White Riot (19 page)

‘Mary Evans?’ she said, smiling.

‘Yes.’ She looked apprehensive, tried to mask it with a smile. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Can we go in?’ said Peta, looking round. ‘Easier to talk inside.’

She opened the door wide, they went in. The office was brightly painted, papered by primary-coloured wall planners and posters advertising various politically worthy causes. The furniture was old, mismatching, goodwill donations. She sat behind the desk, pulled her chair up slightly higher than the chairs at the front of the desk that Peta took. She had stayed loyal to her old dress sense, was still swathed in printed cotton, scarves and bangles. There had been strength in her voice, but her eyes darted and fluttered like trapped sparrows before alighting on Peta. But she sat purposefully, like she had forced herself to be strong.

She looked at the card. ‘Peta Knight. Albion. Are you trying to sell me something?’

Peta tried for a reassuring smile. Evidently missed from the look on Mary Evans’s face. ‘I’m here on behalf of Trevor Whitman. He’s one of our clients.’

Her face crumpled in on itself. Now she looked even older. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I saw he was back here.’ She nodded, seemingly unaware that her head was doing it. ‘Trevor Whitman. God. What does he want with me?’

‘He’s been getting some threatening calls,’ said Peta. ‘We’re looking into it for him.’

‘And you think I did it? I need a cigarette.’ She fumbled one out of the carton, lit it with shaking hands and inhaled deeply, eyes closed as if sucking down strength along with the smoke.

‘Of course not,’ said Peta. ‘We’re just talking to people up here who know him or used to know him.’

Breathing out, she looked at her again. ‘Why the hell would I want to talk to him?’ Her voice dropped, a dark bitterness. ‘Threatening phone calls? If I’d wanted to hurt him I would have done it sooner. And better. What are you looking at me like that for?’

Peta looked taken aback. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You just seem to have a very deep well of anger for him.’ And you accessed it so quickly, she thought.

Mary Evans seemed to realize how she must have looked. She attempted a laugh. ‘Well. He’s a bastard and a bully, Trevor Whitman. And a misogynist. And if he wants to fuck you up, he’ll really fuck you up.’

Peta frowned. This wasn’t the way she had expected the conversation to go, but she went with it. ‘How d’you mean?’

Mary Evans dragged frantically on her cigarette, putting a cloud of smoke between her and her guest, trying to disappear behind it. ‘I joined the Hollow Men because I believed in its ideals. And I left because I realized that it was just an excuse for middle-class boys to get into fights and behave like football hooligans. And take drugs. And use women. They called it free love …’ Her face twisted into an ugly sneer. ‘But let’s call it what it really was. Rape.’

‘Right,’ said Peta, not wanting to get caught up in that argument. ‘What about blowing things up?’

Mary Evans smiled. ‘Their answer to everything. A very male answer to everything. Things needed to change. Make
no mistake. But you can’t create a new world using brute force. There are more subtle ways than that.’

‘Such as?’

‘Did you see the new housing development opposite?’

They both nodded.

‘One of our initiatives. Wasteland we bought from the council then sold to a private developer. For a much higher price.’

‘Sounds more capitalist than socialist,’ said Peta.

Mary Evans smiled. ‘I prefer the term pragmatic. The Malcolm X approach. By any means necessary. Now we’re working with local housing associations to ensure those flats have a high proportion of affordable accommodation. For local working people.’ She sat back, looking pleased with herself. ‘Sometimes whispers are louder than screams.’

‘Very good,’ said Peta. ‘I think I saw something on the news about it this morning.’

An emotion Peta couldn’t trace flitted across Mary Evans’s face. Fear?

‘That’s … that’s something else.’

‘OK. Back to Trevor Whitman. Do you know anyone with a grudge against him from back then? Anyone he upset?’

Mary Evans gave a short, hard laugh, rattling the tar in her lungs. ‘How long have you got? He pissed off everyone.’ She stubbed her cigarette out in an already crowded ashtray, taking pleasure in watching it fall apart.

‘How?’ said Peta.

‘Because he’s a manipulator. Of people. He pretends to be friends with them, then twists them all out of shape until they’re mangled and useless. That’s the kind of person he was. And probably still is. So there’s your answer.’

Peta thought of him with Lillian. The smiles she gave him. Wondered how long it would be until she was twisted out of shape.

‘D’you ever see anyone else from those days?’

