Riot Act (5 page)

It was an area long scheduled for redevelopment, but so far the only thing that had developed there among the crumbling brickwork were the weeds. They hadn’t even finished knocking the houses down properly, and half of them were still clinging on, boarded up and vandalised.

“So,” O’Bryan said hopefully now, pushing his glasses up his nose with his forefinger. “Do you think you might be able to put a good word in for the lad, help him get off with just another caution.”

I glanced at him sharply. “Another one?” I said. “Why, how many has he had already?”

O’Bryan looked momentarily frustrated, though whether at himself or me, it was hard to tell. He checked the file again, stalling for time. “One or two,” he admitted. “Breach of the peace, vandalism, that sort of thing. Minor stuff, you know how it is.”

No, I didn’t. “And how long did each of those keep him out of trouble for?”

“Oh, well,” he cleared his throat and gave a sort of nervous laugh, “not long enough, I suppose. I see your point, but—”

“No, Mr O’Bryan,” I cut across him, “to be quite honest with you, if the first caution didn’t stop him, he’s not going to be stopped, is he? Maybe he needs something like this to bring him up short.”

Besides, I’d been on the receiving end of an official caution myself. A stern lecture of sorts delivered by a senior police officer, telling me in no uncertain terms why I couldn’t go around clouting WPCs just because I didn’t agree with them. True, I hadn’t hit a police officer since, but then, the need for doing so hadn’t really arisen.

When O’Bryan didn’t answer, I added, “Don’t you think it’s time Roger paid the price for this one?”

“He’s only young,” he tried again. “I hardly think he was the brains behind this particular escapade.”

Nasir’s words came back to me again, brought me up short. “So you think there’s something more to this as well, do you?” I asked slowly.

O’Bryan looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

I told him briefly what Nasir had said, that he seemed certain there were others behind the recent spate of robberies than the kids who’d apparently been responsible. “Nasir was fairly positive about it,” I confirmed, “and he seemed determined to make sure something was done.”

“Ah, well,” O’Bryan said, “Nasir and I have crossed paths before. His father died when he was about fourteen, and he went off at the deep end. Got himself into a lot of trouble, but I managed to keep him out of prison, and he came round in the end.” He half-smiled. “Had quite a temper on him, as I recall. A few years ago last night’s little adventure would have been much more up Nasir’s street.”

“I must admit, Roger didn’t seem quite the ruthless type,” I said, “otherwise he wouldn’t have helped me drag the old man clear of the fire. He probably saved his life.”

“He did that?” O’Bryan sounded surprised. He shook his head and tut-tutted a few times. “He didn’t tell me.”

“Your biggest problem,” I said, wanting to help in spite of myself, “is that the people round here need a scapegoat for Fariman’s injuries, and right now, Roger is it. I don’t think they’ll be happy to see him get off in any way that’s thought of as lightly.”

“But surely, if he helped rescue this chap, they won’t object?”

“If Roger and his mates hadn’t tried to rob Fariman, he wouldn’t have needed rescuing in the first place,” I said. “Look I’m sorry, Mr O’Bryan, but feelings are running a bit high at the moment, and I don’t know what you think I can do about it.”

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat as though his collar was suddenly too tight for him, “I was hoping that you might be able to persuade the people involved to go easier on him—”

“You’re joking,” I cut in. “Right now I’m not flavour of the month for stopping the vigilantes beating him up, never mind trying to get him off altogether.”

“Well, maybe if it comes to court you could speak up for him. Tell them how he helped save the old man.”

I’d be well out of Kirby Street by the time those particular bureaucratic wheels ground into slo-mo action, but I still didn’t relish the prospect of having to look Shahida in the face across a courtroom as I spoke up for one of the boys who’d tried to murder her husband.

I shook my head. “I don’t think I can help you,” I said, standing up. This interview was over.

O’Bryan rose, also. “Well, if your mind’s made up, it’s made up.” There was a faint snap to his words, which he tried to soften by smiling at me. “I must say I think you’re taking a very brave stand.”

“Brave?”

He cast me a calculating look, the lenses of his glasses blanking out his eyes. “Well, if you’re not for the defence, you’ll be one of the main witnesses for the prosecution, and Roger knows where to find you. So, no doubt, do his mates,” he said carefully. “And the older brother’s known to be a bit of a hard-case, too.” He watched me while he imparted this information, but I didn’t show him what he wanted to see.

“And then there’s the court case itself,” he went on. He pursed his lips, considering. “Never a nice experience, having to stand up in court, is it, Charlie?”

I felt the colour draining away from my face like someone had just pulled the plug out of a bath. It was the first time he’d used my first name, and the sly familiarity of it brought the hairs up on the back of my neck.

The last time I’d been in court it was to testify against a group of my erstwhile brothers-in-arms. I tried not to think about it much these days, but their names still ran through my head like a chant.

Donalson, Hackett, Morton, and Clay.

There was a rhythm and a flow to them that chilled my skin and cramped my muscles. When the barrister had read them out in a different order, I had almost failed to recognise them as the same group.

Almost. The memory fades, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget them entirely. I was claiming rape. They were claiming it was all some happy drunken orgy that had got out of hand.

I’d already been through the agonies of a military court martial, and been found guilty of gross misconduct. Foolishly, as it turned out, I’d sought justice in the civil arena.

I might have got it, too. Then the whispers started. Whispers about the affair I’d stupidly indulged in with one of my training instructors. It was against the rules, and soon got blown up out of all proportion.

My main witness defected, and the inevitable happened.

I lost.

