White Riot (27 page)

‘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 building, 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.

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.

But calm. No sense of panic or despair. If anything, a trace of amusement.

No sign of the boy or Mrs Milsom.

‘It’s about Jake, isn’t it?’ said Milsom, putting his glass down on a hand-painted Moroccan side table.

Turnbull kept his face straight, his eyes blank. Falling right back into police training. ‘You tell me.’

A smile danced around Milsom’s face. ‘I find you on my property going through my bins. You tell me.’

‘Yes, it’s about Jake.’

Milsom looked at the floor, then back to Turnbull. ‘Are you police?’

Turnbull shook his head.

Milsom looked at Turnbull, pointed a finger, like it was a guessing game. ‘But you were police.’

Turnbull gave a small nod, acceded that much.

‘So, what? Immigration? Home Office?’

Turnbull thought before answering. How much to give away. ‘Privately employed.’

Milsom nodded and smiled, pleased he had got the answer correct. ‘Right. Well, at least that’s something. Do I get to know who sent you?’

‘I’m working for a private client.’

‘And what’s his interest in Jake?’

‘Again, that’s private.’

‘I think I have a right to know.’

Turnbull’s features hardened. ‘I’ll have to check with my client.’ He said nothing more, letting Milsom know that was the end of the matter.

Milsom persisted. ‘What if I call the police? Tell them of your intrusion?’

Turnbull shrugged. ‘Up to you.’

Milsom sat back, nodded. His bluff called. ‘OK. Fine.’ He sighed, took another mouthful of whisky.

Turnbull did the same. It was good whisky. He waited.

‘So,’ Milsom said eventually, ‘you want to know about Jake. Where he came from. How he suddenly showed up. You don’t believe he was the cousin of a relative who was emigrating?’

‘Your story,’ said Turnbull, sipping the whisky.

Milsom smiled. ‘OK. Two years ago, I was in Eastern Europe. Making a documentary about the orphanages in Romania. I was there on a follow-up to one I made about ten years ago. Yeah, I know, it’s been done to death, but it’s something I’ve got a bit of a passion for. That first one changed lives. Which was incredible. I mean, how many times can you do that with a TV programme? I mean, it didn’t make things perfect but—’ he shrugged ‘—you know, a lot better for some.’

Turnbull nodded. He remembered the documentary, if that was the one Milsom was talking about. It had affected him deeply. How could it have not? Children in appalling conditions, many with mental and physical problems. Children in pain, neglect. Charities had been set up, aid sent out there. New orphanages built, lives changed for the better. If Milsom was behind it, it was a fine thing he had done.

‘But, you know, you move on to other things. Nature of the job. But I kept in touch with some of the kids, even sent
stuff, made donations, you know, to orphanages they were in. I suppose I had one eye on making a follow-up, but I was genuinely interested. Kept going back over there, that sort of thing.’

Another slurp of whisky for the two of them. Turnbull noticed his glass was empty. So did Milsom.

‘Refill?’

‘Don’t mind if I do.’ It was the best whisky Turnbull had tasted in a long time.

Milsom left the room, returned with the bottle. ‘Best just leave it here, I think.’ He smiled, poured, topping his own up too. Settled back into his chair. ‘Where was I?’

‘You keep going back over to Romania,’ said Turnbull. Would take more than a good whisky for him to forget what he was there for.

‘Right. Well, yeah. To cut a long story short, I saw Jake, as I called him. Jakob was his real name. One of the brightest kids in there.’ A smile spread across Milsom’s face. ‘Once we’d sorted him out. Always happy, cheeky, you know? Laughing and smiling. And clever. Just a joy to be with. When I saw him this time well, he, he wasn’t in a good way. He’d been … let down by his environment.’

Turnbull put his drink down, leaned forward. ‘How d’you mean?’

Milsom’s eyes darkened. ‘Jake has … Jake’s HIV-positive. Not his fault, obviously. And he was, was in a lot of pain. Not being properly looked after.’ He picked up his glass, swirled the liquid round, slowly, watching it. ‘And it just … pained me to see him like that. Like I almost didn’t recognize the same smiling little boy. I told Celia. We talked about it, and we, we came to a decision. And that’s why he’s here now.’

