Another, quieter sigh, but still no movement. She must be sighing in her sleep.
The burble of a police radio told him that they were gearing up for his arrival. He left the bedroom and made his way downstairs.
The kitchen was even hotter than the bedroom. Not that this stopped Patsy from springing out of her basket at first sight of him and bouncing over, her rasping tongue making a tour of his face. ‘Only time you’re friendly to me,’ he said, feigning affection by stroking her silken back, ‘is when there’s no one else to feed you.’ Her answer was one last slurp of his lips before she raced across the kitchen to stand by her bowl so she could wolf down what he put there in less time than it took him to fill the kettle.
He called out, softly, through the open window. ‘You there?’
The officer, who must have been perched on the stone bench just below the window, popped into view: ‘Morning, sir.’
‘Good morning.’ Peter lifted his gaze to the dark sky. ‘Or almost.’
‘I’ll fetch your driver, shall I?’
‘Tell him half an hour.’
Peter unbolted the kitchen door (strange the habit that had them locking the door at night despite the fact that the windows were open and the house guarded back and front) and stepped out.
Dark and a smell like dry bracken. So dark he could only just make out the cluster of bushes that, once full and green, were now wilting into the cracked soil. He went a few steps further into the garden, feeling the warmth of the spiky grass on his bare feet and the dust that each one of his steps stirred up. The night seemed to press down on him, the air heavier and much hotter than any English night should be. He could just make out the shadowed outline of the beech at the bottom of the garden, with its uneven cankered trunk standing stark against the blackened sky. An ancient tree: he hoped it would find a way to pull in moisture from the thickened air.
It was so quiet that he heard the kettle clicking off. He made his way back into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar.
‘Help yourself.’ He fetched down two mugs. ‘One for me as well. No sugar.’
4.20 a.m.
The instant that Joshua Yares woke, he got straight out of a bed that looked as if it had barely been slept in. He nevertheless pulled tight the light-blue sheets, smartening up corners that were already well tucked in, before fetching the neatly folded counterpane from the chair and smoothing it over the top.
He stepped back to survey the result, approaching the bed again to flatten a faint wrinkle on the top left-hand corner. Once it was all perfectly smooth and flat, he took hold of the sweat pants and a T-shirt he had laid out the night before and, having dressed, laced up his running trainers.
Taking the narrow stairs two at a time, he was soon out on the street. A few paces jogged before he began to run in earnest.
He liked running, especially when nobody was about. And although he’d slowed considerably since his record-breaking days, he still ran with the strength and agility of a much younger man.
He pushed his torso forward as if in a race, and then, feet pounding the pavement and sweat beading his forehead (no one being about), he vaulted the gate to the park and set off across the high grass, hearing it crackle as he mowed it down.
4.22 a.m.
Peter was sweating as he stepped into the shower.
He closed his eyes, tilted back his head and let the water wash over him. Might as well enjoy it now, because if this awful drought persisted showers would soon be replaced by queuing at standpipes and water trucks for rationed water.
But this was England: the drought could surely not persist. As a matter of fact, he’d yesterday heard a weatherman predicting an imminent reversion to the grey disappointment of an average summer. That would please the PM: one less crisis to fend off in these dismal times.
He dried himself vigorously before tossing down the towel.
Thirty years married and Frances was still offended by this habit. But he couldn’t rid himself of the superstition that the ritual brought him luck, and luck in great quantities is what he needed now. Courage, he told himself, and made to leave. In turning away, however, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. I look washed out, he thought, despite the sun. He sucked in his stomach and flashed himself a smile. He smoothed down hair that was only beginning to grey. Better.
Now for the finishing touches.
He pulled open the cedar doors of his dressing-room wardrobes and surveyed the rows of suits and shirts and ties. Not the fawn linen. Too flash for the House. Same for the beige. Not the dark blue either – he’d overused it recently – and certainly not the grey, which always seemed too lightweight. Black then, with a white shirt, and the mauve tie for a dash of colour.
It was an ensemble that, even as he put it on, felt heavy for a day that was going to break all records. But when it was this hot in the House, permission to remove outer garments was frequently granted and, having learnt the hard way how badly the thick dark hair of his forearms played on television, he knew better than to give in to the temptation of a short-sleeved shirt.
He sucked in his paunch before taking another glance, this time in the full-length mirror. Shoelaces tied; shirt tucked; trousers pulled up; flies zipped; socks smooth. Frances had trained him to carry out this check first thing and sporadically throughout the day. It was part of the game that politicians, even serious ones, had to play: cutting their cloth in obeisance to a world that judged them by standards they themselves would balk at. Another smile – looking good – before he went back downstairs.
There was a mug of thick dark tea waiting for him. He took a sip and grimaced. Nobody in sight, so he spooned in a couple of sugars. A few more gulps before he set the cup aside. He stretched up for Patsy’s lead while simultaneously holding out his other arm to ward her off: stray pieces of her brown and blonde hair on his suit would give the wrong impression.
‘Round the block,’ he said to her and to the policeman who, hearing him moving about the kitchen, had reappeared.
4.25 a.m.
Cathy’s galley kitchen was a wreck despite last night’s dinner having only been a takeaway. She managed to throw the cartons away, pile up the dirty dishes and pass a cloth over the melamine surfaces before the kettle boiled. She’d do the rest later; now she was desperate for a cuppa.
She opened the cupboard, gazing for a moment at the cluster of teapots before closing the cupboard and grabbing a mug that she rinsed out before making tea from a bag.
She took the mug down the narrow corridor. She went quietly so as not to wake Lyndall, but as she drew abreast of her daughter’s bedroom she was seized by an impulse to go in.
Don’t, she told herself. And then she did.
It was sweltering in there and Lyndall, who still slept with a night light on, had pushed off her top sheet to lie uncovered in her shortie-pyjamas. In the faint yellow glow from the floor, she looked uncharacteristically pale and deathly still. Cathy couldn’t even see if she was breathing.
She tiptoed across the room. Still no sign of life. Knowing that she shouldn’t, she lowered her hand to Lyndall’s forehead.
‘Geroff, Mum.’ Lyndall pulled up her sheet and turned with it to face the wall.
Embarrassed, Cathy went back to bed.
4.35 a.m.
When Peter came out of the house, one of the two waiting officers spoke softly into his radio while the other moved aside to let him pass. He