“And a story you’re not going to tell some slag you just picked up on a night out slumming on t’Heights?”
Mower reached out and pulled her closer.
“Don’t do that to yourself, Donna,” Mower said. “You don’t deserve it.”
“So why won’t you tell me about her? I know there’s someone else. I can see it in your eyes when you get into bed. It’s not me you really want. Dumped you, did she?”
Mower shuddered slightly as the wind threw a flurry of needle sharp sleet in their faces.
“It wasn’t like that,” he said, turning and urging Donna back inside.
“So you dumped her and now you’re regretting it?”
“She …” Mower hesitated. “You don’t need to worry about her. She died.”
“Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry,” Donna said quickly, her eyes filling with tears again. She dashed them away and began to get dressed, pulling clothes on quickly to cover flesh she did not want Mower to inspect too closely. Mower stood with his back against the balcony door looking at her, wishing he could give her what she so desperately wanted and knowing that he never could. He followed her into the living room where she began a furious tidying away of the previous night’s mugs and glasses which covered the coffee table.
“You don’t need to be sorry for me. It’s over now,” he said.
“Aye, but it’s never over, is it?” Donna said. “My sister lost her lad. He were t‘first to OD on smack. Too pure, they said, as if that made it any easier. She’ll not get over it. Not ever. Why d’you think I’m so gutted that the Project’s getting trashed by t’minutes. It’s to stop kids like our Terry getting hooked. And my Emma, for that matter, though she’s little yet.”
Mower glanced at his watch. Emma was Donna’s eight year old daughter and as far as he knew she did not know of his existence. It was a situation he preferred to maintain.
“She’ll be home soon, won’t she? I’d better go.”
Donna glanced out of the window again to where a straggle of school-children could be seen making their way round the corner of the neighbouring block of flats.
“Just let me get my coat on, it’s coming down like stair-rods out there,” she said. “I’ll walk down with you. I don’t like her coming up them stairs on her own. You never know who’s about.” Donna went back into the bedroom and within minutes had slipped into a jacket and carefully repaired her make-up and hair.
“Will I do?” she asked with an attempt at coquettishness as she came back into the living room.
“You’ll do fine,” Mower said, kissing her gently on the lips and opening the front door of the flat for her. They made their way along the rain-swept walkway to the concrete stairs which led to ground level.
“You wait there,” Mower said. “I’ll watch her safely up.”
“I’ll be back over t’road at seven,” Donna said, her face determined again. “I’ve got a babysitter sorted. And Kevin …”
Mower glanced back.
“I didn’t mean owt,” Donna said. “Just good friends, right?”
“Right,” Mower said, with what he hoped was the right degree of enthusiasm. He set off down the stairs without looking back and by the time he had reached the ground floor a small fair child in school uniform had made her way into the hallway where the single lift boasted an out-of-order sign.
“Your mum’s at the top, Emma,” he said quietly, but the child gave him a frightened look and hurried up the stairs, her school bag banging against her bare legs painfully as she ran. Mower stood at the bottom for a moment looking up until he heard Donna greet her daughter loudly enough for him to hear. It was not until the echo of their footsteps along the walkway above had died away that he groaned and thumped his fist hard against the concrete wall in a vain attempt to assuage the pain which still consumed him. A drink, he thought, would be good. Two would be better. Six better still. The sleet which was now battering against the doors would not deter him but he guessed that the kids who were waiting for him at the Project just might.
Laura Ackroyd stood on the top step of the Carib Club trying to keep out of the rain and watched the group of Asian boys on the other side of the road with some anxiety. They were a perfect example of what the police used to call loitering with intent, she thought, as one of the teenagers kicked a soft drink can across the road in her direction and fell back against the opposite wall laughing hysterically. She knocked for the third time on the club door and was just about to turn away when she heard the sound of movement inside. Eventually with much shooting of bolts and turning of keys in locks, the door inched open a crack and a voice demanded to know who she was and what she wanted.
“I had an appointment to see Darryl Redmond,” Laura said, pushing her Press card into the gap in the door and straggles of damp red hair out of her eyes.
“Safe,” the voice said and eased the door back sufficiently for her to enter before slamming it shut again.
The interior of the club was gloomy, lit only by the emergency lights over the exits and a faint glow which filtered out from an open door on the opposite side of the cavernous room. Laura had never visited the place before. The Carib was an addition to the Bradfield scene since her own student days at the university when she had gone clubbing with the best. These days an exhausted evening with Michael Thackeray slumped in front of the television and an occasional meal out made up the sum total of her social life. Middle age, she thought, must be creeping up, and she did not much like the prospect.
The young black man holding a broom in one hand who had let her in led her across the dance floor, past the enormous sound system and into the lit room on the other side.
“The reporter woman,” he said to the two black men who were sitting in a cramped office, one light-skinned and short, with a tight, neat haircut, and a small goatee, the other taller, broader and darker and with a shock of dreadlocks down to his shoulders. The bigger man raised a fist in greeting while the other waved her into a chair.
“I’m Darryl Redmond. This is my DJ from last night, Dizzy B. You’re Laura, right? You want to write about the club?”
Laura nodded.
