Ten Days

STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL

Submission to the internal inquiry of the Metropolitan Police into Operation Bedrock pertaining to the Rockham disturbances and related matters

Submission OB/MPS/CC/28

To: The Office of the Inquiry into Operation Bedrock

From: The Office of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service

The chairman of the inquiry into Operation Bedrock requested the minutes of a meeting concerning DC Julius Jibola that took place at the Office of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police on

On investigation, no minutes were found, nor any summary of the discussion. Both the then Commissioner and the then Deputy Commissioner have confirmed that there was no minute-taker present.

On further investigation, the diaries of both men confirmed the meeting as having commenced at 7 a.m. The logbook of the staff of the Commissioner recorded those present as:

Metropolitan Police Commissioner Joshua Yares, chairing.

Deputy Commissioner Anil Chahda, also present as Acting Head of SO15.

Detective Chief Inspector Derek Blackstone, in command of the formerly named National Domestic Extremism and Disorder Intelligence Unit, NDEDIU.

Chief Superintendent Gaby Wright, acting officer in command of Rockham.

There are no available notes from any of the participants on the discussion points of the meeting.

7.05 a.m.

CS Gaby Wright was on her feet in front of a screen and now, at a nod from Joshua, she clicked the mouse to produce a blurred black and white image. ‘This is the reception room of the Rockham nick, two days ago at 13.55. This,’ she pointed at the screen, ‘is the man we now know to be DC Julius Jibola.’ Another click and the man began moving towards a glassed-in desk. He was clearly speaking, although the picture was mute.

‘Turn the sound on.’

‘I can’t.’ A quick curt smile. ‘The recording facilities malfunctioned and with the station besieged it wasn’t safe to bring in anybody to fix the problem. We have picture but no sound.’

The man’s mouth was open, his hands moving in wild gesticulations.

‘Did the desk sergeant at least take down what he was saying?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir. The station was hard-pressed with people either reporting damage to property or enquiring about missing relatives. All other active officers being out on patrol, or guarding the exterior of the station, the desk sergeant had little support.’ She pointed at the screen where the man, still talking, had stopped some feet away from the desk. ‘Jibola anyway never reached the desk.’

‘He looks angry.’

‘Angry and also, according to the desk sergeant, largely incoherent. From drink, the sergeant assumed. He was raving about a murder, which my sergeant only later pieced together must have been a reference to the unfortunate death in the Lovelace community centre. As you can see,’ the pointer indicated a line of people, ‘there was a queue. When Jibola was told he’d have to wait his turn, he threatened to access the interior of the station by barging through the security doors. The sergeant said that in that case he would have Jibola arrested. Jibola’s response was to exit the police station.’ She fast-forwarded to the man turning and walking out. ‘Assuming he was just another drunk, and with no support, the desk sergeant let him go. He was later caught on CCTV heading south-west away from Rockham High Street.’

‘Hold on a minute.’ It was all Joshua could do not to let his jaw rest where it had dropped. ‘Are you telling me that one of our own entered your station with the intention of reporting an incident in which your officers had been involved, an incident that ended in the death of a member of the public, and your desk sergeant failed either to take a statement or refer him to you?’

‘Unfortunate, I grant you.’ Another one of those quick smiles.

‘Unfortunate?’ He was going to wipe that smile off her face. Preferably after he’d ripped the insignia from her neatly turned-out uniform. ‘It’s not unfortunate; it’s disastrous. Especially when we know that DC Jibola was telling the truth about having been at the community centre. And this we know because, as you have just informed us, he was handcuffed after remonstrating with your officers, before being let go with a caution. But when he comes into your station with the clear intention of reporting what he saw, your desk sergeant first ignores him and then threatens him with arrest.’

What a catalogue of incompetence, and all in his first week.

‘It beggars belief.’

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Chahda leaning forward as if about to leap to Gaby Wright’s defence. Do it, he thought, I dare you. And then I’ll have you, too.

‘Do you have any idea what this is going to look like if it gets out?’

‘I know what it looks like, sir.’ An unruffled Gaby Wright now demonstrated how capable she was of defending herself. ‘But it isn’t like that. There was no earthly way that the desk sergeant, a capable and experienced officer, could have guessed that a man he had never met, or heard about, and who was behaving in an erratic and threatening manner, was one of ours. If he had known, he would have acted differently. But he didn’t know. None of us did.’ Another of those humourless smiles.

‘Okay.’ Joshua breathed in and on the out-breath said, ‘Let’s move on. How close are you to finding Jibola?’

‘We’ve got nothing concrete, sir, at least thus far. We searched the rooms he was renting. They were bare: no trace that he’d ever even been there. We’re continuing to search the Lovelace, and we’re also doing a sweep of the empty buildings by the canal. If we don’t find him in any of these locations, we may have to conclude that he has left Rockham.’

Thus shifting the problem off her patch. Joshua glanced down at Jibola’s file. ‘This woman,’ pointing at a photograph, ‘Cathy Mason. Might she know where he is?’

‘I talked to her at some length, sir, and I don’t think that she does. She’s a credible witness who said that DC Jibola, who she knows only as Banji, had recently turned nasty. Apparently he hit her. She was so upset she burnt everything she’d ever had from him. He appears to have successfully hidden his true identity and his position as a police officer — she still thinks he’s a van driver. She never visited his rooms and didn’t know where they were.’

‘A Molotov-throwing undercover agent who manages to maintain cover. Wonders will never cease.’

‘If you say so, sir.’ Another quick tweak up of those red lips. ‘But while I believe Mrs Mason to have been telling the truth, and that Jibola has successfully kept her in the dark, I suspect her daughter, Lyndall, of knowing something. Perhaps even Jibola’s whereabouts. Take a look at this.’

Another click of her mouse, another black and white image. ‘This was captured yesterday at 10.51 a.m. by fixed CCTV camera 4947, which is on the southernmost corner of Rockham High Street at the intersection with Berkshire Road. This,’ she set the picture moving and pointed at a young woman walking away from the camera, ‘we believe to be Lyndall Mason. She progressed along Rockham High Street to be captured on CCTV here,’ she fast-forwarded before pausing the footage, ‘here,’ and then again, ‘here. As you can see, in two of these three moments she is looking around, which could indicate that she is checking to see that she is not being followed.’ She set the images rolling again. ‘At 11.03, Lyndall Mason was caught on CCTV turning the corner here,’ another click, ‘into Pringle’s Yard, a dead end with no operational surveillance cameras.’

‘DC Jibola would have had good knowledge of any visual black spots in the area.’ This from Anil Chahda.

‘We assume so. And now if I fast-forward,’ another series of rapid mouse movements brought up a succession of CCTV photographs, ‘these were taken by the same camera at the intersection of Pringle’s Yard and Rockham High Street over a period of thirty minutes. You will see from the timeline that runs under them that Lyndall Mason did not come out of Pringle’s Yard. The first CCTV re-sighting of her was over forty-three minutes later, here,’ a still of the figure walking towards the camera, ‘on Rockham High Street at 11.47, shortly before she arrived back in the Lovelace, where I was speaking with her mother. Scrutiny of CCTV cameras in the area yielded no further information on her route. She must have circled round to the High Street avoiding all the cameras.’

‘So what was she up to?’

‘That’s what we wanted to know, and so early this morning,’ she closed down the screen and replaced it with another on which was a fresh picture of the deserted dead end, ‘I sent an officer to examine Pringle’s Yard. As you can see, one end of the yard, here, appears to be blocked by a substantial fence. On closer examination, however, my officer detected an unevenness in the fence poles.’ She tapped her laptop and the image was magnified. ‘This pole, here, has been worked free of its top mooring. It can be pushed aside to create a space wide enough for a slim figure to squeeze through. We can’t prove that this is what Lyndall Mason did, but there is one further piece of available evidence,’ another click, which brought up an aerial photograph of what looked like wasteland, bordered in the distance by a canal. ‘This was captured by India 95 during routine surveillance. It shows the area beyond Pringle’s Yard. We think that this,’ she pointed at the screen, at a distant dot which, when she enlarged it, might have been a person, ‘is Lyndall Mason. The times fit. And if you look at her right-hand side, you will see that this young woman appears to be carrying something, just as Lyndall Mason was.’ More clicks and they were back to the CCTV where a plastic carrier bag was hooked over the girl’s right arm. ‘If it is Lyndall Mason, she was heading for the canal. This is why we’ve expanded our search to include the buildings, some of them abandoned, that line its banks.’

