Ten Days (12 page)

A rare treat to spend a Saturday without demands and he'd milked it – not that he didn't miss the girls but they'd be back, at which point Angie would be over the moon about his good work.

Just one more bag to fill and then, he thought, a pizza and a low-alcohol beer. Perhaps two. He'd earned them. As he began to sweep along the pavement, he felt his phone buzz. He pulled it out and clicked it on: ‘Yup?'

‘Billy? It's Mike.'

Mike was not part of that weekend's command complex, so this must be a social call. Billy felt himself relax. ‘What's up?'

‘A bus on fire in Rockham.'

‘Oh yeah? Course there is. Pull the other one.'

‘This isn't a wind-up,' Mike said. ‘I'm on the ground. The station's under siege and there's hardly any Level 2 here. They're going through the call list – you'll be hearing from them soon – but I thought I'd give you a heads-up so you can organise your kit.'

Without thinking about it, Billy had straightened up, and when he asked, ‘How bad?' he sounded extremely calm.

‘Really bad. And it's only going to get worse.'

9.15 p.m.

Jayden had dreamt this same dream, and on more than one occasion. He and Lyndall walking down an unfamiliar street. Him reaching out for her, like she (he was never in any doubt about this in the dream) wanted him to do. But as their fingers touched, a hot wind, no, not a wind, a tornado ripped them from each other, and he was sucked up into the twisting centre, powerless as she seemed to shrink, or else he was being blown further and further away from her – he couldn't tell which it was. He only knew that he could no longer make her face out in a gathered crowd.

And now he found himself living this dream even though the street they were on was Rockham's main thoroughfare and they had been torn asunder not by a wind but by the force of the rampaging crowd. Her hand reached out for his, but he was jammed so tight that he had been lifted off the ground, with the thrust of the group carrying him away from her.

He saw her mouth open. He knew she must be calling to him, but he couldn't hear what she was saying, and soon he couldn't see her either. He struggled to free himself and eventually managed to tunnel his way out of this cyclone of people, many more of whom were heading in the opposite direction. He lowered his head and barrelled against this oncoming tide, back to the place where they'd been parted. But she was long gone.

He thought he heard her name, not once but many times. He scanned the crowd as that implausible cry ‘Lyn-dall, Lyn-dall', which his imagination must have summoned up, mocked him. He tried to jump up, the better to see where she might have gone, but that set the people around him jumping, the action spreading through the crowd so that all he could now see was a myriad of bobbing heads. He felt a terrible sense of failure: he had not kept her safe.

A bang, and the tide turned, and he with it, all of them running at the noise that was the bursting into flames of a squad car. Then he saw Lyndall, lit up by the flash of the explosion. She was safe. With her mother at her side.

He could have reached them, he should have, but something, perhaps the way they stood, so close to each other, held him back.

She was safe. That's all that mattered. He saw them turning away. Like he should too. Get back to his own mother.

The fire around the police car had helped clear the path, especially now that some of the crowd were making for the bus. He could easily have gone and caught up with Lyndall. And yet knowing she was safe had released him.

To what?

To be here. In this moment. With all these people. Some of whom he knew. Some of whom he didn't. All of them flushed by the heat, and the fires, and not knowing what was going to come next, and, yes, now he felt it flooding through him he could name it for himself: exhilaration.

His life upturned. His early rises to open and clean the shop and buy the breakfast and bring it back and leave it for his mother who, despite how hard he shook her, never would get up. And then the trudge to school, and he always on the late register, and those mouths that spoke at him words he was too tired to take much notice of, detentions handed out which he had to miss because it was time to get back to work again.

All those people – his teachers, his boss, the social workers. These people who were always telling him who he was and what he had to do. They were nowhere here. Fuck them. Fuck their rules. Fuck their prohibitions. The things they told him he couldn't do. The things they told him he couldn't have.

They were nowhere here. Those people who always told him what he was allowed.

The police, yes, he could see them, were there, but they just stood and looked. And here he was with all the others. He could do what they were doing, he could pick up a brick, look there was one, he felt its rough edges in his hand, and he could surge on and into one of the broken shops.

‘Let's get ‘em' – that chorus rising and he joining it – ‘Let's get ‘em', and he didn't care who it was they were going to get, he just wanted to act, to be carried along by the crowd and to do what they were going to do. And already there was the sound of breaking glass, and shadows were flitting in and out of shops that had been blasted open, and people coming out, not just the young and not just men but all kinds of people, holding things they'd grabbed, and he too, all he had to do was move with the tide and he could have some of what they were having, things he'd only ever dreamt of owning: trainers, not the old sad ones he wore, but the ones other kids flaunted, the confident boys who stood out. He didn't even have to break in or anything – he let drop the brick he was holding – it was already done. All he had to do was follow. And now, before it all disappeared.

