Ten Days

  Also by Gillian Slovo

  Fiction

  An Honourable Man

  Black Orchids

  Ice Road

  Red Dust

  The Betrayal

  Close Call

  Catnap

  Façade

  Ties of Blood

  Death Comes Staccato

  Death by Analysis

  Morbid Symptoms

  Non-fiction

  The General (with Ahmed Errichadi)

  Every Secret Thing

  Plays

  The Riots Guantanamo – Honor Bound to Defend Freedom

  (with Victoria Brittain)

  Ten Days

  Gillian Slovo

  Published in Great Britain in 2016 by Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE

  www.canongate.tv

  This digital edition first published in 2016 by Canongate Books

  Copyright © Gillian Slovo, 2016

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 78211 638 7

  Export ISBN 978 1 78211 639 4

  eISBN 978 1 78211 792 6

  Typeset in Palatino by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd, Falkirk, Stirlingshire

  To Robyn, for her calm persistence, courage under fire, and fierce plotting brain.

  Contents

  Thursday

  Friday

  Saturday

  Sunday

  Monday

  Tuesday

  Wednesday

  Thursday

  Friday

  Saturday

  Abbreviations and Police Terms

  Acknowledgements

  Thursday

  4 a.m.

  The beating of a helicopter swooping low over the Lovelace estate must have been what first shook Cathy from sleep, but what had brought her to consciousness was the much softer click of a door. She stretched an arm out and across the bed. The sheet was warm and she could still feel the imprint of Banji’s body on it, but he had gone.

  She’d fetch him back, she decided, pulling on her dressing gown and making her way down the corridor to the front door. By the time she reached it, he had already crossed the landing and was nearly at the walkway.

  ‘Banji.’

  He stopped and turned.

  A tall man, toned by the gym, there was something about the way he stood there under the dark rotating blades of the helicopter that made her doubt that it was him. But as the helicopter flew away he seemed to return to the skin of the man she knew. He yawned and smiled, and said, ‘It’s early.’ And yawned again. ‘Go back to bed.’

  ‘I will if you will.’

  He shook his head. ‘Better not.’ He was speaking so softly she could barely make out what he was saying. ‘I’ve got a lot on.’

  ‘Lyndall was expecting to see you at breakfast. She’ll be disappointed.’ Even in the dim light she could see how his expression softened at the mention of her daughter. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Come back to bed.’

  ‘Nah.’ He gestured with his arm – half a wave and half a waving of her off. ‘You’re all right. I’ll catch her later.’ A decisive turn and he strode off down the walkway.

  Biting back her disappointment, she crossed the landing and went to stand at the edge of the balcony so she could see over the low wall. From there she followed his progress for as long as she could. Which wasn’t long: he was moving at such a pace his brown skin had soon faded into the night.

  It was hot there but so much hotter inside; she stayed where she was, looking out on the concrete and steel of the Lovelace buildings and the web of walkways that connected them.

  The estate was the last stand of a twentieth-century modernist dream which years of neglect had turned into a dangerous nightmare of piss-stained crevices. It was scheduled for demolition and boards were beginning to take the place of windows and front doors, while neighbourliness was being replaced by long farewells or midnight flits.

  She looked out at the separate blocks, each on different levels, which were joined by the spiralling walkways stretching to left and right. Usually so noisy, the estate was now subdued. With every door closed and every window dark, she might almost be able to hear the Lovelace residents breathing in their sleep.

  As she stood there, a neon bulb winked out on the walkway opposite. Another that the council would not bother replacing; darkness was heralding the end of the Lovelace. Sighing, she went back inside.

  She was halfway to bed when she heard a footfall. Cheered by the prospect of Banji’s return, she hurried into the lounge, dodging the clutter of furniture (two comfy sofas and too many over-cushioned old chairs that she was always promising Lyndall she would prune), to reach the flat line-up of steel windows that faced out onto the estate. She was just in time to catch sight of a shadow flitting by.

  Too slight a figure to be Banji. Must be Jayden, who lived with his mother at the other end of the landing. On his way, she guessed, to help out in the market.

  PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL FOR INQUIRY USE ONLY

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

  Submission 987/S/1–15: photographic evidence produced by Air Support Unit 27AWZ pertaining to surveillance prior to the outbreak of the disturbances

  location: Lovelace estate

  subject: routine surveillance

  This evidence was collected at 4:01:23 on when Air Support Unit 27AWZ, India 95, passed over the Lovelace estate in Rockham.

  In response to an ongoing request by 27AWZ carried out a routine passing surveillance on the estate.

  As the ASU passed over Flat 45, Lovelace Block 3, a man, IC3, emerged. Camera facilities were employed to photograph this man, later identified to be the man known as Banji. He turned to address someone (not visible) who stood in the open doorway of Flat 45. The conversation was brief. The man then proceeded unaccompanied down the runway and towards the south-western exit of the Lovelace estate.

  A female figure, IC1, stepped out from Flat 45 and watched as the man departed.

