The Knives (28 page)

Pacing out of Kennington Park Blaylock was gladdened by the thump of his heart behind his ribs like a good and faithful engine. Andy, his double in black, ran abreast but not ahead, a companion, not a rival, and together they bombed along the usual stretch.

As Georgian white stucco came into view Blaylock eased down, but today he couldn’t be bothered with his usual paddle through the papers at Dev’s Corner News. The headlines spelt trouble, as ever, but he had been through it all with Mark Tallis past 10 p.m. the night before, during which he had, little by little, suppressed the urge he felt to summon Professor Malcolm Wringham and slap him all around Shovell Street. In a short while, instead, he would go on the
Today
programme with his paws up.

Now he unhooked his iPod, checked his watch, watched his breath condense and glanced around and about. The run had begun in dark but now at 7.30, despite the cold, there was some stunning fire in the sky, an orange-pink efflorescence bronzing all the stucco facades. He rubbed at his calf tendons, absently observing Andy’s more rigorous warm-down, until he realised his bodyguard was looking intently at him.

‘This lark you’ve got planned for the weekend, in North Yorkshire? With the Asian lads from Stapletree?’

‘Sadaqat’s group. Yeah?’

‘I’ve talked to the police team, they’ve been and had a look. This cave you’ll be heading into? It’s not for novices, boss. Seventy foot down a black hole. You ever done this spelunking thing before?’

‘Once or twice. In college.’

‘Right. Back when you were a promising heavyweight?’

Blaylock waved a hand as if to say Andy could scoff all he liked.

‘Well,’ Andy sighed, ‘I’d a go at that malarkey myself maybe seven or eight years back. I expect it’ll all come back to me once I’m suited up.’

‘Nah, you’re not coming down the cave with me, Andy.’

‘Boss, I’m gonna have to—’

‘No, no. Just me and them. That was the invitation. It’s the whole point of the exercise, Andy. That I don’t show up with the heavy mob.’

‘With respect, boss—’

‘It’s not negotiable. Now let’s be getting back, eh?’

They began the jog home, still side by side, if now at odds. Blaylock knew Andy’s wariness was eminently sensible and, as such, he found it intolerable. What he was doing, he had long since resolved, was something only he could do,
ergo
he had to do it alone. If it was an eccentric endeavour, he had nonetheless formed such a good impression of Sadaqat Osman – of the young man’s initiative, uprightness and pragmatism – that he was resolved to honour his word. He had phoned Sadaqat personally to confirm his participation, feeling just a mite apprehensive on account of some of the headlines he had garnered lately. But Sadaqat had sounded blithe, indeed contrite, as he explained that his travelling party would be smaller than he had hoped.

‘Yeah, it’ll just be myself and Javed, and Nasser Jakhrani and Mo Abidi who you met at the Centre?’

‘I thought the plan was to get a load of young guys into outward-bounding …?’

Sadaqat chuckled softly. ‘
Between our dreams and what is real, Mr Blaylock … Subs just weren’t so high this time, what can I say?’

Blaylock was undeterred. If he was not making the legion of new young associates he had hoped for, he had found at least a decent platoon.

An hour later, suited up for the day’s labours, Blaylock leaned back in his ergonomic chair, swivelled to give himself a sober panorama of grey London through the window of the study, and readied to take incoming fire from
Today
. Laura Hampshire’s preamble came down the line with chilly clarity, unsullied by any audible shuffle of crib-sheets.

‘Now, a fortnight ago CIA drone operators launched a night-time missile strike on a private residence in Babur Ghar near the Afghan–Pakistani border, their target the Taliban commander Gul Sayid, who was killed. What has since been confirmed is that at least seven other people died in the drone attack, among them three women, and a British citizen, Haseeb Muthana, who had recently absconded from risk certificate restrictions. We’re joined on the line by the Home Secretary, David Blaylock. Mr Blaylock, were you aware in advance that this drone strike would happen and that Haseeb Muthana’s life would be in danger?’

‘First, Laura, let me be clear, I know that great care is taken over attacks launched by unmanned planes, great precautions are taken, but still, it is sadly the case that people are killed accidentally – it is rare, but it happens, it happened here, and it’s taken very seriously.’

‘Did you know Haseeb Muthana was at this address in Babur Ghar?’