‘Come on.' He was talking to himself and to the night: ‘Come on,' urging himself forwards, laughing even, oh how much he wanted to do something, anything, without first having to think of the consequences. To be in the now, like he never was.

Because. He stopped. The crowd surging past.

Because.

If he got caught.

If he didn't make it home.

If he wasn't there to buy the breakfast.

If he didn't put it on the table.

If all those ifs came to pass.

She wouldn't manage. Not if he wasn't there.

‘Come on.' They were calling to each other, and they were still coming on.

All of them but him.

He dropped his head and turned away.

9.55 p.m.

The table was groaning with Frances's splendid food and lit by candles to soften the velvet night. Around the table were close friends, all of whom were supportive of his leadership bid. Not that it had even been broached: they knew, without Peter having to say as much, that what he needed more than anything was a break from the relentless pressure. So they gave it to him, following his lead in keeping the conversation light.

Oh, the joy of relaxing with people who understood and who, even more importantly, were not going to sell his every unguarded word to the tabloids.

He kept their glasses topped up with a particularly subtle Gigondas rosé, which had gone down very nicely. If the heatwave continued, which the weathermen were now saying was a distinct possibility, he would have to organise another couple of cases. He reached for the bottle.

‘Here, let me.' Frances's hand covered his before slipping under it to take the bottle. She got to her feet and began doing the rounds of the table, and by the time she'd reached him, the bottle was empty. He twisted round: there were two upturned empties in the ice bucket and that was it.

He made to rise, but Frances now laid her hands on his shoulders. ‘Don't worry, darling, I'll fetch more.' For a moment she stayed where she was and, although it was hot, he felt his tight shoulders relaxing under the pressure of her kneading fingers. He let out a long sigh of contentment.

‘Me next' – this from one of their guests.

Frances laughed, removed her hands and, having guaranteed ‘I'll be back', made her way through the garden and to the kitchen.

‘A marvellous woman. You lucky man.'

A chorus of agreement circled the table while Peter thought about his luck. He reached for his glass and drained it of its last few drops. More soon to come.

Not, however, that soon. The conversation moved through the greatest gaffes ever committed in public, and then, raucously, in private, and still Frances did not return. There were bottles in the wine fridge: he knew because he'd put them there. He turned to look through the darkness and towards the house.

The kitchen was lit up, so he could see her clearly. She was standing with her back to him. She wasn't moving – not bringing out dessert, then – and she wasn't anywhere near the wine fridge. What on earth? He was about to go and check on her, but when she turned to look his way he saw that there was a simple enough explanation for her immobility: she was on the phone. He could see her nodding as she held it to her ear. Someone must have phoned, although he hadn't heard the ringing, which, given they'd rigged up an amplification system, was odd.

She seemed to be staring straight at him, although since she was in the light and he in the dark he knew that she wouldn't be able to see him. Perhaps she was just glaring in that way of hers in order to transmit to whoever was on the other end that they needed to stop talking and hang up. Which is exactly what happened. Her hand moved the phone down to the counter.

She'd be back soon. He turned to their guests. And heard her calling. ‘Peter.' She'd stepped out of the kitchen, phone in hand. ‘You had better take this.'

He glanced at his watch. Nearly ten. It must be important or Frances would have given the caller short shrift. He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Duty calls.' He took a step forward, only to trip over the blasted dog, who was always underfoot.

‘Steady.' As the dog yelped, one of the guests reached out a hand to stop Peter falling. ‘Better have some coffee, old boy.'

To prove that he wasn't really drunk, he walked in a deliberate straight line to the kitchen, where Frances stood, phone still in hand. ‘It's the Commissioner,' she said. ‘Something about Rockham.'

‘Covering his arse, I bet.' Peter reached for the phone.

But Frances kept hold of it for a moment. ‘If it's serious, take it seriously. With the PM at the summit, this is your chance. The Party already knows what you're capable of; if you play this right, you can also show the Country.'

‘Indeed.' He took the phone from her. ‘Home Secretary here,' sitting down as he listened to what Joshua Yares had to say. In the background, Frances busied herself making coffee.

11 p.m.

The Lovelace rang out with shouts and the pounding of feet, people running either towards or away from the trouble.

‘Jayden's not back.' As Lyndall turned away from the balcony's edge, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Something must have happened. I've got to go and get him.'

‘I'm sorry, darling, I can't let you.'

‘You know what Jayden's like: he always wants to please. They'll make him do things and they won't keep him safe. Please – I have to find him.'