  The ASU did not continue its surveillance.

  4.15 a.m.

  Peter Whiteley was just about to leave the bedroom when he heard Frances sigh. He turned to look at the bed. She was lying perfectly still, and although he thought that the sheet, which was all that was covering her, might have shifted, it was too dark to be sure.

  Another, quieter sigh, but still no movement. She must be sighing in her sleep.

  The burble of a police radio told him that they were gearing up for his arrival. He left the bedroom and made his way downstairs.

  The kitchen was even hotter than the bedroom. Not that this stopped Patsy from springing out of her basket at first sight of him and bouncing over, her rasping tongue making a tour of his face. ‘Only time you’re friendly to me,’ he said, feigning affection by stroking her silken back, ‘is when there’s no one else to feed you.’ Her answer was one last slurp of his lips before she raced across the kitchen to stand by her bowl so she could wolf down what he put there in less time than it took him to fill the kettle.

  He called out, softly, through the open window. ‘You there?’

  The officer, who must have been perched on the stone bench just below the window, popped into view: ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘Good morning.’ Peter lifted his gaze to the dark sky. ‘Or almost.’

  ‘I’ll fetch your driver, shall I?’

  ‘Tell him half an hour.’

  Peter unbolted the kitchen door (strange the habit that had them locking the door at night despite the fact that the windows were open and the house guarded back
and front) and stepped out.

  Dark and a smell like dry bracken. So dark he could only just make out the cluster of bushes that, once full and green, were now wilting into the cracked soil. He went a few steps further into the garden, feeling the warmth of the spiky grass on his bare feet and the dust that each one of his steps stirred up. The night seemed to press down on him, the air heavier and much hotter than any English night should be. He could just make out the shadowed outline of the beech at the bottom of the garden, with its uneven cankered trunk standing stark against the blackened sky. An ancient tree: he hoped it would find a way to pull in moisture from the thickened air.

  It was so quiet that he heard the kettle clicking off. He made his way back into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar.

  ‘Help yourself.’ He fetched down two mugs. ‘One for me as well. No sugar.’

  4.20 a.m.

  The instant that Joshua Yares woke, he got straight out of a bed that looked as if it had barely been slept in. He nevertheless pulled tight the light-blue sheets, smartening up corners that were already well tucked in, before fetching the neatly folded counterpane from the chair and smoothing it over the top.

  He stepped back to survey the result, approaching the bed again to flatten a faint wrinkle on the top left-hand corner. Once it was all perfectly smooth and flat, he took hold of the sweat pants and a T-shirt he had laid out the night before and, having dressed, laced up his running trainers.

  Taking the narrow stairs two at a time, he was soon out on the street. A few paces jogged before he began to run in earnest.

  He liked running, especially when nobody was about. And although he’d slowed considerably since his record-breaking days, he still ran with the strength and agility of a much younger man.

  He pushed his torso forward as if in a race, and then, feet pounding the pavement and sweat beading his forehead (no one being about), he vaulted the gate to the park and set off across the high grass, hearing it crackle as he mowed it down.

  4.22 a.m.

  Peter was sweating as he stepped into the shower.

  He closed his eyes, tilted back his head and let the water wash over him. Might as well enjoy it now, because if this awful drought persisted showers would soon be replaced by queuing at standpipes and water trucks for rationed water.

  But this was England: the drought could surely not persist. As a matter of fact, he’d yesterday heard a weatherman predicting an imminent reversion to the grey disappointment of an average summer. That would please the PM: one less crisis to fend off in these dismal times.

  He dried himself vigorously before tossing down the towel.

  Thirty years married and Frances was still offended by this habit. But he couldn’t rid himself of the superstition that the ritual brought him luck, and luck in great quantities is what he needed now. Courage, he told himself, and made to leave. In turning away, however, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. I look washed out, he thought, despite the sun. He sucked in his stomach and flashed himself a smile. He smoothed down hair that was only beginning to grey. Better.

  Now for the finishing touches.

  He pulled open the cedar doors of his dressing-room wardrobes and surveyed the rows of suits and shirts and ties. Not the fawn linen. Too flash for the House. Same for the beige. Not the dark blue either – he’d overused it recently – and certainly not the grey, which always seemed too lightweight. Black then, with a white shirt, and the mauve tie for a dash of colour.

  It was an ensemble that, even as he put it on, felt heavy for a day that was going to break all records. But when it was this hot in the House, permission to remove outer garments was frequently granted and, having learnt the hard way how badly the thick dark hair of his forearms played on television, he knew better than to give in to the temptation of a short-sleeved shirt.

  He sucked in his paunch before taking another glance, this time in the full-length mirror. Shoelaces tied; shirt tucked; trousers pulled up; flies zipped; socks smooth. Frances had trained him to carry out this check first thing and sporadically throughout the day. It was part of the game that politicians, even serious ones, had to play: cutting their cloth in obeisance to a world that judged them by standards they themselves would balk at. Another smile – looking good – before he went back downstairs.

