“What are you talking about?”
“You know damn well what I’m talking about. The attack on Abel Drummer.”
“That was nothing to do with our people. Nothing at all.”
“Who then?”
“We have discussed the matter. We conclude that it was organised by the men who are inciting the crowd to violence.”
“You’re certain that none of your people had a hand in it?”
“Quite certain. We are a close community. Such a thing could not be concealed. What we have done is to organise some patrols. People use their own cars. They are not intended to fight. They report trouble before it goes too far.”
Anthony thought about it. It was true that Drummer had not been able to swear to the colour of his attackers. Two of the men had been behind him. The one in front was masked. The only real evidence was what they had said.
“Also,” said Azam, “I understand that the damage is not severe.”
This was true. Drummer had been discharged by the hospital with a bruised and cut face.
When he reported this to Mr. Norrie, the magistrate said, “It could have been a put-up job, Lion. Just to stir the pot. Not that it needed much stirring. The committal proceedings on the 9th are going to be a real dog’s dinner. I see the Crown has briefed Leopold. We don’t often see a QC at committal. They must be taking it seriously.”
“Won’t the boys simply plead ‘Not Guilty’ and reserve their defence for the Bailey?”
“That’s what I’d hoped. And their original advisers would have done. Not Diwaker. He’ll go the whole way. An old-style committal. No restrictions on reporting. And you realise that you’ll have to give evidence.”
“Why?”
“Because you know more about these two lots of boys than anyone else.”
“What happens if I refuse?”
“You’ll be subpoenaed.”
“I’d prefer to be subpoenaed. Then people can see that anything I do say is said unwillingly.”
“No one’s going to attack you,” said Mr. Norrie sourly. “You’re the local hero.”
Qadir Diwaker, solicitor and Counsel (Bar of India) had his office, which was also his house, in the High Street opposite West Heath Police Station. It is possible that he had chosen it with an eye to the safety of this arrangement. More probably it was a coincidence. Qadir had a number of faults, but he was not a coward.
He was well-known to the West Heath police officers, having, at one time or another, insulted most of them in court. When Sergeant Darling, who was on the desk in reception, saw him coming he said, “Here’s our little brown brother.”
“I’m not in,” said Chief Inspector Watrous. He departed through a door at the rear of the office as Diwaker came in at the front and said, “Good morning, Sergeant. I require to see the Superintendent.”
“Not in, I’m afraid, sir.”
“Then the Chief Inspector.”
“He’s out, too. Why not try me?”
“I have a serious complaint to make. Last night my yard was entered and my car was covered with offensive words.”
“Sorry to hear that, sir. What words?”
“Such words as I would not dirty my tongue to repeat. You may see them for yourself.”
The Sergeant signalled to one of the telephone operators to take his place on the desk and accompanied Diwaker back to the yard behind his house where his car was standing.
“Well, well,” he said. “Someone’s done a job on that, no question.”
“I am not asking for your comments, Sergeant. I am asking for your assistance.”
“What would you like us to do, sir?”
“I should have thought that a Sergeant would not have had to ask such a stupid question. First – to discover the perpetrators of this outrage and charge them. Then I want your assurance that it will not be repeated.”
“There hardly seems room for much more.”
It was a solid job, carried out in yellow paint. Such words as were legible were certainly insulting.
“You take this matter very lightly, Sergeant.”
“Oh no, sir. Not at all. We’ll certainly do our best.”
“And what will your best consist of?”
“Well, sir. It would help if you could let us have some idea of why anyone should want to do a thing like this.”
“I know very well why it was done and so do you. It is because I have undertaken to defend those unfortunate Pakistani boys.”
“I see, sir. I suppose that was bound to stir up trouble.”
“Oh, why?”
“Well, after all, they did blow up five white kids.”
“You are presuming them guilty, Sergeant?”
“Oh no, sir. Not at all. I know very little about it.”
“I advise you, for your own good, not to repeat what you just said to me.”
When Sergeant Darling reported this to Watrous, the Chief Inspector said, “Bloody little toad. I suppose we’d better tell the man on the beat to keep an eye on his house. Can’t do more than that. We’ve just had an urgent request from Reynolds Road for help with crowd control.”
22
Since the attack, Abel Drummer had walked to his shop every morning without undue apprehension. But he had made a point of shutting up early so that he reached his own house before dark. This meant a long evening at home.
Since his wife’s death he had usually had his dinner at the club, an arrangement which had suited his sons who had liked to have the evening free for their own devices. Now he was driven to eating whatever his daily woman, an unimaginative caterer, had left out for him. After that, there was nothing to do but sit in front of the electric fire – and think.
His thoughts refused to run straight.
This was disconcerting, since he was a man who, until recent events had overtaken him, had lived all his life by clear rules. Some things were right, other things were wrong. Now everything was misty and uncertain.
The only person he could have discussed matters with was Arthur Drayling. He hesitated to make any approach. There was a question he wanted to ask him, but it was a question to which he dreaded the answer so much that it was almost better to leave it unasked.
It could be expressed in bleakly simple words.
