Nick Oldham - Backlash

He did not arrive.

Over an hour gone now.

Roscoe made her way around the desk and began to pick up the scattered papers from the file — and it was then Henry came into the room as, on her hands and knees, Roscoe was at full cat-like stretch underneath her desk, reaching for that last sheet of paper beyond her fingertips.

She heard the office door open behind her. She closed her eyes momentarily, an expletive formed silently on her lips. Unsaid but definitely there. She could sense Henry Christie standing behind her, gazing down at her slightly overweight rear end which was stuck up in the air like an offering to the gods. She waited a beat. Waited for the smart-aleck remark which would surely come. She could guess what it was going to be.

But there was nothing. Silence.

Roscoe withdrew from under the desk, pushed herself to her feet and brushed herself down. ‘Sorry about that.’ She could feel the prickle of redness in her cheeks.

‘That’s OK,’ Henry said. ‘Costain didn’t show up for the ID parade, so I’ve sent everyone packing. The Khans are waiting for you in the front foyer. I haven’t let on about Mo. Thought I’d leave it for you.’

‘Right, thanks Henry.’

He gave a short nod and paused briefly before spinning on his heels and leaving.

Roscoe stood there, lips parted.

For the second time that evening, Henry Christie had confounded her expectations. Now he really was beginning to irritate her.

Ten minutes later she was being driven by Dave Seymour to the Shoreside Estate. In the back of the car were Saeed and Naseema Khan. Roscoe was taking them home.

Immediately after Henry had gone, Roscoe had spoken to the brother and sister in a quiet waiting room and broken the tragic news to them about their father. Saeed had taken it like a stomach punch — badly. Naseema’s grief, if there was any at all, had been more controlled and dignified.

Roscoe, who had been thinking about her bum sticking up in the air, shook the picture out of her mind and looked over her shoulder at the Khans in the back seat of the CID car. Saeed was doubled over, face in hands, head between his knees, rocking back and forth, uttering guttural howls of anguish. Naseema was sitting staidly next to him, a cool hand resting on his back, patting him.

Roscoe gave Naseema a wan smile, which she ignored. Roscoe settled down into her seat as Seymour turned the car into Shoreside. She was wondering how the family would take the news of Mo’s death. Unless they already knew, of course. That was a distinct possibility. Her eyes scanned the wet pavements which glistened under the halogen lighting of the few street lamps which were still intact and working. She peered down dark alleyways into the black shadows between houses, but she was not really concentrating on what she was looking at — her mind still stuck on Henry Christie — until she spotted the first unusual movement.

‘Stop, Dave,’ she said quickly, using a chopping motion of the hand to reinforce the order. Seymour pulled in.

‘Back up a few feet. I want to get a look up that alley we just passed. Thought I saw something.’

Saeed raised his head, his cheeks were smeared with tears. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Don’t know yet. We won’t be a second, then we’ll get you home.’

Seymour coaxed the unwilling gear lever into reverse and backed up to the entrance to the alley, one of numerous rat-runs which criss-crossed the estate. They were often used by kids to rob other kids of their Reeboks, or grannies of their purses, and to then evade the cops when pursued. Roscoe’s eyes probed through the rain, shaded by her hands cupped over her brow.

There was a quick flash of torchlight. Some movement. Several people were up there. Doing what?

Then they were gone.

‘Kids.’ Seymour spat — just another spectrum of society he despised.

‘Mm,’ Roscoe agreed without certainty, a funny feeling in her bones. ‘C’mon, let’s get these people home.’

A couple of minutes later the car drew up outside the general store. It was a large, low-roofed, purpose-built shop, with living accommodation at the rear. It was part of a row of other smaller shop units, one of which was a fish and chip shop, the others were boarded up. Mo Khan’s shop had once been part of the Spar chain until he took it over to join the growing number of his shops scattered throughout Lancashire. They all opened from six until midnight. Tonight, even though there was a family crisis, the shop was open and trading.

Roscoe got out of the car and opened Naseema’s door, scanning the area. Opposite the shop was a small grassed area with a children’s playground. The swings had all been dismantled and only the frames remained, rather like the skeletons of dinosaurs. Beyond that was a curve of houses, quasi-semis, all council owned. A few were occupied, most were boarded up, others just burnt-out shells. Shoreside was not an estate people clamoured to live on; it was one of the poorest and most deprived in the region, if not the country. Unemployment was sky high, crime rife.

Roscoe felt uneasy. She knew the place was tense because of the Khan/Costain confrontation. Standing outside the shop she could almost taste the atmosphere. It was quiet — too quiet. She didn’t like it, her instincts nagged at her.

Naseema got out followed by Saeed. Seymour opened his door, but Roscoe held the top of it, preventing him from moving. ‘Stay with the car, Dave, I won’t be long.’

‘Why?’

‘Humour me, OK? There’s something buzzing round here and I don’t want to come back to a damaged motor. And don’t fall asleep.’

Seymour looked round, puzzled, wondering what he had missed, but saw nothing. He resettled his broad posterior on the driver’s seat, actually relieved he did not have to go into the Khans’ home. He hated being surrounded by coloured people. He prayed he would not be given the job of family liaison officer.

Roscoe followed Naseema and Saeed inside the shop.

The family already knew and Roscoe found herself at the centre of a bereaved family at its most emotionally charged.

Mo Khan’s widow was sobbing and wailing hysterically on the sofa, wringing her hands and beating her fists into cushions. Naseema immediately went to comfort her, while maintaining her own cool, cold, facade. Two of her sons were incandescent with rage. They paced the living room like Bengal tigers, muttering angrily, punching the air. A third son, the eldest, sat quietly on an armchair, watching the others while smoking a pungent cigarette. Then there was Saeed, the youngest, thrown into this vortex, a live wire, bursting with tension, vowing revenge.

All in all, a volatile mixture.

Much of what Roscoe heard was in Urdu. Some English was spoken obviously for her benefit. The talk was of retribution. Justice. Racism. Bloodshed. Death.

Roscoe knew she had to exercise some authority but it was difficult to know where to begin. She had to lay down the law, tell them to keep it cool, keep a lid on it, let the police do their job, make promises, reassure them. . for what good it would do. She picked on the brother seated in the armchair. He was the oldest and appeared to be most in control of himself.

The rain had stopped, but the car was still misted up on the inside. Bloody crappy police cars, Seymour thought and turned the fan heater up a couple of notches. The windscreen started to clear very slowly.

He leaned back. His right hand dropped to the side of the seat and fumbled with the recline knob. He turned it and the seat angled back a few degrees. Might as well be as comfortable as possible, he thought shuffling his bulk. He switched on the car radio and found a nice, jazzy station, pumping up the volume so he could hear it over the clatter of the de-mister.