Ten Days. Gillian Slovo

though, that if he did, he would find a score of other such requests from other boroughs.

      ‘I spoke to her this morning, and she has done everything I would have wanted her to. The emergency services have been instructed to attend flashpoints in Rockham only after due authorisation; officers of the TSG will keep a low profile so as not to aggravate the situation; there will be no independent contractors in the Lovelace monitoring tagged offenders; and there is a stay on the execution of arrest warrants in Rockham until further notice. Local officers have also been instructed to display special sensitivity when addressing the question.’

      ‘Sounds competent.’

      ‘She is a good officer, sir. I’m confident that everything will go smoothly.’ A pause before: ‘Is there anything else, sir?’

      You had to admire the man: he was thorough and to the point. ‘There is something,’ Joshua said. ‘Get somebody to pull out the records of any stops under Section 4 of the RTA 1988 in the central London area for me. Any incident reported in the last three weeks.’

      ‘May I ask why?’

      ‘Something I need to check. If you wouldn’t mind?’

      ‘Of course. I’ll see it done.’

      ‘Thanks, Anil. And there are also a couple more things. Set up a press conference to brief on the Rockham incident – the bare bones of what happened, the fact that the IPCC will now be in charge of the investigation.’

      ‘Yes, sir. I can certainly do that.’

      ‘Thank you.’ He glanced down at his diary. ‘I’ve got a brief window at 1.15, shall we set it for then?’

      ‘You will be doing the briefing yourself, sir?’

      ‘I think that’s best, don’t you? First week and all that – give the public an opportunity to get to know their new Commissioner. I trust that’s not a problem?’

      ‘No, sir, it’s not a problem. I’ll set it in motion for 1315 hours.’ A pause and then: ‘You mentioned two matters?’

      ‘Yes, I did. Given this is early days for us, I want to make sure that you are aware that incidents like the one in Rockham should be reported to me as soon as they occur. I have no intention of interfering in the chain of command, but I do expect to be kept informed.’

      ‘Of course you do, sir.’ Chahda nodded to reinforce this affirmation. ‘A report of the Rockham death is highlighted in the summary of yesterday’s events. It is on its way to you. But I will certainly take note that you wish for more immediate notification.’

      As ever, a model response. ‘Thanks, Anil.’ Joshua couldn’t help feeling that his determination to take control of the job might have made him slightly overdo his domination of his deputy. ‘That will be all.’

       1 p.m.

      Cathy was about to head up the gangway when she saw the fox. It was a big one and decrepit, its fur matted and its tail a ragged thing.

      There were many foxes that haunted the estate – more of them recently since the Lovelace had begun to stink of blocked drains and rotting rubbish, and especially in this heat – but she had only ever spotted them at night or in the early morning, and then just out of the corner of her eye. But this one was limping forward in the full light of day, and when its path crossed with hers it did not run away. She stopped and it did too. She looked at it and it held her gaze. Its legs, she saw, were shaking. She shut her eyes.

      When she opened them again, the fox had gone. Too fast a disappearance, surely, given how sick it had seemed?

      She’d not had enough sleep; she shook herself into motion.

      The door to Ruben’s parents’ place was ajar. She gave the bell a quick press to warn them that she was there, and then she walked in and down the corridor.

      For the second time that day, she couldn’t help but be struck by the pictures of Ruben that lined the walls. They brought such a lump to her throat that she quickened her pace. But there was no escape. The living room, which she soon reached, was also dominated by a large full-colour portrait of Ruben that hung above the mantelpiece. It was Ruben on one of his better days, lit by an open smile.

      Despite the room containing a vast array of objects – plastic flowers, china shepherdesses, a large red plastic heart, a sign that flashed the word ‘smile’ in neon, as well as many gilt-framed photos of the wider family – Cathy’s gaze kept being pulled back to this portrait. And every time she looked at him, and he seemed to look back, that same thought occurred: that she did not know what she would do if Lyndall were to die, never mind in such a terrible way.

      ‘Mrs Mason, you’re back, and with provisions for us all.’ Ruben’s mother’s face was blotched by tears, but her voice was strong and she even managed a smile. ‘Here, let me unburden you.’ She took the bulging carrier bags from Cathy and passed them to another woman. ‘There are plates in the kitchen,’ and to Cathy: ‘We were looking at the albums. Come, join us.’

      The room was crowded – relatives, friends and neighbours rallying as word of what had happened spread. There were many, including the Reverend Pius and Marcus, she knew well, but there were also many with whom she had only a nodding acquaintance and some she had never met. They were united by what had happened, and as the crowd parted to let the two women through, Cathy was greeted by a smile here and an embrace there.

      Such a warm inclusivity in this most terrible of times. Yet in the midst of it, Ruben’s father, who was standing at the other end of the room, looked very much alone.

      ‘The police didn’t bother to tell us he was gone.’ He had been saying this when Cathy had first arrived early that morning, and he was still saying it. ‘Our friends had to bear that strain. Nobody else cares. His death didn’t merit more than a small mention, and only in one newspaper.’

      Reverend Pius shifted to one side to make room for Cathy on the black settee that was jammed against a heater. Just as in Cathy’s flat, the heater was on and the room was boiling. No one seemed to notice, or if they did they didn’t seem to care.

      ‘When we went to the police station to ask them what had happened, they didn’t even offer to seat us,’ Ruben’s father continued. ‘We can’t say nothing, they told us, except that someone phoned them to complain about Ruben’s behaviour. We told them: that cannot be. Everybody knew Ruben. Nobody would have rung the police, not without first asking us. All the man reply is: you have to speak to the IPCC. He wouldn’t come out from behind his bulletproof glass and look us in the eye and speak to us, human being to human being. We are the ones who have suffered such great loss, but he was the one to feel unsafe.’

      ‘Come now, Bernard.’ Ruben’s mother patted the place beside her. ‘Come, look.’

      Her husband came to the settee, but as she turned the page of the album, he wasn’t really looking. She stopped and reached up to take his hand and squeeze it. He squeezed hers back. A beat as they looked at each other, and then she dropped her hand and turned another page.

      ‘He was such a happy child.’ She pointed at a photograph of the young Ruben, circa five years old. He was kneeling on a patch of grass, holding a football and smiling up into the lens. ‘Always wanting to know everything. Full of love.’ She blinked back tears and carried on scrolling through a detailed record of the growing boy.

      It was hard not to be drawn into the pleasure that she took in each of the images of her son, her fingers occasionally dropping to the page to stroke his face. It was even harder not to see her agony and the adjustment demanded of her to come to terms with what had happened. Her tenses continually had to be fast-forwarded into a present in which she could not yet bring herself to believe. ‘This friend,’ she pointed to a photo of Ruben with another boy, ‘is a favourite who he sees . . .’ a pause, ‘saw almost every week. He is here now.’ She pointed to a youngish man who was sitting, solitary, on a hard chair. Noticing her pointing finger, he dropped his head and covered his eyes