Ten Days

STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL

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

Submission OB/MPS/CC/29

To: The Office of the Inquiry into Operation Bedrock

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

At the request of the chairman of the Inquiry Panel into Operation Bedrock, the Office of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service has subjected a telephone call made to the emergency services on to further scrutiny.

The call logged at 20:45:35 was to report a man behaving erratically in the area of the Lovelace estate in Rockham.

The IPCC, which is ongoing with its inquiry into the death in Rockham, agreed to release a copy of the recording to the Office of the Commissioner on the condition that no details of the call should be made public until the conclusion of the IPCC investigation.

Light equalization was used to enhance the recording by removing background interference. The call was then subjected to audio forensic analysis.

The report is attached.

In summary of its conclusions:

The 999 recording was compared with a sample of DC Julius Jibola speaking into a tape recorder during his training.

On the IAFPA consistent/distinctiveness scale, the two recordings scored a 4: i.e. that they were highly distinctive. Had not enhancement been used to isolate the voice in the 999 call, they would most likely have scored a 5: i.e. exceptionally distinctive with the possibility of these features being shared by two different speakers as remote.

It is therefore our conclusion that DC Julius Jibola did place the 999 call.

A transcript of the call is appended.

In summary:

The caller informed the emergency service operator of the erratic behaviour of a male IC3 on the Lovelace estate in Rockham. The caller was calm and provided details of location and time clearly and with patience. In his words, ‘the man, IC3, is waving a stick about and officers should attend as soon as possible to stop him hurting himself’.

The caller, who added, ‘I am currently following him to try and keep him safe,’ would not give the operator his name.

The mobile phone number of the caller was shortly thereafter rendered non-operational.

We can confirm that the mobile telephone had been supplied by SC&O10 for use by DC Julius Jibola in pursuance of his undercover activities.

This document is for the internal inquiry only and on no account should be released to the public.

5 a.m.

‘There has to be a connection if only in Jibola’s mind,’ Joshua said, ‘between his witnessing the death in the Lovelace and his taking part in the criminality. I interviewed the officer who knew him. His description matched the psychologist’s — i.e. that Jibola had been emotionally unstable for some time and that his particular sore point was what he perceived as a bias within the force against ethnic minorities.’

This statement was met, initially, by silence. Taking his eyes off his two companions, he looked around. After eighty hours of riding the tempest, energy levels tended to peak at night, with first light bringing a fall off in numbers in the streets and a corresponding decline in officers in the room. Five a.m. then became the time when least was done and the army of cleaners moved in. They were usually deployed throughout the building but these days they gave first priority to the clearing away of stained tea cups, wastepaper baskets overflowing with the detritus of fast food, and papers to be shredded in this room. Seeing both the Commissioner and his deputy present, the cleaners now quietly swept past the legs of men whose heads had slumped on their desks, before hauling the rubbish out. Soon officers of the day shift would start filtering in, along with the Bronze Commanders come to deliver their reports, re-stoking the urgency that would subside again after orders had been given to be carried out elsewhere in the Met.

For now, however, there was quiet, which Gaby Wright eventually broke. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir’ — despite that she must have been working round the clock, she was as tidy and as well turned out as ever — ‘we have no way of knowing what is going on in Jibola’s mind.’

‘That’s right. We don’t.’ Anil Chahda’s uniform was in contrast crumpled, as if he’d slept in it, and this despite him having taken half the night off.

‘You may both be correct. But the fact remains that if people were to find out that Jibola is one of ours — and that he was a witness at the community centre — they’d leap to the conclusion that his participation in the riots had something to do with what he witnessed. Matters are finely enough balanced without one of our officers seeming to accuse his fellows of murder. We have to neutralise Jibola before the media get their claws into him.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Joshua saw Anil Chahda yawning — what, he wondered, was the matter with the man? He concentrated his gaze on CS Wright: ‘You’ve done what you can with the resources available. What we now must do,’ seeing his deputy still yawning he raised his voice, ‘with your agreement of course, Anil, is step up officer numbers in Rockham. We’ve got to search every inch of the borough.’

One further enormous yawn before Chahda said, ‘That’s all very well, sir, but where are we going to get the men from?’

‘From here.’ Joshua used a pointer to indicate the boroughs surrounding Rockham, ‘and from here. As well as aid coming from elsewhere.’

‘That is going to leave us dangerously exposed throughout the rest of London.’

‘Well, then, we’ll have to be quick about it, won’t we? I want an observational cordon around Rockham, mobile CCTV, the lot. We have to clock anybody in and anybody out.’

‘It’s going to cause trouble.’

‘If it does, so be it. If it means bringing out water cannon, if it means deploying baton rounds’ — hearing himself say this, he thought how far he had travelled in such a short time, and then, putting steel into his voice — ‘well then, that’s what we will have to do. We have to find this man.’

7 a.m.

At the sound of his Commons’ door opening, Peter looked crossly up. First a call from Anil Chahda to warn of more trouble coming to Rockham and now somebody marching into his office without the courtesy of a knock. His irritation intensified when he saw that it was Patricia. What on earth did she think she was doing coming to his Commons room, and so early?

‘I’ve been missing you.’ She gave a smile and a cute wrinkle of her nose but, seeing him frown, added, ‘Only kidding.’

‘Come on, Patricia.’ He had no time for games. ‘We agreed to cool it.’

She raised her hand in a salute, ‘Yes, sir,’ hitting her forehead so hard it jerked her head back. ‘I’m on board with that.’

Could she be drunk?

