The Knives (9 page)

‘Easy now, you’ll not hit an unarmed man?’

Philip Nixon, the lean and silvery Scot who was Her Majesty’s Inspector of Constabularies, grinned from behind palms raised in mock surrender as he climbed into the backseat of the Jaguar.

‘Howay.’ Blaylock waved the leg-pull aside. ‘I’ve not got it in me this morning.’

Nixon gave Blaylock a sharper look from under his critical Caledonian brow. ‘You look beat, right enough. Did you not sleep?’

Blaylock shook his head, wishing to leave it at that. From the front seat Andy glanced back to ensure Nixon was buckling in, then gave Martin the signal to pull off and begin the journey up the M1.

In truth Blaylock felt his etiolated mood to be less a result of the abusive caller and the broken night’s sleep than the content of a 6 a.m. phone chat with Patrick Vaughan about the procedure of taking his Identity Documents Bill through ‘pre-legislative scrutiny’. The Captain, sounding horribly unimpressed, had instructed him to get things under way in tones that left Blaylock sure he would be paddling this canoe alone.

‘So,’ said Nixon, ‘you’ve got your story straight for the day?’

Blaylock nodded. ‘Plain words. It’s not like we mean anything so drastic, is it? As we well know, if I was such a hatchet-man I’d be cutting the number of constabularies in half.’

‘Aye, and you’d have twenty unemployed Chief Constables after your blood.’

‘Quite. For now I’ve got enough enemies. Speaking of which,
I’ve got a quick meeting with Bannerman once we get there.’

In his past life Nixon had been a blue-chip accountant specialising in privatisations, foreclosures and associated redundancies. As such Blaylock found him an easygoing ear on the subject of difficult choices. However, as he now studied the broad blue backs of his police-issued driver and bodyguard, Blaylock was reminded to curb his language.

‘Thing is, all the best Chiefs know we need reform. You look at a guy like Richie Colls in Kent. There’s a copper who’s come through the ranks, earned his spurs. He’s just had to cut a quarter of his staff, it’s not pretty. But he sees the opportunities, too, he gets the best from what he’s got. He’s got crime down by twenty per cent. That’s why I asked him to lead the trial of lapel cameras on every officer.’

‘Man after your own heart …’

‘Oh aye, he’s a good guy, Richie. Few more like him and we’d be merry. Plenty problems round his patch but he’s all over them – he takes responsibility, he motivates his team. See, that’s the real problem with the cops – it’s leadership. It’s not identified in them, it’s not fostered. So they’d rather bang on about money than just get on and …’

Blaylock, having warmed up anew to his theme, looked again at Andy’s broad shoulders, and tailed away.

Nixon clucked his tongue. ‘Aye, well. What money you’ve got and how you spend it, it’s a test of character, no mistake.’

Silently, conspiratorially, Nixon placed his newspaper open on Blaylock’s lap at a story concerning the Chief Constable of Lancashire and a disputed claim for personal expenses incurred while attending a ‘special convention’ in Las Vegas.

Blaylock felt his phone vibrate near to his heart – felt his pulse move, too. Friend or foe? He withdrew the device with care, saw with relief that it was Geraldine, but was vexed to note this new sense of apprehension he was storing around his person.

Geraldine conveyed problematical news for him from Number Ten. The Captain had been alerted by Al Ramsay to the counter-immigration operation planned for Friday, and now wanted him and Blaylock to attend proceedings together, media in tow. Not for the first time Blaylock felt chastened by having to put his face to a course of action he had waved through while rating it highly dubious.

Even in the foyer of the Excelsior Hotel Blaylock could hear applause emanating from the convention suite, but he parted from Philip Nixon and was ushered by men in black to an upstairs seminar suite, as if this were a papal audience or an appointment with the
capo di capi
. There the Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis awaited him, fresh from the stage in his navy regalia but already seated and sipping tea. Bannerman’s
consigliere
smartly withdrew some papers he had been waving under the boss’s nose. Blaylock surveyed the smartness of the room and the numbers in attendance.
Are we comparing entourages here?
he thought.
Respective hefts?

‘Nice venue you picked for this. Will have cost a pretty penny.’

Bannerman didn’t flinch. ‘I shudder to think what it’ll cost West Midlands to police your party conference in a couple of weeks. But if a thing’s to be done then it costs what it costs, haven’t I heard you say …?’

