The Riot

by Laura Wilson

  ‘Thanks,’ said Stratton. ‘I saw you last night. At Mr Perlmann’s club.’

  ‘Oh?’ Walker looked suspicious again.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with your being there,’ said Stratton hastily. ‘I noticed you, that’s all. With Mr Etheridge. You didn’t look as though you were enjoying yourself very much.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Walker sighed. ‘Etheridge introduced me to Michael Duffy, and they were going to this place – Maxine’s – and asked me to come, so I went along. Etheridge likes Duffy because he thinks he can get something out of him—’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘An introduction to a bunch of rich women who will fawn on him. Duffy certainly likes Etheridge.’ Walker screwed up his face in disgust. ‘I don’t enjoy being paraded around like a circus animal. I don’t mean,’ Walker added quickly, ‘that Duffy isn’t kind – he’s been a great help to a lot of people, standing bail and other things, but the trouble is, he thinks all of this,’ he made an encompassing gesture with his hands, ‘is romantic.’

  ‘He’s not alone in that,’ said Stratton, thinking of the Hon. Virginia Rutherford. ‘Is Etheridge a homosexual?’

  Walker shook his head. ‘He’s happy to play up to Duffy if he’ll gain by it, but he likes girls. You know he’s a ponce?’

  ‘We suspected it,’ said Stratton, surprised by his directness.

  ‘Not Irene – at least, not yet – but there’s another girl who works for him.’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  Walker shook his head. ‘I’ve seen her, that’s all. The two of them. He told us—’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Duffy. He seemed to like the idea.’ Walker looked scornful.

  ‘Did he tell you her name?’

  Walker shook his head. ‘Blonde girl. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I feel sorry for Irene. She’s young, and she doesn’t have anybody to look after her.’

  ‘Except Etheridge.’

  ‘Who will put her on the streets. We’re not all the same, you know, any more than you are. We don’t all talk like dis, man.’ The last few words were spoken in an exaggerated West Indian accent. ‘Most of the people here,’ he gestured towards the window, ‘are people I wouldn’t associate with back home. Etheridge, for example.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He was a labourer, and then a seaman. What? You think we can be ruled by the British and not have a class system? It’s not so different to yours. Birth is important, education, money … And colour, of course.’

  ‘Colour?’ echoed Stratton, feeling stupid.

  ‘The lighter your skin, the better it is. Better jobs, better status – unless you have money. I tried explaining this to Duffy, but he wasn’t interested because that doesn’t fit his bill, to hear that coloured people prefer lighter to darker. I’m lighter, as you can see, and a qualified engineer. I had a skilled job back home, but here …’ He slapped his palms on his knees. ‘The Mother Country! We know all about you – we grow up learning far more about England than we do about our own country – but you know nothing about us, and you don’t want to.’

  ‘Do you have a job?’ asked Stratton.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Walker’s tone was sardonic. ‘Machine minder – anyone could do it. I borrowed and saved to come here, and that’s all I can get. I took it because I wasn’t going to go to the National Assistance Board and have people say I’d come here to get a free ride. But I can’t tell my family what sort of job it is, or how I am living, so I tell lies in my letters. My father came here to fight in the war, and he encouraged me to come. If he saw how it is now in this country …’ Walker shook his head, baffled. ‘I can’t afford to go home – can’t afford the money, or to disappoint my family. They would think it was my fault, that I didn’t try hard enough.’ He gave Stratton a wry smile, adding, ‘I’m too old for my mother to beat my backside, but …’ before shaking his head again, and standing up to look out of the window at the grubby street below. ‘I’m so tired with it all.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Stratton. As responses went, it was pretty lame, but he felt he had to say something. ‘I can see that it must be very difficult for you.’

  Walker didn’t turn round. ‘You see people come here,’ he said, ‘and after a while, when they learn how it is, you see this bewildered look on their faces, because they don’t understand – because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. But you know when they come to write home they’re going to tell lies, too, because it’s too much for them to say what it’s really like.’

