The Riot

by Laura Wilson

  Stratton stood up. ‘Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’ Mrs Marwood smiled wanly. ‘Don’t worry,’ he added, ‘I’ll see myself out … Leave you in peace.’

  *

  Stratton closed the door as quietly as he could and tiptoed down the stairs. Just as he was about to open the front door, he heard a baby’s high, insistent wail.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Stratton got in the car and took out his notebook. Mrs Marwood had telephoned the station at just before half past eight, and Laskier had said he’d found Irene on the corner of Portobello Road and Oxford Gardens at about nine o’clock. If she was trying to get back home to Powis Terrace that would make sense, but then why hadn’t anyone seen her? Cursing his still incomplete knowledge of his new patch, and feeling like a fool, he pulled his A to Z guide out of his pocket and discovered that she could have gone down Kensal Road and turned onto Ladbroke Grove. Laskier had said he thought she was lost – and if she’d been attacked she’d certainly have been scared and confused …

  Telling himself it was all just supposition, he went to the call box and dialled the number for Perlmann’s office. Perlmann himself would have to wait, but he needed to know how to get into Johnson’s flat at 45 Powis Square. On discovering that (a) there was a caretaker on the premises who held keys and (b) Irene had got home safely, he told Laskier he’d phone him the following morning, thanked him, and hung up.

  *

  Powis Square was just as tatty as Colville Terrace and the other surrounding streets, its clutter of dustbins swarming with clouds of flies in the morning heat. Such grass as there was was scrubby and brown from lack of rain and strewn with dog turds, litter and broken glass that glinted in the bright sunlight. The trees round about, sooty-leaved and necklaced with flabby rings of yellow fungus, looked as though they were being slowly poisoned. Several lengths of broken-down chain-link fence suggested that the ‘Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted’ notices fixed to poles at either end were routinely ignored.

  On hearing the purpose of his visit the caretaker, Mr Richards, ancient and, despite the heat, clad in a heavy three-piece suit, said, ‘Well, it’s one less of ’em, I suppose.’

  ‘Did you know Mr Johnson well?’ Stratton asked, as Richards fumbled with the key on the landing outside the room.

  Richards shook his head. Close to, his breath smelt stale, as though it had been inside his body for a long time. ‘Didn’t even know that was his name. Ding-Dong, they called him.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘His friends.’

  ‘Did he have a lot of friends?’

  ‘Just the odd one or two, come to see him.’

  ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘No, I don’t, and I don’t bloody want to neither. Shouting all the time, playing music and making a racket till all hours … But you want to ask her upstairs about him. He used to roll for her. You know,’ he added, ‘hide somewhere and rob the punters while they were …’ He put his hand in the crook of the opposite elbow and gestured with his fist.

  ‘I know what rolling means, thank you,’ said Stratton. ‘The woman upstairs – what’s her name?’

  ‘Gloria. That’s what she calls herself, anyway. Don’t suppose it’s anything of the sort. Dirty whore, she is, going with coloureds.’

  *

  Johnson’s room was similar to those of Conroy, Royce and the others at Colville Terrace –with rickety old furniture, peeling wallpaper and an offcut of threadbare carpet in the middle of the floor. There was a light film of dust over the few surfaces, and the only thing in the place that looked to be of any value was a record player. Richards, standing in the doorway, surveyed it grimly. ‘This used to be a respectable neighbourhood. Decent. I’m glad my wife isn’t here to see what it’s come to. You want to try living next to ’em! The papers go on about people like me having colour prejudice, but they’re prejudiced against the working class of this country. The way they put it, anyone would think we’re a dirty, shiftless lot who were dragged up in brothels and we’ve no right to complain about anything.’

