. While Whiteley's pugnaciousness seemed to hint at insecurity, the PM oozed unwavering self-assurance. A difference in class confidence, Joshua wondered, or was Whiteley just more duplicitous than your average politician?

The interview was drawing to a close. On the monitor, Joshua could see that the pictures of people gathering that night had been replaced by one huge still of Molotov Man. Perhaps the PM had asked for this. Now he turned and pointed at the picture. ‘Make no mistake,' he said. ‘We will find this man. And we will punish him.'

10.25 p.m.

‘He did well,' Peter said, as the newsreader moved on to describe the latest disturbances in a score of city streets. ‘Sounded convincing.'

‘It's what he's good at.' Frances used the remote to kill the sound. ‘It's how he got the top spot.'

Was this a dig? He looked at her – a quick glance so she wouldn't catch him looking.

Despite that she'd said she believed him, she was still sitting at the other end of the sofa, as far away from him as she could get. But then, he thought, they often sat like this, and at this moment she was bound to be shaken up by the shock delivered to her by whatever bastard had sent those photographs. And listen to how calm she sounded as she said, ‘Easy enough to feign confidence when he's only just come on the scene. But if they don't stop the rioting, and by the looks of it they won't, he'll start seeming much less credible. Fortunate, really, for you that he decided to come back.'

She couldn't be so calm, could she, or have this conversation, if she thought he was lying?

‘We're going to be all right,' she said.

The ‘we' confirmed it. She did believe him.

It was over. And soon – and thinking that she had never looked as attractive as she did now – he'd make sure it was properly over.

He shifted along the sofa, at the same time stretching one arm across its back.

She rested her head on his arm, briefly, before yawning and straightening up. ‘I'm going to call it a day.'

The dog, who'd been sleeping at her feet, also sprang to its feet. If he were to rise now, it was bound to bark at him.

‘Some things I need to work on,' he said.

‘Of course.' Another smile. ‘Come up when you're done.' Passing him, she reached out a hand and ruffled his hair. ‘Goodnight,' she yawned again, and then, dog close at heel, she left.

Leaving him alone to breathe out the relief he felt.

10.27 p.m.

‘All quiet in Rockham,' Billy heard over the radio that linked him to Silver.

And, yes, he thought, bet it bloody well is quiet there, what with half of the Met having a knees-up on the streets. What they were doing there was not his to ask; he couldn't help wondering, though, when, heading off to this front line, he saw a gang of them having a brew-up in lieu of anything more pressing to do. They'd offered him a cup and he'd been tempted, but then Silver had told him to hurry because all hell was breaking loose in an adjacent borough.

‘Duck.'

He ducked without thinking, as he had been doing, he felt, for days, for weeks, for his whole life almost.

That cry again: ‘Duck,' and the thud of something soft landing on the line of shields.

This lot they were facing were throwing sanitary towels covered in ketchup, both of which they'd probably just looted. Taking the piss. What had started in Rockham as a serious protest had turned into a vicious carnival of the unfunny. There'd even been racist attacks, he'd heard, under the guise of a reaction to the death of a man that most of the newcomers to the disturbances hadn't known and didn't care about.

‘Duck,' he heard.

What else could he do? He ducked.

10.30 p.m.

The PM plucked off his microphone and handed it over as he said, to Joshua, ‘What provoked the second Rockham incident?'

‘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.'