Lillian sighed. ‘It … it wasn’t like that …’
Peta turned to Whitman. ‘Have there been any calls? Has anyone actually threatened you?’
Whitman again struggled to find the words. ‘It’s … complicated.’
‘I’ll bet it fucking is.’
‘Peta …’
‘Don’t “Peta” me! I asked you a question and you still haven’t answered it. Is he—’ She pointed at Whitman but kept her eyes fixed on her mother ‘—my father?’
Lillian looked at Whitman, who with a look passed over all authority to her.
‘Yes,’ said Lillian, her voice quiet.
Peta felt another layer of the world peel away and she was falling down through it. She put her face in her hands.
No one spoke.
Peta’s mobile rang.
Lillian and Whitman shared a look. The tension had been broken. Peta made no move to answer it.
‘Shouldn’t you …’ her mother ventured.
‘No.’ The word spat through fingers.
The phone kept ringing. With a loud sigh Peta took it from her inside pocket, glanced at it, put it to her ear. It was a number she didn’t recognize.
‘Hello.’ A greeting with no warmth.
‘Sorry to call at this time of the day,’ Mary Evans said. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’
Peta didn’t know what to say, the truth or a lie. ‘What … what can I do for you …’
‘I’ve … What we were talking about the other day. Remember?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’ve got something for you.’
‘OK.’ Peta waited.
‘No,’ said Mary Evans, the words rushing out in an urgent gasp, ‘not on the phone. You have to come here. See … for yourself.’
‘Right. I’ll call round in the morning.’
‘No.’ Again that breathy urgency. Almost fearful. ‘As soon as possible. Please come as soon as you can.’
Peta looked at Whitman and her mother sitting there. ‘It’s a bit … difficult right now.’
‘Please.’ Almost a pleading urgency. ‘Please. You, you must come tonight. It’s important.’
Peta closed her eyes, rubbed her forehead. Sighed. ‘OK. Where?’
‘At … at my office.’ Then her voice dropped, took on a different tone. ‘Please hurry. Please.’
The line went dead.
Peta put the phone back in her pocket, looked at the other two. The atmosphere in the room was as flat and oppressive as the early-evening light creeping around the curtained windows.
‘I’ve got to go. Work.’
‘But, Peta,’ said her mother, ‘we need to talk. Stay. Please.’
Peta looked at her, saw a woman who now looked like a stranger to her. ‘I’d rather go.’
‘Who was that?’ said Whitman.
‘Mary Evans.’
Whitman looked at Lillian, back to Peta. ‘Could I come with you? D’you mind?’
‘No, you can’t and, yes, I do.’
Whitman stood up. ‘Please. Let me come with you. It would be, would be good to see Mary again. And we could … could talk. On the way.’
‘I want to be on my own for a while.’
‘Peta,’ said Whitman. ‘You said yourself you’ve been drinking. It would be safer if you had someone with you. I could drive you.’
Peta let out a harsh, bitter laugh. ‘What are you now, my father?’
Whitman flinched like he had received a physical blow. ‘Please, Peta. We can talk on the way.’
Peta looked again between him and her mother.
‘Talk. Until I don’t want to listen any more. And when you get there you keep out of the way, let me do my job.’
Whitman tried a smile. ‘Deal or no deal?’
‘Fuck you.’
She turned, made her way to the door, turned back to her mother. ‘This isn’t over, Lillian. Not in the slightest.’
She left, not waiting or wanting to see her mother’s reaction. Whitman hurried after her.
Turnbull waited until the lights went out in the house, then got slowly out of the car.
He checked the road, made sure no traffic was around. Hardly any during the day, none at this time of night. He crossed the road, zipping his thin, black jacket all the way up, turning the collar, keeping his head down, trying not to show any skin.
He reached the front of the house, looked up the driveway. The 4×4 was parked alongside a smaller car, an Audi. All in for the night. He began to walk slowly up the drive.