  Revolting as Richards was, Stratton had to concede that he had a point: people who wrote for newspapers and spoke in Parliament certainly didn’t live round here. He thanked the man, told him he’d be down for a list of the people in the house and, closing the door firmly in his face, had a look around. There wasn’t much to examine: some items of clothing, a few creased photographs and a cheap suitcase, inside which was a packet of tea, a tin of condensed milk, a bag of sugar, a teapot, a cup and a half-empty bottle of rum. Stratton imagined Johnson waving goodbye to the people in the photographs and stepping up the gangway of the boat with the suitcase in his hand, full of hope. The dustpan and brush beneath the chair suggested an attempt to keep things up to scratch. Stratton wondered if this was in response to a parting injunction from the fearsome-looking matron clad in what looked like her Sunday best – but otherwise the place was, he thought, the typically stale and cheerless room of a single man living away from home and family. The discovery of a passport and papers told him that Johnson had been 26, hailed from Jamaica, and that he was registered at the labour exchange and receiving benefits of £6 a week. This – if what Conroy, Royce and the others were paying was anything to go by – would have done little more than cover his rent. As he obviously hadn’t managed to find a job it was little wonder if he’d gone into business with Gloria upstairs. As he pocketed the documents, he thought that if ‘Gloria’ didn’t turn out to be Marion Lockwood, then he’d eat his hat, and hers as well, if she had one.

  *

  Marion, rather to Stratton’s surprise, was dressed in a blouse and skirt. She looked as though she’d had a rough night. Leaning against the door frame, she blinked at him, puffy-eyed, and said, ‘You again. What do you want?’

  ‘I’m here to ask some questions about Mr Johnson, your neighbour downstairs.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’m afraid he was attacked last night, badly. He died on the way to hospital.’

  ‘Ohhh …’ No surprise or shock registered on her face. She looked, Stratton thought, as though this were one more inconvenience in a life that was already full of them. ‘Well, I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  Marion shrugged. ‘Couple of days ago?’

  ‘Are you asking me or telling me?’

  ‘Dunno. It’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Sure about that, are you, Gloria?’

  Marion’s eyes flickered from side to side. ‘’S just a hustling name.’

  ‘So I gathered. I also gather that Mr Johnson – who you knew as Ding-Dong – used to roll for you.’

  ‘Not me.’ This time she stared him brazenly in the face, eyes as hard as marbles. ‘I barely knew the bloke.’

  ‘Was he your pimp too?’

  ‘No!’ The indignation, Stratton thought, was genuine.

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘You don’t live with anyone?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Stratton raised an eyebrow. ‘You better tell the bloke you don’t live with to clear out, in case I decide to come back with a warrant. Do you know if Ding-Dong had any relatives in Britain?’

  ‘No idea. I told you, I barely knew him.’

  ‘What about friends?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure he’s got some, but I don’t know who they are.’

  Mrs Marwood had said that one of the women she’d seen had been wearing a dark-coloured dress and had dyed blonde hair. Marion’s hair was dyed, all right – it looked like straw, and the roots looked almost black in contrast with the rest of it – but he couldn’t remember what she’d been wearing when he’d seen her in Queensway in the afternoon. Something with a pattern, he thought. Sleeveless, as Mrs Marwood had said, but paler … Easy enough to change, though.

  ‘What were you doing last night?’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘From when I saw you in Queensway.’ St
ratton took out his notebook.

  ‘Well, I was out with Vicky early on, wasn’t I?’ She shrugged. ‘Hustling.’

  ‘Did you do a lot of business?’

  ‘Wasn’t bad.’

  ‘So, you were travelling between Queensway and … where was it?’ Stratton flipped through his notebook. ‘Chepstow Road.’

  ‘Mostly, yeah.’

  ‘And Ding-Dong was at Chepstow Road, was he?’

  ‘No, I told you.’

  ‘So he wasn’t there that evening.’

  ‘No. He was supposed to meet me earlier, but he never turned up.’

  ‘So he did roll for you?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. He was just meeting me, that’s all.’

  ‘Why? Was he a punter?’

  ‘No!’ Again, the momentary indignation seemed real. ‘Look, it was just for a drink, all right? About half past seven. It’s a bit slow around then – picks up again later on.’

  ‘When he didn’t turn up, did you ask anyone where he was?’

  ‘No.’ Marion shrugged.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Well, I just carried on, didn’t I? Got back here … I don’t know. About one, I think.’

