Riot Act

Three

As I approached Pauline’s place, I dug in my pocket for my keys, noticing out of habit the man leaning on a sleek-looking sports car by the kerb next to the house.

He was middle-aged, balding, shortish and rather rotund, wearing a grey anorak that had three lots of carefully knotted drawstrings and a hood. As I drew nearer I could see that the skin of his face was pale and clammy. He mopped at it with a wilted blue cotton handkerchief.

He certainly didn’t look the kind of bloke who’d own a Mercedes of any description, unless he was just cheekily using this one as a perch. Not that it was a new car, but a classic square-shaped SL convertible. The shine on the dark green metallic paint was so deep you felt you could reach into it right up to the elbow.

As I drew nearer he straightened up, leaning down to pick up a battered briefcase that had been resting against his grey-slacked legs. I had time to weigh him up before we got within hailing distance. Social worker, or council official, probably. Only the Merc didn’t quite fit the bill.

“Miss Fox, is it?”

I nodded, hesitating on the pavement by Pauline’s driveway. He fumbled in his anorak pocket and produced a slightly dog-eared business card, which he handed over to me. Eric O’Bryan, it said, with Community Juvenile Officer in smaller print underneath, and an official-looking crest.

“You’re with the police?” I said. I wouldn’t have pegged him as that.

“Not quite,” he said. “Associated with, but not part of, if you see what I mean. I work with them on occasion, in a sort of mediatory capacity. Do you mind if I have a word?”

I shrugged, and leaned on the lichen-encrusted concrete gatepost. “Feel free.”

He looked uncomfortable, as though aware of the net curtains fluttering at the windows across the road. “Erm, no, I meant somewhere – less public.”

I eyed him for a moment, but he didn’t strike me as the axe-murdering type, so I nodded and led him up the short driveway. I got the outside door open, then stopped him going in to the porch. “You’d better let me go and get the dog out of the way first,” I said. “He’s big, and he’s mean, and he’s not mine, so I wouldn’t like to guarantee that he’ll do as I tell him. Especially not when he’s hungry.”

O’Bryan swallowed and nodded quickly, clutching his briefcase like that was going to save him from Friday’s savage jaws. By this time, the animal in question had gone into what sounded like a slathering barking frenzy on the other side of the door.

I shouted to him through the panelling, and gradually the din subsided into woeful whining. Only then did I risk pushing the door open, getting my knee through first so that Friday couldn’t ram his powerful snout into the gap.

Once I’d actually got into the hallway, the dog decided that he did remember me after all. He went through a big show of sucking up, standing on my feet and butting against my legs.

“Come on, you,” I said when he’d calmed down enough, grabbing hold of his collar. “Kitchen.”

I dragged his unwilling bulk into the other room in a scrabble of claws on the lino, pulling the door shut behind him, then went to let O’Bryan into the house. He checked me over dubiously when I opened the door, anxiously looking past me, as though I should have been losing blood through numerous bite holes and gashes.

“So, Mr O’Bryan,” I said once he was ensconced on the sofa in Pauline’s living room, “what is it you feel the need to talk to me about in private?”

“Well, bit of a sticky subject this, no doubt,” he said. He put his head on one side, rubbing absently at his chin as if trying to gauge in advance my response to his next words. “Not to put too fine a point on it, well, it’s about young Roger.”

I stared at him blankly for a moment. “Roger?” I repeated.

Whatever reaction he’d been expecting, that clearly wasn’t it. He looked at me in surprise. “Roger Mayor,” he prompted. “The young lad who was arrested last night. I have got it right, haven’t I? You were there?”

“Oh, right,” I said, feeling foolish. “Sorry, I didn’t know his name. When they put him into the back of a police car last night he was doing his best impersonation of a deaf mute.”

O’Bryan snorted. “Yes, well, they soon learn that keeping their mouth shut is their best option, I’m afraid. Keep quiet, say nothing, and wait for their parents or social services to come and get them out.”

