The nurse on the ward sounded relieved to hear from him. ‘No one’s been to see him at all. Are you a relative?’
‘No, just a mate. How is he?’
She didn’t answer.
‘He is going to make it, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, it’s just – well, he’s going to need a lot of help.’
‘Can I talk to him?’
‘He’s with the surgeon. Could you come in later?’
‘I’m in London, but I’ll phone back.’
He ended the call and noticed the missed calls from two days before. Maybe Rolt could do something for Blakey.
When he got back to the table his father behaved as if nothing had happened. He was good like that.
‘Two jam roly-polys on their way.’ Hugh grinned at him guiltily, just as he used to when Tom was small, as if the puddings were some kind of transgression. At least some things didn’t change.
22
Pimlico
Sarah Garvey reached for her phone, which was buzzing like a trapped fly on her bedside table. She glanced at the time – 2:25 a.m.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Home Secretary.’
It was Halford, the Metropolitan Police commissioner.
‘No problem, John,’ she lied. ‘I’d only just got to bed.’
After giving him such a hard time in COBRA she had made a mental note to be more positive.
‘We’re just getting reports of a fire at an ex-servicemen’s hostel in Redditch, probably the result of an explosion.’
‘Fatalities?’
‘Too early to say. But, looking at the footage, I’d say almost certainly. The front of the building’s been blown out. Several passers-by taken to A and E. Should have a clearer picture in an hour.’
There was an energy to his tone that had been absent at their meeting. She guessed why. This was off his patch and was sure to take the heat off the shooting.
‘Hold back as long as you can on the details. Let’s be very careful what we feed to the media. Nothing, repeat
nothing
, suggesting a bombing until it’s confirmed by forensics. And even then let’s discuss what we say first.’
‘Well, I’d advise you to prepare for the worst. An eyewitness reported seeing a disturbance in the doorway as if someone was being stopped from going in.’
‘Okay, thanks for that.’ She put on the light and found the TV remote.
BBC News was already there, with a reporter standing at the end of a cordoned-off street. Behind her rose a thick funnel of smoke from the flames, which fire-fighters were battling.
‘… and although the police have yet to confirm that this was a bomb, fire-fighters have just ruled out a gas explosion—’
Her report came to an abrupt halt as she ducked to avoid a flying bottle, which smashed to the ground a few feet behind her. The camera panned round to reveal a group of T-shirted and tattooed men, shouting and gesticulating angrily from behind a police tape.
Right, Garvey thought. We might as well be at war.
23
Fulham, London
Sam’s eyes fluttered open. The clock said four twenty. He propped himself up on one elbow. Someone was ringing the doorbell. It was probably one of the other tenants who had lost their keys. He decided to ignore it.
He turned over and glanced at the empty half of the bed. Helen’s half – of her bed, in fact – and although she had referred to it as ‘the flat’, it, too, was hers. He wondered if she had seen him on TV, and what she would make of his new position. Maybe it would induce her to come back. But he was using his real name now. Probably her mother would be even less in favour of her going out with him now he was called Sahim.
The bell went again. He let it ring. He had no inclination to be helpful to her neighbours. He would be out of here just as soon as he had found a room to rent. Besides, he was exhausted. After the Channel 4 News appearance Pippa had whisked him off to the Shard for an informal meet and greet with the home secretary, Sarah Garvey, some Whitehall bigwigs, their special advisers and some senior police. Garvey had been pretty distracted and barely acknowledged him. Nevertheless the heady thrill of rubbing shoulders with Establishment high-ups had boosted his confidence no end, especially when one of her mandarins patted him on the shoulder and told him he had a gift for a good sound-bite. He had been assured this would mean a lot more attention from the media.
The bell sounded yet again. ‘Fuck off,’ he said, but this time he struggled to his feet, pulled on a pair of shorts and padded to the door.
‘Yeah?’
‘Kovacevic?’
A male voice. No one he recognized.
‘Who is this?’
‘Sahim Kovacevic?’
He put the chain on the door and opened it a fraction. A motorbike messenger, holding a slim envelope. ‘Yeah, that’s me. What do you want?’
