Ten Days

3 a.m

Peter lay on his back listening to the soft rise and fall of Frances’s breaths and wishing he was likewise asleep. But every time he closed his eyes, an image of the death struggle of the pigeon combined with another that he would rather not imagine filled his mind’s eye.

Enough. Counting the plaster flowers that spiralled through the ceiling architraves, lovingly restored under Frances’s supervision when they had first moved in, might lull him to sleep. He’d give it a try, starting at the opposite corner of the room and working his way round.

He looked towards the right-hand corner. It was too far away for him to make out many details. Come to think of it, the only reason he could see even as much as he could was because there was a street light glinting through a gap in the heavy curtains. Not that this was stopping him from going to sleep, but now that he was aware of it, he’d not be able to let it pass.

He slipped from the bed and padded quietly over to the window.

As he reached up to pull the curtains to, he caught a glimpse of something red, and when he parted the curtains to try to work out what it was, he saw a full moon over whose surface floated a bloodshot mist. He snapped the curtains tight shut and made his way through the darkness into bed.

He waited for his breath to calm before he carefully pulled at the sheet that Frances had wound around herself, at which point she spoke.

‘What are you going to do if he calls your bluff?’

‘I’m sorry, darling. Did I wake you?’

‘I wasn’t asleep. What will we do?’

‘He won’t. He can’t. Chahda’s solid.’

(Hoping this was true, and on the wings of this hope, seeing that same distasteful image. Stop it. Enough. Answer Frances.)

‘The PM can disown Yares,’ he said. ‘I’m pretty sure he already has.’

(Chahda must be solid: hadn’t he told Patricia of Yares’s abrupt departure for Chequers?)

‘But that won’t let the PM off the hook,’ he said.

‘Don’t underestimate him. He’s a doughty fighter.’

Not like her to have misgivings. ‘Don’t worry, darling.’ He reached out a hand, which she took.

He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed his back. And yawned.

‘Tired?’

‘Mmm.’ She yawned again.

‘I’m so sorry. I’m disturbing you.’

She muttered something that he couldn’t quite make out. ‘I beg your pardon?’

She said, more clearly, ‘Sleeping pills in the cabinet. Or brandy might help.’

‘Thanks, darling.’ And he did need sleep. ‘I’ll try one or both. And so that I don’t keep you up, I’ll sleep elsewhere.’

Another inaudible comment as she wound the sheet more completely around herself.

He took the sleeping pills from the bathroom cabinet and then downstairs, belt and braces, poured himself a large brandy.

There were other bedrooms in the house, but on the occasions when he couldn’t sleep, he always liked to go to Charles’s. Something comforting about the almost monastic feel of the room, combined with its dinosaur curtains (which Frances really should soon change).

He was tired. He needed sleep. He chased a sleeping pill down with a slug of brandy. Squeezed himself into the bottom bunk. Closed his eyes. And saw those two images again: the first of the pigeon struggling to free itself from the pelican beak and, superimposed on that, a great bear of a man crying out as he entered Patricia.

7 a.m.

The light filtering through the thin curtains told Peter that he must have overslept, although, without his watch, he had no idea of the time. His head was hurting. Looking forward to clearing it with a long cold shower, he climbed out of the narrow bunk and made his way back to the master bedroom. There the drawn curtains had kept the room dark. And quiet. Frances must still be sleeping to the sound of someone outside who was clipping a hedge.

Except, he realised, the sound was coming not from outside but from inside the room. Odd. He peered through the gloom. And saw Frances not only awake but also out of bed. She was sitting on the carpet surrounded by what seemed to be a heap of clothes. He clicked on the light.

They were clothes — his clothes — and the sound that he could still hear was Frances, who, head bent, was cutting them.

‘What are you up to?’

She held up a pair of his trousers. One of his black pairs.

‘They don’t need repairing.’

‘They didn’t,’ she poked one hand through the hole she must have just made in the crotch, ‘but they do now.’

Had she gone mad? He crossed the room, intending to take the scissors from her, but before he could get close, she was on her feet and stabbing the scissors in his direction.

She knows, he thought. Said, ‘Frances. Darling.’

‘Fuck you.’ Her blue eyes blazed from a face that normally pale was dark red as, still jabbing the scissors, she advanced on him. ‘I warned you.’

He was slowed down by sleep. At the very least, he was going to end up badly cut.

‘I told you what I would do.’

He was closer to the bathroom than to the landing. He backed away and then, when she began to run at him, the dog now yapping at her heels, he turned and also ran, straight into the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of the scissors stabbing down as he banged the door shut. When he drew the bolt, they hit the door so hard they made it shake.

She wouldn’t have enough strength to stab through the wood. Would she? He stepped away from the door.

Silence. He checked that the bolt was securely in place.

She must know, he thought, but who could have told her? And then he thought that the Frances he knew so well would never have threatened violence. This had to be a dream. He glanced at the bath and saw that it was blue.

Definitely a dream from which he would soon awake. In the meantime, he was sweating. He went over to the basin to wet his face, after which he held his wrists under the running water.

The sound of something being dragged.

Back at the door, he pressed his ear against the wood. He thought he could hear Frances’s hard-won breaths, but they might have been his.

Footsteps — and her voice, ‘Come on girl,’ and then he assumed that the soft click he heard was the door being closed.

He stood, quietly.

No further sound, or at least none that he could hear. He switched off the tap and went back to put an ear against the door. Still nothing. He started counting and only after he had got to fifty did he call out, ‘Frances?’

No answer.

He tried again: ‘Frances?’

It was possible that she was still there and if he came out she’d launch a fresh attack. But he was properly awake by now (this was no dream), and if she did he would close the door on her arm.

Holding his breath, he used his left hand to carefully draw back the bolt while with his right he held the door against the door jamb. Then slowly, slowly and inch by inch he opened the door.

She wasn’t there, not that he could see. But something else was. He opened the door a fraction wider and saw that she had dragged her dressing table across the room so as to stop him coming out. He called again: ‘Frances?’

When still she did not reply, he decided to risk the room.

He’d either have to push the dressing table out of the way, which would be noisy and might fetch her back, or else he needed to crouch down and climb under. Not very dignified, but in this situation to hell with dignity. Having said ‘Frances’ one more time — although by now he was pretty sure she wasn’t there — he widened the opening of the door before getting down onto his hands and knees and crawling through.

The room was empty.

Thank heavens for small mercies.

He looked at the devastation she had left behind, with what appeared to be his entire wardrobe scattered about. When he picked through the pieces, he saw that she had attacked every one of his trousers, in some cases severing the legs, while his shirts were splattered with blue ink that was now beginning to leak onto the carpet.

For the house-proud Frances to have done that, she had to know. Someone must have told her.

His dressing gown was hanging in its usual place on the back of the door. When he tried to put it on, however, he discovered that it had also been shredded. Turned into a tattered shawl. No other option but to go down in his pyjamas.

What if she were waiting for him on the landing? And what if she attacked again? He cast around for something with which to defend himself. He could only see her hairbrush, so he grabbed that.

No one on the landing. He tiptoed across and to the stairs. Nothing. And down. Still nothing.