‘Why don’t you just ask the girl where she went?’ This from Chahda, a question that earned him a quick glance that looked close to a rebuke, and when Gaby Wright said, ‘I did start to question her,’ her smile was undeniably chilly, ‘but her mother would not allow me to continue. Lyndall Mason is a minor. Given DC Jibola’s relationship with Mrs Mason, I thought it better not to push it. Not until I had taken advice.’

DCI Blackstone, a big man and overweight, who’d been slumped back in his chair as if none of this had anything to do with him, now sat bolt upright. ‘It’s not possible, is it, that DC Jibola is Lyndall Mason’s father?’

‘It is possible, yes. The dates of the first liaison between Cathy Mason and DC Jibola make it so. But when I asked Mrs Mason, she denied it.’

‘Thank fuck for small mercies.’

‘As an extra precaution, we obtained sight of Lyndall Mason’s birth certificate,’ Gaby Wright said. ‘The mother is given as Cathy Mason. There is no mention of any father. But I still think the girl knows something.’

‘Then pull her in.’ Again roughly from Anil Chahda, which earned him another sharp look.

Gaby Wright kept her eyes focused on Joshua rather than his deputy. ‘Can do, sir. If you think that’s what I should do?’

‘Hmm.’ Hers was a careful move that made him responsible for any mistake. ‘Leave the girl alone,’ he said. ‘At least for the time being,’ ignoring Chahda’s grimace to get to his feet. ‘Thank you, CS Wright. You must be anxious to get back to your beat. Let me show you to the lift.’ And then to the two men: ‘Wait here for me, will you?’

7.20 a.m.

Peter hefted the tray onto his wife’s bedside table. ‘Here you are, darling.’

Frances surveyed the orange juice he had freshly squeezed, the two boiled eggs (three and a half perfect minutes), the sourdough toast and a pot of tea — strong, as she liked it. ‘My, you have gone to town.’ She picked up the glass and took a tiny sip of juice before putting it back on the tray. ‘Pity I’m not that hungry.’

‘Thought you’d be ravenous.’

She broke off a bit of toast and fed it to the dog, which was lying beside her on the bed. ‘How so?’

‘Well, you know, after last night.’ As soon as he said it, he knew he shouldn’t have, this realisation confirmed by the onset of her deep frown.

Stupid of him. He must take it slower. Be more mindful of her feelings. She was bound to be bruised, if not by his behaviour — her performance in bed showed that she had believed him — then by the fact that someone had been malicious enough to send those pictures. He leant across to kiss her, lightly, on the lips. ‘Can I get you anything else, darling?’

‘No, thank you.’ A pause and then, ‘Did someone ring while you were downstairs?’

‘Yes.’ So she was still a bit suspicious. ‘The PM did. He wanted to thank me for being — how did he put it? — oh yes, a proficient caretaker while he’d been tied up in the negotiations. He said he was going to take over the chairing of COBRA and that I, of course, am welcome to attend.’ And then, seeing Frances laughing: ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Oh, you know.’ She patted the dog’s silky head.

‘Not sure that I do.’

‘I was just thinking that you politicians are a bit like dogs.’ She puckered her lips to bless the dog’s head with a kiss. ‘Especially of the male variety.’ Which she followed by more butterfly kisses. ‘Aren’t they, Patsy-watsy?’

‘Frances!’

Frances lifted her head. ‘The PM was leaving his scent on your patch.’

Something rather gleeful in the way she delivered this sentence. He almost called her on it but then, seeing her smile turn to a frown, and recognising this to be her thinking frown, he held his tongue. And held it some more as she continued to be lost in thought.

There followed an extended silence through which he could hear the tick of his bedside alarm and the soft snuffling of the dog, who settled herself in Frances’s lap and went back to sleep.

Tick, tick.

He looked down at his bare feet.

Thought, soon time to cut my toenails again.

He looked up again and at his wife. The straps of her cream negligee had slipped off one shoulder to expose that paler cream of her breast.

Tick, tick.

He contemplated stretching out to slip the strap off the other shoulder, but he knew better than to dare, especially when she was thinking.

Tick, tick.

And then, at long last, her gaze came back into focus.

‘The PM thinks,’ she said, ‘or at least wants you to think, that it’s still all to play for. We know he’s a weak leader at the best of times, and that these aren’t the best of times. He’s likely to handle the situation badly. But if by some miracle the riots help rather than harm him, you’re going to have to up your game. You’ve not got much time left: the Party will never countenance a new leader too close to the election. We need a plan of attack.’ She hiked the strap of her negligee into place. ‘You’ve already gone a long way to convincing the public that police failures helped stoke the disturbances. Your best bet is to continue to hit the PM’s Commissioner. Chahda’s the key: by promising him the top job, you’ve got him on side. But it’s not enough for him to hint that he has the ammunition to topple Yares. You need to find out what it is.’

‘He’s so cautious. He told us about the misconduct of the Rockham police, but that’s a matter of record. I bet there’s something else — I know there is. What I don’t know is how I am ever going to get him to spill the beans.’

‘Well,’ she shrugged, ‘either you’ve got to be more persuasive. Or’ — a beat — ‘you will have to trap him into telling you what he knows.’

‘Trap him? How?’

‘He has a reputation as a lady’s man. Why not exploit that?’ Another drawn-out pause and then, ‘Patricia’s charming, isn’t she? And from what I’ve seen of her, I reckon she’s game. Why not set her on Chahda?’

7.35 a.m.

As Joshua opened the door, the two men’s heads sprang apart.

Probably getting their story right, he thought, and said, ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting. I had to take a call from Number 10.’ He went to join them at the table. ‘The PM has now had time to consider his response. In light of the likely danger to DC Jibola’s person should it be made public that he is a serving police officer, the Prime Minister has agreed, reluctantly, to keep the information under wraps. No one else is to be told, at least until we locate Jibola and find out what the hell he’s up to.’ He opened up Jibola’s file. ‘What was he doing in Rockham anyway? It doesn’t say.’

‘That’s a bit of a puzzle, sir.’ As big as he was, DCI Blackstone gave every appearance of wanting to dissolve into the wood of the conference table.

‘Which I need you to untangle. Now, if you wouldn’t mind.’

‘I’ll do my best, sir.’ Blackstone took in a deep breath, sucking in his stomach. ‘As you know, Jibola’s file had been mistakenly put in the pile for destruction. As soon as we rescued it, I followed the thread of his Rockham-related history. It appears that the former commander in charge of Rockham, CS Wright’s predecessor, requested assistance with a particularly violent gang in north Rockham a couple of months ago. Jibola was seconded to this task. It was a short operation at the conclusion of which Jibola would normally have been posted elsewhere. But my predecessor, in consultation with MI5, decided that there was a case for further surveillance of the community in Rockham and specifically around the Lovelace.’ A deep breath in and then: ‘In light of the imminent demolition of the estate, several vacant units were given over by the council as temporary accommodation to new immigrants, many of whom originated in the Horn of Africa. It was my predecessor’s opinion that because of the hold that al-Queda-affiliated groups have in some of these countries, particularly Somalia, these newcomers warranted further scrutiny. DC Jibola was tasked, by my predecessor, with establishing himself in south Rockham and getting to know this community.’

‘I see.’ What he really saw was that, by emphasising Rockham’s previous Commander, and his own predecessor, Blackstone was making sure to slough off responsibility for what had happened. And he would get away with it because he was relatively new in the job and everybody knew that the last regime had overseen an absolute fuck-up in all departments but especially in his. Cleaning these particular stables was in fact a central part of Joshua’s brief — and the reason that the PM had championed him in preference to Anil Chahda — and it was clearly going to be difficult. After a decade of lethal exposures about the misdeeds of their undercover ops, SO15 had been buffeted by such a multiplicity of root-and-branch changes it was a wonder the tree was still standing. By the time the merry-go-round had slowed sufficiently to let anybody new on, none of the previous senior management had managed to keep their seats. Which meant a loss of institutional memory. And a lack of anyone to blame.

Anyone, Joshua thought, except me. He glanced over to his desk, where the photograph of him beside the Queen stood in pride of place. If this isn’t resolved and soon, he thought, I’ll be packing it up and taking it home again.

‘Did anybody keep an eye on Jibola? Anybody at all?’

‘One of our operators did,’ Blackstone said. ‘He was supposed to ring in at set times, and he did so until recently. But then he stopped. When his operator tried to reach him, she couldn’t. She tried to track his safe mobile, but it had gone off air. She assumed it was a system failure, a consequence of signal overload in Rockham due to the riots. If she’d been a trained officer, she might have raised the alarm earlier, but you know we have had to outsource technical jobs. We just don’t have the quality of staff any more.’

