‘Great,’ said Donovan. ‘Very Torchwood.’
‘Bags I John Barrowman,’ Amar said, a faint smile on his lips. It disappeared as he resumed explanations. ‘I’ll be monitoring the phones. If Whitman gets another call or calls out again, we’ll get him.’ He pointed to a laptop on the table. It was hooked up to a piece of hardware. The screen was showing a gridded map of the city, a box at the side showing numbers moving rapidly along, up and down. ‘And then I’ll be straight on to you.’
Jamal smiled. ‘I get one?’
Amar took another one from its plastic wrapper, handed it over. ‘Here you go.’
Jamal, grinning, stuck it straight in his ear, posed as if he was holding a gun with both hands. ‘Man, this is so cool. I be, like, Jack Bauer now.’
‘Right.’ Donovan put the earpiece in place. ‘So where did you get this?’
‘Had it a while. Been waiting for a chance to use it. Would have happened sooner if someone hadn’t had a queeny fit and disbanded Albion.’
‘Yeah, OK. Let’s not go there.’
‘Quite. Did a favour for a friend a while ago. Called it in. Top-of-the-range stuff, this. The real-deal industrial espionage, international spy kit.’
‘Do I get to know what this favour is? Or do I not want to know?’
‘Not what you’re thinking,’ said Amar, mock aggrieved. ‘Client from the old days. Runs an advertising agency. Was having a bit of trouble keeping campaign plans secret. Asked me to look into it, money no object. As many toys to play with as I wanted. And I wanted a lot.’
‘Right.’ Donovan adjusted the piece in his ear. ‘So this is going to be on all the time.’
‘Yep. Whitman gets a call or Kev phones with some info on the farm, or Peta or her mother, and I’m on to it. It’s relayed through here and I can track it down with my handy GPS system.’ He gestured to the laptop. ‘Then I call you, tell you where the call’s coming from.’
‘Then we go an’ smoke those terrorist motherfuckers,’ said Jamal, shooting his imaginary gun at the wall.
‘Boys, eh?’ said Donovan.
Donovan had delivered Whitman’s briefcase to DI Nattrass the previous night. Once he had put sufficient distance between the Cluny and himself and Jamal, he had parked the car in a secluded spot behind the Central Station, opened the briefcase, read the files. Pages and pages of plans, figures, invoices. Photocopies of documents, some printed off. It meant nothing to him and he didn’t have the time to go through it and find connections.
‘Means nothing to me,’ he had said. ‘Let’s see what Nattrass makes of it.’
Jamal pulled a face. ‘I’ll wait in the car.’
‘It won’t take long.’
‘Police stations are like hospitals, man. I go in one, I ain’t never comin’ out.’
Donovan had phoned Nattrass, told her what he had for her. She wasn’t happy that he had met Trevor Whitman and not informed her and had told him so as strongly as possible, but still arranged to meet. Donovan, thinking of Jamal’s remark about police stations, insisted on a neutral spot. The café bar at Baltic, the contemporary arts centre.
She walked in, saw them straight away.
‘Bring back memories?’ said Donovan.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘none of them pleasant.’
She ordered a double espresso and joined them. Donovan didn’t need to ask if she had had a tough day. One look at her tired eyes was enough. She knocked the coffee back, moved the cup and saucer out of the way. Donovan swung the briefcase on to the table.
‘Here,’ he said, and told her who he had got it from.
‘Thanks.’ Nattrass took it, put it at the side of her chair. She leaned forward, a question forming. ‘When did you get this?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘Where?’
‘I said on the phone. From Trevor Whitman.’
‘I mean where as in location.’
‘Oh.’ Donovan was about to answer but sensed caution. ‘Why?’
Nattrass aimed for casual. Missed. ‘Just wondered.’
Something was up. But he trusted Di. And he had done nothing wrong. ‘The Cluny.’
She sat back, unable to stop a triumphantly vindictive smile breaking out on her face. ‘Really? And what else happened there?’
Donovan thought of the chase, tried to keep his face blank. ‘Nothing.’
‘Want to give me more detail about nothing happening?’
Donovan leaned forward. ‘Want to tell me why?’
‘Two of Abdul-Haq’s men were taken to hospital from there. Both with gunshot wounds.’
