White Riot (6 page)

‘By who?’

Sharkey hesitated. ‘Why don’t you put the bottle down, Joe?’

Donovan threw Sharkey a murderous look. ‘Keep talking.’

Sharkey kept talking, every word hitting Donovan with the force of a brick.

‘The good news is,’ said Sharkey, his smooth lawyer tones kicking in, ‘he’s not been picked up by a gang of paedophiles, sold into slavery, anything like that. As far as we can tell.’

‘What d’you mean, as far as you can tell?’

‘Sit down, Joe. It’ll be easier.’

‘Fuck off. Don’t tell me what to do.’ Donovan kept pacing, whisky bottle in hand.

Sharkey continued. ‘Finding him has been a mammoth task. We’ve had feelers out all over the country and abroad. Looking for any sightings of—’

‘Yeah, yeah, cut to the chase.’ Another swig from the bottle.

Sharkey opened his briefcase, took out a slim file, flicked through it, carried on talking.

‘A couple came to our attention. Late thirties, well-to-do. He works in the London media in some capacity, she spends most of her time in the gym or on sunbeds. Own an old
farmhouse with land just outside a small village in Hertfordshire. A perfect couple. Living the dream, one might say, if one were that way inclined. Perfect except for one thing.’

‘No children,’ said Donovan, still walking.

‘Precisely. Then they go on holiday. And when they return, they have a boy with them. Their neighbours are far enough away not to notice at first, their friends and colleagues mostly London-based.’

Donovan stopped pacing. ‘And this boy’s about, what? Ten years old? And matches what we think David would look like at that age.’

Sharkey nodded. ‘Exactly.’

Donovan looked at the file on Sharkey’s lap, like a hungry dog slavering after a bone. ‘You got photos?’

Sharkey passed over a small stack of photos. Donovan, his hands shaking from more than alcohol, took them. They were blurred, grainy. A boy in school uniform getting out of a 4×4. The boy walking, trees, other children obscuring the shot. Going into what looked like a private school. Coming out again. Getting out of the same 4×4, going into a house.

‘Long lens stuff,’ said Sharkey. ‘Employed a couple of tabloid paps to get them.’ The side of his mouth twitched almost in a smile. ‘Told them he was the illegitimate son of Michael Barrymore.’

Donovan handed them back. ‘You used that computer program thing? Aged him?’

‘We have. Although, as you can see, we didn’t have much to go on so the results aren’t a hundred per cent conclusive. But they seem pretty close. Close enough to call you in, Joe.’

‘What about DNA?’

‘Can’t get close enough. They never let him out of their sight.’

Donovan sat down on another office chair, letting the information sink in. His heart was beating harder than the
wings of a canary trying to escape a too-small cage. Suddenly he felt tired. ‘So when can I see him?’

‘Well, as I said, it’s a matter of some delicacy …’

The couple’s names were Matt and Celia Milsom. The boy was attending a private school in the area under the name of Jake Milsom. As far as Sharkey’s investigative team could gather, he was supposed to be the son of a cousin who had emigrated to Bahrain, staying in Britain to complete his education.

He mixed with the other children at school but didn’t seem to have many close friends. None came to visit; he never went to see anyone. The Milsoms kept him close to home.

‘So if he’s not the son of a cousin,’ said Donovan, ‘where did he come from?’

‘Looking for David inevitably involved overlapping with other investigations,’ said Sharkey. ‘Information exchanges. He came to light as part of a worldwide effort to stop the trade of black-market children. As well as those sold into sexual slavery, there’s also a thriving market for supplying rich childless couples. These children can come from all over the world. Some are bought or stolen to order. Some willingly sold, some snatched. And they can end up anywhere.’

‘Even here.’

Sharkey nodded. ‘Even here.’

Donovan looked at the photos once more. ‘I want to see him.’

Four months.

That was how long it took for Sharkey to smooth things over with other agencies, to let Donovan take over that strand of the investigation. But there was one further
complication: no more Albion. And Donovan had dreaded telling Peta the fact.

‘What d’you mean?’ said Peta.

‘Just what I say,’ said Donovan. ‘No more Albion.’

She looked round the office. No one had cleared it up. Now it looked like no one ever would.

‘There’s been whispers,’ said Donovan, ‘We’re going to be investigated. Coppers, law, the lot.’

