groaned.
‘Are you ill?’
A ginger opening of one eye. ‘Do I look ill?’
Never the most picturesque of men, Albion looked not so much ill as really awful. His nose was habitually bulbous and reddened from drink, and that long strand of greasy hair that had flopped away from the bald patch it was meant to conceal didn’t help. All as usual. What was new, however, particularly so early in the morning, was the mess of gravy or dark vomit that stained his shirt.
A revolting sight. Peter was half tempted to back off, close the door and leave Albion to his own devices. ‘Let’s get you out of here,’ he said.
‘You and whose army?’ Albion’s eyelids shuttered down.
‘Shift.’ Peter pushed at the door.
Albion groaned, but he did inch away from the door, allowing Peter to widen the gap and squeeze in. Not much room to manoeuvre, but he eventually managed to bend over the fallen man. He was assailed by the mix of stale tobacco, soured alcohol and vomit so toxic that it took an effort of will not to rear away. He concentrated on breathing exclusively through his mouth. ‘Lift your arms.’ He pushed his own arms under Albion’s, linking them at the other’s back, and then, saying, ‘Upsy’, he hauled Albion to his feet.
‘I want to stay here,’ Albion groaned.
‘To be spotted by the other side? Or, worse, by a bastard from the lobby? I think not.’
He turned them both round, using a knee to push Albion, and that way manoeuvred the other man, crab-like, out of the stall and over to a wall. ‘Stay here.’
When he let go, Albion slid all the way down to the floor. No point in picking him up. ‘I’ll fetch help,’ he said.
‘Kind of you.’
‘Oh well.’ He was glad that he had bothered.
‘Never figured you for a kind man.’
Just like bloody Albion, adding a sting to his gratitude. Should have let him stew in his own festered failure.
Which thought seemed to transmit itself to Albion. ‘You can’t know what it’s like.’ He was clearly on the brink of tears. The weight of his eyelids seemed too much to bear. They closed while he was saying something that sounded like ‘votes for sale’, although Peter, who now wanted more than anything to get away, couldn’t be sure.
He found a doorkeeper who agreed to deposit Albion in a nearby hotel. Something at least accomplished. It was harder to shake off his feelings of pity for Albion, who, once a high-flyer, had sunk so low. There but for the grace of God, he thought, and then he told himself that this was nonsense. Albion’s many vices were what had done for him; Peter’s would not. Of this he would make sure. He went back to his office, intent on ridding himself of clothes that must now reek of Albion Hind’s failure.
He pushed the door so hard that it banged back against the wall, and when he did, he saw how a slim, dark figure who had been standing by his desk jumped.
‘What the . . .’ His vision cleared. ‘Oh, it’s you, Patricia.’
The sight of her always set his pulse racing. She was a gorgeous-looking young woman, and she knew it, donning a succession of bright colours like this sleeveless yellow summer frock that showed off her bronzed skin to its best advantage. He wanted to compliment her on it but no need: she’d clocked his appreciative regard and it made her smile.
‘I was thinking of ringing you,’ he said.
‘Your wife beat you to it.’
‘My wife?’
‘Your mobile’s off.’
He took it from his pocket – ‘Oh yes, so it is’ – and switched it on, and as it loaded he saw three missed calls from Frances. ‘Did she say what she wanted?’
‘To tell you that the PM’s going to be on at 7.15.’
Of course he was. Trying to steal Peter’s thunder.
‘She thinks they might be planning to ambush him with his latest legalise drugs obsession. She says you should hear it live in case you’re rung for comment.’ Patricia indicated a folder she must just have placed on his desk. ‘I’ve digested the salient facts. The Dutch example’s telling. And the rake-offs of the Colorado and Washington dispensaries should cause some alarm.’
First Frances and now Patricia: his women were certainly coming through for him. ‘That’s extremely helpful.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But now I think I’d better ring . . .’
‘. . . your wife. Yes, Home Secretary. I’ll leave you to it.’ She was smiling as she passed him by.
The scent she gave off was redolent of spring flowers that would long ago have wilted in this heat. Hope she didn’t think the stench that must be coming off him was his. ‘Oh, and Patricia?’
‘Yes?’ The way she looked at him: she was such a coquette!
‘Might be worth turning your keen eye on our new Commissioner. Background. Connections. That type of thing.’
‘Of course.’ She was all business. ‘Anything in particular?’
‘Not sure. He was vetted, naturally, but I think there might have been something missed. Sniff around: see, for starters, if you can find anything about his relationship with the PM. Something peculiar there which might be . . .’ – how should he put it – ‘be . . .’
‘Helpful,’ she said. ‘Of course.’ She slipped out of the room, softly, as she always did.
10 a.m.
The heavy tread that Joshua Yares had been keeping half an ear out for caused him to raise his head. ‘Anil? Would you mind stepping in for a moment?’
‘Of course.’ Deputy Commissioner Anil Chahda, highest-ranking ethnic officer in the British police, retraced his steps and walked into Joshua’s office. ‘How can I help?’
Joshua gestured at the sofas that stood at one end of his vast office.
Chahda was broad with a bullish head, wide shoulders and a stocky frame, and when he sat down on the sofa he seemed to take up the whole of it.
‘How can I be of assistance?’
‘I gather there’s been a death?’ Joshua paused, expecting a response, but when nothing came he said, ‘In Rockham.’
‘Ah,’ an intake of breath. ‘That death. Unfortunate. Male. IC3. Record of mental instability – officers have been called to his home on several previous occasions. On this occasion a member of the public reported that the man was wielding a weapon in a public place.’
‘I understand that sections in the community dispute this version. They say the man posed no danger and that the police were not in fact called?’
‘I can’t answer to that,
