White Riot (32 page)

‘Fighting what?’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. The redevelopment.’

Peta frowned. ‘In the West End? People are killing each other, bombing, kidnapping, because of that?’

Mary Evans nodded. ‘More jobs. Better housing. They’ve given me assurances.’

‘Assurances. You can’t reconcile what’s going on with what you’re going to get out of it. The ends don’t justify the means.’

‘Just because I want a better tomorrow I’m not some soft-headed liberal. There’s more than one kind of revolution. Remember what I said when you came to see me. By any means necessary. But this is different. This is personal.’

‘How?’

‘They wanted me in. Sway the local community, convince them it was a good plan. I couldn’t. But then Trevor Whitman became involved. And they know what I think of him. So they offered me a deal. My cooperation in exchange for the chance to destroy him. And I will.’

‘How?’

‘Through you.’

Peta’s heart flipped like a dying fish cleavered on a wooden slab. She looked into the eyes of Mary Evans and saw the dancing dark lights of madness.

Peta’s voice was so small and weak it could barely make it out of her body. ‘What’s going to happen to me?’

Mary Evans looked at her as if about to speak again. From the look on her face, Peta wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it. She re-gagged Peta, stood up, looked again at the door.

‘You should have listened, Peta. I can’t be held responsible for what happens to you if you don’t listen.’

Mary Evans left, closing, bolting and locking the door behind her.

Peta sighed, sank back to the stone floor.

Tried hard not to scream.

Failed.

*

Donovan felt like Superman.

Staring down at the model before him, he was a child again, reading his comics. It reminded him of the miniature Kryptonian city Superman kept in his Fortress of Solitude. Contemporary yet futuristic, and on a staggering scale.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’

Donovan turned to look at the owner of the voice. Colin Baty stood next to him, beaming down like a proud father at a just-born son.

‘Very,’ said Donovan. ‘I’m sure people would kill to get in on this.’

Baty laughed like it was the funniest thing he had heard all day. All week, even. Donovan winced. ‘I’m sure they would, Mr, er …’

‘Donovan. Joe Donovan. And thank you for seeing me at such short notice. Especially today. I’m sure there’s plenty of other things you should be doing.’

‘Always have time to talk to one of the press.’

Donovan smiled, said nothing.

They were standing in a room in the Civic Centre. Donovan had turned up to see Baty using his journalist disguise once again. Told him he was interested in the unique new vision he had for the West End of Newcastle. Baty, his vanity immediately flattered, had ushered him deep into the building, down wood-panelled corridors lined with glass display cases and green leather banquettes. He had stopped to greet seemingly everyone they came across with a handshake or a kiss, a joke or a mock insult, all delivered at the booming pitch of a hard-of-hearing Brian Blessed. The man, thought Donovan, was a walking bonhomie machine. Or at least a politician the day before election day.

‘This,’ said Donovan, still looking at the model, ‘is going to be huge. Has it got planning permission yet?’

‘Not yet. But I think it will. It’ll mean jobs for the city,
for an area that’s crying out for them. Employment, housing, leisure, it’s going to be wonderful.’

‘Looks huge.’

Baty smiled, accompanied it with a rumbling, smoky chortle. ‘It is. Going to rewrite the map. They thought the Metro Centre was something. Wait till they get a load of this.’

‘But aren’t you worried,’ said Donovan, crossing his arms, adopting his best journalist pose, ‘that it’s going to tear the heart out of the local community? That the jobs and housing will go to those outside the area? That it’ll just be another extension of the urban gentrification taking place in the city centre? Another nail in the coffin of the indigenous working class? Isn’t that why there are all the protests against it?’

Baty frowned. ‘Who did you say you worked for?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You look familiar. But I haven’t seen you on this beat before. Where do I know you from?’

‘We bumped into each other the other day. Just briefly. Abdul-Haq’s offices?’

Whatever was left of Baty’s bonhomie drained completely away. His forehead gathered into a suspicious knot. ‘Who are you?’

‘I work for a company called Albion. My name’s Joe Donovan.’

The frowning face turned openly hostile. ‘This is nothing to do with, with this.’ He swept an arm out over the model. ‘I know what this is about.’ Now he no longer had to keep up the friendly veneer, his voice dripped threat, carried the ugliness of violence. ‘Had one of your lot come to see me the other day. Told her where to get off too.’

