Gillian Slovo - Ten Days

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 let her through. He must have imagined it.

But he soon realised that she really was annoyed. Not that she said as much. But by her turning away of her cheek when he had gone to peck it once they were outside, and by her brisk nod at his driver and his bodyguards, and by the way she sat beside him in the car, poker straight, and pushed an errant blonde hair firmly back into place, he could tell that something was bothering her.

‘Dog been playing up?’

‘Why would she be?’ Her tone was pinched. She was definitely annoyed.

Perhaps she was feeling unacknowledged.

‘I tried to ring you back this morning,’ he said, ‘but you didn’t answer.’

She shrugged.

Yes, that was most likely it. And he had been remiss. ‘Would I be right in thinking you had something to do with the Today item?’

‘Nobody tells Today what to run.’ Her voice was clipped. ‘Except perhaps the DG — and it’s doubtful, even in his case, that he can.’

‘Well, thank you for your efforts in the aftermath.’

Her nod was curt, giving nothing away.

Oh, Lord — looked to be a day of sulks. All he needed.

‘I think I struck the right balance between giving the PM support and also representing the mainstream view of the Party,’ he tried. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Yes, Peter.’ She sounded dutiful. And clearly bored.

He looked away and in doing so caught his driver’s eye. He pressed a button and the glass screen that divided front from back went gliding up.

‘There’s been an incident involving the police in Rockham,’ he said, ‘resulting in the death of a member of the public. Timothy Parsons is planning to ask a question in the House.’

‘That dreadful man.’ He had hoped that her annoyance, whatever its cause, might fade in the face of the thing that really engaged her — the intricacies of politics — and so it proved. ‘Bitter as well: resents the fact that he was passed over in the last reshuffle. Not that he deserved another chance after the mess he made in Transport. And now he’s asking questions to catch you out — and from our side of the House.’

‘It is odd, especially since he’s not exactly known for his social conscience. Rumour is he does his best to steer clear of surgeries: too many needy people.’

Frances frowned. Good — a sign she had her thinking cap on. ‘The PM has Parsons up to it,’ she said. ‘Despite the reshuffle, Parsons remains his man.’

She was, as ever, right. Parsons’ name had been top of the list of those who would never in a million years vote for Peter. ‘But why would the PM set his dogs on this death?’

‘He has gone out on a limb on the drugs issue,’ Frances said, ‘throwing the party into uproar. The opposition are jumping on the bandwagon, quoting police resistance to the measure. So if he can provoke the country into concern about the police, he thinks he might be able to turn the tide. He can’t do it himself, so he’s recruited Parsons.’

Which put a new complexion on Yares’s phone call: ‘Of course that must be it. How clever of you.’

She smiled. Not so much the ice queen now. ‘We should talk about the lunch. Our table is close to some fairly influential Party funders. We will not be sitting with them, I’ve made sure of that. We don’t want to give too much away until we are sure we have all our ducks in a row. All we need at the moment is to meet and greet, with a word or two in relevant ears. I’ll make the running. You follow.’

‘Don’t I always, darling?’