She certainly looked more tousled than usual, with her dark hair frizzed out as it only ever was in bed. Come to think of it, she was wearing the same clothes she’d had on yesterday: had she actually been to bed? ‘So what exactly,’ he said, hardening his voice, ‘are you doing here?’

She took a step back. Pouted.

He dropped his gaze deliberately down to the papers on his desk. And heard her saying in that wheedling voice she also only ever used in bed, ‘Come on now, Petey-weetie, don’t be such a cross patch.’

She must be drunk. All he needed. He looked behind her and at the door.

She turned and, he was thankful to see, made her way towards it. He picked up his pen.

He heard the key turning in the lock.

‘What are you doing?’

She came back to stand so close to his desk that he could smell that floral scent he knew so well, and some other strange musky smell that was underlaid by the stink of stale alcohol.

He sighed and got up, the better to tell her that she had to go.

She tilted up her head. Smiling.

In that moment he remembered the manner in which Frances had covered her mouth with a sheet that early morning when he had made to kiss her. Patricia lifted a hand and stroked his cheek.

He shouldn’t. He couldn’t.

But the door was locked.

To hell with it. He kissed her. For the longest time, feeling how she responded.

How different it would be, and he couldn’t stop the thought from forming, to wake up beside her. If only, he thought, if only, and held her more tightly.

When finally he let go, and when he took a step back the better to look at her, he saw how her eyes had welled with tears. ‘What’s wrong?’

She swallowed, opened her mouth and swallowed again. Something she wanted to say to him but couldn’t quite. Something he wouldn’t want to hear? In the silence that stretched between them, it occurred to him that she was about to tell him that she was pregnant, this thought striking a blow to his gut that made him want to unsay his question and unthink this thought.

‘Not enough sleep, that’s all.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘And it feels weird sneaking round like this.’

Relief made him reject his first response — that they’d been sneaking around for at least eighteen months — and choose instead a reassuring: ‘It won’t be for long.’

‘Won’t it?’ She looked as if she were about to cry again.

He sighed. He had such a lot of work to get through, never mind that he must ready himself for the Chamber.

Her teeth were beginning to work at her bottom lip, a giveaway tell of her distress. He let out another sigh. ‘Come on, Patricia. You know what we agreed.’

‘What you made me agree to, you mean.’

Like that, was it?

Like Frances, actually. Well, bugger them both.

He opened his mouth to say so.

She got in first. ‘You asked me to do something,’ she said. ‘And I did it. And what I found out is going to make your year.’ Her brown gaze was afire. ‘I’ve had very little sleep, so if you don’t want to hear what it is, I’d be just as happy to go back to bed.’

Was she teasing him so as to reel him back? His first impulse was to call her bluff. Tell her to go and sleep off whatever hangover she was clearly warming up to.

Except: what if she really did know something?

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Didn’t mean to be so curt.’

So easy to turn her round. She smiled. ‘I got Anil Chahda to spill the beans,’ she said. ‘And what he told me is better than we could ever have dreamt.’

11 a.m.

A staccato ping, someone prodding at Cathy’s doorbell, was immediately followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock. Lyndall’s school, which had only just reopened, must have shut again. A pity. She’d been enjoying the break from Lyndall’s sulky presence. She called out, ‘Lyndall?’

‘No, it’s not Lyndall.’ Gavin’s voice. ‘Sorry, I assumed you’d be at work.’

She pulled on her skirt. What was Gavin doing there? And, as well, how come he’d kept her key? ‘I’m on the late shift.’ She came out of her bedroom to see him at the end of the corridor, standing by the door. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I brought you a present.’ He stepped to one side, to reveal someone standing directly behind him.

‘Jayden!’ She saw him, head lowered, shifting from one foot to the other, and even from the other end of the corridor she could see how filthy he was. ‘How great to have you back, safe and sound.’ She hurried down the corridor. ‘Lyndall’s going to be over the moon.’ She hugged him as best she could given he still wouldn’t raise his head. ‘Where have you been?’ He smelt awful.

No reply.

‘I tracked him down in Feltham,’ Gavin said. ‘They were holding him for alleged damage to a shop window. When I threatened to blow the whistle on them for keeping an underage boy without either informing his parents or giving him anywhere to wash, they got somebody to look at the CCTV footage. And guess what: the youth with face obscured who was caught on camera throwing a brick through a JD Sports window was wearing a black T-shirt, not a blue one like Jayden’s. So they let him out.’

‘Poor you. And they kept you without letting you call anyone?’ When Jayden still didn’t speak, she said, ‘Your mum will be so happy to have you back.’

Now at last he lifted his head. ‘I didn’t…’ he said. ‘I won’t…’ before dropping it again. He was trembling.

‘It’s okay, Jayden.’ This from Gavin, who gave the boy’s head a fatherly pat. ‘Go and have a shower. I’ll fill Cathy in.’

Having deposited a set of Lyndall’s clothes outside the bathroom, Cathy went to join Gavin in the lounge. He was standing in front of the open window, trying to cool himself in the breeze. ‘Except it’s like a hot fan,’ he said. ‘Apparently carrying in sand from the Sahara. That’s why our sunsets have been so spectacular.’ He touched the radiator below the window. ‘I see you finally got them to switch the heating off.’

‘I think the boiler just gave up the ghost,’ she said. ‘So what’s up with Jayden and his mother?’

