Ten Days

PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL FOR INQUIRY USE ONLY

Submission to the internal inquiry of the Metropolitan Police into Operation Bedrock

Submission 1051/W: camera stills 6473–6503 gathered by Support Unit 31AXZ, call sign India 97, taken between 0:55 and 02:05 on

location: Rockham High Street

subject: continuation of disturbances and community response

Photographs W6473–79 indicate an apparent stand-off on Rockham High Street between alleged looters and Rockham residents, who, it is assumed, are shopkeepers guarding their premises. A variety of weapons — steel poles, sticks, bricks — can be seen in the hands of both opposing sections. A man, IC3, can be seen to the left of the photograph apparently arguing with the alleged rioters.

Photographs W6480–85, show the putative looters dispersing after the ASU hovered directly above them. Photographs W96–98 show the man, IC3, also running away.

Photographs W6499–6503 show the Rockham High Street now calm. The ASU was given instruction to proceed to a location outside of Rockham following reports of new disturbances.

8 a.m.

The line of Joshua Yares’s lips tightened as he sped-read his way through that morning’s newspapers.

The red-tops had all gone for alliteration, with headlines such as ‘England Explodes’ competing with a more punitive ‘Dixon’s Disgrace’ and what was probably an early edition’s ‘Rockham’s Ruin’. What the papers also shared, and this included the broadsheets, is that they read like comics, their terse prose outgunned by photographs of buildings burning, people panicking, rioters rioting and crowds of police apparently doing nothing but looking on.

Joshua’s lips tightened some more when he saw that, despite the huge variety of available images, every editor had opted to include the identical two: the first was the woman, child in arms, plunging down three floors to escape her burning home; the second was a close-up of the man all the tabloids had nicknamed ‘Molotov Man’.

A rap on his door. He shifted the papers aside. ‘Come,’ and then, ‘Come in, Anil. Take a seat,’ watching as his deputy plodded over to the desk and gingerly lowered himself into the chair opposite. ‘How are you holding up?’

A weary shrug. ‘I’m afraid it’s still an uphill battle, sir. The NPCC organised a couple of TAU coachloads for us — sorely needed. They were on their way when word came that it’s about to kick off in Salford, so they had to turn back. We’re getting them from further north instead — the Durham and the Scottish chiefs have been helpful — but it’s all going to take time.’

‘Until we’ve got enough bodies to push back, we’ll just have to exert as strong a hold as we can,’ Joshua said. ‘Meanwhile, did you find a moment to glance through the papers?’

‘I did, sir. Grim reading.’

‘That it is.’ Joshua picked up the topmost tabloid, opening it to its centre spread where an oversize picture of the Molotov-throwing man

was surrounded by smaller photos of other kinds of mayhem. ‘You must have seen this.’

‘Couldn’t miss it.’

‘Once the press picks its face of evil, they never let go. If we don’t find this man, they will — and then they’ll throw him in our faces. We need to know everything that can be known about him and then we need to find him.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘No more surprises. Everything.’

‘I’ve already put an officer on it.’

‘Put on more if that’s what it takes. I want this man found.’

‘Should I issue an APW?’

‘Not at this juncture. We have to assume he’s still in Rockham — it’s where he’ll feel safest — but gone to ground. Tell CS Wright to leave no stone unturned.’

‘Even if it inflames the situation?’

‘I want this man and I want him here, on my carpet, as soon as he is picked up. Is that clear?’

‘Crystal, sir.’ Chahda levered himself out of the chair. ‘I’ll get on to it right away.’

10 a.m.

Come the hour of the emergency debate, MPs who’d gathered in the Members’ corridors to swap horror stories from their constituencies piled into the Chamber, squeezing close on the benches, latecomers jostling each other in their efforts to stay within the lines to give themselves a chance to have their say.

The Prime Minster, who was still in Switzerland, had asked Peter to lead his government’s response. Another political miscalculation, Peter thought, and, given that all eyes were now on Parliament, another chance for him to shine.

The Speaker gave him the nod: ‘Home Secretary.’

He got up, slowly, from the front bench and in the same languorous pace stepped forward to lay his notes on the dispatch box, taking a moment then to look around. He could feel the weight of expectation on him, and he felt it not as a burden (the House being for once united) but as an embrace. He took a deep breath in. ‘I am confident that I speak for the House,’ and then, conscious that the suspended microphones were picking up his every word and relaying them out to a wider than usual audience, he added, ‘and that I also speak for the nation when I condemn the criminality of the past thirty-six hours. There can be no excuse for the burning of homes, the raiding of shops, the robbery of members of the public and the attack on police officers.’ He waited for the rumble of agreement to pass through both front benches and around the House, and even after it was over he let the silence stretch before lowering his voice. ‘We will restore order,’ he said. ‘And we will punish the offenders. Make no mistake about it, we stand united in our determination to preserve our way of life.’

As a fresh tide of ‘Hear, hears’ died away, he let his voice drop another notch.

‘The police,’ he said…

‘The police,’ Joshua heard, and pumped up the volume on his TV.

‘… and especially individual officers, have shown considerable courage against the odds. Twenty-five police officers have so far been treated for their injuries, and we fear that there are likely to be further casualties. I know the House will join me in thanking them, and their fellow officers, for their courage and in wishing the injured a speedy recovery.’

As agreement once again reverberated, Joshua, now watching intently, waited for the ‘but’ he knew had to be on its way. And sure enough, after a pause for emphasis followed by a further lowering of the voice (if he went on this way he’d soon be whispering), Whiteley continued: ‘But those at the top of the command structure of the Metropolitan Police bear considerable responsibility for what has happened. They treated the initial flare-up in Rockham as a public-order issue rather than what it was: the starting gun for mass criminality. There were simply not enough officers on the streets. They lost the initiative and because of this they lost control.’

