The Knives

by Richard T. Kelly

  ‘Thing is, all the best Chiefs know we need reform. You look at a guy like Richie Colls in Kent. There’s a copper who’s come through the ranks, earned his spurs. He’s just had to cut a quarter of his staff, it’s not pretty. But he sees the opportunities, too, he gets the best from what he’s got. He’s got crime down by twenty per cent. That’s why I asked him to lead the trial of lapel cameras on every officer.’

  ‘Man after your own heart …’

  ‘Oh aye, he’s a good guy, Richie. Few more like him and we’d be merry. Plenty problems round his patch but he’s all over them – he takes responsibility, he motivates his team. See, that’s the real problem with the cops – it’s leadership. It’s not identified in them, it’s not fostered. So they’d rather bang on about money than just get on and …’

  Blaylock, having warmed up anew to his theme, looked again at Andy’s broad shoulders, and tailed away.

  Nixon clucked his tongue. ‘Aye, well. What money you’ve got and how you spend it, it’s a test of character, no mistake.’

  Silently, conspiratorially, Nixon placed his newspaper open on Blaylock’s lap at a story concerning the Chief Constable of Lancashire and a disputed claim for personal expenses incurred while attending a ‘special convention’ in Las Vegas.

  Blaylock felt his phone vibrate near to his heart – felt his pulse move, too. Friend or foe? He withdrew the device with care, saw with relief that it was Geraldine, but was vexed to note this new sense of apprehension he was storing around his person.

  Geraldine conveyed problematical news for him from Number Ten. The Captain had been alerted by Al Ramsay to the counter-immigration operation planned for Friday, and now wanted him and Blaylock to attend proceedings together, media in tow. Not for the first time Blaylock felt chastened by having to put his face to a course of action he had waved through while rating it highly dubious.

  *

  Even in the foyer of the Excelsior Hotel Blaylock could hear applause emanating from the convention suite, but he parted from Philip Nixon and was ushered by men in black to an upstairs seminar suite, as if this were a papal audience or an appointment with the capo di capi. There the Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis awaited him, fresh from the stage in his navy regalia but already seated and sipping tea. Bannerman’s consigliere smartly withdrew some papers he had been waving under the boss’s nose. Blaylock surveyed the smartness of the room and the numbers in attendance. Are we comparing entourages here? he thought. Respective hefts?

  ‘Nice venue you picked for this. Will have cost a pretty penny.’

  Bannerman didn’t flinch. ‘I shudder to think what it’ll cost West Midlands to police your party conference in a couple of weeks. But if a thing’s to be done then it costs what it costs, haven’t I heard you say …?’

  Bannerman bore the chilliness of one who had never bothered with any charm school diploma on his path to power, but he undoubtedly knew how to deliver a line. Blaylock had heard that he dabbled in drama while reading Engineering at Oxford, and some of his college friends now held top jobs in the arts. If Bannerman likely cut a greyish figure in their company, he had won big points with the liberal press for his crisp delivery in media rounds, where Blaylock struggled to lay a finger on him. Since their audience today would be brief, Blaylock got to the point.

  ‘I need your view on this proposed march through the East End by the Free Briton Brigade.’

  ‘I’ve seen the petition. Knowing that patch, I don’t think it can be allowed to happen. But – I will speak with the gold commander and get back to you. They don’t worry you so much, do they? This “FBB”?’

  ‘I see them as a not insignificant effort to take white racism upmarket.’

  ‘Maybe so. I’m sure we’ve all seen tougher problems on our streets. It’s not like they’ve got a political wing. Or a quartermaster.’

  Blaylock had noted Bannerman’s wont to allude to past experience of run-ins with the Provisional IRA and other hairy moments in the job – as if one day they might sit to trade war stories and compare scars.

  ‘Yeah. No danger of them invading Poland. The issue, of course, is how we reassure communities.’

  ‘On that, Home Secretary, we wholeheartedly agree.’

  ‘Another thing. The Sylvie Jordan case concerns me. It’s not going away. Are you sure the public concern has been correctly addressed?’

