White Riot (39 page)

Peta landed on the floor of the van with a thump. Her shoulder, already sore, ached further. Her hands were still tied behind her back, her ankles similarly bound. A gaffer tape gag over her mouth. She couldn’t move, had given up all hope of escape.

She had lost all track of time, and had alternated between impotent anger and real hopelessness. After Mary Evans’s visit she had been left alone, just food and drink brought in and left by the door, one hand freed to eat with, then the plate taken away, her hand retied.

She had spent all the time in her head. Thinking of childhood holidays with Lillian and Philip. Her real father. Imagining those days were with her again, ignoring the tears on her face when she came out of her fantasies, realized where she was.

She made deals with a God she had long since ceased to believe in: I’ll never drink again. I’ll be the daughter my mother wants me to be. I’ll find a man, settle down. I’ll never go looking for trouble again. I’ll go to church every Sunday.

Bargains she hoped she would one day be in a position to make good on but doubted that would ever happen.

She was going to die. She knew it. Everyone was going to die, but Peta knew that her death would come sooner
than most. She had tried not to torture herself with thoughts about who and what she would be leaving behind. Instead tried to be brave, even philosophical about it.

No good. She couldn’t do that. She imagined she knew what her friend Jill must have gone through several months ago when she had been kidnapped, tortured and finally killed by a serial killer. She would never read a Thomas Harris novel again.

Add that to the list of impossible bargains.

And then they had picked her up, thrown her in the van. When they had opened the door, her heart had momentarily risen. But now, as she lay on the filthy floor of the van, she wasn’t so sure. She looked around. At each side of her, piled high, was something that, although not an expert, she recognized.

Explosive. And lots of it.

Her heart sank again, lower than it had ever been.

The door was still open. A figure stood in the doorway. Peta recognized her immediately.

Mary Evans.

‘And how are we today?’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter. Because you’re soon not going to care about things like that. Remember I said we had something planned for your dear old dad? Well, this is it. We’re going to make sure you give him something to remember you by. Smile. You’re going to be famous.’

She slammed the door shut.

Peta felt like she had been locked in a tomb while she was still alive. She looked at the explosives.

But not for long.

Amar sat staring at the screen. Jamal and Donovan were on the sofa, the TV on, David Dimbleby marking time until he had something to talk about.

Nothing would start until the polls had closed. They all knew that. But they had monitored, nonetheless. Now they just had to wait. There was a limit to how much tea, coffee and Coke could be drunk, how much pizza could be eaten in one night and they were all discovering it. Not that they had appetites or thirsts. It was just something to fill in the time with.

They knew the best thing to do was wait, but it didn’t come naturally to them. Donovan wanted to go tearing round the streets, knocking on doors, talking to people. But he knew it would yield nothing. So he had joined the others, eating pizza, waiting. Hating it.

They had discussed courses of action, made their plans. Nattrass would be informed as soon as they heard anything pertinent to her. Anything concerning Peta they would deal with themselves.

But there had been nothing. David Dimbleby was interviewing politicians and political editors who knew as much as he did. The phone hadn’t rung.

They waited.

Trevor Whitman stood by the entrance to Stowell Street, Newcastle’s mini Chinatown, looked along it.

The street consisted of two strips of Chinese buildings, mainly restaurants, interspersed with supermarkets, stores and Chinese community associations. He took out his phone, dialled a number he had learned by heart. Lillian answered.

‘Hello.’ Her voice was fraught, sharp. On edge, waiting for news.

‘It’s me.’

‘Joe, Jamal,’ said Amar turning round and slipping the headphones on, ‘we’ve got something.’

Donovan and Jamal rushed over to the table, joined him at staring at the laptop. The figures made no sense to Donovan.

‘Here,’ said Amar, turning up the volume, ‘listen.’

‘There’s no news,’ Whitman said. He had heard that catch in Lillian’s breath, knew what she had been about to ask. Her silence was his response. ‘But I’m working on it. I’ll have answers soon. Very soon. Then it’ll all be wrapped up.’

‘Soon? What? Where are you?’

Whitman laughed. ‘Stowell Street.’

‘Least we don’t need to trace him,’ said Amar.

*

‘Remember,’ Whitman was saying, ‘one of our first proper dates was here? Chinese restaurant. Saved up for months. Poor students.’

