Ten Days (37 page)

‘Will do, sir, but I still think you need to hear this.'

‘I have an urgent call to make,' Joshua said. ‘If you wouldn't mind giving me some privacy.' He waited as Anil Chahda walked to the door. ‘I'll shout when I'm done.' As soon as the door had closed, he clicked on the number to return the call.

‘Downing Street switchboard.'

‘Joshua Yares here. Were you trying to get hold of me?'

‘Ah, yes, Commissioner, I'm glad we tracked you down. The Prime Minister asks that you attend him at Number 10. As soon as you can.'

5.35 a.m.

Peter's head was pounding so badly that he hoped that the clicking shut of the door that had wrenched him from an uneasy sleep was Patricia with painkillers.

He gingerly cracked open an eye, only the tiniest bit.

The room was dark. Thank God for that.

He couldn't see her, not without moving his head, which he was disinclined to do. But a rustling of paper told him she was by the door.

What could she be up to, he thought, although what did it matter? He closed his eyes.

‘You have to see this.' Her voice was unbearably loud.

‘I've got a bastard of a hangover.' The effort of producing even those few words was enough to make him groan. ‘I have to get more sleep.'

‘You can't.'

Who was she to tell him what he could and couldn't do? He'd make sure to ask her that – when, that is, he could summon up sufficient energy. In the meantime, all he managed was a yawn.

The act of opening his mouth sent a shaft of pain through his jaw and up into his temples that was so intense he almost shouted out.

Note to self: do not do that again. Which thought provoked a second agonising yawn.

Her footsteps were like drumbeats. When she sat down on the bed, the world seemed to tip.

‘Wake up.'

He felt her breath close to his ear. I must stink, he thought.

‘Come on, Peter, up you get.' She put her hands under his armpits and heaved. ‘You've got to look at the papers.'

‘Not more of that nonsense? Just ignore it. They'll soon get bored.' Another groan as she heaved again. ‘Let go of me.'

He was too heavy for her. She did let go. ‘They're calling for your resignation.'

‘Well, they can't have it. He turned, gingerly, away from her. ‘None of their business who I sleep with.' If he lay quite still, with his back to her, maybe she'd take the hint.

‘This is not about who you sleep with. It's something else. You have to see it.'

She wasn't going to give up. Groaning, he turned, pushed down on his elbows and that way managed to lever himself up into a seated position. He sank back into the pillow that she put behind him. ‘Okay, what is it that's so urgent?'

‘They're calling you a liar,' she said. ‘On every single front page, or at least on every front page that matters.'

‘A liar? For leaving my wife?'

‘No, not for leaving your wife. For telling the parliamentary committee that you didn't know the board members of the company that runs the solvent factory. It's not true. You met two of them on more than one occasion. They even had dinner at your house, and the papers say they can prove it.'

5.40 a.m.

As Joshua made his way through Parliament Square and down Whitehall towards Downing Street, he could hear the bleeping of the street-sweeping trucks and the hum of their brushes. They were sweeping up the hangovers – the leaves and plastic bags and mashed-up papers – of the storm, returning Whitehall to its usual pristine state, although it was going to be difficult to get rid of the Saharan sand that, having been precipitated by the storm, covered most visible surfaces. So much so, Joshua thought, it was like wading through rust. Or dried blood.

A memory of the sight of the dead Julius Jibola assailed him, followed by this morning's troubling revelation that Jibola, who'd been posted twice into Cathy Mason's bed, had turned out to be Lyndall Mason's father. And now he'd killed himself, or been murdered, within a mile of where the Masons lived, and his daughter, who hadn't until that point realised she was the daughter, was his last known contact.

It was one thing if he had committed suicide, but if he'd been killed, and if Lyndall Mason had seen anything that might identify the killer – well, this was a complication that could bring the Met down.

He had reached the gate. He nodded to the officer who opened up for him. He walked through and to the door of Number 10, which opened as he arrived, and soon after he was led up the stairs and to the flat.

