Acid Row

by Minette Walters

  Nightingale Health Centre

  ‘Someone’s picked up at last,’ announced Jenny Monroe breathlessly to Ken Hewitt. ‘Ms Frensham? Yes, this is the Nightingale Health Centre. We’ve been trying to get through to you. Is Dr Morrison there? Oh, thank goodness!’ She listened. ‘It’s the riot, Ms Frensham, no one’s able to get through to the police at the moment . . . I understand, but we have an officer here. His name’s PC Ken Hewitt. Let me pass you over to him. He’ll be able to advise you better than I can. Just one second.’

  She pressed the ‘mute’ button and addressed Ken. ‘She wants to talk to the police. Sophie’s got the father tied up and he’s pleading with Ms Frensham to untie him. He says he’s dying and Sophie’s refusing to help him . . . and Ms Frensham’s worried about being involved in a murder.’ She handed the receiver to the policeman and pressed ‘mute’ to release it. ‘She’s all yours,’ she murmured, ‘but I’ll have your guts if you pass the buck back to her. You’re being paid to make a decision . . . she isn’t.’

  ‘I’m not your enemy, Jenny,’ Ken said mildly. ‘I may be fallible . . . I may be useless . . . but I am on your side.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  He introduced himself, then listened patiently for several minutes. ‘Yes, I understand. You say Dr Morrison’s still bleeding, but is she able to speak? Good, then will you pass the phone to her, please? Hello, Dr Morrison. Yes . . . we’ve a pretty good idea. I understand. You don’t want to talk in front of Ms Frensham. Right. I’ll ask some questions. Answer “Yes” or “No”. First, we’re assuming the threat of rape came from Mr Zelowski senior? Yes. Second, did he – er?’ His eyes widened reassuringly at Jenny Monroe. ‘Good. Ms Frensham says you’ve been badly beaten? That presumably means he tried? Yes. You fought him off? Yes. Is that why he’s bleeding? Right. We know Jimmy James brought you out – we’ve been monitoring it from the helicopter – but, just for the record, confirm for me that he had a good reason for hitting Mr Zelowski. Good. Would you prefer it if I asked Ms Frensham to leave the room? Good. Could you pass her back to me, please? I’ll talk to you again in a minute.’

  Inside 6 Bassett Road

  Clara Frensham darted a frightened look at Franek, then handed the receiver to Sophie and hurried from the room. They heard her feet on the stairs, then the slam of a bedroom door. ‘She’s gone,’ Sophie told Ken. ‘No, it’s better this way. She’s very fragile at the moment. I’m amazed she even let us in.’ Her eyes turned to Franek. ‘No, there’s nothing wrong with him except a few cuts to his face. It’s his son who’s in trouble. He’s gone into a coma and I can’t wake him.’

  ‘She tell you lies,’ shouted Franek. ‘Franek can’t breathe . . . nigger hit him . . . Franek want to talk to police.’

  Sophie smiled slightly. ‘Just in case anything happens to me,’ she said slowly and clearly into the receiver, so that Franek would understand every word, ‘I want Bob – my man – to know that this bastard punched me at least twenty times but still couldn’t get me to submit. There is nothing . . . in this whole world . . . that would have allowed me to give in to a worthless piece of shit who first murdered his wife . . . then destroyed his son.’ She lifted her middle finger and jabbed it into the air at Franek. ‘And if I remember anything – or anyone – from this experience, it’ll be Mel’s Jimmy bursting through the door and rescuing me before Mr Zelowski senior could rape and murder me . . .’

  Nightingale Health Centre

  Fay Baldwin hovered on the periphery of the huddle round the telephone, listening to Sophie’s voice and Franek’s more distant, angry interjections over the loudspeaker. She heard Sophie’s precisely related narrative of what had happened, then listened to Harry giving a potted version of Milosz Zelowski’s psychiatric report. ‘He wasn’t considered a danger,’ he finished, ‘but some idiot thought better and leaked his whereabouts to the estate. We’ve already heard that one poor lad’s died of burns. God knows how many others there are going to be.’

