Backlash by Nick Oldham

despised.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜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