Bannerman bore the chilliness of one who had never bothered with any charm school diploma on his path to power, but he undoubtedly knew how to deliver a line. Blaylock had heard that he dabbled in drama while reading Engineering at Oxford, and some of his college friends now held top jobs in the arts. If Bannerman likely cut a greyish figure in their company, he had won big points with the liberal press for his crisp delivery in media rounds, where Blaylock struggled to lay a finger on him. Since their audience today would be brief, Blaylock got to the point.

‘I need your view on this proposed march through the East End by the Free Briton Brigade.’

‘I’ve seen the petition. Knowing that patch, I don’t think it can be allowed to happen. But – I will speak with the gold commander and get back to you. They don’t worry you so much, do they? This “FBB”?’

‘I see them as a not insignificant effort to take white racism upmarket.’

‘Maybe so. I’m sure we’ve all seen tougher problems on our streets. It’s not like they’ve got a political wing. Or a quartermaster.’

Blaylock had noted Bannerman’s wont to allude to past experience of run-ins with the Provisional IRA and other hairy moments in the job – as if one day they might sit to trade war stories and compare scars.

‘Yeah. No danger of them invading Poland. The issue, of course, is how we reassure communities.’

‘On that, Home Secretary, we wholeheartedly agree.’

‘Another thing. The Sylvie Jordan case concerns me. It’s not going away. Are you sure the public concern has been correctly addressed?’

Blaylock saw winter descend in Bannerman’s look. ‘What’s on the front page of the papers this week will not dictate our response. We have a human tragedy, yes. These tragedies are blown up by the media in ways I consider exploitative. “What if it was your kid?” and all that. Murder of this sort is a middle-class fascination. It ignores the larger profile of violent crime that we deal with every day.’

‘I hear you. The point is whether this murder might have been averted if procedures had been better.’

‘The point is that the previous allegation against Kevin Clail was investigated. The complainant did not wish to press charges.’ Bannerman got to his feet. ‘This is a tragic business. But I’d ask you not to make any overhasty contribution to it.’

‘We agree, too, that public figures must be held to high standards, ourselves included?’

‘Of course. Though, what is a policeman but a human being doing a job? I know you understand this, whatever your criticisms.’

‘Home Secretary, it’s time …’

Blaylock heard his summons from the rear then looked back to see Bannerman had drawn nearer.

‘Yes, time for you to preach parsimony. Please bear it in mind, how much you ask us to do for less. Our officers take on heavy burdens, big sacrifices – risks, every day. Please be careful how you repay them.’

‘I believe those burdens and sacrifices are shared around.’

‘Well, there comes a point – a price point – when things just can’t be done properly. And at that time it becomes beholden upon me and my colleagues to fight our corner.’

‘I’m always wary, James, of capable people telling me that things just can’t be done.’

‘Ah yes, they never say that in the army, right?’

‘Not as a rule. Well, no, I take it back, I used to hear it a fair bit at Sandhurst, usually from the cadets who dropped out, got on the jack wagon – decided they needed a slightly easier life? What they did most often was join the police.’

Bannerman emitted a scoffing sound but offered no other riposte, to Blaylock’s grim satisfaction.

Blaylock assumed his front row seat in time to hear the President of the Association of Chief Police Officers lamenting ‘hard times’ for policing, replete with figures that Blaylock broadly recognised, though some came as news to him.

‘Every ten per cent drop in police numbers leads to a three per cent increase in property crime, in anti-social behaviour …’

Blaylock scribbled this figure down in mild wonderment, then glanced absently round the plush convention suite.

‘We, like the public we serve, are members of hard-working families. We work overtime, we give up our leave when we have to. I urge the government to preserve our good relations. Don’t seek confrontation with us. Don’t take our goodwill for granted. Hear our message. When funding is next determined, fight for us, not against us.’

Blaylock followed the President onto the stage, and soon found his speech a long trudge uphill to its peroration. The gifts he had wrapped up – the rewards for initiative, the hi-tech investment – barely warmed up the room. He had the sense of being a bad father, his paternal efforts spurned and read as insincere, while for his own part he knew he could not force the child to be inquisitive or self-sufficient.

