White Riot (12 page)

‘You’re blocking our Land Rover.’ Then, as an afterthought: ‘Sir.’

Donovan smiled even wider. ‘Don’t call me that. Makes me sound like my dad.’ The smile curdled, like cream gone sour. ‘Yeah, I’m blocking your car. Care to tell me what you’re doing on my property?’

The leader frowned, tried to find an acceptable answer. While he was doing that, Donovan looked at Jamal, mouthed, ‘OK?’ Jamal felt a warm glow spread inside him, nodded and smiled. Donovan was here. He wasn’t scared any more.

Donovan looked at the leader. ‘Well?’

‘We’re … we’ve lost something. We’re looking for it.’

‘On my property?’

He shrugged. ‘Round here.’

‘Round here.’

The leader nodded.

‘Then I suggest you look somewhere else.’ Donovan stepped up, face to face. ‘Right?’

A jerky dance of conflicted emotions passed over the leader’s face. The civilized response was to nod, turn and walk away. But the base, feral part wanted to stay. It was clear to Jamal that he wanted no part of the first option.

‘OK,’ he said aloud. Then, under his breath: ‘Nigger lover.’

And that was when Donovan, who until that point had kept his left arm hidden, brought up the heavy metal American police torch he kept under the seat of the car, smashed it hard as he could across the leader’s shoulder.

The skinhead sighed like he was a novelty inflatable the air had been let out of, crumpled, an expression of pain and surprise on his face. The two followers didn’t move, just stood there dumbstruck. Awaiting orders that wouldn’t come.

‘What did you call me?’ said Donovan, eyes lit by an angry light. ‘Wanna say it again? Eh?’

The skinhead curled up into a ball. As he went down his body jerked, causing pain to buckle round his middle. He didn’t know which injury to hold the most. Red spots began to appear through his top.

‘Wanna say it again?’ said Donovan, louder this time.

The skinhead shook his head.

‘Anything you do want to say?’

The skinhead said nothing.

Donovan raised the torch again. ‘Eh?’

‘S … sorry …’

‘Thank you.’ Donovan’s smile was back in place. He pointed to Jamal. ‘That’s better. Now say it to him.’

The skinhead spat on the ground, face sour with pain and rage.

Donovan sighed. ‘Oh, dear. I had hoped we wouldn’t have to go down this route.’

He raised the torch again. The skinhead shrank away, the other two watched dumbstruck.

‘Wait,’ shouted Jamal.

They all turned and looked at the boy. He had almost been forgotten with everything else that was going on.

‘Let him go, Joe.’

Donovan frowned. ‘Why? He was going to hurt you, Jamal. They all were.’

‘Yeah, I know. But look at ’im, man. He’s a piece o’ shit. He ain’t worth it.’

Donovan looked down, saw what Jamal saw. A huddled specimen of humanity in pain. Bleeding. Bruised.

‘Get up,’ said Donovan. ‘Get out of here.’

The skinhead tried to raise himself, couldn’t do it. He beckoned to the other two for assistance. They hauled him roughly to his feet.

‘Now get out of here.’

Jamal walked down the path to join Donovan. ‘An’ jus’ remember,’ he shouted to the departing threesome, ‘was a black boy saved your ass from a whippin’.’

The lead skinhead turned. Anger, rage, humiliation and pain were etched vividly on every feature. He clearly wanted to scream, hurl abuse, attack and hurt. But he could do nothing. Instead he said: ‘You need to move your car.’

Donovan got in the Scimitar, moved it. The Land Rover roared off, accelerating angrily. Donovan parked the car properly, walked down to where Jamal was standing.

‘Everything OK while I was away?’ he asked.

Jamal smiled, shrugged. ‘Bit borin’. Know what I mean?’

Donovan looked at the front garden. ‘Been busy. Don’t let me stop you.’ He turned, looked at the cottage. ‘Gasping for a coffee. Want anything?’

Jamal shook his head.

‘Know what they were after?’

Jamal opened his mouth to speak. Weighed up whether
to tell Donovan or not. Donovan spotted his hesitation, picked up that something was wrong.

‘What? What’s up?’

Jamal sighed. ‘Oh, Joe, man, I think I done a bad thing.’

Donovan smiled. Jamal noticed he looked really rough. Black rings round his eyes, his hands shaking from more than the recent excitement. ‘Come on inside,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk about it.’

