Ten Days

by Gillian Slovo

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

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

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

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

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

  Another routine step that Whiteley was stealing credit for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Joshua Yares turned the volume up another notch.

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

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

  Prematurely, because . . .

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

  Not that Yares had noticed.

  He was instantly on high alert.

  It was a trap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  10.45 a.m.

  Banging and a woman shouting, ‘Open up.’

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

  More banging. ‘Open up. Now.’

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

  ‘Mrs Mason.’

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

  ‘It’s the police. Open the door.’

  The police?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘What’s going on?’

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

  10.50 a.m.

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

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir.’

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

  ‘The Home Secretary?’

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

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’

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

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

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

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

  ‘And why didn’t I know?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

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

  ‘I can’t answer that, sir.’

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

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

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

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

  ‘Yes, sir, you did.’

  ‘And did you supply me with such information?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I did.’

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

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

  ‘Which you put where?’

  ‘Why, there. By your desk.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Why would one of our own do that?’

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

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

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

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

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

  11.45 a.m.

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

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

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

  ‘Aren’t you going to go with them?’

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

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

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

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

  Cathy nodded.

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

  Another nod.

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

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

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

  ‘To get rid of it. Is that a crime?’

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

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

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

  Who stood up. ‘And you are?’

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

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

  Lyndall averted her gaze.

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

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

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

  ‘Do you?’

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

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

  Lyndall shook her head.

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

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

  ‘Do you know where Banji is?’

  ‘Why would I know where he is?’

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

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

  ‘Well.’ Another rise of that arched eyebrow.

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

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

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