The Riot

by Laura Wilson

  Stratton, who’d forgotten about his black eye, put a hand up to his face. ‘Yes – we’re not doing a lot better,’ he added as PC Coxon came weaving towards them, blood streaming down his cheek, guided by another policeman.

  ‘Fuck me,’ muttered the fireman. ‘Bunch of fucking hooligans we got here. Right, better get on.’

  ‘Best of luck,’ said Stratton.

  ‘Thanks, mate. We’re all going to need it.’

  They’d need to make sure everyone in the building was safe. Tugging his notebook out of his jacket pocket, Stratton turned back to the fire. More partygoers were stumbling up to street level through the smoke. Among them, Stratton spotted a fat chap in a lounge suit that he was pretty sure was Councillor Watson, head down and trousers torn, hobbling with his arm round the shoulders of another. He was about to go and ask for the names of those at the party when he saw, emerging from the haze, the unmistakable figure of Fenella, who appeared to be propping up … no, he wasn’t wrong, it definitely was, so they really had invited everybody – Marion Lockwood, also known as Gloria.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Stratton dashed across to help them onto the pavement. Apart from the smuts on her face and clothes, Fenella seemed – thank God – to be all right. Gloria’s dress, which was filthy, had been torn away at the right shoulder, revealing the grimy straps of underwear, and Stratton could see blood beneath the coating of dirt on her skin. She was tottering crab-like, the heel of one shoe snapped in half, her elaborate hairdo sagging to one side and her face smudged and tear-streaked. She was trying to push Fenella away and shouting at her. ‘Let me go! I’ve got to find him.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Stratton. ‘Find who?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Gloria, ‘it’s you. You tell her – I’ve got to find Clinton.’

  ‘No, you haven’t,’ said Stratton. ‘The firemen’ll do that.’

  ‘But I’ve got to,’ Gloria wailed. ‘I couldn’t see him – he’s in there – I don’t know where he went. Get off me!’ she shouted at Fenella.

  ‘Just be grateful you’re safe,’ said Stratton brusquely. ‘Your boyfriend’ll be out in a minute—’

  ‘You don’t know that!’

  ‘No, I don’t – but if he’s in trouble, the firemen’ll be able to help him better than you can. In the meantime, you need to get those cuts looked at.’

  ‘Leave me alone!’ Gloria spat at him. ‘And you,’ she said to Fenella, giving her a shove, ‘just fuck off, will you?’

  Before Stratton could move or even speak, Fenella’s free hand shot out and slapped Gloria across the face. ‘Pull yourself together! You’re coming with me to the ambulance, and that’s that. The firemen have got enough to do without you interfering, you stupid girl.’

  ‘You listen to Mrs Jones,’ said Stratton, taking hold of Gloria’s other arm. ‘Come on. Ambulance. Now!’

  *

  ‘Where did you learn that?’ asked Stratton, once Gloria, a blanket round her shoulders, was being ministered to by a repressively sensible nurse. Several people who looked as if they might have been important were milling around near the ambulance, and a trio of coloured men were sitting, ignored, on the edge of the pavement. Noting the slings and bandages and general air of bewilderment, Stratton presumed all were from the party – the crisis having unmixed the gathering and returned it, as it were, to its separate ingredients. All, however, were draped in shawls or coats – in one case, an eiderdown – which must have been loaned by people in the nearby houses. A couple of elderly ladies in candlewick dressing gowns and hairnets were distributing tea. Behind them shuffled an old man, pyjama legs visible beneath his mackintosh. Stratton watched as he bent down to touch the shoulder of one of the black men huddled on the pavement, pulling a half bottle of what looked like Scotch from his pocket.

  ‘I was an ARP warden during the war,’ said Fenella, accepting a jam jar of tea. ‘Ooh, that’s hot. Jeepers, what’s happened to your eye?’

  ‘Spot of bother earlier on.’ Stratton took the jam jar from her and balanced it on the top of a wall. ‘Let it cool a bit. I can’t imagine you dealt with too many hysterical prostitutes when you were an ARP warden, did you?’