The front bench was all a-nod, their response mirrored by their opponents across the aisle. Having joined them so nicely together, Whiteley ratcheted up his attack.

‘I expected, and I’m sure you did as well, that the lessons of 2011 would have been learnt. I will make it my mission to find out why they were not. I have already begun this process. During the COBRA meeting I yesterday chaired, I informed Metropolitan Commissioner Joshua Yares of my concerns. Among the measures we agreed is the recall from leave of all serving police officers…’

The cheek of it, to claim credit for this again, and after Joshua had called him on it yesterday.

‘… and that requests for mutual aid be coordinated by the Association of Chief Police Officers…’

Another routine step that Whiteley was stealing credit for.

‘I expect to see as well an increase in numbers of officers deployed at all points of disruption or potential disruption.’

As if after all the recent cuts — pushed through by this same Home Secretary — they had the personnel to do this.

‘To this effect, I have offered to the Commissioner each and every measure in our possession, including the deployment of baton rounds, tear gas and water cannon. I am sure the House will join me in urging the Commissioner to give this offer the serious consideration it merits…’

Another dig because yesterday Joshua had explained why none of these measures, and especially water cannons, were currently appropriate. But why let a few facts get in the way of a rousing speech, especially when the bastard of a Home Secretary was on a roll?

‘The justice system will play its part in punishing these criminals in the most rigorous manner. Anyone charged with riot-related offences will be kept in custody. Those convicted — and the courts will continue to sit through the night for as long as it takes — will find themselves in jail. I will be reviewing statutory provisions to ensure that the courts have powers appropriate to the scale of this lawlessness. If needs be, I will raise sentencing tariffs. For the present, however…’

And now a pause as Whiteley let his gaze travel the full length of the Chamber and once again dropped his voice.

Joshua Yares turned the volume up another notch.

‘… we expect the police to ensure security in our streets in every city, in every town, in every village, throughout the land.’

Damaging but not fatal. Joshua breathed some of his tension out.

Prematurely, because…

‘Many Members are anxious to raise their constituents’ concerns,’ Whiteley continued, ‘and so I will give way to my Honourable Friend,’ he turned to look up at the ranks of his own backbenchers, ‘the Member for Brancombe Forest, who has been popping up and down like a jack-in-the-box in a bid to attract my attention.’

Not that Yares had noticed.

He was instantly on high alert.

It was a trap.

It had to be. The clue was that the Member for Brancombe Forest was Albion Hind, whose tawdry sex life had been exposed in the press only after he had failed to persuade his local police to arrest a particularly persistent reporter. Since then he had used what little influence remained to him to try to hound his Chief Constable from office. No good could come from any question he asked, especially given that, by the way he now rose to his feet, someone must have made a concerted attempt to sober him up.

His TV being on so loud it was distorting, Joshua turned down the volume.

‘I am grateful to the Home Secretary for giving way,’ Hind was saying, ‘and I join him in condemning the criminality of the past few days. There is much to be said and I would like to be the one to say it. But I know that many of my Honourable Friends will also want to have their say, and so I will restrict myself to a single question: would the Home Secretary comment on rumours that the unrest in Rockham was triggered by rogue elements within the Metropolitan Police Service?’

Not something the Minister should comment on. Not when the IPCC had taken on the investigation. ‘IPCC,’ Joshua mouthed at the TV, ‘IPCC…’ and for a moment it seemed as if Whiteley could hear him and was going to do the right thing because…

‘Given that the Independent Police Complaints Commission is investigating the death in Rockham,’ he said, ‘the House will understand why my answer must be circumspect.’

Not yet the time to relax, since this was Whiteley, who had his eyes on another prize.

‘What I can say,’ Whiteley continued, ‘and I can assure the House that I am not here using privileged information, is that I too have heard the rumours that some of the officers involved in the originating incident have been subjected to internal inquiries into possible previous misconduct. As to the content or result of these inquiries I cannot speak, but what I can say…’

Joshua Yares did not get to find out, at least not then, what Home Secretary Whiteley felt he could or couldn’t say. He was already out of his chair, and past his desk, and at his door, and pushing his head out, and bellowing, ‘Get Deputy Commissioner Chahda back in my office double quick,’ before stepping back and closing the door so hard that people on the ground floor must have heard the bang.

10.45 a.m.

Banging and a woman shouting, ‘Open up.’

Cathy, who was sitting on the floor beside a smouldering wastepaper bin, froze.

More banging. ‘Open up. Now.’

If she stayed on the floor and out of sight, Elsie would eventually get bored and go away. She fed the last of the photographs of Banji into the fire.

‘Mrs Mason.’

Elsie never used her surname. Probably didn’t even know it.

‘It’s the police. Open the door.’

The police?

Lyndall’s school, which had also been targeted during the attacks, was closed for repair. And Lyndall was out — she’d needed air, she’d said. Throwing the contents of a glass of water into the bin to make the embers safe, Cathy ran to the front door and wrenched it open.

There were two uniformed officers, a man and a woman, on her doorstep.

‘Mrs Mason?’ This from the man, who pressed forward to put his boot inside the door. ‘Mrs Cathy Mason?’

‘Has something happened to my daughter?’, thinking that they always sent a woman to break bad news.

‘We’re not here about your daughter, Mrs Mason.’ The man was holding up a piece of paper. ‘I have here a warrant to search your premises.’

Only now did she see that behind the front two were three men who also looked to be policemen, but in plain clothes. ‘Why would you want to search my place?’

‘You have to let us in, Mrs Mason.’ He pushed the door so hard she had no choice but to back away. She ended up jammed against the wall as the four men filed in.

‘What’s going on?’

The female officer who had waited as her colleagues entered now stepped in. ‘The sooner they are left to get on with the job, the sooner it will be over,’ she said, closing the door behind her. ‘I think that’s your lounge over there. That’s a good place for us to be.’

10.50 a.m.

