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Authors: Martyn Waites

Tags: #Crime, #Thriller, #Mystery, #Detective, #Hard-Boiled, #Suspense, #UK

White Riot (28 page)

BOOK: White Riot
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The signs for the turn-off appeared.

Three bars …

Two bars …

One …

Donovan slammed the brakes on, skidded almost to a standstill. The 4×4 was slow to react, slammed to the right, collided with the crash barrier, sent up a shower of sparks as it dragged along.

Donovan didn’t dare stop, didn’t dare look round. He slammed the car into gear, crossed diagonally over the road, eyes virtually closed as horns blared, brakes squealed.

He opened his eyes again. He had made the turn-off.

Barely slowing down, he hit the roundabout at the bottom, went round to the right and off down whichever road he was on. No time to check where he was. He kept driving, throwing occasional glances into the mirror.

No 4×4.

Eventually he reached a small town, pulled the car off the road, drove into a pub car park and parked up as far from the road as possible. Waited.

No 4×4.

He got out of the car, sighed.

Walked over to some bushes. Threw up.

When he was ready he continued his journey home.

By minor roads.

29

Richie Vane sat in the passenger seat of Peta’s Saab convertible. He looked through the windows, at the dashboard, the CD player, even the door handle and seat belt. A dislocated smile played on his face. ‘Lovely car, this, lovely.’

‘Shut up, Richie,’ said Whitman, not taking his hands off the wheel, his eyes off the road. ‘I have to think.’ And fast, Whitman knew. He had to get away. Put as much distance between them and where they had come from as fast as they could.

Outside the community centre, Richie Vane had let his hand drop once Whitman had realized who he was.

‘What the fuck? Richie?’

Richie had put his finger to his lips, kept Whitman pressed up against the side of the community centre until the van was well away. Once it had gone he relaxed his grip.

‘What the fuck’s happening? Why are you here?’

‘They’ve got her. Peta, her name is.’ Richie’s face was grave in the shadowed streetlight. He looked at the door. Sadness came into his eyes. ‘Nice name. Unusual. Did you choose it?’

‘What? Richie we’ve got to …’ What? What could Whitman do now? ‘Let’s go and see Mary. Is she still inside?’

Richie frowned. ‘Mary isn’t in there. I saw them come in an’ wait. So I waited. But no Mary.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Them two?’ Richie pointed along the street the van had
disappeared down. ‘Abdul-Haq’s strongarm boys. Seen them with him before.’

‘Gideon?’

‘Abdul-Haq now.’ Anger came into Richie’s eyes. ‘Twat would be a better word.’

‘Where have they taken her, d’you know?’

Richie shook his head.

Whitman paced in a circle. ‘Shit … shit …’ He stopped, looked at Richie. ‘Why are you here?’

Richie gave another cockeyed smile. ‘I was watchin’. Like I told Peta I would. Be her eyes and ears. Her word on the street. I came here ’cos I thought somethin’ was up.’

Whitman’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you know, Richie?’

‘About what?’

‘About what’s going on?’

Richie frowned. ‘About …’ He shrugged. ‘Peta told me you were gettin’ phone calls from the old days. I said I would ask around.’

Whitman scrutinized him, tried to see if he was telling the truth. Decided he was. Richie was many things but duplicitous wasn’t one of them. Unless he had changed a lot.

‘OK …’ Whitman looked around. The van was now long gone. He was in internal turmoil; emotions churning, he didn’t know which one to latch on to, go with first. ‘We’d better get out of here, do something about finding Peta.’

Richie nodded, followed Whitman to Peta’s car.

He drove away, thinking hard, trying to get his mind in some semblance of order. To find a hook he could hang on to. He turned to Richie.

‘So, Richie, long time no see. How’ve you been keeping?’

*

Rani Rajput couldn’t sleep. She didn’t even know if it was time for sleep. Days and nights were becoming one long medicated somnambulant blur. Ever since he died.

Ever since her husband was revealed to be a suicide bomber.

The police had taken her in for questioning, held her for two whole days. All she did was break down in tears, try to tell them through the sobs that it wasn’t him, they must have the wrong man. He would never do anything like that. Even told them that they hardly ever went to mosque, just on special occasions – family things, birthdays. Like Christmas and weddings for Christians, she said. They hadn’t listened.

