The Riot

by Laura Wilson

  ‘And that was just after you ran away from home, was it?’ asked Stratton.

  ‘Yes,’ said Irene defiantly. ‘Clinton’s the only one in my life who’s been nice to me, other than my dad, and he’s dead.’

  ‘Was that why you left home?’

  ‘Sort of, but …’ Irene dropped her head and started picking at something on her skirt. ‘It was more when my mum got married again.’ The words came out in a hurried mumble. ‘I hate him.’

  ‘Your stepfather?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Irene twisted her head to one side, avoiding eye contact with either him or Walker, and began fiddling with her hair, winding a strand of red gold round and round her finger. ‘I think she’d started seeing him when Dad was in hospital before he died. He was always trying to get me on my own. I was only thirteen when he started.’

  Stratton glanced at Walker. His face was impassive, the eyes opaque. Wishing there was a policewoman present, he asked, ‘Was he interfering with you?’

  ‘Yes. I tried to tell her, but as soon as I started she jumped down my throat and called me a liar. She did that before I’d even said it – like she knew what I was going to say. She said I was sly – making things up. Then she told him in front of me and he said it was because she’d spoiled me when I was a kid, but all the time he’s looking at me when she can’t see, as if he knows he’s won or something. I’m not lying, honest I’m not.’

  ‘I know.’ While she’d been talking, a familiar sensation had descended upon Stratton, one that he always felt when he heard versions of this story: sadness coupled with the weary resignation of knowing there was bugger all he could do about it. He couldn’t turn the clock back and undo the damage, and in the very rare instances where these things came anywhere near a court it would come down to the child’s word against the parents. ‘When did you run away?’ he asked.

  ‘About six weeks ago.’

  That would make it the beginning of July – in other words, about a year since she’d left school. Stratton sighed. ‘You’re not eighteen, are you?’

  Irene shook her head.

  ‘What’s your parents’ address?’

  She shrank back in her chair. ‘You ain’t sending me back there. I won’t go – you can’t make me – and anyway, they don’t want to know me.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I wrote to Mum to say I was all right, and she wrote back saying she’d heard I was living with a black man and it was disgusting. She said she was ashamed with people knowing about it and I’d let them all down and she never wanted to see me again. Besides …’ here, Irene’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m happy here. Clinton loves me, and I love him.’

  Stratton looked sideways at Walker, who was staring resolutely at the floor, his discomfort palpable. Why did I start this? he thought. It’s not part of the case and even if she is underage, I’m not about to frogmarch her back to her family, or to hand her over to a bunch of welfare people who’ll send her back labelled ‘imbecile’ or ‘juvenile delinquent’ or something else that will make damn sure no one ever listens to her. Stifling the treacherous thought that he almost certainly wouldn’t have been taking such an interest if she weren’t so appealing and pretty, he said, ‘I’m not saying Etheridge doesn’t love you, Irene. Now, what’s your parents’ address?’

  ‘You ain’t—’

  ‘There’s no reason why I should contact them,’ said Stratton soothingly. ‘And if you don’t tell me, Irene, I can easily find the information elsewhere.’

  ‘All right,’ said Irene sulkily. ‘It’s the White City Estate. Number 16 in Durban House.’

  Producing his notebook, Stratton jotted this down. ‘And you’ve been living here for six weeks, have you?’

  ‘’Bout that.’

  ‘Well, how long do you think it’s going to be before Gloria finds out you’re living with Etheridge – if she hasn’t already?’

  Irene sniffed. ‘I don’t care if she does. He wants me, not her, and this is our home.’ She looked around the sparsely furnished room in a forlorn parody of housewifely pride. ‘You know what Gloria does for a living, don’t you?’

  Irene gave him a scornful look. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘She gives the money to Etheridge.’

  Stratton saw shock flash across her face for an instant before she rallied, saying, with weak defiance, ‘Well, if she wants to give him money, that’s her lookout.’

  ‘He’s living off her, Irene. Him and you.’

  ‘I know that.’ She hadn’t, thought Stratton. ‘But it’s only because no one’ll give him a job. It isn’t fair.’

