Ten Days (6 page)

It was too late.

Ruben had gone.

Friday

5.30 a.m.

When Cathy heard the front door closing, she stormed out into the hall: ‘Where the hell have you been?'

Lyndall, who'd been intent on laying her keys softly down on the table, jumped.

‘I asked you a question. Where have you been?'

‘But I left a note.'

‘Yes, and I saw your bed was empty long before I found your note. Why did you sneak out like that?'

‘I wrote you I was with Jayden.'

‘Jayden's turned into a bodyguard, has he?' She heard her voice rising.

‘We weren't in danger, Mum. It was getting light.'

‘Getting light! Getting light! You think that's going to keep you safe from . . .' And now she heard a voice inside telling her to stop it. ‘From . . .'

‘I'm sorry, Mum. I heard you up and down all night, so when I saw you were sleeping, I didn't want to wake you.'

Hearing how shaky Lyndall sounded, Cathy calmed down. And it was true, she had had a terrible night. Every time she'd closed her eyes she'd been assailed by images – of Ruben's head lolling back, or of his slack body being worked on by the paramedics, or of that sheet covering a face that no longer looked like his.

‘It's not your morning to be at work,' Lyndall said. ‘Why don't you go back to bed?'

‘I can't. Ruben's parents need support. And we have to discuss how we're going to deal with this.'

‘Go and have a shower, then. I'll make breakfast. In times of stress you need to eat,' said with such sweet sincerity that it drove off the last of Cathy's aggravation.

She touched her daughter gently on the cheek. ‘Who's the mother here, missie?'

‘Well, I am the better cook.'

‘That's not hard, is it? Tea would be lovely.'

‘Don't worry, Mum, don't sweat it. Go take that shower.'

6 a.m.

If this bloody heat goes on much longer, Peter thought, I'll have to take up residence in the shower. Trying to ignore the dark pooling under his arms, he looked down at the list Patricia had drawn up for him.

As ever, she'd done a thorough job, but knowing how the slightest miscalculation might galvanise the other side or, worse, open the way for a compromise candidate to steal his prize, he was going to check it again. He considered phoning Patricia and asking her to do it with him. But no: she worked so hard. Leave her to her beauty sleep.

She'd divided their MPs into three categories: unquestionably for him, unquestionably against him, and a middle group – by far the largest – of the undecided or the unknown. These were the ones he and his team needed to work on. And all before the recess. It was going to be a tough nine days.

He looked down at the separate columns. There were names of MPs with whom he'd grown up politically, or bonded with on his first day in the House, or plotted with or against, as well as names of MPs who had driven him mad or to laughter, or those whose late-night camaraderie helped him bear the frustrations of political life – all of them now reduced to three categories: for, against or unknown.

That it should come to this.

The prospect of what he knew he had to do, and not the heat, was what was making him sweat. Now it drove him from his desk.

The milky light of dawn had hardened – soon the relentless sun would burn off any nuance. Then the green-carpeted corridors would be full of the people who oiled the wheels of Parliament. But for this moment the House was empty. Nowhere to go and nobody to talk to. He would take a stroll, he thought, before going back to stare at that blasted list.

He walked along the Lower Ministers' corridor and pushed through the double doors of the Chamber, going round the Speaker's Chair and into the Chamber proper. Odd to be there when those green benches were empty of the members and the hubbub they created. Odd also to have come this way by the opposition benches. He looked over the line to where he usually sat and thought that if things went well, he'd soon be two paces to the right, directly behind the dispatch box. And responsible for everything. A shiver of anticipation ran down his spine.

I'll wash my face, he thought, and then get on. Leaving the Chamber, he made his way to the nearest toilet, going straight over to a basin. He switched on the tap and, lowering his head, splashed his face with water before running his wrists under the tap, sighing with the relief of it.

He was about to splash his face again when he heard a sound. Someone groaning? He switched off the tap.

Nothing.

Must have been the antique plumbing system, protesting at this early use. He turned on the tap again and cupped his hands. He was in the process of lowering his head when someone – it was a human sound, not mechanical – groaned again.