‘They let him have two phone calls while he was inside. The first time, when he told her where he was, she said it served him right and hung up. The second time she slammed the phone down as soon as she heard him say hello. He’s furious. The closer we got to the Lovelace, the louder he kept insisting that he wouldn’t go back to her. Said if I made him, he really would pick up a brick and throw it through the nearest shop window. I would have taken him elsewhere, but he’s in a terrible state and there are roadblocks all over Rockham. I didn’t think he could have survived the tension of being questioned by the police on the way out as well in. So I brought him here. Hope that’s okay?’

‘Of course it is.’ The last thing she needed was someone else to worry about, but she knew Lyndall would never forgive her if she turned Jayden away. And, besides, she thought, given Lyndall’s continuing silence, it might be a relief to have Jayden as a buffer. ‘But we do have to let Elsie know he’s safe.’

‘I’ll do it. I’ll also threaten her with some of the things he told me about her behaviour — that should keep her away for a bit and buy him time to catch up on sleep. He was dropping off in the car.’

‘I’ll put him in Lyndall’s room. But I have to go to work this afternoon.’

‘Late shift? Not like you.’

‘All the others were too frightened to go home after dark.’

‘You’re a brave woman, Cathy Mason, living as you do in Riot Central.’

She smiled, thinking that she’d probably volunteered less out of bravery and more to buy some space between her and Lyndall. ‘And you’re a kind man, Gavin, to bother with Jayden.’

He said, ‘For you, Cathy…’

She shook her head and tapped him twice on the lips to stop him going on.

He gave a rueful smile.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, thinking that she would have to tell him what she had finally understood.

Which was the realisation that, despite Banji abandoning her, not once but twice, he was, and had always been, the only man for her.

11.35 a.m.

On any normal sunny day, St James’s Park would have been packed with Whitehall insiders crossing from one appointment to the next, and tourists meandering between Horse Guards Parade and Buckingham Palace, and pensioners lined up in rows of white deckchairs, heads tilted back the better to catch the sun. But now those who were brave enough to even face the outside were all cleaving to the shade. Which is why Peter and Frances had chosen one of the benches near the Blue Bridge overlooking the lake. That way they could be sure that nobody would come close enough to hear what they were saying.

‘Good of you to come out.’

‘Don’t be silly, Peter. Of course I would. I am your wife.’

He didn’t like the way she was looking at him. He averted his gaze, looking away from her and towards the lake. As he did so, one of the park’s white pelicans that had been by the water’s edge, seemingly asleep with its head folded under its wings, suddenly snapped to and, as he continued watching it, unrolled its neck to use its hooked bill to snatch up a pigeon that was just then passing by.

He’d heard of this happening, but in all his years in Parliament had never seen it.

‘Look at that.’

Although the pigeon was firmly clamped in the pelican’s beak, its grey feathers fluttered out of both edges of the bill as it struggled to get out.

The pelican lifted up its head and beak, and shook them, wobbling its neck, trying to force the pigeon further down the sac of its throat. The pigeon was still very much alive; its fight-back stretched the skin of the pelican’s gullet until it was almost translucent, with the dark outline of the smaller bird clearly visible. It was a ferocious fighter, and a horrified Peter found he couldn’t tear his gaze away as the pigeon succeeded in struggling back up the pelican’s gullet and into its beak, and for a moment it looked as if it might manage to get free. But as the pigeon’s wings quivered — it was trying to fly out — the pelican began to clap the two edges of its beak together, battering the pigeon. Having done this for a while, it shook its head, shaking its still living prey and pushing it down its gullet, this time far enough down so that the pelican could twist back its neck, resting it on its back feathers, which stopped the pigeon from climbing up. Having entrapped the pigeon in this fleshy U-bend, the pelican began to swallow convulsively, each jagged gulp forcing the pigeon, now unmoving, further down and, at last, into its stomach.

Peter was so hot, conscious of the sweat trickling down his back — he’d have to change his shirt again.

‘So why am I here?’ Frances’s voice pulled him back to the bench they were sharing. ‘What is it that you couldn’t tell me on the phone?’

He told her everything then that Patricia had told him. She listened with her gaze focused on the middle distance, across the water and towards the Eye. But when he had finished, she turned to face him full on. ‘It’s good.’ Her eyes were shining. ‘No, it isn’t just good. It’s great. Exactly what we were after. He’s finished.’

‘I’ll feed it to one of the lobby bods, then.’

A reproving shake of her head. ‘What? And let the world know that it was you who shopped him?’

‘Unattributed, of course.’

‘Come off it, Peter, you surely know that “unattributed”,’ hooking manicured fingers in the air to make quote signs, ‘is only for the public. It will take less than two hours for the entire Westminster village to know it was you. The Party will never forgive you.’ She looked away again, across the water and at the stationary Eye: ‘Why isn’t it moving?’

‘They had two mid-air collapses from heat exhaustion yesterday. They closed it to monitor the temperature in the pods.’

She turned back. Looked at him full on. ‘You’re going to have to talk to the PM. Make him see that he can’t wriggle out of this.’

He kicked himself for having let her say it before he could own up to himself that this, of course, is what he had to do.

He looked at the lake again where the pelican — he was sure it was the same one — was floating. As he watched, it lifted its wings, once, twice and then spread them, beating them against the air, and this had the effect of lifting its body, not far at first — its feet kept hitting the water, kicking up spray — but gradually gaining height until it was airborne and flying away across the water.

‘Hardly a pelican in all her piety,’ Frances said.

So she’d also seen the massacre of the pigeon.

‘Why couldn’t it have been satisfied with the fish the keepers give them?’