Her eyes misted slightly. ‘Richie. Richie Vane.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘He was the only decent one among them. Poor Richie.’

‘Drugs and drink, wasn’t it?’ said Peta.

Mary Evans shook her head. ‘The party never ended for Richie and the clearing up never began. I still see him now and again. Try to help him when I can. But …’ She shrugged.

‘We’re trying to track down all the old Hollow Men. D’you know where we could find him?’ said Peta. ‘Just to talk.’

Mary Evans thought hard, reached a decision. ‘When d’you want to see him?’

‘Soon as.’

Nodding to herself, she picked the phone up, made a call. Peta tried not to listen but picked up phrases, especially ones about her: ‘I think so … she seems on the level … trustworthy … genuine … well, we’ll see …’ She put the phone down. ‘You’re in luck. He’s still attending his courses at the centre.’ Mary Evans wrote an address on a piece of paper, handed it over. ‘Two o’clock this afternoon.’

Peta took it, smiling. ‘Thank you. I really appreciate it.’

A smile played across Mary Evans’s features. ‘No problem. Perhaps you might be in a position to do me a favour one day. Have you spoken to Gideon yet?’

‘Abdul-Haq, you mean? Not yet. We thought he might be a bit busy at the minute.’

‘I refuse to call him by that pathetic name. But I’m sure he’s never too busy to talk about himself.’ Another unreadable smile. ‘Especially to a pretty young thing like you.’

Peta felt herself blush. ‘Right. What happened to Alan Shepherd? Trevor’s book doesn’t go into much detail.’

Mary Evans’s face darkened. ‘Alan Shepherd. Christ. He
was …’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think I want to say anything more. I hope I’ve proved I’m not your anonymous caller.’

Peta, realizing this was all she was going to get, stood up. ‘You have. Well, thanks for your help. If you think of anything in the meantime—’

‘You look familiar.’ Peta stopped. ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Peta Knight.’

Mary Evans frowned. ‘Knight.’

‘My dad was Philip Knight. Married Lillian Wallis.’

‘Wait.’ Mary Evans got hurriedly up, walked round the desk until she was in front of Peta. She reached up, touched Peta’s face. ‘Lillian,’ she said. Peta hardly breathed.

Mary Evans’s hand stroked her cheek, slowly, compassionately, her eyes alive and dancing with secrets and tenderness, the years dropping off her. ‘Yes. Lillian. You look just like her.’

‘Lots of people say that.’ Peta’s voice was suddenly hoarse and croaky.

‘You do,’ said Mary Evans as if she was looking into the past, seeing something long lost. ‘I see it now. Oh, you do.’

A light came on in Mary Evans’s eyes. ‘Did Lillian introduce you to Trevor?’

Peta nodded, unsure of her voice.

Mary Evans nodded. She almost smiled. ‘Of course. And that’s why you were chosen.’ It was less of a question than a statement of confirmation.

‘He … spoke to my mother, yes. And she … she contacted me.’

‘Of course she did.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, Lillian. He got you too.’

Mary Evans stood back, took her hand away from Peta’s face with seeming reluctance. She looked to Peta like she
was just coming out of a trance. Suddenly embarrassed, she went back behind the desk, busying herself with her cigarettes.

Peta stared, confusion etched on her features.

Mary Evans lit up, breathed out a cloud of smoke like a huge sigh of relief. ‘I have work to do.’ She studied some paperwork in front of her. ‘I’m sorry.’

Recognizing her cue, Peta turned to go.

‘But be careful. The past—’ Mary Evans stopped herself. Peta waited. ‘Just be careful,’ she said and went back to her work, her wall of smoke.

Peta couldn’t get out of there quick enough.

Turnbull sat outside the house in Hertfordshire, hoping they hadn’t seen him. The road was quiet and leafy, just as Donovan had said it would be. The sun beat down, the branches barely moved. He found a good spot with plenty of shade and sat unobserved, making notes. U2 playing quietly on the stereo, absently nodding his head to the beat.

Before driving down, he had run a thorough check on the couple, discovered nothing more than Sharkey’s earlier investigation. But he hadn’t let that deter him. Because he had the beginnings of a plan.

He looked down at his notepad, read back what he had written.

School. DNA. Be careful
.

Get close to the boy, some hair or something, kiss off a Coke bottle, get it pulled, matched up and Bob’s your uncle. He looked down at his notes again. The plan was there, he just needed a way to make it happen.

He turned the stereo up.
Elevation
. Helped him think.