‘And now she’s disappeared.’

‘Good. Best place for her. Like what’s going to happen to you when I phone down to the front desk.’

‘You don’t understand. She disappeared after asking questions about Trevor Whitman.’

‘And you think I took her?’

‘No. But she was asking the people you’ve been getting involved with over this project.’ He chanced his arm with a lie. ‘Abdul-Haq?’

‘What about him?’

‘She disappeared after talking to him.’

A look of horror passed over Baty’s face. He shook it off. Put himself back in control. ‘And you think he did it? Rubbish.’

‘You do know Abdul-Haq used to be in the Hollow Men with Trevor Whitman? Hasn’t stopped you from making deals with him.’

‘I know he was. He’s come a long way since then. And he had nothing to do with my brother’s death.’

‘Neither did Trevor Whitman.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘The person you want is Alan Shepherd. He’s back. He’s working for the NUP now. Who are hotly contesting your seat in tomorrow’s election. Funny how these things have a habit of joining together.’

‘Bullshit. Now get out of here or I’ll have you thrown out.’

Donovan didn’t move. He felt a desperate anger rising, tried to channel it, control it. ‘Her name is Peta Knight.’

‘I know.’

‘She’s Trevor Whitman’s daughter.’

Surprise registered on Baty’s face. He quickly smothered it. ‘So? You that worried, call the police.’

‘I did. Detective Inspector Nattrass is handling the case. An old friend of mine. She was very interested in what I had to say about Abdul-Haq. And Alan Shepherd.’

‘Get out.’

‘I think you can expect a call from her some time soon.’

‘Get out.’

Donovan still didn’t move. ‘Course, you can tell me all about it now. Get it off your chest. What you know.’

Baty’s red face had turned almost purple. He turned towards Donovan. ‘That’s it. I don’t need security, I’ll throw you out meself, you little cunt.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m leaving. I’ll see myself out.’ Donovan made for the door, turned. ‘And if I find you’ve got anything to do with my friend’s disappearance, you’re going to wish you’d never seen me. Oh, and good luck tomorrow.’

He was off before Baty could do anything else. Down the stairs and into the car park. Jamal was waiting in the Scimitar. He looked up as Donovan got in.

‘Well?’

Donovan shrugged, sighed. ‘I’d say he doesn’t know anything. He’s a bastard, but he doesn’t know anything.’

‘So where next?’

Donovan turned the engine over. Peta’s face kept jumping in front of his eyes. He wished he could see her, talk to her. David swam into vision also. He felt guilty because he hadn’t been giving his son all the attention. But he would. As soon as he found Peta. Made sure she was safe.

‘We wait for a break,’ he said.

‘An’ when will that be?’

‘I wish I knew.’

Abdul-Haq stood on the cobblestones of the Mill Dam conservation area on the south side of the River Tyne in South Shields. The river was before him, lapping along past the ferry terminal and the ship repair and fit-out yard. Behind him was the old, stone-built 1860s Customs House from when South Shields was a thriving dock, now a Grade II listed building turned theatre and restaurant. Harton Staithes, the old coal depot turned retail, leisure, business and housing development, was at the side of him. Market Dock was further along, all offices and housing. Everywhere he looked he saw money. His money. God is indeed great.

But, substantial though it was, it was nothing compared with what he was going to make out of the West End of Newcastle. It was the most ambitious project he had ever undertaken, both in terms of scale and financial reward. He had been looking for something to stand as his legacy, a way to leave his mark for history. And this was it. A once-in-a-lifetime deal. So close to fruition. So close. He just had to keep his nerve, play his designated part. Nothing could be allowed to go wrong. Nothing.

He had dressed down so he couldn’t be identified: jeans, trainers and a short-sleeved cotton shirt. Eyes squinting behind sunglasses. Arms folded, standing still. The car, an anonymous Fiesta, behind him. Further up the bank were Waqas and Omar, sitting behind the darkened glass of their 4×4. Tooled up, ready for trouble. They had checked he
hadn’t been followed, wasn’t being observed. He wouldn’t be. They were good at their jobs.

He wasn’t alone long. Moving slowly over the cobblestones, coming to a slow halt beside the Fiesta, a Vauxhall Vectra, as anonymous as the Fiesta. The back door opened slightly. Abdul-Haq took that as his cue. He crossed to the car, got in the back, closed the door behind him.