  Stratton thought of what Laskier had said about Perlmann thinking that if he played the game, ‘they’ would accept him. He wondered why Walker had chosen to unburden himself – sympathetic though Stratton was, there wasn’t anything he could actually do. His concern for Irene seemed genuine, but he was speaking for himself as well. Stratton could understand the man’s need to impress upon him that he was an educated person, middle-class and well-spoken – that he had worth.‘Do you think,’ he addressed Walker’s back, ‘that you could keep an eye on Irene? Maybe go down and have a chat with her? She’s obviously frightened. I don’t know why, but my asking questions isn’t helping. We got off on the wrong foot, me bashing through the door like that, so I can’t blame her for not wanting to talk to me.’

  Walker turned, frowning. ‘And you want me to tell you what she says?’

  ‘I’m not asking you to break a confidence unless you think she’s in danger.’

  Walker angled his head to one side, then said, ‘OK.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea of where Etheridge might be?’

  ‘Irene didn’t tell you?’

  ‘Said she didn’t know.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know either, but I’d guess that he’s with the other girl, or he’s at the club.’

  ‘Club?’

  ‘It’s in a basement on Colville Road.’

  ‘Do you know which number?’

  ‘No, but it shouldn’t be hard to find. Etheridge started it a few months ago, with the boy who was killed.’

  ‘Johnson? Did you know him?’

  ‘No. I suppose he may have come here sometimes, visiting, but I never saw him.’

  But Irene might have seen him, thought Stratton. She might have known him. And Johnson – otherwise known as Ding-Dong – had rolled for Gloria, hadn’t he? And Gloria was blonde, and a blonde had been seen with a redhead when Johnson was attacked … ‘It’s possible,’ he said aloud, ‘that Irene may be in danger from the gang who attacked Johnson. That’s why, if she does say anything, I’d like to know about it.’

  Shaking hands with Walker, he added awkwardly, ‘What you were saying – I hope that things improve. I’m sure they will, given time.’

  Driving round to Colville Road, Stratton reflected that he wasn’t at all sure of any such thing.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As Walker had said, the club wasn’t difficult to spot. There were wooden crates of empties stacked in the area, and the basement door was open, with music issuing from it ‘Darling, you send me, I know you send me …’ against a background of Woo-oo-oo’s.

  It looked as though two rooms had been knocked into one large one, furnished with assorted second-hand chairs and sofas, as well as a long table laid out as a makeshift bar and beside it, a record player. He spotted an old gas bracket secured to one wall – unused, judging from the unshaded bulb, the sagging, frayed electrical wiring and the grimy Bakelite switch beside the door.

  Hearing a familiar whooping laugh coming from behind a curtain made of multi-coloured plastic strips at the back, he went through and found Etheridge in the company of the Hon. Virginia in a small kitchen-cum-storeroom. Etheridge was dressed as flamboyantly as he had been at the club – even, Stratton noted, wearing several rings on his fingers. He didn’t look at all pleased to see Stratton, and, after confirming his name, shut up like a clam.
The Hon. Virginia, on the other hand, had the breathless composure of someone who’d just missed being discovered in a compromising position. Not all that compromising, as she was fully dressed and in an outfit that suggested she might be about to open a church fete, but all the same she had a definite air of speedy readjustment and there was an excited, even feverish, look in her eyes.

  ‘We’re preparing for that party I told you about, Inspector. Look!’ She pulled a bottle wrapped in tissue paper from one of several cardboard boxes on the floor. ‘We’ve managed to get some authentic West Indian rum. We would invite you, Inspector …’ The look on Etheridge’s face clearly said that he wouldn’t, ‘but it might be off-putting to some of the guests. You see, it was felt that we need to invite everybody, and some of them are, you know …’

  ‘Some of them are pimps?’ said Stratton, looking squarely at Etheridge, who gave him a sullen stare in return.

  ‘Well … yes, actually.’ The Hon. Virginia coloured slightly. ‘We decided that we’ll never manage to solve any problems unless we bring people together, and that includes the, er, rougher element. Clinton’s been making enquiries, and about the girls too. As I say, we do feel it’s important to include everyone. We’ve got our local MP coming as well, and some others from the House of Commons – it’s a bit of a fact-finding tour for them, to meet the local community.’

