When the doorbell rang.
Trevor Whitman jumped up. Their eyes met. Lillian got off the bed, crossed to the window, looked down. She turned back into the room.
‘It’s Peta,’ she said.
Peta stood before the front door. She didn’t know why she had rung the bell. Usually she just walked straight in but seeing the way Lillian had been with Trevor Whitman the last time she was there it somehow felt inappropriate. It just felt like their relationship had shifted and she didn’t know what was going to happen next.
She had things to ask her mother, questions she wanted answers to, conversations she hoped they could have.
The door was opened by Lillian in her towelling dressing gown.
‘Oh.’ Peta looked at her. ‘You OK? Not … disturbing anything?’
‘No,’ said Lillian, holding the robe tightly closed with her fist. ‘Come in. I was just about to have a shower.’
Peta stepped inside, followed her mother to the kitchen.
‘Tea? Coffee?’
Peta asked for tea. Her mother set about making it. Two Earl Grey teabags, two Penguin mugs. Virginia Woolf: A Room of One’s Own for Lillian, Graham Greene: Brighton Rock for Peta.
‘Used to be Dad’s mug,’ said Peta.
Lillian said nothing. Waited for the kettle to boil.
‘So,’ said Lillian, sitting at the kitchen table once the tea had been made, ‘social call? Or were you looking for Trevor?’
Peta sat next to her. ‘I wanted to talk to you, actually.’
Lillian blew on her tea. ‘What about?’
‘What d’you think? Trevor Whitman.’
Lillian said nothing, waited.
‘Are you seeing him, Lillian?’
Lillian took a moment to answer. ‘Yes, Peta, I am.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s four years since Philip died.’ A note of defensiveness had crept into her voice. ‘It’s a long time to be on my own. I’m not that old, you know.’
‘I know. It’s just … it was a bit of a surprise, that’s all. You didn’t tell me.’
‘Do you tell me everything that’s going on in your life?’
They both knew the answer to that one. Lillian had been there for Peta during her darkest alcoholic days, but the help had come with conditions that Peta hadn’t wanted. Since she got sober she had tended to keep her mother at arm’s length. Lillian certainly didn’t know everything that had happened on Albion’s last case. She wouldn’t have let Peta walk the streets on her own if she knew that.
‘No,’ said Lillian. ‘Thought not. Trevor’s an old friend. And … he’s been good to me since he came back into my life. He makes me happy.’
‘Good.’ Peta said the word but she wasn’t sure whether she meant it. Something was still bugging her. Still not quite right.
‘How’s the investigation?’ Lillian’s words were hidden by her mug.
‘Yeah, it’s started.’ She told Lillian about Baty, how she thought that might be a dead end. ‘But he did say something. About Trevor.’
‘What.’ Lillian put her mug down, sat as if expecting a blow.
‘Probably nothing much, probably doesn’t mean anything at all. Just that Trevor Whitman had a lot of women. A hippie commune full of them. I mean, it’s ridiculous, I know, and none of my business really, but were you … you know …’
‘I wouldn’t believe what he says about Trevor. He hates him.’
Lillian and Peta both looked up. Trevor Whitman was standing in the doorway wearing jeans and a T-shirt, hair and stubble distressed. He looked like a walking Gap ad.
Peta looked between him and her mother, clocked again her mother’s bathrobe. Got the picture.
‘Hello, Trevor,’ she said without much enthusiasm. She suddenly felt unwanted. Knew she had been right to ring the doorbell and not walk straight in. Like things had changed and she wasn’t sure where she stood.
‘How’s the investigation going?’ Whitman said.
Although there wasn’t much to report, Peta told him. He listened, smiling. ‘Thanks for that. Keep up the good work. You read my book yet?’
‘Some of it. Very good so far.’
Whitman smiled.
The room had suddenly got very hot, the atmosphere oppressive. Peta stood up. ‘I’d better be off.’
Lillian looked as if there were things she wanted to say to Peta. She rose also. ‘I’ll see you out.’
