‘Did you know she committed suicide?’ Nattrass said eventually.
‘Who?’
‘The wife of the bomber. Rani, her name was. Rani Rajput. Killed herself. During the night. We’ve just heard.’ Nattrass looked straight ahead while she spoke, her face matching the grey of her suit. Like the sun couldn’t reach her.
Donovan sighed. ‘This is so fucked up. Have you made any arrests yet?’
‘Arrest who? All we’ve got are niggling inconsistencies. Nothing concrete. No suspect. We’ve hauled in Abdul-Haq even, but again it was like he’d been taking lessons from Rick Oaten.’
‘Not such a daft idea.’
‘No. And the attack on the vigil, they’d all been drilled, trained. It was more like a professional hit than a yob attack.’
‘So what do we do?’ said Donovan.
Nattrass looked up sharply. ‘We? We don’t do anything. We stop playing cowboys and leave it to the police to sort out.’
‘Be my guest,’ said Donovan.
Nattrass raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? Is this the same Joe Donovan who never passes up an opportunity to get involved in police business and tries his damnedest to fuck up ongoing investigations?’
It was Donovan’s turn to smile. ‘Ah, that’s the old me. Threat of court action, loss of earnings, sharpens the mind. I’ve learned my lesson. Plus, you’re the best there is at what you do, Diane.’
‘Why do I not believe you?’
‘I don’t know. But it’s the truth.’
Nattrass reddened slightly. She didn’t take compliments well.
‘What you going to do next?’ said Donovan.
‘Bring in Rick Oaten. See what he’s got to say for himself so soon before the elections.’
Donovan shook his head. ‘He’ll be all briefed up by now. You won’t get anything out of him. Sharples is the one you want. If you can find him. He’s probably disappeared.’
‘Out of the region. On business. Apparently.’
‘What about pulling in Abdul-Haq? Mary Evans?’
‘On what charge? Your say-so? Think about it. Abdul-Haq’s a prominent Muslim spokesman. How’s that going to look? Mary Evans has lots of friends in the Civic Centre. And she’s off on holiday for a few days – we checked. Anyway, I can’t go bundling them all off the street, can I?’
‘You could pay them a visit.’
Nattrass was getting angry. ‘You telling me how to do my job?’
Donovan shook his head. ‘No. I’m just … Find Peta, Diane. Please.’
Nattrass looked at him, her anger subsiding. ‘I’ll do my best.’ She stood up. ‘We’ll need you to make a full statement. If you—’
‘Not at the moment. I’m just … Not at the moment.’
‘Come out to the car. One of the uniforms can do it.’
Donovan, seeing he wasn’t going to get out of it, reluctantly nodded. He stood up. She ushered him out into the street.
‘Oh, by the way,’ said Nattrass, looking at the school opposite, the parked cars, anywhere but at Donovan. ‘Thanks.’
Donovan frowned. ‘For what?’
She looked up. ‘Giving Paul a job. He needs something like that.’
Donovan shrugged, tried to pretend it was nothing. ‘He’s a good bloke. Despite his faults.’
‘Which are many.’
‘True. But it’s a delicate job. I needed someone I could trust.’
Nattrass smiled. ‘You’re not such a bastard after all, are you, Joe Donovan?’
Donovan smiled. ‘I am.’
They reached the car. ‘Come on, let’s make this as painless as possible.’
Donovan gave his statement. The police cleared out of Peta’s house. Donovan saw them go. Jamal watched them, mistrust and dislike strongly etched on his face.
Donovan finished up, went back to the house. Jamal was waiting for him by the doorway. Nattrass caught up with them.
‘Now remember,’ she said, ‘leave this to us. Don’t go looking for her yourself. Am I clear?’
‘As a beautiful mountain spring.’
‘Good.’
She left. Donovan and Jamal watched them drive away. Once they were gone, Jamal turned to Donovan.
‘Did you mean that?’
‘What?’
‘About not going looking for Peta?’
‘Did I fuck. Come on, let’s go.’
Donovan pulled Peta’s front door closed. Gently, like she was inside sleeping and he didn’t want to disturb her.