‘What the fuck, Anil?’ Joshua, who’d been standing at the window, wheeled round when he heard Anil Chahda’s tentative knock followed by his even more tentative entrance. ‘What the fuck?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir.’

Joshua pointed at the silent television. ‘I mean this,’ and then, as the camera focused on Peter Whiteley, ‘I mean him.’

‘The Home Secretary?’

‘Yes, the Home Secretary. Who has just used Parliamentary privilege to impugn this force.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’

I’ll give you sorry, Joshua thought. ‘Is it true?’

‘I wasn’t listening to the debate. Is what true?’

‘That officers of the Rockham police force have previously been subjected to internal inquiry. Is it true?’

‘Yes, sir, it is true. Not all of them, of course.’

‘And why didn’t I know?’

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘Are you deaf? I am asking you why it is that I didn’t know the answer to a question that I had asked you on more than one occasion.’

‘I can’t answer that, sir.’

Such insubordination. So much so that he wondered whether Chahda was entirely well.

He saw how the skin of Chahda’s brown face was blotched with red, and he saw sweat beading his brow. Must have run to get here. ‘For heaven’s sake, man, sit. Sit.’ He reinforced this command by striding over to his desk.

Having seated himself, Chahda withdrew a large white handkerchief with which he mopped his brow.

Such a great lump of a man, Joshua thought, and said more quietly, ‘Okay. Let’s start again. And this time, let’s try to understand each other. Question: did I ask you for the record of any past disciplinary action taken against members of the Rockham lot?’

‘Yes, sir, you did.’

‘And did you supply me with such information?’

‘Yes, sir, I did.’

‘I see.’ Was it possible that Chahda’s mutiny could stretch to the telling of an outright lie? ‘In what form did you supply this information?’

‘I know you don’t like everything online, sir, so I copied the relevant documents for you.’

‘Which you put where?’

‘Why, there. By your desk.’

Joshua looked down at the desk, as tidy as it always was, save for the pile of that day’s newspapers. ‘There’s nothing here.’

‘In your in-tray, sir. Where I always used to put your predecessor’s papers.’

His in-tray. Of course. The one he’d been promising himself to look at ever since stepping into the office, and the one he’d had no time for. It stood, neatly, on a side table. He pulled it to him and rifled through. Sure enough, halfway down was a folder on which ‘Records of Rockham Police Officers’ had been written on the tab in Anil Chahda’s minuscule script.

He should have known it was there. ‘Is what Whiteley said correct?’ And he shouldn’t have shouted at his deputy. ‘Have any of the Rockham officers been disciplined for misconduct?’

‘A few of them have. Usual infractions. Lack of diligence. Failure to present evidence. Insubordination. Traffic irregularities. A couple of written warnings but none serious enough to warrant further action, except in one case: an officer who was sent for race-awareness training after a number of complaints.’

‘And did this officer take an active part in restraining the unfortunate man who died?’

‘No, sir. But he was present at the earlier stop and search. Nothing untoward as far as we can tell. The report of the officer who was with him at the time matches his in every respect.’

‘I bet it does.’ Something to think about at another time. For the moment: ‘How did the Home Secretary know about the Rockham officers?’

‘Beats me, sir. Except…’ Chahda swallowed and looked down at the floor.

‘Except what? Come on, man, spit it out.’

Chahda lifted his head. ‘Well, as you said yourself, sir, you did raise the issue on a number of occasions, once within the hearing of other officers. It is within the bounds of possibility that the information was passed on by them.’

‘Why would one of our own do that?’

‘Perhaps because they thought you were being overly harsh on others of our own? You know how loyal they can be.’

To expose a fellow officer in order to get at the top command — what was Chahda on? Joshua was so flabbergasted that all he could say was, ‘I see.’ What he saw, clearly and for the first time, although he had previously suspected it, was that Chahda’s loyalty did not lie with him.

‘Would you like me to investigate further, sir?’

He could just imagine how a witch-hunt would go down at this moment of highest pressure. ‘No. Not at the moment. Any news of Molotov Man?’

‘No definite leads. But they have located the girlfriend. They’re searching her place as we speak,’ Chahda said. ‘Hopefully that will help us find him.’

11.45 a.m.

They’d been in her flat for an hour, and they were still there.

They’d torn the place apart. Neatly enough — they put back everything they’d pulled out — but it was awful to watch them prying into her private places, and Lyndall’s. She felt herself exposed. Stripped bare. They’d even rooted through her malfunctioning fridge and the kitchen cupboards she’d been meaning to spring-clean. And still they wouldn’t tell her what they were looking for.

Then at last they were done. The men filed out. The woman, who had followed Cathy everywhere, even to the toilet, didn’t move.

‘Aren’t you going to go with them?’

The woman smiled. ‘In a bit.’ She was sitting at the edge of a chair, but at the sound of footsteps she jumped up to poke her head round the door. ‘We’re in here, ma’am,’ stepping aside then standing to attention as a petite blonde with red-bowed lips entered.

From the patch on her collar — two crossed batons that looked like electronic cigarettes — Cathy guessed this newcomer must be a senior officer, a thought confirmed when, in a surprisingly deep voice, the woman said, ‘Mrs Mason? I’m Rockham’s Acting Commander, Chief Superintendent Gaby Wright. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?’

‘And if I do?’ The petulance of her tone, combined with the woman’s raising of one perfectly groomed eyebrow, made Cathy feel like a badly behaved child. She bit back on the feeling: ‘Who gave you the right to search my flat?’

‘A search warrant, legally obtained, gave us the right. I trust my officers showed it to you?’

Cathy nodded.

‘And did they put everything back, neatly, where they’d found it?’

Another nod.

‘Good.’ CS Wright nudged the wastepaper bin with her foot. ‘Tell me about this.’

‘It’s a bin,’ Cathy said. ‘I bought it in the market. Cost a fiver.’

