White Riot (30 page)

‘Together?’

‘Yes. Peta had just found out that … her father wasn’t the man she thought he was.’

Donovan nodded. ‘Whitman.’

Lillian nodded. The weak morning light crept round the sides of the drawn curtain. It hit Lillian’s face, turning her skin translucent. She looked ghost-like, as if nothing she said or did was real.

Lillian nodded. ‘I’m having a cup of tea. I’d advise you to join me. I may be talking for some time.’

‘Philip died four years ago,’ said Lillian, settling back in the chair, mug of tea clutched before her like her strength and shield. ‘It was hard for me, even though we knew it was going to happen for some time. People talk of death being some kind of blessed release. For both the sufferer and those around them. Not for me. I just wanted him back.’

Donovan sipped his tea, said nothing.

‘It hit me hard, but it hit Peta hardest. You see, she had always been a daddy’s girl, always wanted to be with him whatever he was doing, seek his approval in all things. Well, in most things.’

‘She never favoured you?’

Lillian shook her head. ‘I think we were too alike.’

‘And you never had any more children?’

‘Philip was … He couldn’t. But he was a wonderful father to Peta. That was the most important thing.’

‘Even though she wasn’t his.’

‘As I said. A wonderful man.’

‘And he came along after Trevor Whitman?’

‘Trevor Whitman and I were never actually an item, as you might say. You have to remember that the Seventies were a different time. It was the era of free love, of radicalism.
The Female Eunuch
and all that. We were liberated, there was no AIDS …’ She sighed, lost in the past for a few seconds. ‘Trevor and I were only ever occasional lovers. He was with Mary Evans for a long time, although such things as formal relationships were frowned on in our progressive, permissive little group.’

‘Before she became a lesbian, I presume.’

Lillian almost smiled. ‘We all experimented, one way or another.’

‘And you found yourself pregnant.’

‘Yes.’ Another sigh, another sip of tea. ‘And suddenly I wasn’t so progressive or permissive. I was a university undergraduate flying high who suddenly found herself very earthbound.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘Well, first there was Mary Evans to consider. She’d already had two abortions through Trevor, both at Trevor’s insistence, she always maintained. And when he found out I was pregnant I thought he would insist on me having one, but he said nothing of the sort. Have the baby, we’ll bring it up. We’ll manage.’ She waved her arms about in a vague gesture. ‘Whatever. Of course, Mary Evans was furious.’

‘Because he seemed to think more of you? Jealousy? Had she wanted children with him?’

‘I don’t know about that, but she loved him. Passionately. Totally.’ Lillian smiled. Her features softened, some of the worry folded away. ‘He was a very easy man to love.’

‘But you didn’t take up his offer.’

‘Philip was on the scene by then. And I didn’t want my child aborted. I could, as they say now, talk the talk. But that was all. Also, the bombing had happened, the Hollow Men were in disarray and this utopian dream had suddenly turned very sour. Philip offered me security and safety, a future. Love and companionship. Naturally, I took it.’

‘And he didn’t mind bringing up another man’s baby?’

‘I think he may have been happier if the baby had been his, but, as I said, he couldn’t have children and he knew that. A childhood illness, he always said. So in that respect he was happy. Families, he kept saying, are more than a question of biology. And he proved it.’ Another wistful, sad smile. ‘And he proved it.’

‘And Peta had no idea.’

Lillian shook her head. ‘To all intents and purposes Philip was her father. He brought her up, he loved her. She was his daughter. I never felt like I was lying to her, keeping anything from her. It’s the same as if she had been a test-tube baby, or through a surrogate. It made no difference.’

Another smile. She seemed about to drift off. Donovan checked his watch. Bring her back. He had work to do.

‘And then Trevor Whitman came back.’

She looked up, startled. ‘Yes. Well, he’d been in the background all those years, at a distance, of course. That’s how we wanted it. He sent money when he had it, presents on her birthday. She always had them but we never told her who they were from. We decided early on that Peta should never meet him while Philip was alive.’ Another sigh, heavier this time.

‘And with Philip dead he came back on to the scene.’

Anger flashed across Lillian’s face. ‘It wasn’t like that. Never so cut and dried. Trevor was in a bit of a fix. He had discovered something, something awful, and needed help. When he told me what it was I invited him up here straight away.’