  Stratton, remembering Walker’s words earlier, thought there was more than a grain of truth in this last bit, although he wondered how hard Etheridge had actually tried to find work. ‘I realise it can be difficult,’ he said, ‘but you have to realise that she’s not giving him all that money without expecting something in return.’

  ‘You mean he …?’ Irene stopped, shaking her head violently as if to rid herself of the image of Etheridge and Gloria together. ‘It’s not true.’

  ‘He never spends nights away from you?’

  ‘Only when he sleeps at the club.’

  Stratton raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? And how often does he do that?’

  ‘Two or three times a week, when they’re busy. It’s because he doesn’t like to wake me up – he’s always back in the morning …’ Faltering, she said, ‘I still don’t believe you. You’re just saying it because you’re trying to spoil everything,’ she finished childishly. ‘He loves me, I know he does. When I was sitting in that cafe, I didn’t have any money left and I didn’t know what to do –’

  ‘– and you were very vulnerable,’ finished Stratton. ‘You’d run away from a bad situation at home, and he was kind to you – no one’s denying that. But it’s not a fairytale, Irene. Etheridge lied to Gloria about you, didn’t he?’

  Irene’s smooth forehead crenellated in a frown. ‘Yes, but that was different.’

  ‘So he’s capable of lying to Gloria but not to you?’

  Irene opened her mouth to reply, then shut it again. Turning to Walker, she said, ‘You know Clinton. Why don’t you tell him it’s not true?’

  Walker, who was still looking down at the floor, didn’t move, and the silence in the room seemed to thicken. Watching the realisation creep across Irene’s face, Stratton had the sensation of having smashed something precious. Not that it was entirely his fault – her stepfather had begun it and Etheridge was simply the next step in a process that would lead, inexorably, to disappointment. There were plenty of older, worldlier women, he thought, who’d wilfully deceived themselves over men with far less excuse than poor Irene.

  ‘He wants to marry me.’ Irene sounded uncertain. ‘He said.’

  Walker cleared his throat. His voice, when it came, seemed to rise from somewhere deep inside him. ‘You think he doesn’t tell Gloria the same thing?’

  Irene recoiled as if she’d been hit. ‘But she’s a pro! Clinton wouldn’t marry her.’

  ‘Maybe he wouldn’t,’ said Walker. ‘But he doesn’t mind taking her money, does he? And,’ he added, ‘he won’t mind taking yours either.’

  ‘Why can’t you let me alone?’ cried Irene. ‘Both of you!’

  ‘Because,’ said Stratton, ‘we don’t want you to end up like Gloria.’ Deciding to take a chance, he continued, ‘The evening Mr Johnson was killed, you and Gloria had a meal in a cafe in Golborne Road, didn’t you?’

  ‘Ye-es.’ Irene looked mystified.

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Ermm …’ Irene coloured. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Oh, I think you can. “It’s easy money – three pounds for a short time. You’ll soon get used to it, and you’d never be short of offers, pretty girl like you. You could buy yourself new clothes – anything you wanted – find yourself a nice flat …” Was that how it went?’ The expression on Irene’s face told him he’d h
it home. ‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘Gloria thought you were Ding-Dong’s girl, didn’t she, so I’m guessing that Etheridge asked him to ask her to have a word with you, and you have a nice cosy chat, and just as you’re getting used to the idea along comes Ding-Dong and tells you what a smart move you’re making, and suddenly it feels as if it’s all your idea and you’re a very clever girl. You’re not the first one it’s happened to, love, and you certainly won’t be the last. I know,’ he added, ‘that you must be feeling a bit mixed up at the moment –’ The look on Irene’s face told him this was as masterly an understatement as he was ever likely to make – ‘and, judging by your behaviour this morning, I’d say that something has made you very, very frightened about being here by yourself.’ Again, Irene’s face provided ample confirmation of this. ‘Are you absolutely sure that you didn’t recognise any of the men who attacked Mr Johnson?’

  ‘N-no.’