But he could soon hear the burble of a radio coming from the kitchen. No other choice but to brave her there. Big breath in and then he strode across the hall and wrenched open the door.

What he saw almost convinced him that this must be a dream.

She was at the table drinking tea — a familiar sight of many years duration — with a neat pile of newspapers awaiting his perusal. She was dressed in her pale-blue frock, the one he particularly liked and which showed off her figure to best advantage. Her hair was coiffed and smooth.

She clicked the radio off. Looked up. Said, ‘What are you doing with my brush?’

And a weird dream as well. He put the brush down on the nearest counter. ‘What time is it?’

‘Time for you to see the PM,’ she said. ‘His office has been ringing.’

He looked to the counter where the phone usually was.

‘They were so annoyingly persistent,’ she said, ‘that I threw the house phone into the garden. Do apologise, when you have the chance, to the policeman I almost brained. Not that turfing it out gave me much peace,’ she continued, ‘because they then kept trying your mobile. And so,’ she shrugged, ‘I fear I was a little rough.’ She glanced down to where his phone, back off, glass smashed, was lying at her feet. The dog, who was also there, raised her head and barked.

‘Shhh.’ She pushed the dog’s head down.

The dog convinced him: he was awake. ‘What’s going on?’

‘And still he keeps on with the charade.’ She said this not to him but past him, as if there was somebody behind him.

He whirled round. There was no one there.

‘Try the papers,’ she said.

They were on the table, just by her right elbow. He didn’t trust that she wouldn’t pounce, so he stood away from the table as he snatched them up. In doing so, he knocked her cup over.

She sat and watched it fall. ‘That’s not going to do your phone much good,’ she said as the cup broke, spilling tea.

She got up.

He flinched.

She gave a derisive little sniff. ‘You’re not worth it.’ And went to put the kettle on.

He didn’t trust his legs, so he sank down to the floor. Picked up a paper.

Not a dream. A nightmare. The front page, which for the last six days had been filled with images of rioting, now consisted of a banner headline — ‘Home Affairs’ — and two photographs. The first featured him and Patricia walking side by side out of his office, while in the second their heads were close together, unmistakeably moving in for a kiss. No further text save for an instruction to turn to a centrefold, which, when he pulled the pages apart, he saw was filled with more of the same, including a photo of his hand on Patricia’s bottom.

‘They say they also have you in flagrante,’ Frances said, ‘although they haven’t printed those. Saving them for the net, I expect.’

‘Home Secretary Plays Away', he read on the next paper in the pile.

‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘Your dream of making it to every front page has finally come true.’

He felt heat rising. And nausea, which he swallowed down. He was ruined. And by his wife. ‘How could you?’

‘How could,’ she paused so as better to stress her final, ‘I?’

‘You sent those pictures to the gutter press.’

‘And have my humiliation played out in public? Why would I do that?’

‘To get revenge.’

‘If you think that I, of all people, would do that publicly, then you understand me even less than I thought. So listen to me: I did not send those photographs to the tabloids. I hadn’t even seen them before Ann phoned to warn me.’

‘You saw them the other day.’

‘I saw some. I showed those to you. These are different: proof that you lied even when you could have, when you should have, told me the truth.’ She got a cup out of the cupboard above the kettle and put it down on the counter so roughly it was a wonder that it didn’t break. She turned her head to pin him with a fearsome glare. ‘But why not go on worrying about who did this to you rather than what you’ve done to me? And to your son.’

His breath caught in his throat. ‘Does Charlie know?’

‘I have told the school to hide the papers and block the web. But some kind soul is bound to find a way to fill him in.’

He winced, thinking about the sniggers that poor Charlie would have to endure. But no time for that right now. ‘So you didn’t send them?’

‘Is that all you can think about?’

He remembered then that gaze from Downing Street. ‘This must be the PM’s doing.’

‘Forced you into bed with her, did he?’ She poured out water from the kettle into a cup.

‘He did it to ruin me.’

'Whereas you, you whiner,’ she pulled the tea bag out and dropped it on the counter, ‘you did it just to get your leg over.’

When she picked up the cup, he saw that she was trembling. So much so that when she lifted it, she didn’t manage to get it anywhere near her mouth. In her juddered breaths he could hear her effort to keep her composure. She put the cup down.

Seeing her head lowered, he felt the first twinges of a terrible regret. ‘I’m so sorry.’

She stood, head bent.

‘If I could undo it.’

She was as still as a statue.

He went up to her. Put his arms around her.

She did not reject the move but neither did she relax into his embrace.

He knew her so well he could feel the effort it cost her not to.

‘I’m sorry.’ He stroked her forehead, pushing soft strands of hair behind her ear.

She reached up, grabbed the hand and twisted back his thumb.

‘Ouch.’

She kept on twisting it.

‘Stop it, Frances.’ His effort to get away had him almost on his knees. ‘Stop it. You’re hurting me.’

She let go so abruptly that he did drop down.

‘For God’s sake.’ As he raised himself up, he spotted a face at the window. It was a policeman peering in to see what the noise was about. He waved his hand, and the face disappeared.

He said, ‘You have to stop, Frances, there are people watching.’

‘They certainly are. Including a full pack of paparazzi out front.’

How strange that only then did it dawn on him how thoroughly he was finished. Not only in his leadership bid but as anything in the government. Or even as an MP.

‘I expect they’re waiting for the two of us to come out arm in arm,’ Frances said, ‘my role to look wronged but supportive, yours to tell them what a mistake you made and how much you love me.’

Was she offering him a way out? ‘Would you?’

She looked at him. No expression. In that moment it occurred to him that all was not lost. That he could make this better.

She lowered her head.

He stood and waited — what else could he do? — for her to look up again. He saw her shoulders begin to shake. She was crying. He wanted to console her but didn’t dare go close.

When she stopped shaking and lifted her head, he saw that her expression was clear. ‘I want you out.’

‘I will go,’ he said. ‘If that’s what you really want. Once the paps have cleared off.’

‘You’re so slow, Peter.’ He had never heard her voice so cold. ‘Always have been. You’re a godsend — front-page material just as the riots are trailing off. The last thing they’re going to do is clear off.’

‘I need time.’

‘I told you, Peter, infidelity is the one thing I would not tolerate. Which sin you have compounded by lying about it.’

‘She doesn’t mean anything to me.’

‘I suggest you tell her that. It no longer interests me. I’m asking you to leave, and I will not ask you again.’

He glanced down. ‘I’ve got nothing to wear.’

She shrugged. ‘Not my problem.’

He said, ‘Come on, Frances, be reasonable.’

‘If you’re not gone in five minutes,’ she said, ‘I’ll denounce you on the doorstep.’

8 a.m.

Moving up against the tide of people on their way down the Tube steps, Billy was finally on his way home. He stepped out of the entrance, refusing the proffered newspaper after a quick glance told him that rioting’s pole position had now been taken by the Home Secretary’s marital ructions. And so the world spins, he thought, as he walked wearily through streets that, after what he’d recently witnessed, seemed preternaturally calm.