‘Just take this.’
The man thrust the letter through the gap.
‘Do I need to sign anything?’
‘No.’
He went back up to the flat and opened it.
News of your brother. Meet me at your mother’s flat, 22.00.
Nasima
24
Tom moved briskly through St James’s Park in the hope that his head would have cleared by the time he reached his destination. Luckily Invicta’s headquarters were only a short walk from his father’s club, where he had stayed the night after an evening of rather too much drinking. He had read about the explosion in one of their hostels over breakfast but when he’d called Rolt’s office they had insisted that the meeting was still on.
The street had been blocked at either end by police Transits with mesh grilles over the windows. Armed police stood at either side of the front doors. One stepped forward as Tom approached.
‘Can I help?’ he said, in a tone that suggested help was the last thing on offer.
‘I’ve got an appointment with Vernon Rolt.’
‘Your name, please, sir?’
‘Buckingham.’
The officer stepped back and knocked on the door. A cop inside opened it. The first repeated Tom’s name.
The cop inside consulted a clipboard and nodded. The first officer’s expression changed. ‘Sorry, sir. It’s all due to the bombing.’
‘That’s confirmed now?’
‘’Fraid so.’
Tom went into the reception area. The place was strewn with the silver boxes of a TV crew. The receptionist was taking a call so he went straight past and followed the cables up the stairs.
A powerful light shone out of one of the doorways. In the corridor a young woman was standing beside a TV technician watching a monitor. She looked up as Tom approached and was about to shoo him away when she appeared to recognize him. ‘Are you Mr Rolt’s eleven o’clock?’
Tom gave her hand a firm, business-like shake. ‘Tom Buckingham.’
‘I’m Phoebe. He’s overrunning, got the BBC in there. Would you like to wait in the boardroom?’
‘This about the hostel?’
She nodded gravely.
‘I’ll linger here and listen, if that’s okay.’
He leaned against the wall outside Rolt’s office, where a couple of technicians were perched on the silver boxes. Phoebe stood beside him. He could see the two men in profile, Rolt and the BBC man interviewing him, but a monitor in front of one of the technicians showed the live feed. Tom expected Rolt to be smouldering with rage after the bombing. But if he was angry, he had it well under control. He sat upright but relaxed, his hands folded in his lap, a model of British restraint.
‘What our government and the opposition haven’t faced up to is the true mood of the public. A lot of people aren’t saying what they’re feeling out loud but it’s plain to see. They’ve just had enough.’
The reporter said, ‘Enough of what exactly?’
Rolt lifted his hands and let them drop again as if the answer was obvious. ‘Fear. They’ve had enough of being afraid.’
‘So, are you saying that the government should be considering more drastic measures?’
‘We know they’re scared of upsetting one small minority of the electorate for fear it will tip the balance in an election. But they’ve got to stop trying to be all things to all people. Hundreds of our men and women have died, thousands have sustained life-changing injuries in the War on Terror. And what have we got to show for their sacrifice? The people Invicta helps are asking, “What about the war
here
?”’
‘Are you saying there’s
going
to be a war here?’
Rolt wagged a finger at the interviewer. ‘Don’t put words into my mouth. I’m just repeating what they tell me.’
Tom observed how Rolt controlled the interview, fending off the reporter but at the same time delivering his message in his own words. The reporter’s eyes were gleaming as if he knew that what Rolt was saying would make headlines all over the media, and he’d have got it first.
‘And what would you like to say to the people who bombed your hostel?’
‘I’d say to them, “You have just forfeited your welcome in this country. You and your beliefs are not welcome here.” And I would challenge the government to follow through with that. I’d say to them, “It ends here. Inclusion has failed. It’s time to weed out the terrorists and remove them from the community.”’
‘To where?’
‘To wherever they can’t harm us.’
‘That sounds like a call to arms.’
‘Let’s say more of an
en garde
.’
‘Against the Muslim community?’
