Acid Row

by Minette Walters

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  UPDATE – Missing officer – WPC Hanson

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  Hanson’s scheduled visits this a.m. – W. Barber, 121 Pinder Street – M. Furnow, 72 Harrison Way – J. Derry, lat 506, Glebe Tower

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  4’ automatic calling . . . Barber 729431/Furnow 729071/Derry 725600

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  – No response

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  – No response

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  – No response

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  – No response

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  – No response

  Twelve

  Saturday 28 July 2001

  Glebe Tower, Bassindale Estate

  JIMMY JAMES STARED angrily at the ‘Out of Order’ notice on the lift doors in Glebe Tower then, for good measure, landed a heavy fist on the pockmarked metal where an airgun had stitched a V into the grey paintwork. He was after a guy on the eighth floor who owed him money, but he drew the line at climbing the stairs. The creep had been dodging him since Thursday, so ten to one he was out anyway. Probably on the street with the rest of the morons.

  The block was eerily quiet. On a normal Saturday, the metal stairwell echoed with the shouts of children, but today they were locked in their flats or trailing after the mob like camp followers. Earlier in the afternoon he had passed a group of seven-year-olds chanting outside the school where Melanie’s foot soldiers were gathering. ‘Beef eyes out . . . beef eyes out . . .’ They didn’t even know what they were supposed to be saying – ‘paedophiles out’ – let alone what it meant, and he doubted if the adults were any better informed. It depressed him. Ignorance always did.

  He lit a cigarette and pondered his options. There was no avoiding what was happening. Melanie had talked about ‘a protest march’ but the smell of petrol in the air suggested something else. He had taken a detour to look at one of the exit routes and found it blocked with cars, some on their sides, all with the fuel caps off and the petrol siphoned out or spilling across the tarmac. He watched boys fill bottles with petrol and girls stuff rags into the necks, and he didn’t have to be Nostradamus to predict the war that was coming. A solitary police car was visible on the far side of the barrier and the anxiety on the faces of the two officers mirrored his own.

  The paedophile was just an excuse for the boiling resentment of Acid Row’s underclass. They were the Jews in the ghetto, the blacks in the townships, the people without a stake in the affluence beyond their boundaries. And the irony was they were mostly white. Jimmy could sympathize with them up to a point – as could every black in the land – but he also despised them for their unwillingness to change. He had plans to take Melanie and the kids out of this . . . find somewhere in London where he could go straight and make something of himself . . . or did, he reminded himself gloomily, until he discovered that none of his contacts were doing business that day.

  At least two had had the sense to get off the Row before the barricades went up and a third refused to open his door. For different reasons none of them wanted a brush with the law, and that meant keeping their heads down till the trouble passed. Out of sight was out of mind and tomorrow was soon enough to resume negotiations. Jimmy was rapidly coming to the same conclusion. He should have been on a train by now with money in hand and something to sell, but, in the absence of either, his only choice was to lie low in Melanie’s house. Time enough to go straight when his deals were done, but now he was beginning to worry. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to leave Mel and the babes to do the march on their own? Who knew what the fuckwits of Acid Row were planning for Humbert Street?

  He ground the cigarette out under his heel and jabbed his finger viciously against the lift button. All he’d needed was for one thing to go right, but nothing worked in this godforsaken place. It was a slap in the face to a useless piece of machinery but with a metallic clunk the doors juddered apart. He thought his luck had changed till he saw the body on the floor. Ah! Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!

  He didn’t stop to think . . . just took to his heels and ran.

  Inside 23 Humbert Street

  Sophie retreated into a corner and felt in her pocket for a tissue to wipe the taste of the old man’s hand from her lips. She was so frightened her fingers wouldn’t respond, and she pressed them against the wall to stop their trembling. The room was cluttered with oddments of furniture, and Franek stood guard in front of the doorway, his head cocked to one side, listening for his son who was moving something heavy on the landing. His eyes never wavered from her face, a long unblinking stare that forced her to stare back. What if he moved? What if he attacked her again? The crowd’s words echoed in her mind. ‘Animal . . . fucker . . . pervert . . .’