He was so tired. Sleep beckoned as he slipped the key into the lock. But though the door opened easily enough, when he tried to widen the gap he couldn’t. He craned his head in and saw that the post and the papers that had been delivered in his absence had jammed the door. If he hadn’t been so tired — too tired to even work out whether it was three, four or five days since he’d last been home — he would have expected this. He pulled the door closed and then shoved it so hard that it passed over the blockage.

Once in, he collected up the post — mostly catalogues over which Angie loved to pore — and piled it on the hall table for her return. He was glad he’d advised her to keep the girls at her parents’ until the trouble died down. Not that there’d been any around their area, but you never could tell. And this way none of them would have to smell him until after he’d had a shower.

He lifted an arm to sniff his armpit, and it almost choked him. He had managed occasionally to wash, but even a scrub down with carbolic would have been of little help since he afterwards had to put on the same kit, day after day, and in this heat. Lucky his men were in the same position. If not, he would have driven even the most hardy away from any line he was in.

The men had been magnificent, surpassing all expectations. So much so that senior management — who normally looked down on them, thinking of them as a necessary evil and the hooligan end of the service — were these days flocking to shake them by the hand and have their photos taken doing so. Which was the only silver lining in the disaster of the last five days.

The rest was just such a waste. Of livelihoods, of homes, and more importantly of lives: those idiots who had got caught up in an orgy of destruction would now find themselves jailed for rioting, thus making themselves forever unemployable. The only good thing was that nobody had been badly hurt, and with the Lovelace already scheduled for replacement, those shopkeepers who’d been burnt out would most likely have been the ones soon driven out by rising rents. An irony that: that the rioters had done the dirty work of the speculators they abhorred.

He really did stink. He must have a shower.

But first a cup of tea. He picked up the newspapers — he would have cancelled them if it hadn’t taken so long for it to dawn on the muppets at Silver that something serious was kicking off — and took them to the kitchen.

He put the kettle on. While he was waiting for it to boil, he realised that either he was smelling worse than he’d originally assumed or something else was. He opened the fridge: almost empty but, apart from a pint of milk that might be on the turn, nothing bad. He sniffed his way to the pedal bin. He kicked it open and was nearly knocked back by the stink. Must have thrown some meat in — it was covered in so much green slime he couldn’t tell what it was — and without first putting in a liner. If he didn’t clear it away before Angie’s return it would confirm her (he thought ill-founded) opinion as to his lack of house training.

He took one of the newspapers from the pile and laid it, Home Secretary’s ugly mug face down, on the tiled floor. The stuff in the bin was noxious — more paper needed. He grabbed for another one and, as he was smoothing it down, he read the headline: ‘Where is he?’ underneath which was a close-up of a man’s face and, under that, another equally large: ‘Reward offered'.

Oh great. The hacks putting a price on the head of a rioter was really going to help community relations, wasn’t it? He smoothed the paper out and picked up the bin, meaning to empty it. But before he did, he glanced again at the photo. A rabid expression — that’s why they must have chosen it — on a male IC3 who, he saw, the paper called Molotov Man. He blinked and looked again. He was tired, deadly tired if the truth be told, but he couldn’t help thinking that he had seen this face, and recently.

But where? He sat back on his heels, breathing through his mouth, as he let his mind range free, which worked for him when he was trying to put a name or a place to a suspect.

Had he seen this face rearing close (which would mean that the man would have been one of the ones leading the attack)?

No, that wasn’t it. Somewhere else, then. And recently.

He scrolled backwards through the last few days. Not an easy task when one moment had spilt into the next. It had been dark, that he remembered, but then most of what had happened had happened after dark. Not in a street, he thought. Somewhere else.

And then — gotcha — it came to him. This was the man he’d seen by the canal ranting at the traffic warden. Whom Billy had taken to be a drunk not worth arresting. Who, it turned out, was top of the riot’s most-wanted list, at least according to the red-tops.

Shit. He sighed. More than anything he wanted to take a shower, bag up his uniform and go to sleep. Now, instead, he knew he had to phone the Rockham station and report what he had seen. Try to help them find this man before some avaricious member of the public decided to take the law into his own hands.

10 a.m.

'Using the back door again, Home Secretary?’ The PM’s Press Secretary’s gaunt face was set to sneer. ‘It’s getting to be a habit.’

Fuck off, Peter thought, although he held his tongue.

‘He’s upstairs in the flat.’ The Press Secretary turned on his heels.

They could have gone the back way rather than through the main building and up the winding staircase, a route presumably chosen so that he would have to endure the sneaked side-glances and theatrical double-takes of those whose paths they crossed. And also, he thought, so that he could pass the succession of photographs of previous prime ministers that lined the wall and know that he now had no chance of ever being included in this honour guard.

The Prime Minister had seen to that. Well, Peter would return the compliment and pull the PM down.

They moved through Number 10 and up the last flight of stairs to the Prime Minister’s flat. ‘He’s expecting you.’ Having rapped on the door, the Press Secretary opened it to practically push Peter in before closing the door.

‘Peter. At last.’ What a contrast from their last meeting. The PM jumped up and came over to shake him by the hand. ‘What a time you’ve had of it.’ He stepped away and stood a moment, looking Peter up and down. ‘What on earth are you wearing?’

‘Tracksuit bottoms. And a pyjama top. All I could lay my hands on.’

‘Frances took it that badly, did she?’ The PM moved past Peter to open the door and shout, ‘Martin, are you still there?’ and on receiving a faint, ‘Yes, sir, I am,’ continued, ‘find the Home Secretary something decent to wear. And make sure that it fits.’ He closed the door. Swallowed. Said, ‘Martin knows about the affair, of course’ — as if anybody in Britain wouldn’t — ‘and is available to help you work out how best to play this in public. But first I think you and I should have a chat. Come. Take a seat. Can I get you something to eat?’

From betrayer to genial host: well, the PM always did have a reputation for Machiavellian twists. ‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’

‘Not even a coffee? You look as if you need one.’

If he didn’t agree to one, the PM would only find another way to extend his crowing. ‘Why not?’

‘Good.’ The PM raised his voice: ‘Darling, would you mind making Peter a coffee?’

To which came the instantaneous reply: ‘Tell him to make his own,’ followed by the slamming of a door.

‘Sorry about that.’ The PM gave a small tight smile. ‘Afraid you might have to put up with quite a bit of that kind of thing.’ He went over to the kitchen counter. ‘Not that our wives have much liking for each other, but when it comes to sexual infidelity, women always tend to back each other up.’ He busied himself putting on the kettle, measuring grinds into a pot and placing cups and a milk jug on a tray.

Standing and waiting for the axe to fall, all Peter could do was look around this garish room with its clashing textiles. Frances would have imposed style on this mess, he thought.

‘No matter how supportive our wives are, they can never really understand the pressures on us.’ The Prime Minister poured water into the pot. ‘And, besides,’ looking up, ‘that business about Teddy hardly endeared you to her.’

So the PM was trying to downgrade his own corruption into the (presumably now irrelevant) business about Teddy. Well, he wasn’t going to get away with it. ‘Sacking me will not make the problem disappear, Prime Minister.’