‘No need. I’ll see myself out.’
Even the hot air outside felt better than the prickly awkwardness of her mother’s kitchen. She stood by her car, gulping in a few mouthfuls of air, then got in, drove off.
Still with so many questions unanswered.
The Forth was busy; the usual mix of students and professional city bohos sitting and standing round the old, mismatching tables, the long, dark bar. The same clash of music as always: the ultra hip, the ultra arch. Peta sat on her own, ignoring the noise. Eyes only for the drink in front of her.
She knew it was the wrong thing to do, but felt so stressed, with no one else to talk to, nowhere else to turn. No friends around, except her old one.
So she sat staring at her gin and tonic. She ran her finger down the side of the glass, felt the cold, wet thrill of condensation. Saw the bubbles rise to the surface, pop and disappear. She imagined lifting it to her lips, feel the sweet, sharp, iced liquid roll down her throat, bringing its cold comfort to her body. Her mind.
Her fingers gripped the glass.
She thought again of floodlit cellars and body parts, of dead women and knife-waving killers.
Of her mother wanting to tell her things.
How she had wanted to do this for so, so long.
Her phone rang.
She moved her fingers away, ready to grab it in her bag. Then stopped. Might be her mother.
Her hand fell back. She would ignore it.
It kept ringing.
She looked between the drink and the phone. Saw the number. The phone won out. Taking a deep breath, she put it to her ear, answered.
‘Hi,’ said a voice she knew on the other end. ‘It’s the biggest twat in the universe here. And it’s costing me a lot to do this so please be nice. I’d like to talk to my friend Peta, please.’
Peta smiled, a tsunami of relief washing over her.
‘Hello, twat,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’
And Donovan told her.
She finished the call, pushed the drink away, stood up.
Left the pub, feeling happier than she had in a long time.
11
Safraz Rajput opened his eyes. Looked around. He must have still been asleep, still been dreaming, because he didn’t know where he was.
He was in a car, that much he knew. But not his car. He drove a nearly new Peugeot 307. Silver. This one was bigger, older. Dirtier.
He shook his head. Slowly: it felt like he had been drinking heavily and he had a hangover. He rubbed his face, sat back. Had he been drinking? He couldn’t remember. No, he hadn’t.
Then how …
He blinked, willing his fogged mind to clear, tried mentally to retrace his steps.
He had been playing five-a-side at the leisure centre in Gateshead. With his mates from work in a local league, their usual Thursday-night game. They won, beating a team of technicians from the college six–two. A couple of celebratory pints in the bar, then home.
Home.
He frowned. He couldn’t remember going home. He remembered going to his car, reaching for the door handle then …
Nothing.
Safraz had to get out.
He tried the door handles. There weren’t any.
Tried pulling the button up to release the catch. Nothing there. No buttons to open the windows. Nothing.
He looked outside. It was dark, somewhere he didn’t … Was he in the West End of Newcastle? It wasn’t somewhere he was familiar with. No one about. Began hammering on the glass, shouting.
Nothing.
Put his shoulder to the door, his whole body weight behind it. Wouldn’t budge. He punched the windscreen, got nothing but sore knuckles.
He heard a small whimpering sound, like a wounded animal crawling off to die, realized it was him.
A phone rang.
He checked his pocket. His own mobile had gone. The noise continued. He looked round. On the back seat was a black nylon rucksack. The ringing was coming from there. He leaned over, picked it up, unzipped it.
‘Wha—’
The explosion tore the thought from his mind as it tore the skin, blood and muscle away from Safraz Rajput’s bone.
The Albion offices looked like a ghost building.
Most of the old Edwardian buildings on Somerset Terrace off Westgate Road had all been gentrified to some degree and were now home to various architects, lawyers, accountants and mortgage advisers. But the Albion offices, boarded up, with the remnants of age-dirtied blue and white police tape still fluttering from the front gate, just looked haunted, derelict.