  Blaylock saw winter descend in Bannerman’s look. ‘What’s on the front page of the papers this week will not dictate our response. We have a human tragedy, yes. These tragedies are blown up by the media in ways I consider exploitative. “What if it was your kid?” and all that. Murder of this sort is a middle-class fascination. It ignores the larger profile of violent crime that we deal with every day.’

  ‘I hear you. The point is whether this murder might have been averted if procedures had been better.’

  ‘The point is that the previous allegation against Kevin Clail was investigated. The complainant did not wish to press charges.’ Bannerman got to his feet. ‘This is a tragic business. But I’d ask you not to make any overhasty contribution to it.’

  ‘We agree, too, that public figures must be held to high standards, ourselves included?’

  ‘Of course. Though, what is a policeman but a human being doing a job? I know you understand this, whatever your criticisms.’

  ‘Home Secretary, it’s time …’

  Blaylock heard his summons from the rear then looked back to see Bannerman had drawn nearer.

  ‘Yes, time for you to preach parsimony. Please bear it in mind, how much you ask us to do for less. Our officers take on heavy burdens, big sacrifices – risks, every day. Please be careful how you repay them.’

  ‘I believe those burdens and sacrifices are shared around.’

  ‘Well, there comes a point – a price point – when things just can’t be done properly. And at that time it becomes beholden upon me and my colleagues to fight our corner.’

  ‘I’m always wary, James, of capable people telling me that things just can’t be done.’

  ‘Ah yes, they never say that in the army, right?’

  ‘Not as a rule. Well, no, I take it back, I used to hear it a fair bit at Sandhurst, usually from the cadets who dropped out, got on the jack wagon – decided they needed a slightly easier life? What they did most often was join the police.’

  Bannerman emitted a scoffing sound but offered no other riposte, to Blaylock’s grim satisfaction.

  *

  Blaylock assumed his front row seat in time to hear the President of the Association of Chief Police Officers lamenting ‘hard times’ for policing, replete with figures that Blaylock broadly recognised, though some came as news to him.

  ‘Every ten per cent drop in police numbers leads to a three per cent increase in property crime, in anti-social behaviour …’

  Blaylock scribbled this figure down in mild wonderment, then glanced absently round the plush convention suite.

  ‘We, like the public we serve, are members of hard-working families. We work overtime, we give up our leave when we have to. I urge the government to preserve our good relations. Don’t seek confrontation with us. Don’t take our goodwill for granted. Hear our message. When funding is next determined, fight for us, not against us.’

  Blaylock followed the President onto the stage, and soon found his speech a long trudge uphill to its peroration. The gifts he had wrapped up – the rewards for initiative, the hi-tech investment – barely warmed up the room. He had the sense of being a bad father, his paternal efforts spurned and read as insincere, while for his own part he knew he could not force the child to be inquisitive or self-sufficient.

  And as he lavished praise on Richard Colls apropos the successful trialling of new technology he knew the move had backfired. Blaylock had hung a coat of many colours on Colls’s back, and by the black looks on the faces of the Kent Chief Constable’s brethren they seemed to fancy casting their brother into a pit. Blaylock’s mood wors
ened and he was not inclined to dress up his parting message.

  ‘The Met start their trial of lapel cameras across ten London boroughs this November. I look forward to a camera on the lapel of every officer. We’ve learned from the Kent experiment that it improves conviction rates. The camera brings scrutiny to bear, and scrutiny is good for all of us, myself included. Every day we should be asking ourselves, do we meet the standards the public are entitled to expect, so ensuring we have their trust? In light of some issues lately arisen, I will ask Philip Nixon to make a new and thorough review of standards and conduct in policing. We will know truthfully where we stand, and none of us have anything to fear – only a lot that we can learn – from the truth.’

  He accepted a derisory ovation as he left the stage.

  *

  In the adjoining reception area where restive delegates milled and took coffee Blaylock snatched a glass of fizzy water, and sipped on the move as Andy came to his side.

  ‘A sharp exit, right? I don’t want to get collared.’