Donovan sat back. ‘So what had he discovered?’

‘He started to get calls. At first he didn’t know who they were from, didn’t recognize the voice. South African. But they used code words that only an ex-Hollow Man would know. And gradually this person revealed himself. Alan Shepherd. Well, Trevor was stunned. And scared.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he was a maniac. They were going to throw him out of the Hollow Men when he went off on his own and blew the pub up. They were blamed and he disappeared. Trevor was never prosecuted because he didn’t do it. Maurice’s father paid for the legal team. There was no evidence and they all had alibis. But the police tried their damnedest. My God, they tried.’

‘And now he’s back.’

‘Yes. But you should know Shepherd doesn’t care about the money, or the project. Shepherd just likes to get people to dance to his tune. He’s a Fascist. And a psychopath. Put the two together and he’s a big problem. All the unrest we’ve been having recently. Alan’s behind it.’

‘Why?’

Lillian sighed. ‘Trevor says it’s Alan’s idea of fun.’

‘Why didn’t Whitman go to the police with this?’

Lillian gave a sad smile. ‘Would you believe it? Coming from someone with his track record? Plus, he had no evidence. All he could say was he was getting phone calls. He had to find another way to force it into the open.’

‘So that’s when you brought in Peta. Gave her some cock-and-bull story and sent her off.’ Donovan felt his anger rising. ‘What did you expect her to find?’

‘Trevor was going to hire a private detective. Snoop around, see what evidence they could uncover. If not that, then stir things up, bring them out in the open. And then we thought of Albion. It was perfect.’

‘Except Albion weren’t together. So you set your own daughter up. I suppose that was Whitman’s idea of irony.’

Lillian slammed her mug down on the floor, spilling tea over the rug. ‘We had to do something! People would lose their lives. People have lost their lives. We had to do something …’ She trailed off, covering her face with her hand, hoping Donovan wouldn’t see the tears.

It didn’t work. The sobbing overtook Lillian. She curled inwards, shoulders heaving as grief took over. Donovan placed his mug by the side of the sofa, stood up. He wouldn’t be getting anything more out of Lillian Knight for quite a while. He turned, made his way to the door.

‘Mr Donovan …’ Her voice was small, weak.

He turned.

‘Please find them. Please find Peta. She’s my daughter and I love her …’

Donovan saw himself out.

Jamal knocked on Peta’s door without expecting an answer. He wasn’t disappointed. Looking up and down the street, seeing no one, he got the key out, let himself in.

The house had been ripped apart. Furniture overturned, split open, books pulled from shelves, covers ripped off. CDs and DVDs scattered, ornaments shattered. A comprehensive, gleefully destructive job.

The devastation hurt Jamal. Once, in what seemed like another life, he would have been happy to do the wrecking. But not now. Seeing something like this reminded him of how far he had come in such a relatively short space of time.

He went through to the dining room, the kitchen. The same carnage in there.

They had been looking for something, he thought. He had no idea whether they had found it.

Then: a noise from upstairs.

He looked round, trying to think on his feet, decide what to do next. Options flew through his mind like darting sparrows. It might be Peta. Alone and hurt. It might be the people who did this, waiting for whoever came in next. It might be—

‘Stay where you are!’

Jamal turned. Three uniformed police officers came running down the stairs carrying batons, wearing protective vests. Another two rushed in from the back of the house. Jamal looked quickly round. He had to do something.

‘Stay exactly where you are!’

‘Do not move!’

He looked at the front door, made a dash for it. They rushed forward, were on him straight away, pushing him to the floorboards, holding him down, twisting his right arm up his back.

‘Thought I told you not to move, you little cunt,’ he heard one of them say.

‘Next time you’ll fuckin’ do what you’re told, won’t you?’

They stepped back. Left him lying there, handcuffed. Jamal screwed his eyes tight shut, waited for the blows to come down on him. It wouldn’t be the first time.

‘Leave him.’

A voice, female, familiar. He tried to turn his head, couldn’t.

‘Get him up.’ She sounded weary.

He was pulled on to his feet, the handcuffs taken off. He turned round.

There stood Detective Inspector Diane Nattrass. Paul Turnbull’s old partner. Joe Donovan’s old sparring partner.

Jamal didn’t know whether that was good news or not.

She smiled at him. ‘Hello Jamal,’ she said. ‘Long time no see. Mind telling me what’s going on?’