‘Who said anything about sacking you?’ The Prime Minister carried the tray over and laid it down on a side table. He pushed down the plunger of the coffee pot, against obvious resistance, and poured. ‘You do take milk, don’t you?’ He poured in milk. ‘And no sugar?’ handing the cup over without waiting for a reply.

Peter looked down to where dark grounds were floating on the surface of the liquid.

‘It’s dreadful what the hacks have done,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘I feel for you.’

'I bet you do.’ He stretched across and, taking up the sugar bowl, ladled in two heaped teaspoons.

‘It is my belief,’ the PM said, ‘that what goes on inside a marriage is — if you will forgive the pun — a private affair.’

‘Didn’t stop you from having me followed.’

A frown. ‘You think I had you followed?’

‘I know you did.’ Even sugared the coffee had no taste. ‘And asked them to photograph what they saw.’

The PM leant forward. ‘I am going to stop you right there, Peter.’ His voice though soft was full of menace. ‘Before you say something both of us will regret. You have had a shock, I understand this, but you should think long and hard about accusing me of obtaining and/or distributing any photographs of you. I had nothing to do with it.’

Yes, Peter thought, just like he’d had nothing to do with the burying of Teddy’s arrest report. ‘You knew about me and Patricia.’

‘Of course I knew. Along with the whole Westminster village. I’m surprised you managed to keep it from Frances as long as you have. I would have thought she’d have been more alert. But just because I knew doesn’t mean I leaked it.’

He didn’t need to: he had minions for that.

‘Or that anyone in my office did. If you’re looking for a scapegoat, you’ll have to look elsewhere. I suggest you start with those you have hurt.’

Did the PM want to strip him of all dignity by telling him that he knew Frances had released the photographs? He put his undrunk coffee down and got up. ‘I don’t think we need to play out this farce any longer, Prime Minister. I am quite capable of writing my own resignation letter.’

‘Sit down, man. To repeat: I have not asked for your resignation, and I do not intend to. I will not let the red-tops dictate who I do and do not have in my Cabinet. And I will not have my people hounded out for the things they do in the privacy — as long as it’s legal — of the bedroom. I could also do without a reshuffle given the impending election. You’ve made a fairly decent fist of the job so far and, once we have settled our differences, we can pull together. For all these reasons, I propose to keep you on as my Home Secretary.’

Despite himself, Peter felt hope flare. He sank back into the sofa and thought, it can’t be that easy. ‘And in exchange?’

The Prime Minister took a sip of his coffee, grimaced and scraped his teeth against his tongue. ‘What awful swill. It’s full of grounds. She’s right: I never do brew it long enough.’ He put down his cup. ‘And, yes, you’re also right, there is a quid pro quo — or three of them. For starters: I assume that in light of the adverse publicity you will no longer be standing against me?’

Peter nodded.

‘In that case, my first condition is that you do not actively support another candidate. In exchange, and when the time comes for me to retire, I will consider backing you.’

And if you believe that, Peter thought, you’d believe the proverbial anything. But what he said was, ‘And your other conditions?’

‘The second is that you leave the Teddy business with me. Rest assured I will pursue it — and if Yares is the rotten apple, as you think he is, I will get rid of him. But I will do this at the right time, and not in the middle of a riot when the last thing we want to do is undermine the Met.’

‘I’ll think about that. After I’ve heard your third condition.’

‘Of course.’ The Prime Minister sighed. ‘This one is rather personal, I’m afraid, but I can see no other way round it. I cannot have my Home Secretary hounded by the press, which is what will happen if you don’t act decisively. So my third condition is that you either stay with Frances, and for this you need to get her active and vocal support, and give up Patricia Diaz, or you publicly declare your marriage to be over. I’ve discussed both options with Martin. He agrees that we can weather either, as long as there’s no further shilly-shallying.’ The Prime Minister sighed again as he got to his feet. ‘I know this is a big ask, but if you want to stay in post, this is the only way we can see to make it work. Think about it, but not for too long. I’d like an answer,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘within the hour. And best not go running around town until you’ve decided. I would let you stay here, but,’ a glance at the interior of the flat, ‘you may not be entirely welcome. Martin will be waiting for you downstairs, hopefully with some decent clothes. He’ll find you somewhere you can sit and consider your options. We could fetch Frances, if that would help. Or if you’d rather talk it over with Ms Diaz, I believe she is somewhere in the building.’

‘What’s she doing here?’

‘Frances has your security detail to protect her from intrusion, but Patricia Diaz is on her own. As soon as we saw the early editions, we offered her protection. Given the pressure that will be on her, not least to sell her story, we didn’t want to give the press easy access to her. And she was keen. She would like to see you. Understandably.’

10.15 a.m.

What had the Prime Minister been trying to tell him? That’s the question that preoccupied Joshua on the journey back from Chequers. He’d been so busy trying to figure out an answer that his driver had had to point out that he was still sitting in the car after they had arrived at his home. And what followed was a night broken by the hammering of that question: what had the Prime Minster been trying to tell him?

How was it possible that the Prime Minister had been questioning his ability on the day before his first week’s anniversary in the job? Yes, the riots. But they could hardly be laid at his door. And the water cannon had driven the rioters off the streets of Rockham, while the ploy of keeping the press away (for their own protection) combined with newspaper riot fatigue and the huge splash of Whiteley’s affair had kept the incident off the front pages. The gamble that he had taken — that his legacy would be of a liberal policeman who had lowered the bar for illiberal measures — might have paid off. And if the Met Office could this time be believed, the storm that was on its way would be furious enough to put an end to any further rioting.

None of this mattered, though, if the intrigue that the PM had intimated was brewing was about to blow up in his face.

It couldn’t be Jibola. They’d kept a wrap on that: the only person outside of Scotland Yard who knew about it was the Prime Minister, and he wasn’t about to betray Joshua, was he? No, of course he wasn’t: he’d stuck his neck out to ensure that the head of the Met was somebody he trusted. And he would know that Joshua had nothing to do with the disaster of Jibola. If the blame could be laid at any one officer’s door, that officer would have to be Anil Chahda.

And the PM had warned him about somebody on his staff.

It came back to Joshua then how broad had been Chahda’s greeting smile that morning. Joshua had registered it at the time and wondered what it was that could have made Chahda, who wasn’t normally much given to smiling and who had been on duty all night, so happy. And now he thought back to that moment, he thought there might have been an edge of triumphalism in that smile.

Could Chahda have found a way to slough off the blame for Jibola onto Joshua? Could that be what the Prime Minister had been warning of?

‘Commissioner?’

The sergeant down the corridor must be wondering what Joshua Yares was doing stopped rather than striding as he normally did. And the sergeant would be right to wonder: not like Joshua to worry about things before they happened. He stirred himself into motion and, saying ‘Have you checked we have all the papers for the meeting?', swept past the sergeant and into the meeting room.

10.25 a.m.

Peter’s mood picked up as soon as he put on the clothes Martin gave him (all perfect fits: was it part of the Press Secretary’s job to know the inside leg and neck measurements of the entire Cabinet?) and as he ate the breakfast they brought to him. He put aside all thought of his decision while he ate. But after he had used the last piece of toast (how did they also know that he preferred sliced white?) to soak up the eggy residue on his plate, he set the plate aside and replayed, in his mind, the PM’s conditions.