  They all heard Sophie’s sigh, loud and clear, over the amplifier. ‘It was Fay Baldwin,’ she said, unaware that the woman was listening, ‘but I’ve no idea how she found out who the Zelowskis were or where they lived.’ Another sigh. ‘And it wasn’t entirely Fay’s fault either, Harry. She tried to tell me there was a paedophile in the road, but she kept mouthing off about Melanie Patterson being a whore and I got the wrong end of the stick. I assumed she was accusing Mel and her men of being child abusers, so I gave her a bollocking and she went off in a huff and told Mel perverts were waiting to grab little Rosie. I think that’s what must have sparked the riot. It’s all so crazy . . . I keep thinking if only I’d listened to the stupid woman, none of this would be happening. Did you know that Jimmy James shared a cell with Milosz? He could have told Mel he was harmless if he’d known what his real name was.’ She fell silent.

  ‘It’s not your fault and it’s not the Pattersons’ either,’ Harry said firmly. ‘All Melanie and her mother did was organize a march. They happen every day of the week, and there was no reason to suppose that this would be any different. No one can be blamed if rioters jumped on the back of it to launch a war against the police . . . and this is too well organized to have been spontaneous.’ He glanced at Fay. ‘It would have happened anyway. It’s a copycat of the petrol-bomb riots that have been going on in Bradford and Belfast this last month. We’re in a heatwave and youth is angry. It’s a volatile mixture.’

  Sophie sighed again. ‘From what Jimmy James told me, it’s Mel who’s been trying to contain it. She’s a great girl . . . always does her best, even if it doesn’t work out right. Jimmy said we’d have been burnt alive if she hadn’t stopped people throwing petrol bombs. He’s gone off to try and get her and the little ones out.’

  ‘We know,’ said Harry. ‘We’re being kept informed by the officers monitoring video footage from the helicopter. That’s how we knew you were at Ms Frensham’s. What we’re going to do now is find someone to watch over Zelowski senior for you, while you concentrate on Milosz.’

  ‘Oh, God, be careful,’ she cried in alarm. ‘If word leaks out that they’re here, then we’ll end up imprisoned in this house. I can’t go through that again, Harry. Wouldn’t it be safer to wait till Jimmy gets back with Mel?’

  Harry glanced at Ken Hewitt, who shook his head. ‘We think they might be in trouble,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘Some of the crowd stormed the house and Melanie was knocked over in the rush. At this point we’re not sure exactly what’s going on.’

  ‘Oh my God! She’ll lose the baby, Harry. Why did you make Jimmy come for me? He should have gone for her. He’s the father, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘We’re hoping her mother’s with her, also her brother. Jimmy certainly is. He was seen running in through the back door. He’ll get her out, Sophie.’

  There was a pause. ‘I’m going back,’ she said with sudden decision. ‘I’m giving the phone to Franek. His hands are tied in front of him so he can hold it. You can talk to him, Harry. It’ll be an education.’

  ‘No, Sophie, wait!’

  But she was already gone, and the next voice on the line was a man’s.

  ‘Who I speak to?’ Franek demanded.

  Harry straightened and gestured to Ken to take over. ‘The police, Mr Zelowski.’

  ‘Hah! This is good. Now I say what really happen.’

  Ken took out his notebook with a small smile. ‘That’s your choice, sir, but I must warn you that Dr Morrison has made some serious accusations against you . . . and there are several witnesses to this conversation. That means anything you say may be used against you in a court of law should arrest and prosecution follow. You might prefer to remain silent until you’ve had an opportunity to consult a solicitor. Do you understand what I’ve just told you?’

  ‘I understand everything. You think Franek stupid? I tell it all so you know Franek old and frail and do what he can to save his Milosz’s life . . .’

  Hilton Hotel, Southampton

 
Tyler borrowed the manager’s office and put through a call to the custody sergeant at headquarters. ‘I want you to bring Martin Rogerson to the phone,’ he told him. ‘I need to talk to him.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on, sir?’ the other man demanded crossly. ‘I can’t hold him much longer unless you substantiate the charges.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you after I’ve spoken to him.’ He waited, drumming his fingers on the desk. ‘Yes, it’s DCI Tyler, Mr Rogerson.’ He held the receiver away from his ear. ‘You’ll be released quicker if you calm down and listen,’ he said when the storm finally blew itself out at the other end. ‘I’m calling from the Hilton Hotel in Southampton and this time I’d appreciate your full cooperation with the questions I’m about to ask you. No, sir. It is not a threat. Mr Townsend and a Mr John Finch have made certain statements about why Mr Townsend returned from Majorca yesterday morning. Some of them concern you. I would like to establish how truthful those statements are.’

