Текст книги "Death in Dark Waters"

Автор книги: Patricia Hall

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Ten

Kevin Mower leaned across the boy at the computer screen, a burly youth in dark tracksuit and baseball cap, and flicked a key.

“Use the spell-check,” he said. “Look, it brings up the underlined word and suggests the correct spelling.”

“Oh, yeah,” the boy muttered, evidently astonished by the power of the technology. “If we’ad this at school I mighta’ got me GCSEs. It were the writing and spelling that did for me every time.”

“Everyone uses word-processors now,” Mower said. “If you can get to grips with this you’ll find it much easier. Then you can do a course at the college if you want to later on.”

“They won’t tek me at t′college,” the boy said, successfully replacing Hites with Heights.

“Of course they will if you put in a bit of practice here,” Mower said cheerfully. The boy shrugged uncertainly.

“Mebbe,” he said, but he returned to the slow jabbing at the keys which Mower had interrupted with a dogged determination which few of the Project’s clients had showed when they tentatively sidled in through the doors. Mower glanced across the room at Donna who was helping a tall black girl at another keyboard. Their eyes met and Mower smiled faintly. It was a long time since he had experienced the satisfaction that he gained from helping these kids on the Heights, and he had begun to wonder whether this was not a road he might be persuaded to follow. It seemed to him it might be more productive than helping to dump them in the crime schools which passed by the name of young offenders institutions.

At that moment the door opened and the dreadlocked head of Dizzy B Sanderson appeared in the gap. A ripple of excitement ran round the young people at the computers but Mower quickly ushered the visitor out into the reception area.

“He’ll be here to talk to you when you break for lunch,” he said to the class. “I won’t let him go away.”

Dizzy flung himself into one of the dilapidated armchairs from which the smears of red paint had been more or less removed and sighed dramatically.

“This town does my head in, man,” he said. “You heard about the club being closed down?”

Mower nodded.

“I read about it in the Gazette,” he said. “It seems a bit drastic.”

“Some copper came over all heavy, persuaded Darryl to volunteer to close for a week.”

“D’you know who the copper was?” Mower asked cautiously.

“Some guy in uniform. Not one of your lot. But Darryl says he’d got the whole thing sussed – new people on the doors, some local firm that does most of the clubs round here.”

“Barry Foreman’s mob?”

“That’s the one.”

“I’ve come across Foreman before. A nasty bit of work, if you ask me. I reckon if he’s helping your mate Darryl out there must be something in it for him,” Mower said.

“Protection, you mean? Is he into that?”

“I don’t think we’re sure what he’s into, though my boss is convinced there’s a drug connection. But we’ve no evidence. As far as we know he does doors, does some secure deliveries, that sort of thing. I’ve no doubt we’ll have his lads patrolling the streets up here before long if all this new stuff goes through. Then we’ll see whose side he’s on.”

“Yeah, well Darryl seemed happy enough with him. Anyway, it’s all safe and sorted, and then the Old Bill comes on all heavy anyway. As Darryl hears it, those kids got their Es in some pub, nowhere near the Carib at all. I saw no one dealing that night and I get a good view of what’s going on round the dance floor. There was some dope. You could smell that. But I didn’t see anyone selling anything stronger. They’ve got no grounds to close the place. But the local rag’s running this campaign, stirring things up, and they don’t want to know when Darryl wants to say his piece. Don’t want a few facts to get in the way of a good story.”

“Who’s doing it? Bob Baker?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy. All this stuff about the father of the kid who got knocked down. If you ask me that’s just an excuse to get at Darryl and the black kids. I reckon it’s the blasted Asians at the back of it. If you want to find a racist in this country that’s where you should look. That Asian guy of yours who arrested me was no better than he should have been.”

“Young Sharif?” Mower said. “He’s new. I don’t know him well. He arrived just as I …” He hesitated seeking the right word for his departure from CID.

“That’s the one,” Dizzy said. “DC Sharif.”

“Have you made a complaint?”

