The Riot

by Laura Wilson

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  ‘Stay back or I’ll shoot her.’

  Irene shrank away as Etheridge jabbed the girl’s temple with the gun. Sweating, eyes bulging with paranoia, he had the stance of a boxer up on his toes, dancing and edgy. Stratton could feel the constables’ breath ragged on his neck. Making a conscious effort to slow his own breathing, he turned slightly in the doorway, murmuring, ‘Stay there and keep quiet.’

  ‘Nobody move! You told them.’ Etheridge pointed the gun at Laskier, who shook his head. He looked, Stratton thought, more despairing than frightened.

  ‘How could I?’ Laskier’s voice was infinitely weary. ‘We’ve been in the same room all the time. If I’d telephoned anyone you’d have seen and heard me.’

  ‘You tricked me, man!’

  ‘How could I?’ said Laskier again. He sounded as if, despite the gun and Etheridge’s unpredictability, he couldn’t find the energy to formulate a different question.

  ‘Nobody tricked you,’ said Stratton. At the sound of his voice, Etheridge whipped the gun round, pointing it at him for a few seconds before thrusting it back into the side of Irene’s head. She gave a small whimper of shock and Walker, still looking straight ahead with a face devoid of expression, kept hold of her hand.

  ‘We’re here to speak to Mr Laskier,’ said Stratton. With deliberate casualness, he leant against the doorframe, crossing his arms. Addressing Laskier directly, he said, ‘We’ve got a warrant to seize your paperwork.’

  ‘You talk to me, not him!’ shouted Etheridge, the gun jumping in his hand.

  ‘All right, Mr Etheridge,’ said Stratton in his blandest tone, ‘if that’s what you’d prefer. As I said, we came for the paperwork, so all of this is rather a surprise. As a matter of fact, we’ve been wanting to speak to you ever since—’

  ‘Don’t fuck with me, man! I’ll kill her.’ Etheridge’s eyes blazed with fury. ‘I want the money and a car. I’m taking her with me.’

  Stratton gave the appearance of contemplating this, and said, ‘Are you indeed?’

  ‘Yes! You get me a car or I shoot her!’

  ‘If you shoot her,’ said Stratton, ‘you won’t be able to take her with you, will you? I mean, she’s not going to be an awful lot of use, is she?’

  ‘Then I shoot them,’ said Etheridge. ‘You tell your men –’ As he waved the gun past Stratton at the three constables in the hallway, Walker pulled Irene into his arms – ‘to bring me a car.’

  Stratton could feel the sweat trickling down his back and the insides of his legs. At least leaning on the doorframe gave him a bit of support and having his arms folded meant that he could suppress the shaking of his hands. ‘I could do that,’ he said, ‘but if one of these men calls up the station and says there’s a gentleman here wants a car and please can you send one round, they’re bound to start asking a few questions, d’you see?’

  Etheridge eyed him suspiciously. Turning momentarily back to Irene, and seeing Walker’s arms around her, he tugged at her arm. ‘You let her go!’

  ‘No,’ said Walker, eyeballing him over Irene’s head.

  Stratton straightened in an instant, arms uncrossed and ready to spring, and felt the three men behind him tense in anticipation. Laskier, to Walker’s right, was motionless, apparently staring at the bundles of money at his feet. Stratton shook his head at Walker and mouthed ‘Let go’ but Walker ignored him as entirely as if he’d been a fly and carried on looking at Etheridge.

  ‘Leave her alone!’ Etheridge let go of Irene’s arm and dug the gun hard into the back of her neck. Irene yelped and buried her face deeper in Walker’s chest, sobbing.

  Walker didn’t budge, but stared at Etheridge implacably over Irene’s head. He loves her, thought Stratton suddenly. Nothing Etheridge says will make any difference to that.

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ screamed Etheridge, waving the gun at him.

  ‘No.’ Walker looked down at Irene and stroked her hair.

  ‘I’ll kill her!’ He jabbed Irene viciously with the gun, making her cry out in pain.

  Stratton cleared his throat. ‘This isn’t really getting us anywhere, is it?’ he asked, as though they were having a perfectly ordinary conversation.

