Ten Days. Gillian Slovo
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a photo of an adolescent Ruben. Facing the camera. No smile or other welcome. A blank and uncompromising stare.
Ruben’s mother’s eyes had filled with tears. ‘He lost his bearings,’ she said. ‘All of a sudden he went somewhere in his head and we found we could not follow where.’ She turned another page. ‘We were visitors only on occasion.’ And there was the adult Ruben, the one Cathy had known and the one above the mantelpiece, and he was smiling. ‘Sometimes, with the medication, then he would come back to us.’
‘To us, perhaps, but not to himself.’ This from Ruben’s father. ‘He said what the doctor gave him put him in the grave,’ that last word reverberating in a room that fell silent.
‘Come, Bernard.’ She patted the space beside her. ‘Come sit.’
He was a vigorous man, in his sixties, muscled from many years labouring in a packing house. But now, as he lowered himself onto the settee, he looked much older and also much more frail. ‘My son was never violent,’ he said. ‘He never raised a serious hand. Neither against his mother or me. Or any other human being.’
‘He did get frightened.’ This from his wife. ‘If you touched him wrong.’
‘He was a good boy.’ His voice once more filled the room. ‘And he was a good man. He was my light.’
1.15 p.m.
‘Home Secretary?’ Peter’s Parliamentary Private Secretary, who had slid into the office noiselessly as he always did, gave one of his self-deprecatory little coughs.
‘Yes?’ He still had much to do, and Frances, who hated to be kept waiting, was imminently due. ‘What is it?’
‘Commissioner Yares phoned.’
‘He did, did he?’ He nodded to Patricia to make sure she was paying attention. ‘And what did he want?’
‘To tell you that there has been a death in Rockham.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ But why – is what he didn’t say – am I being interrupted by this news? ‘Another knifing?’
‘No, an accident. The police were involved.’
‘I see.’
‘I would have kept this for my end-of-day summary rather than bother you with it now, but Mr Parsons, the Member, as I’m sure you are aware, whose constituency includes Rockham, has advised us he has asked the Speaker’s permission to raise a question abut the incident.’
‘Has he indeed?’ And Joshua Yares had thought to warn him. Perhaps he was trying, harder than Peter had anticipated, to be cooperative.
‘The Commissioner will be briefing the press. He wanted you to know that as well.’
Perhaps not so much cooperative as dotting the i’s and crossing his t’s, something for which he was a stickler, especially when it came to covering his own back.
‘Oh, and your wife is waiting in the lobby.’
‘Good God, man, why didn’t you say so?’ He was already on his feet and slinging on his jacket, saying to Patricia, ‘We’ll have to go on with this when I get back.’
Another little cough. ‘You have an appointment with the Taiwanese ambassador, Home Secretary, on your return from lunch.’
So he did. Nothing to be done save for: ‘Let’s finish up in the lift,’ and then to his PPS: ‘You’ll look into the Rockham business?’
‘Yes, Home Secretary. There’ll be a report in your box tonight.’
1.16 p.m.
A quick glance at the mirror to check everything was where it ought to be and then Joshua Yares strode through the door and into the claustrophobic room with its duck-egg soundproofed walls and grey blinds that shut out even the slightest hint of daylight. Lucky it was air-conditioned or keeping his jacket on would have been nigh impossible.
Chahda and the head press bod were already at the table that had been raised onto a podium in front of a backdrop of Met logos. As the cameras flashed – so many of them, he knew, because the press were also using this first appearance to build up a store of stock photos – he seated himself between the two.
His statement, on one single piece of paper, was there neatly in front of him, but it was worth giving the photographers, and the TV cameras at the back, a little more time to satisfy their cravings. As he sat, unsmiling, and the cameras flashed, the head of press leant over to whisper, ‘Should I set up a confab with the CRA?’
He shook his head: ‘Not for this one.’ There would be plenty of other occasions for him to get to know those members of the Crime Reporters Association to whom the Met would entrust sensitive information, and he didn’t want them to think he was making capital out of a tragedy. ‘Shall we begin?’
‘Absolutely, sir. Ladies and gentlemen.’ The press man’s raised voice had produced an immediate hush. ‘Our new Commissioner of the Metropolis, Commissioner Joshua Yares, will read a short statement. There will be no questions at this time,’ and then turning to Joshua: ‘Commissioner?’
‘Thank you, Mark.’ A quick glance at the paper and he had memorised what was written there. He looked up. ‘And thank you all for coming. It is my sad duty to inform you that yesterday in Rockham, in response to a call from the public, police officers attended a community centre on the Lovelace estate. When a man in his early thirties became violent, the Rockham officers took measures to restrain him. Unfortunately, the man developed breathing difficulties. Officers gave him CPR until an ambulance arrived to take the man to hospital. He was pronounced dead on arrival. At a request from the man’s parents, we will not, at present, be releasing the man’s details. My office is liaising with the parents, and I would ask you, on their behalf, that once their son’s name is released you give them the privacy they will need to come to terms with their loss. As in every case where a death occurs in police presence, the Independent Police Complaints Commission has been put in charge of the investigation. Any further questions should be addressed to them. Thank you. That is all.’
He was already on his feet and beginning the short walk away as questions were fired at him, such as: ‘Do you think this is a bad omen?’ and ‘How’s the first day otherwise?’ and that one he knew would be inevitable: ‘Will you comment on the rumour that the Home Secretary is less than delighted at your appointment?’ All of which he ignored, taking care to keep his expression neutral without discounting the gravity of the news he had delivered, and then at last he was out and he could let his breath go.
1.20 p.m.
There was quite a bustle in the atrium – more visitors than usual crowding around the front desk – so Peter leant his head in so as to hear what Patricia was telling him. While listening to what she had to say, he also looked to where Frances was standing at the centre of a circle of his staff. She had on her beige frock with pink trimming that toned perfectly with her peach complexion and wavy blonde hair. She was so attractive, he thought, a judgement with which the men fawning on her were bound to concur. One of them said something in response to which she threw back her head, elongating her neck, and laughed, and although he wasn’t close enough to see them, he knew she must be treating the men to a flash of those perfect white teeth. He felt such pride watching her, and another feeling that he was almost ashamed to name. He knew it, however, for what it was: a slight jealousy that she was so at home in this world that, despite his high status, sometimes made him feel like an outsider, and a fat one at that.
‘What I’m trying to say, Minister . . .’ Patricia must have registered his inattention. She raised her voice to pull him back.
‘Not now,’ he said.
Frances had already turned her head to look at him. She frowned.
Could he have done something to annoy her? But, no, she was smiling again as she said something to the men, who responded by parting to