A quick smile devoid of warmth. ‘It has been a long night. You won’t mind if I sit, will you?’ She sat. ‘Look, I know you want us out of your hair, and we will soon be gone, but before that…’ She used one hand to pull the bin closer while simultaneously holding out the other to receive the pair of blue plastic gloves that her subordinate had produced. She pulled on one of the gloves — a tight fit despite her small hands — and reached into the bin, rooting through the ashes. ‘I want to know about the things you burnt.’ From the generalised mush she pulled out a fragment that was half intact. She held it up. ‘Why did you burn this?’

‘To get rid of it. Is that a crime?’

‘No.’ This time her smile was a little warmer. ‘It is not a crime. And in case my putting on a glove gave you the wrong impression, it was to stop my hand getting dirty, not to protect evidence. Still, I’d like to know what it is you burnt.’

What would be wrong with telling this ice maiden that she’d torn up everything — photos, letters and other mementoes — she’d ever got from Banji? That after she’d torn them up she’d been still so full of rage she’d decided to reduce them to ash?

She would have said all this had Lyndall not just at that moment come running in. ‘Mum. There’s police crawling all over the L…’ She stopped. ‘What the hell?’ She looked to Cathy and then to the standing constable, until her gaze came to a rest on CS Wright.

Who stood up. ‘And you are?’

‘Her name is Lyndall. She’s my daughter.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Lyndall.’ Having peeled off the glove and dropped it in the bin, she stuck out her hand: ‘I’m Chief Superintendent Gaby Wright.’

Lyndall averted her gaze.

‘We’re looking for someone.’ Gaby Wright kept her eyes fixed on Lyndall. ‘A man. Friend of yours and your mum’s. Name of Banji. Do you know where he is?’

So that’s what this was about. That bastard and his stupid prank with the petrol bomb.

But how had they known to come looking for him here?

‘Do you?’

‘No, we don’t know where he is,’ Cathy said.

It was as if she wasn’t there. ‘How about you, Lyndall? Do you know?’

Lyndall shook her head.

‘You may think that your silence is protecting a friend from harm, Lyndall, but you couldn’t be more wrong. Banji is in serious trouble, and if he doesn’t give himself up it will get even worse.’

‘What?’ Lyndall rolled her eyes. ‘Worse like it went worse for Ruben?’

‘Do you know where Banji is?’

‘Why would I know where he is?’

Watching from the sidelines, Cathy registered the defiance in Lyndall’s expression and that contrary sign, the wavering of Lyndall’s voice. She interposed herself between the two: ‘She’s fourteen years old. You can’t interrogate her. Not without my permission, which I’m not prepared to give,’ wondering where she had found the courage to be so defiant while turning her head to say, ‘Lyndall, go to your room.’

With uncharacteristic alacrity, Lyndall fled the room, banging the door on her way out as she said something that sounded distinctly like, ‘Fuck you, you killers.’

‘Well.’ Another rise of that arched eyebrow.

‘She’s upset. We all are. Ruben was loved.’

‘A most unfortunate death, which will, I can assure you, be thoroughly investigated. But Banji’s a whole different kettle of fish. We need your help to find him.’

She didn’t know where he was. That’s what she could have said, and that would have been the truth. But something about the way this woman had come in, uninvited, and assumed she owned the room, and something about the way she had tried to pump Lyndall — as if she would know anything — had turned Cathy’s stomach. She closed her mouth. Shook her head.

A sigh. ‘If you don’t tell me everything you know about this man,’ Gaby Wright’s gaze hardened, ‘you will leave me no choice but to arrest you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit arson in relation to the throwing of a bottle of burning petrol.’

‘I wasn’t anywhere near when he did that.’

Another sigh. ‘Conspiracy does not require physical presence.’ And a third. ‘Let me tell you what is going to happen, Mrs Mason, if you don’t answer my questions. I will have no choice other than to formally arrest you. Once we have you in the station — where you will be given access to a solicitor, should you want one — we will take a statement from you. If your alibi and other factors bear out your innocence, we will release you. But you do know, don’t you, that anybody charged with a riot-related offence is to be kept in custody? And that, given the threat to chemical facilities in the vicinity of Rockham, Parliament has agreed to the extension to suspected rioters of the pre-charge detention rules under Section 41 and Schedule 8 of the Terrorism Act 2002, as extended by the Terrorism Act 2006. What this means is that we can now keep suspected rioters for up to twenty-eight days. So while we are waiting for the appropriate checks to be made, and with the backlog building up these could take up to the full twenty-eight days, we’d have a duty of care to your daughter. We’d have to call in social services.’

2.15 p.m.

It was more than two hours after the police had left and Lyndall was still in her room. Twice Cathy had gone to stand outside her door but, having pressed her ear against the door and hearing nothing, not even any music, had gone away. She had also left a sandwich by the door, but half an hour later the tomato had made a soggy mess of the ham that, in the heat of the flat, was beginning to smell.

She took the sandwich back into the kitchen and threw it out.

When she opened the tea cupboard, she couldn’t help seeing the mess through the eyes of the policeman who had searched it. It was a disgrace. In urgent need of cleaning. As were all the others.

She set to work. First, she scrubbed the kitchen counters and then she emptied the cupboards before scouring the shelves, trying at the same time to scour out the memory of the policeman’s disapproval.

What she couldn’t rid herself of, however, were the things that she had said.

That humiliating admission: he hit me… pointing then as extra proof… in the stomach. And that denial, no, that she’d been forced to make: no, I don’t know where he lives, I never went to his place, and, no, I don’t know who else he’s friends with, repeating it until the disbelief on that bloodless face turned into believing contempt. And even after that, the probing had continued: what Banji meant to her, what she meant to him, a relentless drip of increasingly personal questions that laid bare her own stupidity.