  ‘Very commendable,’ said Stratton. ‘Just remember to count your fingers after you shake hands, won’t you?’ Etheridge glared at him.

  The Hon. Virginia gave an embarrassed laugh and said uncertainly, ‘I’m sure you don’t mean that, Inspector.’

  ‘When is this party, anyway?’

  ‘Tomorrow evening.’

  ‘That soon?’ said Stratton, wondering if Fenella Jones would be present.

  ‘Best to strike while the iron’s hot,’ said the Hon. Virginia, her eyes shining. ‘Especially with all this trouble.’ I’ll bet she hasn’t had this much fun since the war, Stratton thought. ‘We need community leaders,’ she went on, giving Etheridge a big smile. ‘People who can get things done.’

  Or, thought Stratton uncharitably, people who can sit on their arses while things get done for them by people like you. ‘On the subject of getting things done,’ he said, ‘I’d like a word with Mr Etheridge, if I may.’

  ‘Of course! I must be off in any case.’

  Quite deliberately, and challenging Stratton with a look as he did so, Etheridge kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  When she’d gone, Etheridge shook his head and smirked in a way that made Stratton yearn to punch him. Instead he raised a quizzical eyebrow – don’t fuck with me, chum, I know what you are – and said, in a neutral tone, ‘Mrs Rutherford appears to be enjoying herself.’

  ‘Yeah …’

  Stratton braced himself for the smart, knowing remark, but it never came. Instead Etheridge said, ‘She will do it all – she and these other white people. We won’t learn to organise things ourself in this country if white people do it for us, tell us how bad it is and they understand what we feelin’.’

  This was so not what Stratton expected to hear that it brought him up short, unsure how to respond. Etheridge was right. The Hon. Virginia was clearly well-intentioned and – equally clearly – hungering for new experience, but she was also grabbing the chance for a demonstration of merit. Stratton felt positive that there was an attraction in being able to claim that she was one of a very few who truly understood how black people thought and felt. Something told him that there was going to be a great deal more of that sort of thing in the future, and that people like Etheridge would use it to their advantage. ‘But you’re happy to go along with it?’ he asked.

  Etheridge shrugged. ‘Coloured man got no chance in this country.’

  ‘So you’re going to play both sides against the middle? I saw you with Mrs Rutherford at Mr Perlmann’s club last night. Did she know that you had a chat with him privately, later on?’ Etheridge stared at him through narrowed eyes, but said nothing. ‘Well?’ Stratton prompted. ‘What were you talking about?’

  ‘My flat. I said I need somewhere bigger. He said he’d fix it up. You can’t arrest me for that.’

  ‘I have no intention of arresting you. I just need to ask you some questions about your friend Clyde Johnson.’

  ‘He was killed. By white men like you.’

  Ignoring this last bit, Stratton said, ‘We want to catch them.’ Etheridge made no attempt to hide his disbelief at this statement. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Couple of days ago. He was here – we were moving furniture.’

  ‘The same day he was killed?’

  Etheridge nodded. ‘In the afternoon. He left about five o’clock. I went home, then I came back here at eight to open up.’

  ‘Did Johnson say where he was going?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you any idea?’

  Etheridge shook his head.

  ‘Did he have a job of any kind?’

  ‘Couldn’t get a job. Neither of us. That’s why we have to hustle.’

  ‘OK. Does this place have a licence?’

  ‘Don’t need one. Don’t serve alcohol. Mrs Rutherford brought this –’ he pointed to the cardboard boxes on the floor – ‘for the party.’

  Stratton was about to ask about the empty beer bottles he’d seen outside, when there was a shout of ‘Cooo-eee!’ from the front and the click-clack of high-heels. ‘Darling!’

  Etheridge shot past him into the main room, and Stratton followed. He was just quick enough to see an uncomprehending Marion Lockwood, otherwise known as Gloria, pressing a wad of notes on Etheridge, who muttered something and tried to stuff them back into the gaping mouth of the handbag that hung from her wrist.