Jason Mason lay on the floor again. He didn’t dare move. Not without being told to.
They had been in again. His body was bruised, broken and sore where they had worked on him. Now he lay there, not knowing if it was day or night, not caring, just hoping they wouldn’t come back, start again.
But they always did.
The door opened. Jason lay still, eyes closed, tried not to move. Not to breathe, even.
‘Get up. Stop fucking around.’ That voice again. Major Tom.
Jason stood up. The blanket dropped to the floor. Jason tried not to shiver. Remembered what had happened to him the last time he had shivered without permission. Major Tom crossed the floor, stood before him.
‘Bend over.’
Jason bent.
‘Stand up straight.’
Jason stood up straight.
Major Tom smiled. Jason didn’t move.
Major Tom reached behind his back, brought out two knives. Jason recognized them straight away. Had used them on carcasses enough times. Knew what they could do to skin and tissue.
‘See this?’ said Major Tom, dancing a blade before Jason’s eyes. ‘Know what it is? You should do. You’re the Butcher Boy.’
Jason nodded.
‘Can’t hear you.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Better.’ He moved in closer. ‘I’m going to peel off your skin. Centimetre by centimetre. And you’re going to stand there and let me do it. Aren’t you?’
Jason was trembling, ready to fall. He knew he couldn’t.
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Yuh-yes.’
‘Good.’ Major Tom placed the blade on Jason’s chest. He felt it pierce the skin, felt a trickle of blood run down his front. He wanted to scratch himself; it tickled. He didn’t move.
Major Tom laughed. ‘You’d let me too, wouldn’t you?’
Jason said nothing. He didn’t think it was a question that needed an answer. The blades disappeared. In their place was Major Tom’s revolver. He spun the chamber, put it to Jason’s forehead. Jason’s heart was going into overdrive, pounding hard enough to wear itself out. He couldn’t let it show. Didn’t let it show. Knew what would happen if he did.
He felt the cold metal on his cold skin. Didn’t even blink. He closed his eyes.
‘Keep your fucking eyes open.’
He opened them. Tried to look past Major Tom’s grinning face, tried not to lock eyes with him. Failed. Caught the gaze, flinched away.
Major Tom took the gun away from his face, swung it at the side of his head. Jason went down.
‘Don’t fall down until I tell you to fall down!’
Jason didn’t see the blood spurt from the wound on his forehead, didn’t feel the pain that went with it. Only heard the voice. Knew he had to obey the voice.
‘Stand up.’
Jason shakily pulled himself to his feet.
‘That’s better.’
Another blow, this time to the other side of the head. Jason staggered, wanted to fall, stopped himself. Remained on his feet.
Major Tom smiled. ‘Good. Nearly there.’ He turned, walked towards the door, turned back to Jason. ‘I’m going out now. Don’t move.’
He went through the door, locking it behind him as he went.
Jason stayed where he was. Standing on legs that felt ready to give way at any second. He ignored the blood running down his face and neck, snaking down to his chest. Ignored the shaking in his legs that threatened to topple him over.
He didn’t move, didn’t shiver.
Stayed exactly where he was, did exactly as he had been told.
33
Peta opened her eyes. Light stung them closed again. She lay still, breathing shallowly. Pain suffused her body with each intake of air.
She opened her eyes again, slower this time. She squinted, acclimatizing against the light. Tried to move her arms. Tied behind her back. Her legs. Tied at the ankles. She breathed lightly, tried to keep calm. Remembered her police training. Assessed her situation.
She was lying on a floor. Concrete or stone flagging. Cold and hard. She moved her head slowly, tried to look round. Felt knives of pain twist at the base of her skull, blades skewer her back and brain simultaneously, nausea swirl round her head. Blinked, focused. Walls of rough brick and stone, small, filthy windows dancing with dusty light, wooden beams, rafters. Farming and garden implements round the walls, old and rusted. Smelling of decay and neglect.
Peta tried to pull herself into a sitting position, felt blood pounding round her head. Another wave of nausea hit her. She was wearing a gag; she couldn’t be sick. She swallowed down hard, and again, willed her chest to stop palpitating. When she was sure the sickness had passed, she put her hand on the floor, balanced her weight on it, began to push herself up.
