Ten Days (19 page)

‘We're not here about your daughter, Mrs Mason.' The man was holding up a piece of paper. ‘I have here a warrant to search your premises.'

Only now did she see that behind the front two were three men who also looked to be policemen, but in plain clothes. ‘Why would you want to search my place?'

‘You have to let us in, Mrs Mason.' He pushed the door so hard she had no choice but to back away. She ended up jammed against the wall as the four men filed in.

‘What's going on?'

The female officer who had waited as her colleagues entered now stepped in. ‘The sooner they are left to get on with the job, the sooner it will be over,' she said, closing the door behind her. ‘I think that's your lounge over there. That's a good place for us to be.'

10.50 a.m.

‘What the fuck, Anil?' Joshua, who'd been standing at the window, wheeled round when he heard Anil Chahda's tentative knock followed by his even more tentative entrance. ‘What the fuck?'

‘I'm not sure what you mean, sir.'

Joshua pointed at the silent television. ‘I mean this,' and then, as the camera focused on Peter Whiteley, ‘I mean him.'

‘The Home Secretary?'

‘Yes, the Home Secretary. Who has just used Parliamentary privilege to impugn this force.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that, sir.'

I'll give you sorry, Joshua thought. ‘Is it true?'

‘I wasn't listening to the debate. Is what true?'

‘That officers of the Rockham police force have previously been subjected to internal inquiry. Is it true?'

‘Yes, sir, it is true. Not all of them, of course.'

‘And why didn't I know?'

‘I beg your pardon, sir?'

‘Are you deaf? I am asking you why it is that I didn't know the answer to a question that I had asked you on more than one occasion.'

‘I can't answer that, sir.'

Such insubordination. So much so that he wondered whether Chahda was entirely well.

He saw how the skin of Chahda's brown face was blotched with red, and he saw sweat beading his brow. Must have run to get here. ‘For heaven's sake, man, sit. Sit.' He reinforced this command by striding over to his desk.

Having seated himself, Chahda withdrew a large white handkerchief with which he mopped his brow.

Such a great lump of a man, Joshua thought, and said more quietly, ‘Okay. Let's start again. And this time, let's try to understand each other. Question: did I ask you for the record of any past disciplinary action taken against members of the Rockham lot?'

‘Yes, sir, you did.'

‘And did you supply me with such information?'

‘Yes, sir, I did.'

‘I see.' Was it possible that Chahda's mutiny could stretch to the telling of an outright lie? ‘In what form did you supply this information?'

‘I know you don't like everything online, sir, so I copied the relevant documents for you.'

‘Which you put where?'

‘Why, there. By your desk.'

Joshua looked down at the desk, as tidy as it always was, save for the pile of that day's newspapers. ‘There's nothing here.'

‘In your in-tray, sir. Where I always used to put your predecessor's papers.'

His in-tray. Of course. The one he'd been promising himself to look at ever since stepping into the office, and the one he'd had no time for. It stood, neatly, on a side table. He pulled it to him and rifled through. Sure enough, halfway down was a folder on which ‘Records of Rockham Police Officers' had been written on the tab in Anil Chahda's minuscule script.

He should have known it was there. ‘Is what Whiteley said correct?' And he shouldn't have shouted at his deputy. ‘Have any of the Rockham officers been disciplined for misconduct?'

‘A few of them have. Usual infractions. Lack of diligence. Failure to present evidence. Insubordination. Traffic irregularities. A couple of written warnings but none serious enough to warrant further action, except in one case: an officer who was sent for race-awareness training after a number of complaints.'

‘And did this officer take an active part in restraining the unfortunate man who died?'

‘No, sir. But he was present at the earlier stop and search. Nothing untoward as far as we can tell. The report of the officer who was with him at the time matches his in every respect.'

‘I bet it does.' Something to think about at another time. For the moment: ‘How did the Home Secretary know about the Rockham officers?'

‘Beats me, sir. Except . . .' Chahda swallowed and looked down at the floor.

‘Except what? Come on, man, spit it out.'

Chahda lifted his head. ‘Well, as you said yourself, sir, you did raise the issue on a number of occasions, once within the hearing of other officers. It is within the bounds of possibility that the information was passed on by them.'

