Free Ten Days by Gillian Slovo Page B

occasions for him to get to know those members of the Crime Reporters Association to whom the Met would entrust sensitive information, and he didn’t want them to think he was making capital out of a tragedy. ‘Shall we begin?’
    â€˜Absolutely, sir. Ladies and gentlemen.’ The press man’s raised voice had produced an immediate hush. ‘Our new Commissioner of the Metropolis, Commissioner Joshua Yares, will read a short statement. There will be no questions at this time,’ and then turning to Joshua: ‘Commissioner?’
    â€˜Thank you, Mark.’ A quick glance at the paper and he had memorised what was written there. He looked up. ‘And thank you all for coming. It is my sad duty to inform you that yesterday in Rockham, in response to a call from the public, police officers attended a community centre on the Lovelace estate. When a man in his early thirties became violent, the Rockham officers took measures to restrain him. Unfortunately, the man developed breathing difficulties. Officers gave him CPR until an ambulance arrived to take the man to hospital. He was pronounced dead on arrival. At a request from the man’s parents, we will not, at present, be releasing the man’s details. My office is liaising with the parents, and I would ask you, on their behalf, that once their son’s name is released you give them the privacy they will need to come to terms with their loss. As in every case where a death occurs in police presence, the Independent Police Complaints Commission has been put in charge of the investigation. Any further questions should be addressed to them. Thank you. That is all.’
    He was already on his feet and beginning the short walk away as questions were fired at him, such as: ‘Do you think this is a bad omen?’ and ‘How’s the first day otherwise?’ and that one he knew would be inevitable: ‘Will you comment on the rumour that the Home Secretary is less than delighted at your appointment?’ All of which he ignored, taking care to keep his expression neutral without discounting the gravity of the news he had delivered, and then at last he was out and he could let his breath go.
    1.20 p.m.
    There was quite a bustle in the atrium – more visitors than usual crowding around the front desk – so Peter leant his head in so as to hear what Patricia was telling him. While listening to what she had to say, he also looked to where Frances was standing at the centre of a circle of his staff. She had on her beige frock with pink trimming that toned perfectly with her peach complexion and wavy blonde hair. She was so attractive, he thought, a judgement with which the men fawning on her were bound to concur. One of them said something in response to which she threw back her head, elongating her neck, and laughed, and although he wasn’t close enough to see them, he knew she must be treating the men to a flash of those perfect white teeth. He felt such pride watching her, and another feeling that he was almost ashamed to name. He knew it, however, for what it was: a slight jealousy that she was so at home in this world that, despite
his high status, sometimes made him feel like an outsider, and a fat one at that.
    â€˜What I’m trying to say, Minister . . .’ Patricia must have registered his inattention. She raised her voice to pull him back.
    â€˜Not now,’ he said.
    Frances had already turned her head to look at him. She frowned.
    Could he have done something to annoy her? But, no, she was smiling again as she said something to the men, who responded by parting to let her through. He must have imagined it.
    But he soon realised that she really was annoyed. Not that she said as much. But by her turning away of her cheek when he had gone to peck it once they were outside, and by her brisk nod at his driver and his bodyguards, and by the way she sat beside him in the car, poker straight, and pushed