Her son had gone to stay with his grandparents, but even he was questioned by a family liaison officer. Rani would never forget the looks of the police: stone-eyed hatred disguised by a veneer of professional courtesy. Even the few Indian ones, they were looking at her like all she and her husband were doing was spoiling it for the rest of them.

They let her go eventually to find that they had seized Safraz’s computer, CDs, books, everything that they could. The house had been gone through thoroughly, like a polite bomb had hit it. She had just sat down in the centre of her living room and cried.

The bank she worked for in the city centre told her not to come in for a few days. Take as much time off as you want. She knew what they meant. Don’t come back at all. And all her friends, the white ones especially, didn’t want to know her any more.

She had tried to get herself back together, tidied the house. Gone to Tesco. But she heard the voices. They didn’t bother to whisper, just said it straight out to her face.

Told to go back to where she came from.

Now that her husband was gone she could go to Iraq and fuck Osama.

That she should have her son taken away from her by social services in case she infected him with her hatred. She was an unfit mother.

Spat on her.

Not crazed, right-wing Fascists, just ordinary people.

She had gone back home, slammed and locked the door behind her. Vowed never to go out again.

And then the rumours had started. They hadn’t gone on holiday to Greece last summer. Safraz had been on an al-Qaeda training camp in Afghanistan. All that drinking and not going to mosque was just a cover. Playing football with his mates, all a cover. That’s what they wanted people to think. And the wife was in on it too. How could she not be? How could all that be going on and she didn’t know?

She didn’t know. That was it. She didn’t know.

She didn’t believe he was a suicide bomber. He couldn’t be. He had gone to play football and ended up in a part of Newcastle they never went to, didn’t know anyone there. Safraz wasn’t hiding anything from her. He was terrible at keeping secrets.

The tears came again. And again.

She had refused to talk to the media, but now, with things mounting up against her, she decided she had better put her side of the story. She gave an interview to the local paper. Turned down lots of money from the nationals because she didn’t know how they would treat her. How they would twist her words.

She just wanted to give her side, have her say. Let them know what a loving husband Safraz was, a good father. And voice her suspicions too, get them out in the open.

The reporter had set her mini tape recorder down, gently asked her questions, listened attentively, nodded encouragingly. Afterwards, Rani felt good about it. Like her side of the story was finally going to be put. Maybe now people
would leave her alone. Maybe now people would believe her.

And then the story came out:

SUICIDE BOMBER WIFE REVEALS: HE HAD SEX WITH ME BEFORE EMBARKING ON CAMPAIGN OF HATRED

The media had embarked on a feeding frenzy. The local journalist sold her story, the interview went everywhere. Everyone was now beating down her door.

And Rani couldn’t cope any more.

So now she lay on the bed, not sleeping but not awake either, a picture of her husband and son clutched to her chest, tears in her eyes and a bottle of sleeping pills next to her.

She didn’t want to die. But she didn’t want to live either. She just wanted something to take the pain away. She didn’t want to be hated any more.

She looked at her husband, her son, through wet, blurred vision. Her son would understand one day. She hoped.

Another pill, dry-swallowed. Another step nearer to nothing.

Rani cried. And cried.

Until she could cry no more.

Richie kept slipping away, like real life was too much for him in anything but small doses. He contented himself with looking round, playing with the radio and CD player.

‘You put a CD here,’ he said, staring intently at it, ‘and it just sucks it in. Takes it off you. Watch.’

He held a CD at the opening on the player. It sucked it in. Richie laughed. ‘Clever, eh? Like it’s hungry an’ wants feedin’.’

The car was filled with the sounds of Kasabian at full volume. Whitman reached over, turned it off.

‘We don’t need that. Just think, Richie. Think.’

Richie sat there, humming, the song still in his head. Or a song.

‘What do you know, Richie? Eh? About what’s going on. What do you know?’

Richie slowly looked at him. ‘I don’t know. Anythin’. Somethin’s happenin’ but I don’t know what it is.’ Richie gave a small smile. ‘Do I, Misterrr Jonezzzzz …’

Whitman shook his head. Brilliant. Stuck in a speeding car with a brain-fired, Dylan-singing acid casualty. Things had gone badly wrong, out of his control. The plan was torn up. He needed somewhere to hide, to think. He needed protection.

‘Richie …’

Richie was still humming. Whitman had to say his name again, sharper this time. Richie turned his head.