And, yes, it was true what Blackstone was saying, but it was also true, as the PM had said the other night, that they had to stop blaming their failures on the cuts. ‘You need do something about your scrutiny systems as a matter of urgency,’ he said. ‘But for the moment, let me sum up where we’ve got to.’ He held up his right fist. ‘One,’ raising his thumb, ‘one of your agents has gone rogue on British television. Two,’ his index finger joined the thumb, pointing at Blackstone as if he were about to shoot him, ‘having mislaid his file, you didn’t even know he was in Rockham. Three,’ he unfurled his middle finger, ‘you have no idea where he’s got to. Four,’ he let go of the fourth finger, ‘and five,’ and his little finger, ‘you don’t know why he did what he did, or what he’s planning to do next.’ Hearing himself laying it out so baldly made him realise that, never mind having to take the picture home, if this wasn’t resolved, he’d be the first Commissioner of the Met never to pick up a knighthood.

He bunched the fist again. ‘And there is the not insignificant matter of Jibola’s liaison with Cathy Mason waiting to blow up in our faces. How that could have been allowed is beyond my comprehension.’

‘The deployment of undercover is inherently risky.’ This from Chahda. ‘Under RIPA…’

‘Yes, Anil, thank you. Being familiar with the RIPA rules of engagement, I know all about the get-out clause of collateral intrusion. But the key word is ‘proportionality’. This particular intrusion happened twice and over many years, which is neither necessary nor proportionate. Jibola should have been kept miles away from the Masons, not sent, unsupervised, back to Cathy Mason’s bed.’

‘This was Jibola’s first mission in Rockham, sir,’ Blackstone said. ‘His meeting Mrs Mason must have either been an unfortunate coincidence or a manoeuvre by him.’

‘Is it not your job to ensure that such coincidences or manoeuvres cannot occur?’

‘Perhaps it is, sir, but the only way my predecessors could have known that Jibola had had a liaison with Cathy Mason is if he had informed them, which, it appears from the files, he did not.’

Joshua held up a hand to stop Blackstone from going on. ‘I’m glad you mentioned the files,’ he said, ‘because they bring us to another astonishing oversight. Jibola’s last meeting with a psychologist was more than two years ago. He should have been re-seen.’

‘It happens,’ DCI Blackstone said, ‘especially when an officer is in the field.’

‘Yes, it happens,’ Joshua said. ‘But it should not have happened to Jibola. The psychologist who last saw him said,’ he leafed through the folder until he found the page he was looking for, ‘and I quote: "Although DC Jibola does did not want to be reassigned to a regular beat, it is my opinion that the man is not psychologically equipped to withstand the stresses of undercover work. If it is not possible to remove him, careful and regular scrutiny of his state of mind is advised." Which,’ Joshua looked up, ‘never happened. And please don’t waste more of my time with tales of lost files and changing S015 command structures. It is your job to keep track of your files, just as it is your job to keep track of what your agents are up to.’ He closed the file with a bang. ‘CS Wright is doing her best to clear up this mess. If she needs more officers, give them to her. In the meantime, find out who in the force Jibola might have confided in. I suggest you start with his IC3 colleagues. Ask them what they know, but for God’s sake keep a lid on this.’ He pushed the file away in disgust. ‘Jibola was once married. Has it occurred to you that his former wife might know something?’

‘Should I interview her?’

‘Thank you, DCI Blackstone, but…’ thinking that he didn’t want to hear about the failure of any more surveillance cameras or of files going missing, ‘I’ll see to it myself. I’ll let you know what I find. Thank you, gentlemen.’

‘But, sir?’

‘Yes, Anil?’

‘What about the girl?’

‘What about her?’

‘Wright should be tasked to pick her up. Squeeze out what she knows.’

‘We can’t start detaining minors on fishing expeditions.’

‘From what I hear, police stations within a ten-mile radius of Rockham are overflowing with minors courtesy of Wright’s snatch squads.’

‘Wright is, if you forgive the pun, right. If the girl turns out to be Jibola’s daughter, detaining her could look vindictive. Leave her alone. Do not attempt to dig up any dirt either on her or on her mother. If a future FOI request ever exposes that we spent public money investigating something as innocuous as who Lyndall Mason fancies on her Facebook page, or how many people liked Cathy Mason’s tweeted cookery tips, heads will roll.’

9 a.m.

Heat blasted down, bouncing off the buildings, and especially any shiny surface, before rising back up from tarmac that these days had to be gritted to stop the roads from melting. Cathy fanned out her loose top, trying to cool herself but without result: the air was just too dry and too hot. But as she made her way round towards the front of the imposing Magistrates’ Court she felt a drop of water landing on the back of her neck. And another, this time on her head.

Rain: what a relief. She looked up. Only to find that the sky was the same cloudless blue as it had been for days. For weeks. For getting on a month now. She sighed. The water must have dropped out of the air-conditioning unit in the wall above her. She moved out of range and around the corner, weaving past knots of people congregating outside the court. She went up the steps and through the revolving doors into a grand wood-lined entrance hall that was also heaving with people.

A voice saying, ‘What are you?’ sounded in her ear. She turned to see a man in a blue guard’s uniform who, having sidled up to her, was waiting for her reply. When she didn’t give him one, he repeated the question, ‘What are you?’ adding, when she still did not respond: ‘Solicitor? Solicitor’s Clerk? Accused? Relative? Journalist? Sightseer?’

‘I’m looking for a probation officer I know.’

He grimaced. ‘Good luck with that. Probations’ rooms have been given over for solicitor interviews, so probation will be either in the holding cells, where you can’t go, or they’re in the magistrates’ chambers, ditto as before, or in court. Try the courts. Solicitors might be able to point you in the right direction.’ And then, as the revolving doors disgorged a fresh batch of newcomers: ‘Bag on the conveyor, through the security arch. Courts One and Two up the stairs and to the left. Three and Four, same thing but to the right. All in session. Have been for the last forty-six hours,’ he lifted a hand to wipe a brow beaded with sweat, ‘and counting.’

She put her bag on the conveyor and stepped through the security arch. On the other side, a security guard asked her to open the bag, subjecting it to a quick rummage before dismissing her. She was still zipping the bag up when he added, ‘Keep moving,’ underlining the instruction by waving her on.

‘Don’t block the way. Keep moving.’

She pushed through the crowd and up the stairs.

Both courts to the left were full, but when she crossed the landing and opened the door to Court Four no one stopped her from going in.

The room at least was cool. And quiet save for the burbling air conditioner that was undercut by quiet sobs. She stood a moment, getting her bearings. She saw two young men seated in the wood-enclosed dock, both with their heads bowed. To the side and slightly in front of them was a raised table backed by the same dark wood panelling that lined the rest of the courtroom. Behind this table were three people locked in muted conversation. On a desk in front of them, and also facing into the room, was a lone man: must be the clerk of the court. Then there were a couple more tables, for lawyers she presumed — she’d have had to cross a rope to reach them — and after those, benches that must be for the public.

There was only one unoccupied seat in the public section. To reach it, Cathy had to push past the weeping woman. She sat down hurriedly beside her as the magistrate in the middle of the three turned to address the men in the dock.

‘Hodan Sharif and Steven Chapman, you have pleaded guilty to burglary and handling stolen goods.’ The magistrate looked across at the men, one of whom was gripping the wooden rail so tightly that the stretched skin of his knuckles was almost white. ‘In deciding your sentences, we have given full credit for these guilty pleas and we have taken reports as to your circumstances into account. But, in reaching our decision, we have also paid heed to His Honour Judge George Mullholland’s recent guidance when he said that in the face of civil disorder, the judiciary’s job is to pass sentence on behalf of a justifiably terrified public. It is for this reason that, although we recognise the part that rehabilitation plays in any sentence, we have in your case placed emphasis on the need to punish and thus deter others from committing similar offences. Please rise.’

As the two got to their feet, the woman sobbed louder.

‘Hodan Sharif,’ the magistrate continued, ‘you have pleaded guilty to the charge of handling stolen goods. Although you weren’t amongst those who broke into the Carphone Warehouse, you said that as you were passing the premises one of the looters handed you two cases for the iPhone8 worth £34.99 each and asked you to keep them for him. You said that you took the cases as a favour and that you planned to hand them back later. When you were arrested, the cases were still in your possession. You are of good character, having no record of any previous offence. Yours is a tragic case in that your father is recently deceased and you have become the breadwinner for your mother and younger brother.’

The woman beside Cathy began to wail.

‘In any other circumstance,’ the magistrate raised her voice, ‘you might have been eligible for a non-custodial sentence. But because you went, voluntarily, to the scene of great disorder and participated in a manner in which no law-abiding citizen would have, we hereby sentence you to six months’ imprisonment.’ And then, looking straight at the wailing woman, ‘Madam, please.’