Amar Miah walked down the lane from Westgate Road, his walk uneven as his cane navigated the cobbles. He stopped outside the front door, the cane supporting his weight, getting his breath back. Physically he was feeling better all the time. His strength returning, his body repairing itself. But his mind, his spirit, was another matter.
Coming so close to death had made him reassess everything in his life. He thought he had died at one point, lying on the pavement, life flowing out of him, only to be brought back by the paramedics and doctors. As a result he had given up his heavy drug habit. Even stopped cruising the gay clubs and bars. It had been difficult, but after experiencing first hand how easy it was to die he had clung that bit harder on to life. And now, stronger, more focused, he just wished he had something to do with his life.
Peta’s call was unexpected. He had thought she was phoning about the job she wanted him to do and she had mentioned it but there had been more.
‘Come to Albion,’ she had said, giving him a time.
He had tried to argue, at least ask why, but no more details had been forthcoming.
‘Just come along. We’ll talk then.’
And here he was.
He tried the front door, expecting resistance. There was none; it was unlocked. He pushed it open, went in. Down the hall, still strewn with rubbish and debris, layered with dust. He looked into the front room, what used to be the client room. The big, chocolate leather sofas now slashed and spewing stuffing, mildewed through neglect. Boards at the window throwing selective shafts of early-evening sunlight round the room. No one there. He walked on towards the office. Opened the door.
And stopped.
There sat Joe Donovan on a packing crate, Peta sitting on a partially destroyed office chair next to him. Jamal stood, back to the filing cabinet, hands in pockets. They all looked up as Amar entered. Donovan stood, smiled.
‘Glad you could make it,’ he said.
‘What’s going on?’ said Amar.
Peta stood also. Jamal gave him his full attention.
‘We’ve been talking,’ said Donovan.
Amar waited.
Donovan and Peta shared a look. He spoke first.
‘Fuck Sharkey,’ he said, ‘and fuck waiting for the dust to settle.’
‘And fuck taking on your own crusades when you’ve got a team to help you,’ said Peta.
Donovan couldn’t meet her gaze, looked instead at Amar. ‘Peta’s in, Jamal’s in. I’m in. All we need is a techie. And, of course, we want the best in the business.’
Amar smiled. ‘Where do I sign?’
Trevor Whitman was in the back bedroom at Lillian’s house. He had given up his hotel room; now that Peta knew where he was with her mother there was no need to keep it on.
Philip had used the room as an office, and Lillian hadn’t touched it in the four years he had been dead. Dust covered everything. A computer that had once been state of the art but now looked like something from prehistoric times took up most of the desk. Whitman had cleared most of the peripherals away, made space for his laptop. He was looking over his schedule for the next few days, a three-quarters-empty bottle of red wine beside him, Coldplay playing through iTunes on the laptop. One of the few modern bands he actually liked. He hummed along with the lyrics, something about seeing the world in black and white.
He could get used to this. Lillian downstairs, the promise of good food, conversation, more wine and physical comfort. Almost get used to it. Just one thing to get out of the way first, then he could relax.
His mobile rang. Putting his laptop aside, he picked it up. Peta, perhaps, with an update.
‘Hello.’
Silence.
Whitman’s heart skipped a beat. He knew who it was. He looked round. Not in Lillian’s house, he thought, anger and fear building within. Like he was being invaded, violated.
He said nothing more, waited for them to speak.
A small laugh came down the line. ‘This is the way the world ends,’ the voice said. ‘This is the way the world ends.’
Whitman returned the next line, couldn’t stop himself. ‘Not with a bang but a whimper.’
That laugh again. ‘Oh, it’ll be a bang. A fucking big one. And the hope of empty men won’t stop it.’
The phone went dead.
Whitman stared at it, the only sounds in the room his breathing and Chris Martin’s voice singing about the black and white world again and how it wasn’t painted right.
He threw the phone as hard as he could at the wall. It shattered and fell.
He started on the wine again.
The night closed in. The heat still oppressive.
He felt it was about to get hotter.