‘We need somewhere to hole up. Somewhere we won’t be disturbed. Know anywhere?’

Richie frowned. ‘You mean a bar? I’m not supposed to drink any more. It’s bad … bad for me.’

‘I know that, Richie. I’m not asking you to drink. Just take me there.’

Richie thought for a moment. ‘OK.’

‘Good.’ Whitman looked at the road, the night. They were out there. Waiting. Watching. Ready to attack at any moment. ‘And Richie?’

‘Yeah?’

‘D’you know where I could buy a gun?’

Jason was pulled up, a hand round his throat choking the air out of him. He was thrown into a hard wooden chair. He sat forward, gasping for breath. He was naked, no idea of how long he had been there. He was hungry and tired. He had been trying to sleep on the floor, his shivering
keeping him awake. He rubbed his neck, tried to spit. Looked up.

There were two of them. Major Tom and another man. No balaclavas this time. They both looked angry. He tried smiling at them but they didn’t return it. Jason was scared, more frightened even than when the two Pakis had taken him from the shop.

‘You ran away, little cunt,’ said the man he didn’t know. Shaved head, dressed in green army clothes. He looked and smelled hard.

‘Wuh-what’s goin’ on? What’s happenin’?’

‘Did we say you could talk? Eh? Did we?’

The hard-faced one slapped him. It felt like a punch. Jason’s head snapped sideways, his cheek stinging like a hundred razor slashes.

Major Tom came round behind him, put a sack over his head, began to twist it at the neck. Jason tried to pull a shuddering breath of air into his body, couldn’t. He smelled and tasted old earth, dirt and dust. His hands went to the edges, tried to pull it away. Major Tom’s grip was too strong. He tightened it.

Jason felt himself being roughly pulled to his feet, spun round. He felt sick, light-headed. Round and round. Someone kicked his legs away from him. He fell to the stone floor, the remaining breath smacked out of his body. Stars danced, exploded, before his eyes. He felt himself blacking out.

The sack was ripped from his head. He gasped in lungfuls of air, kept his eyes screwed tight shut. Curled into a foetal ball. Forced the tears not to form at the corners of his eyes, didn’t trust them not to come streaming down his face.

He groaned.

‘I said no talking.’

A kick to his ribs. Jason gasped, girdled by pain, curled up even more.

‘Open your eyes.’ Major Tom this time. ‘Open them.’

Jason did as he was told. Found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. A revolver. Major Tom opened the chamber, showed Jason the bullet, replaced it, spun it. Pointed it at Jason’s face again, pulled the trigger.

Jason screamed, tried to move out of the way. Couldn’t. The hard-faced man held him by the neck, kept his face on the barrel of the gun.

Click.

Jason squealed.

Another spin, another pull of the trigger.

Click.

Jason felt his bowels go.

‘Filthy fucker …’ The hard-faced man jumped out of the way, smacked him in the back of the head.

Jason fell forward, sprawled on the floor.

‘Are you going to run away again?’

Jason shook his head.

‘What?’ Another kick. ‘Can’t hear you.’

‘No …’

‘Have you been chosen for something special?’

‘Yes …’

‘Are you going to do it?’

Jason hesitated. The kicks started again. Jason kept his eyes closed, body as still as possible.

‘Are you going to do it?’

‘Yes.’

Jason held his breath, didn’t move. The two men left the room. Jason still held his breath, didn’t move.

Didn’t dare do otherwise.

30

Amar and Jamal sat at the desk. Amar pushed keys on the laptop, watched the screen intently. Jamal watched Amar watching. Donovan stood behind them, can of beer in his hand. His second one. Calming him down, keeping him going.

‘Play it again,’ he said.

Amar did so. Whitman’s voice came out of the speakers along with that of the caller. The tense conversation was relived, clicked off, ended. Amar turned round. ‘What d’you think?’

‘That accent the caller’s got,’ said Donovan, taking another mouthful, ‘I’m guessing South African.’

‘But he kinda goes into it an’ out of it,’ said Jamal. ‘Like he’s puttin’ it on.’

‘Maybe he’s taking it off,’ said Donovan. ‘Maybe that’s how he speaks now and doesn’t think Whitman will recognize him with the accent so he tries to lose it.’

‘So what does that mean?’ said Amar.

BOOK: White Riot
10.14Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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