The woman was so lost in her grief that she didn’t seem to register that the magistrate was addressing her.

‘I can see how distressed you are,’ the magistrate said. ‘But you need to leave this court. If you don’t, I will have to ask the usher to remove you.’

When the woman continued to wail, Cathy leant over to say into her ear, ‘If you don’t go, they’ll drag you out.’

At which the woman seemed suddenly to snap to. She got up, pushed through to the end of the row and made her way to the door. There was an agonising silence, everybody watching while pretending not to.

When she got to the door, she stopped. She turned, slowly, to look at the dock. Tears to match hers were streaming silently down a face that was quite clearly her son’s. The woman shook her head and left.

‘Steven Chapman,’ the magistrate said, ‘you have been found guilty of the burglary of six mobile phones, an Android tablet, batteries, chargers and a USB cable to the value of £940. Your probation report indicates that your life has also not been without difficulty, and this has led you into crime. According to the report, you have recently shown a willingness to turn your life to better purpose by volunteering in a day facility for learning-disabled adults, something which we applaud. You have four previous convictions, three of which are more than five years old, so we will not consider them. Your latest conviction, however, was only two months ago when you were arrested for travelling on a bus without having paid the fare, a sign of your continuing refusal to obey the laws of the land. Given the seriousness of your offence, your previous convictions and the constraint on this court that prevents us from imposing sentences longer than six months, we are referring you up to the Crown Court for sentencing. You are remanded in custody until such time as a judge can consider your case.’

As the policeman behind the dock began to lead the two away, the magistrate glanced at her watch. ‘We have been sitting since 5 a.m. This court is now adjourned. We’ll resume at 11.15 a.m.’

9.30 a.m.

Patricia looked scrumptious, Peter thought. Like a sunbeam in her short orange skirt, a pair of strapped yellow sandals and a yellow top over which she had layered some kind of off-white chiffony affair. Watching her sashay over, he felt the regret of having to end it with her, even as he knew that this is what he had to do.

Not here, though. Not in the office. And not now either.

Soon.

She said, ‘Sorry to bother you, Home Secretary,’ his PPS being in the room, ‘but the Home Affairs Select Committee has requested your presence this afternoon.’

‘For what?’

‘They want to ask you about a solvent factory. I assume it bears some relationship to your time in Environment.’

Solvent factory: it rang no bell other than as a recent potential flashpoint in Rockham. But then Environment, his first step up the ministerial ladder before his meteoric rise, was political pre-history as far as he was concerned.

‘I’ve called up the files so we can work out what it’s about but, if you’d rather, I can tell them that you’re tied up and will speak with them at a later date.’

He nodded. No reason for him to jump when the pompous arse of the select committee cracked the whip. ‘What time are they sitting?’ He glanced down at the list of his day’s appointments.

‘Two to four.’

Which, Patricia would also know, was scheduled for discussions with her. And there were things to talk about. As well as…

No. He must not think of that. He had made up his mind. It was over. Or would be when he told her.

‘What should I tell them?’

Such short notice: he could easily cry off. But hold on a moment. Think hard. Even though he normally would have excused himself, he had to keep in mind that these were not normal times. He needed to demonstrate how cooperative he was. And he needed to be seen.

Should he phone Frances, he wondered, and ask her opinion — something that he would normally do.

The thought of lifting the phone and speaking to her seemed to weigh him down. No need, he told himself, to keep running back to Mummy. He would, and he did, make his own decisions. Which in this case was that, because his enemies might use a no-show to start a rumour that he had something to hide, he would attend. ‘Fit them in at 3.30,’ he told Patricia. ‘That’ll give us time to catch up on what they might want. And also on those other issues.’

9.35 a.m.

Although the sign said ‘Cleaning Materials’, Cathy’s knock was met by an immediate ‘Come in.’

She opened the door and stepped into what clearly was still a cupboard, except that someone had squeezed a desk and two chairs under a teetering shelf of cleaning materials and between pails and mops and brooms.

Gavin Jenkins was sitting behind this desk. As she squeezed her way in, he lifted his head to say ‘Cathy?’ He got up, hurriedly, and hit his head on the shelf above him. ‘Damn. Every time.’ He steadied the shelf with one hand, using the other to catch the bottle that came rolling off. ‘My mother always said I’d come to a bad end, but even she wasn’t witch enough to know that I’d end up being brained,’ he glanced at the bottle, ‘by bleach.’ He put the bottle back on the shelf before squeezing around the desk and coming over to kiss her on the cheek. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Coffee.’ She handed him the paper cup.

‘You’re a lifesaver.’ He took off the lid and breathed in the aroma. ‘And a genius.’ He took a sip. ‘It even tastes like coffee. Where did you find it?’

‘A cafe a few blocks away. All the nearest had run out.’

‘Some many hours ago.’ He took another long swig. ‘Caffs without coffee. Courts without justice. That’s how it goes these days.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Have a seat — take the client one, it’s safer.’ A quick glance at his watch. ‘I’m due another in less than ten, but you can help balance my sanity by keeping me company until then.’ He walked back behind the desk, ducking his head to avoid the shelf. ‘Lyndall’s not in trouble, is she?’

‘Not her, no. But a friend of hers could be. A neighbour of ours, Jayden — I think you met him the last time you came to tea?’

‘Thin, quiet, besotted by Lyndall?’

‘That’s the one. He went out on the first day of the Rockham riot and hasn’t been home since. I asked at the police station and at various hospitals. It’s like he’s disappeared off the face of the earth.’

‘How old is Jayden? Fourteen? fifteen? If he’s under sixteen, they ought to have processed him at a young offender unit rather than at a police station, and if he was picked up on the first night there might still have been available space. I’m not surprised that you’ve lost him: it’s chaos out there.’

‘Not so orderly in here either.’ Cathy pointed at the teetering piles of files beside his desk.

‘It’s a fucking nightmare, if you’ll excuse my language. The private guys haven’t got the stamina for this kind of work, and there’s just not enough of us left in the state system. I’m fast-processing scores of kids from difficult backgrounds, kids with records, kids that just went mad for the first time in their lives, most of whom should get a community sentence. But the politicians have stoked up a lynch mob, and it’s turned the magistrates jail crazy.’

‘And here I am, giving you more work.’

His smile lit up his face. ‘You know I’d do anything for you.’

Which was also part of the reason she had hesitated before asking for his help.

‘Look,’ another quick glance at his watch, ‘if I take Jayden’s details now, I’m bound to lose them. Email me his full name, address, date of birth, any previous record, last known sighting and I’ll see if I can pull in some favours.’

‘That would be great.’ She got to her feet. ‘Thank you, Gavin.’

‘Anything. Especially after this coffee.’ He took another long swig, smiling as he looked up at her. His smile faded. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Even as she tried to return his smile, she found herself blindsided by misery that she tried to conceal behind a quick, ‘I’ll let you get back to work.’

‘How’s that man of yours?’

She was glad she had already turned away, so that all he would see was the tightening of her shoulders and all he would hear would be her one word, ‘Gone.’

‘Oh.’ It didn’t matter that he couldn’t see her face. He knew her well enough to hear it in her voice. He got up, came behind her and, putting his hands on her shoulders, turned her round until she was facing him. ‘I’m sorry.’

She nodded.

‘I know how much he means to you.’

It was all she could do to nod again.

‘What happened?’

She shrugged. That was the worst of it. That she didn’t know. ‘He’s just so…’ thinking then of the viciousness of Banji’s blow and of his expression caught and endlessly repeated on screen, ‘so angry.’

‘Held in, I would have said.’ A pause. ‘But I’m sorry to hear it. You’re a great woman. You deserve better.’

He pulled her closer, hugging her to him, and although her resolve had been not to lead him on, she didn’t have the strength to resist. So good to be held. She could feel his hand resting lightly on her head, and she could feel the heat of him, and in that moment of utter stillness she could even hear the beating of his heart. He is so safe, she thought. And could once have been her long-term safety; he’d certainly offered that. Why couldn’t she have settled for somebody as solid and as gentle as him?

‘I’m such a fool.’

‘Not a fool.’ He continued stroking her hair. ‘You’re just a feeling person in an unfeeling world.’ He seemed about to say something else when a rap on the door caused him to drop his hands and jump away. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ She leant over to kiss him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Gavin.’ Then she turned and made her way out, squeezing past a young man on his way in.

‘You know what, man,’ she heard as she closed the door, ‘you’re a fucking cliché, doing it with your girlfriend in a cupboard.’

2.30 p.m.

