Baty frowned. ‘Who did you say you worked for?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You look familiar. But I haven’t seen you on this beat before. Where do I know you from?’
‘We bumped into each other the other day. Just briefly. Abdul-Haq’s offices?’
Whatever was left of Baty’s bonhomie drained completely away. His forehead gathered into a suspicious knot. ‘Who are you?’
‘I work for a company called Albion. My name’s Joe Donovan.’
The frowning face turned openly hostile. ‘This is nothing to do with, with this.’ He swept an arm out over the model. ‘I know what this is about.’ Now he no longer had to keep up the friendly veneer, his voice dripped threat, carried the ugliness of violence. ‘Had one of your lot come to see me the other day. Told her where to get off too.’
‘And now she’s disappeared.’
‘Good. Best place for her. Like what’s going to happen to you when I phone down to the front desk.’
‘You don’t understand. She disappeared after asking questions about Trevor Whitman.’
‘And you think I took her?’
‘No. But she was asking the people you’ve been getting involved with over this project.’ He chanced his arm with a lie. ‘Abdul-Haq?’
‘What about him?’
‘She disappeared after talking to him.’
A look of horror passed over Baty’s face. He shook it off. Put himself back in control. ‘And you think he did it? Rubbish.’
‘You do know Abdul-Haq used to be in the Hollow Men with Trevor Whitman? Hasn’t stopped you from making deals with him.’
‘I know he was. He’s come a long way since then. And he had nothing to do with my brother’s death.’
‘Neither did Trevor Whitman.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘The person you want is Alan Shepherd. He’s back. He’s working for the NUP now. Who are hotly contesting your seat in tomorrow’s election. Funny how these things have a habit of joining together.’
‘Bullshit. Now get out of here or I’ll have you thrown out.’
Donovan didn’t move. He felt a desperate anger rising, tried to channel it, control it. ‘Her name is Peta Knight.’
‘I know.’
‘She’s Trevor Whitman’s daughter.’
Surprise registered on Baty’s face. He quickly smothered it. ‘So? You that worried, call the police.’
‘I did. Detective Inspector Nattrass is handling the case. An old friend of mine. She was very interested in what I had to say about Abdul-Haq. And Alan Shepherd.’
‘Get out.’
‘I think you can expect a call from her some time soon.’
‘Get out.’
Donovan still didn’t move. ‘Course, you can tell me all about it now. Get it off your chest. What you know.’
Baty’s red face had turned almost purple. He turned towards Donovan. ‘That’s it. I don’t need security, I’ll throw you out meself, you little cunt.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m leaving. I’ll see myself out.’ Donovan made for the door, turned. ‘And if I find you’ve got anything to do with my friend’s disappearance, you’re going to wish you’d never seen me. Oh, and good luck tomorrow.’
He was off before Baty could do anything else. Down the stairs and into the car park. Jamal was waiting in the Scimitar. He looked up as Donovan got in.
‘Well?’
Donovan shrugged, sighed. ‘I’d say he doesn’t know anything. He’s a bastard, but he doesn’t know anything.’
‘So where next?’
Donovan turned the engine over. Peta’s face kept jumping in front of his eyes. He wished he could see her, talk to her. David swam into vision also. He felt guilty because he hadn’t been giving his son all the attention. But he would. As soon as he found Peta. Made sure she was safe.
‘We wait for a break,’ he said.
‘An’ when will that be?’
‘I wish I knew.’
34
Abdul-Haq stood on the cobblestones of the Mill Dam conservation area on the south side of the River Tyne in South Shields. The river was before him, lapping along past the ferry terminal and the ship repair and fit-out yard. Behind him was the old, stone-built 1860s Customs House from when South Shields was a thriving dock, now a Grade II listed building turned theatre and restaurant. Harton Staithes, the old coal depot turned retail, leisure, business and housing development, was at the side of him. Market Dock was further along, all offices and housing. Everywhere he looked he saw money. His money. God is indeed great.