The look of surprise on Donovan’s face was genuine. ‘And you think …’
‘If not you, what about your … contact?’
‘I don’t …’ Donovan thought. The carrier bag Whitman had been so protective of, the way he had clutched it as they ran … ‘I don’t know what you mean. I don’t think so.’
Nattrass looked at him like she didn’t believe him but didn’t want to pursue it further. His look of genuine surprise had given him credibility credits. For a while.
‘Got something for you, though.’
Nattrass sighed, like she knew it was going to be trouble. ‘What?’
‘The guy running the NUP. The power behind Rick Oaten’s throne. Calls himself Sharples.’ He told her about Alan Shepherd, where he had been, what he had been up to in the intervening years since he had blown up the pub in Newcastle.
‘Jesus,’ she said when he had finished. ‘Quite a story. Can all this be proved?’
‘Presume so. Ask Whitman.’
‘I will. When I find him.’
‘And there’s something else. When Shepherd came back he brought a friend.’ He told her of Major Tom’s history and what he was currently doing. Nattrass listened, her eyes widening as he went along.
‘So,’ she said, when Donovan had finished, ‘he’s going to lead a gang—’
‘Platoon, please. Let’s get the terminology correct.’
‘—gang of thugs on to the streets to do as much damage as possible.’
‘Operation Thor’s Hammer,’ said Donovan. Jamal shivered. ‘Kristallnacht all over again. In Newcastle.’
Nattrass groaned. ‘Oh, God. The overtime …’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘Any chance this information might be false?’
‘None at all. They’re also planning something else.’
‘What?’
‘We don’t know yet. When we do, we’ll let you in on it.’
Nattrass rubbed her eyes.
‘You going to arrest Rick Oaten yet? That’ll look good on election day.’
‘On what charge? Your say-so? I would love to, but we’ll have to wait. No doubt he’s made himself untouchable for this. We just wade in with no evidence, nothing happens and we have to let him go. How does that make us look? One–nil to the Fascists, I think. Not a good result.’
‘So what you going to do?’
‘What I can. Strong riot police presence. Be prepared.’
‘They’re going to be armed.’
‘Oh, God …’ She looked up. ‘Leave it to me.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’d better be off.’ She gathered her things together. ‘Oh, have you heard from Paul?’
‘Not a dicky bird. Tell you the truth, I’ve been too busy with this to chase him up. Which I feel guilty about. You?’
Nattrass shook her head. ‘Same. When this is out the way I’ll give him a ring.’ She looked at the briefcase. ‘But thanks for this. You’ve managed to make my job both easier and harder at the same time.’
Donovan smiled. ‘Any time.’
Nattrass stood up, back to business. ‘But you hear from Whitman, or in fact if you hear anything else, I want to know. The second it happens. Got that?’
‘Loud and clear.’
And she was off.
After that, Donovan and Jamal went to get something to eat and went back to Amar’s, bringing him up to date on what had happened. Donovan spent the night on Am
ar’s sofa, Jamal in his usual place in the spare room. Donovan, tension pounding through his system like a noseful of class-A, thought he would have added another sleepless night to the previous one. But his mind had been so jumbled, his body so tired, he had eventually just given out. He had woken early, feeling decidedly unrested. And despite the shower and caffeine boost from two mugs of coffee, he wasn’t refreshed.
‘So what do we do in the meantime?’ said Donovan, trying out the earpiece again.
Amar looked at the phone, willing it to ring. ‘Nothing we can do. We wait.’
39
‘You found us all right, then?’ Sharples smiled at the rare, if unfunny, joke.
Abdul-Haq didn’t smile. ‘I found you.’
The two men were in the meeting room of the offices of the NUP. Beyond the closed door the office was alive with activity. Phones were being worked, voices cajoling, all was movement, hustle. Throwing out promises, threats if they helped. All with one aim: trying to squeeze the most possible votes out of as many people as possible. The staff, volunteers, all full on.
Sharples was out of the region, supposedly coordinating events from afar. Phone and internet. Too hot for him, too chancy. The police may choose today for that chat they so desperately want to have. So he had hidden in the last place anyone would look for him. The NUP headquarters.
