Ten Days (33 page)

He went up to her. Put his arms around her.

She did not reject the move but neither did she relax into his embrace.

He knew her so well he could feel the effort it cost her not to.

‘I'm sorry.' He stroked her forehead, pushing soft strands of hair behind her ear.

She reached up, grabbed the hand and twisted back his thumb.

‘Ouch.'

She kept on twisting it.

‘Stop it, Frances.' His effort to get away had him almost on his knees. ‘Stop it. You're hurting me.'

She let go so abruptly that he did drop down.

‘For God's sake.' As he raised himself up, he spotted a face at the window. It was a policeman peering in to see what the noise was about. He waved his hand, and the face disappeared.

He said, ‘You have to stop, Frances, there are people watching.'

‘They certainly are. Including a full pack of paparazzi out front.'

How strange that only then did it dawn on him how thoroughly he was finished. Not only in his leadership bid but as anything in the government. Or even as an MP.

‘I expect they're waiting for the two of us to come out arm in arm,' Frances said, ‘my role to look wronged but supportive, yours to tell them what a mistake you made and how much you love me.'

Was she offering him a way out? ‘Would you?'

She looked at him. No expression. In that moment it occurred to him that all was not lost. That he could make this better.

She lowered her head.

He stood and waited – what else could he do? – for her to look up again. He saw her shoulders begin to shake. She was crying. He wanted to console her but didn't dare go close.

When she stopped shaking and lifted her head, he saw that her expression was clear. ‘I want you out.'

‘I will go,' he said. ‘If that's what you really want. Once the paps have cleared off.'

‘You're so slow, Peter.' He had never heard her voice so cold. ‘Always have been. You're a godsend – front-page material just as the riots are trailing off. The last thing they're going to do is clear off.'

‘I need time.'

‘I told you, Peter, infidelity is the one thing I would not tolerate. Which sin you have compounded by lying about it.'

‘She doesn't mean anything to me.'

‘I suggest you tell her that. It no longer interests me. I'm asking you to leave, and I will not ask you again.'

He glanced down. ‘I've got nothing to wear.'

She shrugged. ‘Not my problem.'

He said, ‘Come on, Frances, be reasonable.'

‘If you're not gone in five minutes,' she said, ‘I'll denounce you on the doorstep.'

8 a.m.

Moving up against the tide of people on their way down the Tube steps, Billy was finally on his way home. He stepped out of the entrance, refusing the proffered newspaper after a quick glance told him that rioting's pole position had now been taken by the Home Secretary's marital ructions. And so the world spins, he thought, as he walked wearily through streets that, after what he'd recently witnessed, seemed preternaturally calm.

He was so tired. Sleep beckoned as he slipped the key into the lock. But though the door opened easily enough, when he tried to widen the gap he couldn't. He craned his head in and saw that the post and the papers that had been delivered in his absence had jammed the door. If he hadn't been so tired – too tired to even work out whether it was
three, four or five days since he'd last been home – he would have expected this. He pulled the door closed and then shoved it so hard that it passed over the blockage.

Once in, he collected up the post – mostly catalogues over which Angie loved to pore – and piled it on the hall table for her return. He was glad he'd advised her to keep the girls at her parents' until the trouble died down. Not that there'd been any around their area, but you never could tell. And this way none of them would have to smell him until after he'd had a shower.

He lifted an arm to sniff his armpit, and it almost choked him. He had managed occasionally to wash, but even a scrub down with carbolic would have been of little help since he afterwards had to put on the same kit, day after day, and in this heat. Lucky his men were in the same position. If not, he would have driven even the most hardy away from any line he was in.

The men had been magnificent, surpassing all expectations. So much so that senior management – who normally looked down on them, thinking of them as a necessary evil and the hooligan end of the service – were these days flocking to shake them by the hand and have their photos taken doing so. Which was the only silver lining in the disaster of the last five days.