  ‘So you had no idea where Ding-Dong was or what he was doing?’

  ‘No, I told you.’ Pushing herself away from the door frame with a visible effort she added, in a wheedling tone, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a fag, have you?’

  *

  Stratton went downstairs, collected a scribbled list of the inhabitants of 45 Powis Square from Richards – there appeared to be twelve people living there, although not all of the names were given in full – and drove back to Harrow Road, wondering how much of what Marion Lockwood had told him was true.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘KBW?’ repeated PC Jellicoe. ‘Stands for Keep Britain White. You’ll see it all over the place round here.’

  The office chair creaked alarmingly as the portly policeman leant back, arms folded over the blue serge dome of his stomach. ‘Now, I’ve been checking up on Marion Lockwood. List of convictions for soliciting as long as your arm. Johnson’s been in trouble too. Got pulled in with a bunch of others when we raided one of the shebeens. He was let off with a caution, but a couple of them got sentenced for possession of drugs.’

  ‘Do you know who Johnson’s associates are?’ asked Stratton.

  ‘I don’t, but I know a man who might, and he should just be coming off his lunch break.’ Jellicoe, whose back was to the door, tipped his chair so far back that he was in serious danger of ending up flat on his arse, and bellowed, ‘Dobbsy!’

  PC Dobbs, when he appeared, was a morose-looking individual who appeared to be suffering from fallen arches. Initially inclined to be monosyllabic, he only perked up after coaxing from Jellicoe and some mendacious second-hand flattery on Stratton’s part – ‘DS Matheson tells me you know your way around better than anyone.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know all the names,’ said Dobbs, now clearly concerned that he wouldn’t live up to his billing, ‘but there’s a chap called Clinton Etheridge he used to go about with.’

  ‘I’ve heard that name before.’ Stratton checked his notebook. ‘Lives with a girl called Irene Palmer in Powis Terrace.’

  ‘Don’t know anything about any Irene Palmer,’ Dobbs looked affronted, as though she should have asked his permission before moving in, ‘but that’s where he lives. Slippery as an eel, he is. We’re pretty sure he’s poncing off at least one of the girls, but we’ve never had the evidence to do him for it.’

  ‘Was Johnson a pimp too?’

  ‘Not so far as I know, but we did have a complaint about that girl Lockwood – bloke said he’d been robbed. She might have done it herself, of course, but Johnson lives in the same house and I’ve seen them about together, so it could have been him.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. The bloke’s been with her at Chepstow Road, then he gets round the corner and finds his money’s gone, so he spots me and starts shouting about it, insisting I go back with him, and of course I find her all on her tod, ready to go out again, and she says she doesn’t know what he’s talking about and she’s never seen him before in her life. She’s opened up her handbag and shown me her purse. There’s only a bob in it and this bloke’s talking about how she’s pinched thirty quid off him. She’s calling him all the names, telling me to look under the mattress if I don’t believe her … By this time the bloke’s getting cold feet about his missus finding out if it came to court – so he says he must have made a mistake, and that was that.’

  ‘What about gangs? Teddy boys and the like?’ Stratton relayed the descriptions, such as they were, that Mrs Marwood had given him of Johnson’s attackers. ‘A list of known troublemakers – white ones – would be very useful.’

  ‘There’s plenty just out to make trouble,’ said Dobbs, ‘but there’s a very nasty bunch that hang around that White Defence League place in Princedale Road. I don’t hold with all these coloureds coming over here myself, but that Gleeson who runs the place is a gold-plated bastard, and there’s a young bloke called Eddy Knight who’s there a lot, handing out leaflets and that, and—’

  ‘Whoa!’ Stratton held up a hand. ‘Could you write all this down for me? Of course,’ he added hurriedly, seeing that Dobbs was looking pointedly at his wristwatch, ‘I’ll talk to the station sergeant about changing the roster for this afternoon.’

  Wonderful, he thought, as he left PC Dobbs happily taking the weight off his feet. I haven’t been in the place four days and I’m about to piss off the very bloke I really need to keep sweet.

