White Riot

by Martyn Waites

  ‘Amar? How you doing locating Mary Evans’s phone?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Amar, staring at the screen, ‘I’m on it. Nearly … nearly there …’ He punched in some more numbers, looked at the screen. The map of Newcastle had a grid over it. He was trying to get three green lines to find a spot to converge on. ‘I’m in the area. You just need to keep her talking so I can triangulate the right location.’

  ‘OK,’ said Donovan. He flicked the switch. ‘You hear that, Whitman? Keep her talking. We’ve nearly got a fix on her.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Right.’

  Whitman didn’t sound right to Donovan, but he didn’t have time to worry about him now. The war memorial was directly in front of the church. On the opposite side of the road was the Newcastle Playhouse, home to Northern Stage, and behind the church was the Civic Centre. The lights were on there, the place humming with activity. Donovan looked at the circular tower, saw the sea horses lit up. The night would have been beautiful under other circumstances.

  ‘Check round,’ he said to Jamal. ‘See if you can find anything.’

  They looked all round the memorial. Donovan spoke to Whitman again.

  ‘What should we be looking for?’

  ‘This was where I met Lillian. On a peace march here. For Vietnam,’ he said.

  ‘Was Mary here too?’

  ‘Maybe. Probably.’

  Donovan could see why Mary Evans had taken such a dislike to the man.

  ‘But we used to go there all the time. All of us, when we were students, sit around on the green by the memorial.’

  ‘Doing what? Anything in particular?’

  ‘Just sitting. We … Wait. I … Let me think. Mary always said it was a special place for us. That’s why she was so annoyed that I met Lillian there.’

  ‘What made it so special? Think.’

  ‘It was where we made our plans. Talked about the future. Destroying the old order, getting the corrupt bastards out. This was in the days of Dan Smith, remember? Mary loved it, she was on fire for it.’

  ‘And how were you going to do that?’

  ‘By … Oh, my God. By blowing up the Civic Centre. Fuck.’

  Whitman’s phone rang.

  ‘Keep her talking,’ said Donovan.

  Whitman answered his phone. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you there yet?’

  He sighed. ‘Yes. The war memorial.’

  ‘Know why I picked that place?’

  ‘Because we once sat there and talked about getting rid of the old order. Blowing up the Civic Centre. And because that’s where I met Lillian.’

  There was silence on the line. He didn’t think he had been expected to get the right answer. ‘Very good,’ she said eventually.

  ‘So what have you got there for me to find? A bomb?’

  Mary Evans laughed. ‘A map. Find that and you find your daughter.’

  Whitman looked over at the chesterfield. Abdul-Haq had pulled himself on to the sofa, taken his shirt off and was holding it against his wound. It was sodden with blood. He was sweating. He didn’t look good. Shepherd was next to him, staring at Whitman, hatred in his eyes.

  Whitman just wanted it all to be over.

  ‘OK,’ he said.

  Donovan and Jamal were looking round the memorial, checking under stones, looking up at the top.

  Donovan saw a folded piece of paper sticking out of the soil. He bent down, picked it up. Opened it.

  ‘Found it,’ he said.

  ‘Found it,’ Whitman repeated.

  ‘Good,’ said Mary Evans, a sick excitement in her voice. ‘It’s a white van. That’s all I’m saying.’

  She rang off.

  *

  ‘A white van,’ said Donovan, reading the paper.

  It was a map leading from the war memorial, down by the side of the Civic Centre to the car park at the back. He and Jamal exchanged a glance. Another voice came over their earpieces.

  ‘Found her,’ said Amar. ‘She’s at the back of the car park by the entrance. Unless the phone’s being bounced off somewhere else. And that white van, that’s the one Peta was in. I’ve got the registration number here.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ said Donovan.

  ‘Kev came through for me. Got a pen?’

  Donovan wrote down the number. He and Jamal moved round to the back of the Civic Centre.

  Whitman put his phone down. Shepherd was still staring at him.

