Ten Days (25 page)

Gavin Jenkins was sitting behind this desk. As she squeezed her way in, he lifted his head to say ‘Cathy?' He got up, hurriedly, and hit his head on the shelf above him. ‘Damn. Every time.' He steadied the shelf with one hand, using the other to catch the bottle that came rolling off. ‘My mother always said I'd come to a bad end, but even she wasn't witch enough to know that I'd end up being brained,' he glanced at the bottle, ‘by bleach.' He put the bottle back on the shelf before squeezing around the desk and coming over to kiss her on the cheek. ‘What brings you here?'

‘Coffee.' She handed him the paper cup.

‘You're a lifesaver.' He took off the lid and breathed in the aroma. ‘And a genius.' He took a sip. ‘It even tastes like coffee. Where did you find it?'

‘A cafe a few blocks away. All the nearest had run out.'

‘Some many hours ago.' He took another long swig. ‘Caffs without coffee. Courts without justice. That's how it goes these days.' He gave a wry smile. ‘Have a seat – take the client one, it's safer.' A quick glance at his watch. ‘I'm due another in less than ten, but you can help balance my sanity by keeping me company until then.' He walked back behind the desk, ducking his head to avoid the shelf. ‘Lyndall's not in trouble, is she?'

‘Not her, no. But a friend of hers could be. A neighbour of ours, Jayden – I think you met him the last time you came to tea?'

‘Thin, quiet, besotted by Lyndall?'

‘That's the one. He went out on the first day of the Rockham riot and hasn't been home since. I asked at the police station and at various hospitals. It's like he's disappeared off the face of the earth.'

‘How old is Jayden? Fourteen? fifteen? If he's under sixteen, they ought to have processed him at a young offender unit rather than at a police station, and if he was picked up on the first night there might still have been available space. I'm not surprised that you've lost him: it's chaos out there.'

‘Not so orderly in here either.' Cathy pointed at the teetering piles of files beside his desk.

‘It's a fucking nightmare, if you'll excuse my language. The private guys haven't got the stamina for this kind of work, and there's just not enough of us left in the state system. I'm fast-processing scores of kids from difficult backgrounds, kids with records, kids that just went mad for the first time in their lives, most of whom should get a community sentence. But the politicians have stoked up a lynch mob, and it's turned the magistrates jail crazy.'

‘And here I am, giving you more work.'

His smile lit up his face. ‘You know I'd do anything for you.'

Which was also part of the reason she had hesitated before asking for his help.

‘Look,' another quick glance at his watch, ‘if I take Jayden's details now, I'm bound to lose them. Email me his full name, address, date of birth, any previous record, last known sighting and I'll see if I can pull in some favours.'

‘That would be great.' She got to her feet. ‘Thank you, Gavin.'

‘Anything. Especially after this coffee.' He took another long swig, smiling as he looked up at her. His smile faded. ‘Are you okay?'

‘Yes, I'm fine.' Even as she tried to return his smile, she found herself blindsided by misery that she tried to conceal behind a quick, ‘I'll let you get back to work.'

‘How's that man of yours?'

She was glad she had already turned away, so that all he would see was the tightening of her shoulders and all he would hear would be her one word, ‘Gone.'

‘Oh.' It didn't matter that he couldn't see her face. He knew her well enough to hear it in her voice. He got up, came behind her and, putting his hands on her shoulders, turned her round until she was facing him. ‘I'm sorry.'

She nodded.

‘I know how much he means to you.'

It was all she could do to nod again.

‘What happened?'

She shrugged. That was the worst of it. That she didn't know. ‘He's just so . . .' thinking then of the viciousness of Banji's blow and of his expression caught and endlessly repeated on screen, ‘so angry.'

‘Held in, I would have said.' A pause. ‘But I'm sorry to hear it. You're a great woman. You deserve better.'

He pulled her closer, hugging her to him, and although her resolve had been not to lead him on, she didn't have the strength to resist. So good to be held. She could feel his hand resting lightly on her head, and she could feel the heat of him, and in that moment of utter stillness she could even hear the beating of his heart. He is so safe, she thought. And could once have been her long-term safety; he'd certainly offered that. Why couldn't she have settled for somebody as solid and as gentle as him?

