The Riot

by Laura Wilson

  ‘Yes, sir. And you’ve got good news for him, haven’t you?’

  ‘Of sorts,’ said Stratton. ‘We’ve not managed to collar Knight or Halliwell yet, remember.’

  ‘No, sir. In spite of your best efforts.’

  Stratton groaned. ‘Thanks for reminding me. I feel as if I’ve been run over by a bus.’

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, sir.’ Jellicoe paused to take a swig of his tea. ‘When you come in this afternoon looking like you did, I thought, well …’ He made a disparaging face. ‘But then, seeing you downstairs with that lot – lovely job, that was.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Stratton, surprised. ‘I’m not sure that Matthews would agree, though.’

  ‘You don’t want to worry about him,’ said Jellicoe. ‘He’s been here near as long as I have, and he thinks he’s running the show. Why don’t you give the guv’nor a ring, sir, and I’ll see if I can’t get the canteen to rustle up a couple of sandwiches?’

  *

  ‘There’s still a lot we don’t know, sir, but it’s a start.’

  Matheson, Stratton thought, must have been sitting on top of the telephone, because he’d picked it up on the first ring, and had seemed more than happy to listen to the details. Stratton pictured him sitting in a leather armchair in a room decorated in the beef and holly colours favoured by gentlemen’s clubs, surrounded by brass artefacts, with a Labrador at his feet and his wife, an unimagined blur, somewhere in the background.

  ‘But you haven’t charged them with anything,’ said Matheson, when Stratton had finished explaining the events of the day.

  ‘No, sir. I thought it best to wait until I’d spoken to you.’

  ‘Fair enough. I take it the parents are aware of what’s going on? You said that Pearson and Larby are both under eighteen.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. They were both at home, so the parents know what’s going on, and Mills’s and Baxter’s families have been informed. I understand there wasn’t much difficulty – they all agreed to come in voluntarily … I get the impression that they thought if they kept their story straight – the original story, I mean, about the party – they’d get away with it because the two girls wouldn’t say anything. Certainly, according to what I’ve been told, none of the parents seemed very concerned about it.’

  Matheson grunted in a way that suggested he wasn’t surprised by this, then said, ‘Were these all on Dobbs’s list of troublemakers?’

  ‘All except Larby and Halliwell, sir.’

  ‘Any previous?’

  ‘Not for this type of thing, except for Knight. He was bound over after an incident at one of the White Defence League’s political meetings back in March. Baxter – he’s twenty-one, currently a sheet metal worker at an outfit in Latimer Road – he was fined thirty shillings for stealing ten gallons of petrol last year …’ Stratton paused to leaf through his notes. ‘Pearson’s been taken in for questioning a few times but never charged with anything, but Mills was given eighteen months’ probation last summer for loitering with intent. He’s nineteen – managed a year’s National Service before he and the army parted on bad terms. Earlier records show persistent truancy from school … They sent him to an LCC residential place in Surrey for a couple of years – eighteen different jobs in the two and a half years between leaving and being called up …’

  ‘What’s he doing now?’

  ‘Currently unemployed and drawing national assistance,’ read Stratton.

  ‘Department of No Surprises,’ said Matheson. ‘And that goes for all of it. Right, then – we haven’t enough for manslaughter. Charge them with malicious wounding and then we can hang on to them until Monday and see if we can’t get hold of the other two in the meantime.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s it, then. I expect you’ll be glad to get home tonight, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ll let you get on with it, then. Be sure to let me know if there are any developments before you leave won’t you? Oh, and Stratton?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Well done.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  By the time they’d finished charging Mills and the others, it was nearly half past eleven and Stratton, whose head was now throbbing rhythmically after spending the afternoon and evening in smoky rooms with no ventilation, felt punch-drunk with exhaustion. He had just put his hat on to go home when Sergeant Vokes appeared, looking flustered. ‘Sorry, sir, but there’s been a serious disturbance. Big party in Colville Road, and there’s mayhem – crowds of people, and they’re throwing petrol bombs and all sorts—’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Stratton. ‘Colville Road? What number?’