  Nothing made sense. Where had the crowd come from? What had started it? The street had been virtually empty half an hour previously. Fear for herself coloured her thinking and dashed all thoughts of Melanie’s paedophile from her mind. Had she been lured there? Had someone seen her come in and guessed she was in danger? ‘Animal . . . fucker . . . pervert . . .’ Then why attack her when she tried to leave? And where were the police?

  It was like groping her way through a fog. Her thinking was paralysed by the old man’s malignancy. Nothing she imagined about him could be worse than the reality. She knew he was reliving his hands on her breasts as they reached the top of the stairs and his stabbing erection against her arse, felt him suck the juice out of her every little tremor that told him she was reliving it, too. He took a sudden step forward.

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ Sophie warned, her voice croaking with dryness. She felt for the pepper spray in her pocket, couldn’t believe that on the one occasion she needed it it was locked inside her case along with her mobile. Where was her case? Had Nicholas retrieved it, or was it still beside the front door?

  Nicholas must have heard her speak, because he called out sharply in Polish, and his father turned away reluctantly to look through the doorway. It was a sudden awakening – a release from hypnosis. She cast around wildly for a weapon, seizing upon a couple of hardback chairs and arranging them in front of her, pulling the backs tight against her legs.

  Franek heard the scrape of the wood across the floorboards. ‘What is this for?’ he demanded angrily. ‘You think chairs will save you? You do better to help Milosz move weighty things to protect the door. He try to push the wardrobe through from my room. That is useful –’ he pointed to the chairs – ‘this is not.’

  She ignored him to reach for a glass vase and an old cricket bat, which she put on one of the seats in front of her, followed by some hardback books and a worn enamel plate with a curved lip.

  ‘You do what I say. You help Milosz.’

  She shook her head and lifted the vase in both hands. Beyond him, she spotted her case resting against the banisters.

  He gave a throaty chuckle. ‘You think the glass will break my head?’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Hard as iron. You think you can fight Franek? Look at these – ’ he bunched his fists and danced towards her like a boxer, feinting at her cheek – ‘one hit and I put you to sleep.’

  Her automatic reaction was to step back, withdraw, avoid a confrontation, but she couldn’t because the wall was pressing against her shoulder blades. She moistened her lips. ‘Go on then,’ she said in a voice husky with fear, ‘because I’ll smash your fucking head in if you even try.’

  He was clearly tempted, because his nasty little eyes glittered with excitement, but he shook his head. ‘There are more important things to do.’

  She licked her lips again.

  ‘This is good,’ he said approvingly. ‘You very scared now. You do as Franek say.’

  ‘Not until you give me my case,’ she managed, jerking her head towards the banisters.

  He followed her gaze. ‘Always you want this case. What is in it?’

  ‘Antiseptic wipes. I have to clean this cut on my arm.’

  He was interested enough to retrieve it, his fingers feeling immediately for the catches. ‘First hel
p Milosz, then I give you your case.’

  ‘No.’

  He frowned as if he wasn’t used to disobedience. ‘Do what I say.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You want me to hurt you?’

  She gave a creditable shrug. ‘I’ll live, but you won’t if those people break in.’ She watched him tug at the catches. ‘You’re wasting your time. It’s a combination lock.’

  Frustrated, he let it fall to the floor. ‘It’s you who wastes time with your refusing.’

  ‘Then go and help Milosz yourself,’ said Sophie, wondering how much longer her legs would hold up. ‘It’s your neck he’s trying to save.’

  ‘You want a chance to get away? Out the window maybe?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘OK. Stay there.’ He left abruptly.