  He consulted his notebook, which was open in front of him. ‘Is it true that you acted without Mr Townsend’s knowledge when you rescheduled this meeting for today?’ He listened to the tirade at the other end. ‘You’re saying you didn’t have a choice? The bank was issuing ultimatums . . . Mm . . . Then how come John Finch was able to contact him? . . . Mm . . . Except Mr Finch seems to think it was you who began the collapse in confidence.’ He stared at the wall as a bellow of sound from the other end hammered at his eardrums. ‘I don’t know, Mr Rogerson,’ he murmured into the silence that followed. ‘I suppose it depends how vindictive you are . . . and how stupid he is. You’re far better placed than anyone else to destroy him . . . You’ve been party to every dirty little secret he’s ever had . . .’

  Nightingale Health Centre

  Bob Scudamore pushed through the door of reception and stopped before the bizarre tableau huddled round the telephone. Harry was the first to notice him. He raised a finger to his lips to stop him saying anything, then beckoned him forwards. ‘The father,’ he wrote on a piece of paper. ‘Sophie’s safe. Bruised and battered but no rape. She fought him off. Father now justifying himself. Completely barking!’

  Bob closed his eyes in relief then switched his attention to the self-congratulatory monologue on the loudspeaker.

  ‘. . . she very arrogant girl . . . dress sexy to make men look at her. If I go talk to crowd, she say, they do what I tell them. Everyone know me . . . everyone like me. Men like me most of all. Me very pretty girl. She find Franek nice . . . say just now in front of lady of house . . . you amazing, Franek. Franek say to her, you very pleased with yourself, little miss, and she get angry . . . break vase, slice Franek’s face . . . try turn Milosz against his dada. She talk to son all the time . . . look at me, she say . . . take notice of me. But Milosz not interested . . . he say to her . . .’

  Oh, fuck this!

  Adrenalin had been sitting like a lump in Bob’s stomach ever since Harry had phoned him. Release of tension set it roaring through his veins. He leaned forward to bring his mouth within two inches of the speaker. ‘I’m here,’ he said in a voice like sifted gravel.

  A long pause. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Sophie’s man.’

  ‘Where police?’

  ‘It’s just you and me, you twisted little sod.’

  ‘I don’t talk to you.’

  Bob gave a low laugh. ‘You will when I come for you,’ he said. ‘You won’t be able to stop yourself. That’s what I do . . . take a man’s brains and turn them inside out. I’ll have one guess at what I’m going to find in yours. A snivelling little runt who was so scared of his dada he wet the bed the first time he tried to make love to a woman. Am I right?’

  The silence became oppressive. Jenny Monroe made a move as if she were about to speak, but Bob held a finger to his lips.

  ‘I want police. Give me police.’

  ‘I’m still here, Mr Zelowski,’ said Ken Hewitt.

  ‘You hear that? Man threaten Franek.’

  ‘It must be your conscience,’ said the policeman calmly. ‘No one here heard anything.’

  DEVON & CORNWALL POLICE

  Missing person investigation – Amy Rogerson/ Biddulph

  IMMEDIATE SEARCH OF PROPERTY REQUESTED

  Rose Cottage, Lower Burton, Devon

  Authorization received

  Full details to follow . . .

  Twenty-seven

  Inside 23 Humbert Street

  LIKE SOPHIE, GAYNOR would have recurring dreams filled with blood. Jimmy, too. Post-trauma, they would lurch awake at night, sweat pouring down their backs, eyes staring widely into the darkness, fingers searching desperately for the light switch. They would all refuse counselling. Sophie, because she had Bob to take her patiently through it; Gaynor, because she couldn’t bear to relive the terrible guilt and grief of that day; Jimmy, because he needed to relive it over and over again in case he forgot the lives that were lost.

  Despite her unease, Gaynor finally made up her mind to approach the back of number 23. She wondered why the kitchen door was broken, but Jimmy wouldn’t have come out of it if it wasn’t an exit, she kept telling herself, and all she wanted was a through-route to the front. Jimmy had used one earlier to materialize at her side. This was no different.

  A quick glance through the window of the back room as she passed showed it to be unoccupied, as was the kitchen. She stepped through water on the floor and paused in the doorway to call out.