‘God, no. Don’t misunderstand me. Look, I can find you any number of law-abiding British Muslims who would be the first to say, “Do something about the extremists before it’s too late.” The government’s tried the warm fluffy approach – that’s failed. They’ve tried control orders – failed. If what these terrorists want is a caliphate, if they want Sharia law, there are places they can go and find that – but not here. The Huguenots, the Jews and all the other persecuted groups who have settled here came to these shores in search of tolerance and freedom. That tolerance and freedom is now under threat and we need to recognize that.’
The reporter frowned. ‘What you’re proposing doesn’t sound like tolerance to me.’
Rolt smiled regretfully. ‘How can you honestly tolerate people whose stated aim is to kill and maim?’
The reporter looked uncomfortable.
Rolt continued, ‘We have turned a blind eye to extremist ideologies. We have let them import terror into our green and pleasant land. For their own good as much as ours, they would be happier elsewhere.’
‘So, let me get this clear. You’re advocating we repatriate people we regard as a threat to society?’
‘I’m advocating freedom from fear.’ Rolt leaned forward. ‘Go to the people staying in our hostels. Talk to the men and women from our armed services who are struggling to find their way back into the country that sent them off to war. Add up the expenditure on policing the potential terrorists, the incarceration of the convicted terrorists, the surveillance of suspects. Then add up what it would take to give those ex-servicemen and -women a decent job and a decent home. To give them some dignity, something in return for risking their lives to uphold our freedoms. What’s the point of their risking their lives if they come home to find the place awash with folk who want to take their freedom away?’
‘That’s pretty strong stuff.’
‘Not really. Ask yourself why none of our politicians is saying this. They’re so scared of alienating these “communities” that they’ve lost their nerve. Give the electorate some credit. Draw a line between the good, productive, useful members of our society – and those who aren’t. Get the good ones to help you weed out the others.’
The last time Tom had seen Rolt in fighting form was in the boxing ring. He was a scholarship boy with none of the advantages of his peers, who had tried hard at everything but never came top. Tom had respected him for his dogged determination and refusal to be put down by snobbery. But he had beaten him squarely in three rounds. Rolt had had the drive but not the super-quick reactions to deliver his punches with sufficient surprise or to dodge Tom’s relentless battering.
‘But, Mr Rolt, isn’t this just your anger talking – because your hostel was bombed?’
‘You ask if I’m angry. I’m bloody furious. Furious that this has been allowed to happen. Our politicians have yet to come up with an answer so I’m offering them one.’
‘One last thing, you’ve sunk your personal fortune into your hostels and apprenticeships. What happens when the money runs out?’
A flicker of hesitation. He hadn’t seen that one coming. ‘I’ll do what any decent businessman does and convince others that my projects are worth investing in.’
Phoebe leaned over to Tom and whispered, ‘Sorry about this. I hope we haven’t messed up your day.’
‘No. It’s very useful. He’s very measured under the circumstances.’
Phoebe’s eyes lingered on him. She was in her mid-twenties, he guessed, a blonde English rose, just the sort his mother would like. He thought of Delphine and how far away she seemed now.
Rolt was on his feet. He shook the hand of the interviewer and turned. The cold, focused gaze melted when he saw Tom. He strode towards him, hand outstretched. ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’
‘Why not?’
Rolt’s hand wrapped itself round Tom’s. ‘An old schoolmate calling out of the blue – who needs that?’
They both laughed.
‘And with all that’s going on.’
‘I was very sorry to hear about your people.’ They shared a moment’s silence before Tom continued, nodding at the TV crew packing up, ‘I see you’ve not lost your taste for a fight.’
Rolt gave Tom a knowing smile. ‘Nor you, I hear.’
There was a note of compassion in Rolt’s tone. But Tom ignored it. He had other reasons for being there.
Phoebe came and stood by Rolt’s elbow. ‘Perhaps you’d like to get away from this lot. Why don’t you go through to the office and I’ll fetch some tea?’
Rolt showed Tom the way down the hall. The office was impressive, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto St James’s Park. It must be costing him a fortune. And that livid skyscape of red and orange over the fireplace. Was it an original?
‘Don’t tell me that Turner’s real?’
‘Isn’t it a beaut? They used to think it was pigment degradation. Now it’s believed the colours are accurate – refraction by volcanic ash in the atmosphere.