  There was a mug of thick dark tea waiting for him. He took a sip and grimaced. Nobody in sight, so he spooned in a couple of sugars. A few more gulps before he set the cup aside. He stretched up for Patsy’s lead while simultaneously holding out his other arm to ward her off: stray pieces of her brown and blonde hair on his suit would give the wrong impression.

  ‘Round the block,’ he said to her and to the policeman who, hearing him moving about the kitchen, had reappeared.

  4.25 a.m.

  Cathy’s galley kitchen was a wreck despite last night’s dinner having only been a takeaway. She managed to throw the cartons away, pile up the dirty dishes and pass a cloth over the melamine surfaces before the kettle boiled. She’d do the rest later; now she was desperate for a cuppa.

  She opened the cupboard, gazing for a moment at the cluster of teapots before closing the cupboard and grabbing a mug that she rinsed out before making tea from a bag.

  She took the mug down the narrow corridor. She went quietly so as not to wake Lyndall, but as she drew abreast of her daughter’s bedroom she was seized by an impulse to go in.

  Don’t, she told herself. And then she did.

  It was sweltering in there and Lyndall, who still slept with a night light on, had pushed off her top sheet to lie uncovered in her shortie-pyjamas. In the faint yellow glow from the floor, she looked uncharacteristically pale and deathly still. Cathy couldn’t even see if she was breathing.

  She tiptoed across the room. Still no sign of life. Knowing that she shouldn’t, she lowered her hand to Lyndall’s forehead.

  ‘Geroff, Mum.’ Lyndall pulled up her sheet and turned with it to face the wall.

  Embarrassed, Cathy went back to bed.

  4.35 a.m.

  When Peter came out of the house, one of the two waiting officers spoke softly into his radio while the other moved aside to let him pass. He opened the gate at the end of the path and let Patsy bounce through, even though this was against the rules, Patsy’s therapist having apparently decided that Patsy took Charles’s absences at school to mean that he was a discard and she the favoured child, which was why she kept trying to bite Charles when he came home. So now, apparently, they had to re-educate the dog into knowing her place in the family hierarchy, which meant never letting her lead the way.

  ‘Dog therapist!’ He might have said the words out loud, although the officers did not react.

  They were good, this current team of SO1, the specialist protection branch, adept at keeping a low profile. He could hear them, a few steps back, their regular padding a companionable sound in this soft, dark night while Patsy sniffed the ground.

  There was no light from any of the houses that stood back behind front gardens, just the shadows of the trees that lined this gracious street. Walking here he felt a sense of belonging and, yes, he was not ashamed to admit it, of comfort, especially when compared to the streets on which he had been dragged up.

  Despite his irritation about this enforced walk, he did enjoy the quiet of the empty mornings. To move for once unbothered by what other people saw and thought and said – this was insomnia’s reward. Not that it was the smoothest of walks. The dog, having been fed, reverted to her usual irritating habit of setting off at such a brisk pace that she pulled him along (lucky there was nobody about to see or, worse, sneak a picture of him) until he grew accustomed to her pace, at which point she slowed right down so she could sniff at each and every tree they passed. She must have sensed that he was in a hurry because now she really took her time; they were halfway down the next block before she made her choice.

  She stopped and squatted. He looked away (another of the bloody psychologist’s instructions) while
she did her business and then, feeling a tug on the lead, reached into his pocket.

  Damn – he’d forgotten to bring a bag. He couldn’t leave the pavement fouled; he’d have to go back. He glanced in irritation at his watch.

  ‘Here you are, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He took the outstretched bag, wondering as he did what Joshua Yares, such a stickler for the rules, would think of that.

  He scooped up the dog mess and, holding it at arm’s length, turned. ‘Your Commissioner’s first day.’

  The officers nodded, all three of them simultaneously, although none of them smiled. They didn’t like Yares any more than Peter did.

  5.15 a.m.

  Forty-five minutes to the second and the new Metropolitan Police Commissioner Joshua Yares was back at his front door. He was sweating hard and, better still, had run out of his mind the worries that beset him before the start of any task.

  No matter that he had landed the big one – chief of the Met – he was not going to expend energy worrying about the way they’d got rid of his predecessor or about the extent of the mess they were expecting him to clear up. Far better to begin with a clear head and an expectation that things would go right. And if they didn’t? Well, then he would deal with each problem strictly in the order in which it arose.

  He buffed his trainers against the doormat, watching the dust rise, and then he took them off and strode upstairs to shower, fast, as he did everything, while still taking care to systematically wash and dry himself.

  And now the moment that had been so long in its anticipation.

  He put on a gleaming pair of white briefs that he had removed from their packaging the night before. Then the socks, black and new as well, and a crisp white shirt – he’d ironed it twice to make sure – and after that the black trousers that he’d had specially fitted to suit his athletic frame. He knotted the black tie but, seeing it marginally off kilter, redid the knot before fitting it snugly, but not too tightly, under his collar. And finally two items that set the seal on his newfound status: his tunic and his cap.