PART TWO
DAYS OF RAGE
12
Newcastle was still heating up. And didn’t Detective Inspector Diane Nattrass know it.
The sun over the city was like a magnifying glass held over an anthill, the rising temperatures setting the inhabitants aflame. As people lost sleep, focus and patience with each other, as small irritations grew to large grievances, conflict flashpoints were everywhere. Road rage, abuse, assaults, fights all on the up. And that magnifying glass still overhead, unrelenting. The city was working its way to the brink.
And with the city’s emergency services overstretched, particularly her city centre-based department, the last thing she needed was this.
She looked round, took in the sight. The blast had completely wrecked the car, atomized the body inside, blackened and cracked the road and pavement around it, put all the windows out down the street. Those that remained. The area was beyond being run down; it was derelict. It was a run-down street in Fenham, bordering Arthur’s Seat in the West End of Newcastle. The houses were old and terraced, mostly boarded up, roof tiles missing, tagged by street gangs. Thank God, thought Nattrass, that it hadn’t happened on a more populated street.
Blue and white police tape cordoned off what was left of the car itself. Uniforms were out doing door to door in the surrounding streets. SOCO were all over the scene, sifting, bagging, brushing. Looking for occult clues to stop it being a scene, to turn it into a story.
She hadn’t been able to stop the press running with the story: SUICIDE BOMBER KILLS SELF IN BUNGLED BOMB ATTACK. She had been able to keep the TV cameras and print media out of the area. Another area cordon had secured that.
‘Boss.’
She looked round. Stevie Fenton, her new detective sergeant, was coming towards her. He was young, eager, ambitious. Conscientious and good at his job. She had no complaints about him. But his very professionalism just made her miss her old DS.
‘Yes, Stevie,’ she said, turning.
‘Forensics have come up with a name.’ He looked down at his notebook. ‘Safraz Rajput.’ He looked up. ‘Sounds like he fits the bill.’
‘Don’t jump to conclusions,’ she said, pressing down a mild irritation with him. ‘Go on.’
‘Born here, th
ird-generation Indian. Described himself as British, more than anything. Married to a librarian.’
‘Kids?’
Back to his notes. ‘One son. How can he do that, eh?’
‘Anything else?’
‘Lived in Gateshead. Uniforms over the water have had a word with the wife. Worked in IT, played five-a-side on a Thursday, supported Newcastle United. Went out occasionally with his mates on a Friday night, took his wife out to dinner on alternate Saturdays when they could afford it and get a babysitter.’
‘Religion?’
‘Muslim, but vague. Only really went to mosque on special occasions. Family stuff and the like.’ He looked at the rest of the notes, frowned. ‘Says here he had a sizeable DVD collection. Liked American cop shows. The Wire. The Shield. Sopranos. Stuff like that. He was a gadget freak, loved his sat nav. CDs in his car: Kaiser Chiefs, Franz Ferdinand, James Blunt.’
‘His car?’
‘Yeah. Funny thing. Still parked outside Gateshead Leisure Centre. Went for a game of five-a-side with his mates, never seen again until this.’
‘So this wasn’t his car.’ Nattrass looked at the burned-out, blackened shell.
Fenton was looking around, clocking the faces nervously watching them from the ends of the street. The brown faces. ‘Maybe he came up here, got his orders from someone round here.’
‘How?’
‘Someone picked him up. Brought him here.’ Another look round. ‘Gave him his orders, sent him on his way. If it’s goin’ to happen anywhere, it’s goin’ to happen round here. Lucky for us they’re amateurs.’
She looked at Fenton, could almost see what he was thinking. Al-Qaeda cell. Go in guns blazing, breaking down doors, drag some bodies down to the station, get them to talk. Have a major terrorist threat foiled by Stevie Fenton.
‘Let’s not get carried away with hysteria. Let’s examine all the angles first, DS Fenton.’ Not for the first time she wished her old DS was still there. For all his faults, and there were many, Paul Turnbull was a man she could trust.
White Riot Page 10