‘Well,’ said Donovan, looking round, ‘quite the party.’

He stood in the living room of Peta’s house. Detective Inspector Diane Nattrass was sitting on the sofa. She was one of the constants in Donovan’s life, always the same. No-nonsense suit, hair pulled unfussily back from her face, little or no make-up. All business, unsexed for work. But she had a good heart, Donovan knew. And a razor-sharp brain.

There had been run-ins before. They weren’t friends but neither were they enemies. Each had a strong mutual respect for the other. But neither would let that come before their work.

Jamal sat in an armchair opposite her, rubbing his wrists. Neither looked happy. Donovan looked round, took in the devastation. Felt something deep within him dislodge.

‘Did you lot do this?’ he said.

‘What d’you think?’ said Nattrass.

Donovan looked at Jamal. ‘You OK?’

Jamal looked at Nattrass, thought of speaking, decided against it. Gave a noncommittal shrug, went back to sulking.

‘Anyone put the kettle on?’ said Donovan.

‘Be my guest,’ said Nattrass. ‘If you can find it. Sit down, Joe. You’d better tell me everything about the case you were working on.’

‘And a happy long time no see to you too, Diane,’ said Donovan. He sat on the armchair by Jamal. Looked again at the devastation. Thought of the times he had sat in that room, drank coffee, watched DVDs …

‘Joe?’

He looked up. Nattrass was looking at him, professionalism softened by concern. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

‘How come you were here? In Peta’s house?’

‘A neighbour reported hearing noises, saw men running away from the house. Thought there must have been a break-in, phoned in.’

‘Bit mob-handed and high-ranking for a break-in.’

‘I saw whose name the house belonged to.’

‘And your spider sense started tingling.’

‘Just tell me what’s going on, Joe.’

He told her about Alan Shepherd and the NUP. Their part in the recent civil unrest. She listened, nodding as he finished.

‘Feel free to tell me that’s all bullshit.’

‘No. It would fit.’ Nattrass looked around, seeing the other members of her team, Jamal, making her mind up. She looked back at Donovan. ‘We’ve come across some … discrepancies in the investigation.’

‘How d’you mean?’

Before she could say anything further, a young, sharply suited policeman stepped forward, looked at Nattrass with concern. ‘Ma’am,’ he said, throwing uncharitable glances towards Donovan, ‘with all due respect I strongly advise you not to give details of police business to—’ he looked again at Donovan, tried to find an appropriate phrase for him. ‘—this … member of the public.’

Nattrass looked up, surprised at the interruption. Donovan smiled.

‘Paul’s replacement?’ he said.

Nattrass nodded. ‘Detective Sergeant Fenton, Joe Donovan.’

Fenton nodded. If his facial expression were a temperature it would have been sub-arctic. Donovan smiled, gave a little wave, looked at Nattrass.

‘Very earnest.’

Fenton stepped forward, a look on his face showing Donovan what he would like to do with his opinions.

Nattrass spoke, her voice authoritative. ‘He’s my new DS. And a bloody good copper. Have some respect, please.’

‘Sorry,’ said Donovan.

‘Good.’ Nattrass looked at Fenton. ‘Thank you for your input, Stevie. I’ll be the judge of who I talk to and what about.’

Fenton, suitably chastised, shrank backwards. Nattrass said nothing until he was out of earshot.

‘You were saying?’ said Donovan.

‘Yes, irregularities. Sooliman Patel, the student who was murdered. We thought it was just a racist attack. Hauled Rick Oaten in, went through everything he had. Not one single shred of evidence linking him or anyone in his party to the attack. Clean as.’

Donovan shrugged. ‘So? Maybe he got someone else to do it.’

‘Maybe. But with no means and no motive, we couldn’t take it any further. And then it got even stranger. We found the car he must have been abducted in. A Rover. Stolen out of town. Torched on some wasteground outside Durham. Forensics went over it. Nothing. Clean.’

‘CCTV?’ said Donovan.

‘Showed four hooded youths in the car. Or rather, four hooded individuals. Gloved, faces covered. No way to tell how old they were or even what race they were. The whole thing seemed like a professional hit. Why, we don’t know.’

‘Fits in to what I’ve told you, though. Everything done for a purpose. Get people angry. Stoked up. Destabilize the
NUP
.’