Number one: that he would not give his support to any other leadership candidate. A condition that, given there was no one else he would dream of supporting, he easily conceded.

Number two: that he let the Teddy business lie. Understandable that the PM would only support Peter if he wasn’t going to find himself shafted. And the ‘business’ had had an effect: despite his sanctimonious declarations of principle, the PM’s generosity to Peter was a result of knowing that Peter could easily destroy him. So, yes, Peter could agree to this condition.

Which left number three: that he choose between Frances and Patricia. How to make that choice? Eyes closed, he thought about them both.

Frances first. Which immediately conjured up memories of her reddened fury and of her contrasting white chill as she had ordered him out, and of her final words: ‘You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.’

She was so enraged she might not take him back.

That left him with a question: would he want her to?

‘Be logical.’ Those words said aloud to make him think.

Logically and on the plus side, he and Frances had a life together, a house, a set of friends, a history and a son. Divorce would be to throw all of this away, although Charlie would surely not take sides.

A lot to lose.

In the minus column was the falling away of mutual passion. Not something he could easily repair because, yes, although he’d done wrong to cheat on her, it was a wrong for which he was prepared to take responsibility. He could pretty much bet she would be unwilling to even consider the part that her lack of libido had played in the strain within their marriage.

Once his desire for her had been strong, but after her repeated rejections led him into Patricia’s arms, this desire had waned. He still admired her beauty but no longer really fancied her.

Or was he just telling himself that because he thought he couldn’t have her?

Patricia, on the other hand, was available. And fun. She was young. Being with her made him feel young again. And her youth meant that she looked up to him. Not that she didn’t also care for him. Look what she had done for him.

(No, don’t think of that.)

He didn’t have to fight for space with her. He was infinitely better established, and she accepted that without needing to flaunt her superior knowledge, or her contacts, or her strategic brain. (On the other hand, she certainly had less of all three.)

If only he could have both.

The one provided security, the other excitement; the one knew the rules, the other cared nothing for them; the one was ambitious, while — and as this thought occurred, he recognised it as the killer blow — the other was ambitious for him.

The balance weighed, the decision, which was no real decision, made, he stretched across the desk and pressed the intercom. ‘I’m ready now,’ he said. ‘Could you show Patricia Diaz in?’

6.30 p.m.

It had been three days since Jayden had been anywhere near the market. Head down, he made his way along the empty street, and the closer he got to his destination, the slower he moved. The only thing that kept him going forwards was the promise he’d made to Cathy although what made him want to run away was the fear that she had got it wrong. He was sure they would still hate him; he only kept going because he knew that Cathy would ask him how it had gone, and he always had been a bad liar.

He could see before he reached the shop that it was all boarded up. They might have gone away. The thought brought a sigh of relief even though he knew in his heart that they had nowhere else to go and he could anyway see an open door-wide gap in the boarding.

He walked quietly now so they wouldn’t hear his approach, although how this was going to help he couldn’t have said. And then, because he couldn’t slow himself down any more, he reached the gap. He looked into the darkness.

‘There you are, Jay Don.’ Mr Hashi stepped forward.

He had a broom in his hand. Like the last time.

But this was not like the last time. Mr Hashi was smiling. ‘Have you come to help in the clear-up?’

Jayden nodded.

‘You know I cannot pay you. I have no business.’

‘I don’t want money,’ he said. ‘I want to help.’

Another smile, although this time Mr Hashi laid down the broom before sweeping the top of one arm across his face as if wiping something away. ‘I spoke wrongly,’ he said, ‘when we met. I was upset. Even then I knew it wasn’t you who attacked my shop. But I was upset.’

Jayden nodded. Looked down at his feet. Shuffled from one to the next. Didn’t know what else to do or where else to look.

‘Mrs Mason, she told me what happened to you,’ he heard Mr Hashi saying. ‘She told me how they locked you away for what they think you are. Just like those others destroyed my shop for what they think I am.’

Jayden swallowed. Wondered what words to offer in reply. Felt Mr Hashi’s hand lightly placed on one of his.

‘I forgot that life is also difficult for you,’ Mr Hashi said. ‘My mother, she did not forget. She, how do you say, offered me the hell for what I said to you.’

‘Gave you hell.’

‘Thank you, Jay Don. I need you also for language guidance.’

Mr Hashi’s hand was still on his.

Telling himself that in Mr Hashi’s world it didn’t mean anything when men held hands, Jayden did not pull away.

‘Mrs Mason, she is a good woman,’ Mr Hashi said. ‘A truth-sayer. They are precious.’

Jayden nodded.

‘My mother also,’ Mr Hashi said. ‘But we are not all so fortunate.’ Which was the closest Mr Hashi had ever got to showing that he knew how difficult Jayden’s mother was.

‘Still, we must try to do our best,’ Mr Hashi said. ‘And to keep to the true path.’

It was all right for Mr Hashi to speak like this, but how was Jayden supposed to know where the true path was?

‘Mrs Mason helped me find it. That is what friends are for.’

He thought about his one true friend, Lyndall.

‘It is not always easy,’ Mr Hashi said.

And then he knew where his path led. He had to help Lyndall do what she needed to do. Before it was too late. He said, ‘Can I come tomorrow, Mr Hashi? There’s something I’ve got to do.’ And when Mr Hashi nodded and dropped his hand, Jayden smiled, saying, ‘See you tomorrow,’ and walked quickly away.

7.05 p.m.

'Of course I am standing by my Home Secretary,’ the Prime Minister was saying. ‘He’s doing an excellent job. That’s what matters to me, and that’s what matters to the country.’

Cut to footage of Peter Whiteley arm in arm with a young woman, confirmation of his marriage break-up, which had headlined the evening news.

‘Given the recent tension between the two men and rumours that the Home Secretary was about to challenge the Prime Minister,’ the announcer was saying, ‘it is intriguing that the Prime Minister has gone out of his way to support Peter Whiteley.’

‘Who cares?’ Cathy asked the empty room.

‘The Prime Minister’s Press Secretary has denied rumours that there was a backroom deal between the two men.’

She aimed the remote at the TV and tried to click it off.

‘Perhaps the unrest in the streets has convinced them to settle their differences.’

The batteries were dead; she kept forgetting to buy more.

‘Frances Whiteley, the Home Secretary’s wife, was unavailable for comment.’

She got up and switched it off.

It was blisteringly hot in the lounge. Dark as well, which, given the hour, was odd. She padded, barefoot, to her open front door and stepped out.

Almost as dark and the air so heavy it was like breathing water. She looked up and saw clouds, and not those white puffs that had floated in recently only to dissolve into the blue. This was a solid mass of black storm clouds that was sweeping in over the estate. To the east, where the covering was less complete, shafts of yellow streaked across the sky, making the incoming storm loom even more ominously.

She looked across the balcony to Elsie’s house. Door shut as it had been for days. Elsie must be in a bad way what with Jayden still refusing to have anything to do with her. Cathy thought about going over. But she was too weary to withstand the accusations she knew would be forthcoming.