‘Are you all right?'

No answer. But he hadn't imagined the sound. It had come from one of the stalls.

He walked along the line-up, gingerly pushing each door in turn. They swung open, empty, until the last, which, although it wasn't locked, resisted his push. He pressed against it harder.

‘Watch it, you bastard. That's my leg.'

He knew that voice. He craned his head around the door to see Albion Hind, member for one of the Midlands constituencies. Albion was half on and half off the lavatory, and his eyes were shut.

‘Albion, it's Peter.' At least the man's trousers were still up.

Albion groaned.

‘Are you ill?'

A ginger opening of one eye. ‘Do I look ill?'

Never the most picturesque of men, Albion looked not so much ill as really awful. His nose was habitually bulbous and reddened from drink, and that long strand of greasy hair that had flopped away from the bald patch it was meant to conceal didn't help. All as usual. What was new, however, particularly so early in the morning, was the mess of gravy or dark vomit that stained his shirt.

A revolting sight. Peter was half tempted to back off, close the door and leave Albion to his own devices. ‘Let's get you out of here,' he said.

‘You and whose army?' Albion's eyelids shuttered down.

‘Shift.' Peter pushed at the door.

Albion groaned, but he did inch away from the door, allowing Peter to widen the gap and squeeze in. Not much room to manoeuvre, but he eventually managed to bend over the fallen man. He was assailed by the mix of stale tobacco, soured alcohol and vomit so toxic that it took an effort of will not to rear away. He concentrated on breathing exclusively through his mouth. ‘Lift your arms.' He pushed his own arms under Albion's, linking them at the other's back, and then, saying, ‘Upsy', he hauled Albion to his feet.

‘I want to stay here,' Albion groaned.

‘To be spotted by the other side? Or, worse, by a bastard from the lobby? I think not.'

He turned them both round, using a knee to push Albion, and that way manoeuvred the other man, crab-like, out of the stall and over to a wall. ‘Stay here.'

When he let go, Albion slid all the way down to the floor. No point in picking him up. ‘I'll fetch help,' he said.

‘Kind of you.'

‘Oh well.' He was glad that he had bothered.

‘Never figured you for a kind man.'

Just like bloody Albion, adding a sting to his gratitude. Should have let him stew in his own festered failure.

Which thought seemed to transmit itself to Albion. ‘You can't know what it's like.' He was clearly on the brink of tears. The weight of his eyelids seemed too much to bear. They closed while he was saying something that sounded like ‘votes for sale', although Peter, who now wanted more than anything to get away, couldn't be sure.

He found a doorkeeper who agreed to deposit Albion in a nearby hotel. Something at least accomplished. It was harder to shake off his feelings of pity for Albion, who, once a high-flyer, had sunk so low.
There but for the grace of God, he thought, and then he told himself that this was nonsense. Albion's many vices were what had done for him; Peter's would not. Of this he would make sure. He went back to his office, intent on ridding himself of clothes that must now reek of Albion Hind's failure.

He pushed the door so hard that it banged back against the wall, and when he did, he saw how a slim, dark figure who had been standing by his desk jumped.

‘What the . . .' His vision cleared. ‘Oh, it's you, Patricia.'

The sight of her always set his pulse racing. She was a gorgeous-looking young woman, and she knew it, donning a succession of bright colours like this sleeveless yellow summer frock that showed off her bronzed skin to its best advantage. He wanted to compliment her on it but no need: she'd clocked his appreciative regard and it made her smile.

‘I was thinking of ringing you,' he said.

‘Your wife beat you to it.'

‘My wife?'

‘Your mobile's off.'

He took it from his pocket – ‘Oh yes, so it is' – and switched it on, and as it loaded he saw three missed calls from Frances. ‘Did she say what she wanted?'

‘To tell you that the PM's going to be on at 7.15.'

Of course he was. Trying to steal Peter's thunder.