Donovan walked into the cottage. Jamal turned to follow, realized he was still clutching the gardening fork tightly in his hand. He opened his fingers, let it drop to the path, followed Donovan inside.

Lillian felt him on top of her, his body pressed against hers. It had been so long. It felt so good.

Their mouths found each other’s. Kissed, deep, long. Broke apart. His mouth trailed down her neck, kissing as he went, pulling gently with his teeth. She moaned slightly, pushed her body closer to his, encouraging him to go on. He kissed her shoulders, moved his tongue down to her breasts, found each nipple, sucked, squeezed, nibbled in turn.

Behind her closed eyes, the years fell away. They were no longer pushing sixty. She saw them as they had been: young, vital, sexually hungry beings. She held on to the image, held on to him, dug her nails in further.

His head lifted from her breast, moved down her body. She soon felt him nuzzling at the tops of her thighs. She pushed her pelvis towards his mouth, put her hands on his head, guiding him to where she wanted him. He kissed her. She sighed. She felt his tongue arousing her, sighed again. Lay back, ready to enjoy what was to come.

When the doorbell rang.

Trevor Whitman jumped up. Their eyes met. Lillian got off the bed, crossed to the window, looked down. She turned back into the room.

‘It’s Peta,’ she said.

Peta stood before the front door. She didn’t know why she had rung the bell. Usually she just walked straight in but seeing the way Lillian had been with Trevor Whitman the
last time she was there it somehow felt inappropriate. It just felt like their relationship had shifted and she didn’t know what was going to happen next.

She had things to ask her mother, questions she wanted answers to, conversations she hoped they could have.

The door was opened by Lillian in her towelling dressing gown.

‘Oh.’ Peta looked at her. ‘You OK? Not … disturbing anything?’

‘No,’ said Lillian, holding the robe tightly closed with her fist. ‘Come in. I was just about to have a shower.’

Peta stepped inside, followed her mother to the kitchen.

‘Tea? Coffee?’

Peta asked for tea. Her mother set about making it. Two Earl Grey teabags, two Penguin mugs. Virginia Woolf:
A Room of One’s Own
for Lillian, Graham Greene:
Brighton Rock
for Peta.

‘Used to be Dad’s mug,’ said Peta.

Lillian said nothing. Waited for the kettle to boil.

‘So,’ said Lillian, sitting at the kitchen table once the tea had been made, ‘social call? Or were you looking for Trevor?’

Peta sat next to her. ‘I wanted to talk to you, actually.’

Lillian blew on her tea. ‘What about?’

‘What d’you think? Trevor Whitman.’

Lillian said nothing, waited.

‘Are you seeing him, Lillian?’

Lillian took a moment to answer. ‘Yes, Peta, I am.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s four years since Philip died.’ A note of defensiveness had crept into her voice. ‘It’s a long time to be on my own. I’m not that old, you know.’

‘I know. It’s just … it was a bit of a surprise, that’s all. You didn’t tell me.’

‘Do you tell me everything that’s going on in your life?’

They both knew the answer to that one. Lillian had been there for Peta during her darkest alcoholic days, but the help had come with conditions that Peta hadn’t wanted. Since she got sober she had tended to keep her mother at arm’s length. Lillian certainly didn’t know everything that had happened on Albion’s last case. She wouldn’t have let Peta walk the streets on her own if she knew that.

‘No,’ said Lillian. ‘Thought not. Trevor’s an old friend. And … he’s been good to me since he came back into my life. He makes me happy.’

‘Good.’ Peta said the word but she wasn’t sure whether she meant it. Something was still bugging her. Still not quite right.

‘How’s the investigation?’ Lillian’s words were hidden by her mug.

‘Yeah, it’s started.’ She told Lillian about Baty, how she thought that might be a dead end. ‘But he did say something. About Trevor.’

‘What.’ Lillian put her mug down, sat as if expecting a blow.

‘Probably nothing much, probably doesn’t mean anything at all. Just that Trevor Whitman had a lot of women. A hippie commune full of them. I mean, it’s ridiculous, I know, and none of my business really, but were you … you know …’

‘I wouldn’t believe what he says about Trevor. He hates him.’

Lillian and Peta both looked up. Trevor Whitman was standing in the doorway wearing jeans and a T-shirt, hair and stubble distressed. He looked like a walking Gap ad.

Peta looked between him and her mother, clocked again her mother’s bathrobe. Got the picture.

‘Hello, Trevor,’ she said without much enthusiasm. She
suddenly felt unwanted. Knew she had been right to ring the doorbell and not walk straight in. Like things had changed and she wasn’t sure where she stood.