“So that’s all that happened to him, is it?” I demanded, aware of a spurt of anger. “Fariman’s half dead in the hospital, and this kid is sitting at home watching TV?”

O’Bryan looked wary. He pushed his glasses up to his forehead so that he could try and squeeze the stress out of the bridge of his nose with a finger and thumb. When he finished the glasses dropped back into place as though on elastic.

“It’s not quite as simple as that,” he said, speaking quickly as though afraid I’d cut him off in mid-sentence. “We’ve found that keeping these wayward youngsters out of the justice system for as long as possible seems to stop them re-offending, and the feeling is that it might work in this case. Roger’s basically not a bad lad, but he’s had problems at home.”

I rolled my eyes. What teenager didn’t?

O’Bryan missed the gesture, too busy snapping open the briefcase on his knees and rifling through the contents. “It’s all here,” he said, tapping the manila folder he brought out. “He’s only fourteen. The youngest of three kids, two boys and a girl. Violent father who died in a drunken road accident. Older brother got involved with a pretty rough crowd before he left home. Sister’s one step up from prostitution, if the rumours are to be believed. She’s got a bit of form for shoplifting, and she’s just got herself knocked up, too.”

“Where’s he from?”

O’Bryan’s hesitation was only fractional, but there, all the same. “Copthorne,” he said.

I nodded. It figured. Living in Lancaster for a few years, I thought I knew all about Copthorne. Living on Kirby Street for a few weeks, I’d found out a whole lot more. None of it good.

The Copthorne estate had the undesirable local reputation of being an open remand centre. If O’Bryan wanted to take his Mercedes through that particular battle zone, he’d have to keep the wheels spinning to stop them undoing his wheelnuts as he went past.

Copthorne and Lavender Gardens faced each other with sinister normality across a derelict piece of wasteland that had once been three more streets of houses. When they’d been built in the late fifties, there’d been a waiting list to move in. By the time the council engineers sent in the bulldozers, the rush to leave had become something of a stampede.

It was an area long scheduled for redevelopment, but so far the only thing that had developed there among the crumbling brickwork were the weeds. They hadn’t even finished knocking the houses down properly, and half of them were still clinging on, boarded up and vandalised.

“So,” O’Bryan said hopefully now, pushing his glasses up his nose with his forefinger. “Do you think you might be able to put a good word in for the lad, help him get off with just another caution.”

I glanced at him sharply. “Another one?” I said. “Why, how many has he had already?”

O’Bryan looked momentarily frustrated, though whether at himself or me, it was hard to tell. He checked the file again, stalling for time. “One or two,” he admitted. “Breach of the peace, vandalism, that sort of thing. Minor stuff, you know how it is.”

No, I didn’t. “And how long did each of those keep him out of trouble for?”

“Oh, well,” he cleared his throat and gave a sort of nervous laugh, “not long enough, I suppose. I see your point, but—”

“No, Mr O’Bryan,” I cut across him, “to be quite honest with you, if the first caution didn’t stop him, he’s not going to be stopped, is he? Maybe he needs something like this to bring him up short.”

Besides, I’d been on the receiving end of an official caution myself. A stern lecture of sorts delivered by a senior police officer, telling me in no uncertain terms why I couldn’t go around clouting WPCs just because I didn’t agree with them. True, I hadn’t hit a police officer since, but then, the need for doing so hadn’t really arisen.

When O’Bryan didn’t answer, I added, “Don’t you think it’s time Roger paid the price for this one?”

“He’s only young,” he tried again. “I hardly think he was the brains behind this particular escapade.”

Nasir’s words came back to me again, brought me up short. “So you think there’s something more to this as well, do you?” I asked slowly.

O’Bryan looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

I told him briefly what Nasir had said, that he seemed certain there were others behind the recent spate of robberies than the kids who’d apparently been responsible. “Nasir was fairly positive about it,” I confirmed, “and he seemed determined to make sure something was done.”