The Prime Minister, still in pyjamas, said by way of greeting, ‘We've got a major problem,' and after that, ‘You look like shit. Come in. Sit down.'

He hadn't realised how tired he was until he sank into the soft embrace of a garish sofa.

‘Rough night?'

‘Rough week. But at least we found our man.'

‘Your missing undercover? That's good news.'

‘Not really. He's dead. Most likely suicide.'

‘I'm sorry to hear it.' The Prime Minister lowered himself down into the sofa opposite Joshua and sighed. ‘I assume you've read the latest on our errant Home Secretary?'

‘I had a quick glance. And wondered who leaked his schedule to the press.'

‘My bet would be on the vengeful wife. Kind of behind-the-scenes thing she would do. She was also the one who would know who ate at their table. And if you'd ever met the father, you'd know that striking back is the kind of thing Frances would do.' The PM sighed. ‘Awful that it has come to this, but isn't that always the way? Men like Whiteley may be brilliant political manipulators, but when it comes to dealing with people, especially it seems their intimates, they've got a lot to learn. In Whiteley's case, he should have kept hold of Frances instead of running off with the mistress.'

‘Maybe it's love.'

‘Maybe – if, and I somehow doubt it, the man is capable of loving anybody other than himself. I hope for his sake that it is love: that will be consolation for the end of his political career. Which is what he's facing. Once you get caught lying to Parliament, you're finished.' The Prime Minister fixed Joshua's gaze with his own. ‘It's a bad business. I'm going to have to ask for his resignation, and if he refuses, I'm going to have to sack him.'

It wasn't yet six o'clock in the morning. The PM was not even dressed. He was a man who usually played his political cards close to his hand. Surely he had not summoned Joshua here on some uncharacteristic whim? ‘Am I missing something, Prime Minster?'

Another weighty sigh. ‘Peter's exit is going to trigger a major problem for you.'

‘How so?'

A long pause before the Prime Minister leant forward: ‘When we met here – what was it, only a week ago? Yes, I think it was – I told you that Teddy had given me a garbled account of having been stopped by the police. I couldn't get much sense out of him – just his insistence that he'd been scapegoated – and so I asked you to investigate. Is that how you also remember our conversation?'

‘Yes, Prime Minister,' his mouth moving as he held himself deathly still.

‘When I phoned you at home the following Sunday – when I was out of the country – you told me that there was no record of Teddy having been arrested. Is that correct?'

‘Yes, Prime Minister.'

‘Well, that's where the problem lies. Peter Whiteley insists that he has proof that Teddy
was
arrested and that a breathalyser, followed by a blood test, confirmed that he had been driving over the limit. Whiteley also says that Teddy has not been charged because the record was tampered with. And he fingers you as the person who did the tampering.'

‘I don't know where he got that from. It's not true.'

‘I didn't think it could be.' There was a pause, with the Prime Minister's normally steady gaze fractured by a series of blinks, which came to an end as he said, ‘The problem is that Whiteley has been talking to someone under your command who not only supports this version but who, he says, can prove it. And who is prepared to do so in public.'

Chahda: it had to be. ‘I assume you're talking about my deputy?'

‘I'm not at liberty to say. I'm sure you'll understand.'

A nod.

‘When Whiteley first came to me with this accusation, I was able to contain it. But the man is paranoid and vengeful. Despite the fact that he can now no longer hope to be Leader, he'll want me, and my family, to suffer. As soon as he loses his Cabinet post, he'll go public with what he knows. Since I had nothing to do with the expunging of the record – you've just confirmed that – you'll bear the brunt of his accusation. I cannot afford a protracted investigation that would cast doubt on the integrity of the Met. If the finger points at you and you can't turn it away, I'll have no choice but to sack you. I hope you understand?'

What else could he do but give another nod?