‘How’s the investigation going?’ Whitman said.

Although there wasn’t much to report, Peta told him. He listened, smiling. ‘Thanks for that. Keep up the good work. You read my book yet?’

‘Some of it. Very good so far.’

Whitman smiled.

The room had suddenly got very hot, the atmosphere oppressive. Peta stood up. ‘I’d better be off.’

Lillian looked as if there were things she wanted to say to Peta. She rose also. ‘I’ll see you out.’

‘No need. I’ll see myself out.’

Even the hot air outside felt better than the prickly awkwardness of her mother’s kitchen. She stood by her car, gulping in a few mouthfuls of air, then got in, drove off.

Still with so many questions unanswered.

The Forth was busy; the usual mix of students and professional city bohos sitting and standing round the old, mismatching tables, the long, dark bar. The same clash of music as always: the ultra hip, the ultra arch. Peta sat on her own, ignoring the noise. Eyes only for the drink in front of her.

She knew it was the wrong thing to do, but felt so stressed, with no one else to talk to, nowhere else to turn. No friends around, except her old one.

So she sat staring at her gin and tonic. She ran her finger down the side of the glass, felt the cold, wet thrill of condensation. Saw the bubbles rise to the surface, pop and disappear. She imagined lifting it to her lips, feel the sweet, sharp, iced liquid roll down her throat, bringing its cold comfort to her body. Her mind.

Her fingers gripped the glass.

She thought again of floodlit cellars and body parts, of dead women and knife-waving killers.

Of her mother wanting to tell her things.

How she had wanted to do this for so, so long.

Her phone rang.

She moved her fingers away, ready to grab it in her bag. Then stopped. Might be her mother.

Her hand fell back. She would ignore it.

It kept ringing.

She looked between the drink and the phone. Saw the number. The phone won out. Taking a deep breath, she put it to her ear, answered.

‘Hi,’ said a voice she knew on the other end. ‘It’s the biggest twat in the universe here. And it’s costing me a lot to do this so please be nice. I’d like to talk to my friend Peta, please.’

Peta smiled, a tsunami of relief washing over her.

‘Hello, twat,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’

And Donovan told her.

She finished the call, pushed the drink away, stood up.

Left the pub, feeling happier than she had in a long time.

Safraz Rajput opened his eyes. Looked around. He must have still been asleep, still been dreaming, because he didn’t know where he was.

He was in a car, that much he knew. But not his car. He drove a nearly new Peugeot 307. Silver. This one was bigger, older. Dirtier.

He shook his head. Slowly: it felt like he had been drinking heavily and he had a hangover. He rubbed his face, sat back. Had he been drinking? He couldn’t remember. No, he hadn’t.

Then how …

He blinked, willing his fogged mind to clear, tried mentally to retrace his steps.

He had been playing five-a-side at the leisure centre in Gateshead. With his mates from work in a local league, their usual Thursday-night game. They won, beating a team of technicians from the college six–two. A couple of celebratory pints in the bar, then home.

Home.

He frowned. He couldn’t remember going home. He remembered going to his car, reaching for the door handle then …

Nothing.

Safraz had to get out.

He tried the door handles. There weren’t any.

Tried pulling the button up to release the catch. Nothing there. No buttons to open the windows. Nothing.

He looked outside. It was dark, somewhere he didn’t … Was he in the West End of Newcastle? It wasn’t somewhere he was familiar with. No one about. Began hammering on the glass, shouting.

Nothing.

Put his shoulder to the door, his whole body weight behind it. Wouldn’t budge. He punched the windscreen, got nothing but sore knuckles.

He heard a small whimpering sound, like a wounded animal crawling off to die, realized it was him.

A phone rang.

He checked his pocket. His own mobile had gone. The noise continued. He looked round. On the back seat was a black nylon rucksack. The ringing was coming from there. He leaned over, picked it up, unzipped it.

‘Wha—’

The explosion tore the thought from his mind as it tore the skin, blood and muscle away from Safraz Rajput’s bone.

The Albion offices looked like a ghost building.

Most of the old Edwardian buildings on Somerset Terrace off Westgate Road had all been gentrified to some degree and were now home to various architects, lawyers, accountants and mortgage advisers. But the Albion offices, boarded up, with the remnants of age-dirtied blue and white police tape still fluttering from the front gate, just looked haunted, derelict.