Frances shrugged. ‘Some animals prefer their food fresh.’ A pause and then: ‘I thought Patricia was only good for trying to get into your pants. Turns out she can also make it with a dead weight like Anil Chahda. Wonder how she managed to squeeze the ammunition out of him.’ She smiled. ‘Better get going for PMQs,’ she said. ‘His office will be in maximum flutter just beforehand: make your appointment then.’

12.10 p.m.

The PM as man of the hour.

Or so he clearly thought. He’d recently suffered a dismal set of PMQs but that was now reversed as the opposition competed with his own backbenchers to demonstrate their support and their approval. Look at him, this bullish man, who had recently seemed aged by office and the threats to his position, now standing straight and proud as he used the bass force of a growling voice to promise: ‘Not only will we support the police in using water cannons, if they need to, but this government has today suggested to the police authorities that the water be mixed with indelible chemicals that will later identify the wrongdoers. Our message is clear: anyone who goes out onto our streets with the intention of breaking the law will be marked by us and can expect to experience the full force of the law.’

‘Hear hear’ — that rumbled agreement — and Peter’s voice as enthusiastically supportive, ‘Hear, hear,’ and in accompaniment he nodded grimly, so that no one in the House or watching on TV would ever have guessed that inside he was beaming.

The metronome that had been plaguing him for the past few days now proved itself to be the countdown to the Prime Minister’s demise. Frances was right: with what Patricia had found out, the PM would have no option but to resign. I’ve got you, he thought, I’ve got you, even as he watched the Prime Minister riding happily at the head of a House in full cry.

‘As to the suggestion by my Honourable Friend,’ the PM was saying, ‘that to resolve the overcrowding in our police stations we corral rioters in Wembley Stadium, I say that although I, along with all my Honourable Friends, would prefer to see our great sportsmen and women in the stadium, I will, if needs be, give serious consideration to this suggestion.’

‘Hear, hear,’ and Peter as well calling it loudly, ‘Hear, hear,’ and nodding to emphasise his agreement and in time to the internal ticking of that clock, as he thought, time’s up, Prime Minister, time’s up.

When the PM sat down beside him, he could feel heat radiating off the man.

Tick, tick, while one of their backbenchers responded to his name by keeping on his feet and asking, ‘Could the Prime Minister tell us what plans he has to hold errant parents of underage minors to account for their children’s behaviour?’

Well done, Peter thought, couldn’t be better. He’d remember the favour and repay it once he was in charge.

When the PM went to the box, standing with his back to Peter, Peter almost seemed to see a noose drawing round the strained sinews of that bullish neck.

‘My Honourable Friend,’ the PM was saying, ‘is correct in saying that parents whose children threaten to bring this great nation to its knees should be held to account. We cannot tolerate a culture of neglect that glorifies thuggish behaviour and disrespects the rule of law. It is for this reason that we are drafting regulations that will allow magistrates to impose fines and, if necessary in extreme cases, prison sentences on parents who should be, and will be, held responsible for the behaviour of their underage children.’

Noose tightened, which was almost evident in the PM’s heightened colour as, accompanied by a chorus of agreement, he sat down again, turning to Peter, a smile on his face as if to say, see, I can do it, and better than you — in response to which Peter fed a hearty ‘Well done, Prime Minister’ into his leader’s ear while all the time thinking, come two o’clock at Downing Street and you will discover just how thoroughly you have cooked your own goose.

2.35 p.m.

In the time that Peter had been sitting outside the Cabinet Office he had heard the clip of footsteps passing along the many corridors of Downing Street, and he’d heard doors opening and doors closing and snatches of conversation in between. Big Ben, which had tolled the hour as he’d climbed the stairs, had also rung out the fifteen and thirty minutes past the hour, this forward movement of time reinforced by the ticking of the grandfather clock that stood in the lobby. But now everything, save for the sound of the clock and the beating of his heart, was quiet.

The cheek of the PM to keep his Home Secretary waiting so long — a power play, no doubt, which demonstrated, if any further demonstration were needed, how bad things were between them. So petty, though — unworthy of a man in power.

Well, at least if Peter had been nursing doubts about what he was about to do, this helped dispose of them. Thirty-five minutes and counting was designed to drive him into a rage. Not that he would be so driven. He would bide his time. Think of something else.

He thought about Patricia, outside in the car (she’d earned that privilege). He wondered how she was finding the wait. And then, without meaning to, he found himself thinking about Frances’s question as to how Patricia had managed to get the ammunition that he needed.

No — don’t think of that.

He heard a voice raised, presumably in jest because the response was laughter.

So long since he had laughed with Frances. With Patricia on the other hand…

‘Home Secretary?’

‘Yes?’ When had this functionary of the PM’s office appeared?

‘The PM will see you now.’

Time. Head high, he walked through the now open door.

The Prime Minister was at his usual place in the Cabinet room with his chair at its usual angle to the table to distinguish it from the other chairs, even though there was no one else sitting there. Hearing Peter coming in, he raised his bullish head, and said, ‘Peter,’ without a smile or a hint of an apology for having kept him waiting. ‘I hear you came in through the back door?’ And now a sly grin. ‘Not like you to miss a photo opportunity.’

‘70 Whitehall seemed the more appropriate entry point.’ He stood, because the Prime Minister hadn’t offered him a seat, and looked down the room, beyond the columns to the other end where the PM’s Press Secretary was standing, arms akimbo, glowering, his thin face looking even thinner and full of menace.

‘So?’ The Prime Minister’s voice drew him back. ‘Have you come to tell me to my face what is already public — that you’re launching a challenge?’ The Prime Minister narrowed his hooded eyes.

‘No.’ Peter shook his head. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’

He might as well not have said anything.