‘Why?’

‘Because our last job should have been simple information gathering. Instead it left at least four people dead and almost destroyed Tyne Dock in a fire.’

‘We helped to stop a sex-trafficking ring and a serial killer,’ said Peta. ‘Amar almost died. I almost died.’

‘I know,’ said Donovan.

‘And you think that’s not on my mind every day? You think not having work is going to make it better?’

‘No. I think it’s all the more reason for you to ease off. It was close for me too. And police and Customs still have a lot of questions.’

‘Get Sharkey to deal with it.’

‘He is. But he costs money. Virtually all the fee we got from the last job has gone on him. On legal action to keep us out of jail.’

Peta looked like she was ready to explode.

‘So that’s it? We just walk away from it? From what we’ve built up? All that hard work, gone?’

‘No,’ said Donovan. ‘We just lie low for a bit. Do some freelancing. Let it blow over, then bring Albion back.’

Peta paced the room then stopped, turned, her face lit by a harsh light. ‘I get it,’ she said.

‘Get what?’ Donovan knew what she was thinking, had anticipated this.

‘It’s this boy, isn’t it? The one who might be your son.’

‘
Is
my son.’ The phrase was out before he could stop it.

Peta actually bit her lips to stop herself answering back. Composed, she continued. ‘So we’ll help you.’

‘No. I’m doing this on my own.’

‘Why? We’re a team. We’re in this together.’

‘We’re not a team. I said, we’ve got to—’

‘I heard what you said.’ Peta was getting angry. ‘But we
are
a team. You, me, Amar, Jamal. We don’t stop just because some lawyer says so. We work together, we—’

‘I’m doing this on my own.’

‘Why?’

His eyes held angry conviction. ‘Because I’ve got to.’

Peta’s hands were shaking. ‘No problem. You don’t want your friends, your team-mates, fine. Go play cowboy.’

‘It’s not that, it’s just—’

‘Oh, fuck off.’ Peta wasn’t holding back now. ‘So you’ve suffered. We know. Well, you’re not the only one. We all have. That’s why we stick together. But not you. You’re too fucking self-indulgent and self-obsessed to notice when people lo … when people care about you.’

‘Me self-indulgent? I’m not the one who can’t take my drink.’

Peta stared at him, for a few seconds too angry and hurt to speak.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—’

‘You’re right, Joe. We’re not a team any more. So fuck you.’

Four months.

How long it took him to get his head together enough to persuade the other agencies that, in the absence of Albion, he was able to take over this strand of the investigation.

He had phoned Sharkey, the other agencies involved, from David’s room.

He always called it that, despite the fact that the boy had never set foot in there. It was a room that only Donovan ever entered; even Jamal knew not to go in.

The walls were covered with pictures of Donovan’s missing son. Photos of his life up to the age of six. School, family, holiday photos. And suppositional photos: David aged, David superimposed on white sandy beaches cut out from magazines, on holidays he would never take. David. Everywhere.

Against the walls were filing cabinets. Filled with every lead, line of inquiry, dead end that the police and private organizations had undertaken. Donovan sometimes came into the room, would spend a night or a day going over the files, checking to see if something had been missed, some clue overlooked, some avenue not explored. There was nothing. There was always nothing.

Until now.

He had stood there, phone in hand, drawing strength from the walls around him, arguing that personal involvement wouldn’t cloud his judgement, would only make him more focused to get at the truth.

The investigation was stonewalling, he reminded them. The investigators couldn’t get close enough to the boy without arousing suspicion. It was agreed. Donovan would take over.

Four months.

Until Donovan, along with Amar Miah, his one-time colleague from Albion, could sit one Wednesday in June underneath an ancient oak tree on a country road in Hertfordshire behind the wheel of Amar’s Volvo estate, watching the house and hoping they wouldn’t be too conspicuous. Hoping to get some answers.

‘So is it him?’ asked Amar.

Donovan kept looking at the house, willing the door to open again. His mind was again in turmoil, his heart again racing. Sweat was prickling his body. He wanted a drink, something to numb his mind. Anything.