“You gonna give us a bad press?” Redmond asked, his eyes unfriendly. “This thing with the boy and the taxi was nowt to do wi’us, you know? We’re getting all this hassle and it was nowt to do wi’us.”
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” Laura said. “I wanted to get your side of the story.” Persuading Ted Grant that the club might even have a side of the story had been a gargantuan struggle that morning, but she had prevailed eventually by suggesting, with a sweet smile, that even a night-club might sue if the Gazette suggested it was a source of illegal drugs without allowing it any right of reply.
“Oh, yeah,” Dizzy B said sceptically. “And how do we know you’ll tell it like it really is?”
“You have to trust me,” Laura said. “Believe me, the Gazette could have sent someone a lot nastier than me.” She tried her most trustworthy smile but it did not seem to impress her listeners.
“There’s nothing to tell, any road,” Darryl said. “We tell our door people not to let drugs in. You can’t ever be sure it works. An’ there’s nowt you can do with kids who’ve popped pills before they even got here. That boy didn’t get his Es in my club. I can tell you that for a fact. Maybe some ganja slipped in on Saturday but that ain’t no big deal. But no Es. And nothing harder either.”
“I had a good view of the dancers,” Dizzy B said flatly, dark eyes amused rather than anxious. “I don’ see no dealers in here that night though some of the kids maybe were high. A few brothers smokin’. Nothin’ more. An’ I had a frien’ wit’ me who’s a copper so I was keepin’ a good eye open. A very good eye. I didn’ want no trouble that night.”
“Police?” Laura’s surprise was obvious.
“You think we can’t have friends in the force?” Dizzy B asked, grinning broadly and abandoning his West Indian accent. “You should get out more, lady. I was in
the Met myself for a little while. But the music called stronger.”
“There was a policeman inside the club all night?”
“Right,” Dizzy B said.
“And two good men on the doors,” Darryl insisted. “Though I reckon I’m going to have to get different security if I’m going to keep my licence here. Barry Foreman’s been on at me for months to give him the doors. Maybe that’s the price I’ll have to pay.”
“He’s reliable, is he?” Laura asked, recalling her brief acquaintance with the security boss and thinking that reliability was not the first word that sprang to mind.
“He has friends in high places,” Darryl said. “That’s enough, isn’t it?”
Laura was about to explore that interesting avenue when there was a crash from the far side of the club and an outraged shout from the man who had let her in earlier, who was now sweeping up around the DJ’s dais.
Darryl and Dizzy jumped to their feet, ran to the main doors and flung them open to find themselves faced with flames from some sort of fire which had been lit outside. While Darryl turned back for a fire extinguisher, Dizzy stamped on the burning rubbish and succeeded in kicking most of it away from the wooden doors and down the steps before it could do any serious damage. Outside the narrow street was deserted.
“There was a gang of Asian lads out there when I arrived,” Laura said, gazing at the smouldering mess on the pavement in horror.
“Surprise me,” Dizzy B said, standing aside to let Darryl douse the last of the fire in foam. “Darryl was just telling me that the Asians have been trying to get him closed down for months.”
“Why should they want to do that?” Laura asked.
Darryl shrugged.
“There’s no love lost between the two communities, you should know that if you live in Bradfield,” he said. “And we’re the wrong side of town here. The premises are cheap but we’re very close to the mosque. A bad influence, the old men in white pyjamas think. Might give their little girls the wrong idea entirely.”
“Just because we all have dark skin you think we all the same …” Dizzy B mocked Laura. “But if this place is anything like London, you’ve probably got the Asian gangs just as deep into drugs as anyone else - buying and selling.”
“So who’s your friend in the police then?” she asked waspishly. “Kevin Mower, I bet. He was in the Met.”
“Yo, you’re well informed,” the DJ said.
“He’s a friend of mine.”
“Close friend or just friend?”
“Just friend,” Laura said.
“Ah,” Dizzy B said. “And was the amazing Rita a friend of yours too?”
“I never met her,” Laura said. “But it was a big thing when she was shot, front page story in the nationals, the lot. She was very beautiful. Kevin was devastated.”
“So I’m told, so I’m told,” Dizzy B said, glancing away.
As the club’s cleaner appeared with his broom and began to sweep away the debris of the fire into the running water of the gutter, a car cruised slowly down the street and stopped beside them. Laura was surprised to recognise DC Val Ridley with DC Mohammed Sharif - universally known to colleagues as Omar, an alternative he seemed to approve of - beside her.
“Did you call the police?” she asked Darryl.
“No point,” the club proprietor said, surprised.
“Well, you’ve got them anyway,” Laura said as the two officers got out of their car and crossed the road.
Val nodded at Laura without much warmth.
“Just leaving, are you?” she asked.
“Looks as though I’ll have to,” Laura said, realising she would get no further now. “Some kids just lit a fire here. Dangerous that.”
Ridley and her companion looked at the still smoking rubbish.
“Did you see who it was,” Sharif asked.
“There was a gang of lads outside when I arrived,” Laura said. “Asian lads.”
“Most of them are round here,” Sharif said without acrimony. “Could you identify any of them again?”
