Acid Row

by Minette Walters

  Belatedly, he stood up and pulled her into a warm hug. ‘Of course you’re wise. He’s a splendid chap. I just hope he appreciates how lucky he is to have you. When’s the big day?’

  ‘August.’

  ‘Mm,’ he said gloomily. ‘Is this your way of telling me you’re about to hand in your notice?’

  ‘God, no,’ she said in surprise. ‘Bob’s been given a consultancy at Southampton. He’s been angling for it for ages. It means we can finally live together. That’s why we’re making it official.’ She lifted her eyebrows in perplexity. ‘What on earth made you think I’d want to leave?’

  The blinkered stupidity of age and ingrained habit, he thought wryly as he sat down again. It had never occurred to him that the man would move for the woman, even if this was the twenty-first century.

  He reached Bob at his flat in London. ‘What can I do for you, Harry?’ said the other amiably. ‘Are you calling because Sophie’s going to be late?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Harry told him baldly and succinctly what he knew. ‘I didn’t want to phone her parents until I’d spoken to you . . . It’s better, anyway, if you talk to them.’ He paused for confirmation. ‘Good. Also, we need your help. Jenny says Sophie’s very conscientious about keeping her mobile charged, so we’re assuming she’s turned it off because she doesn’t want these men to know she’s got it. That means there’s a good chance she’ll call again as soon as she has an opportunity . . . and I’d be happier if I had someone here who was qualified to talk to them and negotiate her release.’

  ‘I’m leaving now,’ said Bob. ‘I’ll call her parents on the way.’

  ‘We may not be able to wait for you,’ said Harry urgently. ‘We need someone closer. The police have been caught on the hop . . . say they couldn’t have predicted it . . . the riot’s blown up out of nowhere . . . and they’re overstretched with this kid going missing twenty miles away. We’ve a young constable trying to help us but he can’t even raise the probation office at the moment. It’s complete bedlam. It would be useful to locate the psychiatrist who wrote Zelowski’s pre-sentencing report, or anyone who saw him while he was inside. I can give you the two prisons he spent time in. They’re both fairly local. Would that help you find a name for me? Even better, a copy of the report itself?’

  Bob didn’t waste time. ‘Give them to me,’ he said. ‘Also your direct line and the surgery’s fax number. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’ He paused just before he rang off. ‘Harry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If she calls before I get there, tell her not to provoke them . . . particularly the one who wants to rape her. If he’s as dangerous as you think he is, it will only excite him.’

  Outside 9 Humbert Street

  Gaynor Patterson was terrified. She was trapped against the wall of a house in Humbert Street, unable to advance, unable to retreat. There was no freedom to move, just a press of humanity all around her, jostling to stay on its feet between the houses and the cars parked along the kerb. Down the middle of the road, phalanxes of youths were charging in chaotic scrums to get to 23 and join the fun, but with each thrust of their powerful bodies, a compensatory ripple spread through the encircling crowd driving it backwards.

  Youngsters had sought escape on the roofs and bonnets of vehicles, but they were precarious refuges. Every time a wave surged against them, the cars rocked on their suspensions and footing was lost. It was only a matter of time, she guessed, before the idea of turning the cars over and spinning them on their roofs would appeal to the wilder element in the crowd, and then people really would be hurt.

  Her frantic 999 call on her mobile fifteen minutes earlier had increased her fear when a computerized voice informed her that the emergency operators were overwhelmed with callers reporting the disturbance in Bassindale. The police were unable to respond immediately. Callers with other emergencies should stay on the line. The advice to anyone in Bassindale not involved in the disturbance was to remain inside their homes.

  Gaynor, who had seen footage of the Hillsborough Stadium disaster, when football fans had been mercilessly crushed by a stampede of people behind them, was terrified that a sudden catastrophic surge would cause the people against the wall to be suffocated. She was doing her best to protect those around her – mostly young girls who had fled to the edge to find safety – but it was getting harder and harder. She had shouted herself hoarse in a vain attempt to alert the people in the middle to their plight, but her voice was drowned by the youths’ shouting.

