White Riot (4 page)

Peta liked to research potential clients, get to meetings
early, position herself well, take control, direct the conversation. There would be little chance of that here. But she had no choice but to accept the work. Her money stream was as dried up as a globally warmed creek bed.

Going through the front door, she crossed the black and white squared-tile entrance hall, her unfamiliar heels awkwardly clacking and echoing, handbag slipping off her shoulder, skirt tight as a rope round her knees. Pulling her cotton blouse from her sweating chest, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. Angry at having to dress up to go home, so far away from her usual comfort zone of jeans and trainers or gym sweats, she felt like a female impersonator. A very bad one.

She looked in on the front room. Same as usual. Her parents had settled on a Liberty print and Klimt look some time in the Seventies and, seeing no reason to change what worked, kept it the same over the subsequent decades. Peta often thought that was a metaphor for their relationship, a thought seemingly confirmed because since her father’s death from cancer four years previously her mother hadn’t changed a thing.

She called out; no one answered.

Into the kitchen, the Aga turned as low as possible in the heat. The back door was open, two figures sitting close on the wooden garden furniture, laughing. One of them saw her, turned. They pulled apart.

‘Peta, darling, come on out.’

Peta went out. She noticed that the bottle of wine between them was nearly empty.

Her mother stood up, smiled. In her early sixties, Lillian Knight was a striking woman. With good bone structure and a figure kept trim and fit, she seemed ten if not fifteen years younger than her actual age. Her blonde hair was now perhaps a shade unnatural, but so what? When Peta looked
at her she saw herself in several years’ time and found no disgrace in that.

They kissed, both cheeks.

‘You’re looking well.’

‘You too, Lillian.’ Always Lillian, never Mother or Mum. That’s how she had grown up. The era her parents were from.

‘We were just reminiscing about the good old days.’ Her mother turned, indicated the man sitting at her side. ‘This is Trevor. Trevor Whitman.’

Trevor Whitman’s hair was greying, swept back and collar length, his beard well manicured, one step above designer stubble. Medium height and build. Kept himself in shape. Dressed in a dove-grey suit with a black silk shirt beneath it.

He stood up, shook her hand.

‘Hi,’ he said.

She noticed how he surreptitiously took her all in. How his equally surreptitious nod indicated approval. How his eyes held hers for a beat too long. She forcefully blew the strand of hair away from her face again. He gestured to the garden table; there was a third chair. She sat, feeling uncomfortable, not liking the sensation. Trying to compose herself.

A radiant smile. He lifted the bottle. ‘Drink?’

Peta shook her head. ‘I don’t drink alcohol.’

‘I’ll get you some water,’ said Lillian, seeming suddenly awkward. ‘Give you a chance to get to know each other.’

Lillian stroked her hand along Whitman’s shoulder. Peta noticed the gesture. She felt she was meant to. Lillian slipped quickly away to the kitchen. Whitman kept looking at her.

‘I must say,’ he said, holding eye contact, ‘you’re not what I was expecting.’

‘I get that a lot. It’s the name,’ she said. ‘They expect a man.’

‘I didn’t mean that. I meant an ex-policewoman working
in the private sector, I thought you’d be more …’ His fingers wriggled as if grasping for the word, smiling all the while.

‘Dykey?’

He reddened. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have said …’

She thought of the way her mother had stroked him. ‘How d’you know I’m not?’

He quickly took a mouthful of his drink, pretended to find his glass fascinating. Peta tried not to smile. Lillian, as if on cue, chose that moment to reappear. She placed a glass of iced sparkling water down for Peta, another bottle of wine beside Whitman’s glass.

‘Right,’ she said with a bright, shiny smile. ‘Now that you two have introduced yourselves, shall we have lunch? Catch up on gossip, then you can get down to work.’

Peta looked at her watch, told her mother she wouldn’t have time for lunch. Said that she had a lot on for the afternoon, wished it were true when she said it. Lillian objected but Whitman said it would be OK.

‘Fine,’ she said, although it clearly wasn’t. ‘Right. Well. I’d better go and make myself scarce.’ She turned, went back into the kitchen. Hurt but trying not to let it show.

‘Oh dear,’ said Whitman.

Peta felt a pang of guilt, tried to tamp it down, focus. She shrugged. ‘I did tell her but she wouldn’t listen. I won’t take the blame.’

