Free Ten Days by Gillian Slovo Page A

Ruben’s father. ‘He said what the doctor gave him put him in the grave,’ that last word reverberating in a room that fell silent.
    â€˜Come, Bernard.’ She patted the space beside her. ‘Come sit.’
    He was a vigorous man, in his sixties, muscled from many years labouring in a packing house. But now, as he lowered himself onto the settee, he looked much older and also much more frail. ‘My son was never violent,’ he said. ‘He never raised a serious hand. Neither against his mother or me. Or any other human being.’
    â€˜He did get frightened.’ This from his wife. ‘If you touched him wrong.’
    â€˜He was a good boy.’ His voice once more filled the room. ‘And he was a good man. He was my light.’
    1.15 p.m.
    â€˜Home Secretary?’ Peter’s Parliamentary Private Secretary, who had slid into the office noiselessly as he always did, gave one of his self-deprecatory little coughs.
    â€˜Yes?’ He still had much to do, and Frances, who hated to be kept waiting, was imminently due. ‘What is it?’
    â€˜Commissioner Yares phoned.’
    â€˜He did, did he?’ He nodded to Patricia to make sure she was paying attention. ‘And what did he want?’
    â€˜To tell you that there has been a death in Rockham.’
    â€˜I’m sorry to hear it.’ But why – is what he didn’t say – am I being interrupted by this news? ‘Another knifing?’
    â€˜No, an accident. The police were involved.’
    â€˜I see.’
    â€˜I would have kept this for my end-of-day summary rather than bother you with it now, but Mr Parsons, the Member, as I’m sure you are aware, whose constituency includes Rockham, has advised us he has asked the Speaker’s permission to raise a question abut the incident.’
    â€˜Has he indeed?’ And Joshua Yares had thought to warn him. Perhaps he was trying, harder than Peter had anticipated, to be cooperative.
    â€˜The Commissioner will be briefing the press. He wanted you to know that as well.’
    Perhaps not so much cooperative as dotting the i’s and crossing his t’s, something for which he was a stickler, especially when it came to covering his own back.
    â€˜Oh, and your wife is waiting in the lobby.’
    â€˜Good God, man, why didn’t you say so?’ He was already on his feet and slinging on his jacket, saying to Patricia, ‘We’ll have to go on with this when I get back.’
    Another little cough. ‘You have an appointment with the Taiwanese ambassador, Home Secretary, on your return from lunch.’
    So he did. Nothing to be done save for: ‘Let’s finish up in the lift,’ and then to his PPS: ‘You’ll look into the Rockham business?’
    â€˜Yes, Home Secretary. There’ll be a report in your box tonight.’
    1.16 p.m.
    A quick glance at the mirror to check everything was where it ought to be and then Joshua Yares strode through the door and into the claustrophobic room with its duck-egg soundproofed walls and grey blinds that shut out even the slightest hint of daylight. Lucky it was air-conditioned or keeping his jacket on would have been nigh impossible.
    Chahda and the head press bod were already at the table that had been raised onto a podium in front of a backdrop of Met logos. As the cameras flashed – so many of them, he knew, because the press were also using this first appearance to build up a store of stock photos – he seated himself between the two.
    His statement, on one single piece of paper, was there neatly in front of him, but it was worth giving the photographers, and the TV cameras at the back, a little more time to satisfy their cravings. As he sat, unsmiling, and the cameras flashed, the head of press leant over to whisper, ‘Should I set up a confab with the CRA?’
    He shook his head: ‘Not for this one.’ There would be plenty of other