And as he lavished praise on Richard Colls apropos the successful trialling of new technology he knew the move had backfired. Blaylock had hung a coat of many colours on Colls’s back, and by the black looks on the faces of the Kent Chief Constable’s brethren they seemed to fancy casting their brother into a pit. Blaylock’s mood worsened and he was not inclined to dress up his parting message.

‘The Met start their trial of lapel cameras across ten London boroughs this November. I look forward to a camera on the lapel of every officer. We’ve learned from the Kent experiment that it improves conviction rates. The camera brings scrutiny to bear, and scrutiny is good for all of us, myself included. Every day we should be asking ourselves, do we meet the standards the public are entitled to expect, so ensuring we have their trust? In light of some issues lately arisen, I will ask Philip Nixon to make a new and thorough review of standards and conduct in policing. We will know truthfully where we stand, and none of us have anything to fear – only a lot that we can learn – from the truth.’

He accepted a derisory ovation as he left the stage.

In the adjoining reception area where restive delegates milled and took coffee Blaylock snatched a glass of fizzy water, and sipped on the move as Andy came to his side.

‘A sharp exit, right? I don’t want to get collared.’

Andy nodded. ‘When we hit the foyer we’ll go out by the back way, Martin’s waiting.’

He was pleased, though, to see Richard Colls approach through the crowd, hand outstretched. Colls leaned to his ear as they shook.

‘You put me in the spotlight a bit up there.’

‘I’m not wrong, though? The cameras are working, yeah?’

‘Yeah. We’re seeing more people charged, more people admitting the offence. My lads are getting like filmmakers, they leave a scene worrying if they got the shot they needed. To be honest? One or two would prefer if the bloody things had an off-switch. But yeah, if you could stick some sat-nav features in there, bit of face-recognition? Every officer would be a walking CCTV.’

‘We’ll do what we can for six hundred quid a pop.’

‘You should maybe think about a sponsor. Get the big insurers on-board. If they saw what my guys have been seeing there’d be an awful lot of claims going up in smoke …’

Colls winked, they shook again warmly and Blaylock, spirits lifted, made for the exit, Andy flanking him down the carpeted foyer, past the central staircase to a seemingly deserted rear reception with glass doors through which the Jaguar was visible.

There, though, a diminutive young woman emerged from out of a deep sofa and came unerringly toward Blaylock, blinking expectantly. The enquiring eyes and pale elfin features were familiar to him as she thrust out a hand.

‘Mr Blaylock, I’m Madolyn Redpath. From Custodes?’

He shook with her. ‘Yes, you’re speaking later on?’

‘I dropped by to hear you first.’

‘How did I do?’

‘I’ve learned not to expect much liberalism from Home Secretaries. But I must say you seem to be plumbing new depths.’

The veteran tone and tough words – delivered in the high clear tones of an Oxbridge chorister – left Blaylock bemused.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t please you.’

‘Not at all. Clearly you’re more concerned with chasing headlines than trying to do what’s right.’ She was smiling slightly, hands thrust into the deep pockets of her woollen coat. Blaylock found the effect doubly pert and self-pleased.

‘The two things can coincide, you know. Forgive me, I must—’

‘Will you forgive me? I do need to talk to you about Eve Mewengera. She’s currently languishing in Blackwood Removal Centre, and you’re deporting her back to Harar.’

‘I don’t have perfect recall of every case.’

‘You saw the petition we handed in yesterday?’

‘Glanced, yes, but my response times are—’

‘If you don’t act now she will die.’

‘Sorry, she—?’

‘She’s a political activist, she came here fleeing persecution and all she’s been given is more of the same. If she’s deported she’ll be locked up for sedition and in prison they will
kill
her.’

‘Look, I can’t comment … Detention and removal are part of our system; obviously the case you’re citing has been through a process, so I’m afraid you’ll have to let me review it in my own time.’

‘Time? Okay. Thank you for yours.’

Again she thrust out a hand, this time her left, and Blaylock thought that odd even as he took it, then found it odder still that her light grip became a clutch – but this was as nothing to his surprise when, dreamlike, he saw her right hand fly from her coat pocket to press and clasp something cold and hard round his wrist. Recoiling, he met resistance, and saw the steel handcuff conjoining him by a snaking chain to its twin around hers.