  Looking up, and taking in the situation in a flash, Gloria smiled politely and said, ‘Clinton lent me some money, didn’t he? I’m just paying it back.’

  Stratton lounged in the doorway, hands in his pockets. ‘Go on, Gloria, pull the other one.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Gloria automatically, ‘on my life.’ Etheridge, who’d reared away from her as if he’d been stung, nodded in confirmation.

  ‘Really?’ said Stratton. At that point, the last few ‘Woo-oo-oo’s’ faded out, and for a moment there was silence but for the rhythmic scratching of the record player’s needle.

  ‘I think that’s enough music for the time being.’ Stratton ambled over and turned it off. He took the disc off the spindle and threw it, with a flick of his wrist, to Etheridge, so that it sliced, spinning, through the air. Etheridge, shocked, the whites of his eyes like peeled eggs, caught it just in time.

  Leaning against the wall near the front door, Stratton took his time about lighting a cigarette, before saying to Gloria, ‘Tell you what. Either you can tell me where you were at the time Johnson was killed, or I’ll nick the pair of you.’

  ‘I’ve told you already.’ Gloria stared at him with bullet-eyed defiance.

  ‘That was the truth, was it?’

  ‘Yes. On my life.’

  ‘I was inclined to believe you the first time, but I’ve just remembered something one of the ambulance men said about your pal Ding-Dong.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He said your name. The ambulance man thought it was “Glory” – a reference to the hereafter, he thought. But it wasn’t, was it? It was “Gloria”. That suggests to me that he was telling the bloke to talk to you because you’d witnessed it.’

  Gloria shook her head.

  ‘No? Then you won’t mind if your boyfriend here goes down for poncing? I don’t imagine that being pinched will make much difference to you, but –’ here, he turned to Etheridge, who was staring at the pair of them with barely concealed fury – ‘ponces don’t have a very good time in prison, for some reason. And your important new friend isn’t aware of your occupation, is she? She might be rather upset if she found out.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ demanded
Gloria. ‘What new friend?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Stratton smoothly, ‘that Mr Etheridge will tell you all about it in his own good time. Well?’

  ‘I want to know about this new friend,’ repeated Gloria. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘It’s no one important,’ said Etheridge, whose face, throughout this exchange, had the anguished look of one making rapid mental calculations to determine the least bad course of action.

  ‘He just said she was! “Important new friend”, he said.’

  ‘I’ll explain later.’

  ‘He’ll explain just as soon as you’ve told me where you were,’ said Stratton. ‘Otherwise, I’m afraid you’re going to have quite a wait.’

  Etheridge looked from Stratton to Gloria and back again. ‘Tell him, darling.’

  ‘Why should I?’ Gloria crossed her arms defiantly.

  ‘Please, Gloria.’ Etheridge moved back to Gloria and put a hand on her arm. ‘Just tell him, and I’ll explain.’

  Gloria shook him off, then poked about in her handbag for cigarettes, frowning as she weighed up the situation. After a moment, she lit up, gave a sigh of resignation and said, ‘All right. We was in Golborne Road.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me and Irene. She’s Ding-Dong’s girlfriend – Irene Palmer.’

  ‘Johnson’s girlfriend?’ Stratton looked pointedly at Etheridge, who suddenly became fascinated by the record in his hands.

  Gloria nodded. ‘We weren’t with Ding-Dong – we just walked into it.’

  ‘Why were you there?’

  ‘We had a meal in one of the cafes, just the two of us. We hadn’t arranged to meet him.’

  ‘Which cafe?’

  ‘Astley’s. Near the railway bridge.’

  ‘Why there and not Queensway?’ asked Stratton. ‘Isn’t that more convenient for you?’

  Gloria shrugged. ‘Fancied a change.’

  ‘How long have you known Irene?’

  ‘Only met her a couple of times. She’s not been here long, and she don’t know too many people, so Ding-Dong said why didn’t we go out, girls together sort of thing, you know, just friendly, and …’