It cost me my career in the army, one I’d spent four years carefully constructing. It also cost me my self-respect, and the repercussions blew a hole in my relationship with my parents so big you could have driven a Boeing 777 through it, sideways on.

Still, I’d walked across that burning bridge. It had taken me a while, but eventually I’d picked up most of the pieces. I didn’t know if I could do it all again.

I looked up at O’Bryan, found him watching me intently. I led the way to the door without speaking.

“Look,” he said as I pulled it open for him to leave, “juvenile detention would break a lad like Roger. Perhaps turn him to crime permanently. It could ruin his whole life. Just say you’ll think about it, eh?”

I found myself nodding reluctantly as I stood to one side to let O’Bryan out.

“OK,” he said, “I’ll give you a few days to –
Oi! Get away from it you little bastards!”

I jumped as O’Bryan’s voice rose from softly persuasive to a full-blown roar. He leapt out of the front door and went dashing towards the pavement, the briefcase swinging against his legs as he ran.

I stuck my head round the door and saw a group of kids scrambling away from the ruin that was now O’Bryan’s Mercedes, like malicious monkeys in a safari park when the game warden with the tranquilliser darts appears.

The kids scattered with a precision that spoke of long practise, all disappearing over garden hedges and through gates in different directions. O’Bryan got as far as the pavement before it dawned on him that trying to catch any of them was an utter waste of time.

He faltered and then stopped dead, putting his case down slowly on the cracked paving next to his feet. His full attention was taken by the beautiful example of the German sports car maker’s art. Or what had been, when he’d set out that morning.

I saw him lift his hands to his chubby face in horror. As he shook his head the sunlight glinted off the lenses of his little wire-rimmed glasses, as though his eyes themselves had flashed fire.

Almost against my will, I found myself following him out, stopping just behind his shoulder as he surveyed the damage.

The Merc was wrecked. The hood was in tatters, the chrome windscreen wipers had been twisted into loops, and all four tyres had been comprehensively slashed. Something heavy and sharp had been dragged along the bodywork, leaving deep gouges right down to the bare steel from headlight to taillight.

“The little bastards,” O’Bryan whispered. “Three years I’ve spent rebuilding this car. Bought it for peanuts as a right basketcase.” He turned and favoured me with a sad, lopsided smile. “I only brought it today because the clutch has gone on my Cavalier.
Three bloody years.
”

I didn’t speak. There wasn’t anything I could say. I’ve never owned a car, just an elderly Suzuki RGV 250 motorbike. Still, I could understand his distress. If anything happened to the bike it would be like losing a limb.

Suddenly, O’Bryan jerked round to the back of the car, and was staring at the boot lid. The lock had been punched out of it, and the lid itself was partly ajar. He yanked it open fully, looked inside with an anger that turned his already pale features ashen.

“I don’t believe it,” he muttered.

“What?”

“They’ve taken—” he broke off, scrabbling through the debris in the boot with the air of somebody who knows he isn’t going to find what he’s searching for. Finally, he slumped, defeated.

“What is it, Mr O’Bryan?” I asked again, gently. “What’s been taken?”

“What?” He focused on me, distracted. “Oh, my case notes,” he said weakly. “Private stuff, you know, important documents.”

“Would you like me to call the police?”

“No.” He gave a sigh that was almost a snort. “I don’t suppose it would do much good, would it?”

I thought of the kids I’d seen disappearing from the scene of the crime. None of them looked in double figures, let alone old enough to prosecute. “Not if you’re going to spend all your professional time trying to get them off with a caution, no,” I agreed.

O’Bryan’s face dropped suddenly, and I felt ashamed of my unworthy dig.

We went back into the house and I fed him a cup of tea with plenty of sugar in it to help deal with the shock. He recovered enough to borrow the phone to ring his garage to come and cart the remains away. Once that was done, he called himself a taxi, and departed. A sad, harassed little figure, with the weight of the world sitting heavy on his rounded shoulders.

***

After he’d gone, I rang my mother. Quite a momentous occasion in itself, if truth be told. There was a time when I would have cheerfully chewed off my own hand rather than use it to pick up the receiver and phone home. My, how things change.

I suppose, to be fair, I was never any great shakes as a daughter, even before the disgrace of my court martial, and the endless horrors of my trial.

I lost my father’s interest very early on by dint of surviving my birth when my twin brother failed to do so. My father had fiercely wanted a son to follow him into the medical profession, but the complications that followed my arrival meant that, after me, there were no more children.

I think my mother secretly hoped that I’d turn into one of those girlie girls. It wasn’t her fault that I firmly resisted any attempts to mould me into an ideal daughter. You can take a girl to ballet lessons as much as you like, but you can’t necessarily
make
her into a ballerina.

It was an accidental discovery on a team-building outward bound course in my late teens that led to my choice of a military career. I found I was physically tougher than I’d realised, and had the natural ability to shoot straight with a consistency that amazed the instructors.

Finally, I’d found something that earned me approval and respect. I’d gone home in triumphant defiance and dropped the news that I was joining up onto my parents with a fearful sense of excitement.

If I was expecting an emotional explosion of atomic proportions I was sadly disappointed.

Now, my mother answered the telephone herself, which saved me having to make polite, if brief, conversation with my father.

“Hi,” I said. “It’s me.”

For a moment there was a silence brought on by surprise. Although I’d made an effort since the winter before to get back on speaking terms with my parents, we were still at the stage where contact from either party brought about a profound discomfiture, just in case either of us said the wrong thing.

“Oh, Charlotte, how lovely to hear from you,” she cried, her voice jerky and bright almost to the point of manic. “How
are
you, darling?”