(For this once) Peter stayed in bed as Patricia showered, then to watch (for this last time) as she got dressed.

She did so slowly and with a complete lack of self-consciousness — sitting, naked apart from her suspenders, on the edge of the chair opposite the bed and rolling up her stockings.

Remembering the falling strap of Frances’s cream negligée, he found himself wondering what Patricia wore in bed when she was at home and alone. His guess would be pyjamas, although, on second thoughts, she probably slept in the buff, especially in this heat, as she always did with him. Not that he would (now) ever know.

She smiled. ‘A penny for your thoughts.’

Tell her, he had to, tell her now, while what he actually heard himself saying was, ‘Do you think there could be someone following you?’

‘People are always following me.’ Her smile got wider.

‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘Have you noticed anything different? Especially recently?’

‘Why?’ Her smile faded. ‘What happened?’

‘Frances was sent some photographs.’

‘Photographs?’ She was frowning as she reached for her bra. ‘What kind of photographs?’

‘Of us. Two days ago. Going into that hotel.’

‘Just going in?’ Her hands reached behind her back to snap the clasp with an ease that always amazed him. ‘Or something more?’

‘Nothing more, thank goodness.’

She got up. Walked over to her bag. Took out a fresh pair of knickers and put them on. ‘Did she freak?’

A question that showed her age as well as how little she knew Frances.

‘She was distressed,’ he said, ‘in her own way. But she calmed down when I filled her in on our meeting with Chahda.’

‘You told her that we were there for Chahda, did you?’

‘Well, it was true.’

‘True?’ She sighed. ‘I guess if it’s half-truths she’s after, then it is true.’ She had brought a fresh blouse as well, a red blouse, which she now unrolled and pulled over her head.

Only the orange skirt to go and then she would be completely ablaze.

‘So do you think someone could have been following us?’

‘Not that I noticed,’ she said. ‘Not then. Not since.’ When she shook her head, the light seemed to flare yellow amongst the strands of her brown hair. ‘Probably a coincidence — someone who happened to be passing, someone who doesn’t particularly like you, who saw us together and decided to flip your wife out by snapping us on their phone.’

If only that were true.

‘Couldn’t have been more serious,’ she said, ‘or else they would have come in after us and got something more incriminating, wouldn’t they?’

A good point: the photos were innocuous and vague enough. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘it is worrying.’

‘Poor Peter,’ she said, ‘so many things to worry about.’ She smiled — she had such a lovely open smile — as she came over to the bed, there to stand gazing down on him.

He breathed in — Tell her. And tell her now, he had to, it was only fair — and on the out-breath said, ‘Maybe we should cool it.’

‘Cool it?’

It was hard to read her expression. ‘Just for a while.’

He knew he should go further, should put an end to it. But he couldn’t bear to. Not now. Not so abruptly.

A slow tailing-off would be kinder. He reached up for her hand. ‘I hope you understand?’

She gave the hand to him, and she stood, letting him squeeze it, although otherwise not responding.

She was so quiet, he didn’t dare move.

He continued to lie there, holding on to her hand, for such an extended period that he began to think he could hear that same sound — tick, tick, tick, tick — a metronome that had seized hold of him this morning and was holding him prisoner.

She took back her hand, her expression still unreadable. His best guess was that she was angry, that she would now put on her skirt and leave the room, something, he realised, that he did not want her to do.

A beat. And then, ‘Budge up.’ She nudged his shoulder. When he shifted further into the middle of the bed, she laid herself down next to him, facing but not touching him.

He blinked away an unexpected tear. ‘I don’t want to lose you.’

‘You don’t have to,’ she said. She touched him lightly on the cheek. ‘I can wait.’ And ran her finger down it. ‘If you mean it when you say you will tell her.’

‘I can’t. Not now.’

‘But you will?’

He said, ‘Yes,’ even though he knew he couldn’t, that he shouldn’t, promise this. But it was still a yes, not just from cowardice but because he really wanted to say yes, and because he remembered Frances feeding the breakfast he’d made for her to her dog.

A light switched on, a thought not previously countenanced, that he could make his yes a reality. Other politicians had been trailblazers in this respect, and it hadn’t done them much harm. The world had changed: everybody knew that the best-intentioned marriages could end. He said it again: ‘Yes.’ And felt pleasure in saying, and believing, it.

She was smiling as she kissed him. Her breath so sweet. Not like Frances’s.

‘Okay, then, let’s take it easy for a bit.’

‘I’ll miss you.’ He swept out an arm to encompass the room. ‘And I’ll miss this.’

‘You’ll still have me in the office.’ She got off the bed and fetched her skirt, which she pulled on. ‘Let’s start right now.’ Up went the side zip. ‘I won’t come back with you in the car; I’ll take the bus. Will you be needing me later, for the committee?’

‘I think I had better go with my PPS,’ he said. ‘It’ll be expected.’

‘Sure thing.’ She was taking this so well. ‘Anything else I can do?’

‘Anything?’ And when she nodded, ‘Well, actually, there is something that you might be able to do for me.’

3 p.m.

There were only two customers in the restaurant, both of them staring despondently at the few remaining plates of sushi drifting past them on the belt. Two further men were behind the counter, cleaning it, with the only other occupant of the place a woman who was cashing up.

Joshua approached the till. ‘Mrs Jibola?’

She looked up, briefly, took in the sight of him and said, ‘Had to come in the full regalia, did you?’ before returning her attention to the piling up of coins.

‘Are you Mrs Jibola?’

Her gaze stayed down. ‘I don’t use that name no more.’

‘I’m Police Commissioner Joshua Yares.’

‘Yes, I know who you are.’ A quick glance up. ‘And if I didn’t, your fancy stripes, shiny shoes and the fuck-off Rover outside on a yellow line would have been a giveaway. Only thing I don’t know is why you think you have the right to come waltzing in here.’

‘I’d like to talk to you.’ He saw both the customers and the kitchen workers were watching. ‘Is there somewhere private we can go?’

She gave an unamused little snort. ‘What I saw Julius up to on the news was hardly private. That’s what’s blown you in here, isn’t it?’

‘Please, Mrs Jibola.’

‘I already told you.’ She swept the coins into her hand. ‘I don’t answer to that name.’ She threw them into the till, shoved the notes in after them and banged the drawer shut before saying to the men behind the counter, ‘I’m outside for a smoke.’ She stood on tiptoes to slide open the top bolt on a metal door near the till and, without looking back at Joshua, walked through.

He followed to find himself in a narrow alleyway at the end of which stood a couple of high metal bins. As good a place as any for a chat, even if it was stiflingly hot. He pulled the door shut. The area around the door was littered by cigarette stubs, and to avoid them he took a giant step forward. Straight into a pool of muddy water that, given the drought, was unexpected. He pulled his shoe out quickly but not quickly enough to stop his sock from getting wet.

Did they throw their washing-up water out here, he wondered, or was this condensation from steam that was hissing out of the vent above him, adding even more humidity to an already sweltering day. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, seeing how across from the vent and on the opposing wall was a camera that was angled down on him.

‘It’s to make sure we’re not stealing anything,’ she said. ‘I bet whoever’s watching is trying to work out what you’re after in your doorman’s uniform.’ She took a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, flicked one out, put it in her mouth, swapping the pack for a lighter, taking one quick puff of the lit cigarette and blowing out the smoke. Another inhalation, longer this time, and then she dropped the cigarette into the water. ‘That’s all I’m allowed. I’m giving up.’ She watched, greedily, as the cigarette fizzed out. ‘So what’s all this about? Julius did a runner, did he, after his pyrotechnics?’

‘Something like that.’

‘He always was a bit of a coward.’

‘Do you know where he might have run to?’

‘Why would I? I haven’t seen him for at least a year.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘And if I did know, why would I tell you?’

‘Because I’m not Julius’s enemy, because I’m trying to help.’

‘Help?’ A laugh so dry it could scorch. ‘You?’ She let the second cigarette drop to the ground, this time in the dry, and mashed it out with her foot. ‘Let me tell you how you and your lot have so far helped Julius. He was a good man when I married him. Soft. Wanted to be of service. So when the Met decided to buff up its image by letting a few black faces hang about the place, he swallowed your shit about new brooms and diversification and joined up. His first year on the job, trying to ignore the abuse from his colleagues and pretending to be one of the lads, diversified him into being a drunk. His second helped him branch out into coke. His third, and he still hadn’t been promoted, he almost had the sense to walk. But your lot came at him again, flattering him, telling him he was a natural for undercover. I could tell, anybody who didn’t want to please like Julius did could have told, that what they really were after was his black face. He couldn’t see it. Said he loved the job. He loved it all right. So much he stopped coming home. Stopped wanting to have sex — must have had another woman. He said he didn’t, but you lot, with your identities in suitcases, you teach them how to lie, don’t you? He was a quick learner, was Julius, but it cost him. Not that any of you noticed, or if you did, you didn’t give a shit.’

