White Riot (36 page)

Kev stood there, waiting to see if his words would be
believed. If they checked up on him, he was fucked. He hadn’t been home for days; his brother could be dead for all he knew.

Major Tom had scrutinized him, long and hard, giving him some speech about how highly recommended he had been, the glowing report from Rick Oaten, how there was a place for him, but he had to prove himself. Kev had eagerly told him that his loyalties were with the party. That he was fit and ready for what was to come.

Major Tom had, not without reservations, believed him. Sent him off to the bunker with the other men.

Where he had hoped they would fall asleep so he could start investigating. But they were on too much of a high, overexcited about what was to happen the next day, so none of them were sleeping. The air was thick with heat and tension. Kev had got up, told them he was going for some fresh air. Was told to give the password if challenged, there were sentries patrolling.

He stood in the farmyard, looked around. Wondered where to start. The farm belonged to a party member and sympathizer who had gladly hired out his land to the NUP. He and his family lived in and worked out of the main house. Major Tom had a Winnebago on site and the foot soldiers the bunker. Deep in the secluded hills of Northumberland, miles from anywhere, the arrangement worked out well.

There were older stone buildings near the main house. Milking pens, a barn, storage areas, the slaughterhouse. From the old days, when animals were killed on the farm, not taken to abattoirs. Now used by Major Tom as the punishment block. Kev checked left and right, made sure there were no sentries patrolling, crossed the yard.

The door was locked, a thick padlock holding it in place. He pulled it, hard. No good. Checked above the doorframe for a key, at the side, on the ground. He didn’t think he would really find one. He was right.

Along the side of the building, one-time windows had been bricked and breeze-blocked up. If Peta and Jason were being kept anywhere, it would be in here. Kev gave another look round, then walked slowly down the length of the building. Checking for gaps, other doors, anything that could get him a way in.

He rounded the corner. What had once been another outbuilding was linked to the punishment block. Its windows had been sealed too but not as thoroughly. Wood and board in place of brick and breeze block. It had been done quickly, hurriedly. He looked around, checking for sentries. No one. Tried the handle. Locked.

He looked again at the windows. Put his hands on the corners. They were nailed shut, new, thick nails holding the wood to the frame. But the frame might be rotten, thought Kev. Old and worn. Pushing his fingers round the edges, he pulled. No movement. He tried again. Felt the old wood give, splinter slightly under the new wood.

Kev smiled to himself, pulled harder. The nails squealed. He stopped, looked round again. Hoped the noise hadn’t alerted anyone. Stood absolutely still, felt his heart hammering in his chest.

Tried again. Heard the nails squealing again. Stopped, waited.

Heard footsteps. Saw a flashlight.

Kev looked quickly round, scanned for a hiding place. Couldn’t find one. If he ran he would be seen and possibly shot; if he stayed where he was he would be seen. And challenged.

He had no choice. Stay where he was, front it.

The flashlight-holding figure approached. Kev was standing against the side of the outbuilding, hands in pockets, looking up at the stars. Trying to be as casual as he could.

The figure drew level, stopped. He wore a handgun at his side. His hand was twitching to make use of it.

‘Password?’

‘Thor’s Hammer.’

The flashlight was shone in Kev’s face. He put his hand up to shield his eyes.

‘Kev? What you doin’ out here?’

Kev squinted, tried to see beyond the glare. ‘Ligsy? That you?’

‘Aye.’

Ligsy put the flashlight down. Kev’s one-time lieutenant was frowning. It made his face look even more simian.

‘What you doin’ out here?’

Kev tried to sigh. ‘Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d get a bit of fresh air.’

Ligsy said nothing, kept looking at him. Kev felt nervous under that animal gaze.

‘Just thinkin’, you know? Calm before the storm an’ that.’

Ligsy’s face split open in a smile. ‘Hey, Kev, you were always the clever one. I said that. In wor gang, Kev’s the clever one.’

Not hard, thought Kev. ‘Yeah,’ he said.

Ligsy looked round as if checking he wasn’t being overheard, then leaned in closer. ‘Word to the wise, though. Do your thinkin’ somewhere else than here.’