‘I'm such a fool.'

‘Not a fool.' He continued stroking her hair. ‘You're just a feeling person in an unfeeling world.' He seemed about to say something else when a rap on the door caused him to drop his hands and jump away. ‘Sorry.'

‘Don't be.' She leant over to kiss him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Gavin.' Then she turned and made her way out, squeezing past a young man on his way in.

‘You know what, man,' she heard as she closed the door, ‘you're a fucking cliché, doing it with your girlfriend in a cupboard.'

2.30 p.m.

(For this once) Peter stayed in bed as Patricia showered, then to watch (for this last time) as she got dressed.

She did so slowly and with a complete lack of self-consciousness – sitting, naked apart from her suspenders, on the edge of the chair opposite the bed and rolling up her stockings.

Remembering the falling strap of Frances's cream negligée, he found himself wondering what Patricia wore in bed when she was at home and alone. His guess would be pyjamas, although, on second thoughts, she probably slept in the buff, especially in this heat, as she always did with him. Not that he would (now) ever know.

She smiled. ‘A penny for your thoughts.'

Tell her
, he had to,
tell her now
, while what he actually heard himself saying was, ‘Do you think there could be someone following you?'

‘People are always following me.' Her smile got wider.

‘I'm serious,' he said. ‘Have you noticed anything different? Especially recently?'

‘Why?' Her smile faded. ‘What happened?'

‘Frances was sent some photographs.'

‘Photographs?' She was frowning as she reached for her bra. ‘What kind of photographs?'

‘Of us. Two days ago. Going into that hotel.'

‘Just going in?' Her hands reached behind her back to snap the clasp with an ease that always amazed him. ‘Or something more?'

‘Nothing more, thank goodness.'

She got up. Walked over to her bag. Took out a fresh pair of knickers and put them on. ‘Did she freak?'

A question that showed her age as well as how little she knew Frances.

‘She was distressed,' he said, ‘in her own way. But she calmed down when I filled her in on our meeting with Chahda.'

‘You told her that we were there for Chahda, did you?'

‘Well, it was true.'

‘True?' She sighed. ‘I guess if it's half-truths she's after, then it is true.' She had brought a fresh blouse as well, a red blouse, which she now unrolled and pulled over her head.

Only the orange skirt to go and then she would be completely ablaze.

‘So do you think someone could have been following us?'

‘Not that I noticed,' she said. ‘Not then. Not since.' When she shook her head, the light seemed to flare yellow amongst the strands of her brown hair. ‘Probably a coincidence – someone who happened to be passing, someone who doesn't particularly like you, who saw us together and decided to flip your wife out by snapping us on their phone.'

If only that were true.

‘Couldn't have been more serious,' she said, ‘or else they would have come in after us and got something more incriminating, wouldn't they?'

A good point: the photos were innocuous and vague enough. ‘Still,' he said, ‘it is worrying.'

‘Poor Peter,' she said, ‘so many things to worry about.' She smiled – she had such a lovely open smile – as she came over to the bed, there to stand gazing down on him.

He breathed in –
Tell her. And tell her now
, he had to, it was only fair – and on the out-breath said, ‘Maybe we should cool it.'

‘Cool it?'

It was hard to read her expression. ‘Just for a while.'

He knew he should go further, should put an end to it. But he couldn't bear to. Not now. Not so abruptly.

A slow tailing-off would be kinder. He reached up for her hand. ‘I hope you understand?'

She gave the hand to him, and she stood, letting him squeeze it, although otherwise not responding.

She was so quiet, he didn't dare move.

He continued to lie there, holding on to her hand, for such an extended period that he began to think he could hear that same sound – tick, tick, tick, tick – a metronome that had seized hold of him this morning and was holding him prisoner.

She took back her hand, her expression still unreadable. His best guess was that she was angry, that she would now put on her skirt and leave the room, something, he realised, that he did not want her to do.

A beat. And then, ‘Budge up.' She nudged his shoulder. When he shifted further into the middle of the bed, she laid herself down next to him, facing but not touching him.