‘You're a mixed-race kid in what is effectively a race riot. If the police pick you up – and in that circumstance they'll go for anybody they can get – you'll be in trouble.'

‘I don't care.'

‘Well, I do.'

Lyndall bunched her fist and hissed out one word – ‘Hypocrite' – through tight lips.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘You must have lectured me a million times on how we are only strong if we band together. And now, when one of the vulnerable that you're always on about is in trouble, all that matters to you is that your daughter is safe.'

It was a speech delivered on such a stream of righteous indignation that it almost made Cathy laugh. Except this was no laughing matter. ‘You're my daughter and you're only fourteen. It's my job to keep you safe.'

‘And Jayden is my friend. It's my job to keep him safe.'

‘I'm sorry, but the answer is still no.' Cathy held up a hand to stop a fresh onslaught: ‘How about if I went?'

‘He doesn't trust you like he trusts me.'

‘That's as may be but, bottom line, I don't care how many times you ask me, I will not let you out in it. But I can go. If you'd like me to?'

Lyndall gave an almost imperceptible nod.

‘Okay, but only if you promise to stay put.'

Another, slightly more emphatic, nod.

‘You also need to promise that you will not come looking for either of us. Do you promise that?'

And a third.

‘I want to hear you say it.'

‘Yes, Mum, I promise.' Such a small voice – it told Cathy that, despite her bravado, Lyndall might be relieved not to have to head back out onto the streets. Hardly surprising. It had been scary enough when they pushed their way out of the melee; it was bound to be even scarier now.

‘Okay. I'll go and see if I can find him. Meanwhile, you need to get inside and stay inside. Any trouble, any at all, even if you think it may just be your imagination, ring me. If I don't answer – it'll probably be too noisy for me to hear my mobile – ring Pius. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, Mum. I understand. And,' when Lyndall kissed her on the cheek, Cathy realised that her daughter was almost as tall as her, ‘thanks, Mum. Please be careful.' She went into the flat and closed the door.

PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL FOR INQUIRY USE ONLY

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

Submission 601/b/1: written submission by Chief Inspector William (Billy) Ridgerton

I was the cadre trained in public order critical incidence on call on the weekend of the Rockham disturbances.

I arrived at the scene at 2235 hours. There were two cordons, one with unprotected police officers and no disorder whatsoever to the south. To the north was a large barricade with members of the public throwing missiles, including petrol bombs. The crowd numbered in the region of three hundred, with a nucleus of the crowd causing problems and a high proportion of onlookers.

I located a chief inspector based in Rockham who filled me in as to the outbreak of the disturbances. I then contacted Silver in Littleworth and informed them that I was faced with three immediate tasks: protection and security of the station; the creation of a reactionary gap in which my officers could work to alleviate the pressure to the north and, if possible, arrest troublemakers; and the creation of a sterile corridor for the LFB and LAS to advance, since by this point fires were being set.

We were light on resources, especially protected officers. Initially I had at my command a coterie of TSG officers and some Level 2 trained officers seconded for aid. I had urgent need of more shield-trained officers and I informed Silver of this. I also informed Silver that I had two to three PSUs who had been in the front line for three hours and who needed to be relieved.

By 2300 hours, having taken stock of the situation, I and my men pushed forwards.

11.05 p.m.

They had set up Gold Command on the fourth floor.

A line of seated officers was monitoring the bank of screens, their computers providing the sound, as they communicated with Silver in Littleworth and Bronze on the ground. In the middle of the room there was a projected map of Rockham complete with the position of rioters, onlookers and emergency services. It was such a rapidly changing scenario it soon took on the look of a fast-forwarded weather map except that reports coming in made it clear that the clouds hanging over Rockham would soon be the smoke of burning buildings rather than that morning's mysterious promise of rain.

Joshua stood to one side as Anil Chahda took charge. As he watched his deputy calmly issuing orders, his respect for Chahda increased. Having previously seemed stolid, Chahda was now showing how fast, and how effectively, he could move when he had to. Which is more than could be said for those in charge of Rockham police station.

‘What on earth did they think they were doing leaving a patrol car and a bus exposed?'

‘I expect it's down to inexperience on the ground, sir,' Chahda said. ‘Gaby Wright was unfortunately away. She's on her way back and her task, and ours, is to take control. You agree that arrests are not an immediate priority?'

‘Yes. Not enough men on the ground. They can always organise CCTV grabs afterwards. For the moment, let's just concentrate on making sure that nobody gets killed.'

‘Yes, sir.' Anil smiled, which was not a sight Joshua had ever seen before.