And at one point when all this was going on she’d thought she’d heard somebody in the corridor. It must have been Lyndall, who wouldn’t have known that Cathy was only answering the policewoman’s questions so as to protect her. She’d be furious — and knowing Lyndall she’d convert that fury into sullen withdrawal.

She had finished wiping down the shelves. A satisfying process but now, although the cupboards were clean, every surface, including those she’d already wiped, were covered in jars and tins, some of which needed throwing out while others were so sticky she couldn’t possibly put them back.

She filled the sink with hot soapy water. She was really getting somewhere. Lyndall would be thrilled. She grabbed for a jar, but it was so sticky it slipped out of her hand. In that moment, all the frustration that she’d been suppressing seemed to fire up her leg so that when she kicked the jar, it hit the wall, cracked and rebounded with such force that parts of it hit the wall opposite.

It left a sticky trail of glass and green gunge on the floor. Could it have been greengage jam, she wondered, or something else that had turned green with age? Most likely the latter — it stank. She fetched some newspaper, which she used to trap the glass, then got down on her hands and knees and, with a bucket of soapy water at her side, washed the lino.

By the time the floor was clean enough to pass temporary muster, she was boiling hot. The floor was clean, but the rest of the kitchen was a disaster zone. She would see to it later. For now she needed to talk to Lyndall.

She went down the corridor and knocked on Lyndall’s door. No answer. She turned the handle. It didn’t budge. She knocked again. ‘Lyndall.’

Silence. She gave another knock. ‘Lyndall.’

Some shuffling followed by the grating of a key, and when she turned the handle again the door opened.

Lyndall was on her bed, stretched out on her side to face the wall. She didn’t move when Cathy entered.

‘What’s wrong?’

No answer.

When Cathy went over, Lyndall shuffled closer to the wall, but at least she did nothing to stop Cathy sitting on the bed.

‘Come on, honey, tell me what’s wrong.’

At last an answer, but, delivered as it was into the pillow into which Lyndall’s face was squashed, Cathy couldn’t make out a word. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that. Say it again.’

Lyndall spun round. ‘You. Know. What’s. Wrong.’

She must have been in the corridor; she must have heard everything.

‘You promised,’ Lyndall said. ‘You promised me and you promised her.’

‘Her?’ Cathy had given the policewoman no promises.

‘Jayden’s mum.’

Cathy’s exhalation was so intense she felt her chest deflate.

‘You promised her that if he didn’t come back, you’d look for him.’

She sighed again, not from guilt for having forgotten a boy whom everybody except Lyndall always forgot, but more from relief. ‘Yes, I did. And with everything that’s happened, I didn’t do it. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not me you need to say sorry to.’ Lyndall did another flip to face the wall again. When Cathy touched her, she shrugged the hand away.

There was no talking to her, not when she was in a mood. Cathy got up and, relief still coursing through her, left the room.

6.10 p.m.

‘Home Secretary,’ Patricia’s voice was icy, ‘you have put the blame for the failure to contain the disturbances onto the police. But there has been a 10 per cent year-on-year cut in funding of the Met during your time in office. Don’t you think that the cuts may have affected their capacity to respond to what was after all a series of extraordinary events?’

‘I don’t think…’

‘Yes, you do, you always think. What you don’t do is consider.’

‘You’re right. I don’t consider the events to be in any way extraordinary. A man died in Rockham. We will know exactly what happened there only after the IPCC has completed its investigation. Our current concern is with the demonstration that followed. I would have been the first to defend it if it had been orderly. But it was not orderly.’ A pause.

‘Slow it down.’

‘The police should have come down hard’ — he took care to separate each word from the one that followed. ‘If they had, they would have contained the situation.’

‘But the cuts?’

‘You asked a two-part question; allow me the opportunity to address the second part.’ Peter looked to the place where a camera would be. ‘We came into office promising no further cuts in front-line services, and we have kept this promise.’ His words came out smoothly, leaving him free to concentrate on preventing the tell of his boredom — that slight twitching of his left eyelid, which Patricia would be sure to pounce on — from displaying itself. ‘It is true that we have encouraged the outsourcing of clerical work, custody arrangements and the transfer and care of prisoners, but this is so as to streamline the service and free up police officers to carry out the jobs for which they were trained. And as well… he took a deep breath, about to deliver that quick one-two of falling crime stats that always did the job, but he was distracted by the sight of the Minister for Work and Pensions holding forth on the real news on the television behind Patricia. ‘Save us,’ he said. Despite that the sound was off, Work and Pensions’ wild gaze told him that his Cabinet colleague, an incompetent bore at the best of times, was making a complete hash of the interview.

‘You were saying?’

He straightened up. ‘And as well,’ he said, but then he slumped back down, ‘and blah, bloody blah. I can do this bit in my sleep.’ Another glance at the screen: ‘Are you sure I shouldn’t have said yes to the six?’

‘Don’t worry. The six is just picking over yesterday’s events. Come dark, the trouble’s going to kick off again. Then everybody who isn’t out destroying stuff will be at home glued to their TVs. That’s why the ten — and they’re already planning to extend it — is the right slot for you.’

6.30 p.m.

‘Come.’ Joshua Yares looked up from the memo he was drafting.

‘The file you requested, sir.’

He laid down his pen. ‘What took so long?’

‘It had been mislabelled, sir, and sent mistakenly for destruction. We only just saved it.’

Destruction? What the hell was going on? ‘Thank you, sergeant. Put it over there, will you.’ He pointed at the low table that stood beside the sofa at the other end of his office.

‘Anything else, sir?’

‘No, thank you. That will be all.’ Joshua got up and instead of immediately going over to the table, he went to stand by the window. He stretched his arms up high above his head, afterwards dropping them and moving his head round in circles, hearing how his neck creaked, granulated knots audibly resisting his attempt to ease the stiffness from his shoulders. He straightened up. He could see the dark water of a waning Thames, and beyond the river the pods of the London Eye through the milky white of an early summer sky. From the cool of his air-conditioned office, it was hard to imagine just how unpleasant it was out there. But he knew that it was and that it was going to get even more unpleasant once the disorder that BBM and the Twitter-sphere were planning exploded. He turned away from the window and went over to the sofa.