“Ah, well,” O’Bryan said, “Nasir and I have crossed paths before. His father died when he was about fourteen, and he went off at the deep end. Got himself into a lot of trouble, but I managed to keep him out of prison, and he came round in the end.” He half-smiled. “Had quite a temper on him, as I recall. A few years ago last night’s little adventure would have been much more up Nasir’s street.”

“I must admit, Roger didn’t seem quite the ruthless type,” I said, “otherwise he wouldn’t have helped me drag the old man clear of the fire. He probably saved his life.”

“He did that?” O’Bryan sounded surprised. He shook his head and tut-tutted a few times. “He didn’t tell me.”

“Your biggest problem,” I said, wanting to help in spite of myself, “is that the people round here need a scapegoat for Fariman’s injuries, and right now, Roger is it. I don’t think they’ll be happy to see him get off in any way that’s thought of as lightly.”

“But surely, if he helped rescue this chap, they won’t object?”

“If Roger and his mates hadn’t tried to rob Fariman, he wouldn’t have needed rescuing in the first place,” I said. “Look I’m sorry, Mr O’Bryan, but feelings are running a bit high at the moment, and I don’t know what you think I can do about it.”

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat as though his collar was suddenly too tight for him, “I was hoping that you might be able to persuade the people involved to go easier on him—”

“You’re joking,” I cut in. “Right now I’m not flavour of the month for stopping the vigilantes beating him up, never mind trying to get him off altogether.”

“Well, maybe if it comes to court you could speak up for him. Tell them how he helped save the old man.”

I’d be well out of Kirby Street by the time those particular bureaucratic wheels ground into slo-mo action, but I still didn’t relish the prospect of having to look Shahida in the face across a courtroom as I spoke up for one of the boys who’d tried to murder her husband.

I shook my head. “I don’t think I can help you,” I said, standing up. This interview was over.

O’Bryan rose, also. “Well, if your mind’s made up, it’s made up.” There was a faint snap to his words, which he tried to soften by smiling at me. “I must say I think you’re taking a very brave stand.”

“Brave?”

He cast me a calculating look, the lenses of his glasses blanking out his eyes. “Well, if you’re not for the defence, you’ll be one of the main witnesses for the prosecution, and Roger knows where to find you. So, no doubt, do his mates,” he said carefully. “And the older brother’s known to be a bit of a hard-case, too.” He watched me while he imparted this information, but I didn’t show him what he wanted to see.

“And then there’s the court case itself,” he went on. He pursed his lips, considering. “Never a nice experience, having to stand up in court, is it, Charlie?”

I felt the colour draining away from my face like someone had just pulled the plug out of a bath. It was the first time he’d used my first name, and the sly familiarity of it brought the hairs up on the back of my neck.

The last time I’d been in court it was to testify against a group of my erstwhile brothers-in-arms. I tried not to think about it much these days, but their names still ran through my head like a chant.

Donalson, Hackett, Morton, and Clay.

There was a rhythm and a flow to them that chilled my skin and cramped my muscles. When the barrister had read them out in a different order, I had almost failed to recognise them as the same group.

Almost. The memory fades, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget them entirely. I was claiming rape. They were claiming it was all some happy drunken orgy that had got out of hand.

I’d already been through the agonies of a military court martial, and been found guilty of gross misconduct. Foolishly, as it turned out, I’d sought justice in the civil arena.

I might have got it, too. Then the whispers started. Whispers about the affair I’d stupidly indulged in with one of my training instructors. It was against the rules, and soon got blown up out of all proportion.

My main witness defected, and the inevitable happened.

I lost.

It cost me my career in the army, one I’d spent four years carefully constructing. It also cost me my self-respect, and the repercussions blew a hole in my relationship with my parents so big you could have driven a Boeing 777 through it, sideways on.