‘But I do,’ Joshua said. ‘And it sounds like you do, too. Help me find him and I’ll do my best for him.’

‘Are you not listening or are you just slow?’ She reached into her pocket and pulled out another cigarette. ‘I already told you: I have no idea where he is.’ She took out her lighter, which she clicked on, holding it close to her cigarette but not close enough to light it. Her hand wavered, as if she were making up her mind. Then she clicked the lighter shut and put it back in her pocket. ‘The man I married is gone.’ She spat the cigarette out into her hand and began to grind it between her thumb and first two fingers. ‘Only thing I heard since is that he straightened up: stopped drinking, stopped taking drugs.’ She flicked away the threads of paper and tobacco she’d just made. ‘By the looks of what I saw on TV, that didn’t last.’ She glared at him, reminding him of the fury on Julius Jibola’s face as he had thrown the Molotov. But perhaps he had imagined this, for now he saw that she was smiling. ‘Look at that.’ She was pointing down.

Following her gaze, he saw how the shreds of her tobacco had floated down to stick to his wet shoes.

‘I heard you on the box,’ she said, ‘when you got the job. You went on about how you were going to reform the Met. Make it more representative. More egalitarian. That’s a laugh. Even if you meant it, I bet you’ve found yourself wading through more shit than you will ever cop to. Don’t stress, though,’ she gave a quick bark of what was meant to be amusement but sounded more like scorn. ‘It won’t stink you up. You bright white ones, you lot in charge, you’ll get somebody else to clean up your mess. People like Julius, people with dark skins or no money: they’re the ones who suffer. And me as well. Since he left, times have been hard. Which, speaking of, if I want to keep my job, I have got to get back to work.’

She turned and saw that the door was shut. ‘Are you stupid or what? Couldn’t you see that there’s no handle on this side?’ She slammed her hands against the metal, repeatedly, the banging ricocheting between the two high walls until at last the door swung open. ‘About time.’ She marched through and slammed the door behind her.

3.40 p.m.

With his PPS beside him and the horseshoe of members of the Home Affairs select committee arrayed in front, Peter stifled a yawn. ‘We appreciate your coming here,’ the chairman said (this the second time in as many minutes that he’d said this), ‘at such short notice, and of course in the face of the ongoing disturbances, which must be taking up a lot of your time. If you would just bear with us.’ There were papers passing along their table, and had been since Peter had taken the hot seat, adding to his sense of something cobbled together at the very last minute.

‘I’m not sure I understand why you want to talk to me,’ he said.

‘Bear with us.’ More furious paper passing.

‘It might help if you could at least tell me how this session fits in with your ongoing inquiries.’

The chairman looked up. ‘It doesn’t.’ And smiled. ‘This is an exploratory session. We’re considering an investigation into the citing of industrial facilities in inner cities.’

‘I see,’ he said, remembering how, at COBRA, Yares had used the solvent factory as his excuse for not containing the Rockham riots. Yares, or his puppet the PM, must have put the committee up to getting the issue on record.

‘In light of the impact that the solvent plant in Rockham has had on the security of the whole borough,’ the chairman was saying, ‘it seemed like a good place to start.’

‘What is it you want to know?’

‘To the point as ever, Home Secretary.’ Another unfolding of that smarmy smile. ‘Which is why we value you.’ He let this glance skitter from one member of his committee to the next, saying, ‘Ready?’ and then, addressing himself it seemed to the document in front of him, he said, ‘Can you confirm that permission to site the solvent factory in the built-up area of south Rockham was granted while you were at Environment?’

‘Yes, I can confirm that.’

‘And that permission was signed off by the then Parliamentary Under Secretary of State for the Environment? By you?’

‘Yes, I was the Under Secretary. And, yes, I did sign it. But that’s not as simple as it seems.’

‘How so?’

‘My signature was the rubber stamp required at the end of a long process that did not involve me in any way whatsoever.’

‘Are you saying that you signed it without knowing what it was?’

‘What I’m saying is that that diligence was carried out by my predecessor. He, I’m sure you will recall, tragically died in office. Mine was a sudden appointment. When I came in, the papers concerning the Rockham factory were in his in-tray. I consulted the civil servants who had overseen the process and, of course, I also talked to the Minister about it. I was told that everything had been properly carried out, the i’s dotted, the t’s crossed, and that only my predecessor’s heart attack had prevented him from signing. All that was required — and the paper trail makes this clear — was that I add my signature to a preapproved and scrutinised decision. Which I did.’

‘Thank you, Home Secretary.’ Head down, the chairman was writing furiously, which, given the presence of two stenographers, was either a trick to belittle the people before him or, and this was Peter’s bet, his way of stretching time to let his thinking catch up with his mouth.

Tick, tick — the sound of his bedroom clock — tick, tick. ‘Is there anything else?’ He looked at his watch and then, again, at the clock on the wall.

‘I know you’re busy, Home Secretary.’ Head still down, the chairman continued writing. ‘And again I’d like to underline how much we appreciate your being here. I can assure you that it won’t take much more time.’ Only now did he raise his gaze. ‘Can you tell us if you know any of the following: Nigel Harris, Frank Morris, Brendan Sonderland, John Wilson?’

‘Know them?’ Peter looked at his PPS, whose expression mirrored his own bewilderment. ‘In what capacity?’

‘I beg your pardon, I should have spoken with more clarity. I mean know them socially. Are any of them part of your social circle, for example. Do your wives know each other? Do your children play together? Could you have dined with them on more than one occasion? That kind of thing.’

With his PPS now rifling through his sheaf of papers, Peter said, ‘Run through those names again.’

‘Yes, of course. Probably wiser to take them one by one. Nigel Harris: do you know him or have you ever met him socially?’

The name meant nothing to him. ‘No.’

‘Frank Morris? Do you know him or have you ever met him socially?’

Not this one either. He said ‘No’ at the same time as his PPS leant over to whisper in his ear, ‘Take a look, Home Secretary.’ He was pointing at a list of the members of the board of the company that owned the solvent factory. Heading the list was Nigel Harris, with Frank Morris second in line.

‘Brendan Sonderland?

Did the name seem familiar because he’d just seen it? Or was there another reason why it rang a bell? Best to play safe. ‘Not to my knowledge, no.’

‘Not to your knowledge?’

The cheek of that incredulous tone. Peter drew himself upright. ‘In my capacity of Home Secretary, I meet scores of people every day. That name, Brendan S… S…’

‘Sonderland.’

‘… sounds vaguely familiar. If you’re asking me do I know him well enough to remember meeting him, then my answer is that I do not. But if you’re asking me whether I have ever met him, all I can say is I might have, but, if so, I cannot remember the occasion.’

‘I see.’ A supercilious curl of the lips now accompanied his follow-up. ‘How about John Wilson? Do you know him or have you ever met him socially?’

Another name he had just read. And a common enough name. ‘I’ve probably met one or two John Wilsons in my time.’

‘Well, do you know the John Wilson who is on the board of the Rockham solvent factory?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’ This is a stitch-up, he thought, a McCarthyite interrogation, and the members of the committee are sitting there like monkeys, letting this farce unfold.

Well, he wasn’t going to make it easy for them. He looked at each and every one of them in turn and was pleased to see that this eyeballing caused most of them to drop their gaze. They were embarrassed. As well they should be. They should also be ashamed to have let their committee — one of the most important of the checks and balances of a great parliamentary democracy — be used in this fashion by his enemies.

He’d had nothing, other than his scrawled signature, to do with the original decision. If they wanted to charge anybody, they’d have to dig up his Environment predecessor, who, come to think of it, had been cremated.

Tick, tick.

He glanced down at his watch and then looked up. Pointedly.

‘Thank you again, Home Secretary, for answering our questions.’ A quick glance round the horseshoe. ‘If there’s nothing anybody would like to ask?’ A question from which the men and women of his committee kept their eyes averted, allowing the chairman to nod and say to Peter, ‘And thank you so much for sparing the time to talk to us. We won’t detain you any further.’

9.30 p.m.

If Cathy had not come out of the kitchen just then she’d have missed Lyndall. But coming out, she saw her standing by the front door.

At the sight of her mother, Lyndall, who’d kept to her room the entire day, seemed to shrink against the door.

‘What are you up to?’

‘I’m going out.’ Lyndall dropped her gaze.