But, substantial though it was, it was nothing compared with what he was going to make out of the West End of Newcastle. It was the most ambitious project he had ever undertaken, both in terms of scale and financial reward. He had been looking for something to stand as his legacy, a way to leave his mark for history. And this was it. A once-in-a-lifetime deal. So close to fruition. So close. He just had to keep his nerve, play his designated part. Nothing could be allowed to go wrong. Nothing.
He had dressed down so he couldn’t be identified: jeans, trainers and a short-sleeved cotton shirt. Eyes squinting behind sunglasses. Arms folded, standing still. The car, an anonymous Fiesta, behind him. Further up the bank were Waqas and Omar, sitting behind the darkened glass of their 4×4. Tooled up, ready for trouble. They had checked he hadn’t been followed, wasn’t being observed. He wouldn’t be. They were good at their jobs.
He wasn’t alone long. Moving slowly over the cobblestones, coming to a slow halt beside the Fiesta, a Vauxhall Vectra, as anonymous as the Fiesta. The back door opened slightly. Abdul-Haq took that as his cue. He crossed to the car, got in the back, closed the door behind him.
Mr Sharples sat beside him, Major Tom in the passenger seat, one of the rank and file driving, a woollen hat covering his bald head.
‘You were not followed.’ Mr Sharples spoke the words as a statement, not a question.
Abdul-Haq replied he had not been.
‘Good.’ Mr Sharples nodded. ‘Congratulations on bringing in Whitman’s daughter. A clean operation.’
‘The fence is dead.’ Abdul-Haq tried to keep his voice flat.
Sharples shrugged. ‘I doubt the police will be overly troubled by that. But Whitman is still out there.’
‘So is this Joe Donovan. My boys failed to drive him off the road.’
‘Unfortunate. But we work with the situation as it stands.’
‘Where is Whitman?’
‘Where we can see him,’ said Sharples, voice as cold, as smooth, as always. Unruffled. ‘He’s got Richie with him. Richie Vane.’
Abdul-Haq couldn’t keep the surprise off his face.
‘He must need all the allies he can get.’
‘And he must be really desperate.’
‘Perhaps not. Whitman has Richie out on the street. We think he’s looking for something.’
‘What?’
‘We don’t know yet. But the situation is being monitored. I have someone ready to step in if needs be.’
Abdul-Haq nodded, wiped his brow of sweat. ‘And no doubt Joe Donovan has contacted the police about the daughter’s disappearance.’
‘No doubt. Oaten will soon be brought in for questioning.’
‘But—’
Sharples turned to him, sun glinting off his round glasses, making them look like miniature spinning blades. ‘Are you worrying, Gideon? Hmm? Wanting to back out? Getting too much for you?’
‘No, no … It’s just … things are coming to a head. I’m just … anxious.’
‘Don’t fuck up on me, Gideon. Not now.’
‘I won’t. You know I won’t.’
Sharples scrutinized Abdul-Haq, who tried not to move or even blink while he did so. He must have found what he was looking for in his face. He gave a small nod.
‘Good.’ Sharples sat back. ‘Oaten’s brief is on standby, ready for the call. He’ll be with Oaten the whole time, insist on an interview at the office so
no media can be alerted. It’s taken care of. Whitman and Richie are being monitored. Action will be taken when it is deemed appropriate.’ Another look at him. ‘Don’t worry, Gideon. Everything is in hand. Just play your part.’
Abdul-Haq nodded, ready to ask more questions.
‘Time to go,’ said Sharples. ‘I’m supposed to be out of the region on business while Oaten is questioned.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve enjoyed our little chat. We don’t do it often enough.’
The driver came round to the side, opened the car door. Abdul-Haq got out. The driver got back in, drove away. Sharples had his briefcase on his lap, looking through papers. Didn’t even acknowledge Abdul-Haq as he passed.
He waited until the car was on the road and gone before he got back in to the Fiesta. Sweating from more than the heat.
He turned over the engine, said a silent prayer for strength, drove off. Waqas and Omar behind him.