‘Your disloyalty takes the breath away,’ the Prime Minister went on. ‘I gave you the Home Office against the advice of almost everybody in the Party. Some of your Cabinet colleagues said you weren’t ready, some said you didn’t know what loyalty was, and others just hate your guts. Well, turns out they had reason. I helped you to grow into the role, backed you when you needed backing. I made you, and you have paid me back by trying to unseat me. Well, let me warn you,’ one finger wagged in the air as if he were a school teacher, ‘I might have made you, but I can also break you.’

To hector like this and in front of his malevolent Press Secretary — it was unconscionable.

And simultaneously fortunate, because it cleared Peter of any last vestiges of conscience at what he was about to do.

‘Step out of line one more time,’ the Prime Minister said, ‘and I’ll fuck you up, good and proper.’

The cheek of the man. And the hubris. ‘I don’t think you’re in a position to do that, Prime Minister. Not after the public find out what you’ve been up to.’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘Actually, Prime Minister,’ he looked pointedly at the glowering Press Secretary, ‘this is for your ears only.’

A flickering exchange of glances between the PM and his Press Secretary, who shook his head almost imperceptibly, a signal that either Peter had misread or his boss decided to ignore. In one of those lightning changes of moods for which the Prime Minister was renowned, he got to his feet and said, ‘Let’s go out onto the terrace. I could do with some air. And if you wouldn’t mind, Martin,’ another quick glance in his Press Secretary’s direction, ‘ask someone to rustle us up some tea.’

The walled half acre at the back of Number 10 was a sorry sight, with the box hedge that lined the terrace so spiked and yellowed it looked dead, and the lawn so dry that it blended into the paths that ran through the garden and up to trees whose leaves were wilting.

‘Met Office keeps promising rain.’ The Prime Minister sipped at his tea. ‘But at this point, it’s difficult to place much trust in anything they say.’ He put down his cup so firmly it rattled the saucer. ‘Impossible in your case as well. You know I was planning to stand down after the election. If you’d played your cards right, you might have been my heir apparent. But you’ve pushed and pushed and driven the Party into disarray.’

‘What I’ve done,’ Peter said, ‘has been out of loyalty to the Party.’

‘Oh, give me a break.’ A hollow laugh. ‘You wouldn’t know what loyalty was if it came and slapped you in the face. If you had even an ounce of it in your body, you’d have got your allies to pull together with the rest of the Party. That’s what’s needed more than anything in a time of heat and riot, never mind the coming election.’

‘I couldn’t agree more, Prime Minister.’ He was suddenly parched. He took up his cup and gulped at his tea. ‘There’s a year to go before the election, and we need to unify. But we can’t do it with you at our head. Not after what you’ve done.’

‘Enough, Peter. I’m bored with this. Spit out what you’ve come to say and then leave me in peace to get on with the real work of governing the country.’

Peter set his cup carefully down. ‘If we lose the next election, we could end up in the cold for a decade or more. That’s why I challenged you.’ He swallowed — why couldn’t they have brought water with the tea? ‘I would have preferred a clean contest. Given how many of our parliamentarians are frightened for their seats, I was confident of my chances. I certainly had enough support to trigger an election, something which your campaign managers must also have told you.’ He licked his lips, feeling how shredded they were with dried skin. ‘But,’ he said, sitting back, ‘we can no longer afford a contest. You cannot continue in office. You have to go. For the sake of the Party. And for your own sake.’

‘Have to, do I?’ His mocking smile stretched from ear to ear. ‘Why is that?’

‘Because of your son. Because of Teddy.’

A blink, just one, as the PM held himself otherwise perfectly still. ‘Go on.’ Softly said.

‘This is what I know. What everybody might soon know. Teddy was recently stopped by the police for driving under the influence. A breathalyser showed him to be over the legal limit. He was also in possession of a small quantity of marijuana. I assume you know all about this?’

Nothing. Not even a blink this time. As if this man was made of stone.

‘He was arrested and taken to the police station, where he was given a blood test that confirmed the breathalyser result. He was cautioned and let go. A report was made with a view to charging him.’

Another ‘Go on,’ even softer.

‘The paperwork concerning Teddy’s arrest should have been passed on to the CPS, who would have charged him — as they always do in cases of drink driving.’

‘So Teddy got himself into trouble. It happens.’

‘Yes, it happens. But what doesn’t usually happen is that the arrest record then goes missing.’

‘Has Teddy’s?’

He nodded. Said, ‘It has, Prime Minister,’ thinking, as you know full well.

‘Are you suggesting that I disposed of a police file?’

‘I’m only telling you what I know. And what I know is that the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Joshua Yares, asked his deputy, Anil Chahda, to pull the records that covered the evening when and the area where Teddy was arrested. Deputy Commissioner Chahda did as he was instructed and, curious as to why a new Commissioner would bother himself with such an ordinary log of arrests, examined it before forwarding it on. Teddy’s name leapt out at him, as of course it would. The Deputy Commissioner assumed that Yares had asked for the log so that he could deal with this delicate situation himself, and he expected soon to be informed of the matter. But when Commissioner Yares returned the log, without comment, Chahda saw that the record of Teddy’s arrest had been excised.’

‘He saw that, did he?’ The Prime Minister stretched an arm across the fence that lined the terrace and snapped a twig off the box hedge. He broke it in half before dropping the pieces into his tea, which he then set aside. ‘And what does this have to do with me?’

‘Well, that’s where things become a little muddy. From where I’m standing, and having been informed of Yares’s recent secret visit to Number 10 — he came in through the back door just like me — I would hazard a guess that you told Yares about Teddy’s arrest and asked him to destroy the file.’