To most people he was absent, but to those in the trusted inner circle he was in a meeting and had given strict orders not to be disturbed. By anyone. Things were critical and his business partner had requested a meeting. Face to face. He needed some fears allaying.
Abdul-Haq had been negotiated through a back entrance. No one but Sharples knew he was in the building. He sat, again, in chinos, casual short-sleeved shirt, loafers. Sunglasses tucked into his top pocket.
‘And you’re in disguise as well,’ Sharples added.
‘We all become the masks we wear,’ said Abdul-Haq.
‘Quite,’ said Sharples. ‘Let’s talk.’
‘Waqas and Omar are hospitalized,’ said Abdul-Haq, leaning forward on the chesterfield. ‘The police have been round to my offices. I can’t talk to them, I …’
‘You’re safe here. This is the last place they’d look for you.’
‘Thank you. I know, but … We’ve underestimated Whitman.’
Sharples’s expression was grave, his face lined and creased, carved out of granite. ‘Perhaps.’
‘So what do we do about him?’
‘Don’t worry about him. After today he’ll be powerless to stop anything.’
Abdul-Haq threw up his hands. ‘Tomorrow is too late, Alan. I’ve got the police asking questions, and Whitman could still undermine everything. Do you know where he is? Are you still watching him?’
Sharples said nothing, the crevasses in his features increasing.
‘You’ve lost him, haven’t you?’
‘Not I. We. And you know it. Waqas and Omar were watching him, Mary was detailed to Richie. Yes, it’s bad, but there’s nothing he can do.’
‘He could go to the police.’
‘He could have done that a long time ago. But he didn’t. I have something in mind if needs be.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Mary planned it. A little icing on the cake. Involving his daughter.’
Abdul-Haq shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His sweat-slicked clothes were sticking to the leather. ‘She disturbs me, Alan. There’s something lacking in her.’
‘We need her.’
‘She isn’t a professional. She’s a civilian. A believer. She’s not one of us. Not any more.’
‘I have her on a tight leash. And if that fails, which it won’t, there’s always his lover.’
Abdul-Haq stared hard at Sharples. ‘Keep a sense of perspective, Alan. Don’t let this get out of hand.’
Sharples grinned and Abdul-Haq saw the old Alan Shepherd. ‘Out of hand? There’s too much at stake now to let it get out of hand. By any means necessary, Gideon – isn’t that what we agreed?’
Abdul-Haq said nothing. Sharples continued.
‘Things go forward as planned.’
Abdul-Haq opened his mouth to argue; Sharples talked over him. ‘Just keep your nerve. Once the elections are over, things move into a crucial phase. Just—’
The door opened loudly, swinging back on its hinges, hitting the wall. The two men looked up, startled.
‘Secretary tellin’ me you’re in a private meetin’ and not to be disturbed.’ An angry Rick Oaten stood framed in the doorway. ‘Told her, I said, this is my fucking party. There’s no such thing as a private meeting without me being there. I—’
He stopped talking, saw who Sharples was talking to. Or rather, what Sharples was talking to. An Asian. A Paki.
‘What the fuck’s goin’ on? Who’s this? What’s he doin’ in here?’
Sharples stared at him, swallowed down his anger, tried to ride it out constructively. ‘Why aren’t you out trying to win an election, Rick? Haven’t you got babies to kiss and hands to shake?’
‘But …’ Oaten pointed at Abdul-Haq. Incomprehension was coagulating round his anger.
Sharples stood up, crossed to him. ‘What, Rick? Have you something to say? Something on your mind?’
Oaten didn’t notice the menace, the danger behind Sharples’s words. He kept staring at the Asian man. ‘I know you,’ he said, trying to regain his voice. ‘You’re, you’re Abdul-Haq.’ Oaten frowned, looked from one man to the other. ‘Abdul-Haq … what, what the fuck …’
Abdul-Haq shifted uncomfortably. He looked across at Sharples, who had a gleam in his eye and a curl to his lip. Abdul-Haq had seen both things before. Usually as a prelude to someone being hurt in some way. And to Alan Shepherd enjoying it.
Oaten’s voice returned. He slammed the door behind him so there could be no enquiring faces, turned back to the two men in the room, pointed an accusing finger at Abdul-Haq. ‘What the fuck are you doing here? Here?’ Oaten laughed. A harsh, ugly sound. He looked round to the door, summoning unseen support. ‘You must have a fuckin’ death wish, mate, comin’ here like this.’