He had drawn a blank at the school. They didn’t take him anywhere else. If he were to get something it would have to be from the house. Or the rubbish. Find something in there that could be either a positive match. Or a negative one.
Keeping close to the hedge, he edged his way along, careful to make as little sound as possible. Any he did make could hopefully be rationalized away as some woodland creature. They were sure to have them in the country.
He reached the house. It was even bigger close up. Bigger than he could afford. Or ever would be able to afford now. The garage was detached, set away from it, and he had seen them putting out bin bags behind it. That was where he would start his search.
He found them without too much trouble, his eyes growing accustomed to the dark. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use his penlight. Three wheelie bins: kitchen waste, dry recycling, non-recycling. God bless environmentally friendly local authorities, he thought. Making his job even easier.
He flipped back the lid of the non-recycling bin. Took several deep breaths. The smell wasn’t as bad as he was expecting, but it was bad enough. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and prepared to thrust his hands in.
As he did so, the garden lights went on.
He looked round: nowhere to run. The car was too far away, and it would take too much time to get it started. A high hedge and fence bordered the back of the property. He could probably have attempted to scale it but he wasn’t sure where it led. There was a wood behind the house, and fields. He would still have left his car out the front, still have compromised himself.
So he hid. Round the side of the garage, as far from the house as he could get. Pressed in to the brick, willing himself to disappear.
He heard a key turn in a lock, the back door open.
Held his breath, looked round again.
Footsteps. Coming towards him.
Turnbull didn’t dare move. Heart racing like it wanted to escape his chest, he closed his eyes.
Waited.
Opened them.
Matthew Milsom was standing in front of him, fully dressed. They hadn’t gone to bed at all.
Their eyes met. Turnbull thought of running but realized there was no point. He had been caught.
Matthew Milsom sighed. ‘Suppose it had to happen some time,’ he said.
Turnbull frowned, said nothing.
‘We’ve been expecting you. You’d better come in.’
Milsom turned towards the house. Turnbull, relief being overtaken by confusion, followed him inside.
27
Amar opened the door to find Jamal standing there. ‘Not got your key?’ he said.
Jamal looked nervously around him into the flat. ‘Just wanted to check you were alone, man.’ Then back at Amar. ‘Are you?’
Amar saw the fear in Jamal’s round eyes. He looked tired. ‘Yeah, I’m alone. What’s up? You OK?’
Jamal almost fell into the apartment.
‘No, man, I am definitely not OK …’
Amar shut the door behind him, guided Jamal to the sofa, sat him down. The boy looked like he was ready to collapse.
‘Oh, man … oh, man …’
‘Take your time,’ said Amar. ‘Tell me what’s up.’
Jamal took his time. He told him.
Everything.
Peta drove the car on to the estate, pulled up in front of the community centre, cut the engine. Whitman had tried to talk to her on the drive. She had list
ened up to a point, then silenced him.
‘Look … This is a shock for you. It’s uncomfortable for me too.’
‘If you’re going to talk, spare me the fucking clichés.’
‘Sorry. Yes, Peta, I’m your father.’
Peta kept her eyes on the road. She had insisted on driving, wanted to have something to concentrate on. ‘No, you’re not.’
‘I am. I’m not lying. It’s … it’s beyond that now.’
‘You may have fathered me,’ she said, swerving to avoid a pedestrian who was taking too long on a zebra crossing for her liking, ‘but you’re not my father. And you never will be my father.’
Whitman sighed. ‘Listen …’
‘No, you listen. My father was one of the greatest men I’ve ever known. The greatest man. Always there for me, always understanding. Put up with Lillian for God knows how many years. He was gentle and kind and loving and …’ The tears were coming freely. A car blared its horn: she had strayed too far into the middle of the road. She righted it, blinked her tears away, tried to focus on the road.
‘Yes, he was,’ said Whitman. ‘And he always will be to you in your memory.’