Whitman smiled. ‘She’s a stubborn one. Once she’s got an idea …’

Peta nodded, took a sip of her water, felt her composure returning. ‘I know.’ And worse since she retired from lecturing, she thought, but didn’t want to share that with Whitman.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘About that remark before. Out of order.’

‘No problem.’

‘The wine, I suppose. And not very PC.’

‘It’s OK.’

Another smile. ‘Cool. Whatever.’

She looked at him again, sizing him up, professionally judgemental now. The kind of guy who never got punk and thought great music stopped at the Stones, thought cinema was never so exciting after Fassbinder died, had a shelf full of yellowing, orange-spined Penguins, drove a sports car – probably a red one – and thought he was still hip and down with the kids because he knew who Eminem was. Peppered his speech with transatlanticisms. Had the arrogance and demeanour of an ageing rock ’n’ roll rebel academic growing old gracefully, proud of not losing his rough edges. She could see what her mother and he had in common.

‘Can I ask you something?’ he said. ‘You don’t drink. I’m curious. Is that by choice or …’

She had been so determined to succeed when she joined the police, so eager. But whatever the PR people say, an intelligent, attractive young woman, unafraid to speak her mind, is still not welcome in the police. Or at least that was what her colleagues did their best to let her think. When she eventually admitted defeat and left she was racked with depression and a drink problem. She had also had an intense affair with a very unsuitable man that hadn’t helped. She had sorted herself out, but it had taken her years.

Peta kept her face blank, her eyes unreadable. ‘Let’s just say the police lifestyle didn’t agree with me.’

‘Lillian’s told me about your company,’ Whitman said, pouring himself another large glass of wine. ‘Albion, is it?’

‘Was. It’s finished now. I’m freelance.’

Whitman raised an eyebrow. ‘Thought you were doing well. You and an ex-journalist. Joe Donovan, right?’

Peta kept her voice calm, her answers clipped. ‘We’re no longer working together.’

‘Right.’ Then he grinned. ‘Guy or girl?’

‘What?’

‘Joe. Guy or girl?’

‘Guy.’

‘Thought I’d better ask.’ Another smile, another over-long eye lock. ‘You look just like her. Lillian. When she was your age. The image of her.’

Peta felt her face reddening, hoped it was just the heat. ‘So who is it you want protecting from?’

He smiled, eyes going twinkly-crinkly in the corners, sun glinting on his teeth. ‘Myself, mainly.’

Enough. He needed some serious mental realignment and quick focusing.

‘Mr Whitman—’

‘Trevor, please.’

‘Mr Whitman, let’s get some ground rules established. This is not a leisurely afternoon with friends and family. We’re not on a date. You want to employ me in a professional capacity. So without meaning to be rude, let’s talk business.’

Whitman sat back, humbled and fumbling for words. Blushing. Peta definitely with the upper hand now. She waited, her silence the tool he needed to dig himself out. From the kitchen her mother clattered about.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That’s not what … I didn’t mean to give that impression. Very unprofessional among other things. Yes, you’re right. Let’s get on with it.’

‘Good,’ said Peta, clearly in control. ‘Now what’s the problem?’

‘You’re an information broker,’ Whitman said eventually, after searching for the right approach. ‘That’s what I need. Information.’

‘About what?’

‘Or who.’ He sat back, took a mouthful of his drink.
Looked at her, his eyes cold ashes, whatever was in them earlier now burned out. The garden umbrella cast a long shadow over his face. ‘What d’you know about me or my background?’

Peta’s mind flicked over the notes she had made before the meeting. ‘Political radical. Heyday was the early Seventies.’

Whitman winced. Peta enjoyed his reaction but didn’t glory in it. She continued.

‘North-eastern working-class boy, got a scholarship to university. Newcastle redbrick.’

‘Where I met Philip and Lillian.’

‘Became politicized there. Left, set up an Angry Brigade splinter group, the Hollow Men.’

‘After T. S. Eliot. Satire.’

‘And that group was responsible for acts of violence against the state—’

‘Ah, now that’s not fair—’

Peta continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. ‘—including attacks on the police, various Tory MPs and the firebombing of a pub full of off-duty policemen. Eventually the Hollow Men disbanded, an acrimonious split. Repented of earlier actions in the Eighties, was never charged for anything. Attempted to become Member of Parliament for the SDP in ’82, was unsuccessful. Went into teaching at university level, became a lecturer in psychology and sociology.’ She sat back, smiling, trying to play down the smugness she felt. ‘How am I doing?’