What a mess, and before Joshua had even completed a week in post. By the looks of it even Billy Ridgerton, as capable as he undoubtedly was, would have to work a miracle to stop the trouble with the scarce resources available to him. Wouldn't be easy, either, to give him more, what with it being Saturday and so many of the men having opted to take their annual leave during this hot spell.

‘Don't let me get in your way, Anil. Carry on.'

‘Thanks, sir.' Anil Chahda half turned away but then froze. ‘Uh oh. What's he doing here?'

‘He' was Home Secretary Peter Whiteley, who was just then coming through the door.

Damn. They had rioting in Rockham and every indication that it was about to spread. All they needed now was a Home Secretary who, knowing him, was trying to steal a march on his PM and the Mayor by acting the strong man.

‘We need to deal with this. Come with me.' Joshua made his way over to the door, with Chahda at his heels. ‘Home Secretary, this is a surprise.' To Peter Whiteley's bodyguards who were standing to attention, he added, ‘That's fine, men, relax,' and then, ‘How can I help you, Home Secretary?'

‘I've come to see how I can help you.' Peter Whiteley lurched forward.

Was he drunk? ‘Thank you, Home Secretary, but as I'm sure you can see,' Joshua's gesture embraced all the officers working quietly at their desks, ‘we're on it.'

‘Anything you need.' Another lurch: he must be drunk. ‘Permission to use Section 44 for example.'

Oh great. In a situation when they didn't even have enough officers on the ground to contain the trouble, never mind arrest any of the troublemakers, this idiot was suggesting that they use the blanket provisions of the Terrorism Act. And with the Rockham nick under siege, where did he think they were going to put the people they arrested?

Smile, Joshua told himself, and speak. ‘Thank you for that, Home Secretary, but our immediate priority must be to stop the disruption at the same time as we make sure to keep our officers and the public safe.'

‘Well, how about I get on to the networks? Tell them to apply ACCOLC? Call gapping?'

‘Thank you again, but at this moment there are no reports that the networks are overloaded.' With great effort, Joshua kept calm. Not for much longer, though. If Peter Whiteley did not take the hint, Joshua would have to tell him, and in no uncertain terms, that political interference in operational policing – albeit under the guise of offering help – would not be tolerated.

‘We cannot have anarchy on our streets,' Peter Whiteley said. ‘Anything you need. Anything.'

Out of the corner of his eye, Joshua watched one of the officers handing Chahda a piece of paper: must be important or the officer wouldn't have come over, not with Whiteley there, this thought confirmed by the sight of Chahda blanching.

‘Problem?'

Chahda nodded and said softly in Joshua's ear, ‘The disturbance is now within two miles of a highly flammable solvent recycling facility. We'll have to redistribute our men.'

‘What's that?' As Peter Whiteley raised his voice, he couldn't stop himself from doing another little lurch forward. ‘What's that?' Not just drunk but a hysteric. And a dangerous one. Now was the time to evict him.

‘We should brief you, Home Secretary, and thoroughly. Anil, if you wouldn't mind taking the Home Secretary to our spill-out operations room where he will be more comfortable.' He pointed to the door with such authority that Peter Whiteley obediently turned towards it. ‘I'll take over temporary command while you're gone.'

‘Yes, sir.' Chahda didn't like it, but he must have realised that if he didn't get this bloody politician out of Joshua's hair he'd be having to cope with the consequences of the Metropolitan Commissioner of Police tearing a strip off his Home Secretary in front of the whole of Gold Command. The Mayor would love that. So would the PM. And the tabloids would have a field day when it leaked out, which these things always did.

As the Home Secretary's embarrassed protection squad followed Whiteley and Chahda, Joshua made his way to the communications officer. ‘Transmit to Silver and Bronze the following communication as an instruction,' he said, handing over the note on which he'd scrawled some sentences. ‘Send this first. Then contact India 95 and tell them we need thermal imaging and fast. We've got to work out how many people are in the area in case we have to evacuate.' As the officer set to, he added, ‘Put it on loudspeaker, will you?'

Which is how he was able to hear Billy Ridgerton responding to the news with a loud ‘You've got to be fucking joking.'

11.15 p.m.

A solvent recycling centre in a built-up area: what muppet had thought that wouldn't be a problem? And how come it hadn't been on any of the maps Billy had checked, just in case, earlier that day? Must be a recent act of moronic incompetence and one that had been shuffled out of sight by some pen-pusher.

No time to give vent to his fury. He had instead now to tell men who were already exhausted by the pressure on them and the heat that he was going to further deplete their numbers by dispatching some of them to a factory some peaceful two miles away. They weren't going to like it.