‘And if I were to assure you that I did not?’

‘Then, Prime Minister, I would have to believe you. But that wouldn’t disappear your problem. Commissioner Yares was chosen by you and in the face of my strong opposition. He is also known to be a personal friend of yours. He’s an intimate of your wife. He’s Teddy’s godfather. And now, after less than a week in office, he has used his position to break the law so as to benefit your family. Whether the commission of inquiry — I’m sure there will have to be one — or, for that matter, the man in the street, decides that Yares acted on your orders or destroyed the record off his own bat, Yares still remains your man and Teddy your son. I cannot see how you can survive this. Especially after your homily on parental responsibility at this morning’s PMQs, never mind your recent and rather odd take on the legalisation of street drugs.’

Another reptilian blink. Rumour had it that the third was a sign that he was preparing to eat you. ‘So is it your idea now to throw me to the wolves?’

‘Not me, Prime Minister. But the situation will.’

‘I won’t go down without a fight. You know that, don’t you?’

‘You’ve had a shock. You’ll need to think about this. But from where I stand, this is what it looks like: although you may end up exonerating yourself in the short and medium term, the headlines will be punitive. The press will bleed you, and they will bleed your family, digging up any and every piece of dirt they can find and twisting it to make it seem worse. It will wound you, and there isn’t a political party that will keep on a wounded leader — remember Thatcher and Blair — especially in the run-up to a poll.’

‘You may be right.’ The Prime Minister nodded as if this was a minor point he was acceding to. ‘It might finish me. But it will finish you as well. Nobody likes an assassin.’

Frances’s point as well. Peter nodded.

Which seemed to invigorate the PM. ‘Especially one who operates with such blatant self-interest,’ he said. ‘Once the faithful find out that it’s your doing, any chance of your becoming leader will vanish.’

‘Perhaps it will.’ Peter shrugged.

That sound again.

Tick, tick.

‘I’m willing to take that risk.’

Tick, tick.

‘If, that is, you choose to play hard ball.’

‘I see.’ And there, that third blink. ‘Am I right in supposing that you have a different game plan?’

‘I have a proposal, yes’ — the bait laid — ‘that would spare the Party and spare you.’

‘How very loyal of you.’

His turn to respond with a blink. Tick, tick. And if the Prime Minister didn’t take the bait?

‘So what is this proposal?’

Bait taken. Now to close the trap. ‘You step down.’ He was still extremely thirsty. He eyed the pot. But the tea would by now be over-brewed and cold. And besides, it wouldn’t do to have a trembling hand picking it up. ‘Give family reasons: everybody knows your wife hates this life and that your son needs you.’

‘Bit trite, don’t you think?’

‘We could come up with an illness, if you’d rather. Something recoverable from but which would prevent you leading the country in the run-up to the election.’

‘I see. And then?’

‘Whatever happens, Yares has to go. Better to off him now, before anybody gets wind of the scandal.’

‘Another illness? You think anybody would buy that?’

‘No, not an illness. A resignation. Perhaps the riots — which he has clearly not controlled — which have brought to his attention that this is not the job for him. Since he won’t want anybody to find out the real reason he has to go, we’ll have his silence. We could sugar the pill with a knighthood — rumours are that this is the main reason he took the job.’

The Prime Minister nodded. ‘He does want that K.’

‘We then make Chahda Acting Commissioner, with the guarantee that if he continues to perform we will confirm the appointment as permanent. I know Anil a little and so I know how loyal he is to the police service and to the government of the day. I’m confident he can be persuaded, for the sake of the Met, not to pursue the business of the altered record.’

‘Meanwhile you step into the breach and into Number 10?’

‘That would be for the Party to decide.’

‘But if I were to go quietly, and if we were to publicly bury the hatchet, that wouldn’t harm your chances, would it?’

‘That of course is entirely up to you, Prime Minister.’

‘I see.’ The PM, who had rested his right hand on the table, now began to drum his fingers rapidly against the hard surface. It was something he would do at moments of high tension during Cabinet meetings and which Peter had learnt to ignore, for to look at those fingers was to see how fast they moved and to be mesmerised by them.

A pause.

‘How many people know about this?’ before the drum roll started up again.

‘Apart from myself, only Chahda.’ No point in complicating things by bringing Patricia into this. ‘And Frances, naturally, but she is discretion itself.’

The hand lifted off to hover above the surface of the table. ‘I guess she learnt that from her father.’ The hand dropped down and, as if to balance it, the Prime Minister drew himself up until he was ramrod straight: ‘You suggested I think about this. I’d like to. I propose twenty-four hours to sound out my wife and so forth. Does that seem fair?’

Which would give time for Peter to get more of his ducks in a row. ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’

For a man facing the imminent end of a political career, the Prime Minister was surprisingly nimble. Now he jumped up, saying, ‘Our work here is done,’ and went over to the glass doors to pull them open and say to someone in the room, ‘Show the Home Secretary out, will you? And get my office to liaise with his to fix an appointment for his return,’ glancing at his watch, ‘at around 2.55 p.m. tomorrow. And, tomorrow, let’s not keep him waiting. After you, Peter.’

As Peter stepped through the doorway, the PM continued barking out instructions. ‘Get someone to make an appointment for the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police to come and see me. Not now. Later. I’m feeling rather queasy. Probably the endless burgers the President insists on. Cancel my appointments for today; the urgent ones I’ll do by phone. I’ll go to Chequers, where my wife is, and work from there.’