Still, I’d walked across that burning bridge. It had taken me a while, but eventually I’d picked up most of the pieces. I didn’t know if I could do it all again.

I looked up at O’Bryan, found him watching me intently. I led the way to the door without speaking.

“Look,” he said as I pulled it open for him to leave, “juvenile detention would break a lad like Roger. Perhaps turn him to crime permanently. It could ruin his whole life. Just say you’ll think about it, eh?”

I found myself nodding reluctantly as I stood to one side to let O’Bryan out.

“OK,” he said, “I’ll give you a few days to – Oi! Get away from it you little bastards!”

I jumped as O’Bryan’s voice rose from softly persuasive to a full-blown roar. He leapt out of the front door and went dashing towards the pavement, the briefcase swinging against his legs as he ran.

I stuck my head round the door and saw a group of kids scrambling away from the ruin that was now O’Bryan’s Mercedes, like malicious monkeys in a safari park when the game warden with the tranquilliser darts appears.

The kids scattered with a precision that spoke of long practise, all disappearing over garden hedges and through gates in different directions. O’Bryan got as far as the pavement before it dawned on him that trying to catch any of them was an utter waste of time.

He faltered and then stopped dead, putting his case down slowly on the cracked paving next to his feet. His full attention was taken by the beautiful example of the German sports car maker’s art. Or what had been, when he’d set out that morning.

I saw him lift his hands to his chubby face in horror. As he shook his head the sunlight glinted off the lenses of his little wire-rimmed glasses, as though his eyes themselves had flashed fire.

Almost against my will, I found myself following him out, stopping just behind his shoulder as he surveyed the damage.

The Merc was wrecked. The hood was in tatters, the chrome windscreen wipers had been twisted into loops, and all four tyres had been comprehensively slashed. Something heavy and sharp had been dragged along the bodywork, leaving deep gouges right down to the bare steel from headlight to taillight.

“The little bastards,” O’Bryan whispered. “Three years I’ve spent rebuilding this car. Bought it for peanuts as a right basketcase.” He turned and favoured me with a sad, lopsided smile. “I only brought it today because the clutch has gone on my Cavalier. Three bloody years.”

I didn’t speak. There wasn’t anything I could say. I’ve never owned a car, just an elderly Suzuki RGV 250 motorbike. Still, I could understand his distress. If anything happened to the bike it would be like losing a limb.

Suddenly, O’Bryan jerked round to the back of the car, and was staring at the boot lid. The lock had been punched out of it, and the lid itself was partly ajar. He yanked it open fully, looked inside with an anger that turned his already pale features ashen.

“I don’t believe it,” he muttered.

“What?”

“They’ve taken—” he broke off, scrabbling through the debris in the boot with the air of somebody who knows he isn’t going to find what he’s searching for. Finally, he slumped, defeated.

“What is it, Mr O’Bryan?” I asked again, gently. “What’s been taken?”

“What?” He focused on me, distracted. “Oh, my case notes,” he said weakly. “Private stuff, you know, important documents.”

“Would you like me to call the police?”

“No.” He gave a sigh that was almost a snort. “I don’t suppose it would do much good, would it?”

I thought of the kids I’d seen disappearing from the scene of the crime. None of them looked in double figures, let alone old enough to prosecute. “Not if you’re going to spend all your professional time trying to get them off with a caution, no,” I agreed.

O’Bryan’s face dropped suddenly, and I felt ashamed of my unworthy dig.

We went back into the house and I fed him a cup of tea with plenty of sugar in it to help deal with the shock. He recovered enough to borrow the phone to ring his garage to come and cart the remains away. Once that was done, he called himself a taxi, and departed. A sad, harassed little figure, with the weight of the world sitting heavy on his rounded shoulders.

***

After he’d gone, I rang my mother. Quite a momentous occasion in itself, if truth be told. There was a time when I would have cheerfully chewed off my own hand rather than use it to pick up the receiver and phone home. My, how things change.