  Sergeant Matthews, who seemed resigned rather than annoyed about Dobbs’s absence from the duty roster, agreed to get someone to fetch details, including statements, of all the cases in the past six months which had involved fights between black and white men.

  Stratton spent the next couple of hours familiarising himself with a depressing litany of prejudice and irrationality, while Dobbs, opposite him, made a great performance of scratching his head and licking the end of his pencil. Exactly as DS Matheson had said, the assailants had made it abundantly clear that they attacked their victims precisely because of their skin colour. Various reasons were advanced for their dislike – I don’t like the way they behave with women, they’re dirty, you can’t get a job because a black man’ll work cheaper … The odd thing about this last complaint was that, judging from the employment records he’d been reading, every single one of them had been in work since the day they’d finished school. Shop assistants, plumber’s mates, window cleaners, machinists, £8 a week, £9 a week, £10 a week … Not bad, considering that hardly any of them were old enough for National Service. Every one of them lived at home, and assuming that what they handed over to Mum each week was a fraction of what Johnson and Co. forked out on rent, they had spending money that would, when Stratton was their age, have exceeded his wildest dreams.

  Breaking off to eat, he managed to persuade the hairnetted harridan who was mopping the canteen floor to produce a late lunch. This, when the plate was banged grudgingly down on the table, turned out to be an enormous lump of corned beef and a salad composed of a single slice of beetroot and a leaf of lettuce with a very thoroughly boiled egg on top of it.

  On his return to the office, he found that PC Dobbs had finished writing and was gazing into space. His vacant expression, which didn’t change when Stratton entered, gave him an unexpected pang of nostalgia for Arliss at West End Central, whose incompetence had remained a station legend long after his retirement. Thinking that as he’d got Dobbs for the rest of the day he might as well make use of him, he announced that they were going to pay a visit to the White Defence League. It hadn’t been mentioned in any of the documents he’d read, but without any obvious leads, it seemed as good a place as any to start making enquiries. Pocketing Dobbs’s list – an exhaustive catalogue of names beginning with Eddy Knight’s, some with addresses written beside them in
tipsy capitals – he led the way to the car.

  *

  The headquarters of the White Defence League turned out to be a shopfront, with the name of the organisation in large capital letters picked out in white on a black background. On either side of the name was a thick cross with a circle around it, which Stratton supposed must be their symbol. Two solid panels at the bottom of the window advertised something called The Black and White News at 6d, and the glass was covered with a grille, behind which he could see six posters, all with the same legend:

  KEEP BRITAIN WHITE

  STOP COLOURED IMMIGRATION

  JOIN THE WHITE DEFENCE LEAGUE

  Beside them was an appeal to ‘The white people of Notting Hill’ accusing the new immigrants of: Increasing the Housing Shortage; Spreading Disease; Promoting Vice; Costing a huge sum in National Assistance; Endangering the employment of British workers, and Producing a Half-Breed Population, and demanding that they be shipped back home at once.

  Stratton rang the bell as instructed by the sign on the door. Immediately a loud and furious barking started up – not from directly behind the door, but somewhere above. A split second after that, the door was opened by a man who must, surely, have been waiting in a pre-sprinting position in the narrow hallway. ‘John Gleeson,’ he said, voice raised in competition with the racket from upstairs, which had now been augmented by curses and yells of ‘Shut up!’. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘Inspector Stratton,’ said Stratton equally loudly. ‘CID, from Harrow Road.’ Gleeson’s handshake was a firm downward tug. ‘We’re here,’ Stratton continued, ‘because a coloured man called Clyde Johnson was stabbed last night in Golborne Road by white youths, and died on the way to hospital.’

  ‘I read about it this morning, in the newspaper.’ Gleeson’s voice was cultured and slightly high-pitched. Thirty-five or so and beefy, with thinning hair, he possessed the broad forehead and heroically square jaw of the man of action and the ardent eyes of the zealot. Stratton wouldn’t have minded betting that he believed his looks to be the physical manifestation of his Aryan destiny, strength of will and the whole spurious caboodle. The effect was, however, slightly marred by the fact that he was shod in a pair of mangy carpet slippers.