His men arrived in armoured buses, wearing riot helmets, carrying shields and batons. They were greeted by an even louder cheer from the crowd and that seemed to provoke the officer in charge beyond endurance. He told his men to go in hard, immediately, and the young people behind the road block, many of whom were only there as spectators and stood laughing and drinking beer were surprised by the attack. It was over very quickly and brutally. The riot police weighed in without proper supervision or preparation. They seemed to lose control, hitting out with their batons, tramping over bodies already knocked to the ground in the rush to escape. It was perhaps fortunate for the officer in charge that only one incident-the beating of a twelve-year-old boy-was captured on television. It could have been worse. The rioters retaliated aimlessly, set the school alight, then scattered on foot and in stolen cars.
At the Grace Darling Centre Gus Lynch eventually agreed reluctantly to cancel the rehearsal. Anxious parents who had seen pictures of the violence on the local early evening news phoned in and said that they would not let their teenagers out. Still there was no information about Anna, and Prue Bennett grew more anxious and withdrawn.
‘Where the hell is she?’ she cried. ‘ She should have been here by now. I can’t stand this waiting.’
Ramsay said nothing. His work was all about waiting and he was used to it.
A police car on traffic patrol on the road from Newcastle to the coast was parked in a layby close to the Co-op hypermarket which had been raided earlier in the week. From there the driver could look down on the Starling Farm estate. He saw the flashes of petrol bombs and the huge bonfire which had once been the nursery school. He heard the screech of sirens.
‘If any of them come this way,’ he said to his partner, ‘we’ll get the bastards.’
In the opposite direction two fire engines and an ambulance went past at speed. They turned off the main road. The policemen in the car were frustrated and watched the disappearing blue lights with envy. They wanted to be involved. They had friends hidden behind helmets and riot shields. But they had been ordered to keep their position on the Coast Road until they were needed.
The radio crackled and the message had begun almost before they had realized, while their attention was still on the scene below.
‘Blue Sierra. Registration number: Alpha 749 Romeo, Tango, Golf. Two occupants wanted for questioning in relation to Starling Farm disturbances. Moving west towards the Coast Road.’
‘That’s it,’ the policeman said. ‘They’re ours.’
He switched on the engine and sat, tense, over the wheel, just as John Powell had sat watching the races on the estate.
They heard the car before they saw it. Its exhaust had no silencer and it roared like a jet plane up the slip road to the dual-carriageway. They switched on their siren and followed.
‘Bloody young fools,’ the older policeman said uncomfortably. ‘They’ll kill themselves.’
But the driver was caught up in the excitement of the chase and said nothing. The speedometer rose to a hundred miles an hour.
‘That old banger will fall to bits if they go much faster,’ the older policeman said, but still the driver made no attempt to moderate his speed.
The road was busy still with commuter traffic. On the opposite carriageway there was a tailback from roadworks and temporary traffic lights and as they approached the town the cars ahead of them were moving less freely.
‘Slow down!’ the policeman shouted but the driver seemed not to hear him.
Ahead of the Sierra a Mini indicated and pulled out carefully to overtake a bus. The middle-aged woman driving must have seen the Sierra behind her but had misjudged its speed. The Sierra swerved wildly to avoid it but clipped the back of the Mini, so it swivelled to face the oncoming traffic, then crossed the central reservation and smashed into the stationary cars on the opposite carriageway. The Sierra hit with such force that the chassis crumpled and the stationary vehicles were bounced like billiard balls across the width of the road. The driver of the police car slowed down automatically and came to a halt, then stared at the wreckage with astonishment. It was as if he had just wakened from a dream and couldn’t believe the reality in front of him.
The Grace Darling Centre was quiet. The Writers’ Circle and Choral Group finished early and rushed away to watch the violence with a vicarious excitement on their television screens. Ellen was sent home.
‘Can’t we give you a lift?’ Prue said. ‘It might be dangerous out there.’ But Ellen refused the offer firmly, without explanation, and they stood in the lobby and watched her plod across the square, her back more stooped than usual, until she disappeared down Anchor Street. Only Prue, Gus, Joe Fenwick, and Ramsay were left.
Ramsay could sense Prue’s tension. He knew she would wait there all night for Anna if he let her. ‘I’ll drive you to the police station,’ he said. ‘If there’s any news of Anna they’ll have it there.’ He turned to Gus. ‘You might as well go home too, Mr Lynch. I need to talk to you but I can do it just as well in your flat. You will be in all evening?’
‘Yes,’ Gus said. ‘I’ll be in. But I can’t think what this is all about. I’d have thought you had better things to do with all these disturbances. It’s all a matter of priorities, surely.’
‘My priority is to complete a murder investigation,’ Ramsay said quietly. ‘I’ll be coming to talk to you tonight.’
Behind his desk Joe Fenwick was almost asleep. The doors were already locked and he stretched as he got up to let the three of them out. Outside it was still raining and the bare chestnut trees in the square glistened and dripped. There was a faint smell of burning. Ramsay and Prue waited at the top of the steps to say goodbye to the old man and Lynch went ahead of them into the street. He stopped and turned towards Ramsay.
‘You people have still got my car,’ he grumbled. It was another grievance. ‘I’ve had to hire one. This time I’ve left it in the street where I can keep an eye on it. I hope you intend to pay me back. It’s costing me a fortune.’
He stepped out into the road to cross the square.
From the corner of his eye Ramsay saw the headlights of a car move around the square. They seemed to be picking up speed, to be moving much too fast in the enclosed space.
‘Look out!’ he shouted and Lynch threw himself on to the pavement as the Renault hurtled past. It mounted the pavement, missing Lynch by inches. Its wing hit a lamppost and the car came jerkily to a stop. In the orange street light they saw Jackie Powell, her head resting on the steering-wheel.
Ramsay went to the car, opened the door, and helped her out. He told her gently that he was arresting her for the murders of Gabriella Paston and Amelia Wood. As he stood on the pavement to radio for help he saw a small, bedraggled figure walk across the square from Anchor Street. It was Anna Bennett. She saw Prue and ran into her mother’s arms.
Chapter Twenty
They sat in the kitchen of the house in Otterbridge. It was almost midnight. Ramsay had sent them back in a police car and promised to come later to explain it all to them. Anna was wrapped up in a towelling dressing-gown in the rocking chair. When Ramsay arrived Prue made a fuss of him, took his wet coat, offered him tea, a drink.
‘Whisky,’ he said. ‘If you’ve got it.’
‘Anna’s been explaining what happened,’ Prue said. She couldn’t take her eyes off her daughter. She sat on the arm of her chair and stroked her as if she needed to make sure she was really there.
‘Perhaps you’d better tell me,’ Ramsay said to the girl. ‘If you can face going through it again.’
‘I think it was a kind of madness,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what got into me.’