“What’s the point?” Dizzy asked. “You know how long it takes and I don’t think I’ll be coming back to Bradfield again after this little lot, so you can sort DC Sharif out yourselves. I’m planning to go back to Manchester tomorrow and then to London so I thought I’d just look in on your kids one more time. I brought them some vinyl.”

“They’ll like that,” Mower said, glancing at the case of records that Dizzy had dumped beside his chair. “We’ve got a hi-fi system locked away somewhere. It’s too risky to leave it out when there’s no one here.”

“Tell me about it,” Dizzy said. “So, are you jacking in the job, then?”

“I don’t know,” Mower said. “I’ve got another couple to weeks to make up my mind.”

“Do it man,” Dizzy said. “I never regretted it. Stay in and you’ll end up dead or damaged – if you’re not already.”

“Damaged, anyway.” Mower smiled wryly.

“So get a life,” Dizzy said emphatically. “If the head-banging hurts, give it up, for God’s sake.”

“It’s not as easy as all that,” Mower said. “I owe people.”

“You owe yourself more,” Dizzy said flatly. “If you don’t look after yourself no one else will.”

“Maybe,” Mower said. He glanced at his watch. “We break for lunch in five minutes. Have a chat to the kids and then we’ll go for a pint.”

Dizzy leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head and stretched his long legs.

“Sounds OK to me,” he said. But even as he closed his eyes, there was a commotion at the door and Mower sprang to his feet in alarm as a couple of young boys in school uniform burst in.

“Is Emma Maitland’s mum here?”

“She’s been right sick down by Priestley.”

“She needs her mum, quick!”

Mower’s heart lurched as he took in the urgency of the children’s voices.

“I’ll get her,” he said and hurried back into the classroom where Donna looked up in alarm.

“Can you come? It’s Emma,” Mower said. The colour drained from her face, turning it putty coloured beneath her careful make-up. She grabbed her coat and bag from the teacher’s desk and hurried to the door. In the reception area, Mower took hold of Dizzy B’s arm and thrust a set of keys into his hand.

“Mind the shop for us, can you? We’ve got an emergency,” he said. “Don’t leave the place unlocked, for Christ’s sake. See the kids off the premises and if you’ve gone when I get back I’ll catch up with you later on your mobile.”

Donna was already running awkwardly across the muddy grass between the Project and Priestley House on too high heels and Mower had to sprint to catch up with her. A small crowd of children were huddled around a small figure on the ground close to the main doors and as the adults arrived they drew away uncertainly, leaving just one girl supporting Emma’s head. Mower shouldered in front of Donna and leaned over the child, who seemed to be unconscious.

“She were right sick,” her friend said.

“What’s she taken?” Mower asked harshly as he lifted Emma’s eyelids gently.

The other girl glanced away, her expression guilty. Before Mower could intervene, Donna had seized her by the shoulders and shaken her hard.

“Come on, Kiley, what’s she had? Is it drugs? What is it? You must know.”

Kiley pulled away, her pale face sulky and her eyes full of tears.

“It weren’t drugs,” she said. “We’d not do drugs. It were just a drink. I thought it were fizzy pop. A man gave it us when we went for some chips. I didn’t like it, though, and Emma drank most of it. An’ then she went all funny and I thought I’d teck her home, like, and find you. But she couldn’t stand up, could she? And then she were right sick.”

Mower thrust his mobile phone into Donna’s hand.

“Get an ambulance,” he said. While Donna punched in 999, he put his coat round Emma and pulled her upright.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Come on, wake up.” The child’s eyes flickered slightly but did not open. He glanced at Donna who was sitting on her heels in the mud, her face rigid with fear.

“Ambulance is coming,” she whispered. “What d’you reckon?”

“She’ll be fine,” Mower said with more confidence than he felt. “Some sort of alcopop, I should think. Though what stupid beggar’s been handing them out to kids I can’t imagine. But I’ll bloody well find out, I promise you.”

In the distance they could hear the siren of the approaching ambulance. Mower put his arm round Donna.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “She’ll be OK.”

“And if she’s not?” Donna said, her voice reduced to a dry croak. “She’s everything I’ve got.”