I suppose, to be fair, I was never any great shakes as a daughter, even before the disgrace of my court martial, and the endless horrors of my trial.

I lost my father’s interest very early on by dint of surviving my birth when my twin brother failed to do so. My father had fiercely wanted a son to follow him into the medical profession, but the complications that followed my arrival meant that, after me, there were no more children.

I think my mother secretly hoped that I’d turn into one of those girlie girls. It wasn’t her fault that I firmly resisted any attempts to mould me into an ideal daughter. You can take a girl to ballet lessons as much as you like, but you can’t necessarily make her into a ballerina.

It was an accidental discovery on a team-building outward bound course in my late teens that led to my choice of a military career. I found I was physically tougher than I’d realised, and had the natural ability to shoot straight with a consistency that amazed the instructors.

Finally, I’d found something that earned me approval and respect. I’d gone home in triumphant defiance and dropped the news that I was joining up onto my parents with a fearful sense of excitement.

If I was expecting an emotional explosion of atomic proportions I was sadly disappointed.

Now, my mother answered the telephone herself, which saved me having to make polite, if brief, conversation with my father.

“Hi,” I said. “It’s me.”

For a moment there was a silence brought on by surprise. Although I’d made an effort since the winter before to get back on speaking terms with my parents, we were still at the stage where contact from either party brought about a profound discomfiture, just in case either of us said the wrong thing.

“Oh, Charlotte, how lovely to hear from you,” she cried, her voice jerky and bright almost to the point of manic. “How are you, darling?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

She heard the mental step back and toned down her manner. “So, tell me all your news,” she said, still heartily. “How are you keeping? What have you been up to?”

“I’m fine,” I said again. “I’m house-sitting for a friend. Well, dog-sitting actually.” The dog in question, who’d been spark out on the rug in the middle of the living room, sat up long enough to scratch behind his ear with one hind foot, then flopped back down again.

That launched us into a conversation about her dogs, two elderly Labradors. She seemed relieved to be on neutral ground and had nearly started to relax by the time I got round to the real reason for my call.

“I need to pick your brains,” I said.

“About dogs?”

“No, not really, although I suppose that comes into it,” I replied, thinking of the part Friday had unwittingly played in last night’s events. “I need to pick your professional brains.”

There was silence again, and this time it went on for a while. My father’s lucrative job as a consultant surgeon has meant my mother never needed to work after she married, but to pass the time she’d become a local magistrate.

That had turned out not to be as much use as you’d imagine when it came to my own trial, but sordid little cases like mine didn’t crop up too regularly in the stockbroker belt of Cheshire. Burglary, however, was another thing.

“Of-of course I’ll help, Charlotte, if I can,” she said now, wary, but still amenable.

Before she could change her mind, I jumped right in and explained about the botched burglary by Roger and his mates, including the injury to Fariman, but glossing over any active part I’d played in the proceedings.

I finished by telling her about my feeling that Roger should end up in court, and O’Bryan’s opinion that a caution would better keep him on the straight and narrow. “But, he’s already had cautions before,” I said. “I don’t know what to do for the best and I was hoping for some advice.”

“Not exactly the sort of advice mothers are usually called upon to dispense,” she said wryly, and for the first time there was a trace of humour in her voice.

“No, I suppose not,” I agreed.

“I’ll do a little research, if that’s all right. I never applied to sit on the juvenile bench, but one of my colleagues deals with that type of case and I’d like to check my facts absolutely before I speak. Can you wait a few days. Maybe a week?”

I thought of O’Bryan and wasn’t sure how long I could stall him without making a decision.

My mother heard the hesitation and mistook the reason for it. “He’s not threatening you is he, Charlotte?” she demanded. “Are you quite sure you’re safe where you are?”

“Oh yes,” I said, glibly. “I don’t think anything’s going to happen for a while on this one.”

Honestly. There are days when I only open my mouth to change feet.