The rest was just such a waste. Of livelihoods, of homes, and more importantly of lives: those idiots who had got caught up in an orgy of destruction would now find themselves jailed for rioting, thus making themselves forever unemployable. The only good thing was that nobody had been badly hurt, and with the Lovelace already scheduled for replacement, those shopkeepers who'd been burnt out would most likely have been the ones soon driven out by rising rents. An irony that: that the rioters had done the dirty work of the speculators they abhorred.

He really did stink. He must have a shower.

But first a cup of tea. He picked up the newspapers – he would have cancelled them if it hadn't taken so long for it to dawn on the muppets at Silver that something serious was kicking off – and took them to the kitchen.

He put the kettle on. While he was waiting for it to boil, he realised that either he was smelling worse than he'd originally assumed or
something else was. He opened the fridge: almost empty but, apart from a pint of milk that might be on the turn, nothing bad. He sniffed his way to the pedal bin. He kicked it open and was nearly knocked back by the stink. Must have thrown some meat in – it was covered in so much green slime he couldn't tell what it was – and without first putting in a liner. If he didn't clear it away before Angie's return it would confirm her (he thought ill-founded) opinion as to his lack of house training.

He took one of the newspapers from the pile and laid it, Home Secretary's ugly mug face down, on the tiled floor. The stuff in the bin was noxious – more paper needed. He grabbed for another one and, as he was smoothing it down, he read the headline: ‘Where is he?' underneath which was a close-up of a man's face and, under that, another equally large: ‘Reward offered'.

Oh great. The hacks putting a price on the head of a rioter was really going to help community relations, wasn't it? He smoothed the paper out and picked up the bin, meaning to empty it. But before he did, he glanced again at the photo. A rabid expression – that's why they must have chosen it – on a male IC3 who, he saw, the paper called Molotov Man. He blinked and looked again. He was tired, deadly tired if the truth be told, but he couldn't help thinking that he had seen this face, and recently.

But where? He sat back on his heels, breathing through his mouth, as he let his mind range free, which worked for him when he was trying to put a name or a place to a suspect.

Had he seen this face rearing close (which would mean that the man would have been one of the ones leading the attack)?

No, that wasn't it. Somewhere else, then. And recently.

He scrolled backwards through the last few days. Not an easy task when one moment had spilt into the next. It had been dark, that he remembered, but then most of what had happened had happened after dark. Not in a street, he thought. Somewhere else.

And then – gotcha – it came to him. This was the man he'd seen by the canal ranting at the traffic warden. Whom Billy had taken to be a drunk not worth arresting. Who, it turned out, was top of the riot's most-wanted list, at least according to the red-tops.

Shit. He sighed. More than anything he wanted to take a shower,
bag up his uniform and go to sleep. Now, instead, he knew he had to phone the Rockham station and report what he had seen. Try to help them find this man before some avaricious member of the public decided to take the law into his own hands.

10 a.m.

'Using the back door again, Home Secretary?' The PM's Press Secretary's gaunt face was set to sneer. ‘It's getting to be a habit.'

Fuck off, Peter thought, although he held his tongue.

‘He's upstairs in the flat.' The Press Secretary turned on his heels.

They could have gone the back way rather than through the main building and up the winding staircase, a route presumably chosen so that he would have to endure the sneaked side-glances and theatrical double-takes of those whose paths they crossed. And also, he thought, so that he could pass the succession of photographs of previous prime ministers that lined the wall and know that he now had no chance of ever being included in this honour guard.

The Prime Minister had seen to that. Well, Peter would return the compliment and pull the PM down.

They moved through Number 10 and up the last flight of stairs to the Prime Minister's flat. ‘He's expecting you.' Having rapped on the door, the Press Secretary opened it to practically push Peter in before closing the door.

‘Peter. At last.' What a contrast from their last meeting. The PM jumped up and came over to shake him by the hand. ‘What a time you've had of it.' He stepped away and stood a moment, looking Peter up and down. ‘What on earth are you wearing?'