  ‘Thirty-seven, sir.’

  Etheridge’s club, thought Stratton. ‘Do you know who’s involved?’

  ‘We’re a bit confused, sir. It’s usually a coloured club, but when PC Leonards called it in he said there were respectable people in there and—’

  ‘Councillor Watson’s party.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, sir, but we’ve sent reinforcements and the fire brigade’s on its way, and the ambulance. I know you’re not on duty, sir, but DI Culshaw’s had to go down to another incident in Bramley Road – there’s a fight going on down there with the coloureds and a house is on fire, and we’ve just had a report of a big gang gathered under the railway arches at Latimer Road, all set to lynch the first darkie they see, and there’s another lot smashing windows in Oxford Gardens, so—’

  ‘Whoa! It’s all right – I’ll go.’

  Vokes’s relief was evident. ‘Thank you, sir. It’s just … Well, I don’t know what to expect next. Your driver’ll be right outside, sir.’

  *

  The driver was a hare-eyed young copper called Dunning who looked even more unnerved than Vokes had. ‘I’ve just come back from Latimer Road tube, sir,’ he said, as they sped along, bell clanging. It was a bright night, with a full moon surrounded by grape-coloured sky, and Harrow Road seemed peaceful enough. Shutters down, curtains drawn and everyone tucked up in bed.

  ‘It’s murder down there, sir. They’re throwing things through the windows and the coloureds are fighting back, chucking milk bottles at them. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Let’s concentrate on the matter in hand, shall we?’ said Stratton grimly, images of Fenella crowding his mind. It sounded as if there was a full-scale battle going on, and if she were in the middle of it she might have been hurt, or assaulted, or … The way things had been going in the past few weeks, not to mention that business in Nottingham last weekend – and it being the August bank holiday – he should have guessed that something like this might happen. Councillor Watson’s bloody soirée was sheer provocation, and, in a situation like the one Vokes had described, all those well-meaning types were going to be about as useful as tits on a billiard ball. As for Etheridge … Stratton shook his head in frustration. He should have seen it coming. He should have warned Fenella not to go anywhere near the place, warned Mrs Rutherford …

  ‘I’d wind up your window, sir,’ said Dunning, as they turned into Ledbury Road and a car shot past them, men hanging out of the windows. Stratton caught a glimpse of clenched fists and contorted faces and heard a shout of ‘Niggers out!’ before the car disappeared. It was followed by a hail of stones and bricks, one of which hit the bonnet of their Austin 90 with a colossal bang, making them rear back, arms across their faces. Dunning lost control of the wheel and the car slewed sideways, clipping a couple of dustbins which clanged onto the pavement, spewing rubbish and scattering a group of teenagers and younger kids who were milling around the open door of one of the houses. They laughed and shouted as another car full of men drove past, yelling and gesticulating. Stratton could hear more bells now, fire engines and other police cars round the corner. Further up the street, more dustbins were overturned in the middle of the road, with a motorcycle parked halfway across so that Dunning had to steer round it. Their progress was slower now, becau
se the pool of bystanders on the corner of Colville Terrace had spilled from the pavement into the road. They paid little attention either to the siren or to Dunning sounding his horn, but stood there placidly, talking among themselves, breaking off to look up and down the street as though they were waiting for a parade to pass. All were white, their skins a grey-mauve colour in the light of the street lamps. Cautiously winding down his window again, Stratton looked up and saw that there were coloured men and women standing behind their closed windows, unmoving and, he thought, silent.