‘She thinks they might be planning to ambush him with his latest legalise drugs obsession. She says you should hear it live in case you're rung for comment.' Patricia indicated a folder she must just have placed on his desk. ‘I've digested the salient facts. The Dutch example's telling. And the rake-offs of the Colorado and Washington dispensaries should cause some alarm.'

First Frances and now Patricia: his women were certainly coming through for him. ‘That's extremely helpful.' He cleared his throat. ‘But now I think I'd better ring . . .'

‘. . . your wife. Yes, Home Secretary. I'll leave you to it.' She was smiling as she passed him by.

The scent she gave off was redolent of spring flowers that would long ago have wilted in this heat. Hope she didn't think the stench that must be coming off him was his. ‘Oh, and Patricia?'

‘Yes?' The way she looked at him: she was such a coquette!

‘Might be worth turning your keen eye on our new Commissioner. Background. Connections. That type of thing.'

‘Of course.' She was all business. ‘Anything in particular?'

‘Not sure. He was vetted, naturally, but I think there might have been something missed. Sniff around: see, for starters, if you can find anything about his relationship with the PM. Something peculiar there which might be . . .' – how should he put it – ‘be . . .'

‘Helpful,' she said. ‘Of course.' She slipped out of the room, softly, as she always did.

10 a.m.

The heavy tread that Joshua Yares had been keeping half an ear out for caused him to raise his head. ‘Anil? Would you mind stepping in for a moment?'

‘Of course.' Deputy Commissioner Anil Chahda, highest-ranking ethnic officer in the British police, retraced his steps and walked into Joshua's office. ‘How can I help?'

Joshua gestured at the sofas that stood at one end of his vast office.

Chahda was broad with a bullish head, wide shoulders and a stocky frame, and when he sat down on the sofa he seemed to take up the whole of it.

‘How can I be of assistance?'

‘I gather there's been a death?' Joshua paused, expecting a response, but when nothing came he said, ‘In Rockham.'

‘Ah,' an intake of breath. ‘That death. Unfortunate. Male. IC3. Record of mental instability – officers have been called to his home on several previous occasions. On this occasion a member of the public reported that the man was wielding a weapon in a public place.'

‘I understand that sections in the community dispute this version. They say the man posed no danger and that the police were not in fact called?'

‘I can't answer to that, sir.' Chahda shrugged. ‘I'm merely reporting what the IPCC has said.'

‘And I have also been told that there was an earlier incident involving this same man and an officer?'

‘You're ahead of me on that as well, sir. All I have been told is that the officers who attended called for back-up after the man became violent. It took eight officers to restrain him – others held back members of the public who had become emotional – and in the course of this the prisoner developed breathing difficulties. The officer in charge, who has had advanced CPR training, did his best to revive him, unfortunately without success. There'll be a post mortem of course. It is always possible that a pre-existing condition might have provoked his collapse. At the moment, however, it's probably sensible to assume that the cause of death will be related to positional asphyxia.'

‘The officers involved have written up their reports?'

‘Naturally.'

‘And I assume their bodycams will confirm their written statements?'

‘The IPCC has all the footage, sir. They'll match the reports with it. Although it is worth saying that several of the bodycams were malfunctioning, and, as well, in moments of such confusion the footage does not always illuminate.'

All of which was true. Why, then, did it sound like a series of excuses?

‘Check that they covered the earlier incident as well, will you? And pull the records of all the officers involved. I'd like to know if any of them have been subject to any disciplinary action for misconduct. Just in case.'

‘Certainly, sir. If you think that's necessary.' The edge to Chahda's voice might have indicated that he wasn't best pleased by Joshua's interference, but his smile belied this.

‘I gather Chief Superintendent Gaby Wright is in charge there?'

‘She is. A recent appointment as Acting Commander.'

‘I had a look at her stats. I see there's been a spike in Section 60 stops since she took over?'

‘That's correct and in my opinion unavoidable. The Lovelace has never been easy to police, and word of its closure has been met by a rise in antisocial behaviour and crime. If I was in CS Wright's shoes, I would have done the same thing. She's a good officer. Tough but fair.'