  ‘Is that what she is? I did wonder.’

  Stratton nodded. ‘The chap she was worried about isn’t her boyfriend, he’s her pimp. Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘I was hoping that you might be able to tell me.’

  ‘We don’t exactly know at the moment. All I got was a report of a petrol bomb.’

  ‘So that’s what came through the window.’

  ‘Was there any disturbance before that?’

  ‘Not that I heard. But it was all quite noisy, with music and people chatting and everything – in fact, it was going rather better than I’d thought it would. It was jolly awkward at first. We – I mean Councillor Watson and all the others – were all sort of standing about in a bunch, watching our hosts, or I suppose they were our hosts, drinking and dancing and so on …’

  ‘And smoking marijuana?’

  ‘Yes, that as well. They started showing Councillor Watson and some other people how to roll the cigarettes, and after that it all got quite merry, you know …’

  ‘I can just imagine,’ said Stratton wryly.

  ‘I had a long conversation with a man named Etheridge who seemed to be in charge of things. Very charming, and extremely interesting – he was telling me about his childhood and how difficult he’s finding it to—’

  ‘That girl you brought upstairs,’ Stratton interrupted. ‘Etheridge was the one she was shouting about.’

  ‘Oh. You mean that he is …’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘Heavens. I wonder if Virginia – Mrs Rutherford – knows that.’

  ‘She doesn’t,’ said Stratton. ‘In fact, I was surprised to see Gloria tonight.’

  ‘That’s her name, is it?’

  ‘Only for business purposes. What happened then?’

  ‘Well, after that I talked to a couple of other people, and then there was the sound of glass smashing when somebody threw the bomb through the window, and then there was a bang and everyone sort of fell backwards. I was standing at the back, near the table where the drinks were, and several people landed on top of me. By the time we’d all got disentangled, the lights had gone out and there was smoke and everything was in a terrible mess with broken bottles. People were screaming and blundering about trying to get out, but someone near me said we ought to stay put because there were so many people in the room, and it would cause a panic. People near me had been hurt but you couldn’t actually get to anybody because the room was too full of bodies and smoke and it was dark. And then the curtains caught fire and everyone screamed and then it was just …’ Fenella shook her head. ‘Chaos. I don’t know how long it was before the fire engine came. The girl, Gloria, she came blundering past me – trod on my hand, in fact – shouting out something. I suppose it must have been Mr Etheridge’s name.’

  ‘I see. Would you mind staying with Gloria for a bit? I’d get someone to take you home, but we can’t really spare—’

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’ Fenella put a hand on his arm. ‘You need to get back to work.’

  ‘Yes, I’d better go and—’ A great crash from round the corner made them both flinch. ‘You’ll be all right, will you? If I don’t see you—’

  ‘I told you, I’ll be fine. And if there’s anything I can do to help – I can’t imagine how, but if there is – you can count on me. I do mean that.’ She smiled and squeezed his arm and, looking down, Stratton saw that she was still wearing the bracelet. ‘Keep safe, won’t you?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Running back round the corner into Colville Road, Stratton bumped straight into PC Colbert coming the other way. ‘More trouble, sir,’ he panted, as a crowd of men thundered past them towards Colville Terrace, pursued by a posse of constables. They jumped back as a dustbin arced across the road and landed with a clang a few yards a
way, its contents spilling onto the pavement. Stratton could make out, through the acrid smoke drifting down the road, a line of smashed ground-floor windows and a carpet of broken glass sparkling beneath the street lamps.

  ‘Your car got through, sir,’ Colbert shouted above the din of shouts and running feet. ‘It’s further down and the reinforcements are here, but you need to come, sir.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Down there. It’s those blokes from the White Defence League.’

  ‘Christ, that’s all we need. Listen, I need you to start taking statements from anyone who was at the party, before they disperse. Make sure you get a note of the names of anyone who was there. You can start down there, by the ambulance.’