  Dunning nosed the Austin 90 slowly through the crowd. They’d got some way down Colville Terrace when Stratton spotted an elderly man. Dressed, despite the hot weather, in an overcoat and muffler, he was taking a small, snuff-coloured terrier for a walk, apparently oblivious to the chaos around him. Stratton was about to ask Dunning to pull over so that he could tell the man to go home when the car stopped so suddenly that Stratton was thrown forward in his seat. Looking up, he saw that two coloured men were running hell for leather from the corner of Colville Road a few hundred yards away with a gang of white men streaming after them, a charge of solid, roaring bodies. The one in front, head thrown back and teeth bared, was brandishing what looked like a tyre iron, and others flailed lengths of wood or swung bicycle chains. The car shook from side to side as they surged past, banging against the sides, closely pursued by five or six policemen, truncheons held aloft, blowing their whistles.

  Stratton twisted round in his seat to see both coloured men haring up the steps of a house at the end of the street and plunging through the front door. The gang, who’d been joined by a bunch of teenagers on scooters from Ledbury Road, jeered from the pavement and threw things at the windows. One man picked up a child’s tricycle from beside the dustbins and, lifting it above his head, was about to hurl it through the front window when two coppers jumped on him, knocking him to the ground. The crowd surged around them, shouting and throwing whatever missiles came to hand, while the other policemen tried to fight their way through to help their colleagues.

  Stratton’s attention was abruptly drawn back to Colville Road by the whoomphing noise of an explosion and the sound of shattering glass. ‘Get moving,’ he shouted at Dunning, who was staring ahead of him, apparently in a state of shock. Turning round, he could see that the people from the end of the street, as well as the bystanders on the corner, were running back towards them to see what was happening. More people must have joined them, because a moment after Dunning had started the car, they were penned in by a sea of bodies and unable to move anywhere.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said to the young policeman, whose face was ashen, ‘I’ll see if I can get some help. In the meantime, try and move forward as best you can.’ With some difficulty, he managed to shove open the door of the Austin 90 enough to extricate himself, and began pushing his way through the press of people to the end of Colville Road. A line of harassed-looking policemen, legs braced and truncheons at the ready, were almost nose to nose with the milling crowd. Periodically, bricks, stones and milk bottles thrown from the back rained down on them and the bonnet of the car he could see just behind them. As Stratton pushed his way through to the front, he saw that one of them already had blood running down his chin.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said PC Coxon, as Stratton slid towards him between two Teddy boys, ‘You can’t— Oh, it’s you, sir. Are you all right?’

  ‘Just about,’ Stratton panted. ‘The car’s stuck back there with Dunning.’

  ‘Won’t be long, sir. Got to get the darkies out first before this lot lynches ’em.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the car, sir. They’ve nearly turned it over twice.’

  Stratton stood on tiptoe to look at the car. It was a Hillman Minx, ringed by police who were holding back a surging crowd. Inside four coloured men were cowering, their arms over their faces, and beyond it, smoke belched from a building. Seeing it, the last vestige of hope he’d been unconsciously clinging to, which admitted the possibility of it being another house, with another party, vanished: it was the house he’d visited yesterday. Through the smoke he could see a single fire engine and the bulky, purposeful forms of firemen busying themselves with hoses. There were other people too, men and women straggling unsteadily across the road in ones and twos, silhouettes outlined in the bright flames of a car which was blazing away behind them.

  ‘Watch it, sir!’ Coxon grabbed his jacket and pulled him out of the way of what looked like a flying bundle of burning rags. A second later there was a crash of glass on the pavement behind them and several women screamed. ‘Petrol bomb,’ said Coxon. ‘In a bottle. We’ve had a couple of those. That’s what did that car up there – straight through the window. There was a bloke in it, an’ all – never seen anyone move so fast in my life.’

  ‘Bloody hell … Listen, I need to get down the other end. Who’s in charge?’

  Coxon looked confused. ‘You, sir.’

  ‘Before I got here.’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Do you know if there’s a radio car back there?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t. It’s been so—’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Shall I help you, sir? To get through, I mean.’

  Resisting the temptation to say that he wasn’t in his dotage yet, Stratton contented himself with, ‘I think you’ve got your work cut out here, son. Make sure Dunning’s all right, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Stratton clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Best of luck, then.’