Poor Jayden, she thought, although at least by the smile on his face on his return from the market she knew he must have made it up with Mr Hashi. One good outcome she’d facilitated. If only she could be as effective with her own daughter, who was still basically not talking to her.

She drew herself up. She’d try a fresh tack, she decided: be a better mother by fixing the kids a meal.

Back in the kitchen, she clicked on the radio.

‘For all of you who’ve seen the fire and, if the weathermen have finally got it right, are about to see the rain, that was James Taylor Fire and Rain,’ the DJ was saying. ‘Next Let it Rain — any excuse to re-play Eric Clapton — but before that, in the news, the Home Secretary, Peter Whiteley…’

She turned the radio off.

She went to the fridge that had become their makeshift larder. But one for the cultivation of bacteria, it seemed, with everything going off. What a terrible housekeeper she was, to add to her other faults. She set herself to emptying the fridge, separating the rotten from the still vaguely edible. She ended up with a pile to throw away and some limp salad leaves — and she’d recently eaten enough salad to last a lifetime.

She should go shopping. But it was getting late and she no longer felt like cooking. Which did not mean she could not provide.

She went down the corridor, knocked on Lyndall’s door and immediately went in.

Lyndall and Jayden had been sitting close together on the floor, although at her appearance they jumped apart.

‘I’m going to order in. What do you fancy? Pizza? Chicken? Curry? Come out and tell me when you’ve decided and,’ looking at Lyndall, ‘there’s also something I need to talk to you about.’

They joined her in the lounge, Jayden still smiling and Lyndall sloping in with that sulky expression of hers.

‘So what’s it going to be?’ Cathy kept her voice deliberately light.

‘Chicken,’ Jayden said.

‘Good choice.’ She reached for her mobile but then another thought occurred. ‘It’s still light. If anything’s going to kick off, it’ll happen later — if it doesn’t rain. Why don’t we eat out?’

They both nodded.

‘But before we do,’ she said. ‘Something I wanted to say…’ She paused. She had to find a way of talking to Lyndall but didn’t know how she was going to. She tried again. ‘It’s about Banji.’

‘I told you.’ Jayden was looking not at Cathy but at Lyndall.

Who shook her head.

‘You promised you’d tell her.’

Another silent refusal.

‘What’s this about?’

‘Go on. Tell her.’

Lyndall swallowed.

‘Go on. Or I will.’

She’d never seen Jayden this assertive.

Was there something between them, she wondered, and then, this thought driving her to sink down into the nearest seat, could Lyndall, history repeating itself, be pregnant? She wanted and needed to know, and simultaneously did not. She sat trying to calm herself. Waiting.

‘Thing is, Mum.’

She looked down at her lap.

‘Thing is, I know where Banji is.’

7.30 p.m.

A rap at Joshua’s door, which opened to reveal a grinning Anil Chahda. ‘We’ve got him, sir.’

‘Jibola?’

Chahda nodded.

Problem solved — and the coming storm, which was already darkening the sky, might well resolve the rest. ‘Did he give himself up?’

‘We haven’t actually laid hands on him yet, sir. But we do know where he is, and we’re getting ready to extract him. I sent you an audio file. It should be with you by now.’

There was indeed an email waiting for Joshua with a file attached. He clicked it open and turned up the volume on his laptop.

‘Thing is, Mum,’ he heard. ‘I know where Banji is.’

‘That’s Lyndall Mason’s voice,’ Chahda said. ‘Gaby Wright confirmed it.’

‘How could you know?’

‘And that’s Mrs Cathy Mason.’

‘He had to find a hiding place, so I showed him the warehouse by the canal. The last one they closed. Jayden and I used to play there. I knew about an attic room that’s hard to find.’

'We’ve identified the warehouse,’ Chahda said. ‘Gaby’s lot had already searched that building, but we’ve now got hold of the owner and the plans. There is indeed such a room, which the first search must have missed. And we have added confirmation: CI Ridgerton phoned the Rockham station this morning to report a sighting of the man near the canal.’

This morning, Joshua thought, and you didn’t tell me, as he heard Lyndall Mason saying, ‘I wanted to tell you, Mum. But he made me promise not to. Said you wouldn’t understand.’

‘Understand what?’ Lyndall’s mother’s voice was raised in anger.

‘Why he did what he did. That’s all he’d say.’

Joshua pressed pause. ‘How did you get hold of this?’

‘We installed a listening device.’ Another grin, this one triumphant. ‘It was the only way.’

A gamble by Chahda that had paid off but which his boss had expressly forbidden. Chahda must be the rotten apple the PM had been warning of. When this is over, Joshua thought, I’ll pack him off in a tumbrel. He pressed play.

‘I took him food. But today the trapdoor was shut and he wouldn’t answer. I’m worried, Mum. He kept saying how there’s people after him.’

He stopped the recording. ‘Are there officers already on their way to extract him?’

‘Not yet, sir. We’ve alerted SC&O19, but, given the disturbances, there’s a shortage of trained officers. And of ballistic vests.’

‘You’re planning to go in armed?’

‘A precaution, sir, after what we’ve seen of Jibola’s behaviour. And, reading into what Lyndall Mason said, he’s also paranoid.’

It’s not paranoia, Joshua thought, if people really are after you. ‘Let me know when you’re ready to roll.’

8.30 p.m.

The cafe was crowded, the air thick with the aroma of home cooking, and the windows misted by the moisture and from the bubbling pots of food. Not that Lyndall and Jayden seemed to notice. They polished off every morsel of jerk chicken and rice and peas that had been piled on their plates and then shared a third portion, seeming almost to inhale the food like only the truly starving or the adolescent ever did. And then at last Lyndall’s ‘Thanks, Mum’ was delivered on an open smile. ‘Sorry I’ve been such a pig,’ followed by a more tentative, ‘Can we go see him now?’

Cathy nodded. She didn’t want to, but seeing him, and warning him off Lyndall, was the only way she could think of breaking them both free. She glanced out to where the sky had blackened with the threat of the incoming storm. ‘Let’s have some tea,’ she said. ‘And wait to see if the rain will pass.’

8.40 p.m.

A rumbling — the heavens growling — and then the clouds that had turned an evening sky into night were cracked open by a blaze of light.

‘Jesus, did you see that?’

That same sound and almost immediately afterwards (the storm must be right above them) a sheet of yellow light seemed to set the sky afire.

‘It’s like the Northern Lights.’

Rain had begun to drum down on the roof of their van so that when the sergeant said, ‘Except the Northern Lights won’t electrocute you,’ he had to shout to be heard. ‘This lot could. When the signal comes, run at a crouch. Heads low and keep a good grip on your weapons.’

More thunder followed by a jagged lightning that seemed to sizzle through the air.

‘That was close.’ Joshua was sitting with Anil Chahda in the back of his car as the rain thundered down.

‘It’ll work in our favour,’ Chahda said. ‘No way Jibola will hear us coming.’

Joshua peered out into the thick darkness. ‘Do the men know that Jibola is one of us?’

‘No, sir.’ As thunder rolled again, Chahda, smelling of the musk aftershave he used, leant over to shout, ‘We’ve kept that information on a strict need-to-know basis.’