  Andy nodded. ‘When we hit the foyer we’ll go out by the back way, Martin’s waiting.’

  He was pleased, though, to see Richard Colls approach through the crowd, hand outstretched. Colls leaned to his ear as they shook.

  ‘You put me in the spotlight a bit up there.’

  ‘I’m not wrong, though? The cameras are working, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. We’re seeing more people charged, more people admitting the offence. My lads are getting like filmmakers, they leave a scene worrying if they got the shot they needed. To be honest? One or two would prefer if the bloody things had an off-switch. But yeah, if you could stick some sat-nav features in there, bit of face-recognition? Every officer would be a walking CCTV.’

  ‘We’ll do what we can for six hundred quid a pop.’

  ‘You should maybe think about a sponsor. Get the big insurers on-board. If they saw what my guys have been seeing there’d be an awful lot of claims going up in smoke …’

  Colls winked, they shook again warmly and Blaylock, spirits lifted, made for the exit, Andy flanking him down the carpeted foyer, past the central staircase to a seemingly deserted rear reception with glass doors through which the Jaguar was visible.

  There, though, a diminutive young woman emerged from out of a deep sofa and came unerringly toward Blaylock, blinking expectantly. The enquiring eyes and pale elfin features were familiar to him as she thrust out a hand.

  ‘Mr Blaylock, I’m Madolyn Redpath. From Custodes?’

  He shook with her. ‘Yes, you’re speaking later on?’

  ‘I dropped by to hear you first.’

  ‘How did I do?’

  ‘I’ve learned not to expect much liberalism from Home Secretaries. But I must say you seem to be plumbing new depths.’

  The veteran tone and tough words – delivered in the high clear tones of an Oxbridge chorister – left Blaylock bemused.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t please you.’

  ‘Not at all. Clearly you’re more concerned with chasing headlines than trying to do what’s right.’ She was smiling slightly, hands thrust into the deep pockets of her woollen coat. Blaylock found the effect doubly pert and self-pleased.

  ‘The two things can coincide, you know. Forgive me, I must—’

  ‘Will you forgive me? I do need to talk to you about Eve Mewengera. She’s currently languishing in Blackwood Removal Centre, and you’re deporting her back to Harar.’

  ‘I don’t have perfect recall of every case.’

  ‘You saw the petition we handed in yesterday?’

  ‘Glanced, yes, but my response times are—’

  ‘If you don’t act now she will die.’

  ‘Sorry, she—?’

  ‘She’s a political activist, she came here fleeing persecution and all she’s been given is more of the same. If she’s deported she’ll be locked up for sedition and in prison they will kill her.’

  ‘Look, I can’t comment … Detention and removal are part of our system; obviously the case you’re citing has been through a process, so I’m afraid you’ll have to let me review it in my own time.’

  ‘Time? Okay. Thank you for yours.’

  Again she thrust out a hand, this time her left, and Blaylock thought that odd even as he took it, then found it odder still that her light grip became a clutch – but this was as nothing to his surprise when, dreamlike, he saw her right hand fly from her coat pocket to press and clasp something cold and hard round his wrist. Recoiling, he met resistance, and saw the steel handcuff conjoining him by a snaking chain to its twin around hers.

  ‘Aw, for crying out loud, what do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Sorry, do I have all of your attention now?’

  Andy had muscled in rapidly to seize Madolyn’s arm. ‘Give me the key, miss.’

  ‘Not until – don’t touch me! – this is a peaceful protest, okay?’

  Blaylock gestured ruefully as far as his shackled hand would permit. ‘So what’s your next move?’

  ‘I would like five proper minutes of your time, please.’

  It struck Blaylock that no one was watching – that Andy might yet hoist up this slip of a girl and haul her to the car where they could conceivably hack off the links. And yet, he thought better.

  ‘Okay, five minutes, if that’s the end of this caper.’

  Andy’s brow furrowed. ‘Sir, this is not—’

  ‘It’s alright, Andy, Ms Redpath and I will go and speak in the back of the car, so long as she’s got the key.’