  *

  It took him several minutes to battle his way round to the rear end of the Hillman and out through the thinning crowd, and the effort left him doubled over on the pavement, coughing.

  When he recovered enough to stand up straight, he could see that the firemen were attempting – apparently without the help of the police – to herd people away from the burning house. One or two were standing uncertainly on the pavement. They’d definitely been at Watson’s party, he thought, eyeing their ruined evening clothes. Two ambulance men with a stretcher hurried past in front of the burning car. On the other side of the car Stratton could see skirmishing figures, alternately illuminated by the blaze and swallowed by the shadows. He looked again at the dishevelled partygoers. Dazed, bleeding and uncomprehending, they reminded him of the casualties he’d dealt with in the Blitz. He didn’t recognise any of them but there was a strong possibility, he thought, that one of them might know where Fenella—

  ‘Sir!’ A young policeman, arms spread wide as if trying to herd a flock of sheep into a pen, said, ‘You can’t come up here, sir, there’s been an incident.’

  Stratton whipped out his warrant card. ‘Stratton. And you are?’

  ‘Colbert, sir.’

  ‘Who’s the senior officer?’

  ‘Sergeant Parker, sir, only he’s in the ambulance. Got hit by a brick, sir.’

  ‘Where is the ambulance?’

  ‘Just round the corner, sir, in Lonsdale Road.’

  As he spoke, a figure detached itself from the others and staggered towards them. Stratton recognised him as Duffy, the artist from Maxine’s. His face was dirty and bloodied, and he had a large glass of something in one hand and was gesticulating wildly with the other. ‘Is there a radio car here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s in Lonsdale Road too.’ Duffy lurched between the two of them, stood swaying for a moment, his hand reaching for Colbert’s arm and then, sinking to his knees, vomited noisily on the pavement. As he did so, a savage roar went up from the crowd around the car. Stratton turned to see that it was moving off down Colville Terrace in a hail of bricks and bottles, with those in front pushing and shoving to get out of its way while, all around, truncheons flailed in the air, clashing with stakes and bicycle chains as the line of police struggled to hold back the throng.

  ‘Escort this man to safety, Colbert, then get onto the station and tell Sergeant Vokes we need more men.’

  ‘N
one to spare, sir,’ said Colbert, hauling Duffy to his feet. ‘Sergeant Parker asked, and they’re all down at Latimer Road. DS Matheson’s been contacted, sir.’

  ‘That’s something, anyway.’ Stratton left him to it and started towards the burning house. Despite the firemen’s best efforts, smoke was billowing up from the basement. On top of the portico a coloured woman, who appeared to be wearing only a slip, was screaming, the flicker of flames clearly visible in the window behind her, while below, a fireman steadied a ladder against one of the pillars while another began to climb. One of the partygoers, her face, arms and the pale material of her evening dress filthy with soot, was being escorted up the basement steps by a man with his arm round her shoulders. Another, with blood on the front of his shirt and a stupefied expression on his grimy face, was being led away by a member of the ambulance crew.

  One of the firemen rushed to intercept him. He was about Stratton’s own age, grim-faced and craggy. ‘You shouldn’t be here, mate. It’s not safe.’

  ‘DI Stratton. Who’s in charge?’

  ‘I am, for what it’s worth. Hale.’ Removing his glove, Hale extended his hand. ‘We’re getting everyone out as fast as we can but frankly, the place is a fucking tinderbox.’

  ‘The wiring?’ said Stratton, remembering what he’d seen.

  ‘Buggered.’

  ‘How many more to come?’

  ‘No idea. Place was heaving. Party in the basement and Christ knows how many in the rooms upstairs. We’d have been here quicker but for—’ He jerked his thumb towards the mêleé at the junction with Colville Terrace. ‘We’ve just come from Bramley Road – no idea when the others’ll get here.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘What a shambles. It was easier during the war – I mean, we had the odd looter, but we never had to deal with all this malarkey. You look like you’ve had a time of it, an’ all.’