‘That’ll make them more trigger happy.’

‘They’re well trained, sir.’

‘Even so, I don’t want Jibola hurt.’

‘Course not, sir. If it can be avoided.’ Chahda pressed his watch to light up the dial. ‘Thirty seconds.’ He looked across to Joshua. ‘No point in all of us getting soaked. Why not stay here until it’s over?’

‘Oh, I reckon I can withstand a bit of rain.’

‘As you wish, sir.’ Chahda opened the door and the rain came blasting in. ‘They’re off.’

Ahead, the van doors had been rolled open to let out a line of men who, crouching low, ran towards the warehouse door. The rain was so thick that the darkness had soon sucked them in.

‘Come on.’ Joshua was also out and also running. Within seconds he was soaked through.

Another crack of thunder and the sky split, the lightning sending a jagged streak over the running line of men, who, having reached the door, formed themselves into two lines on either side of it. A thud, this time an earthly one, as a battering ram was slammed against the door, which splintered and gave way, so that soon Joshua could see the wraiths of sodden men disappearing into the dark interior.

He followed, registering the hard puffing of Chahda’s breath beside him, watching the flash trace of torchlight flitting up the stairs.

‘Watch your step, sir.’ This from the officer who’d been posted at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Some of them are really rotten.’

Above them soft voices could be heard calling out, ‘Clear.’

By the time they reached the first floor, the flicker of torches was already on the way up again.

A flash of sheet lightning lit up the cavernous space, illuminating broken windows and a floor littered with crates and bits of furniture, all of them covered with what looked like oil. Joshua wiped a finger over the balustrade, feeling how sticky it was and then, holding the finger up to his nose, smelt not oil but something stickier and more viscous that stank of something rotten. An awful place to hole up in. If Jibola had been in a bad way when he’d got here, he would be much worse now.

Darkness as the lightning faded and those soft calls: ‘Clear.’

‘We think he’s up a trapdoor on the floor above,’ Chahda said in his ear.

They climbed the last flight of stairs up to the top floor, where they found the men grouped along one wall. One of their number was standing away from them and using his torch to illuminate what was clearly a trapdoor in the wooden ceiling. At a nod from his sergeant, another pulled at the latch of the door, which opened, letting down a ladder which the officer caught and gently lowered so that it didn’t bang, the torch illuminating what should have been a space but wasn’t.

‘He’s dragged something over the area,’ Chahda whispered. ‘That must be what Lyndall Mason meant.’

A moment’s confab — how were they going to get up there without alerting Jibola?

‘We’ll go in fast,’ the sergeant kept his voice so low they had to crowd round him to hear what he was saying, ‘in the hope that the element of surprise will prevent any counterstrike. We need something solid to stand on — the battering ram — and the carbon arc searchlight should blind him for a moment. I will go in first with that; Wilson, you’ll be following with your weapon cocked. You others after. Careful if you have to fire: we don’t want to lose any of our own.’

No sooner said than prepared. One of the officers got onto the platform they’d built out of crates and stood, waiting. When the next blast of thunder began to roll, he lifted the battering ram, banging at whatever was blocking the opening and shifting it out of the way. As soon as that was done he jumped to one side while his sergeant, light upheld, climbed up the ladder, followed by his second. There was a queue behind, the men waiting to go up, with the first one already halfway when the sergeant’s face appeared in space of the open trapdoor. ‘You better come and see this, sir,’ he said to Joshua, and then, to his men, ‘Stand down, lads. Stand down.’

8.50 p.m.

With the storm showing no signs of letting up, they decided to brave it. The rain was sheeting down so hard that within minutes of coming out of the cafe all three were soaked. Since no coat any of them possessed would have withstood such a deluge, there wasn’t any point in going home and drying off before venturing out again and, besides, since the rain was warm, the wet felt almost welcome.

‘Although if it goes on much longer,’ Cathy said, ‘it’s going to be as black as pitch.’

Such a quantity of rain had already fallen that the gutters were bubbling with it, and the roads awash. At first they hugged the far sides of the pavements to avoid being splashed, but soon they were so wet it didn’t matter. Walking turned into a game of hopscotch as they dodged the vegetables and plastic bags and other detritus that bobbed along with the rivulets of rain that were soon so deep that they took off their shoes and walked on carrying them. Past the High Street, which was empty — no pedestrian in their right mind or, for that matter, rioter would venture out in this unless driven to.

Which Cathy was. ‘No,’ Lyndall kept saying and shaking her head when Cathy suggested aborting the expedition. ‘No’ and ‘No’ again. ‘He needs us.’ And so on they went, soaked to the skin and making their way towards the canal. Which, when they got to it, was inky black and heaving with rain.

They crossed the bridge, normally a resting place for drunks who wanted to be left alone to drink, and on to the opposite bank.

‘It’s there.’ Lyndall’s pointing arm was washed in rain. ‘The third in that row.’

Cathy thought she saw something — a dark shadow, moving. ‘Is that…?’ But no, nobody there: probably just an illusion of the rain. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and get him.’

There being so much mud churned up on either side of the gravel path, they walked in single file with Cathy in front. Water dropped off her chin and splashed down the ends of her bedraggled hair, and it got into her eyes, so she kept on having to shake her head to clear her vision. She was grateful for the distraction. When she finally did come face to face with Banji, what was she going to say?

The brooding outline of the building Lyndall had pointed to was coming closer.

‘It’s the one after this,’ she heard Lyndall saying.

Somebody there. She saw them now as a dark outline. ‘Who’s there?’ she called.

The faint beam of their torch lit up the shafting rain. ‘What are you up to?’ The man — a policeman, she saw — was peering anxiously at them. ‘Identify yourselves.’ He raised something — a whistle — to his lips.

'I’m Cathy Mason.’ She stepped up to make sure he saw her empty hands. ‘And this is my daughter Lyndall and Jayden, a friend.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘We’re…’

‘Taking a walk,’ Lyndall piped up.

‘Funny time for a walk.’ The policeman let his whistle drop and swiped his face, wiping away the rain. ‘But you can’t keep on this path. It’s blocked. You need to go back the way you came and cross the bridge, and then you can walk along the opposite bank. Although if I were you on such a filthy night, I’d just go home.’

Over his head Cathy thought she saw lights flickering high up in the warehouse. ‘What’s going on, officer?’ She was right: there were lights there.

‘Police operation,’ he said. ‘Nothing that…’

Lyndall’s loud ‘You told them’ stopped him from finishing his sentence.

‘No, I did not.’

Lyndall’s voice even louder: ‘You did. You fucking well told them.’

‘Now, now.’ The policeman shone his torch in Lyndall’s face.

Her eyes were ablaze and focused on her mother: ‘That’s why you were acting so nice, buying us supper and all. Waiting for the rain to end. You told them and then you slowed us down so we couldn’t go and warn him.’

‘Him?’ The policeman took a step closer. ‘Who’s him?’

‘Oh, go fuck yourself.’ Lyndall turned on her heel and marched off.

8.55 p.m.

It had been a filthy day and the beginnings of a night that wasn’t turning out to be much better. Peter rolled off Patricia to lie beside her on his back: ‘I’m such a cliche.’