Was it possible that he had been responsible for the death of one of his sons and the wounding of the other? True, Robin, his favourite, was not dead and the doctors were hopeful that he would pull through. But the longer he remained unconscious, they said, the greater would be the gap in his memory. It might extend for days before the tragedy. There was no solution to be expected from that source.
The trial might clear up the horrible uncertainty. It could be that his hands were clean, that the responsibility lay with the Pakistanis. If so, they must pay the heaviest possible penalty. But suppose, unbelievably, unthinkably, it was not them. Then might not he himself be a murderer, in thought if not in deed?
If that should be the answer, one way of escape did remain. It was in the locked cupboard in his bedroom. The double-barrelled sporting rifle which had belonged to his father. Since his death he had used it, once or twice, for pigeon shooting and there was an almost full box of ammunition. The gun between his knees. The barrel under his chin. Finish.
He was able to face this stark possibility without any great apprehension. For he had lost everything. First his wife. Then one, or maybe both, of his sons. And his dog, Tiger, who had been his only close companion. And if what he feared was true he would lose his good name as well. So what was left? A long succession of lonely evenings.
Was there, indeed, any point in waiting for the answer? He had only to walk upstairs and unlock the cupboard. The key was on his ring. In a few minutes it would be over, his difficulties disposed of and his problems solved.
In the end, what stopped him was a memory.
He had been ten years old when his father had come back from the war, a helpless cripple. The doctors had done their best. They had taken off the ar
m and the leg neatly enough and had patched him up, but they had not been able to do anything about the twisted ligaments and the tortured nerve ends. His father had sat, in that same chair he was in now, night after night, postponing as long as possible the moment of going to bed. Knowing that he would get little sleep, fearing the agony.
And the gun had been there, all the time, in the cupboard. If his father had used it, no one would have blamed him. But he had not done so. Because he was a man of courage. Because to have done so would have been to admit defeat.
His mind made up, Abel went upstairs, passed the cupboard without a second glance, undressed and got into bed. Oddly enough, he fell asleep almost at once and slept soundly.
On the following night Azam Kahn’s garage was burned to the ground.
Fearing trouble he had installed a night-watchman, a retired policeman, said to be reliable. According to his own account, this man had taken the precaution of locking himself in the office. In the early hours of the morning someone had broken a pane of glass in the door and shouted through it, “Better move, or you’ll be the Guy Fawkes on the bonfire.” He could smell the petrol which was being splashed around and had quickly unlocked the door and come out.
Three men had grabbed him, had bundled him into a car, driven him out on to the marshes and dumped him. They were hooded and he was unable to identify them.
There was some dispute about what happened next. The helpful Mr. Foulkes, owner of the newspaper shop opposite, had been the first to spot the fire. He had immediately telephoned the fire brigade. He was a methodical man and had noted that the time, by the clock in his bedroom was five minutes before three.
The fire station was less than half a mile away, at the far end of Reynolds Road. They maintained that they had received the call at five past three. It was certain that they had not arrived until nearly a quarter past three. By that time the flames had such a firm hold that there was little they could do for the garage itself, and they had turned their hoses on to the neighbouring buildings to prevent the fire from spreading.
A story was told – it is far from certain who started it – that after the brigade had turned out with its usual speed and efficiency an argument had developed between the driver of the fire engine and the Captain. The driver had said that, speaking personally, he was in no hurry to help the father of the Paki murderers. Some of the brigade had supported him. It had taken ten minutes to sort this out. Long enough, said people, smiling as they listened to the story, to be quite sure that the garage burned down properly.
The Rahman shop was two along from the corner where Bannockburn Road ran south into Plumstead High Street. It was still called ‘Abdul Rahman, Locksmith’, although Abdul had long been dead. It was run by Tahira, his widow, and Gulmar, her son, the father of Jay and Ram. The four of them lived above the shop. Standing almost outside the Pakistani triangle it seemed an obvious target and Gulmar had, some time before, installed shutters across the shop window. Now he had added to the locks and bolts on the front door and had blocked the letter-slot. He was not unduly worried about his own safety, being something of a fighter.
On that Wednesday evening he was returning home from a visit to his suppliers in Woolwich. As he turned the corner a man, sitting in the window-seat of the public house opposite the end of the road, took a torch from his pocket and flashed it twice. Two groups of men started to move. One lot, who had been standing talking in the High Street, sauntered forward. A second lot, in Bannockburn Road, moved towards the main road. Gulmar was trapped between them.
He saw the group ahead of him, realised it would take too long to get Tahira to unshackle the front door, swung round and ran for the High Street and the bright lights. The first group was already blocking that escape route. As he hesitated he was set on from behind. He swung his shoulders, putting one man down, was tripped and went forward on to his knees. Then his attackers started to use their boots. The first kick landed in his ribs. He wriggled round and grabbed the nearest leg. As he tugged at it, someone stamped on his hand, forcing him to loose his hold. The next kick hit him full in the face. As he rolled over in an effort to protect himself, the next one landed, with paralysing power, in the small of his back.