  ‘Hello! Is anyone here? I’m trying to get through to Humbert Street. I’m looking for my kids.’

  She sensed only stillness in the house. If anyone was there, they were keeping their heads well down.

  She tested the door of the back room but it was locked – the empty one – looked up the stairs, then paused by the open door of the lounge. She took in everything at a single glance. The shattered window. The blowing curtains. Broken furniture. Lamps knocked over like coconut shies. Bricks and stones, littering the floor. The damp, acrid smell of a fire extinguished with water.

  . . . she was in the paedophiles’ house . . .

  Her instinctive reaction was to retreat but, through the window, she saw the tall, unmistakable figure of her daughter, standing with her back to the house. Next to her was Colin. As she watched, the shouts of the crowd resolved themselves into individual taunts. Gaynor recognized the first voice, but couldn’t place it.

  ‘We ain’t gonna wait much longer, bitch!’

  ‘What your man doing, Mel? Getting hisself jocked by perverts?’

  ‘Maybe he don’t fancy girls wiv’ big bellies! You wanna cross your legs next time!’

  The same voice, louder and wilder. A black voice. ‘He’d better not be helping ’em, bitch, or we’ll fucking ’ave you and your bruvver. You talked right hard when you wos making bombs, Col, but you never said you wos too yellow to use ’em.’

  Wesley Barber, thought Gaynor in alarm. The idiot on crystal meth . . . and hyped to the eyeballs by the sound of it. Oh, God! What to do? Go and stand with Melanie and Colin? Tell the crowd Jimmy wasn’t there any more? They wouldn’t believe her. Where had he gone anyway? What was he doing? Who were the people with him? Her mind grasped for answers. Were they paedophiles? But who was the girl? And what would the crowd do to Mel and Col if they thought Jimmy had helped the perverts escape?

  She reined her thoughts in with determination. A solution was all she was interested in. There was no sense in Mel and Col guarding an empty house. Better to slip through the window and tell them to move aside and let Wesley enter. The smell of burning didn’t register as a threat. The fire was out, and the consequences to the rest of the road if number 23 went up in flames were so far outside Gaynor’s priority at that moment that she never even considered it. With hurried tread, she ran upstairs to check the bedrooms.

  She thought she was used to shock till she saw the blood in the back one. The smell of body odour – hot, rancid, disgusting – brought the bile surging up her throat and she clamped
her hand to her mouth and fled down the stairs, weeping in fear. Like her son earlier, she was physically unable to absorb any more adrenalin without her body protesting. She supported herself against the wall and bent forward, retching violently.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked a querulous voice.

  Her head snapped up. A man with a machete was standing at the sitting-room door. She tried to say something . . . give her name . . . but all that came out was a scream . . .

  Everyone outside heard it.

  Jimmy accelerated his pace across the garden at the back.

  Melanie turned a white face to Colin.

  Wesley let loose his dogs of war and charged.

  ‘Bitch!’ he snarled as he landed a punch in Melanie’s stomach.

  He stood over her as she fell, twirling his knife in his other hand. He was Wesley Snipes in Blade. Killer of vampire perverts. White ones. It was his destiny. He was Wesley Snipes . . . had been Wesley Snipes since he first saw New Jack City. A mean, black bastard who could rule the world. There had to be a reason for his name. Not his dad (Wesley Barber Snr). His dad was a loser. A two-bit thief who wandered in and out of prison like he was in a revolving door.

  Somewhere in Wesley’s confused, meth-shot mind, his mother’s Christian voice resounded. ‘Youse no good, boy. Youse your father’s son. Only Jesus love you. Only Jesus make you worthy. Take the Lord to your heart and make your mamma proud.’

  ‘NO-OO!’ He whipped his knife in a backhand slash across Colin’s cheek, straddling his legs and bringing his arms back into cruciform pattern in front of him. ‘MOTHERFUCKER! I am BLADE!’

  He vaulted the windowsill and padded across the sitting-room.

  Inside 23 Humbert Street

  Jimmy came to a dead halt in the kitchen doorway. Ahead of him, Gaynor was cowering against the wall, trying to ward off his soldier friend, who was bending down to help her up. The old man’s tin hat sat lopsidedly on his head and his legs protruded like knobbly twigs from his Empire shorts. He looked what he was. A daft old idiot in Borneo fatigues.