By the end of the afternoon Mower had driven Donna home, leaving a pale but conscious Emma settling down to sleep in the children’s ward at Bradfield Infirmary. Donna led the way wearily up the long concrete staircase to her flat and flung herself into a chair, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Mower perched awkwardly on the arm of the chair and put an arm round her.

“Come on, lover,” he said. “It’s all over now. She’s come to no harm. They’ve only kept her in overnight as a precaution.”

Donna shuddered.

“So they say,” she said. “They’ll have social services round as soon as my back’s turned. They’ll take her away from me, Kevin. You don’t know the half of it.”

“Perhaps you’d better tell me then,” Mower said quietly.

“It were when she were little. Her dad and I were in a terrible state, rowing and breaking up and getting back together and rowing again. He was unemployed and drinking and there was no money in t’kitty. There were no end to it. One night Emma were fast asleep in her cot and her dad buggered off at the end of a blazing row and I ran off after him. I weren’t out long. I swear I weren’t. Not more than half an hour. But when I got back the stupid old bat who lived next door had sent for t’police because Emma were crying, and then social services turned up, and they took her away, had her examined and everything. They gave her back next day, because there was nowt wrong with that baby. Even her dad worshipped her, and there wasn’t much he worshipped apart from a bottle of booze, believe me. But they put her on some register and it were years before she were taken off. You have to believe me, Kevin, I’ve done everything by the book for that child. Every jab at the doctors, every toy and book she should have, every bit of reading practice and homework from school. I’ve done everything I could to live that night down and then some. And now …”

“It’s all right,” Mower said. “You only have to look at Emma to see she’s a well cared for child. This is just a stupid thing she’s done herself. She should never have taken the drink from this man. But no one’s going to blame you. You weren’t there. Kids do these things.”

“I don’t know what she were doing out of school. She’s supposed to have her dinner at school not go gallivanting round t’neighbourhood for chips.”

“Yes, well, I think maybe her mate Kiley has some explaining to do,” Mower said. “Where does she live? Is it far?”

“Just down below. Number 18.”

“D’you feel like coming down?” Donna shook her head angrily, scrubbing what was left of her mascara off.

“I’ll say summat I shouldn’t if I get involved with the bloody Hatherleys,” she said. “I don’t like my Emma being so friendly with Kiley and her sister, but what can you do when they live so close?”

“Make a cup of tea for yourself and put a slug of whiskey in it,” Mower said, getting to his feet. “I’ll see if I can find out just exactly what went on at lunchtime.”

Closing the flat door behind him he stood for a moment, taking deep breaths of the cold air and gazing unseeingly out at the glittering early evening lights of the town below. From the moment he had arrived with Donna at the Infirmary and been addressed by the harassed nurse as Mr. Maitland while Emma was wheeled into the resuscitation room for urgent treatment, what Donna left unsaid had hammered at his consciousness with much greater clarity than what she actually put into words. Emma needs a father was the message he was getting loud and clear. And with that he could not argue, although he was equally certain that soon he would have to tell Donna very bluntly that he could not be the father she wished Emma had. He was not looking forward to that.

In any case, he doubted the underlying logic behind Donna’s panic: she seemed to believe that none of this would have happened if Emma had a father. Fat chance, he thought. On the Heights, this sort of accident could happen to any child at any time. It was not a safe place to be, and the presence or absence of fathers did not necessarily make much difference to a child’s safety.

He pulled the collar of his fleece up closer round his neck and shivered himself back to the immediate problem, where, he thought wryly, he could at least perform one paternal duty for young Emma and try to find out how she had managed to drink herself unconscious in her school dinner-hour. He ran quickly down the first flight of stairs and made his way to number 18, from where a loud and indeterminate noise seemed to shake the door in its flimsy frame. He knocked a couple of times without response and then banged hard on the kitchen window where he could see the silhouette of someone outlined against the drawn curtains. The noise inside the flat did not diminish but eventually the door was edged open a crack and a woman’s face peered out.

“Mrs. Hatherley? Is young Kiley in?” Mower asked. “Emma Maitland’s mum asked me to come down and talk to her about what happened at lunchtime. She’s very grateful Kiley had the sense to get help. Saved Emma’s life, I reckon.”