‘Why would one of our own do that?'

‘Perhaps because they thought you were being overly harsh on others of our own? You know how loyal they can be.'

To expose a fellow officer in order to get at the top command – what was Chahda on? Joshua was so flabbergasted that all he could say was, ‘I see.' What he saw, clearly and for the first time, although he had previously suspected it, was that Chahda's loyalty did not lie with him.

‘Would you like me to investigate further, sir?'

He could just imagine how a witch-hunt would go down at this moment of highest pressure. ‘No. Not at the moment. Any news of Molotov Man?'

‘No definite leads. But they have located the girlfriend. They're searching her place as we speak,' Chahda said. ‘Hopefully that will help us find him.'

11.45 a.m.

They'd been in her flat for an hour, and they were still there.

They'd torn the place apart. Neatly enough – they put back everything they'd pulled out – but it was awful to watch them prying into her private places, and Lyndall's. She felt herself exposed. Stripped bare. They'd even rooted through her malfunctioning fridge and the kitchen cupboards she'd been meaning to spring-clean. And still they wouldn't tell her what they were looking for.

Then at last they were done. The men filed out. The woman, who had followed Cathy everywhere, even to the toilet, didn't move.

‘Aren't you going to go with them?'

The woman smiled. ‘In a bit.' She was sitting at the edge of a chair, but at the sound of footsteps she jumped up to poke her head round the door. ‘We're in here, ma'am,' stepping aside then standing to attention as a petite blonde with red-bowed lips entered.

From the patch on her collar – two crossed batons that looked like electronic cigarettes – Cathy guessed this newcomer must be a senior officer, a thought confirmed when, in a surprisingly deep voice, the woman said, ‘Mrs Mason? I'm Rockham's Acting Commander, Chief Superintendent Gaby Wright. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?'

‘And if I do?' The petulance of her tone, combined with the woman's raising of one perfectly groomed eyebrow, made Cathy feel like a badly behaved child. She bit back on the feeling: ‘Who gave you the right to search my flat?'

‘A search warrant, legally obtained, gave us the right. I trust my officers showed it to you?'

Cathy nodded.

‘And did they put everything back, neatly, where they'd found it?'

Another nod.

‘Good.' CS Wright nudged the wastepaper bin with her foot. ‘Tell me about this.'

‘It's a bin,' Cathy said. ‘I bought it in the market. Cost a fiver.'

A quick smile devoid of warmth. ‘It has been a long night. You won't mind if I sit, will you?' She sat. ‘Look, I know you want us out of your hair, and we will soon be gone, but before that . . .' She used one hand to pull the bin closer while simultaneously holding out the other to receive the pair of blue plastic gloves that her subordinate had produced. She pulled on one of the gloves – a tight fit despite her small hands – and reached into the bin, rooting through the ashes. ‘I want to know about the things you burnt.' From the generalised mush she pulled out a fragment that was half intact. She held it up. ‘Why did you burn this?'

‘To get rid of it. Is that a crime?'

‘No.' This time her smile was a little warmer. ‘It is not a crime. And in case my putting on a glove gave you the wrong impression, it was to stop my hand getting dirty, not to protect evidence. Still, I'd like to know what it is you burnt.'

What would be wrong with telling this ice maiden that she'd torn up everything – photos, letters and other mementoes – she'd ever got from Banji? That after she'd torn them up she'd been still so full of rage she'd decided to reduce them to ash?

She would have said all this had Lyndall not just at that moment come running in. ‘Mum. There's police crawling all over the L . . .' She stopped. ‘What the hell?' She looked to Cathy and then to the standing constable, until her gaze came to a rest on CS Wright.

Who stood up. ‘And you are?'

‘Her name is Lyndall. She's my daughter.'

‘Pleased to meet you, Lyndall.' Having peeled off the glove and dropped it in the bin, she stuck out her hand: ‘I'm Chief Superintendent Gaby Wright.'

Lyndall averted her gaze.

‘We're looking for someone.' Gaby Wright kept her eyes fixed on Lyndall. ‘A man. Friend of yours and your mum's. Name of Banji. Do you know where he is?'