Lillian’s voice became warm. ‘You said you would only eat food from a left-wing country that cared for and respected their workers.’

Whitman gave a small laugh. ‘Shows what I know.’

She joined him in laughing, longer and harder than the joke warranted. She sounded like she had been drinking. Whitman couldn’t blame her. The laugh died away.

‘Why?’ he said, a plaintive edge to his voice.

‘Why what?’

‘Why target one ethnic minority for hatred and not another?’

‘What d’you mean? What are you talking about?’

‘The Chinese,’ he said, slightly slurring his words. ‘They’ve been here as long as I can remember. But, you know, apart from that casual, ignorant everyday British racism, no one bothers them.’

Lillian’s voice filled with concern. ‘Trevor, have you been drinking?’

‘I mean, who decides?’ he said, ignoring her question. ‘Who says, yeah, Indians and East Europeans, but not Chinese. Who draws up these lists? The right-wing political parties? The right-wing media?’

‘I, I don’t know, Trevor.’

‘Should write a book about it,’ he mumbled, then sighed. ‘Something else I wouldn’t get round to doing.’

‘Trevor, come home. I’m worried about you.’

‘No, Lillian, this has gone on long enough. It’s time for this to end. Tonight.’

‘But, Trevor …’

‘Don’t worry. It’ll all be over soon.’

Lillian sighed.

‘I’m going back to where this all started. Get it sorted out.’

‘Where it all started?’ said Donovan.

The other two looked at him, frowning.

‘Then find Peta. Make sure she’s safe,’ said Lillian, that catch returning to her voice.

‘I will,’ he said. He sighed, building himself up for something. ‘Look, Lillian, I’ve got to go. But I just … I just wanted to say …’

Lillian waited, her breath fast.

‘I love you.’

Silence from Lillian, then a gentle sob, sniffed away. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice small and soft. ‘The first time you’ve ever said it.’

‘But not the first time I’ve ever felt it. I didn’t want to say it until I was sure. And I was sure that you’d accept it.’

‘I do. And I love you too, Trevor.’

Another sigh from Whitman. ‘I’ve got to go. Just wanted you to know.’

‘I think I knew already.’

There was only a little bit more. She wished him luck, he accepted it. With great reluctance, he broke the connection.

Pocketed the phone, walked away from Stowell Street, checking the gun in his pocket, his stride becoming more purposeful the longer he walked.

Amar turned to the other two. ‘Don’t know about you, but I felt a bit pervy listening in to that last bit,’ he said. ‘And not in a good way.’

‘Know what you mean,’ said Donovan. ‘But what did he mean? Where it all started. What does that mean?’

‘The Chinese restaurant?’ said Jamal.

‘No,’ said Donovan, ‘he was already there. He’d have mentioned it. I think that was just some romantic memory between the pair of them. No. Where it all started …’

‘Dunno,’ said Jamal. ‘Man sounded out of it.’

‘Sounds like he’s been trying to build up the courage to do something. Getting angry on purpose. Think.’

‘What about the pub?’ said Amar. ‘Where the bomb was?’

‘That’s it,’ said Donovan, his heart beating faster, his breathing getting heavier. ‘The pub.’ He looked around for some case reference material. Nothing there. He’d left it all at his own place and Peta’s. ‘Right. Which pub was it again?’

‘Major Tom, can you come over here a moment, please?’

‘Won’t be a moment.’ Major Tom looked at Kev and Jason, got out of the 4×4. That look had been held a bit too long for Kev’s liking. He felt Major Tom suspected him of something.

Kev looked through the window. Major Tom was talking to one of the van drivers. It looked like they were checking and coordinating routes. He had a minute, two at the most. He took the mobile out, clicked through the menu. He had to find Amar’s number, get the photos off to him. Call him or text him, let him know that Peta was definitely there and was being transferred. Let him do something about it. Call in the cavalry.

He clicked through, trying to find it.

‘Please don’t.’

He jumped. Jason was watching him. ‘All right, mate? Don’t worry. Just get this done, then I’ll get us out of here.’

‘Please, just do what they want. If you don’t they’ll … they’ll really hurt you. I know what they do. Please …’

Kev found the number, began sending the photos. ‘Don’t worry, mate, it’s all right.’ Kev looked to see where Major Tom was. Still talking. Good. As his attention came back to the phone, his eyes strayed to the front of the 4×4. The keys were still in the ignition.