‘Out? Can’t you hear what’s happening out there?’

‘All I can hear is your TV. Which is blaringly loud. As usual.’

‘Well then…’ Cathy pushed past Lyndall to double lock the door before removing the key and taking it to the sitting room, where she also muted the TV. Lyndall was right. It had been on very loud. Now the banging and the shouts that had been ringing through the Lovelace for hours could clearly be heard.

She went back to the corridor to find Lyndall still standing at the door. ‘Can you hear now?’

Lyndall nodded. ‘What is it?’

‘The police are out in force breaking down doors all over the estate. Must be trawling for rioters. And by the sounds of it, people are kicking back. It’s been going on for hours. How come you didn’t hear anything?’

Lyndall pointed to the earphones around her neck.

‘Is that all you’ve done all day?’

Another nod.

Despite having told herself to keep her cool, Cathy felt exasperation bubbling up. But then, noticing Lyndall’s red-rimmed eyes, she swallowed it down. She went up to Lyndall and, meaning to comfort her, put her arms around her.

The first thing she registered was the rigidity in Lyndall’s shoulders, the second how they further solidified at her touch. Not quite a flinching away, but near enough. She let go. Stepped back. ‘Come on,’ keeping her voice as soft as she was able, ‘tell me what the matter is.’

‘Nothing’s the matter.’ As Lyndall bit her bottom lip, Cathy saw the glint of tears in those dark eyes.

‘But there is. I can see there is.’

Lyndall shook her head and backed away. There was the sound of something hard hitting the door.

‘What’s that?’

Lyndall backed away some more, so that she ended up jammed against the door. Another clink.

‘Show me.’ Cathy could feel her anger rising, and it was further stoked by the stubborn shaking of Lyndall’s head. She slipped a hand round Lyndall’s waist. ‘Come on. Let me see.’

She tugged at the handle of the plastic bag Lyndall was holding. When Lyndall pulled back, she tightened her hold and twisted.

‘Mum,’ she heard, but distantly.

An hour before, she had found herself staring at a sunset so red that even after she had shut her eyes the redness had pursued her into darkness and now she saw that same red mist as, despite Lyndall’s cry of, ‘Mum, you’re hurting me,’ she continued to twist Lyndall’s arm.

The two of them were locked together in a struggle for the bag until, saying ‘Mum’ once more, Lyndall let go so suddenly that the bag shot up and hit her in the face before dropping back to the floor.

What did I do, Cathy thought, as Lyndall lifted up a hand to touch the blood that trickled from the cut on her cheek, red turning to pink as it mingled with her tears.

She never hit Lyndall. Never. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘What’s the point of being sorry?’ delivered on a ferocious glare.

‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

‘Don’t you dare touch me again.’ Lyndall was more angry than hurt. She pushed past Cathy and down the corridor to the bathroom. She opened the door, shut it, opened it again to poke out her head and say, ‘And, yes, I will clean the cut,’ before slamming the door shut.

There was the sound of the bolt being drawn, and after that Cathy could hear her own jagged breaths — as if she had been running — and to punctuate them the sound of someone really running outside on the landing. Someone being chased. Shouts of ‘Stop!’, which she ignored.

She looked down.

When the bag had fallen, it had also broken, and everything had spilt out. She saw a tin of condensed milk, a can of cola, half a loaf of sliced white, a tin of baked beans and a can opener. For what? she wondered, and then, refocusing the question, for who?

9.40 p.m.

That it had come to this, Billy thought. That they were actually contemplating using water cannons on the streets of London. I mean, yeah, they had them, but they’d had them in storage for years and every previous Home Secretary had, with the backing of most of the good guys in the service, refused to give them the green light. This Home Secretary had seemed no different from his successors: they all talked up law and order while cutting resources, but they also took their lead on operational matters from senior management. And yet this Home Secretary and his boss the Prime Minister were outdoing themselves in their promises of the methods they would use to quash the rioters, methods that the Commissioner had gone on record rejecting.

Something was going on behind the scenes. And, Billy thought, as he kept plodding forward, one foot in front of the next, when politicians manoeuvre it’s the police who end up picking up the pieces. Once the public got used to water cannons, there would no putting the genie back into the bottle. Before anybody knew it, every plod would be carrying a gun.

He caught this uncharacteristically gloomy thought. Told himself it was fatigue talking. Forget your average tour of duty, he’d been on his feet, with only the occasional half an hour of shut-eye, for over eighty hours. And counting, given he was on his way back to base in Rockham.

He should have been there already but had chosen to walk rather than be driven, and also to take the long way round, by the canal. It was a whim of his to breathe some air, although in this heat, and with smoke still hanging low, there didn’t feel to be much air around. But at least he was on his own, if only for this moment.

As this thought occurred, he realised that he wasn’t going to be alone for much longer. Ahead some fifty yards, two men were standing. They were facing each other and their voices were raised, although he couldn’t make out what they were saying. As he moved closer, he realised that only one of them, male IC3, was talking, at the same time jabbing his finger into the other’s chest.

Billy sighed. His minder was right: he should not be out here on his own. Not so close to angry Rockham and dressed in the full kit. He could so easily become a target.

The two men were caught up in their row; they hadn’t even noticed him. He could turn away. Leave them to it.

‘You’re a bastard,’ he heard. ‘You and all the rest.’

A falling out amongst thieves?

‘He wasn’t a danger,’ he heard. ‘Hit first, ask later: that’s your way, isn’t it?’ Another jab that pushed the second man backwards. ‘You were supposed to help him. Not kill him.’ More jabs, and the other man visibly staggering under their impact, which is when Billy saw that he couldn’t get away because his attacker had hold of him.

‘Bastard police.’

That’s when Billy saw that the victim, also IC3, was in uniform.

Stupid bloody plod, out here on his own. Even as he registered the irony of this judgement, Billy was already running towards the two, shouting, ‘Break it up.’

Adrenaline, and stupidity, had driven him thus far. Now, as he came upon them, he realised that the man in uniform was no policeman.

Billy’s baton was already in his hand. With a flick of his wrist, he expanded it to its fullest length. ‘Break it up.’

He pushed the presumed victim out of the way and flicked his baton so that the presumed attacker was forced back and against a fence.

‘Fuck off.’ The man shook his head wildly, as if that might be enough to shake Billy off.

‘Calm down,’ and, as the man tried to move forwards, he said it again, ‘Calm down,’ and poked the baton into the man’s clavicle.

The man went still.

‘That’s better. Now what’s all this about?’

The white of the man’s eyes were suffused with red and his breath stank of over-stewed onions and stale alcohol. He tried to turn away, but Billy held him speared. ‘I asked you a question. What’s going on?’

‘They killed a man who did no harm.’

‘So you thought you’d take that out on a traffic warden, did you?’

The man’s mouth opened. His jaw agape. Comical really. He twisted his head and looked. And what he saw made his fists unfurl.

This one under control. Out of the corner of his eye, Billy saw the other beginning to back away.

‘Oi, you. Come and stand where I can see you properly.’

The man shuffled into vision.

‘That’s better. Now, from what I saw, this man here,’ he jabbed with his truncheon, just enough to make sure he kept quiet, ‘looked to be in the process of assaulting you. Do you want to press charges?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I don’t want trouble.’

‘Okay. Go on home, then.’

That’s all he needed to say for the man to turn tail and, head down, begin to almost run.

‘Slow down,’ Billy called after him. ‘Stay calm. Use the back streets. And for pity’s sake, don’t wear your uniform after dark, not with the streets as restive as they are.’

As the man walked more slowly, Billy turned back to the other. ‘What are we going to do with you?’

No answer.

Billy didn’t have one either. On the one hand, he had seen enough to arrest the man. He’d clearly been drinking and, by the wild redness of his eyes, staying up all hours. Probable rioter. If they kept him in, they’d likely find him on the footage.

On the other hand, that could tie Billy up doing the paperwork, and the Rockham officers would hardly thank him for adding another body to the overcrowded nick, and… Well, that was the puzzling thing. Something about this man. How immediately he had stilled himself when the baton went up to his neck: as if he knew what would happen if he didn’t. How horrified he had been when he realised he’d attacked a traffic warden. How he met Billy’s gaze now rather than look away. How he held himself quietly but not because he was cowed. On the contrary, his expression showed defiance. As if he were daring Billy to take him in. And all this, despite having the look and the smell of a down-and-out.

If Billy did arrest him, he’d have to frogmarch the man along the bank until a squad car could get to them. He thought about the chaos, not only in the Rockham nick but in every station within a radius of ten miles. He thought about his minder, who’d be wanting him back, and about the men who’d think he’d sneaked in a rest they weren’t allowed. And then he thought about the water cannon, and the military men who were being parachuted into the higher ranks, and the way the politicians were talking, and he thought that soon the discretion that even the lowliest bobby was allowed and had been since the beginning of the force would be history.