‘Well then.' The Prime Minister got to his feet. ‘I'm sorry it has come to this. I did my utmost to steer Whiteley away, not out of friendship to you but because I remain convinced that you're our best chance to clear out the rotten apples that have eroded the authority of the Met. But you now need to prepare yourself for what's to come. Whiteley's due here at ten. As soon as the meeting is over, he's bound to want to detonate his ticking bomb. I'll talk to you at half nine to discuss next steps.'

10 a.m.

This is what it must have felt like to be led to the guillotine, Peter thought, as he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and on staying upright once he had reached the Prime Minister's study.

His enemies had done for him.

His political career was over.

His only consolation was that, by the day's end, his would not be the only severed head lying in the bloodied basket.

I'm going to take you down with me, he thought as he sat opposite the Prime Minister.

‘Thank you for coming, Peter.'

As if he had a choice.

‘Just get on with it, will you?'

‘Sure, if that's what you prefer. First up, I know you had nothing to do with the decision to site the solvent factory in Rockham . . .'

Which hadn't stopped him stealing and releasing Peter's diaries.

‘Unfortunately,' the Prime Minister continued, ‘it is no longer a question of who took the decision. What your enemies . . .'

As if those enemies had nothing to with him.

‘. . . and the press will hold against you is that you lied to the House. They will not let this go.'

And if they did, you'd find another way to get me.

‘I can't have a lame-duck Home Secretary, especially given the riots and in the run-up to next year's election. For this reason, I have to ask—'

‘Don't bother.' Peter took an envelope out of his otherwise empty briefcase and passed it over.

The Prime Minister laid the envelope down on his desk. He looked across at Peter. ‘I would have seen your challenge off. You know that, don't you?'

‘I know nothing of the sort. But it's too late for all that now. So do me a favour, spare me the platitudes and get on with it.'

The Prime Minister picked up a paper knife and used it to slit the envelope open. He pulled out the single sheet of paper, put on his reading glasses and skimmed through the letter. ‘Is this really all you want to say?'

‘At this particular juncture, yes.'

‘All right, then.' The Prime Minister laid the paper down on his blotter and smoothed it out before setting it aside. ‘We'll release it along with my reply thanking you for your hard and effective work in government.'

‘Your time might be better spent drafting your own resignation letter.'

The Prime Minister pushed his glasses to the end of his nose. ‘You're determined to get your pound of flesh?'

‘You've left me no other choice.'

‘You know it wasn't I who released your diaries?'

‘So you say. Just as you played the innocent in relation to those photographs. I hope you understand why I can no longer be bothered to keep up a pretence of believing you.'

‘Have it your own way.' The Prime Minister set his reading glasses aside. In doing so he must also have pressed some hidden button because there came an immediate knock on the door. Just one knock, which brought the Prime Minister up onto his feet. ‘Somewhere I need to be,' he said. ‘So if you'll excuse me.'

‘Of course, Prime Minister.' Peter got up. ‘You'll forgive me if I don't shake your hand.'

‘Again, have it your own way.' The Prime Minister came out from behind his desk and moved past Peter to the door. ‘Your official car and bodyguard will be withdrawn as of this moment. I suggest you wait or else risk being run down by my security and mobbed by the press. I wouldn't advise the back door either: the paps have cottoned on to your presence, and they're waiting to ambush you. Martin will help you with a more dignified exit strategy from the building. In the meantime, he'll find you somewhere to sit. While you're waiting for the all-clear, I'd suggest that you watch one of the satellite news programmes. There's going to be an item shortly that you will want to catch.'

10.15 a.m.

Was the PM about to resign?

That's the thought that kept coming at Peter after they stuck him in a poky room that adjoined the office of the Garden Room girls. He switched on the television and sat down on a rickety chair – the only one available – to watch pundits blathering on about what was assumed would be his imminent resignation.

‘Whiteley has proved himself an able Home Secretary,' one of the pundits was saying, ‘even though his appointment was a sop to the hardliners in the Party. But recent rumours that he was about to launch a leadership bid deepened an already wide gulf between the two men. The Prime Minister must be relieved that Whiteley has now been caught, metaphorically speaking, with his hands in the till.'