Mr Sharples sat beside him, Major Tom in the passenger seat, one of the rank and file driving, a woollen hat covering his bald head.

‘You were not followed.’ Mr Sharples spoke the words as a statement, not a question.

Abdul-Haq replied he had not been.

‘Good.’ Mr Sharples nodded. ‘Congratulations on bringing in Whitman’s daughter. A clean operation.’

‘The fence is dead.’ Abdul-Haq tried to keep his voice flat.

Sharples shrugged. ‘I doubt the police will be overly troubled by that. But Whitman is still out there.’

‘So is this Joe Donovan. My boys failed to drive him off the road.’

‘Unfortunate. But we work with the situation as it stands.’

‘Where is Whitman?’

‘Where we can see him,’ said Sharples, voice as cold, as smooth, as always. Unruffled. ‘He’s got Richie with him. Richie Vane.’

Abdul-Haq couldn’t keep the surprise off his face.

‘He must need all the allies he can get.’

‘And he must be really desperate.’

‘Perhaps not. Whitman has Richie out on the street. We think he’s looking for something.’

‘What?’

‘We don’t know yet. But the situation is being monitored. I have someone ready to step in if needs be.’

Abdul-Haq nodded, wiped his brow of sweat. ‘And no doubt Joe Donovan has contacted the police about the daughter’s disappearance.’

‘No doubt. Oaten will soon be brought in for questioning.’

‘But—’

Sharples turned to him, sun glinting off his round glasses, making them look like miniature spinning blades. ‘Are you worrying, Gideon? Hmm? Wanting to back out? Getting too much for you?’

‘No, no … It’s just … things are coming to a head. I’m just … anxious.’

‘Don’t fuck up on me, Gideon. Not now.’

‘I won’t. You know I won’t.’

Sharples scrutinized Abdul-Haq, who tried not to move or even blink while he did so. He must have found what he was looking for in his face. He gave a small nod.

‘Good.’ Sharples sat back. ‘Oaten’s brief is on standby, ready for the call. He’ll be with Oaten the whole time, insist on an interview at the office so no media can be alerted. It’s taken care of. Whitman and Richie are being monitored. Action will be taken when it is deemed appropriate.’ Another look at him. ‘Don’t worry, Gideon. Everything is in hand. Just play your part.’

Abdul-Haq nodded, ready to ask more questions.

‘Time to go,’ said Sharples. ‘I’m supposed to be out of the region on business while Oaten is questioned.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve enjoyed our little chat. We don’t do it often enough.’

The driver came round to the side, opened the car door. Abdul-Haq got out. The driver got back in, drove away. Sharples had his briefcase on his lap, looking through papers. Didn’t even acknowledge Abdul-Haq as he passed.

He waited until the car was on the road and gone before he got back in to the Fiesta. Sweating from more than the heat.

He turned over the engine, said a silent prayer for strength, drove off. Waqas and Omar behind him.

Amar was back in Camp David. The lunchtime crowd was different from the night-time one, more relaxed, mixed. Lunch-breakers of all genders and persuasions mingling with hardened cruisers. Some buttoned-up suits making tentative fantasy forays over a beer and a sandwich before going back to work, their office cubicles as cramped and confined as their closets.

Amar nursed his Becks, measured out his sips. Waited. He had spent the morning monitoring the phone lines, hunting without success for Whitman and Peta, listening for anything that could have been relevant, and above all trying to contact Kev.

He had left message after message but his mobile was turned off. Eventually, when Amar had been about to give up, a call. Kev. Amar told him he needed to see him. Tried not to be too heavy; he didn’t want to spook him. He suggested Camp David. Kev was all for it.

Amar kept checking the door every few seconds, time crawling slower than a slug on gravel. Eventually Kev arrived.

He saw Amar straight away, gave a smile so wide and natural, like showing off a skill he had only recently acquired.

‘Hi,’ he said and kissed Amar on the mouth.

Amar was almost too surprised to respond. He looked at him. Kev seemed almost a different person from a few nights previously. Then introspective, tormented, striking a chord with Amar. Now bouncy and happy, a human Labrador. He was even dressed differently. Still jeans and boots, but a new, long-sleeved T-shirt in a darker, softer style.

‘You look well,’ said Amar.