Sitting, she took another look round. The door at the far end looked big, old. But solid. Locked.
Peta weighed up her options. She wasn’t dead. Yet. Either they wanted her for something or hadn’t decided what to do with her yet. She clung to that fact like a life raft.
She tried to trace the sequence of events after she had entered Mary Evans’s office, looked for clues, combed her memory for a key, something she could work with, when she heard something. Bolts were being moved on the other side of the heavy door, locks turned. She stared, waited, barely breathing. The door opened. A figure entered. Peta recognized the figure.
Mary Evans. She crossed to Peta, undid her gag.
‘Mary?’ Peta’s throat felt rusted over. ‘What’s, what’s going on?’
Mary Evans looked quickly round as if being observed. ‘This wasn’t my idea. Any of it. I just want you to know that. OK?’
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘You know what.’
‘No, I don’t … What’s happening?’
Mary Evans strangled a laugh. ‘Oh, come on, you know. Don’t pretend to be stupid.’
‘I’m not stupid. I don’t know. One minute I’m investigating nuisance phone calls, the next …’
Mary Evans’s expression changed. She didn’t look like the same person Peta had met previously. ‘You think anyone was fooled by that story?’
‘Story? It was my job.’
‘No.’ Anger was rising in Mary Evans. ‘It was a useless cover story. And he couldn’t resist. Couldn’t have sent a clearer message if he had used UPS. So fucking manipulative. Even with you.’
Peta said nothing, tried to think.
‘What did I tell you? When you came to see me? About the past?’
‘That it was dangerous. You warned me.’
‘And you didn’t bloody listen, did you?’
‘You phoned me, wanted to meet me …’
‘Because you wouldn’t do what you were told. Wouldn’t listen.’ Her voice came in hissy stabs.
Peta frowned. More came back to her. Whitman. Her mother. She groaned. ‘Oh, my God …’
‘What?’
‘Whitman. Trevor Whitman …’
Mary leaned closer, interested. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s …’ She didn’t want to say it. She still hadn’t come to terms with it in her own mind. ‘Nothing.’
‘Your father? That what you wanted to say?’ Mary Evans’s voice was dark-edged, an obsidian knife. Her eyes caught the dull light from the blades on the wall.
Peta nodded.
Mary Evans smiled, experiencing a twisted triumph. ‘And everyone knew but you. Even your own mother.’ She spat the word out. ‘Even she wouldn’t tell you.’ Still kneeling, she reached out her hand, touched her face. Her fingers felt hard and cold. She locked eyes with Peta. There was no tenderness like there had been the previous time she had done this. No light in her eyes, only its absence. ‘He didn’t want children with me. Not good enough for him. Your mother was beautiful. I was just … available.’
Peta said nothing.
Mary Evans continued, her voice small, contained, the measured ticking of a timer on a bomb. ‘You know he made me pregnant?’
‘No.’
‘Twice. Wouldn’t let me have them. Forced me to get rid of them.’ Still stroking. ‘Stopped me from ever having any more. Took that away from me. A whole part of my life gone because of him. I blame him. And I hate him.’ Her hand gripped Peta’s chin, her grip surprisingly hard. ‘So beautiful. Like your mother. Like your father. I’ll have to hate you as well.’
‘It’s not my fault.’
‘No. It’s not.’ She shrugged. ‘But what can you do?’
‘He’s not my father,’ said Peta, anger giving her strength. ‘My father’s dead. He died four years ago. Trevor Whitman’s nothing. Just a fucking sperm donor.’
The light intensified in Mary Evans’s eyes. She almost smiled. ‘You don’t like him.’
‘No.’
The smile blossomed on Mary Evans’s face. Hard, containing something beyond anger, something dark, twisted, unreadable. ‘He’s a bastard. A manipulator. A user. A hurter. And he deserves to fucking suffer for it. And he will. He deserves everything that’s—’ She reined herself in, stopped talking.
‘What? What’s going to happen to him?’
‘Don’t worry about that.’ The anger gone, her face closed once more. ‘Worry about yourself, not him.’
