Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Also by Patricia Hall
Copyright Page
Chapter One
The crowd of young people spilled out of the entrance to the Carib club into Chapel Street, where the red and green lights which shook in the strong wind scattered dancing patches of colour onto the rain-soaked tarmac. The kids were high on chemically induced adrenaline and the music which had just come to an explosive end inside, where the sweat-soaked, dreadlocked DJ had sunk into a seat close to his turntables utterly exhausted. In the narrow street outside, lined on each side by tall warehouses most of which had been recently converted into offices and shops, the dilapidated building which housed the Carib was squeezed between a mini-cab office and an indie record shop. The street was narrow here, pot-holed and puddled, although it was used as a day-time rat-run between Aysgarth Lane, the main road out of Bradfield to the north, and the university quarter half a mile away on another of the town’s seven hills.
At four in the morning, it was apparently deserted until the jubilant clubbers spilled off the narrow pavement and across the road to avoid the showers of fizzy water being sprayed about by a couple of girls in mini-skirts and tops that were more strap than substance and unlikely to protect them from the wintry, rain-spattering gusts from the west. It was their shrieks of laughter which almost drowned the squeal of brakes as a taxi came fast around the bend in the road from the Aysgarth direction. Jeremy Adams never knew what hit him as the cab swerved wildly, skidding on the wet surface, missing three or four revellers by inches before it caught him from behind and tossed him like a rag-doll head-first onto the kerb.
“Man, what the hell is you doin’?” a tall black youth in combat gear cried out angrily as the vehicle slid to a halt. He pulled open the door and dragged out the driver, an Asian man little older than he was himself. From the passenger compartment shocked faces, dark eyes staring from beneath white headscarves, gazed out at the now silent crowd.
“Get an ambulance,” a girl’s voice cried, shrill and shaking in the silence, and half a dozen mobile phones were instantly pressed into use. A skinny blonde girl in a short black skirt and silver top knelt beside the boy who was lying absolutely still in the gutter with a pool of blood around his head. She seemed oblivious to the fact that the rain, which had been relentless for days, had resumed, soaking her hair and thin clothes within minutes. Someone passed her a coat which she tucked around the boy’s body.
“Jez, Jez, come on Jez, it’s all right, you’re gonna be all right.” Behind her, the taxi driver edged his way through the crowd and looked down for a moment at his victim before turning away, shaking, to vomit in the gutter. The tall youth who had pulled him from the cab followed him.
“You was driving too fast, man,” he said loudly, his words echoed by other youngsters, black and white, who gazed in horror at the victim.
“He was right in the middle of the road,” the driver muttered, wiping his face with his hand. “I got to get these women home. I drove from Manchester airport. It’s late. It’s very late. There’s snow on the motorway. They wanted to get home quick.”
Suddenly the mood of the crowd changed, like embers fanned into life by the sharp wind which funnelled down the street. Exhilaration slid perceptibly into a mutter of anger, sullen at first but menacing enough for the young driver, his face grey with shock and his dark eyes beginning to take on a hunted look, to begin to edge his way back to his cab. By now the numbers packed into the narrow defile outside the club had swelled as more sweating dancers emerged from the double doors. Murmured explanations passed on a version of events which cranked up the tension quickly amongst the teenagers who began to clog the street and hem in the taxi and its occupants in spite of the downpour.
“I’ll get the police,” the taxi driver said, his voice high with anxiety. “Let me use my radio to get the police.”
“We did 999,” someone called out. “They’re on their way.”
“Don’t let him drive off,” came another shout and the crowd surged to surround the cab, pressing the driver backwards against the bonnet and rocking the vehicle until sounds of protest could be heard from the women inside.
Standing above the crowd on the steps of the club a tall dreadlocked man in a sleeveless vest under his unbuttoned Armani shirt, evidently as impervious to the chill Pennine wind as the scantily clad girls, put up a golf umbrella and glanced at his companion, standing almost as tall and as dark in the shadows except where the dim street-lights caught sallower skin and lighter eyes.
“Feel like sorting this little lot, sergeant?” the black man asked, making sure they were not overheard, and if there was a hint of irony in the courtesy his companion ignored it.
“No way’” Kevin Mower said. He glanced up the street to where blue emergency lights could already be seen in the distance. “Not only am I not on duty, I’m actually on the sick. Let the plods deal. It’s only an RTA.”
“If one of those hyped-up little bastards hits the driver it’ll be a lot more than that,” his companion said. “I’ve seen it happen in a flash. I get the feeling that the brothers here don’t like the Asians much.”
Mower watched as the black man raised his voice and slipped easily into the broad accent in which he performed.
“Is you all goin’ to block the street so’s no ambulance can get through?” He spoke from the steps behind the crowd from under his blue and gold striped umbrella but was authoritative enough to cause many of those jammed into the narrow space to turn around. “I say they as didn’t see what happened get off home now, and let the Old Bill through to sort it,” went on the dreadlocked DJ, still a good head above the milling mob even as he stepped down to street level. The now urgent sound of a siren indicated that either an ambulance or the police or both were about to arrive. A collective shrug of sullen acceptance seemed to go through the assembled clubbers