  Desperate to find out what had happened to Melanie, and after her own attempts to raise her daughter had failed, she had handed her mobile to a girl at her side and told her to keep pressing the ‘1’ button till someone answered. ‘Give it back to me when it rings,’ she said, while she shielded the youngster with her body. She tried to attract the attention of a man some twenty yards away who was big enough to make his way through to them, but he remained stubbornly deaf to her shouts.

  Tired and tearful, the girl gave up after ten minutes. ‘It ain’t no fucking use,’ she wailed, ‘no one’s answering.’ She started hitting at Gaynor as claustrophobia overwhelmed her. ‘I wanna get out!’ she screamed. ‘I wanna get out!’

  Gaynor smacked her hard across the face. ‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ she murmured, folding the child in her arms as she burst into tears, ‘but it’s too dangerous. You must stay here till I can work something out.’

  But what, for God’s sake?

  The phone began to ring.

  She grabbed it from the youngster, pressing a palm to her other ear so that she could hear above the din. ‘Mel? Is that you, sweetheart? I’ve been calling and calling. Are you all right? What about Rosie and Ben?’

  ‘Mrs Patterson?’

  ‘Oh, shit!’ swore Gaynor in disappointment, close to tears herself. ‘I thought it was my daughter.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. It’s Jennifer Monroe at the Nightingale Health Centre. Briony gave me your number. I need to talk to you very urgently.’

  Gaynor shook her head in disbelief. ‘You’ve got to be joking. Listen, love, whatever it is, it can wait. Even if you’re going to tell me I’ve got terminal cancer, it’s no way as urgent as what’s happening here. Everything’s out of control . . . there’s no sign of the fucking police . . . and I’m trapped against a wall with some young kids who’re shit-scared. It’s like Hillsborough, for Christ’s sake. There’s got to be over a thousand people squashed into this bit alone. I’m going to hang up. OK?’

  ‘Don’t!’ said Jenny sharply. ‘I probably know more than you do at the moment. Keep talking to me, please. This has nothing to do with medicine, Gaynor. I’m trying to help you. The police can’t enter the estate because all the roads are barricaded. That means you and Melanie must find safety for yourselves and I might be able to help you if you let me.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Can you tell me where you are?’

  ‘Humbert Street.’

  ‘Whereabouts exactly? You said you were trapped against a wall.’

  ‘Down the end. Number 9. We’ve tried banging on the door . . . but the lady inside’s brain’s shot and she won’t let us in . . . I guess she’s frightened, poor old cow.’

  ‘Do you know what her name is?’

  ‘Mrs Carthew.’

  ‘OK, hang on. I’m going to check to see if she’s on our list.’ There was a few seconds’ pause. ‘Got her. She’s one of Sophie’s and she’s in the “Friendship Calling” scheme.’ Another pause while voices were muffled by a hand over the receiver. ‘All right, Gaynor, this is the plan. I’m going to phone Mrs Carthew and, while I’m doing that, I want you to talk to a police officer who’s here with me. He’s been listening to you on the loudspeaker and he’s going to advise you about what to do when Mrs Carthew opens her door.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time, love. She’s been ga-ga for years.’

  ‘Let’s see, shall we?’

  Another voice came on the line. ‘Hello, Gaynor
. Ken Hewitt. Right, the important thing is not to start a stampede. If everyone’s frightened they’ll pile in after you, and that’s going to make the situation worse. What we need is a controlled exit. Can you tell me first how many youngsters you have with you?’

  Gaynor did a quick head count. ‘Ten or so.’

  ‘Good. In the first instance I want each one of those kids eased carefully through the door so that people around you don’t know it’s happening. Keep it very quiet. OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Pick the two biggest kids, and tell one of them to create a throughway to the garden by clearing any furniture from the corridor and opening Mrs Carthew’s back door. Tell the other one to stand by the front door. The one by the front door has to be strong – if there’s an adult close by, all the better. He or she will give you the signal when the way’s clear and also act as your regulator, because I need you to be the marshal on the outside when the exit’s established. If too many people try to push through when the door opens, then you and whoever’s inside must close it and drop the latch. If you don’t, people will be trampled in the corridor and the exit will jam. Stand in the doorway and only let one through at a time. It must be controlled. Do you understand?’