  ‘Shut up!’ Etheridge swung the gun round to point at him. The other three were frozen in position like statues, Irene and Walker together and Laskier, who Stratton could just see out of the corner of his eye, still staring downwards. He’s not afraid, thought Stratton. He’s resigned.

  Etheridge hesitated, looking from Stratton to Walker and back again. Keep looking at him, Stratton willed himself. Don’t look at the gun. After about thirty seconds, during which Stratton felt that every nerve in his body was concentrated behind his eyes, Etheridge nodded in Laskier’s direction. ‘He’s got a car. A Rolls-Royce. I want that.’

  Laskier raised his head. ‘I haven’t got a Rolls-Royce.’

  ‘You’re lying! I want that car.’

  ‘I’m not lying,’ said Laskier patiently. ‘I haven’t got a Rolls-Royce.’

  ‘I think,’ said Stratton cautiously, ‘that the car you mean belongs to Mr Perlmann. It isn’t here.’

  ‘Perlmann promised me! He said …’ Etheridge shook his head, as if he couldn’t remember what had been promised, then looked wildly around the room as if the answer might be found there. ‘The deeds to the houses. He said he’d give me money, and the houses – three houses. Powis Terrace – he will make the deeds over to me. We can go into business, work together. He promised …’ His words picked up speed, an automatic, compulsive rant, about a property empire to be run by himself and Perlmann. The talk of ‘making over deeds’ made Stratton think that the idea of the property empire must have sprung, in Etheridge’s mind, from some small seed of truth – that perhaps there had been a conversation with Perlmann in which these terms were used. Had Hampton come into it somehow? Etheridge was certainly giving the impression that he had a right to what Perlmann had promised.

  As Etheridge’s voice continued to pound the walls of the small room, Irene, still in Walker’s arms, had turned her head and was staring at him, her mouth slightly open, tearful and uncomprehending. Walker himself was impassive and looked, Stratton thought, almost bored, as if waiting for Etheridge to come to the end of it and leave. Laskier simply looked tired.

  ‘I know,’ Etheridge waved the gun at Stratton, ‘you want to pin that woman’s death on me.’

  ‘What woman?’ asked Stratton.

  ‘At the party. That’s why you’re here. All your talk about how you want papers is nothing to do with it! Now,’ he swung round to Laskier, ‘I want the papers for my houses, and the money, and the car – you give them to me!’

  Laskier looked at Stratton. ‘There are no papers,’ he said in a monotone. ‘Not here. He can’t have them, and neither can you.’

  ‘They’re mine!’ shouted Etheridge. ‘They belong to me. You call Perlmann. Go on – you ask him.’

  Laskier dropped the bundle of money he’d been holding onto the pile in the canvas bag. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘Danny’s dead.’

  ‘What?’ Etheridge’s face was stiff with outrage. ‘Bloody liar. You call him, now!’

  ‘Danny had another heart attack.’ Laskier’s voice, cold and flat, cut across him. ‘His wife phoned me just before you got here. You took the receiver out of my hand, remember? If you want money, you’d better take that lot,’ kicking the bag at his feet so that the bundles slid across the lino towards Etheridge, ‘because I can tell you now that’s all there is.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  ‘Liar!’ As Etheridge hurled himself at Laskier, Walker launched himself forward to intercept him, and then, before Stratton could intervene, the room exploded in a colossal bang.

  As Etheridge scrambled for the door in the opposite wall the three policemen barged past Stratton and flung themselves at him. Through the ringing in his ears Stratton felt, rather than heard, the gun fall to the floor and saw Etheridge disappear under a m
ass of bodies. It took him a couple of seconds to understand what had happened, and then he dropped to his knees beside Walker, who was flat on the floor surrounded by wads of cash and clutching his chest as blood seeped from beneath his fingers. Laskier was sitting on the only chair, as if thrown there, and Irene was curled on the floor underneath the desk.

  ‘Laskier!’ shouted Stratton over the yells from the hallway. ‘Call an ambulance!’