So that's what this was about. That bastard and his stupid prank with the petrol bomb.

But how had they known to come looking for him here?

‘Do you?'

‘No, we don't know where he is,' Cathy said.

It was as if she wasn't there. ‘How about you, Lyndall? Do you know?'

Lyndall shook her head.

‘You may think that your silence is protecting a friend from harm, Lyndall, but you couldn't be more wrong. Banji is in serious trouble, and if he doesn't give himself up it will get even worse.'

‘What?' Lyndall rolled her eyes. ‘Worse like it went worse for Ruben?'

‘Do you know where Banji is?'

‘Why would I know where he is?'

Watching from the sidelines, Cathy registered the defiance in Lyndall's expression and that contrary sign, the wavering of Lyndall's voice. She interposed herself between the two: ‘She's fourteen years old. You can't interrogate her. Not without my permission, which I'm not prepared to give,' wondering where she had found the courage to be so defiant while turning her head to say, ‘Lyndall, go to your room.'

With uncharacteristic alacrity, Lyndall fled the room, banging the door on her way out as she said something that sounded distinctly like, ‘Fuck you, you killers.'

‘Well.' Another rise of that arched eyebrow.

‘She's upset. We all are. Ruben was loved.'

‘A most unfortunate death, which will, I can assure you, be thoroughly investigated. But Banji's a whole different kettle of fish. We need your help to find him.'

She didn't know where he was. That's what she could have said, and that would have been the truth. But something about the way this woman had come in, uninvited, and assumed she owned the room, and something about the way she had tried to pump Lyndall – as if she would know anything – had turned Cathy's stomach. She closed her mouth. Shook her head.

A sigh. ‘If you don't tell me everything you know about this man,' Gaby Wright's gaze hardened, ‘you will leave me no choice but to arrest you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit arson in relation to the throwing of a bottle of burning petrol.'

‘I wasn't anywhere near when he did that.'

Another sigh. ‘Conspiracy does not require physical presence.' And a third. ‘Let me tell you what is going to happen, Mrs Mason, if you don't answer my questions. I will have no choice other than to formally arrest you. Once we have you in the station – where you will be given access to a solicitor, should you want one – we will take a statement from you. If your alibi and other factors bear out your innocence, we will release you. But you do know, don't you, that anybody charged with a riot-related offence is to be kept in custody? And that, given the threat to chemical facilities in the vicinity of Rockham, Parliament has agreed to the extension to suspected rioters of the pre-charge detention rules under Section 41 and Schedule 8 of the Terrorism Act 2002, as extended by the Terrorism Act 2006. What this means is that we can now keep suspected rioters for up to twenty-eight days. So while we are waiting for the appropriate checks to be made, and with the backlog building up these could take up to the full twenty-eight days, we'd have a duty of care to your daughter. We'd have to call in social services.'

2.15 p.m.

It was more than two hours after the police had left and Lyndall was still in her room. Twice Cathy had gone to stand outside her door but, having pressed her ear against the door and hearing nothing, not even any music, had gone away. She had also left a sandwich by the door, but half an hour later the tomato had made a soggy mess of the ham that, in the heat of the flat, was beginning to smell.

She took the sandwich back into the kitchen and threw it out.

When she opened the tea cupboard, she couldn't help seeing the mess through the eyes of the policeman who had searched it. It was a disgrace. In urgent need of cleaning. As were all the others.

She set to work. First, she scrubbed the kitchen counters and then she emptied the cupboards before scouring the shelves, trying at the same time to scour out the memory of the policeman's disapproval.

What she couldn't rid herself of, however, were the things that she had said.

That humiliating admission:
he hit me
. . . pointing then as extra proof . . .
in the stomach
. And that denial,
no
, that she'd been forced to make:
no, I don't know where he lives, I never went to his place
, and,
no, I don't know who else he's friends with
, repeating it until the disbelief on that bloodless face turned into believing contempt. And even after that, the probing had continued: what Banji meant to her, what she meant to him, a relentless drip of increasingly personal questions that laid bare her own stupidity.