Peta shook her head. ‘I was just working for him. Just a job …’ Peta closed her eyes, too overwhelmed to continue. ‘What’s going on? Please. Just tell me what’s going on.’
‘You just pretending you don’t know? Getting me to talk, like he would?’
‘No. I really don’t know. Why are you here? What d’you get out of this?’
Mary Evans looked at her, deciding whether she was telling the truth or not. Gave her the benefit of the doubt. ‘I had objections at first. Of course I did. I was against, fighting it all the way.’
‘Fighting what?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. The redevelopment.’
Peta frowned. ‘In the West End? People are killing each other, bombing, kidnapping, because of that?’
Mary Evans nodded. ‘More jobs. Better housing. They’ve given me assurances.’
‘Assurances. You can’t reconcile what’s going on with what you’re going to get out of it. The ends don’t justify the means.’
‘Just because I want a better tomorrow I’m not some soft-headed liberal. There’s more than one kind of revolution. Remember what I said when you came to see me. By any means necessary. But this is different. This is personal.’
‘How?’
‘They wanted me in. Sway the local community, convince them it was a good plan. I couldn’t. But then Trevor Whitman became involved. And they know what I think of him. So they offered me a deal. My cooperation in exchange for the chance to destroy him. And I will.’
‘How?’
‘Through you.’
Peta’s heart flipped like a dying fish cleavered on a wooden slab. She looked into the eyes of Mary Evans and saw the dancing dark lights of madness.
Peta’s voice was so small and weak it could barely make it out of her body. ‘What’s going to happen to me?’
Mary Evans looked at her as if about to speak again. From the look on her face, Peta wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it. She re-gagged Peta, stood up, looked again at the door.
‘You should have listened, Peta. I can’t be held responsible for what happens to you if you don’t listen.’
Mary Evans left, closing, bolting and locking the door be
hind her.
Peta sighed, sank back to the stone floor.
Tried hard not to scream.
Failed.
*
Donovan felt like Superman.
Staring down at the model before him, he was a child again, reading his comics. It reminded him of the miniature Kryptonian city Superman kept in his Fortress of Solitude. Contemporary yet futuristic, and on a staggering scale.
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’
Donovan turned to look at the owner of the voice. Colin Baty stood next to him, beaming down like a proud father at a just-born son.
‘Very,’ said Donovan. ‘I’m sure people would kill to get in on this.’
Baty laughed like it was the funniest thing he had heard all day. All week, even. Donovan winced. ‘I’m sure they would, Mr, er …’
‘Donovan. Joe Donovan. And thank you for seeing me at such short notice. Especially today. I’m sure there’s plenty of other things you should be doing.’
‘Always have time to talk to one of the press.’
Donovan smiled, said nothing.
They were standing in a room in the Civic Centre. Donovan had turned up to see Baty using his journalist disguise once again. Told him he was interested in the unique new vision he had for the West End of Newcastle. Baty, his vanity immediately flattered, had ushered him deep into the building, down wood-panelled corridors lined with glass display cases and green leather banquettes. He had stopped to greet seemingly everyone they came across with a handshake or a kiss, a joke or a mock insult, all delivered at the booming pitch of a hard-of-hearing Brian Blessed. The man, thought Donovan, was a walking bonhomie machine. Or at least a politician the day before election day.
‘This,’ said Donovan, still looking at the model, ‘is going to be huge. Has it got planning permission yet?’
‘Not yet. But I think it will. It’ll mean jobs for the city, for an area that’s crying out for them. Employment, housing, leisure, it’s going to be wonderful.’
‘Looks huge.’
Baty smiled, accompanied it with a rumbling, smoky chortle. ‘It is. Going to rewrite the map. They thought the Metro Centre was something. Wait till they get a load of this.’
‘But aren’t you worried,’ said Donovan, crossing his arms, adopting his best journalist pose, ‘that it’s going to tear the heart out of the local community? That the jobs and housing will go to those outside the area? That it’ll just be another extension of the urban gentrification taking place in the city centre? Another nail in the coffin of the indigenous working class? Isn’t that why there are all the protests against it?’
White Riot Page 25