  Stratton ran back down the road. A Black Maria had now arrived and men were being loaded inside. Beyond, the flames seemed to be out, and he supposed that the firemen must have the thing under reasonable control, because two of them were playing a hose on the carcass of the car that had been on fire. Now it was smouldering, thick gouts of black smoke rolling off its tyres. Eyes watering, he dodged past the parabola of water and came to a halt, wheezing, in front of a dark-coloured Rolls-Royce which was slewed across the road. A sudden blast of light – for a moment, Stratton thought it was another petrol bomb, then realised it was the magnesium flare of a cameraman on the other side of the car – lit up Danny Perlmann, still in dark glasses, his face like putty, emerging from the passenger door. Turning slightly, Stratton caught sight of a crowd on the pavement to his left. He was sure they hadn’t been there earlier; thirty or so people, old and young, white and coloured, had appeared out of thin air. They stood, silent, some with their arms folded, concentrating intently, and Stratton was reminded of the men you sometimes saw bunched outside the windows of Radio Rentals watching the football.

  Another flare went off, this time illuminating something further up the street: John Gleeson, resplendent in his ersatz brownshirt uniform, marching at the head of a cohort of ten or so young men, their faces set and implacable. PC Coxon appeared at his side with several other constables, all out of breath. ‘Managed to chase them off, sir. Other end of the street’s clear.’

  ‘Someone down there?’

  ‘Two, with some of the new blokes, sir.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope they can deal with any trouble. You need to go and head that lot off sharpish. Take anyone you can find – just don’t let them get down here.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’

  Laskier, taut-faced behind the wheel of the Roller, was leaning across to Perlmann as he stood with the passenger door held in front of him like a shield. As Stratton approached, he could hear Laskier speaking urgently in Polish. Close to, he could see sweat running down the sides of Perlmann’s face.

  ‘Please get back in the car, Mr Perlmann.’

  ‘It’s my house. It belongs to me.’ One fat hand, holding the tattered stump of a thick cigar, stabbed feebly at his chest, and Stratton noticed the tremor in the fingers. ‘They have their fucking party at my house.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Perlmann, but there’s nothing you can do here.’

  ‘I try to help them, and they—’

  Whatever he meant to say was cut off by yells and the clatter of truncheons on dustbin lids as a scuffle broke out down the road. ‘Do you want to see this country ruined by niggers and Jews?’ Gleeson was shouting. ‘Are you going to stand by and let foreigners take over?’

  ‘Come on, Mr Perlmann.’ Stratton put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s not safe here.’

  Perlmann’s entire body seemed to be quivering. He turned away from Stratton and stared down the road to where Gleeson was now struggling between two constables who were trying to drag him away. Around them, his supporters were fighting a running battle with the rest of the policemen as they tried to drive them down towards Westbourne Grove. Stratton could make out nothing of Perlmann’s expression behind the dark glasses. He thought of the pictures he’d seen on Pathé News before the war – Kristallnacht – and wondered what was going through the man’s mind.

  Muttering something to himself, Perlmann ducked his head and began to struggle back into the car. Stratton put out a hand to help him, but he pushed it away. His movements were jagged and effortful and, by the time he was seated, he was breathing heavily. Stratton bent down, one hand on the top of the door. ‘You’ll have to go past them, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘You should be all right if you put your foot down.’ Laskier, who was staring straight ahead, seemed not to have heard him. ‘You need to leave now,’ said Stratton, louder this time, ‘before there’s any more trouble.’

  Laskier turned to him, his face wooden. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered. ‘Bastards.’

  ‘Stefan! Musimy się stąd wydostać.’ Perlmann’s words came out as a gasp. ‘Start the fucking car.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  As Stratton watched the tail lights of the Rolls disappear down the road, someone plucked at his sleeve. Looking down, he saw the wizened face of a tiny woman, a headscarf tied tightly under her chin.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘The copper down there told me to talk to you.’ Her voice sounded rusty, as if it wasn’t much used. ‘I saw them, see.’

  ‘Saw who?’