  Sophie lowered the vase to the seat again and put a trembling hand on one of the chairbacks. Was it a trap? Was he waiting for her out of sight? She steeled herself to dart forward and snatch up her case . . . but fear held her back. Surely obedience was better? She could protect herself in this corner, lash out with the cricket bat if he came too close, cut his face with the glass. It took a powerful exercise of will to move out from behind the chairs. Every instinct argued against it. Obey . . . submit . . . placate . . . But he’d done what she wanted him to do – left her alone with her case – and the sound of dragging furniture on the landing gave her courage.

  She was out and back again in half a second flat, crouching behind the chairs and flipping the wheels on the locks. Hurry . . . hurry . . . hurry . . . She seized her mobile telephone and punched the ‘1’ button. ‘Jenny,’ she whispered, staring over the seats at the landing, ‘it’s Sophie. No, I can’t. Just listen. I need help. Phone the police. Tell them I’m on the last call you gave me. Yes – the patient – Hollis. He’s taken me prisoner. There are people outside. It’s all mad. He’s mad. I think he wants to rape me—’ She broke off as she saw a shadow slide across the banisters. She hurriedly pushed the ‘Off ’ button in case Jenny rang back, shoved the phone into the case, grabbed an antiseptic wipe and slammed the locks closed. She didn’t have time to retrieve the pepper spray.

  Franek, face grey with effort, heaved the edge of an oak wardrobe through the doorway. ‘What you doing?’ he asked suspiciously.

  She tore the wipe from its package and pressed it to her arm. ‘Protecting myself from your filth.’ She saw Nicholas on the other side of the wardrobe. ‘You’ve no right to lock me up like this,’ she told him. ‘That crowd outside doesn’t want me. Most of them know me. I’m their doctor. It would make more sense to let me talk to them on your behalf. If you take me into a front bedroom, I can speak to them from the window. I might be able to persuade them to call the police.’

  ‘The police are to blame,’ said Franek angrily, forcing out the words between heavy, rasping breaths. ‘They cause this trouble for us when they hammer on our door to make interviews about missing girl.’ He left his son to swing the rest of the wardrobe inside, muttering something in Polish before collapsing against the wall.

  ‘You’ll have to help him,’ said Nicholas, pushing the door to and manhandling the wardrobe in front of it. ‘He can’t breathe.’

  Sophie concentrated on cleaning her arm. She needed time to think. ‘Missing girl . . . ?’ Amy Biddulph?

  ‘Please, Dr Morrison. He shouldn’t have lifted this. It was too heavy for him.’

  She glanced across at Franek, who was watching her from beneath veiled lids. ‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘Your father forfeited his rights as my patient when he took me prisoner. That entitles me to put my own safety before his.’

  Nicholas flicked her yet another apologetic smile while he pushed more pieces of furniture in front of the wardrobe to clear a space in the middle of the room. ‘He was scared you were going to leave us. He wouldn’t have done it otherwise.’

  ‘That’s no excuse.’

  He nodded agreement, helping his father into the space and settling him on the floor against some chair cushions. ‘He doesn’t think straight when he’s frightened.’ In a surprisingly tender gesture, he smoothed the hair from the old man’s face. ‘None of us does.’

  There was some truth in that, thought Sophie, remembering her frantic retreat down the corridor. If she’d had her wits about her, she’d have run the other way and taken her chance at the front door. Surely she had more allies outside than inside? Did she have any inside? ‘Your father put his filthy hands all over me and rubbed his erection against my trousers,’ she said bluntly. ‘Is that what you call “not thinking straight”?’

  He sighed, more in sufferance, she thought, than any real surprise. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said inadequately.

  She expected an explanation, but it seemed an apology was all she was going to get. For the moment, anyway.

  From downstairs, muffled but audible, they heard the sound of more glass breaking.

  Glebe Road, Bassindale Estate

  Jimmy slowed as he reached the end of Glebe Road and turned into Bassindale Row North. To his right was one of the four barricades, heavily manned by drunken youths shouting taunts at the police cars beyond. To his left lay Humbert Street, some hundred yards distant, with children spilling excitedly round the entrance. Jesus wept! If he went to ground in Mel’s house he’d be dragged into the war on the paedophiles, and if he tried to leave the Row he’d be dragged into the war on the police.