‘I did not. I wish I had known his whereabouts, he was as you say under risk certificate, we had reason to suspect he was seeking to recruit for and orchestrate a terror attack on British soil …’

What Blaylock heard issuing easily enough from his mouth was, he felt, more or less the appropriate political veil to be pulled across what he actually believed. Examining his conscience, he felt no armour-piercing remorse, just as there had been nothing vindictive in his head at the time. He felt some pity for what Muthana’s life had amounted to – the terrible waste, the violent
wrong-headedness of it. But soon enough he felt sterner sentiments rise and settle on him like the cap of the hanging judge.
Thus didst thou. Thus are thy deeds repaid.

‘While we have you, Home Secretary, perhaps a word on the current chaos in the passport system …?’

Mentally Blaylock closed one heavy set of accounts, hefted up another, and girded himself anew for the task of being clear.

‘The surge in passport applications and renewals this past month has been just … flabbergasting.’ Eric Manning shook his head and offered his sorriest wince round the table. ‘About a hundred thousand over the average for the time of year?’

‘Panic buying,’ muttered Mark Tallis.

‘Right,’ Eric nodded. ‘But just you try to stop a stampede.’

‘Have we not got any kind of legal case against this Professor Wringham? You know, for shouting “Fire!” in a crowded room?’

Tallis was flailing, Blaylock knew. Personally he was bothered more by an aura of illicit smugness from his familiar adversaries in the weekly meeting. He rapped the table. ‘As usual, the real problem is not the apparent problem – it’s not the Professor’s helpful contribution. The real problem is, yes, stuff happens to screw up our plans, so have we got the right contingency measures in place?’ Blaylock raked the table with his gaze. ‘So, have we?’

Eric pushed up his spectacles and consulted his notes. ‘We’ve instigated mass overtime, cancelled all existing leave. We’re redeploying a fair number of experienced officers off the kiosks at the airports and putting them onto application checks – temps can stand in at the airports. Plus we’ve hired another three hundred temps just to do processing, and by Monday I think we’ll even have desks for them.’

Blaylock had noticed Phyllida Cox sitting utterly upright and wearing her most critical mien. Now she passed comment. ‘Do we think it very likely that agency staff will be competent to assess
whole box-loads of passport applications with the necessary rigour?’

‘If they err on the side of caution we’ll be fine,’ said Eric. ‘The risk is that we’ll go at snail’s pace. But if they just stamp and move on—’

‘Then the risk is greater.’ Phyllida’s nod was brisk, her brow dark. ‘And the staff on extra hours, with their holidays cancelled … how is morale, do you know?’

‘Well,’ – Eric whistled through his teeth – ‘you might say suicidal.’

Blaylock leaned forward sharply. ‘Eric, unless people are throwing themselves off buildings let’s not use that expression, eh? It’s cheapening. Yes, we’ve had an unwelcome surprise but, come on – Christmas is round the corner. Right now we need everyone to hold the fort and do their job.’

Round the table there were a few nodding heads but more pursed lips. ‘
Bastard’, right?
Blaylock thought.
That’s what you all reckon to me. Well, who the cap fits must wear it.

A last piece of business nagged at him with the customary sense of chaos being held at bay by way of fingers in dykes: Roger Quarmby’s Immigration Services Report, stuck for some weeks in the long grass.

‘We need the Quarmby report out there. It’s time to admit what needs admitting. Is the work on it nearly done?’

Some reticence in the room told him that, quite possibly, said ‘work’ had been awaiting his further instruction. Eric spoke up. ‘We have been awaiting your guidance on that, through Mark. Obviously we all agree it should be released before Christmas.’

‘I’ve been waiting on a suitable bad-news day,’ offered Mark.

‘Take the next one,’ said Blaylock, wincing, keen to wrap up.

Afterward he conferred with the spads, weighing up the evidence that had been heard already by the Identity Documents Bill Committee.
His own performance, scheduled for eight days’ time, would have to be of the highest calibre.

‘Come on, Ben,’ Blaylock chided. ‘You got us into this mess, tell me how we’re going to win the day.’

Ben looked bothered. ‘Let’s leave aside what you feel about Wringham. His whole case that ID cards just need more thought – that’s actually the lowest bar to clear. Because
you
believe, right, we can’t waste one more day, that the risks of not acting are too big?’