‘I don’t know …’ said Donovan again. He had planned the moment in his head so long. Rehearsed it. ‘I thought it would be … I don’t know.’ The excitement in his body would build and build until he saw him, then crash and burst out, a huge tidal wave of emotion pouring out of him, engulfing his son in love, making him safe once again, sweeping him home. ‘I thought when I saw him that I would just
know
, you know?’ But it hadn’t happened. The uncertainty. The not knowing. ‘That I would see him and suddenly there would be this … connection. This instant connection.’ But the emotion was still there inside him, built up, but with no outlet. ‘And … I don’t know. I just don’t know.’

Amar moved round again. His discomfort was obvious. ‘So what d’you want to do?’

Donovan pulled his eyes away from the house, looked at Amar, saw from his face how much pain he was in and not letting on.

Donovan sighed, shook his head. He felt like his soul was screaming for release. ‘Get you out of this car.’

‘I’m OK.’

‘No, you’re not. I shouldn’t have listened to you. I should have left you back in Newcastle resting up.’

Amar had turned up at Donovan’s place when he was leaving, insisted on accompanying him. Donovan, knowing what state his one-time colleague was in, had relented, taken him along.

‘I’m fine, Joe. Honest.’ Amar swallowed hard as if not wanting to show Donovan how much pain he was in.

‘No, you’re not.’

A flash of something – anger, pain, Donovan didn’t know what – registered on Amar’s face. ‘I have to do something. I can’t just sit there—’ The words froze in his mouth. He said nothing more.

Donovan looked at his lap, played with the strap of the binoculars. An awkward silence descended.

‘Peta phoned,’ said Amar. ‘Got some work for me back in Newcastle. Freelance stuff. Surveillance.’ He gave a short, hard laugh. ‘Better be on the ground floor. Not too good at stairs yet.’

Four months. The same amount of time since Amar had lain bleeding his life out on to a pavement, a bullet lodged within him. Four months since a twelve-hour operation to save his life by removing his spleen, part of his lung and two ribs was deemed a success. Four months since he had been able to walk unaided and without pain.

It had stopped him going out, making casual pick-ups in gay bars and curtailed a cocaine habit that was spiralling out of control. Donovan thought he should be grateful for that.

Amar kept looking at Donovan. ‘You should talk to her, you know,’ he said. ‘You haven’t spoken for months. Come and see her.’

‘So that’s why you wanted to come.’ Donovan shook his head. ‘Did Peta put you up to it? Jamal? I thought he made himself scarce when you turned up.’

‘You should call her. She’s upset. She wants to help. We all do. Put the argument behind you. Talk to her.’

Silence fell like cold, hard snow.

Donovan’s head was buzzing like a beehive on overtime. He wanted to just get out of the car, walk up to the door, hammer on it until it was opened, then rush inside and grab his son. Have the emotional reunion he longed for. Sweep David away to safety. To home.

Donovan blinked. The door hadn’t opened. He hadn’t
gone up to it. The emotional tidal wave was still inside him. ‘We’re going.’

‘Back to Newcastle?’

‘London. Bit of business to take care of in the morning. We’ll stay over then I’ll drive you back to Newcastle, right?’

Amar looked puzzled. ‘OK.’

‘Well, what am I going to do? Sit here for ever and stare at that door? Will the fucker to open and David to run out?’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know. Find another way. Because this one isn’t working.’

He turned the engine on, drove away.

Donovan’s soul silently screaming all the way to London.

Jamal wasn’t bored. Not exactly.

Joe Donovan often said that only boring people got bored, and Jamal, not wanting to think of himself remotely in that way, had come to accept that as true. So he wasn’t bored. No. Just wished he had some way of making his Wednesday night pass quicker.

He’d flicked on the TV, found only films he’d seen before, soaps he wasn’t interested in, documentaries about things he couldn’t care less about. Not even any gyrating honeys or bashment babes on MTV Base.

He’d played all the games he wanted to. His thumbs were worn out.

He’d started reading one of Donovan’s books,
Requiem for a Dream
by Hubert Selby Jnr. He had learned that requiem meant a funeral song for the dead and, reading it, that made sense. It was one dark book, dark and depressing. About kids living rough, getting high, doing what they had to do to get by. Real life the requiem for their dreams.

Jamal knew all about that one.

It was gripping and involving and full of heart and love, the writer obviously reporting back from having lived it, but Jamal could read it only in small doses. He was also fearful of the ending, in case anything bad happened. He didn’t want it to trigger any unpleasant memories of his own. Any bad endings.