Turnbull took another sip, swallowed what he had just heard along with the whisky. Questions began to form.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Milsom said. ‘Why didn’t I just adopt, go through the proper channels. Why didn’t I keep him in his own country, make sure he received the care he needed over there.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I should have done. But that all takes time. Something he might not have. So …’ He shrugged, sat back. ‘So here he is.’

Turnbull looked round as if expecting the boy to make a dramatic entrance. He didn’t. There were just the two of them. And the whisky.

‘So there you go,’ said Milsom, sitting back. ‘Are you going to tell all that to your mysterious employer?’

‘Yes.’

‘And will that be enough? Will you leave Jake alone?’

Turnbull took another pull of the whisky. It was slipping down very smoothly. He was starting to feel comfortable. Always a dangerous sign. ‘That’s up to him.’

Milsom’s eyes hardened as he took another mouthful of whisky. It wasn’t the answer he had wanted to hear. ‘Well, I think it’s only fair,’ he said, ‘since I’ve told you everything, you tell me why your employer is so interested in Jake.’

Turnbull wondered whether some kind of exchange was in order. The man seemed genuine and his whisky was certainly good. But years on the force had left Turnbull naturally suspicious. He didn’t give in that easily. ‘Sorry, can’t say.’

Something flashed in Milsom’s eyes. Fear? Anger? Turnbull didn’t catch it.

‘Have you a photo of Jake I could take with me?’ Turnbull said. ‘If you don’t mind.’

A smile nearly made it to Milsom’s lips. ‘I don’t think so.’ He stood up, his glass empty. The warmth had dropped out of his voice. ‘I’m sorry you wasted your time. But I hope that’ll be an end of it.’

Turnbull rose also, draining his glass as he did so. ‘Let’s hope so,’ he said.

‘Could I ask you for a bit of … circumspection as regards to Jake?’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘He’s been through a lot. We just want to make sure the rest of his life’s as good as we can make it. We’d appreciate it if you didn’t go mentioning this to the school or the media or … anything like that.’

‘I shouldn’t think that’ll be a problem.’ Turnbull looked at the whisky, checked the label. Thought of buying some for himself. Jura. Ten-year aged malt. Good stuff.

Milsom walked him to the door. They shook hands.

Turnbull walked back to his car. Milsom had seemed sincere, he thought, but there was something … something not quite right. A little further digging was called for.

He drove away, unaware that Milsom was still at the door, staring intently as he went. The moonlight glinting off his glasses, his eyes twin balls of cold, bright flame.

Donovan blinked, turned the Drive By Truckers up further and sang along to ‘Blessing and a Curse’, windows open letting in as much air as possible. Forcing himself to stay awake as he drove up the M1 back to Newcastle. He had the road virtually to himself: too late for the night drivers, too early for the morning.

It felt like a twister was in his head, spinning the last few days around, giving him a headache. And now Jamal’s message to get back there as quickly as possible: something bad had happened.

He was thinking all this, pushing the Scimitar as hard as he could, paying no attention to the black 4×4 with the tinted windows overtaking him. He started to become aware
of it when it didn’t overtake, just sat alongside him, matching its speed to his.

He looked at it, puzzled. He was doing seventy, the Scimitar flat out. He imagined the 4×4 could easily top that. He dropped back slightly to allow it to pass. The 4×4 did the same. Donovan speeded up. The 4×4 did likewise.

He looked round. Panic began to rise. The 4×4 was staying with him for a reason.

It didn’t take him long to find out what.

It edged slightly in front of him, then pulled over towards him. Trying to catch the front of his car, force him to spin off the road.

‘Shit …’

Fully awake now, Donovan slammed on the brakes, hoping that no one was too near behind him. Luckily there wasn’t. The 4×4 did likewise. Donovan speeded up again, tried to pull round the 4×4.

No good. The black car anticipated his move, went with him.

Donovan flew out into the third lane, flooring the accelerator as hard as he could. The 4×4 sped up, easily caught him. Started to pull over to the right, push him into the crash barrier.

Donovan held tightly to the wheel, checked his mirrors for other traffic. There were cars and articulated lorries in the two other lanes. He couldn’t just speed up or drop back; he might hit something. He kept his foot pressed down hard.

The 4×4 edged closer to him.

Donovan kept going. The 4×4 matching him.

He looked up. A slip road signposted, half a mile ahead. A desperate, reckless plan began to form. He looked round, tried to calculate the distance between himself and the traffic behind him, the 4×4 edging closer all the time.