‘Yes.
We
believe that, right?’

Still Ben didn’t smile. ‘In my view the stronger objection is still the one Madolyn Redpath made in her evidence – people are just not happy about the state handling so much of their personal data.’

‘Not bothered,’ Blaylock sniffed. ‘We point to other countries. We point to the whole way everybody lives their life online these days.’

‘Well, then maybe your biggest problem is Bannerman having come out to say he doesn’t believe ID cards will reduce crime.’

‘That was vindictive of him. But plenty other cops agree with me.’

‘Most of the public aren’t aware that you and Bannerman don’t get along. They just hear the top cop in the land saying there’s new toys on offer to him and he doesn’t want them.’

Blaylock was pulled from dark thoughts by Geraldine flagging an urgent call – unusually, from his electoral agent Bob Cropper.

‘David, we’ve just had word that the F-bloody-B-B have called a big march in Thornfield. Guess what date? The same bloody Saturday you’re meant to host the citizenship ceremony in the Town Hall.’

‘So ten days from now?’ Frowning, Blaylock waved the spads from the room.

‘Saturday week, aye.’

‘Lovely timing.’

‘I’ll send all the nonsense through to you but what they’re basically saying is it’ll be “a peaceful demonstration in the name of British values”.’

‘Yeah, I heard that on
Jackanory
. I’ll need to meet the Chief Constable on the weekend.’ Blaylock tapped his pen on the desk, irked that Duncan Scarth had been just as bullish as his word. He was brooding still when Geraldine knocked and entered, demure in a blue floral dress, spotless as a china plate in her father’s vicarage. She handed him a windowed envelope.

‘You’d better take your theatre tickets for this evening.’

‘Right.
Coriolanus
. I don’t know it, do you? Any good?’

‘It’s never been one of my favourites.’

‘Oh, afterward, and overnight? I will be at Miss Hassall’s.’

Geraldine nodded, smiled tightly, and left him to it.

‘Miss Hassall’ had been the official parlance since the start of his and Abigail’s relations, in which time he had spent several nights at her mews flat in Holland Park. It still sounded absurdly decorous to his ears, yet Geraldine seemed disinclined to lighten it. He sensed, sadly, that she did not approve of his choice of partner – that for the first time he had properly disappointed her – and he was disconcerted. Mark Tallis, alone among his spads in being taken into confidence, had sounded unenthused, too.

Andy Grieve, by contrast, had given Abigail another cheery thumbs-up after an hour spent security-proofing the mews flat. On those evenings when Martin had dropped him nearby and he strode forth toward the light in her window, Andy vigilant at his back, Blaylock had rather liked the idea that his girlfriend was some covert affair of state. If in daytime he found it no big chore to resist the distraction of thinking about her, by night the rigmarole of being smuggled into her bedchamber brought a definite frisson.

The question that ran rings round his head, though, was that of when he would tell Jennie of his changed circumstances. He had
worried that the news might sound tacky – a calculated reprisal, born of hurt feelings. Worse, in worrying so he had to ask himself why he dwelled on such rather juvenile concerns. True, Nick Gilchrist’s growing presence in Blaylock’s former household had begun to loan it the alarming look of a functional family, and Blaylock felt that as a blow. Still, by any reckoning it seemed unfair that he could not, in turn, permit himself to form one half of a presentable couple.

Thus he had decided he should call Jennie and come clean; then, to his dismay, he had decided he shouldn’t. The urge had simply drained away and left him to wonder whether a veil of secrecy was something he now felt obliged to throw up around as much of his life as it could cover. As a man who liked to believe he valued outward-facing candour, Blaylock’s own reticence bothered him.

At bottom, he knew, he hated to imagine Jennie mirroring Geraldine in disapproval of Abigail – that she would consider the courting of a glamorous blonde journalist crass and predictable, a standard politician’s after-hours lunge. And what pained him just as much was the implied disrespect – his own – for the woman he was actually sleeping with. Abigail was a prize, by any standard. Wasn’t she more than that? Oughtn’t she to be?

Thus did his thoughts turn in their gyre. He was disturbed by a commotion at his doorway and looked up to see Mark and Ben, both breathless.

‘David, some bloody bomb’s gone off at a mosque in Dudley.’