“Who are you, any road?” the woman asked, without a flicker of friendliness in her eyes.

“I’m Emma’s uncle,” Mower replied, knowing the codes of the estate. “I just brought Donna back from the Infirmary. They’re keeping Emma in tonight, but she’s OK. No harm done.”

From behind the woman the noise of television or hi-fi, or possibly both, diminished a decibel or so and a male voice could be heard calling angrily for the door to be closed. When the woman did not respond, a volley of curses was followed by the appearance of a large, shaven-headed man in jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt who pushed the woman out of the way and scowled angrily at Mower.

“Yer what?” he asked.

Mower repeated his request to talk to Kiley but met with even less co-operation than he had from the woman he presumed was her mother.

“If I could just ask Kiley a couple of questions. Whether the bloke was black or white, for one. There’s a lad called Ounce …”

“Don’t I know you?” the man broke in aggressively. “You’re the fucking fuzz.”

“No way mate,” Mower said quickly. “Not long out of nick, me.”

“He says he’s Donna’s bloke,” his wife put in tentatively.

“Fuck off, any road,” the man said and slammed the door in Mower’s face. As he turned away he was aware of a child’s pale face watching him with frightened eyes from the kitchen window.

Exasperated by the limitations of being without a warrant card in his pocket, and by the implications of what Kiley’s father had said, Mower leaned over the balcony again, fingering the beard which had not protected him as well as he had hoped. He considering his options which had suddenly become very much more limited than they had been even half an hour before. If he had been half-recognised once, he had no doubt that he might be again and the news that Donna Maitland was seeing a copper would travel round the estate within hours. It would inevitably reach her ears sooner rather than later, only adding to the emotional turmoil she was already in. The news itself would not necessarily upset her, he thought, but the fact that he had deceived her undoubtedly would. The kids at the Project would not greet the revelation with unalloyed joy either, he thought bitterly, as they jumped to the conclusion that he had been spying on them. He pulled out his mobile and called up Dizzy B.

“Where are you, mate?” Mower asked.

“Waitin’ for you in the pub like you said. It’s been a bloody long wait, man.”

“Do one thing for me will you?” Mower asked. “Those kids you were talking to with Laura Ackroyd. See if they know who got Emma Maitland pissed out of her head this lunchtime. Someone must have seen something, and if I know anything about the Heights, no one will tell me. My cover may be blown – such as it is – and I’ve got some things to sort out with Donna.”

“Sounds like bad news,” Dizzy said. “Give me an hour, right?”

“Right. And Dizzy. Ask them if it was an accident, will you? Or if someone’s got it in for Donna. That’s the really scary thought, OK?”

As Mower walked slowly back up the stairs to Donna’s flat he was surprised to hear voices he recognised on the landing above. Taking the last few steps two at a time he found Laura Ackroyd helping her grandmother slowly along the walkway. They turned in alarm at the sound of his footsteps and laughed in relief when they recognised him.

“You made us jump,” Joyce said cheerfully. “You won’t find me up here after dark as a rule. But I wanted to see Donna and find out how Emma’s doing.”

“She’s fine, thank God,” Mower said. “The doctors said it was a good job she was sick or it could have been much worse.”

“How did she get hold of the booze. Was it her mother’s?” Laura asked cautiously.

“No, it bloody wasn’t.” Mower’s response was angry enough to startle the two women. “Some idiot gave it to them apparently, but the other girl didn’t like it so Emma drank the lion’s share.”

“How old is she?” Laura asked.

“Eight,” Mower said, his anger suddenly out of control. “Booze at eight! What do they get for their ninth birthday on this god-forsaken estate? A shot of heroin? When do they start pulling the bloody place down, because it can’t be soon enough for me.”

“Well, that’s a sore point, too,” Joyce said. “You could get rid of the drink and the drugs without pulling the whole community apart and punishing us all. And I do mean you, Kevin. We might as well be on the moon, I sometimes think, for all the attention we get from the police.”

“Come on, Nan, I don’t think this is the time or the place …” Laura began but Mower took hold of her arm urgently.

