White Riot Read Online Free PDF Page A

Whitman’s shoulder. Peta noticed the gesture. She felt she was meant to. Lillian slipped quickly away to the kitchen. Whitman kept looking at her.
    ‘I must say,’ he said, holding eye contact, ‘you’re not what I was expecting.’
    ‘I get that a lot. It’s the name,’ she said. ‘They expect a man.’
    ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant an ex-policewoman workingin the private sector, I thought you’d be more …’ His fingers wriggled as if grasping for the word, smiling all the while.
    ‘Dykey?’
    He reddened. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have said …’
    She thought of the way her mother had stroked him. ‘How d’you know I’m not?’
    He quickly took a mouthful of his drink, pretended to find his glass fascinating. Peta tried not to smile. Lillian, as if on cue, chose that moment to reappear. She placed a glass of iced sparkling water down for Peta, another bottle of wine beside Whitman’s glass.
    ‘Right,’ she said with a bright, shiny smile. ‘Now that you two have introduced yourselves, shall we have lunch? Catch up on gossip, then you can get down to work.’
    Peta looked at her watch, told her mother she wouldn’t have time for lunch. Said that she had a lot on for the afternoon, wished it were true when she said it. Lillian objected but Whitman said it would be OK.
    ‘Fine,’ she said, although it clearly wasn’t. ‘Right. Well. I’d better go and make myself scarce.’ She turned, went back into the kitchen. Hurt but trying not to let it show.
    ‘Oh dear,’ said Whitman.
    Peta felt a pang of guilt, tried to tamp it down, focus. She shrugged. ‘I did tell her but she wouldn’t listen. I won’t take the blame.’
    Whitman smiled. ‘She’s a stubborn one. Once she’s got an idea …’
    Peta nodded, took a sip of her water, felt her composure returning. ‘I know.’ And worse since she retired from lecturing, she thought, but didn’t want to share that with Whitman.
    ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘About that remark before. Out of order.’
    ‘No problem.’
    ‘The wine, I suppose. And not very PC.’
    ‘It’s OK.’
    Another smile. ‘Cool. Whatever.’
    She looked at him again, sizing him up, professionally judgemental now. The kind of guy who never got punk and thought great music stopped at the Stones, thought cinema was never so exciting after Fassbinder died, had a shelf full of yellowing, orange-spined Penguins, drove a sports car – probably a red one – and thought he was still hip and down with the kids because he knew who Eminem was. Peppered his speech with transatlanticisms. Had the arrogance and demeanour of an ageing rock ’n’ roll rebel academic growing old gracefully, proud of not losing his rough edges. She could see what her mother and he had in common.
    ‘Can I ask you something?’ he said. ‘You don’t drink. I’m curious. Is that by choice or …’
    She had been so determined to succeed when she joined the police, so eager. But whatever the PR people say, an intelligent, attractive young woman, unafraid to speak her mind, is still not welcome in the police. Or at least that was what her colleagues did their best to let her think. When she eventually admitted defeat and left she was racked with depression and a drink problem. She had also had an intense affair with a very unsuitable man that hadn’t helped. She had sorted herself out, but it had taken her years.
    Peta kept her face blank, her eyes unreadable. ‘Let’s just say the police lifestyle didn’t agree with me.’
    ‘Lillian’s told me about your company,’ Whitman said, pouring himself another large glass of wine. ‘Albion, is it?’
    ‘Was. It’s finished now. I’m freelance.’
    Whitman raised an eyebrow. ‘Thought you were doing well. You and an ex-journalist. Joe Donovan, right?’
    Peta kept her voice calm, her answers clipped. ‘We’re no longer working together.’
    ‘Right.’ Then he grinned. ‘Guy or girl?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Joe. Guy or girl?’
    ‘Guy.’
    ‘Thought