  ‘Haven’t you worked it out yet?’ he spat. ‘You really are a thick bastard.’

  Whitman rubbed his eyes, tried to clear the buzzing in his head. Failed. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘She wants to see you. She wants to see you opening the doors of the van. She wanted you to run round Newcastle, revisit your old haunts. She wanted to break you. Then she wanted you to look at your daughter, see her lying there helpless. Realize what your life’s come to, then blow you both sky high.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘A bomb, you fucking idiot. Radio controlled. It’s all sorted. We’ve got a white Nazi suicide bomber going in through the front doors. We’ve got a bomb in a white van that has the planted DNA of a Muslim extremist all over it.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘You have no idea. You’re pathetic.’

  On the TV the action had switched to the Newcastle West results. The camera was surveying the podium. Rick Oaten was standing there. The results were imminent.

  ‘Ka-boom,’ said Shepherd.

  48

  Kev stood outside the NUP headquarters, looked at it.

  ‘Come on,’ he said.

  Jason didn’t move, just stared resignedly at the front door. Kev looked at him. ‘What?’

  Jason was choking back tears again. ‘I just don’t want to die, Kev. I don’t want to die …’ The tears flowed. ‘I just … I always wanted, wuh-wanted somewhere to, to belong. A home, a fam-family. Someone. That’s all I wanted. Belong …’ His words dried up, choked them off.

  Kev put his arm around him. ‘Me too, mate. Me too.’ He thought of Amar. His words. About being a hero. About atoning. He took a deep breath. Another. Checked his watch. Almost time. ‘Come on, mate. Let’s do it.’

  He led him across the road and through the front door.

  There was silence from the storefront as they entered, then Kev’s raised voice, muffled by the boarding. Then silence.

  Then screaming, as the few remaining party faithful, those still in the office watching the results, made their way to the front door and out into the night, as fast as they could go.

  Mary Evans sat at the top of the slope that led down to the car park behind the Civic Centre. Watching. Barely able to contain her excitement.

  The culmination of years of planning, of waiting, of imagining. And it felt good. Making Trevor Whitman suffer. Arranging his death. And knowing there would be no consequences for her. Living out the perfect revenge fantasy.

  She looked at the two phones beside her. One for making calls, the other purely for pressing a button that would blow the van and its occupant and its opener sky high.

  She couldn’t wait. Had even brought her binoculars to get a close-up of his face as he opened the doors.

  Wouldn’t be long now.

  She looked at the phone on the seat.

  Just one more call to him …

  Whitman picked up on the first ring.

  ‘Are you there yet?’

  ‘Nearly,’ he said, head pounding. ‘Just coming round the corner.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I can see it.’

  She picked up the binoculars, focused on the back doors of the van. She smiled.

  Waiting. Not long …

  She touched the other phone, ran her fingers over the button.

  Closer, closer …

  The returning officer was standing on the platform, candidates behind him. Rick Oaten was at one side, Colin Baty the other. David Dimbleby had cut the voiceover, allowing the pictures to speak for themselves. The returning officer was about to speak.

  ‘Here we are,�
�� said Shepherd. ‘This is what it’s all about.’ He laughed. ‘The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.’

  Abdul-Haq’s eyes had rolled into the back of his head. He was going into shock. Whitman didn’t know what to focus on first: the phone, the bleeding body, even the TV. He looked from one to the other, frantically. He had to tell Donovan about the bomb. Had to … He didn’t notice Shepherd rise off the chesterfield, cross the room, come towards him. Until it was too late to do anything about it.

  Shepherd was on him, kneeing him in the stomach, bending him double. Whitman fell to the floor, clutching his groin. The gun was snatched from his grasp. He hit the floor, curling up in a foetal ball. Shepherd kicked him hard. Once. Twice.

  ‘Here. That kicking I’ve always promised you.’ He laughed.

  From outside the room came screams, the sound of running. Shepherd looked at the door. The screaming continued out on to the street. He looked back at the TV. Whatever was happening to the few stragglers in the front office, watching the results, chugging back lager, he didn’t care. Nothing was going to stop him savouring his moment of triumph.