‘Yeah. And now he’s an even better man because he … brought me up when I wasn’t even his daughter. And you … you’re just a piece of shit who fucked some woman then pissed off when he found she was pregnant.’
The crying started again, unfettered this time.
‘Look, it wasn’t like that, honestly. When Lillian and I—’
‘Oh, just shut up. Shut up. I don’t want to hear any more. Shut up.’ The words were screamed at him. ‘You might have fathered me, but you’ll never be my fucking father.’
Whitman sat silently in the passenger seat. He looked hurt and wounded, like he was on the verge of tears himself. Peta saw none of that. She wouldn’t look at him.
They continued in that uncomfortable silence until she pulled up in front of the community centre.
The street was quiet, city darkness hiding what it could. Lights on in houses, flats. Faint traffic sounds from the West Road. TV and CD noise carrying on the breeze. The estate at what passed for peace.
‘Inner-city estate like this,’ said Whitman, trying to break the silence, ‘should be all chavvy hoodies out happy-slapping and joyriding. Quiet. Kind of … peaceful. This where she works?’
‘And lives. She’s done good here,’ said Peta, more defensive than she should have been at Whitman’s words.
Whitman nodded. ‘Always knew she would be the one to really … change things. Make a difference, as we used to say.’ His voice brimmed with sadness, regret. Like he knew he could never match Mary Evans’s level of commitment. Knew there would always be something of himself in the way.
Peta opened the door. ‘Stay here.’
‘But I want to see her.’
Something nagged at Peta about the phone call. Something not right. She hadn’t taken too much notice at first, other things taking precedence, but now her gut instinct told her to go cautiously. ‘I’ll go in first. If I give you the nod, you come in then.’
Whitman’s forehead creased. ‘You think there might be something wrong? Well, I should definitely come in with you. You’ll need protection.’
Peta almost smiled. ‘Get real,’ she said, and got out of the car.
She walked to the door of the community centre. It wasn’t right. Nothing she could place, just years of experience telling her senses to be on alert. She walked cautiously, eyes scanning the area.
Peta reached out, grabbed the handle of the double doors. The old wooden door swung easily open, releasing the small sound of creaking hinges to float away on the air. She stepped inside. One single light illuminated the hallway. Similarly weak light seeped out from under the door of Mary Evans’s office.
She thought she should call out but stopped herself. She turned, walked outside, got her mobile out, speed-dialled Amar. Backup wasn’t a bad idea, she thought, looking at Whitman sitting in the car, frowning at her. Proper backup.
He motioned to her, thinking it was time for him to enter. Peta shook her head, waited for Amar to answer his phone.
Voicemail.
‘Shit,’ she said aloud and, deciding not to leave a message, broke the connection.
She re-pocketed the phone, steeled herself. Went back inside.
Whitman watched her go in. He felt helpless sitting there, inadequate. And scared. Everything had fallen apart now, all bets were off. But this in particular didn’t feel right at all. His phone rang.
The laptop gave out a loud beeping noise.
Amar and Jamal, both sitting on the sofa talking, turned to look at it. Then at each other.
Amar moved as quickly as he could to the desk, pulled on a pair of headphones, sat down. Listened. He turned to Jamal.
‘We’re on.’
Whitman jumped at the noise. He almost hit his head on the ceiling of the car, was pleased it was a soft-top. He pulled his phone out, checked the display. A heavy wave of fear rippled through him. He put it to his ear.
‘It’s not too late,’ a familiar voice said.
‘Just … just fuck off …’
The voice laughed. ‘Perhaps it is too late.’ The laugh faded. The voice when it spoke next sounded like electronic steel down the line. ‘You think you’re so clever, Trevor, but you aren’t. Your plan isn’t going to … plan. Is it? Ours is.’
‘I’m warning you …’
‘Not me you should be warning, Trevor.’
Whitman looked at the doorway. No sign of Peta.
‘Between conception and creation falls the shadow. It’s too late. For someone.’
The line went dead.
Whitman stared at the phone, at the doorway to the community centre. Frozen by indecision.