Kev’s turn to frown. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘In there,’ said Ligsy, pointing to the building Kev had been trying to break into, ‘they’ve got somethin’ in there.’

‘What?’

‘Top secret. Hush hush, an’ that. It’s for tomorrow. Some secret weapon. Cheggs reckons it’s a bomb, like.’

‘A bomb?’

‘Aye. But I don’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I heard noises. Voices. Dunno what they’ve been doin’ in there, but I wouldn’t want it done to me.’

Jason. Kev knew what they wanted him to do. He could imagine how they would go about doing it. He tried not to let his anxiety show on his face or in his voice.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Keep away.’

Ligsy didn’t move. Kev realized it was his cue to go back to the bunker. He stretched, faked a yawn. Said something about turning in for the night. Still Ligsy didn’t move.

Kev had no choice. He had to leave Ligsy, walk back to the bunker. Get in bed, feign sleep.

And try to stop thinking about what was happening in that outbuilding.

But he couldn’t.

It was going to be a long night.

Peta heard the padlock being tested, sat straight up. She waited. Nothing. No one came in.

A squeaking noise from nearby, then voices. Then nothing. She lay back down again. Tried to sleep. All she had done since Mary Evans’s visit.

She knew how hostages must feel. How terrorism works. The incarceration was bad enough, but guessing at what her eventual fate was to be and waiting for it to happen was awful. She had tried to cry but was beyond tears. She was beyond hope, beyond everything.

She closed her eyes. Prayed that someone would come and rescue her.

Tried not to think how ridiculously hopeless that sounded. Even to herself.

Turnbull looked at the photo on the dressing table in the hotel in Bishop’s Stortford. His wife. Two kids. Himself. All
smiling. He had examined that photo for hours, days, months. Over and over. Ever since she threw him out. Ever since they left him.

But for the first time in a long while he didn’t feel bad when he looked at it. Didn’t feel that grinding, churning emptiness inside him, that abyss threatening to devour him. Because for the first time in ages he felt hopeful.

Hopeful that he would be the husband and father that he should have been. Hopeful that a new chapter of his life could begin.

This job for Donovan was the cause. It had pulled him out of his self-pitying rut, given him dignity and respect. He remembered that this was something he was good at. This was his passion. He didn’t need the police force, he could go into the private sector, set himself up there. Build up his own client list. Be a success on his own terms. Demonstrate how he had changed. Earn the right to have his family back.

That’s what he would do. As soon as this job for Donovan was out of the way.

Matt Milsom had been lying. Too many inconsistencies, vagaries in his story. Wouldn’t the school have been informed if Jake was HIV-positive? Wouldn’t he have had a Romanian accent? Those were the main points that stuck out. There were other things too. Milsom’s body language had been all wrong. He had aimed at being relaxed, just two blokes chatting over a couple of whiskies. Been open and friendly in response to the questions. It was too much. Too studied. Overplayed. And that made Turnbull suspicious.

He knew what he had to do next. There was no need to creep around any more. He would make an appointment at the school, talk to the head teacher. Explain who he was and what he was doing, find out for definite about Jake. Depending on the outcome of that, he would confront
Milsom again. It was time to escalate, to move to the next phase. He looked at the photo again. Then, hopefully, it would be time to go home.

The room was comfortable but nothing more. He needed some exercise so, slipping his wallet and phone into his jeans, he left the hotel.

The streets were deserted. Bishop’s Stortford was a small ex-market town, not famed for its nightlife. He had found a pub he liked and, although it was quite a walk from his hotel, felt like treating himself to a drink there. Maybe get talking to a few locals, see if anyone could give him background on the Milsoms. Or even just have a chat.

The night was creeping in. He walked through the park, the swings and slides empty, too late for children to be playing. Over the bridge and through the trees. Feeling good about himself, his work.

Too good to notice the figure slip from the bushes behind him. And when he did hear a noise and turned, it was too late. Something was constricting his throat, stopping him breathing, something sharp and hard. Pulled tight, tighter.

He put his hands to his throat, tried to get the constriction away. The wire just dug in, harder. Broke skin. Felt blood running down his neck.