  Gaynor was five-foot-four and weighed eight stone. How the hell was she supposed to hold back a stampede? ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right. Now, I’ve looked at the layout of Humbert Street, and there are gardens running back to back with the gardens of Bassett Road. The kid you pick for the back door needs to start breaking down fences to open up space. We’re looking to create spillover areas for anyone who wants to escape. Tell the kid to break out towards Forest Road South. We need people to head for home . . . take some steam out of the situation . . . not mill around in the gardens at the back.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Lastly, don’t attempt to advertise the exit. As people start to feel the pressure easing behind them they’ll move into the vacant space and come to it of their own accord. That’ll make the job of controlling them much easier.’ He fell silent for a moment, listening to Jenny relaying instructions. ‘Excellent. Mrs Carthew says she’ll unlatch the door but she needs time to go upstairs before you open it. She’s frightened of being knocked over. She has a portable phone so she’ll confirm to Jenny Monroe when she’s safe and I’ll give you the go-ahead. Understood?’

  ‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’ Panic leapt in Gaynor’s chest. ‘But I haven’t explained any of this to the kids yet.’

  ‘Take your time,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s important that they all understand what they’re doing. Tell me when you’re ready.’

  She knew one of the girls already, Lisa Shaw, a bright child in the same class as Colin. She wasn’t big enough to act as a regulator but she could certainly clear the corridor and lead the way out to Forest Road. She nodded immediately when Gaynor explained what she wanted her to do. More nods when Gaynor impressed upon all of them the importance of a ‘controlled exit’ to prevent people being hurt. A complete blank when she tried to make the biggest child understand her role. She was an immature giant with a slow brain and her eyes swam with tears when Gaynor asked her to man the front door.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Lisa. ‘She can help me. The others can clear the corridor.’ She smiled at Gaynor. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll see they do it right. Col’ll kill me if you get flattened. He reckons you’re Supermum.’

  >

  Police Message to all stations

  >

  28.07.01

  >

  15.33 ***

  >

  Missing person investigation – Amy Rogerson/ Biddulph

  >

  ALERT ALL COUNTIES

  >

  Wanted for questioning: Edward Townsend

  >

  Registered address: The Larches, Hayes Avenue, Southampton

  >

  Last seen: Hotel Bella Vista, Puerto Soller, Majorca 03.00, 27.07.01

  >

  Returned to London Luton Friday a.m. on Flight EZY0404, arriving 08.25

  >

  Registered vehicle: Black BMW – W789ZVV

  >

  Believed to be somewhere in the south

  >

  May be travelling with a child

  Sixteen

  Saturday 28 July 2001

  Glebe Tower, Bassindale Estate

  JIMMY JAMES WAS losing patience with the paramedic on the other end of the line. He’d had to wait five minutes before the ambulance operator answered and now his battery was running out. What the hell kind of service were these shysters operating? Every time he followed an instruction the man demanded more. He’d eased the policewoman into the recovery position and checked her airway for blockages. Confirmed all the major life signs – breathing, heartbeat, pulse. Tried to bring her round – without success.

  And now the sod was asking him to locate her wound.

  ‘Look, mate, how am I supposed to talk to you and find out where she’s bleeding at the same time?’ he snapped, staring at his right hand, which was gory with the woman’s blood. He felt bile rise up his throat. ‘It’s OK for you . . . you’re used to it . . . but it’s not fucking OK for me. There’s blood everywhere. I’ll have to move her hair out the way and I can’t do that with a sodding phone in my hand. OK . . . OK . . . I’m putting you down.’