Whitman was impressed. ‘Very good.’ He smiled. ‘Disbanded, acrimonious split, make us sound like a rock band.’

‘Wasn’t that the intention? Politics the new rock ’n’ roll?’

Whitman smiled wistfully. ‘Different time. When politics meant something. When rock ’n’ roll meant something.’ The smile faded. ‘And I’d take exception to that description
of crimes against the state. We were never terrorists. We were freedom fighters. Revolutionaries, not terrorists. That’s what radical politics were like back then.’

‘Different time.’ She nodded, clearly unconvinced.

He drank his drink.

‘So how can I help you now?’

Whitman seemed to think hard, then continued. ‘Well, as you know, I’ve recently written my biography. I didn’t expect it to knock
The Da Vinci Code
off the top of the best-seller chart, but I thought it might attract some interest in – shall we say? – academic circles.’ His voice, once he became interested in his own words, was rich and sonorous. Yet, Peta noticed, still betrayed his north-east origins. ‘Political journals, that sort of thing. I wasn’t prepared for what happened.’

Peta leaned forward, interested. ‘What happened?’

Whitman opened his mouth but seemed reticent to speak. He moved his lips as if auditioning the correct words before speaking them. ‘I’ve been getting … phone calls.’

‘What kind?’

‘The … disturbing kind. The threatening kind.’

‘Threatening?’

‘Yeah. Well, not in so many words. More … insistent. Veiled threats.’

‘Saying what?’

‘Saying … enough to worry me. This person knows about me. My background. Knows I’m coming back up here. Wants to make it difficult for me.’

‘In what way?

‘’Just … difficult.’

‘So why are you back up here?’

‘The book. I’m promoting it. A few local media interviews, TV and radio, a signing, that sort of thing.’

‘And then what? Back home? To London?’

‘No, I’m … I took a sabbatical. Staying up here. For a while.’

Peta leaned forward. ‘Any reason?’ She looked to the kitchen window, where her mother was pretending to do something at the sink. ‘Family? Friends?’

Whitman shrugged. That irritating smile began to creep across his features again. ‘Not much family left. Friends?’ He followed Peta’s gaze. ‘Maybe. But really I’m just taking in the local colour. Seeing the old town. Logging the changes. That kind of thing. Might write another book about it.’

He glanced quickly at her, then away, as if his eyes were holding something he didn’t want her to see. She didn’t believe his words but didn’t press him. It had nothing to do with work.

‘Right.’

‘And judging by the headlines and the TV, I picked possibly the worst time to come back to Newcastle. What with that Asian kid. And the Fascists on the march again. And that Muslim guy trying to make a name for himself.’

Peta nodded. ‘Not the most stable of times.’

They both knew the story. A twenty-year-old Muslim college student had been found dead in the street after being set ablaze. Peta could still clearly recall his grief-stricken mother at a televised press conference weeping openly, having a breakdown in front of millions. The National Unity Party, a BNP offshoot, had been blamed but, with local elections in which they were expected to make significant gains upcoming, were strenuously denying it. As a result, Muslim communities, egged on by Abdul-Haq, a local leading radical, were arming themselves, patrolling the streets at night. The city was on a knife edge. Tension was high. And, Peta thought, fanning her neck and chest, the weather wasn’t helping any.

‘And the heat,’ Whitman said. ‘Wasn’t like this back in the day.’

Peta suppressed a smile at the phrase.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’re always going on about southerners, how they get the slightest bit of snow and barricade themselves into their houses for a week. We’re the opposite. A bit of heat and we revert to angry cavemen.’

He smiled. ‘And cavewomen. Let’s be politically correct.’

‘OK,’ she said, back to business. ‘This caller. Any ideas. Do you know who this person is?’

‘Obviously not. If I did I would be able to do something about them.’

‘All right, then. Do you suspect who this person might be?’

Whitman sighed. ‘I don’t know.’ He took another mouthful of his drink. Refilled from the bottle. Peta noticed the wine was nearly all gone. ‘I used to get calls a few years ago.’

‘And it’s the same kind of messages?’

He nodded.