He reached for the folder that the sergeant had laid on the table. On the cover was a name: Julius Jibola. He opened the file to a picture of a man who stared, unsmiling, at the camera. Another page turned and, sighing, he began to read.

7.30 p.m.

One more politician on the TV banging on about feral youth and feckless fathers and Cathy was going to scream. She switched the TV off.

What to do now?

The radiator was on full blast and the room, despite every window being wide open, was as hot as an oven. She downed another glass of tepid water.

Lyndall had at last emerged — driven, no doubt, by hunger. She had gone into the kitchen, presumably to fix herself something to eat (Cathy didn’t dare go in with her), and then, seeing the mess, must have stayed, by the sounds of the clattering, to clear it up.

The heat was too much to bear.

And it wasn’t just the heat.

The clattering had turned into actual banging. Okay, Lyndall was prone to melodrama, but this was going way over the top. Couldn’t just be that she was missing Jayden, could it?

Only way to find out was ask, but at this moment Cathy did not have the strength. She clicked on the television. Saw Banji with his Molotov. Turned the television off. Thought, is this how it’s always going to be? Punished my whole life for something I did when I was too young to know any better?

From the pocket of her skirt she took out the crumpled pack of Marlboros she’d found nestling at the back of one of the kitchen cupboards.

She’d given up years ago, soon after they’d moved into the Lovelace and after she’d caught the three-year-old Lyndall pretending to smoke. She must have hidden this pack with its one remaining cigarette then. Just in case. Now the sight of it drove her from her seat and out.

A blast of heat, underscored by pollution, and while dusk had not yet properly taken over, the sky was a strange brackish colour. It was so hot, the estate was weighed down by lassitude despite all the open doors, with the only closed one being, as ever, Jayden’s mother’s.

Cathy took the lone fag out of its pack, as well the box of matches she’d also stashed away. She stared at them. Longingly. Thought, why not? Reminded herself about the agony of giving up. But then another voice: one can’t do any harm. She would reward herself, she decided, after bearding Elsie’s lair.

She made her way over to knock at Elsie’s door. No answer. She knocked again — and again — standing there long enough to confirm her suspicion that Elsie was never going to open up.

Mission if not accomplished then at least attempted. She could indulge herself. Not outside her own flat, however.

She stepped over to the wall by Elsie’s flat. Put the cigarette in her mouth. Felt the unfamiliarity of it. The guilt. And the excitement. Lit a match. Brought it up to her mouth, her hand hovering, but before she touched the match to the cigarette she was distracted by the sight of a score of police, all in riot gear, who were standing around the entrance to the community centre.

They’d already set aside the tributes to Ruben, piling the flowers and cards and teddy bears into one messy heap some feet away. Now one of their number who was close to the door and holding something red pulled back both arms before thrusting them forward and against the door. There was a bang followed by a series of other bangs as he used what she now realised must be a battering ram to break the door down. And he wasn’t the only one: another policeman began pounding at the bricks that blocked access to the vacant building next door.

Ouch — she dropped the match as it burnt her finger. And saw she wasn’t the only one to be watching. All over the Lovelace, lethargy was transmuted into action, with people hurrying down the gangways.

The door to the community centre caved in almost at the same time as the bricked-up building was breached. Police surged through both openings as the first of the Lovelace residents appeared at ground level. Leading the charge was a young man who, fists raised, dreadlocks flying, was running at the police. A helicopter was buzzing low. So low Cathy thought it might be going to land inside the Lovelace. And then she saw something else: more policemen, ranks and ranks of them, who must have been waiting around both corners and who now snaked in from either end, blue helmets glinting as they converged in a pincer movement. The helicopter lifted up to pass through the murky sky before beginning its circled return just as a boot shot out in front of the running man and tripped him up. He flew forward, sprawling down. Which is all they saw of him for a while, as a clutch of policemen had soon surrounded him while the rest formed a line, waiting for the next of the Lovelace runners.

7.45 p.m.

As Joshua made his way towards the control room, he heard the sounds of a commotion. He quickened his pace. Other officers, in uniform and plain clothes, and clerks were already crowding the doorway.

They were so busy trying to see what was going on, they didn’t register his approach. He took hold of the shoulders of the two at the rear and hauled them backwards. That made a space big enough for him to pass through, which widened when the others saw that it was him.

‘Ah, there you are, sir.’ This from Anil Chahda. ‘I was just coming to fetch you. There’s been another flare-up in Rockham.’

The biggest screen in the room was running a loop that must have been taken from one of the Air Support Units. A huge concentration of riot officers, who by their helmets’ MP codes 01 and 02 were members of the Met, had formed a double line, while a further line was advancing, batons flailing, to push a crowd away. No need to ask where and when: someone had punched that information onto the screen.

A near riot — this one before night had even fallen. ‘Is it still ongoing?’

‘No, sir. They managed to disperse the crowd.’

Thank Christ for that. ‘How did it start?’

‘We thought our suspect might be hiding in the community centre. When our officers tried to gain access, the crowd reacted. We had to send in reinforcements.’

‘Why didn’t they use a key?’

‘They didn’t have one, sir. The IPCC has one but they failed to return our calls. The only other person known to possess one was a Lovelace resident, name of Marcus Garcant, known to us. On being asked to produce the key, he swallowed it. We have him in custody. But it was the judgement of the officer on the ground that she couldn’t waste further time by waiting for the key to come out the other end.’

Marcus Garcant: he’d read that name. Community leader. Anti-police but well loved in Rockham. Was Chahda trying to provoke more trouble? ‘What have you charged Garcant with?’