He blinked away an unexpected tear. ‘I don't want to lose you.'

‘You don't have to,' she said. She touched him lightly on the cheek. ‘I can wait.' And ran her finger down it. ‘If you mean it when you say you will tell her.'

‘I can't. Not now.'

‘But you will?'

He said, ‘Yes,' even though he knew he couldn't, that he shouldn't, promise this. But it was still a yes, not just from cowardice but because he really wanted to say yes, and because he remembered Frances feeding the breakfast he'd made for her to her dog.

A light switched on, a thought not previously countenanced, that he could make his yes a reality. Other politicians had been trailblazers in this respect, and it hadn't done them much harm. The world had changed: everybody knew that the best-intentioned marriages could end. He said it again: ‘Yes.' And felt pleasure in saying, and believing, it.

She was smiling as she kissed him. Her breath so sweet. Not like Frances's.

‘Okay, then, let's take it easy for a bit.'

‘I'll miss you.' He swept out an arm to encompass the room. ‘And I'll miss this.'

‘You'll still have me in the office.' She got off the bed and fetched her skirt, which she pulled on. ‘Let's start right now.' Up went the side zip. ‘I won't come back with you in the car; I'll take the bus. Will you be needing me later, for the committee?'

‘I think I had better go with my PPS,' he said. ‘It'll be expected.'

‘Sure thing.' She was taking this so well. ‘Anything else I can do?'

‘Anything?' And when she nodded, ‘Well, actually, there is something that you might be able to do for me.'

3 p.m.

There were only two customers in the restaurant, both of them staring despondently at the few remaining plates of sushi drifting past them on the belt. Two further men were behind the counter, cleaning it, with the only other occupant of the place a woman who was cashing up.

Joshua approached the till. ‘Mrs Jibola?'

She looked up, briefly, took in the sight of him and said, ‘Had to come in the full regalia, did you?' before returning her attention to the piling up of coins.

‘Are you Mrs Jibola?'

Her gaze stayed down. ‘I don't use that name no more.'

‘I'm Police Commissioner Joshua Yares.'

‘Yes, I know who you are.' A quick glance up. ‘And if I didn't, your fancy stripes, shiny shoes and the fuck-off Rover outside on a yellow line would have been a giveaway. Only thing I don't know is why you think you have the right to come waltzing in here.'

‘I'd like to talk to you.' He saw both the customers and the kitchen workers were watching. ‘Is there somewhere private we can go?'

She gave an unamused little snort. ‘What I saw Julius up to on the news was hardly private. That's what's blown you in here, isn't it?'

‘Please, Mrs Jibola.'

‘I already told you.' She swept the coins into her hand. ‘I don't answer to that name.' She threw them into the till, shoved the notes in after them and banged the drawer shut before saying to the men behind the counter, ‘I'm outside for a smoke.' She stood on tiptoes to slide open the top bolt on a metal door near the till and, without looking back at Joshua, walked through.

He followed to find himself in a narrow alleyway at the end of which stood a couple of high metal bins. As good a place as any for a chat, even if it was stiflingly hot. He pulled the door shut. The area around the door was littered by cigarette stubs, and to avoid them he took a giant step forward. Straight into a pool of muddy water that, given the drought, was unexpected. He pulled his shoe out quickly but not quickly enough to stop his sock from getting wet.

Did they throw their washing-up water out here, he wondered, or was this condensation from steam that was hissing out of the vent above him, adding even more humidity to an already sweltering day. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, seeing how across from the vent and on the opposing wall was a camera that was angled down on him.

‘It's to make sure we're not stealing anything,' she said. ‘I bet whoever's watching is trying to work out what you're after in your doorman's uniform.' She took a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, flicked one out, put it in her mouth, swapping the pack for a lighter, taking one quick puff of the lit cigarette and blowing out the smoke. Another inhalation, longer this time, and then she dropped the cigarette into the water. ‘That's all I'm allowed. I'm giving up.' She watched, greedily, as the cigarette fizzed out. ‘So what's all this about? Julius did a runner, did he, after his pyrotechnics?'