  ‘Have they threatened you? Is that why you don’t want to tell me?’ Blinking rapidly, Irene shook her head. ‘Is it someone from the White City Estate?’

  ‘No – honest – it’s just I don’t like being on my own, that’s all.’

  ‘Really? It looked like a bit more than that to me. Do you know someone called Eddy Knight?’

  ‘I don’t know none of them.’

  ‘None of who?’

  ‘None of the people you’re talking about.’

  ‘Eddy Knight lives on the White City Estate.’

  ‘It’s big. Lots of people live there.’

  Stratton produced his notebook and leafed through it until he found the notes from his conversation with Knight. ‘What about Ronnie Mills? Do you know him?’

  Irene shook her head.

  Stratton produced PC Dobbs’s list from his other pocket and checked it. ‘He lives on the estate too, and so does Gordon Baxter. What about him?’

  Another headshake, lower this time, so that her eyes were obscured by a curtain of hair.

  ‘Fred Larby?’

  Another headshake. Now Stratton was looking at the crown of her head.

  ‘Tony Pearson?’

  Irene jerked her head up. ‘No!’ The word came out as a cross between a sob and a scream. ‘I don’t know a single one and I never saw them and I don’t know nothing about any of it! Why can’t you just leave me alone?’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Seeing that there was nothing to be gained by staying and feeling like a bully, Stratton patted Irene awkwardly on one heaving shoulder and withdrew. Walker, looking reproachful, followed him onto the landing. ‘She’s too frightened,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘I know. It’s no good, and I shouldn’t have kept on at her like that. But she does need to get away from here. It’s all right,’ he added quickly, seeing the alarm on the other’s face, ‘I’m not going to try and send her back to her mum, and I’m not going to say anything, either, or she’ll end up in a Remand Home and that won’t do her any good at all.’

  ‘So what can you do?’

  ‘Your landlord, Perlmann – his manager, Laskier, told me he was willing to offer her a job at Maxine’s.’

  ‘That club?’ Walker looked disdainful. ‘All those old men …’ He shook his head. ‘It’s no better than what she has now. Besides, she told me about this – that man offered her the job, and she said no. You know what she said? That Etheridge would be vexed so she didn’t tell him.’

  ‘But it would get her away from him, wouldn’t it? And Laskier might offer her a place to live as well.’

  Walker stared at him in disbelief. ‘He’s no different to Etheridge.’

  ‘I know what you’re saying,’ said Stratton, ‘but I believe you’re wrong.’

  Walker’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline. ‘You trust him?’

  Stratton surprised himself by saying, firmly, ‘Yes, I do. And I’m not on his payroll, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m doing this because I want to help Irene, and I think that Laskier does too, so you might suggest she gets in touch with him. She won’t listen to me. If she doesn’t have his telephone number, she can go to the office. It’s on the corner of Westbourne Grove and Monmouth Road. I honestly think – at the moment, at least – that this is the best way to get her out of here.’

  Walker peered at him through narrowed eyes. Realising that the man was trying to decide whether or not to believe him, Stratton said, ‘And what’s more, it would get Irene away from whatever it is that’s frightening her – because it’s obvious that something, or someone, is scaring her out of her wits. And,’ he added, ‘if it’s the people I think it is, then the longer she stays here, the more danger she’s going to be in.’

  *

  The General Smuts pub was on Bloemfontein Road. Apart from that one, all the roads on the White City estate were named after Commonwealth Countries – South Africa, Australia, Canada and New Zealand. The blocks of flats were rectangular brick structures, either facing the road or standing at ninety-degree angles to it, and most of these had names associated with the Commonwealth too. Besides the one where Irene had lived, which was called Durban, there were Auckland, Brisbane, Canberra, and a lot more besides. The pub, a square brick building with two bay windows on either side of its front door, was designed in a similar style to the flats.