Amar was back in Camp David. The lunchtime crowd was different from the night-time one, more relaxed, mixed. Lunch-breakers of all genders and persuasions mingling with hardened cruisers. Some buttoned-up suits making tentative fantasy forays over a beer and a sandwich before going back to work, their office cubicles as cramped and confined as their closets.
Amar nursed his Becks, measured out his sips. Waited. He had spent the morning monitoring the phone lines, hunting without success for Whitman and Peta, listening for anything that could have been relevant, and above all trying to contact Kev.
He had left message after message but his mobile was turned off. Eventually, when Amar had been about to give up, a call. Kev. Amar told him he needed to see him. Tried not to be too heavy; he didn’t want to spook him. He suggested Camp David. Kev was all for it.
Amar kept checking the door every few seconds, time crawling slower than a slug on gravel. Eventually Kev arrived.
He saw Amar straight away, gave a smile so wide and natural, like showing off a skill he had only recently acquired.
‘Hi,’ he said and kissed Amar on the mouth.
Amar was almost too surprised to respond. He looked at him. Kev seemed almost a different person from a few nights previously. Then introspective, tormented, striking a chord with Amar. Now bouncy and happy, a human Labrador. He was even dressed differently. Still jeans and boots, but a new, long-sleeved T-shirt in a darker, softer style.
‘You look well,’ said Amar.
‘I feel great,’ said Kev. ‘For the first time in, oh, ages. Ever.’ The happy puppy smile again. He reached out, placed his hand over Amar’s, clenched it. ‘Great.’
Amar ordered another two Becks, handed one to Kev. ‘So where’ve you been since I last saw you?’
‘Here and there,’ said Kev, necking the bottle. ‘I came down here again, hung around, met lots of interesting people.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Know what I mean?’
Amar knew.
‘I’ve packed in my job, I’m …’ He stopped, a darker thought passing through him. ‘I’m looking for somewhere else to live. I feel good.’ Another squeeze of the hand. ‘All down to you.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘Right.’ Kev looked round, smiling again, expectant, as if ready to embark on an adventure. ‘So. What’s happenin’?’
Amar looked him square in the eye. ‘I need to talk to you.’
Kev shrugged. ‘So talk.’
Amar looked around. ‘Not here. Let’s go back to mine.’
An even bigger smile this time. ‘Thought you’d never ask.’
‘Not for that. This is serious. Drink up.’
Amar drained his bottle, Kev, looking confused and slightly wary, did likewise. They left the bar.
Richie Vane sat on a bench at the bottom of Westgate Road, staring over at the Lit and Phil Building, eating a Mark Toney’s sugar cone as people walked past him. The sun was shining, the girls wearing short skirts and pretty dresses. No one had asked him to move, no one had stared at him, called him names, made fun of him. Usually, he would consider that to be a good day.
But not today. Not with everything else that was going on.
He had made some calls, hooked Whitman up with a guy he knew dealt in guns out of the back of a motorbike shop on Westgate Road. Richie hadn’t wanted to accompany him, not wanting to even be near guns, never mind firing them. Instead he had walked round for a bit, finally settling on the bench, trying, with his ice cream, to enjoy the day. And failing.
Two women walked past. Young, nicely dressed, with clean hair and strong smiles. Richie watched them go past. They either didn’t see him or tried to ignore him. He licked his cone, closed his eyes. There would have been a time, in a past so distant and unreal it felt either dreamed or seen only in a film, when girls like that wouldn’t have ignored him. They would have smiled, might even have talked to him. Given him their phone number and even expected him to call. Another life. When he was young and handsome. Not old and invisible.
Richie wasn’t thick. He knew what was going on. With Mary and Gideon and Alan. Trevor had told him. And what his old friends were doing was upsetting him in a way that no amount of sunshine could compensate for. He could feel his hard-won consciousness and serenity begin to fragment, drift again. The bottle was pulling at him again, telling him he shouldn’t be sitting here with an ice cream in his hands. He needed something proper to take the worries away, reintroduce him to those small, sustainable euphorias he had tried not to miss so much. And the weed was calling too. Ready to provide him with, if not answers, then the becalmed need not to ask so many difficult questions. His refuges, his comfortable caves. The last places he should go to.