‘We’re holding him under suspicion of riotous assembly.’

‘Any evidence of that?’

‘Not so far, sir. But reports are that Garcant was everywhere on the first night. We’ve got a lot of CCTV footage to get through. We’ll find him on it eventually.’

‘Release him.’

A flaring in Chahda’s eyes. Was he going to refuse?

Bring it on, Joshua thought, bring it on. ‘And get somebody to apologise for the inconvenience.’

‘If you say so, sir,’ came Chahda’s reply.

‘I do say so. They’re angry enough in Rockham without us picking on their leaders.’

They were looping the same footage, so when he looked over Chahda’s head, he was in time to see again the flash of light against the dipping score of police helmets. The loop seemed to be passing at double speed; soon he saw that raising of police arms. ‘Did we at least find our man?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

So the people of Rockham, who already had a grievance against the police, had witnessed such heavy-handed tactics and all with no result.

‘What’s the latest intel on the availability of guns in the area?’

‘A small group of gang leaders are known to carry them, sir. We’ve picked them up as a precaution.’

More doors kicked in. In this case necessary, but still: ‘We’re going to have to pour full resources into the Lovelace tonight,’ which meant that the rest of London would then be starved of them. ‘Contact the TFC with a view to having some armed officers in reserve. Just in case.’

‘Already set in motion, sir.’

There was something menacing in this man despite his efficiency.

As soon as this emergency was over, Joshua was going to seriously consider getting rid of him. ‘If this latest hits the Twitter-sphere, we’ll be in for a rocky night. Issue an order city-wide and make sure it is properly distributed. Our aim is, and must be, to contain the trouble and not to stoke it up. No water cannon, no tear gas. Not without my express permission.’

‘Yes, sir. Anything else?’

‘Not at this moment. The Home Secretary asked to be kept in touch with developments. I’ll ring and let him know about this.’

And after that, he thought, I had better go and see a man about a Molotov.

8 p.m.

‘I see, Commissioner.’ Peter glanced at Patricia, who was listening on another receiver and writing down every word. ‘What happened to provoke it?’

As Commissioner Yares tediously went into the details behind this latest Rockham flare-up, Peter heard his mobile ringing. It was Frances’s ringtone.

She had, he now remembered, previously called the office and asked that he call her back. ‘Get that, will you,’ he mouthed at Patricia, who, bless her, stretched out for his mobile and spoke softly into it while continuing to note down what Joshua Yares was saying. Which at long last came to an end.

‘Thank you for keeping me informed, Commissioner. I trust your news, when we next speak, will be more positive.’ Peter hung up. ‘The man’s a peacock. All that glamour display of his about policing by consent just hides that he is too lily-livered to stop trouble in its tracks. And now his men provoke a riot before it’s even dark — and all for no reason that I can comprehend. He yawned and thought, if he had his way, Yares would soon be gone. ‘What did Frances want?’

‘All she would say was that it was urgent and that you need to come home.’

Could something have happened to Charlie? ‘You sure she didn’t say anything else?’

‘Only that you should come home.’

Couldn’t be Charlie, then.

‘Do you want me to call her and tell her when you’ll be able to?’

‘Yes.’ And then, ‘No. On second thoughts, I better make the call myself. Hand me my mobile, will you?’

She gave it to him and, saying ‘I’ll fetch some more ice’, left the room.

For which he was grateful, it being easier to talk to Frances when he was on his own.

He dialled her phone. Engaged. He tried the home number. It rang and rang but nobody picked up. She must be busy on the mobile.

He’d try again in a few minutes; in the meantime, preparing for the impending interview had taken so much time, he now had an enormous amount to get through.

8.50 p.m.

The estate was quiet. Much quieter than she had ever heard it, especially so early in the night. Not that it was empty. If she stood on the balcony and looked down, she could see, through the fading light, knots of people gathered all around.

They weren’t Lovelace residents; they were the police.

A group of them were guarding the community centre: as if it was the people of Rockham, rather than their own colleagues, who had broken into it. Another group was watching as a workman bricked up the building next door. And there were more as well, strolling about, not in the usual twos but in groups of five or six. Which didn’t count the ones who were sitting, she’d heard, in the vans around the corner. Waiting. For something that, by the sounds of a burst of laughter that reached her ears, they might quite enjoy.

9 p.m.

Head down, knowing that it would soon be time to leave, Peter kept ploughing through his piles of paperwork.

He had tried Frances three or four times, but each time it had gone straight to answerphone. Couldn’t be that urgent or else she would have found a way to get in touch. When she switched her phone back on, she would see how many times he’d tried to reach her. Still, a vague worry lurked, and it prompted him to bring to the surface other odd things he’d recently observed. The way he’d caught her frowning, for example, just the other morning, when she thought he wasn’t looking, or the uncharacteristic recent lapses in her concentration. Not like her — she was usually so on the ball.

She couldn’t know, could she?

No, of course she couldn’t. Of course she didn’t.

He picked up the mobile and tried again. Again without result.

Time for him to go and do the first of what would probably turn out to be a round of interviews. He packed papers into his box — he’d have to read them in the car — and yawned. He wasn’t tired; he was nervous. Not about speaking to the press per se, but for this one interview that might turn out to be the most important of his life. He yawned again.

His mobile vibrated. A text.

From Frances and it read: ‘Come home.’

He dialled her mobile.

Straight to answerphone. Odd.

Another buzz. Another text: ‘Come home.’

What was she playing at?

He texted — he hated the form, made him feel so clumsy: ‘Am on the ten. See you after.’

To which he got an immediate response: ‘Come home. Now. Or else.’

9.25 p.m.

Or else what, he wondered, as they drew up outside the house.

‘Wait here,’ he said to Patricia. ‘I won’t be long.’

She nodded. ‘You’re all right. We can reach the studio in fifteen.’