  As it was quarter to one, Stratton decided he might as well combine his visit with something to eat. Having bitten through the stale crust of a withered pork pie and encountered a gluey, grey filling, he wished he hadn’t bothered. The plate – which, like his glass, was none too clean – sat on the sticky bar before him between puddles of ale and overflowing ashtrays. To his left, a row of grim-faced men sucked on pints and divided their time between staring into space and marking the racing pages in a manner that suggested they were already resigned to losing their money. The stout barman, trousers almost up to his armpits and a grimy towel slung over his shoulder, was leaning against the side of the cash register, apparently stupefied by the fog of cigarette smoke and inertia that hung over the room.

  Pushing away the remains of his lunch, Stratton ambled over and introduced himself. On hearing who he was, the barman’s sleepy eyes opened wide for a moment, and he scrambled upright, hands held up in a placatory gesture. ‘Guv’nor’s upstairs. I’ll fetch him.’

  Stratton waited, aware of the barrage of hostile stares from the drinkers at the bar. The man closest to him belched loudly, and, ramming his hat onto his head with the flat of his hand, slid off his stool and made for the door.

  *

  ‘Arthur Norris. How can I help?’ The publican, who had a face like a Victoria plum with grog blossoms, wrung his hands together in a show of obsequiousness while the barman, who’d followed him downstairs, waddled about making half-hearted swipes at the slops on the counter with his filthy towel.

  ‘I’d like to ask you about a group of young men who were drinking in here the evening before last.’

  Norris looked dubious. ‘I’ll do my best, but we get a lot in here in the evenings, and I don’t know everybody.’

  Sensing that he was about to be met with a show of helpful non-cooperation, Stratton said, ‘I realise that, but at least three of them live locally: Eddy Knight, Gordon Baxter and Ronnie Mills.’

  ‘They come in regular, but I couldn’t say the last time I saw them – don’t know if it was this week even.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’ Leaning casually against the bar, Stratton added, ‘Because if we find out you’ve been lying to us, you’ll lose your licence. You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?’

  As expected, this worked like a charm on the landlord’s memory. ‘You had me there for a moment, Inspector, but I’ve remembered now. As I said, it’s difficult with so many faces … But they was all here, with a couple of others – don’t know them, they’ve only been in three or four times – but they had a few drinks.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Early on, I think it was – I wasn’t down here all the time
, but I know they come in around seven, something like that.’ Turning to the barman, he said, ‘You was here, Alf.’

  Alf, who’d been listening, looked alarmed at being put on the spot and said, ‘You want to ask Paddy about that.’

  ‘Who’s Paddy?’ asked Stratton.

  ‘Our potman,’ said Norris. ‘He’s out the back.’

  ‘I’ll fetch him, shall I?’ Alf threw down his towel and bustled off without waiting for an answer.

  Stratton took out his notebook. ‘Paddy who?’

  Norris looked nonplussed. ‘I don’t rightly know. Come to think of it, I don’t know if Paddy’s his real name, only he’s Irish, see, and they’re all called that, aren’t they? The wife’ll have a note of it, though. For the books,’ he added virtuously.

  ‘Paddy’, who was ushered in by Alf about thirty seconds later, was a sallow, undersized man with a limp who turned out to be called Joseph O’Driscoll. He had the wary look of someone long used to being a target for bullies. ‘There were five or six of them here,’ he said, after a nod from Norris. ‘Out for trouble, they were. I was collecting the empties I was, and one of them stuck out his leg and tripped me up. Five glasses, all smashed. When I asked him what the fuck he’d done it for, he starts giving out about it was for being an Irish bastard.’

  Norris laughed, but Stratton noticed that his colour had intensified to a lurid maroon. ‘Just a bit of horseplay.’

  Oh, really? thought Stratton, looking at O’Driscoll, whose face was white and pinched with suppressed anger. ‘Which one was it?’ he asked.

  ‘That was Eddy Knight did that,’ said Alf, bolder now. ‘He’s always taking the mickey out of him.’

  ‘Do you know the others who were with Knight?’

  ‘There’s the two that you said,’ said Alf, ‘but most of the others are regulars. Don’t know the names, though.’

  ‘One of them’s called Johnny,’ said O’Driscoll. ‘I heard them say it.’