  Footsteps came running up the stairs towards the room.

  Shepherd ignored them.

  Mary Evans kept her eyes on the van, holding her breath, waiting for him to appear. A shadow moved round the corner of the building. She sat up straight, squinted through the binoculars. Stroked the button.

  ‘Yes.’ Her words hissed out through clenched teeth. ‘Yes …’

  The figure drew nearer. Her finger hovered over the button.

  ‘What?’

  She looked at the figure, refocused the binoculars. Looked again. It wasn’t Whitman. Nothing like him. It was a teenager, a light-skinned black youth. He checked a piece of paper in his hand. She recognized it. The map she had left for Whitman. He checked again, walked towards the van.

  She looked at the button beneath her finger, looked again at the black youth. He was opening the back doors of the van …

  ‘No …’

  The returning officer opened his mouth to speak. Behind him, Rick Oaten adjusted his tie. Shepherd thought he looked ashen, drained. Like the fight had been knocked out of him. Or he was no longer fighting for what he believed in.

  Shepherd smiled. Purely academic. In a few minutes it wouldn’t matter at all.

  At his feet Whitman stirred, sat up.

  ‘Should watch this, Trevor. This is where I win. The final countdown, you might say.’

  Whitman groaned, tried to pull himself up. Shepherd watched the TV.

  The returning officer opened his mouth to speak, started speaking, but a commotion in the crowd distracted him. He looked down to the floor of the packed hall where someone was making their way towards him. A woman, dressed in a business suit, followed by a similarly dressed younger man made their way on to the stage. Shepherd didn’t know who they were, but from the cut of their clothes he knew what they were. Cops.

  The female detective introduced herself over the mic. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Diane Nattrass,’ she said, holding up her warrant card, ‘and I am arresting Rick Oaten on charges of abduction, conspiracy, attempting to pervert the course of justice and murder.’

  The crowd gasped.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Shepherd’s face turned scarlet.

  On the floor, Whitman laughed.

  ‘Shut up! Fucking shut up!’ Shepherd began kicking him, hard. Whitman took the blows, felt at least one rib break with each kick he took.

  On the screen, they were cuffing Rick Oaten and leading him away.

  ‘Bastard!’ Shepherd kept kicking.

  The door was flung open. Shepherd looked up. He just had time to recognize who was standing there and what it meant before Kev shouted something about love and hate and the whole world turned a blinding white, then to nothing.

  The building went up.

  Not with a whimper, but with a bang.

  Mary Evans put down the binoculars, confused. Angry. She didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t the plan, this wasn’t how it was supposed to work out.

  The black youth was opening the van doors.

  ‘No …’

  She grabbed for the phone, made to press the button. The car door was pulled open and the phone was snatched out of her hand. She looked up.

  ‘This what you want?’

  An out-of-breath man was standing there, wearing a superhero T-shirt and an angry but triumphant expression. She reached out, made to grab it off him.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

  She jumped out of the car, screaming like a wounded animal, hurt and rage in her eyes, trying to claw at his face, grab the phone back from him. He punched her square in the face. She fell backwards, blood springing from her nostrils.

  He punched her again.

  She saw stars, then blackness.

  *

  Joe Donovan looked down at the prone body of Mary Evans, then at the phone. Then at his sore hand. He flexed his knuckles. It would hurt in the morning.

  Punching her had been completely instinctive. He had no qualms about hitting a woman. Not this one, anyway. He turned the phone off so it could do no damage, hauled her body into the boot of her car and locked it.

  Then walked across the car park to where Jamal was helping Peta out of the back of the van. A voice came on in his ear.

  ‘Joe? Joe? What’s happening? Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, Amar, we’re fine, Peta’s OK,’ he said. ‘I’m just going to get her.’ He smiled. Felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. Saw his two best friends in front of him, heard the other one on the end of a phone line. ‘We’re all fine.’