Fifteen minutes should do it. Whatever it was. He stepped out of the car and stood a moment, looking around.

Night had finally covered an outlandish dusk, and now his street was dark and quiet, with only an occasional glimmer of light peaking through drawn curtains. As he walked towards his house, the shadows of trees loomed large. Despite an absence of wind, they seemed to be leaning in on him. Something not right: he could feel it. He looked at his house. It was dark.

As soon as he slipped his key into the lock, Patsy started barking and when he opened up, she kept on. ‘Out of my way.’ He pushed her with his foot. This stopped her noise, although she persisted in sniffing at him as if he were a stranger. He called out, ‘Darling?’

No answer. He clicked on the hall light.

The door to the living room was open. He switched on the light. The room, he saw, was empty. Perhaps the snug? He walked to the end of the hall and opened the door to her snug: ‘Darling?’ It too was quiet and dark. Through the window he could see the outline of unmoving shrubs. She wasn’t in the garden. Not that he could see.

Upstairs then. He mounted the stairs. ‘Hello? Frances? Where have you got to, darling?’

She wasn’t in the bedroom. Or in any of the other rooms. She couldn’t have gone out: if she had, one of their guards would have mentioned it. He had switched on every light he passed so that the house was now ablaze. He glanced at his watch. Seven minutes gone.

The only room he hadn’t tried was the kitchen, because he had seen that it, too, was dark. Now he made his way back downstairs. She wasn’t in the kitchen — of course she wasn’t — but the door to the garden was open. He moved, in darkness, only to trip over something that turned out to be the dog. It yelped and got up. He could see its baleful yellow eyes staring up at him. ‘Why are you always in the way?’

‘She’s only ever in your way. She doesn’t like you.’

He whirled round to find Frances seated at the table.

‘What are you doing in the dark?’

‘Thinking.’ She sounded eerily calm.

‘You didn’t fancy the garden?’

‘It’s no cooler there. And the air stinks of pollution.’

Something in her tone. ‘Are you all right, darling?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I’m due to be interviewed on the ten,’ he said. ‘In fact,’ a quick glance at his watch, ‘I need to go.’

‘If that’s what you want to do, then go.’ She sounded sweet. As sweet as toothache. ‘But if you do,’ she said, ‘don’t bother coming back.’

She knows, he thought. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘About?’ Not only calm but almost serene as she picked up her phone and held it up. ‘It’s about this.’

She made no move to bring it to him, so, heart hammering, he went to her. When he took the phone, his fingers brushed hers. After she let go, he saw her wipe those fingers down her skirt. She does know, he thought. He glanced at the phone.

He was looking at a photo of him and Patricia.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘It was texted to my phone. Number Unknown. Signed “A Friend”. Clearly no friend of yours.’

He looked again. They were only standing together on a pavement. Side by side, yes, but they could have been talking business. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘And?’

‘Scroll on.’

More of them, then. He swiped across the screen. It went black. ‘It’s gone.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Peter.’ She snatched the phone back. ‘Can’t you do anything for yourself?’ She pushed a few buttons and then, without yielding it to him, began to swipe through a series of photographs.

It was like watching his own execution, these pictures flicking past at Frances’s command. He saw him and Patricia laughing. Him and Patricia, arms swinging as they walked through an entrance. The back of him and Patricia, his arm now going up as if to put it round her. The two of them standing close, his arm around hers as he said something in her ear.

He couldn’t breathe. But had to.

He breathed.

He had imagined this, of course he had, but this was nothing like he had imagined it would be. That had involved his telling one or the other that it was over. When he had made up his mind. This fright was something other. A frozen thing that kept him from figuring out what he was going to say.

Buy time, he told himself, buy time. ‘What is it that you think is going on here?’ Wondering, could she have more? More intimate than this?

‘What I know is going on here,’ Frances scrolled back to the first of the photos, ‘is…’ she separated her fingers to magnify the first of the images before moving it down so he could see the name of the hotel that he and Patricia had last been in ‘… you and your mistress strolling side by side into a posh fuck-pad.’

The swear word was so out of place, coming as it did from her genteel mouth, he almost smiled. ‘She’s not my mistress.’ If she had more incriminating photos, she would surely have said so. ‘And it’s not a fuck-pad. It’s a respectable hotel.’

‘You haven’t forgotten, have you, Peter darling, that my father made me an expert at this sort of thing?’

She wasn’t calm, he realised; she was enraged. He could feel it radiating off her as heat.

Her fury that theoretically should frighten him was having the opposite effect of making her seem strangely attractive. He pushed that to one side to say, ‘I am not your father. And, yes, as you can see, we were walking into a hotel. And, yes, we were discussing something confidential. No reason to leap to a filthy conclusion.’

‘Just discussing? So where are your bodyguards?’

Not the time to tell her how splendid she looked. But he had to say something. Lie, he told himself, while sticking closely to the truth. Or at least as close to the truth as was possible. ‘If you must know,’ he said, ‘I was meeting Chahda.’

‘Who?’

‘Anil Chahda. Deputy Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service. I was trying to get him to dish the dirt on his boss. That’s why I asked my protective officers to stay back. Couldn’t have them knowing what I was up to.’

She blinked. A chink in her composure. He must capitalise on it.

‘I’m convinced that the PM’s great saint of a Commissioner has been a naughty boy,’ he said. ‘And that Chahda’s on the brink of spilling the beans.’

At which point, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry, the doorbell rang.

He glanced at his watch. Shit. It would soon be ten. ‘I’m sorry, darling.’ The news would just have to push him back. ‘I must go and tell them…’ he was already on his way, striding down the corridor and wrenching open the door.

Patricia. It would be her, wouldn’t it? Coming to get him. When he had expressly instructed her to wait for him in the car.

‘I’m busy,’ he said.

‘We just got a message from Number 10. The PM’s back. And he’s going to do the news.’

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.’