He put the phone away, aware his hand was trembling so much he almost missed his pocket. Another look. Sweat had broken out all over his body. He was aware of it under his arms, at the backs of his knees, beneath his hairline. Another look.
He opened the car door and, with legs that were almost too unsteady to carry him, set off for the community centre.
Peta slowly pushed open the door to Mary Evans’s office.
The desk lamp was on, the only source of illumination in the room. The room looked just as it had when she had visited it a few days ago. Like Mary Evans had been working at her desk and just popped outside. No signs of struggle, no blood.
Peta relaxed slightly at that. But only slightly: no sign of Mary Evans either.
She stepped into the room, made her way towards the desk. Wishing, not for the first time, that Amar was with her. Or Joe.
The door closed behind her.
She turned. Too late.
Shapes detached themselves from the shadows at either side of the closed door. Came towards her. And when she did notice them and start to react, it was too late.
A blur.
Then darkness.
*
Whitman heard a noise from inside the community centre. It wasn’t Peta.
He had been standing in front of the door, ready to open it. Instead he ran to the side of the building, flattened himself against it. Waited, trying not to breathe too heavily.
A van pulled up, white, anonymous. The doors of the community centre were flung open. He saw two men, big and burly, carry out a lifeless bundle, throw it into the back of the van.
His breath catching, he tried to look closely at the carriers but couldn’t get a good look beyond the fact that one of them had skin that caught in the streetlight. It looked cratered and uneven, like he’d been badly scarred by acne. Or badly burned.
They locked the back doors, hurried round to the cab, jumped in.
The van sped off.
Whitman let his breath out in a long sigh, gulped in replacement air.
He knew what had been in the bundle.
Or rather who.
He pushed himself off the wall, began to move towards the front of the buil
ding, desperately trying to formulate what he thought was the correct response.
Hands grabbed him from behind, forced him back against the wall. He tried to struggle, to scream, but they pushed harder. A face appeared before him. It spoke, its voice harsh and hushed.
‘Hello, Trevor,’ it said. ‘Long time no see.’
It took a while but he recognized it.
The face smiled.
Richie Vane.
PART THREE
KING MOB
28
Paul Turnbull followed Matt Milsom through the conservatory. Lights were put on as they went, illuminating a house that was still in transition. Boxes and crates were piled around, pushed out of the way, while some rooms had been tastefully, fashionably and expensively decorated. He was led through to a small room. Full bookshelves and comfortable armchairs, stereo system in the corner, cushions all around, rugs artfully overlapped. Diffused lighting, a Moroccan-influenced décor. Turnbull could see why it had been finished first; it gave a taste of what was to be done with the rest of the house. The kind of room where sitting in on an evening, relaxing with a glass of wine and a good book, something mellow on the CD would be a pleasure. Turnbull felt an unexpressed scowl build within. He would never have this kind of house.
Never have this kind of life.
‘This is the den,’ said Matt Milsom, pointing to an armchair. ‘Please. Make yourself comfortable.’
Turnbull sat. Under other circumstances, he would have had no trouble making himself comfortable.
‘I’m Matt Milsom. You are?’
‘Turnbull. Paul Turnbull.’
‘Can I get you a drink, Mr Turnbull?’ asked Matt Milsom.
‘Sure. Whatever you’re having.’
‘I’ve got a good bottle of malt in the cupboard. That seems appropriate somehow. I’ll get two glasses.’
He left the room. Turnbull watched him go. For someone who had just been caught out, Milsom didn’t seem very uncomfortable. He returned with the bottle of whisky and two glasses, poured generous measures into each, passed one to Turnbull.
‘Cheers.’
Turnbull nodded, threw a mouthful of it back, regarded Milsom. Mid-to late thirties, tall, dark-haired. Jeans and a T-shirt, but clearly designer. Black-framed glasses. Just what Turnbull would have imagined a media person to look like.
White Riot Page 21