‘He’s here as my guest, Rick,’ said Sharples.
Oaten looked at Sharples, back to Abdul-Haq, back to Sharples, his words sinking in. ‘What? Your, your fuckin’ what?’ He was blinking quickly, twitching.
‘Guest, Rick. And I gave orders not to be disturbed.’ Sharples’s voice had dropped in register. Flat, menacing.
Oaten either didn’t notice or ignored it. He gave another sharp laugh. ‘Well. I see now that, that …’ He tailed off, lost for words. He shook his head, regained his thread. ‘Get out. Go on, get out. You’ve got no place here. And take the fuckin’ Paki with you.’
Sharples stood, immobile, looking at Oaten, smiling. Abdul-Haq sat rigid, braced for a storm to hit.
‘Oh, Rick,’ said Sharples, a weary sadness to his words, ‘I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.’
Oaten stared. ‘This is my party, this is my room. Get out.’
‘Rick … you’re pathetic.’ The smile faded from Sharples’s face.
‘What?’ The tics started to jump again in Rick Oaten’s cheek. ‘What did you call me?’
‘Pathetic. Your party, your room.’ Sharples moved slowly towards him, talking all the time. ‘This was never your party, Rick. This is not even your room. You’re only here because it suited my purposes to have you here.’
‘What—’
‘Listen. It’s about time you heard a few home truths.’ Sharples was face to face with Oaten. ‘I chose you to do a job. A very specific job. I found you, trained you, educated you. Made you what you are. And what are you? A tool to do my work. A puppet to do my bidding.’ Sharples smiled. ‘A fool.’
Oaten’s face went red. ‘What are you fuckin’ …’ He wanted to be angry but there was too much doubt, too much confusion racing through him.
‘Your room, your party? Only because I let you believe it. Only because it suited my purposes.’
‘What … what purposes?’
‘Business, Rick. Purely business. Same as my colleague here.’ He gestured to Abdul-Haq.
Oaten looked round, agony in his expression, confusion in his gestures. He raised his fist to Sharples. Abdul-Haq was off his seat, behind Sharples, backing him up.
Sharples laughed. ‘You going to hit me, Rick? I wouldn’t recommend it.’
The fist dropped.
‘That’s better.’
‘But you, you … believed …’
‘No I didn’t. I don’t believe in what you believe. I don’t care what you believe in. You suited my purposes.’
‘You … you used me …’ Oaten sounded like he was crumbling away.
‘That’s right, Rick.’
‘Why? Why me?’
Sharples shrugged. ‘Why not? I needed someone and you ticked all the boxes. If it hadn’t been you it would have been someone else. Some other fanatic. True believer. They’re the easiest to manipulate.’
‘Like the Danish cartoons,’ said Abdul-Haq.
Rick Oaten looked between the two of them, confused. ‘What? What?’
‘Good point, very educational. The Danish cartoons of Mohammed,’ said Sharples. ‘Got all the Muslims up in arms. Thing is, the ones they were complaining about weren’t even there originally. They were only put in later to exploit the potential for hatred. It’s very simple.’ He looked at Oaten’s uncomprehending face. ‘Probably too simple for you to understand.’
Oaten again looked between the two. His body crumpled. He looked around, pulled at his tie. Tried to move, couldn’t. Didn’t have anywhere to move to. ‘I don’t, don’t know what to do …’
‘I’ll tell you, shall I?’ said Sharples, putting his arm round Oaten’s shoulder and smiling. ‘You go back out there, you say nothing of what’s gone on in here and you win your election. That’s what you do.’ Sharples adjusted Oaten’s tie, fastened his top button. ‘Chin up, smile.’
Oaten just stared at him.
A dark light twinkled behind Sharples’s eyes. ‘What alternative have you got, Rick?’
Oaten looked round the room, at the two men, at the door he had entered through. ‘None,’ he said.
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Sharples, giving his shoulders a squeeze. ‘Look like a winner, feel like a winner, you are a winner. And if you’re not a winner, or you want to tell someone about this, it’s not too late to replace you. Permanently.’
White Riot Page 30