“I doubt it,” Laura said. “I wasn’t taking much notice. They just seemed to be larking about at that stage.”
“It’s not the first time it’s happened,” Darryl Redmond broke in. “We don’t seem to get much protection.”
“I’ll get one of my crime protection colleagues to call,” Val Ridley, the sarcasm heavy. “In the meantime, can we get on?”
“The guest list seems to be wide open this morning,” the club proprietor said, following the two officers and Dizzy B inside and leaving Laura facing the doors again, frustrated in her morning’s work.
But when she got back to the office it did not seem to matter. Ted Grant waved her into his office with an unusually benign look on his face.
“Owt or nowt in that?” he asked, barely giving her time to reply before pointing at his flickering computer screen where Laura could half see a front-page layout. “Bob Baker came up with the goods any road,” Grant said and she knew that the editor had used his increasingly frequent tactic of setting one reporter up against another to see how far he could push them into sensation. He spun the computer monitor round in Laura’s direction with a wolfish grin so that she could read the headline: “Imam lashes ‘Satanic’ clubs.”
“Got an interview with the top man at the mosque and some good quotes from the local councillors. The Asians are launching a petition to get the place closed down. You can add a couple of pars at the end if you got owt of interest from the club people. You’ll just catch the edition if you’re quick.”
“They say they do their best to keep drugs out,” Laura said, but she recognised a deaf ear turned her way as clearly as if Ted Grant had worn a Position Closed notice on the offending orifice and she shrugged again.
“I’ll do a short add on,” she said. Ted Grant beamed as kindly as his habitually belligerent countenance would allow.
“You can get back to your features then,” he said. Laura gritted her teeth although she knew that she was being told with crystal clarity that the girls should keep out of the big boys’ games. Bob Baker, she thought, would have to be seen to, and the sooner the better.
Chapter Five
DCI Michael Thackeray waited with ill-concealed impatience in the well-appointed ante-room of the headmaster’s secretary at Bradfield Grammar School. It was the first time he had ever been inside the school which stood in mock-classical splendour in leafy grounds on the outskirts of the town. From the moment he had entered by the heavy mahogany doors, obligingly held open for him by a tall Sikh boy in turban of regulation school navy blue, and found his shoes squeaking on the highly polished parquet floor of the corridors, he had recognised the smell of what money could buy. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a choir singing, the young boys’ voices pure and clear, a sound from his own past which sent a shiver of recognition down his spine.
He knew the school accepted girls these days, a sure sign of the competitive times, but the building still reeked of male exclusivity. From his own modern and slightly tatty country comprehensive school you could imagine students moving on to work in offices and factories, garages and farms. Here the atmosphere spoke of similarly panelled lawyers’ and accountants’ offices, the great wool exchange which had once been the hub of this part of Yorkshire, even the gentlemen’s clubs of London and Parliament itself. The school had narrowly missed producing a prime minister but the gold inscribed honours boards listing scholarships to Oxford and Cambridge would have easily taken that in their stride. This was solid, expensive, traditional education and if the students found it rather dull even they probably reckoned that was a fair price to pay for well-nigh guaranteed security later.
Thackeray had come alone, knowing that brow-beating the headmaster of this particular school was more than most of his detectives would be able to do. And brow-beating was certainly his intention if it came to it. The latest hospital report on the condition of Jeremy Adams was not encouraging and, in
spite of his reservations about superintendent Longley’s motives, he owed it to the boy to make some gesture towards tracing the source of the drug which looked as though it might have killed him. And the best place to start, he was sure, was amongst the sixth-formers at his school.
He glanced at his watch and then at the attractive middle-aged woman who was busy at a word-processor on the other side of the room. She smiled at him sympathetically and, he thought wryly, possibly slightly hopefully. The name on the door had indicated that she was Miss Raven - there were no concessions to politically correct language here in spite of the recent influx of girls, he noticed - and Miss Raven wore no wedding ring.
“He shouldn’t be too long,” she said. “He has the chairman of governors on the phone. This business with Jeremy is not what any school wants to hear these days. It frightens the horses - or in this case the parents.”
“It was not only Jeremy who was involved,” Thackeray said without letting too much sympathy creep into his voice. A desperately sick student merited rather more than a revamp of the school’s marketing strategy in his book. Miss Raven pursed her lips, picking up his disapproval.
“His parents must be distraught,” she said. “I hear he’s on life support.”
Thackeray nodded, unwilling to get involved in a discussion of the medical details. He did not need reminding of the horrors of watching the professionals lose a battle for the life of a much-loved son. It was an experience he had relived every night for years until he had met Laura, who seemed to have the capacity most of the time to lighten the darkness.
At that moment the communicating door between Miss Raven’s office and the head’s study was flung open and a tall, broad-shouldered man with a head of gleaming silver hair and a ruddy, out-of-doors complexion hurried in, hand outstretched in Thackeray’s direction.
“Chief Inspector, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said. “David Stewart, headmaster for my sins. And I think you’re here to discuss some of the less creditable activities of some of our sixth-formers? Do come in. Tea, Felicity, I think? Will that suit you, Chief Inspector?”
Death in Dark Waters Page 5