‘It’s okay.’ Patricia stretched out a consoling hand. ‘It’s only because you had such a hard day.’

Which — given that he’d lost his wife, his home, the possibility of ever becoming Leader — was an understatement that nearly made him laugh out loud. He breathed in, registering that same slightly musty odour he had smelt on her earlier. ‘Have you changed your perfume?’

'No.’ She frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Just something I keep smelling.’

‘Really?’ She lifted up an arm and (something Frances would never in a million years have done) sniffed under an armpit. ‘Seems okay to me.’

Leave it, he told himself. And said, ‘Perhaps a shower?’

He saw the hurt in her expression, but all she said was, ‘Okay, then’ before getting out of bed and closing the door of the en-suite behind her.

As soon as she had gone, he felt the relief of being on his own.

Despite the air conditioning, the room felt stuffy. Enclosed. Claustrophobic. It was the change, he supposed. Because although he’d been with her in many a hotel room, these had always been fleeting visits, a step out of their separate lives. But now he had no home to go to and, with the press camped on her doorstep, they couldn’t go to hers.

So here they must stay.

For better or for worse.

He sighed, got up and went over to the windows that ran the length of one wall. Not their usual choice of hotel: this one was corporate with many rooms stacked, each one of the same size and same inoffensive decor as its neighbour.

He pulled the cord and the curtains swished open to expose a dark night. He thought that the storm, whose thunder could be heard even through the double glazing, and whose lightning had flashed in like a warning, must have moved on, but as soon as he pulled open the slotted casement at the top of the window, rain came sheeting in. He pushed it closed, thinking, drought over, flood on the way.

‘Shall we go out to eat?’ Patricia called.

Eat at a restaurant with his face and hers on every media outlet: what was she thinking of? ‘We’d better use room service.’

‘Okay.’ Her faint reply was followed by the sound of singing.

She was happy.

Of course she was. She’d got what she’d always wanted: him.

He’d order a nice bottle of red with supper, he thought, and if there wasn’t one that suited his fancy, he would send the concierge out with full instructions. In the meantime, what he needed most was a stiff drink.

He went over to the minibar and broke the seal. Didn’t like the look of the whisky so got out a mini bottle of gin to which he added tonic. Took a sip. Grimaced. Why anybody ever used slimline tonic was beyond him. Thought, maybe more gin would drive that plastic taste away, and poured another in.

9.04 p.m.

As soon as Joshua surmounted the final rung and hauled himself up into the room, he saw the body.

It was hanging off a beam in the ceiling. A male, IC3, dangling with his back to the trapdoor as if he were looking through a window in the eaves.

‘He’s dead?’

The sergeant nodded. ‘Sure is. And by the ligature mark on his neck looks like he’s been dead for a while.’

The low-roofed space was messy with empty cartons of food littered about and dust so thick that Joshua could see where rain had dripped off the sergeant and also the marks left by his feet when he had approached the body.

‘Do we have any paper shoes?’ Joshua was shouting at the people below so as to be heard above the drumming rain, and on receiving a reply in the negative he said to the sergeant, ‘Go and find me two plastic bags. Clean as you can get them. Get the Deputy Commissioner to bring them up — but not to step past the door. And ask an FME to attend urgently. Tell them I’m here: that should hurry them up. The rest of your men are to wait in the van until such time as we have secured the scene.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant made his way down the ladder.

Not wanting to cause any further disruption to the room, Joshua just stood and looked at the dangling body.

He had watched the footage of Jibola throwing the Molotov over and over again. He had also read his record, interviewed his wife and begun to understand how beleaguered Jibola must have been feeling in order to do what he had done. Now, taking in that awful, lonely sight, he thought again about how very desperate Jibola must have been. Unless of course he hadn’t hanged himself.

He looked through the dust, trying to see if he could make out any tracks that might indicate the dragging of a body.

‘Sir.’ Anil Chahda’s head had appeared in the trapdoor ‘Is it Jibola?’

‘Seems like it, but I’m going to go over just to be sure.’ He took the bags from Chahda, wrapped them round his shoes and used the handles to tie them on. Then, taking care to trace the sergeant’s footprints in the dust, he made his way over to the body. The head was hanging, swollen, at an angle, the eyes bulging, the skin paler than he expected but even so: ‘Yes,’ he called to the waiting Chahda. ‘It is Julius Jibola.’

11.55 p.m.

The rain was pelting down, soaking her. She was cold. She needed more clothes. She looked down.

Blood — that was the colour of the rain: blood that was now dripping off her summer frock. She cried out.

Heard Lyndall shouting, ‘Mum.’

Lyndall mustn’t see this. She couldn’t know.

‘Mum. Wake up.’

She opened her eyes to find Lyndall leaning over her.

She blinked. Sat up. ‘I was dreaming.’

‘Yes, and shouting the place down.’ Lyndall’s glare was ferocious. ‘Something you feel guilty about perhaps?’ Without waiting for an answer, she turned away.

‘I didn’t tell them,’ Cathy said.

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘But it’s true.’

‘How did they know, then?’ Lyndall kept her back to Cathy.

‘I don’t know how.’ She could hear great torrents of rain cascading from the landing. And the night so dark. ‘They could have followed you — ever thought of that?’ Which was mean of her. ‘Or somebody might have seen something and reported it. Or maybe they just decided to search the building again. All I know is that I didn’t tell them. And that I wouldn’t have.’

'Why not?’ At least Lyndall turned back, although she was still frowning and her fists were clenched. ‘I know he hit you. He told me that he did. And I know you can’t forgive him. He told me that as well. So why wouldn’t you have got your revenge by betraying him to the police?’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Cathy said.

‘Why not?’ That hammering demand. ‘Why not? Why not?’

‘Because I loved him, no matter what he did.’ She had to say more: to tell Lyndall the whole truth. She took in a deep breath and then, before she could change her mind, she burst out with the information she’d held back for so many years. ‘I also wouldn’t have told the police because there was no way I could do that to your father,’ she said and then, seeing Lyndall pale, her honeyed skin losing its colour, immediately regretted what she’d said.

‘Banji is my father?’

Too late now to take it back. She nodded.

‘I knew it.’ As if her legs had given way, Lyndall sank down onto the floor. When Cathy reached down, Lyndall flinched away from the touch. ‘I knew it.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’ Lyndall’s eyes had filled with tears. ‘Did you stop him from seeing me when I was a baby?’

‘No, I didn’t stop him.’

‘Did he reject me?’ Lyndall’s voice quivered.

‘No, that isn’t right either.’ She tried to put all the warmth in her voice that a hug, which she knew would not be allowed, would have delivered. ‘He never even met you. He left after I told him I was pregnant. I never told him in so many words that you were his, and he never asked. Just disappeared without a word. It wasn’t you he rejected, it was me.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because what he did was to do with me, not you.’

‘But I’ve been asking you for years.’

‘It wasn’t to do with you.’

‘Oh yes it was.’ Lyndall got up and stood a moment, looking at her mother. ‘If Banji is my father, it has everything to do with me.’ Without another word, she left the room.