‘Shift, sir.' Tony, Billy's minder, pushed him to one side at the same time as he lifted his short shield over Billy's head. A piece of something hard, clearly aimed at Billy, bounced off the shield and hit Tony on the cheek. It was a bit of paving stone, sharp at one end. Blood trickled down Tony's cheek.

‘You okay?'

‘Fine and dandy, sir.' Tony wiped the blood clear of his eye. It was the third hit he had taken for Billy that evening, and it wasn't going to be the last.

Four paces ahead, a line of officers was trying to claim ground so as to push on to the junction at Rockhall Park and clear a route for the LFB and LAS, who were champing at the bit behind them.

‘This is diabolical,' Tony said. They had policed some bad disturbances together – not least the recent G8 where all hell had broken loose – but this was no anti-capitalist riot like G8. It was a full-blown attack on the police, with burning and pillaging as a side order to this main event. That much had been clear from the moment they'd pitched up to be met by a hail of bottles, broken paving stones and even petrol bombs. No wonder some of his men were only too eager to lash out. He'd had to stop a few so far, and he knew he'd have to stop more before the night was out.

He couldn't really blame them. They all shared the same frustration. They couldn't push forward fast enough because some of the rioters had had the bright idea of copycatting the G8 maniacs by chaining shopping trolleys together to form a barricade and, would you believe it, the clippers strong enough to cut through were missing from the inventory. Added to that was the heat: although their arm and leg guards offered much-needed protection, they also dramatically increased the wearer's body temperature. And should they manage to push close enough to the fires to do any good, he would have to worry about their body armour melting, and the nightmare injuries that could arise. He'd already lost one officer. She'd started to fit – badly – and had to be bodily passed back along the police lines until they could get her to an ambulance.

Not a pretty sight to see one of his officers manhandled, even by her own, but this was another thing he couldn't afford to dwell on. There were so many other people to be fearful for: the members of the public who were caught up in the middle of the disturbance and, even worse, those who might soon be trapped in burning premises; or the likelihood that where petrol bombs and paving stones led, firearms might follow; or that omnipresent terror that one of his men could be separated from the main group and torn to pieces by the mob, something that he was in no doubt could happen if he didn't manage to keep them all together. Plus there was the worry about the finger-wagging and worse that would follow should one of his hard-pressed men hurt one of the rioters. And while he was weighing up all these possibilities, he had Silver, and now Gold, shouting instructions through his earpiece, along with an urgent need to come up with tactics that would take them in the right direction of a desirable endgame. If all this wasn't bad enough, India 95 was relaying sightings of the build-up of disturbance in nearby boroughs, which raised the nerve-wracking possibility that one riot might join up with another. And now he had orders to send men two miles away. Not just any men: his bravest and his best.

‘Run over to that shop there.' Although he was so dry it felt as if he'd been knifed in the throat, he could only make himself heard by bellowing in his runner's ear. ‘Fetch water for the men. Tell them we'll pay later: sign a chit for whatever they ask, but don't come back without water.'

‘Yes, sir.' Good man, he was off in a trice.

‘Come on.' This to Tony. ‘We're going forward.' With Tony's shield covering him, they ran together to the lines ahead and pushed through to the front. ‘You four.' He had to wallop them on the back in quick succession in order to get their attention. ‘Step out.'

By the time they reached the back lines, the runner had returned with water. One of the men punched through the plastic to pull out a bottle, practically ripping off its top with his teeth to get to the liquid, and soon all the others were doing likewise.

‘Take water forward to the men and quickly. Not just this. Much more.'

‘No need, sir,' the runner pointed ahead to where members of the public, bottles and crates of water in hand, were snaking through the barrage to reach his men and hand the water over.

‘See. Not everybody hates us,' the runner yelled in Billy's ear.

No, Billy thought, only the ones who really want to kill us.

Pushing the thought aside, he told the four men that Gold had ordered that they go and organise the possible defence of a solvent reprocessing plant.

‘Are they nuts?' one of the men said. ‘There's nowhere near enough of us as it is.' Despite this statement, Billy caught the glimmer of relief crossing the man's face. Understandable: if a senior officer was to come along and tell Billy to get the hell out of here, and that's an order, he'd be gone like a shot. But that wasn't going to happen. Instead, he must now make less-experienced officers, some of whom showed every sign of wanting to freeze under the onslaught, push forward.

‘Madness,' he said.

But only to himself.

11.20 p.m.

‘Madness' was the light-hearted descriptor that passed from mouth to mouth on the High Street as Cathy made her way along it: ‘Madness'.

Instead of the shortcut through the market, she had gone the long way round, approaching the police station from the south. When she saw what was happening, she was glad that she had.