Trevor Whitman didn’t need him. Not really. He was only getting in the way. Why not just get up, walk away? Trevor wouldn’t notice him gone. And Peta, well, he’d made a promise but he hadn’t been able to keep it. Just another one. Join the queue. Walk away. And he could properly enjoy the day then.
Yeah, that sounded about right. Cool.
He got up, thinking of St Hilda’s Trust, the people who had patched his life back together. Who could do it again. He threw his ice cream in a litter bin, thought how good it would be to hold a can right now, a real cold, real strong one, Carlsberg Special, Tennants Super, something like that. He closed his eyes, shook his head, not wanting to be seduced. Opened them again.
And there stood Mary Evans.
‘Hello, Richie.’ She gave a smile that matched the day.
Richie was too startled to speak. He just stared.
Mary Evans kept smiling. ‘What’s the matter? Not pleased to see me?’
Richie frowned. He should run back up the hill, get Trevor. Tell him who was here, bring them together so they could talk.
‘Trevor … Trevor’s just up there …’ He pointed up Westgate Road.
‘I know. But it’s not him I want to see, it’s you. How you doing, Richie? Haven’t seen you in a while.’
‘No … Good. Yeah, I’ve been good.’
‘They been treating you right at St Hilda’s?’
Richie nodded.
‘Good.’ Mary Evans looked around. ‘Were you off somewhere, Richie?’
‘Yeah, I was, was goin’ back there.’
‘St Hilda’s?’
‘Yeah.’
Her smile was still dazzling. ‘I’ll give you a lift. Come on.’ She stretched out her arm, touched his. He made to walk away with her but something stopped him.
‘What?’ she said.
There was something, a niggle in his brain … Something not right …
‘What’s the matter, Richie? It’s me. Mary.’
She smiled again, even brighter if it was possible. He had always liked Mary. She had been a good friend to him. He had wanted her to be more than a friend at one point, but she had always told him that was impossible. So they had become friends. Just friends. And she was a good person. Despite what Trevor said.
He returned the smile.
‘Come on, then.’
Richie allowed her to lead him awa
y, her hand tenderly placed on his arm, like a mother guiding an errant son back to safety.
Later, Trevor Whitman stood on the same spot, looking round. A greasy old Tesco’s carrier bag clenched in his fist. He had half expected Richie not to have waited, to have wandered off somewhere, but it was still irritating now that it had happened. But he didn’t have time to think about that.
He took his mobile out, found the number he wanted. Started calling.
Wondering what he would say when Joe Donovan answered.
35
Kev sat on the sofa at Amar’s flat, waited expectantly. His buoyant mood had subsided the further they had gone from the bar as he picked up the tension coming off Amar. Amar hadn’t spoken on the walk. Kev perched on the edge of the cushion, like a death-row inmate waiting for a pardon, knowing that, in the battle of hope and experience, hope always lost.
It’s AIDs, Kev thought. That’s what he’s going to tell me. Just started enjoying myself, finding out who I really am, then this.
Amar emerged from the kitchen, two mugs of coffee in his hands. He set them down, joined Kev on the sofa. Tried a smile. Didn’t reach his eyes.
‘Just tell me,’ said Kev. ‘Say what you’ve gotta say. I know what it is, anyway. What you’re gonna say.’
Amar frowned. ‘What?’
Kev took a few deep breaths. ‘AIDs. It is, isn’t it? It is. You can tell us.’
Amar almost laughed out loud. He shook his head. ‘No, Kev. Nothing like that.’
‘What, then?’
Amar looked at the coffee mug in front of him. ‘I know who you’re involved with. What you’ve done, what you’re doing.’
The slight euphoria Kev had allowed himself to feel at Amar’s AIDs denial dissipated completely. This was worse than AIDs. His heart felt like a stone in his chest, his legs unable to support him if he stood up. He said nothing, waited for Amar to speak again.
White Riot Page 26