At that moment a car, which had been cruising slowly along Blaydon Road, turned the corner and flicked on its headlights. Then its horn began to sound, long – short, long – short. Street doors opened and men came running. They were mostly young Pakistanis; some were no more than boys.
The attackers were all armed with heavy sticks or clubs. They swung them savagely. A young Pakistani took a blow on his arm and heard the bone crack. For a moment the assault wavered. Then Tahira, who had got her door open at last, ran into the road and started to scream. A shrill note, not a signal for retreat, a call to battle. More Pakistanis joined the fight. They had had time to arm themselves with a variety of weapons.
A blow from a furnace rake broke open the head of one of the attackers. It was the signal for flight.
The crowd, which had now grown, chased the attackers towards the end of the road. One of them left a trail of blood on the pavement. This excited the pack, in full cry after a wounded quarry. But at that point where the side-road entered the High Street they halted, without any order given. They had reached the frontier. Beyond was enemy territory, not to be carelessly penetrated. They stood in silence and watched the men hurrying off. Two of them seemed to be supporting a third. One of the others was hobbling.
By now, Tahira had taken charge. She allowed no one to touch Gulmar, who lay crumpled in the gutter. “If there are bones broken,” she said, “you will do more harm than good.”
Someone had telephoned the hospital, also the police.
On Friday morning there was a council of war at Reynolds Road Police Station. The meeting was in Brace’s room. Commander Tancred was there with Superintendent Michaelson, whose appointment had been confirmed the night before. He was to co-ordinate all police activities in ‘R’ District.
Brace said, “The score last night was one broken arm, three cracked ribs and – Gulmar Rahman.”
“I’ve spoken to Braithwaite, the surgeon who’s in charge of his case,’ said Tancred. “There’s a suspected fracture of the spine and a depressed wound in the skull. Other injuries, too. But those are the worst. One thing Braithwaite said was that it didn’t look to him like a mindless piece of brutality. He was kicked four times, each time where it would do most damage.”
“They were professionals,” agreed Brace, “and they weren’t locals. They were none of them masked. The people who came to Rahman’s rescue got a good look at them and they all swear they haven’t seen any of them before.”
The thought that the villains had come from outside his manor seemed to cheer him a little.
“I fancy that’s the shape of it,” said Michaelson. “What we’re up against is a smallish organisation of professional trouble-makers who’ve got a crowd of ordinary citizens worked up to boiling point.”
“It’s their opportunity,” agreed Tancred, “and they’re getting their teeth into it. They’ve been holding meetings all over the place: in pubs, in parks, on street comers. Clever stuff, too. What they’re plugging is, ‘Watch the lawyers’. If Norrie does what’s expected and commits the Pakistanis, the row may go rumbling on, but the sting will be out of it.”
“I don’t understand it,” said Michaelson suddenly. “And I don’t like it.”
The others looked at him. They knew that he had more experience than them in these matters.
Tancred said, “What’s worrying you, Micky?”
“I’ve got an odd feeling about it. That we’re being deliberately challenged. They’ve chosen the time and they’ve chosen the place. It’s altogether too cold-blooded for my liking. Someone’s pulling the strings. Don’t you feel that?”
“Maybe,” said Tancred. “But surely it makes your job that much easier, Micky? They’re asking for a show-down next Monday. Fine. They shall have it.”
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Brace nodded his approval.
“I’m not averse to a show-down,” said Michaelson. “It’s just that I don’t like having the lines laid down for me by the other side. All right maybe I’m imagining things. Let’s have a look at the map. We shall have to pack Reynolds Road on either side of the court-house and right up to the station forecourt. And we’ll have to put a cordon round all three sides of the Paki-triangle.”
He marked the map with a heavy blue pencil.
“That means diverting traffic,” said Brace.
“Certainly. Pedestrian traffic only on the High Street. All cars turn off there—” He drew a line. “Down Berridge Road, along the north of Plumstead Common and back up the old Mill Road. They should be clear of trouble by then. To do the job properly I reckon we shall need a minimum of eight hundred men. I’m drawing on all ten south London districts and the PLA are lending us a contingent of the docks’ police. Everyone’s willing to help, but—” he turned to Brace—“It’s going to make them even more willing, if they see you putting all your men into it.”
Brace looked surprised. He said, “We’re doing our stint, all right. We’ve got everyone back from leave. Anyone who can hobble will be out of hospital. And we’ve cancelled any special assignments for the time being. It’ll be a hundred per cent turn-out for us. I can assure you.”
“Fine. And don’t let’s assume that nothing’s going to happen until Monday. If there’s any trouble stamp on it and stamp hard.”
Brace nodded again. It was the sort of instruction he appreciated. Friday night was quiet.
On Saturday morning PC Gurney, on guard outside the burnt-out building in Wick Lane, was accosted by an elderly gentleman who seemed to wish to examine the site.
“Sorry, sir,” he said. “Strict instructions. No one’s allowed inside.”
“Quite right, Officer,” said the old man. “Quite right. Mustn’t have a lot of people messing about. Could destroy valuable evidence. But as it happens I have got authority to make an inspection.”
“Authority from Superintendent Brace, sir?”
“Well, no.”
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