An idea hit Kev, sent a thrill through his body. Drive the 4×4, get away with Jason. Give Amar the news in person. A smile spread over his features. Brilliant. How was that for atonement?

He flipped the phone shut, ready to get out, slip into the driving seat, drive off.

The door slammed. Major Tom was back in. Kev hadn’t heard him. He looked at the mobile in his hands.

‘What the fuck’s that? What are you doing?’

Kev looked up. His heart started thumping. Terror flooded every cell. He had been caught. Beside him, Jason silently closed his eyes. Tried not to whimper.

‘I’m …’

‘I said no mobiles. You think you’re exempt?’

‘No, no,’ said Kev quickly. ‘It’s just … me dad and, an’ brother. I just wanted to check they were OK. They, they rely on me. Me brother’s got this, y’know, problem. Drugs. Got to make sure he’s, he’s sorted, y’know?’

Major Tom’s features softened slightly. Kev pressed on.

‘I’ll, I’ll … You’re right.’ He turned the phone off. ‘They can do without me for one night.’ He pocketed the phone. ‘There. Gone.’

Major Tom stared at Kev, his features hard, unreadable. Kev felt his hands shake. He began to sweat. Eventually Major Tom turned away from him. But the look remained on his face. Kev sensed this wasn’t over with yet.

‘Right,’ said Major Tom. He looked out of the window. ‘Here’s our driver. We’re ready to go. Onward to victory.’ He gave a bitter laugh.

The car started up. Jason still had his eyes closed. Kev didn’t dare move. His knife wound was hurting again. But that was the least of the pain he was feeling.

The convoy of vans, led by the 4×4 pulled out of the farm and headed for Newcastle.

Trevor Whitman stood on the opposite side of the street, looking at the offices of the NUP and imagining what used to be there. He should have expected it to come down to this. There was no other option. It had to.

Light seeped out from behind the boarded front windows. He imagined the party faithful in the office, watching the
TV
, waiting for results. He looked beyond the present, into the past. Saw the building burst into flames, windows blow out, the explosion causing a lethal hailstorm of glass, wood and brick. The screams, shouts, cries, sirens. Movement all around. People rushing, outside, burning. Staggering into the street, bloodied, dazed. Some missing limbs, parts of faces. All uncomprehending.

He shook his head, tried to dislodge the memory. It was reluctant to budge. The noise still intense, the images still vivid. And he had stood, where he was now, and watched it all. Entranced by the horror. Knew it would haunt him for the rest of his life but still unable to look away, walk away.

And Alan Shepherd knew that. Was counting on it. He had to be. Shepherd was inside the building, waiting. Just for him. A spider deep within the web of the building, sitting there, smiling, beckoning him in. In this place, at this time. Just waiting for the correct moment to pounce, to kill. Expecting him to just walk in through the front door.

Well, thought Whitman, sorry to disappoint you. He felt
the gun in his pocket, crossed the road, moved down a side street.

Looking for a back entrance.

‘Found it.’

Amar looked up from his computer. The three of them had been poring over screens, checking the internet, utilizing every search engine, trying to find the name and location of the blown-up pub.

The other two came over to join him. He had gone through Wikipedia, found an article linked to the Hollow Men. ‘Up in Fenham.’ He checked the road. ‘Near the police station there. That must be it.’

‘Page down a bit,’ Donovan said, pointing to the screen. Amar did so. ‘There. Read that.’

They did.

‘Jesus,’ said Amar. ‘Now headquarters to the NUP. The leylines are connecting.’

Jamal frowned. ‘Wha’?’

‘Never mind,’ said Donovan. ‘I’ll bet that’s where Whitman’s on his way to. And where Shepherd is. Or Sharples. Or Shithead or whatever he calls himself now.’ He stood up. A thought struck him. ‘Can you check for ownership on there?’

‘What d’you mean?’ said Amar.

‘Can you find out who owns the building?’

‘Course I can. Pay enough for these subscription services I’m not supposed to have.’ Amar opened another tabbed screen, hit some keys, waited. ‘Here we are.’ A list appeared on screen. He scrolled down. ‘It should be … here. What d’you think?’