Kev stared at the house, not believing he had the right one. On a new housing estate just off the A1 in Grimley, between Gateshead and Chester-le-Street. Boxy and modestly sized, with no shops, pubs or schools nearby, the houses looked like they had just sprung out of the surrounding fields. Just an ordinary housing estate.

Where Gary lived. His old recruiter. His old lover.

He had walked round, building himself up, rehearsing
imaginary conversations in his head, mentally exploring every possible outcome. Now commuters were returning home, mainly suited and carrying briefcases, getting out of shining silver cars, turning off rock music. He had always prided himself on not living that sort of life, thinking it was living hell, or not living at all. Unimaginative zombies incapable of thinking freely. That’s what the party had always told him. But they didn’t look like that. Good cars, good jobs. Good money. Living in good houses, miles away from anywhere, where you could lock the door behind you, keep the world at bay. They weren’t zombies. They looked happy.

A van pulled up. Kev hid. It had Gary’s name on the side, with the word
BUILDER
underneath and some kind of logo, crossed roof rafters. Gary picked up some papers and a clipboard from the passenger seat, went inside.

Kev hadn’t seen Gary in over two years. He had been tautly muscled before, with a wiry energy; now his body looked heavier, more relaxed. Comfortable in his own skin. Kev waited a few minutes, then followed him. Walking up to the front door, butterflies flipping, trying to escape from his stomach, he rang the bell. It was answered.

‘It’s me.’

Surprise didn’t adequately convey the look on Gary’s face. So many conflicting emotions, Kev couldn’t recognize all of them. But he knew fear when he saw it.

‘What the … What … what d’you want?’

‘I need to talk to you. Can I come in?’

Gary looked up and down the turning, checking no one was watching. It was clear he didn’t want him there, certainly not inside the house. Nevertheless he ushered him in, closed the door behind him.

‘How did you find me?’

‘Went through the files in the office. Wasn’t easy.’

‘You shouldn’t have bothered.’

The words hurt. Kev tried to ignore them. ‘You a builder now? Did you do all this yourself?’ Gary nodded. The hallway was well decorated. ‘Nice.’

‘Thank you. So what d’you want?’

Now that he was here, with Gary, he couldn’t find the words. ‘I need to talk to you.’

Gary looked round, ushered him upstairs into a small bedroom that was kitted out with fake beechwood office furniture. ‘In there.’ He put Kev inside, closed the door. From elsewhere in the house came the sounds of the TV. He heard Gary say something, heard a muffled response by a female voice. Then Gary came back up the stairs, came in. Closed the door behind him.

‘I’ve told Rebecca you want some work doing.’ He sat down in the desk chair, rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. When he took them away the fear was still there. ‘You’re the last person I expected to see. The last person.’

Kev nodded, hurt again by the words. His wound was starting to ache again. ‘I wouldn’t have come if there was another way. I’m sorry.’ Kev tried to smile. ‘Nice place.’

‘I’ve worked for it. Things are good.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘What d’you want?’

‘Your … your help.’

‘About what?’

‘The party. I’ve got doubts.’ He saw the Asian boy’s body in flames, the blood pooling underneath his dead body. ‘Doubts about what I’m doin’. I’m worried.’

Gary breathed what seemed to Kev a sigh of relief. ‘Which party? The NUP?’

Kev nodded.

‘I’m nothing to do with them any more. That part of my life’s over.’ He gave Kev a pointed look as he said those words.

‘They told me you’d moved on. You were workin’ for them somewhere else.’

Gary shook his head. ‘They lie to you all the time, don’t you know that?’

Kev looked at him, still confused. ‘So what happened?’

‘I left.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I found something better.’

‘What?’

Gary’s voice dropped, became more confessional. ‘God.’

Kev’s confusion increased. ‘What?’

Gary sat back. ‘God. I couldn’t go on doing … what we had been doing. So I went away for a bit. Met Rebecca.’ Gary smiled. ‘And here I am.’

Kev stared at him, speechless.

Gary told Kev about going to a Pentecostal church at Rebecca’s invitation. How he didn’t want to go but she had kept on at him. He knew something was lacking in his life, so he went. ‘And there were all these people there and they looked so happy, and I thought, I want some of that.’ The speech sounded well rehearsed. His testimony. ‘They were so welcoming and so … full of the spirit. And I knew. They were somewhere I wanted to be. Because I was in a bad place, Kev, a very bad place.’