  Ms Redpath nodded curtly. And so they stepped out together, absurdly linked, and trotted down the short steps to the Jaguar, Martin at the wheel looking thoroughly tickled by the spectacle.

  ‘Where did you get these?’ Blaylock asked her, to break the stiff silence.

  ‘From a sex shop in Soho. Surprisingly sturdy, aren’t they?’

  As they sat, Blaylock massaged his wrist and could see Andy’s stern eyes in the rear-view mirror as Madolyn unbuttoned her coat so far as to reveal a plain grey pinafore dress.

  ‘You’re a lawyer, right?’ he tried scolding. ‘Why couldn’t you just arrange to come talk to me like everyone else? I’m not such an unreasonable man. But Andy here is a tougher proposition.’

  Madolyn only raised her eyes as if summoning the strength to have congress with fools.

  ‘Okay, five minutes then, tell me about …’

  ‘Eve Mewengera. She’s from a poor village but she went to Nasret, studied, became a journalist. Her village has farmed for generations – mango, banana, papaya. She went back there and found the army had moved in, was pushing her family and everybody else off their land for some big-money foreign interest. Anyone who tried to protest was harassed and beaten. Eve tried to report it and she got arrested for sedition, did three months. In prison she was raped by a guard. Friends of hers died. Once she got out they arrested her mother. So she scraped some money together, flew to London, applied for asylum – and she was arrested. After the usual back and forth with your offices her application was rejected and they hauled her off to Blackwood, where she’s now awaiting a flight back to hell. And she is being treated appallingly.’

  ‘The facilities are as functional as we can make them. That’s not taken lightly.’

  ‘We can argue that another time. I’m taking about Eve being sent to her death.’

  Blaylock felt pressed to think quickly. There was something in the narrowing of the gaze she trained upon him, the forensic bullets she fired, that he found impressively focused, even daunting.

  ‘If we and the courts felt she didn’t qualify for protection then she can’t stay. She has an appeal, surely? Things can happen right up to the wire.’

  ‘Based on what she’s been through, she has no grounds for hope.’

  ‘Ms Redpath, you talk like her fate is sealed. This is not a dictatorship we’re talking about, it’s a government with whom we have bilateral agreements, we can get assurances she won’t be harme
d.’

  ‘Oh please, they won’t be worth the toilet paper they’re written on.’

  ‘Well, then what can I possibly do for you?’

  She produced a thick black ring-binder from her bag. ‘It’s not for me. Just look at Eve’s case. Obviously you can stop her removal.’

  ‘No, no, it’s not for me to interfere with a case that’s gone through the proper process. If I open up one—’

  ‘I know, act justly once and you’d end up acting justly all the time. Anarchy, right? Then you would have to stop being oblivious to human pain and start seeing people as people, not just statistics that get in the way of your send-’em-home regime—’

  She had riled him. He raised a reproving finger. ‘Now you’re out of order, I am not “oblivious to human pain”. Where do you get the nerve?’

  She considered. ‘I’m sorry. I withdraw that.’

  The ring-binder lay between them. Blaylock stared at it, sceptical, feeling her eyes still on him.

  ‘Okay. I will read your material. If I find grounds for concern, that something ought to be done that could be done – I will get back to you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But, to be clear, this is between you and me. If I read in the papers that your organisation has “got me on the spot” or “backtracking” or whatever, then all bets are off.’

  ‘Fine. My organisation doesn’t need publicity. This is Eve’s life, but there are many more like her, I won’t count it as some triumph to get you to pay attention. But if you can’t see the injustice here then you don’t need me to make your life any worse.’

  Blaylock, tired of the joust, accepted the black ring-binder.

  Andy, visibly unhappy, turned in his seat. ‘Sir, can I just confirm, you’re really content to leave the matter this way?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Restorative justice, right? I’ve no big issue with Ms Redpath’s behaviour. Consider me a satisfied victim.’

  Madolyn nodded coolly and slipped from the car. Blaylock watched her re-pocketing her sex-shop handcuffs as she trotted back up the steps to the Excelsior.