“I’d be grateful if you didn’t link me to the police when you talk to Donna. She’s going to have to know very soon, but I’d rather tell her myself.”

Laura looked at the sergeant curiously.

“Unravelling, is it, your cover?”

“No comment,” he said sharply. “Tell Donna I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I’ve some things to do. OK?”

“Fine,” Laura said, taking her grandmother’s arm again. “We’ll keep her company till you get back.”

Later Laura drove her grandmother the short distance from Priestley House to the small bungalow, one of the row perched on the brow of the hill overlooking the town. Laura had never thought of the tiny properties as in any way “desirable” in estate agents’ terms, but on a clear night, with the view across the town in the valley below sparkling like a scatter of jewelled necklaces thrown carelessly down on black velvet, she suddenly saw the potential of the site through Councillor Dave Spencer’s – and his developer friends’ – eyes and knew with a depressing certainty that Joyce and her elderly neighbours would not win their battle to stay put.

Joyce opened her front door.

“Come in a minute?” she asked. Laura glanced at her watch and shrugged. They had waited more than an hour for Kevin Mower to return to Donna Maitland’s flat and it was late now even by Michael Thackeray’s standards for supper at home.

“I must call Michael,” she said, pulling out her mobile. But his phone was switched off and she could only leave a message to say that she would be even later home.

“Can’t the beggar cook?” Joyce said, struggling out of her coat with inelastic difficulty. “Even my Jack could cook in an emergency, all those years ago before the war – egg and chips, any road.”

“He does sometimes,” Laura said irritably. “Don’t worry. I can pick up a take-away on the way back.”

Joyce sank into her favourite chair and Laura switched on the gas fire. She could see that her grandmother had exhausted herself but she knew better than to suggest that Joyce was doing too much to help her friends at the Project. One acerbic exchange was enough for one evening, she decided, although she knew very well that her own father was as much use in a kitchen as the proverbial bull in a china shop. What Joyce had evidently accepted as a welcome bonus from her husband during their brief marriage, she had not bothered to pass on to her fatherless son.

“Have you had your tea?” Laura asked. Joyce nodded.

“I eat early. It’s an old habit from when I used to be out at a meeting almost every night. No time for leisurely dinners then, so I never got into the habit.”

“They’re not listening to you at the town hall, are they?” Laura said. Joyce shook her head and glanced away.

“They don’t seem right interested in the Project,” she admitted. “They’d rather draw up their own grand schemes without asking anyone up here what they really want. Do you know how much Len Harvey reckons the land up here is worth on the open market? Twenty million. Just the land. You can’t believe it, can you? Even Len’s shocked and he’s a blasted Tory. I don’t think we spent more than a million tearing down the old back-to-back slums and building the whole new estate.”

“There’s no reason why they can’t build the Project into their calculations, though, is there?”

“No reason at all if they just took the trouble to ask people what they want. You’d think they’d have learned from the mistakes we made building this estate in the first place. But no, they just carry on doing good by force and then act surprised when folk don’t thank them for it.” Seeing Joyce so dispirited was almost more than Laura could bear.

“I’ll have another go at Ted Grant tomorrow and see if I can persuade him to take it all more seriously. But they’ve put him on the committee that’s planning the whole thing now, so I’m not very hopeful.”

“You could get that man of yours to take the drug problem more seriously too.”

“I’ve tried that,” Laura said. “He says it’s in hand.”

“I don’t think Donna Maitland thinks it’s in hand,” Joyce said. “A child that age with alcohol poisoning? It could just as easily been summat worse.”

“I know,” Laura said, recalling Donna’s stunned shock which they had been unable to alleviate at all. She wondered how she would cope with even more bad news from Kevin Mower.

“I’ll talk to Ted again tomorrow about my story. And if he won’t go for it, I’ll contact the magazine in London I’ve written for before. The whole thing’s getting big enough for it to go national, whatever Ted thinks.”

“You’re a good lass,” Joyce said. “I don’t know what went wrong between me and your dad, but you’ve more than made up for it, pet. You really have.”

Laura hugged her grandmother impulsively.

“It’ll be all right,” she said. “I promise.”