A desperate thought flashed through Turnbull’s mind: grab the assailant from behind, find something to twist, pull, injure. No good. He was too busy pulling the garrotte from his throat.

Black fireworks went off at the sides of his eyes, became bigger, more frequent. Their impact heavier. He scrabbled frantically at his neck, gasped and gurgled. He felt his legs give way, his body sink to the ground. He was mentally screaming: get up, get up … No good. His body wouldn’t listen.

Turnbull gave in. He no longer had the strength to fight. He lay there, looked up. Saw his attacker. That black floppy hair, those glasses. That friendly, bland face, friendly no more.

Matt Milsom.

Turnbull just had time to put together what had been done to him before his body conceded defeat and the air left him for the final time.

Never to go home again.

Election day.

The cars were out, the loud-hailers on. Councillors and candidates canvassing door to door, only local but treating it like a national, telling voters and potential voters to get out and do their duty. The same phrases trotted out like tired old mantras:

Get out and vote or
THEY’LL
get in again.

Stand up for what
YOU
believe in.

One person
CAN
make a difference.

Over and over, covering the whole spectrum, Colin Baty’s Labour to Rick Oaten’s NUP. Smiles, suits and rosettes. Leaflets and lifts to the polling station. Rictus grins and righteous speeches. The democratic circus had come to town.

The summons had arrived when Kev was getting ready. Queuing to wash his face, brush his teeth, from a standpipe by the barn. The foot soldiers lined up, laughing, horsing around. Hiding nerves, building up testosterone, storing adrenalin. Psyching each other up. Kev not joining in, his bandage showing, his side still aching, the knife still turning in the wound. One of the troops ran up to him. Looked only about twelve, thought Kev. Young kid with bad skin, bad teeth, bad attitude in his eyes. The message: Major Tom wants to see you.

The turning knife started spinning, gouging. Shit, thought Kev, this is it. I’m caught. Someone saw me nosing
around last night. Reported me. They’re going to want to know what I was looking for. Make me tell the truth. Any way they can.

He put down his tin cup, not giving his hand time to start shaking, and followed the foot soldier across the yard to the main house and into the kitchen. The room was small but busy, the scene one of sharp contrast: dishes drying by the sink while a military operation was planned on the kitchen table. Major Tom and his two lieutenants filled the room. The lieutenants buzzed around, checked coordinates on the map laid out across the table with pieces of paper at the side. Testosterone and adrenalin were building here too, but more concentrated, more focused than in the men outside. Major Tom sat at the table, head down, studying papers, unmoving, the eye of the storm. Dressed in full fatigues, ready for action. Kev stood before him, waited for him to look up.

Major Tom kept his eyes down. Kev felt sweat prickle his back, his legs. Didn’t dare move. Knew what was coming, tried not to imagine it. The eventual reality would be bad enough. He backed away, until he was flat against the sink. Something prodded into him, something sharp. He moved a hand silently behind him, tried to move the obstruction out of the way. Felt the blade of a knife. A sharp one for skinning, paring, cutting.

Looking down at Major Tom, seeing his attention was still on the work before him, Kev surreptitiously slid the knife, blade first, up the sleeve of his jacket, stood again to attention. Eventually Major Tom pushed away the paper he had been reading, turned the same scrutiny on to Kev. A hard, unblinking stare.

The look said intimidation, and Kev felt he was expected to crumble. Fall to his knees and confess. Yes, he was a spy, no, he wanted no part in what they were doing. Take the consequences stoically. But another image lodged itself in his
mind. Of himself in another time. The future. Away from the farm, the party, away from the flat and his father and brother and instead in a bar with Amar, laughing and joking and having a good time. And Kev felt anger well up inside, anger because he was so near to achieving it yet so close to having it snatched away. So he didn’t crumble, he didn’t flinch. He returned the gaze second for second.

Major Tom smiled, broke eye contact.

Kev said nothing. Waited.

‘How’s the wound?’

Kev looked down at his side, surprised by the question. ‘Healin’,’ he said.

‘Good.’ Major Tom looked at the map, back to Kev. ‘Don’t want you to join the others yet. Could be too much of a liability. Got a job, though. You up to it?’