  EPILOGUE

  HOME LAND SECURITY

  The weather had broken. The heatwave was over. The rain was falling.

  Donovan stood in David’s room and looked out of the window.

  Three weeks. Since he and Jamal had pulled Peta out of the back of the van.

  Three weeks. Since all the deaths.

  Nattrass had phoned Donovan after election night. He thought she was going to thank him for his help but it was another reason entirely.

  ‘Paul Turnbull’s dead,’ she had said, voice beyond weary.

  Donovan was too shocked to speak.

  There was more. Much more.

  Turnbull’s body had been discovered in Bishop’s Stortford and a murder investigation launched. Both Nattrass and Donovan cooperated. Donovan had brought in the lawyer, Sharkey, when it seemed the prime suspect was Matt Milsom.

  But Matt Milsom had disappeared. Both he and his wife Celia and the boy they had called Jake were gone. The house they had lived in had been stripped, scrupulously cleaned, then torched. Forensic teams had launched a search for DNA, but their chances of recovering much that was usable was slim.

  This had brought the focus of the investigation on to the Milsoms themselves. Which was where the surprises really began. The couple who had bought that house were not Matt and Celia Milsom. The real Matt and Celia Milsom had emigrated to the United Arab Emirates. Matt Milsom had been a TV producer but had left several months before. He had never worked, as much as anyone knew, in Eastern Europe.

  Donovan had been stunned at this news. He didn’t know what to think, how to feel. He had phoned Sharkey straight away.

  ‘Why wasn’t any of this picked up on the initial investigation? Why just now?’

  ‘Because they were very clever,’ said Sharkey. ‘They stole the Milsoms’ identity subtly and without raising suspicion.’

  ‘But surely—’

  ‘Joe, the watchword of this investigation was discretion. The Milsoms didn’t come to our attention until they turned up in Hertfordshire with the boy in tow. A full background check was undertaken. As far as was allowed. No one could storm into their workplace and demand to know whether Matt Milsom was who he said he was.’

  ‘So who were the couple who claimed to be the Milsoms?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘And what
did they want? What did they hope to gain?’

  ‘Again, we don’t know.’

  Donovan had taken a deep breath, asked his most important question. ‘Was the boy David? Was that my son?’

  The school the boy known as Jake had attended had been contacted. They confirmed that he kept himself to himself, that he seemed distant. Did he have an accent? They didn’t know. But not Romanian, nothing like that. Somewhere in this country. HIV-positive? It was the first that they had heard. Did they have to test the rest of the school now? Because if word of that got out …

  Sharkey had sighed. ‘We … I don’t know, Joe. I just don’t know.’

  Sharkey had given him assurances that his team would keep looking, that no stone would be unturned, that they wouldn’t give up, but Donovan had just put the phone down.

  Gone into David’s room. And talked to him until the tears stopped falling.

  Turnbull’s funeral had taken place in his local church at Westerhope soon after that. Donovan had attended with Nattrass. Turnbull’s estranged widow kept her distance from them both. That suited Donovan just fine.

  ‘Lots of his old mates from the force,’ Donovan said afterwards. ‘He’d have been pleased with that.’

  Nattrass had nodded. She looked shell-shocked.

  ‘I think you should take a few days off,’ he said. ‘Have a rest.’

  She turned to him, about to let loose with some cutting remark, tell him to mind his own business, something like that. But she saw the look on his face, realized his concern was genuine. She sighed. ‘Maybe I should. Maybe I will.’

  ‘I feel like shit over this,’ said Donovan. ‘I asked him if he wanted to go. Gave him the job.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ she said. ‘You didn’t know what would happen. None of us did.’

  ‘No.’ Donovan left it like that. But he couldn’t shift the feeling of guilt so easily.

  There had been a call for Donovan on his mobile. From a girl called Claire.

  She had described herself as a friend of Turnbull’s and been given his number if Turnbull wasn’t around and she got into trouble and needed help. She hadn’t heard from Turnbull in ages so Donovan would have to do. Could he meet her?