  As Laskier turned away to pick up the receiver, Stratton grabbed Walker’s shoulders to prop him up against the desk. Walker’s hand fell away from his chest, as if its owner didn’t have the strength to keep it there, and Stratton saw the hole, brilliant red above the coffee-coloured skin around his left nipple.

  Etheridge was shouting something as the constables hauled him upright, but it was lost in the sound of the policemen outside smashing down the front door. As they swarmed into the office and helped to drag Etheridge into the corridor, Stratton yelled instructions over the din. ‘Come on, help me. Sit him up before he chokes.’ One arm round Walker, he used the other to push back the thicket of legs that surrounded them. ‘One of you, for Christ’s sake. The rest of you get back and give him some air.’

  To his right, Laskier was hunched over the phone, giving instructions. Telling himself with wholly unfelt optimism that the angle of the shot might have meant that the bullet had gone clear of Walker’s heart and that he’d survive at least until the ambulance arrived, Stratton propped the man’s lolling head against the desk drawers.

  ‘You’ve been shot,’ he said. ‘Can you talk?’

  Walker’s eyes flickered and his lips opened slightly, but no sound emerged. He’s going, thought Stratton. ‘Can you squeeze my hand, mate?’

  This was rewarded by a pressure so faint he thought he might have imagined it.

  ‘Will he be all right?’ Irene, her face tearstained and her fancy nightgown greyed with dust from the floor, scrambled out from under the desk. As she knelt down beside him, Stratton’s nostrils caught the sharp tang of urine.

  ‘Yes,’ he lied. ‘I’m going to get one of the policemen to escort you next door, and you can—’

  ‘I’m not leaving him.’ Irene wiped her nose with a frothily sleeved wrist.

  ‘You’ve had a shock, love,’ said Stratton, gently. ‘I really think—’

  ‘He didn’t leave me,’ said Irene. ‘He could have – Clinton told him to get out but he never. And I ain’t leaving him, specially not now. You can’t make me.’ She was shaking again, but now it was with defiance, not fear.

  ‘All right,’ said Stratton. ‘You stay and talk to him till the ambulance gets here.’

  Irene shoved the bundles of money out of the way and, moving over so that she was beside Walker, put her hand over his. Walker’s eyes flickered once more, but he didn’t move his head or make any sound.

  Laskier put down the receiver. ‘It’s on its way,’ he said to Stratton. As their eyes met, Stratton saw that he didn’t believe that Walker was going to make it either.

  ‘Not long now,’ Stratton told Irene. She nodded, apparently accepting reassurance, but her expression didn’t change. She’s realised he’s dying, he thought. ‘Just keep talking to him,’ he said.

  Irene stroked Walker’s arm and began murmuring into his ear.

  ‘You,’ Stratton pointed to one of the policemen, ‘go out to the front and if there’s a policewoman out there, bring her in.’

  ‘He’s cold,’ said Irene. Her eyes were bitter now, accusing. ‘We need something to cover him.’

  ‘You two,’ Stratton looked up. ‘Get upstairs. You’ll find blankets in the bedrooms.’ Shrugging off his jacket, he placed it over Walker’s chest and tucked it behind his shoulders with care. His body was hard and unyielding, as though the life force had already gone, and when Stratton picked up his wrist he couldn’t find a pulse. Perhaps it’s because I’m not trained, he thought desperately, squeezing the flesh tighter. A doctor would be able to find it, a nurse … Come on, come on …

  Suddenly Walker’s chest rose in a convulsive heave as his last breath expelled itself in a long, jerky rattle; his head slumped, his eyes fixed, and he was still.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Seated on a banquette with a cup of tea on the table in front of him, Laskier watched as Walker’s blanket-shrouded body was carried through the club on a stretcher and Stratton, watching him, wondered what was going through his mind. In the time since Walker’s death he’d said very little, remaining slumped over in his chair, head in hands until requested to move. Now he looked simply numb. Irene, speechless with shock, had allowed herself to be led upstairs by a policewoman to get washed and dressed, while bumps and bangs from the next room told Stratton that PC Brodie and the others had begun loading the contents of the office into boxes.