The contrast between the dark interior and the bright blaze of sunlight as Peter stepped through the back door was so great that his vision blurred. As he paused, waiting for it to clear, he heard a car door opening and then someone running towards him.

Patricia was almost upon him before he realised that it was her. What was she doing, running, practically into his arms, in public and in the full light of day?

She shoved a mobile phone at him. ‘Put it to your ear. Anybody watching will assume it’s an urgent call.’

The thought of someone watching made him look up. In time to see a curtain that had been shifted aside, shifted back. Too quickly for him to be sure, but he thought it might have been the Prime Minister.

‘How did it go? I’m dying to know.’

He took the phone and at the same time took a few steps back. ‘You’ve got to be more careful.’

She was still smiling. ‘I will,’ she said, ‘I promise. But aren’t you going to tell me?’

He owed her: his victory was hers as well. (What had she done?) He lifted the phone to his ear.

‘Tell me, tell me.’ She was almost jumping up and down in her excitement.

What a child she was. ‘I’ve given him a day before I go public. He’s going to crumble. I could see it in his blinking face.’ He lowered his hand.

‘Well done, Peter. Well done.’ When she came closer to take the phone, he smelt that unfamiliar scent again. (What had she done?)

‘I need to get back to work,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off?’

10 p.m.

Rockham seemed abnormally subdued as Cathy began her walk home from the station. At least this time she hadn’t had to answer questions — where are you going? Where have you come from? Who have you seen? — as she had done when she had left the area. Perhaps that’s why it was so quiet: although the roadblocks had been removed, everybody was probably still too frightened to show their faces. A relief, therefore, that Jayden was keeping Lyndall company at home.

Her route took her past the back entrance of the police station where a double line of riot police stood, their faces paled by fluorescent light and blued by a rising moon. Their numbers had increased since she’d been at work, for there were also vans parked along the street — most of them full of police. Behind the vans were a couple of what at first she mistook for builders’ trucks.

Eyes on her as she passed by and burning into her back as she kept on. She could hear voices too soft for her to figure out what was being said, and then she heard doors opening and doors closing and footsteps. She stopped and looked behind her.

A group of police, there must have been at least twenty of them, had formed themselves into two snaking lines and were making their way up the middle of the road, straight towards her. They were coming fast. She backed herself against a wall.

A disturbance in the air, a hot dry wind created by the thudding past of the phalanx of police. Each was carrying a shield in one hand while using the other to whip the air with a baton. There was the burble of a radio, abruptly cut off as they ran. Behind them trundled the small trucks, which, she now saw, did not belong to any builder. The one in front had a nozzle sticking out of its white metallic roof — it must be a water cannon — while the other had two attachments: an excavator’s scoop instead of a bumper and what looked like a mobile crane behind its cab. As it went by, she saw the logo of the Metropolitan Police painted on its side, and then it rounded the corner onto the High Street.

It was very dark. And quiet save for the footfalls of the police and the trundling forward of the vehicles.

This wasn’t her business. She should go home via the back streets. Watch whatever it was that was about to kick off from the safety of her sofa.

She did not go back.

Rounding the corner, she could see a flash of red that she took for the brake lights of one of the trucks. As she was trying to figure out why it had stopped, she tripped. She was pitched forwards, grabbing for the burglar bars of a shop window to stop herself from falling.

Upright again, she looked back to see what had tripped her up. She could just about make out the outline of an empty crate that someone must have left outside the shop. She hadn’t seen it before because, although the rising moon was by now high enough to soften the night, the street was unlit.

A power cut? She peered through the darkness to where the police were regrouping. Such military precision and all in silence. She must get out of there.

She turned; she must go back. But then she saw how a fresh contingent of police had rounded the corner and were heading straight for her. If she didn’t get out of the way, she’d end up sandwiched between the two.

Just ahead and to the right there was a side street. She’d go there, she decided, find sanctuary in one of the flats above the shops. But when she drew abreast of the side street she found that it was blocked by a further line of police. They held their shields up and so close packed that there was no space for her to slip through.

She was trapped. She approached the line. ‘I live in the Lovelace,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way home from work. Could you let me through?’

The policeman whom she’d addressed stared straight ahead. As if she wasn’t there.

‘Could you?’

‘I’m sorry, madam,’ he was speaking softly and out of the side of his mouth. ‘You’ll have to wait.’

Wait. For what?

No sooner had the question occurred than the dark was lifted by the simultaneous switching on of the street lights and a blaze of something much brighter than any street light could ever be. She turned to look.

The first police had formed themselves into a line that stretched the width of the High Street and blocked it. Ahead, an unoccupied section of the road was lit by a dazzling beam from the top of one of the trucks. One hundred yards further on was a different barricade, this one forged not from uniforms but from shopping trolleys, old doors and bricks and pieces of wood. Behind this barricade were knots of young people. Quiet and still. Expectant. Waiting for the next move.

It came in the form of a policeman in a peaked hat, who detached himself from the line-up of his colleagues and began to move towards the barricades. He was met by a barrage of stones, all dropping to the ground in the area in front of him. He stopped and raised his megaphone: ‘This is a final warning. Go home or we will arrest you for obstruction of the public highway.’

Another barrage that also fell short.

The policeman turned and made his way back towards the line of his shielded colleagues, who parted to let him through. Or at least that’s what Cathy thought they were doing, but the gap they had created was much wider than one man would ever have needed and, besides, he had already stepped onto the pavement.

Engines started up, and then both trucks began moving through the gap and beyond it, heading for the crowd. Behind them the line of police re-formed and started walking forward, slowly, in their wake.