  What to do? He retreated back the way he’d come and leaned against a wall to catch his breath. Across the road he could see an old woman watching him from her window. A couple of kids at another. There were eyes everywhere. It made him wonder if anyone had seen him charge out of Glebe Tower like Ben Johnson on steroids. He must have looked guilty as sin. Shit! He shouldn’t have panicked like that. He remembered touching the lift button. A cigarette butt with his DNA was lying among the litter on the floor. That would be enough to pull him in for attempted murder.

  Swearing copiously, he took out his mobile and flipped it open. He didn’t want to do this. He couldn’t afford it. None of his contacts would come near him if they knew he was talking to the Bill. And it was all for nothing anyway. The ambulance wouldn’t be able to get through the barricades.

  He dialled 999.

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  Police Message to all stations

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  EMERGENCY LINES AT FULL CAPACITY

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  28.07.01

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  14.49

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  Bassindale Estate

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  Jennifer Monroe, Nightingale Health Centre, reports female doctor taken hostage by Hollis, 23 Humbert treet

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  Possible rape

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  23 Humbert Street currently occupied by Milosz Zelowski

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  Believed alias Hollis

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  EMERGENCY LINES AT FULL CAPACITY

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  UPDATE: Patrol car 031 still reporting all access denied

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  Negotiations continuing

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  Police Message to all stations

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  28.07.01

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  14.53

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  Bassindale Estate

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  Anonymous caller requesting help with injured policewoman

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  Paramedic on line

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  WPC Hanson believed to be only policewoman in area

  Thirteen

  Saturday 28 July 2001

  Outside 23 Humbert Street

  WORD CIRCULATED THAT someone had seen a child at the paedophile’s door just before the first stone was cast. Like a game of Chinese Whispers, ‘a little woman with a black case’ rapidly became ‘a little girl in black leggings’, confirming the rumours that Amy had been seen in Humbert Street the previous day. Also, it was logical. Where else would she be but in the home of a man who had been her neighbour in Portisfield until two weeks ago?


  There were plenty of indicators to tell them they were wrong. The kids who had been chanting ‘sicko’ for days and who had seen a woman go inside at half past two. The appearance of a police car outside number 23 that morning, seen by the neighbours, when Milosz Zelowski had been interrogated and his house searched from floor to attic with no result. Another car with a doctor’s sticker in the window, parked down the road, still there over an hour later. The unlikeliness of a convicted paedophile revealing his victim to public gaze.

  But the crowd lacked direction. There were too many factions and too many leaders. Everyone wanted a voice. Youth called for war. Age for respect. Women for security. ‘Getting rid of perverts’ was their only battle cry, and the loudest proclaimers were the teenage girls who had been drinking pint for pint with their boyfriends but whose slighter bodies were less able to absorb the alcohol. Like drunken fishwives, they harangued the boys to ever wilder acts of aggression.

  In the aftermath, ‘protecting Amy’ would become the catch-all defence for what they did. No one doubted the paedophile had her in his house. It was a fact. She was seen in the street. She was seen at his door. If anyone was to blame it was the authorities. There wouldn’t have been any trouble if paedophiles hadn’t been foisted on to the already beleaguered inhabitants of Acid Row. No one wanted them. Why would they? The Row was home to single mothers and kids. Who, but the women, could or would protect their children from perverts?

  Certainly not the police, whose idea of rescuing youngsters was to arrest them.

  Melanie pushed people aside to storm across the road and confront her fourteen-year-old brother and his friends, who were levering slabs and bricks from the low wall that bordered the tiny garden in front of her maisonette. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she yelled, grabbing Colin by the arm and trying to drag him away. ‘That’s the only bit of garden the kids have to play in. Who the fuck’s going to rebuild this after? None of you, that’s for sure.’