  He laid the mobile on the floor behind him and, with a groan of disgust, used both hands to part the stained blonde hair on the back of the woman’s head where the already crusting blood seemed thickest. He picked up the phone again and felt it slip in his hand. ‘FUCK IT!’ he roared. He heard the paramedic’s alarmed inquiries through his own swearing. ‘Of course something bad’s happened,’ he snarled. ‘I’ve just smeared blood all over my sodding mobile. Yeah . . . yeah . . . I’m sorry, but it’s making me sick, this is. I’ve got a thing about blood, OK? All right . . . all right . . . she’s got a gash on the back of her head . . . I don’t know . . . two inches maybe. I can’t tell if there’re any more . . . not without rolling her over . . . she’s got long hair, for Christ’s sake, and it’s all over her face.’ More alarm. ‘No, of course, I’m not going to turn her over . . . you’ve already told me about pushing bone into her brain.’ He pulled a face. ‘Listen, mate, there’s more of a problem with dirt . . . This sodding lift’s so filthy she’ll die of blood poisoning if any of the germs get into her. Guys round here piss in it, you know. It’s the fucking council’s fault . . . If they pulled their finger out once in a while and sent some cleaners in . . . OK . . . OK . . . I’m doing it now.’

  He put the phone down again and lifted hanks of hair from the woman’s face. He hadn’t seen it before, and he was startled by how pretty she was – pale and fine-boned, like a Victorian china doll, with faint flushes of rose in her cheeks as if to prove there was blood left in her. With gentle hands he felt beneath the part of her head that was lying against the floor, but his fingers came out no bloodier than they were before.

  ‘There’s just the one cut as far as I can tell,’ he said, retrieving the phone, ‘and it looks like it’s scabbing over . . . No, of course I haven’t got a fucking bandage . . . Where would I get a bandage in a sodding lift?’ He rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘What do you mean, go looking for a first-aid kit? Listen, mate, I’m black as the ace of spades and I’m covered in blood. Think again, OK . . . There’s no way I’m knocking on doors in this dump. Half of them’re in their eighties and’ll be scared witless if a bloody, wild-eyed nigger bursts in on them . . . and the other half’re teenage Nazis who’ll stick a knife in my ribs soon as look at me. I’m in Acid Row, for Christ’s sake . . . not the fucking Seychelles. Yeah . . . yeah . . . yeah . . . If you’re that brave, then put some boot black on your face and tell those bastards on the barricades you’re my cousin. Let’s see how far you get.’

  He checked the battery levels on his mobile. ‘I’ve got about another five minutes,’ he warned, ‘so you’d better come up with something fast.’ He listened, then raise
d his eyes to the lift buttons. ‘The doors are opening and closing all right so I guess it’s working. No, mate . . . never heard of it . . . What the hell is “Friendship Calling”? Mrs Hinkley . . . flat 406 . . . fourth floor . . . Yeah, I reckon I could live with that . . . so long as you talk to her first and she knows the score.’ He reeled off his mobile number. ‘I’ll switch back on in five minutes . . . Just don’t forget to tell her I’ll do a runner if she starts screaming . . . I’m feeling sick as a dog here . . . and I don’t need any more aggro.’ He listened some more. ‘Why can’t I stay anonymous? What the hell difference does a name make? OK . . . OK . . . Tell Mrs Hinkley it’s Jimmy James and I live at 21 Humbert Street. No, she can’t look me up in the sodding book. I’ve only been there two days . . . Jesus wept! Because I’ve just come out of fucking prison. That’s why.’

  Outside 23 Humbert Street

  Colin appeared suddenly at Melanie’s elbow and shouted into her ear that she’d better do something quick because Kevin Charteris and Wesley Barber were handing out Molotovs to their mates. ‘I can’t stop ’em, Mel. They’re well lagered up. I’ve told ’em Rosie and Ben are in the house but they just ain’t interested.’

  She stared at him in alarm. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Petrol bombs,’ he said. ‘The riot’s been planned for days . . . ever since you and Ma said you wos gonna march. Kev ’n’ Wes ’ave been fillin’ the bottles since Tuesday . . . Reckoned the only way to get rid of perverts was to burn ’em out. I told ’em the fire’d spread to your place, but they just said fuck off. Wes is stoned out of his head. He’s a right dick . . . He’s been droppin’ acid ’n’ speed and he’s talking about burning the whole fuckin’ road down.’

  It was a wake-up call. Like icy water being poured over her head. She couldn’t keep looking to Jimmy for help, she realized. If her children were to survive then it was up to her to protect them. ‘Where are they?’