Which was the clincher. He let his baton drop and telescoped it in.

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Go home.’

The man didn’t move.

‘Hop it.’ And when the man still didn’t make a move, it was Billy who chose to walk away.

9.45 p.m.

A rap on his office door. A head poked round. ‘Excuse me, Home Secretary.’ Some junior from the outer office.

‘Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?’ Usually enough to rid himself of unwanted interruptions.

Not this time. ‘Home Secretary?’

‘Yes?’ When he jerked his head up, he was revisited by the wash of the sunset that had bloodied the sky. ‘What is it?’

‘Your wife.’

Again he seemed to hear that unrelenting ticking of a clock that had punctuated his day. ‘What about her?’

‘She’s here.’

His first thought was that he’d forgotten something they were supposed to be doing together, although he couldn’t think what that might be. His second thought, as he stretched across for his diary, was that she had come to spy on him.

‘Should I…?’

‘Yes, yes. Show her in. But before you do,’ he pointed at the wall clock, ‘Take that out, will you?’

He pushed away the document he’d been working on as the junior rose up on tiptoes to hook the clock off the wall and carried it away.

Clock gone. Merciful silence.

Which didn’t last, as he should have known it wouldn’t, because the ticking was in his head, and here it came again as Frances was practically bowed in — she had this effect on all his staff. As he made his way over to her, he couldn’t help thinking of a recent nature programme he’d half caught in which whichever Attenborough lookalike they were trying out had said that the spider commonly known as the blonde, otherwise called the yellow sac, was responsible for most bad domestic bites.

‘Darling.’ He kissed her proffered cheek, impressed as always that she had managed to keep so cool in the heat. ‘Didn’t they ring to tell you I was working late? I did ask them to.’

‘Yes, they rang. But I was in town having a drink with Amanda and we were passing by. So I thought I’d drop in.’ She continued on with her 360-degree examination of his office.

Yes, he almost said, it is big, but there’s still nowhere that I could have hidden Patricia. ‘It’s sweltering out there,’ he said and, assuming her full search must naturally include his bathroom, ‘Would you like to wash up?’

‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’ Her gaze had been snagged by the wall-mounted TV, on which the riots were silently playing. ‘Where’s that?’

‘Rockham again. It was calm earlier, but now it’s got so bad they’ve had to wheel out the water cannon — the old ones Boris got conned into buying years ago. I’m surprised they still work.’

That look, her thinking look again, which produced: ‘That might cook the PM’s goose.’

His thought as well.

Did she think like him, he wondered, or had she taught him to think like her?

‘Trouble is,’ she said, ‘it might also cook the government’s goose. Questions are already being asked as to what you’ve done to fuel such rage.’

She was always so critical. So ready to point the finger. It was getting on his nerves.

But then he told himself he was only tired. And overworked. Which, speaking of: ‘I’d love to come home with you but…’ he pointed at the piles of papers on his desk.

‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘Amanda’s waiting for me downstairs.’

‘Well then…’

That would normally be sufficient to get her out. Not this time. Instead: ‘About your appearance at the committee.’

‘You watched?’

‘Naturally.’

He knew what she was going to say next: that he should have warned her he was going before the committee. That he usually did. But with one thing and another…

‘We should have talked about it beforehand,’ she said.

‘I would have consulted you, darling.’ Did the endearment sound as awkward to her as it was beginning to sound to him? ‘You know that I normally do. But I had such a lot on today, including watching the PM throwing his weight about at COBRA. And what I told the committee was true: it was my first day at Environment. I signed an already approved document. The decision had nothing to do with me.’

‘I see.’ She blinked.

‘Is there something I’m missing here?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She frowned. ‘Something about some of those names. I think we might actually have…’ And then her expression cleared. ‘No, perhaps I’ve got it wrong.’ She nodded in that definite way she had. ‘I have. And it’s totally correct: permission for the factory had nothing to do with you. Well,’ she was smiling, ‘I can see you have a lot on. I’ll leave you to it.’ She turned, treating him to a last sweep of her straight blonde hair, this way and that, tick, tick, exiting his office while he continued to stand there wondering what her visit had really been about.

10 p.m.

Joshua had buffed his shoes and shined them twice, so it was unlikely that the slightest strand of tobacco or smear of mud remained. Even so, his eyes kept straying down.

Nothing to do with the shoes, this he knew, and everything to do with the fact that they’d left him in that alleyway, ignoring his bangs, until he’d been forced to phone his driver to come and pull him out. With the likely result that he’d soon be the laughing stock of every bobby in London. The only reason that an exaggerated account of the incident might not be circulating in the evening paper is that the explosion of violence in Rockham — and elsewhere — was all anybody was currently interested in.

The situation was at crisis point.

A few days is all he needed. By then he’d have most of his men back from leave and enough bodies in mutual aid to get a proper hold on the situation. But he might not get those few days. Wheeling out the big guns, namely water cannon, for the first time in mainland Britain, and also the increasingly talked-about strategy of using tear gas and baton rounds, might satisfy the hangers and floggers, but anybody who had ever tried to police a disturbance in which unrelated groups of troublemakers came together to create anarchy would know how ineffective such methods of mass control could turn out to be. Never mind that their going in heavy risked provoking even more people out onto the streets, something that was already taking place in Rockham.

And there was the added headache of a maverick cop on the loose. If that got out, all kinds of hell would land on his head. If only, he couldn’t help thinking, Detective Constable Julius Jibola would go chuck himself off the nearest available cliff — after having sent a postcard to say that this is what he was planning to do.

His gaze again on his shoes. He sighed. Although Jibola’s ex-wife had been childish in her vengefulness, there was a lot of truth in what she’d had to say. Men like Jibola had been used by the old Met as cannon fodder and without regard for their well-being. And she was right as well in that many of these same officers hailed from ethnic minorities.

The Met had badly needed a new broom. Trouble was the past and too many young people in the city with nothing to lose were threatening to overwhelm his ever-thinning blue line. Never mind the unrelenting heat.

They’d had to switch off the air conditioning to help prevent an electrical blackout being created by a combination of the condition-ocracy (those lucky, or rich, enough to have air conditioning) and the boiling of kettles as people all over the capital settled down to watch the made-for-TV horror fest of the riots.

A knock. ‘Come.’ He turned to get his jacket from behind his chair. But seeing who it was who had poked his head around the door, he said, ‘Oh, it’s you, Blackstone, do come in,’ while letting the jacket lie.

‘Excuse me, sir.’ Blackstone was still peering through a crack in the door. ‘I’m after Deputy Commissioner Chahda. I thought he might be in here with you?’

‘He had to go out.’ Which, when Chahda had told him that there was someone he had to see, and that he was leaving his assistant in charge, had come as some surprise given the rising disorder. ‘Can I be of assistance?’

‘No…’ A hesitation and then, ‘Well, perhaps, sir. Something odd that I, something…’

‘Come on in. Take a seat. Tell me what’s bothering you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ As Blackstone made his way over to the desk, Joshua saw how damp his shirt was, the heat being an added burden for the weightier officers. ‘I don’t know if it’s important, sir.’

‘Why not let me be the judge of that?’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you sir.’ A pause and then, ‘I did talk to some of the officers, sir, who were known to have associated with Detective Constable Jibola.’

‘Yes, the Deputy Commissioner informed me that you had. I gather none of them had much to offer in the way of assistance.’

‘Afraid not, sir. They all told the same story that Jibola had dropped out of circulation. None of them had seen him for quite a while — years in some cases.’

A pause.

‘But?’

‘But the thing is, sir, something odd happened just now when I was talking to the last of them. You know how, given the pressure on the Rockham force, we have been pitching in to supply the IPCC with the relevant documentation for their inquiry into the death?’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Well, the thing is, sir, while I was talking to the officer who knew Jibola, one of my colleagues was checking the quality of the 999 call that triggered the police visit to the community centre.’

‘The one the community leaders say would not have been made?’

‘That’s the one, sir. They’re wrong. The call was made, logged and recorded. And I have heard it. I heard a male voice expressing concern about a male IC3 behaving in an erratic manner on the Lovelace. The caller asked the police to attend in case the man needed assistance.’

‘Why is that of concern?’

‘Because, sir. Because the thing is, the officer I was talking to, the one who knew Julius Jibola, also heard the recording, and he recognised the voice. I questioned him carefully and got him to listen a couple of times: he was insistent that the caller was DC Julius Jibola.’