A fresh bombardment from behind the barricade, lit now by the bright light. As the trucks moved forward, more projectiles flew, a hard rain that thudded down on the metallic scoop on the truck in front. The truck stopped, engine still revving. The second truck lined up beside it. A moment’s pause and then a powerful jet of water shot through the nozzle of the water cannon to hit the barricade, sending pieces of masonry and wood flying.

There was a further inching forward of both trucks, so that the next shooting jet of water reached the crowd. One man in front took the full force of the water that pushed him over, and spun him round, and kept tossing him as he scrabbled, arms out, trying to find something to hold on to. Seeing what was happening to him, his companions ran from the hard spray that still kept hitting out, at the same time as both trucks were moving forward until they reached the barricade and, with the water cannon still firing onto what now looked like an empty section of the road, the shovel of the companion lorry smashed straight through the line of shopping trolleys.

11.30 p.m.

Joshua’s car crunched around the Chequers’ driveway and drew up outside the house, which looked to be in total darkness. But as he got out of the car, the door opened and the Prime Minister himself emerged. Another sign as to the urgency of the summons, now reinforced by an accusatory ‘You took your time’ from the Prime Minister.

‘There was trouble in Rockham,’ Joshua said.

‘When isn’t there?’ The PM’s frown turned into a glower. ‘You’ve got to get a grip, you know.’

Yes, I know, Joshua thought and said: ‘I trust you’re feeling better, Prime Minister?’

‘Better?’

‘I heard that you were ill.’

‘Oh that.’ The Prime Minister sighed. ‘No, I’m not ill. But, no, I am also not feeling better.’ He looked at Joshua’s driver: ‘Take the car round the back. Someone will show you where to wait,’ and then, to Joshua: ‘Let’s walk.’

He turned on his heel, leading Joshua away from the house and the formal gardens, striding down the long drive and through the gates, all the time remaining silent. His only words, ‘We’re fine on our own,’ were addressed to the policeman who made a move to accompany them. He continued on, briskly, over a field and up by the side of an electrified fence, his shoes crunching against the parched ground as he made for Coombe Hill.

The moon was full and it lit the ploughed fields around them, the nearest of which, Joshua could see, had almost turned to dust. The night had brought with it little relief, hot air seeming to rise up, so it was almost as if they were walking over a thin crust of volcanic earth.

Not that the Prime Minister seemed to notice. He kept up a brisk pace, still without a word, his bullish head down and his shoulders rounded as if he were trying to shield himself from something unpleasant. And then, abruptly, and for no apparent reason, he stopped.

‘Look at that.’ He was pointing above Coombe Hill and at a full moon over which layers of red and orange mist seemed to be drifting. ‘Eerie, isn’t it?’ the Prime Minister said. ‘They say it’s an optical illusion caused by the light passing through the Saharan dust in our atmosphere. Given that there is not even a puff of wind to blow in a single cloud, it’s a mystery how half of the Sahara managed to make its way here. A red moon: a sign of strife to come. Which, speaking of,’ and only now did he look at Joshua, ‘what the hell is going on in Rockham?’

‘We had to go in hard,’ Joshua said, ‘to find the missing officer, and this has inflamed an already tense situation. Come nightfall, gangs of youths, many of them from outside the area, set up roadblocks. We couldn’t let them turn Rockham into a no-go area, so we had to go in even harder. We used water cannon — not something I wanted to do, but we had no choice. It was a well-planned and properly executed operation, and it worked. Rockham is quiet and the blockages have been removed. But we had to deploy so many resources to the area, other parts of London have suffered. It’s a setback. It’s going to take another couple of days to fully restore order.’

‘Did you at least find your man?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘Jesus, Joshua. If you don’t get control soon, we’re going to have to call in the army.’

‘Before it comes to that, every single police officer, no matter what their rank, up to and including me, will be out on the streets.’

‘Every other officer maybe.’ In the pause that followed, Joshua saw how the Prime Minister’s gaze seemed to catch fire, the whites of his eyes turning almost as red as the moon. ‘But as for you…’ Another pause and then, ‘You know you were my choice for Commissioner, Joshua, and you know I fought with my Home Secretary, who was spoiling for a public ruck, to get you in. But no sooner did you take up the post than the whole bloody world explodes.’ The Prime Minister, who had almost been spitting in his fury, swallowed, stood silent for a moment, blinked once and then continued, in a quieter voice, ‘Let me correct that last: it’s not the whole world, just the world that you are supposed to be in command of. While the copycats in other cities have been subdued, London is still in uproar. Instead of restoring order, your men are stirring up even more trouble by looking for a bastard who clearly should never have been in the police force, never mind running around on his own.’

Was this why he’d been summoned all the way to Chequers — so that the Prime Minister could read him the riot act? Something he could easily have done on the phone?

He didn’t think it could be, not in the middle of a riot.

Silence, into which the Prime Minister blinked again, and after that Joshua heard rustling that he at first took to be the wind. But the night was hot and still, and a series of high mewling whistles soon told him that the sound was birds.

‘Red kites,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘There are scores of them roosting in the woods over there.’ He sighed.

‘Something you want to tell me, Simon?’

The use of his Christian name brought back the Prime Minister’s gaze. A series of blinks: once, twice and for a third time. No anger in his expression now, only a sort of sad neutrality as he shook his head. ‘It will have to wait. Just a warning: look to your own, Joshua. Not all of them are on your side. Come on, let’s get going.’ And with that, and not another word, the Prime Minister led the way back.