  ‘Here.’ Stratton pushed his Churchman’s across the table.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’ Laskier exhaled a stream of smoke. ‘What will happen to Irene now?’

  ‘They’ll take her to West End Central for the time being,’ said Stratton. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll be sending somebody to look after her and we won’t question her until she’s had a chance to recover a bit.’ Lighting a cigarette for himself, he said, ‘Were you telling the truth about Perlmann?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Had you known there was a problem with his heart?’

  Laskier sighed. ‘He’d been taking pills for it and trying to reduce his weight. The doctor had told him to stop playing tennis because of the strain.’

  ‘But when I came to your office yesterday morning, the man there told me he was playing tennis.’

  ‘Danny didn’t want anyone to know,’ said Laskier. ‘People wouldn’t lend him the money if they thought he was ill.’

  ‘And Etheridge did come and slam the phone down, did he, while you were speaking to Mrs Perlmann?’

  ‘Yes. Will you explain this to her?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to tell her yourself?’

  ‘Of course, but …’ Laskier spread his hands in an ‘anything might happen’ gesture.

  ‘I’m not going to arrest you,’ said Stratton. ‘Of course I can’t promise that won’t happen – it’s not in my hands. You’ll have to come to the station, but then you can go home.’

  ‘But if you see her before I do,’ said Laskier, ‘I’d like her to know that I didn’t hang up the phone on purpose.’ He sighed and stared at the table again. ‘Danny asked me to look after her if he wasn’t there. This may surprise you, but he loved Maxine very much.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Stratton. ‘I’ll make sure she knows it wasn’t intentional.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Can you tell me what time Etheridge arrived?’

  ‘Maybe ten minutes before you did.’

  ‘About a quarter to three, then.’

  ‘If you say so. I wasn’t aware of what time it was.’

  ‘What were you doing – before Mrs Perlmann telephoned, I mean?’

  ‘Paperwork. Danny had asked me to find certain things.’

  ‘You saw him today, did you?’

  ‘Yes, this afternoon. He told me about Virginia Rutherford. Some things are here, but most of the papers are kept at the office in Monmouth Road.’

  ‘So why weren’t you there instead of here?’

  ‘I went there first.’

  ‘What did Mr Perlmann want you to find?’

  ‘Some contracts, details of mortgages … just paperwork, as I said.’

  ‘Did you find it?’

  ‘Most of it, yes.’

  ‘And that was all you took?’

  ‘Yes – two boxes. You saw them in the office.’

  ‘At the hospital, what else did he say to you?’

  ‘Nothing about any of this. We talked for a while about when we first came to this country, and about before. About his mother and father, when they took them away. He was studying to become a dentist, like his father, and then … He never talked about tho
se things, even with me. Never. If somebody asked, “What happened to your parents?” he would just …’ Laskier shrugged. ‘Like that. Because it’s too much. Too difficult.’ He stared down at the table, indicating an end to the subject, passively awaiting the next question.

  ‘So,’ said Stratton, after a pause, ‘after you’d been to the office, what time did you get here?’

  ‘About eleven o’clock, I think. I didn’t want to go home.’

  ‘Mr Perlmann told me about your wife, Mr Laskier. I’m very sorry.’

  ‘I wanted to protect her.’ Laskier made a dismissive gesture, flicking ash across the table. ‘I was an idiot.’

  ‘I’m sure you did your best. It must have been a terrible shock.’

  ‘No,’ Laskier stared intently at a spot somewhere above Stratton’s head for a moment, then lowered his eyes and continued, ‘because already I have grieved for her. You know, the first time you met me, Inspector, you saw what’s here.’ Laskier tapped his arm. ‘When Lola first came here, someone saw hers and asked if it was her boyfriend’s telephone number.’ He shook his head hopelessly. ‘One can’t change anything, so one adapts to it. It was a different life for us, but it couldn’t be a new one because you can’t wipe your memories away any more than you can take this mark and not leave a scar behind. I think that I had already grieved for all of us, dead and living, and so it wasn’t a shock to me when Lola died. I don’t know … Perhaps that doesn’t make sense, but there it is. In there,’ Laskier jerked his head towards the office, ‘it should have been me, not him.’