  ‘The ones who did it. I live across the way, there.’ She pointed a quivering finger at the house opposite number thirty-seven. ‘They come by in a van.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About ten past eleven. I was woken up before by the party and the noise down the street and I didn’t drop off again – it’s not so easy when you’re old – so I got up to fetch myself a little something. I was on the landing, see, waiting for the milk to heat, and I was looking out of the window.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘This van. It was stopped in the middle of the road, and two boys got out. I couldn’t see well, but they had something in their hands and they threw it down the area.’

  ‘They stopped the van outside number 37, did they?’

  ‘Yes. And they went right up to the railings.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then they threw what they’d got in their hands, then they ran back to the van and off they went. We heard the bang straight after, and we come out and saw the smoke and all the people come piling up the stairs. One of my neighbours, Mr Patterson, he come with me to call the police. We had to go right to Pembridge Crescent before we found a box that was working.’

  ‘Can you describe the two boys?’

  ‘Just boys – young men, I suppose you’d say. Too far away for me to see properly. The van was one of them with two doors at the back. A green one.’

  A fireman appeared at Stratton’s elbow as he was taking down the lady’s name. ‘My guv’nor needs a word, sir. Could you follow me, please?’

  The basement of number 37 was a dripping, blackened horror, the tattered remnants of the curtains hanging like rags at each side of the shattered front window. Following the beam of the fireman’s torch, Stratton trod carefully, trying to avoid the puddles and sharp edges of the charred furniture, the remains of bottles and glasses crunching beneath his feet. ‘Through here, sir.’ The fireman conducted him out through the storeroom, one gloved hand shoving aside the fused clump of soot-crusted plastic which was all that remained of the floor-length brightly-coloured strips that had separated the front and back rooms, and out into the garden.

  Someone, at some point, had obviously made an attempt to clear the space immediately outside the rear of the house, which was a small concrete yard. Ducking under the washing line which was strung across it, Stratton followed the fireman up a couple of steps onto scuffed earth. Bare of grass, it was strewn with newspapers and the torn and trampled remains of clothing, including several nappies. ‘It’s all right, sir, the fire didn’t get out here, but you need to mind where you step. This way.’ The fireman pointed his torch at a hole in the rickety planks of the wooden fence. Scrambling through after him into the next garden, Stratton s
potted three shadowy figures bending down on the far side of a large clump of nettles. As one of them detached itself and came towards him – ‘Over here – careful how you go’ – he saw that it was Hale.

  Hale’s torch played along the ground, picking out a pile of tin cans and next to them a woman’s shoe, covered in some sort of shiny material. It looked, Stratton thought, boat-like, too large for a woman. The next thing he saw was a hand clad in a white glove, the bare arm, a coral bracelet about the wrist, outstretched as if grasping for something. He felt his heart plummet as Hale stood back to reveal a woman lying on her stomach, the head turned to one side. Most of the visible profile was obscured by a bloody, tangled mass of hair, but from what he could see of the face, the large limbs and thick trunk clad in an elaborate frock, the skirt of which, made stiff by petticoats, stood proud of her legs, Stratton was in no doubt that he was looking at the body of the Honourable Virginia Rutherford.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The two ambulance men with Hale shook their heads. ‘Nothing we can do for her, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Did you find her here?’ asked Stratton.

  Hale nodded. ‘Few minutes ago.’

  Stratton looked at his watch. ‘Say twenty to one?’

  ‘Sounds about right,’ said Hale. ‘I didn’t think we should move her. The fire didn’t do this. And – before you ask – we haven’t touched a thing.’

  Stratton straightened up. ‘Can you stay here while I get hold of the station?’

  *

  ‘I see,’ said DS Matheson grimly. ‘And you’re absolutely sure of who it is, are you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right. Better see if we can’t track down the husband. Do you know if he was at the party?’

  ‘No idea. Haven’t seen him, but the firemen were directing everyone round to the ambulances.’

  ‘I’ll send someone to find out. That lot,’ Matheson gestured towards Gleeson and his followers, who were being pushed into a Black Maria, ‘can be sorted out back at the station. God knows what they’re going to do with them all – they’re dealing with two van loads from Latimer Road already, as well as a bunch from Bramley Road. Going to be a real bugger’s muddle sorting it all out.’