‘Tracksuit bottoms. And a pyjama top. All I could lay my hands on.'

‘Frances took it that badly, did she?' The PM moved past Peter to open the door and shout, ‘Martin, are you still there?' and on receiving a faint, ‘Yes, sir, I am,' continued, ‘find the Home Secretary something decent to wear. And make sure that it fits.' He closed the door. Swallowed. Said, ‘Martin knows about the affair, of course' – as if anybody in Britain wouldn't – ‘and is available to help you work out how best to play this in public. But first I think you and I should have a chat. Come. Take a seat. Can I get you something to eat?'

From betrayer to genial host: well, the PM always did have a reputation for Machiavellian twists. ‘No, thanks. I'm fine.'

‘Not even a coffee? You look as if you need one.'

If he didn't agree to one, the PM would only find another way to extend his crowing. ‘Why not?'

‘Good.' The PM raised his voice: ‘Darling, would you mind making Peter a coffee?'

To which came the instantaneous reply: ‘Tell him to make his own,' followed by the slamming of a door.

‘Sorry about that.' The PM gave a small tight smile. ‘Afraid you might have to put up with quite a bit of that kind of thing.' He went over to the kitchen counter. ‘Not that our wives have much liking for each other, but when it comes to sexual infidelity, women always tend to back each other up.' He busied himself putting on the kettle, measuring grinds into a pot and placing cups and a milk jug on a tray.

Standing and waiting for the axe to fall, all Peter could do was look around this garish room with its clashing textiles. Frances would have imposed style on this mess, he thought.

‘No matter how supportive our wives are, they can never really understand the pressures on us.' The Prime Minister poured water into the pot. ‘And, besides,' looking up, ‘that business about Teddy hardly endeared you to her.'

So the PM was trying to downgrade his own corruption into the (presumably now irrelevant) business about Teddy. Well, he wasn't going to get away with it. ‘Sacking me will not make the problem disappear, Prime Minister.'

‘Who said anything about sacking you?' The Prime Minister carried the tray over and laid it down on a side table. He pushed down the plunger of the coffee pot, against obvious resistance, and poured. ‘You do take milk, don't you?' He poured in milk. ‘And no sugar?' handing the cup over without waiting for a reply.

Peter looked down to where dark grounds were floating on the surface of the liquid.

‘It's dreadful what the hacks have done,' the Prime Minister said. ‘I feel for you.'

'I bet you do.' He stretched across and, taking up the sugar bowl, ladled in two heaped teaspoons.

‘It is my belief,' the PM said, ‘that what goes on inside a marriage is – if you will forgive the pun – a private affair.'

‘Didn't stop you from having me followed.'

A frown. ‘You think I had you followed?'

‘I know you did.' Even sugared the coffee had no taste. ‘And asked them to photograph what they saw.'

The PM leant forward. ‘I am going to stop you right there, Peter.' His voice though soft was full of menace. ‘Before you say something both of us will regret. You have had a shock, I understand this, but you should think long and hard about accusing me of obtaining and/or distributing any photographs of you. I had nothing to do with it.'

Yes, Peter thought, just like he'd had nothing to do with the burying of Teddy's arrest report. ‘You knew about me and Patricia.'

‘Of course I knew. Along with the whole Westminster village. I'm surprised you managed to keep it from Frances as long as you have. I would have thought she'd have been more alert. But just because I knew doesn't mean I leaked it.'

He didn't need to: he had minions for that.

‘Or that anyone in my office did. If you're looking for a scapegoat, you'll have to look elsewhere. I suggest you start with those you have hurt.'

Did the PM want to strip him of all dignity by telling him that he knew Frances had released the photographs? He put his undrunk coffee down and got up. ‘I don't think we need to play out this farce any longer, Prime Minister. I am quite capable of writing my own resignation letter.'

‘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.'