by Denise Mina
‘What did the kidnappers ask for?’ asked Bannerman, sitting back down carefully on the armchair, trying not to disturb anything.
‘Two million by tonight.’ Billal searched the glass coffee table in front of him for clues. ‘I mean, where the hell do they think we’re getting that from?’
‘Why do you think they’d ask you for that much?’
He blew his lips out and shrugged hard. ‘They must . . .’ He stopped to think. ‘They must have the wrong house. I mean, they’re looking for someone called ‘Rob’ and two million quid, it must be the wrong house . . .’
‘Bob,’ said Morrow.
Billal looked at her. ‘Sorry?’
‘Bob,’ she said flatly. ‘They were looking for Bob.’
He flinched, frowned at the tape in the bag, looked out of the window.
‘Billal, why did you change it and say Rob?’
He struggled with his thoughts for a moment and when he finally spoke his voice was strained and raw. ‘Bob’s . . . It’s my brother’s . . . sometimes called Bob by some people. We thought it would be better if you . . . we thought you’d concentrate on finding my dad.’
‘If we weren’t suspicious about the family?’
‘Well, it’s right though, isn’t it?’ He looked from one to another. ‘You’d look harder for my dad if you thought it was a mistake and they’d taken the wrong guy, wouldn’t you? We thought . . . actually I thought, it was my idea to say Rob.’ He laughed miserably. ‘My idea. Am I in trouble?’
‘See,’ Bannerman leaned forward sympathetically, ‘the probjylem now is that we are suspicious. Because you lied.’
Billal tried hard to smile but couldn’t get his lips to work. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘My brother’s a good kid.’
‘I’m sure he is.’
‘No, he is,’ he insisted, arguing with himself. ‘He is a good wee guy . . .’
‘Do you know of anyone who’d target him?’
‘No. No, no, no.’
Way too adamant, thought Morrow. ‘What does your brother do for a living?’ she asked.
Billal had paled slightly and rubbed his face with an open palm as if he wanted to wipe something off. ‘Ah, um, well, he’s just started a business. Just recently, past couple of months.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Import/export.’
Import. Export. The words clanged into the room, stunning Morrow. She looked at Bannerman. His mouth had fallen open, his face greying as the blood drained from him. Import/Export. Impossible prosecution.
Bannerman cleared his throat. ‘He’s importing and exporting what sort of goods?’
‘I don’t really understand the business myself,’ said Billal, ‘but it seems to be something to do with computer chips or something?’ He looked at them as if they’d know. ‘Silicone chips?’
Bannerman nodded at his shoes. ‘I see.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Yes, yes, I see.’
Morrow felt the sudden urge to giggle hysterically. They had all attended the lecture about VAT fraud after the Halligan case collapsed but, unlike many of the presentations they were given, the facts stuck in everyone’s mind because of the grotesque amounts of money: a single businessman committing a paper fraud had netted £15 million in a three month period, a group of three in Birmingham got fifty million in ten months - £1.5 billion cost to taxpayers in one year alone. The numbers were staggering but even more amazing were the clear-up rates: two million recovered in the same period, a tiny portion of the theft.
Everyone hated the cases because the facts were so hard to present to a jury. There was hardly any evidence, the goods were either tiny silicone chips or phones or non-existent. The paper trail evidence was dull, companies and subsidiaries shut down and opened up, directors changed their names and worst of all, most of the perpetrators were small businessmen, shopkeepers, nice men, familiar types, not meaning to hurt anyone, just telling lies on forms. Juries couldn’t stomach sending them to jail.
Two million pounds ransom was nothing to a VAT fraudster. Two million was two day’s wages. Two million was exactly what unprofessional idiots with no firearms experience would ask a VAT fraudster for, a quick skim from a deep pool. Morrow saw that Bannerman understood and she felt for him suddenly. It was an important case. A clumsy resolution would colour his entire career.
‘Hm hm.’ Billal nodded at Morrow. ‘Listen, thanks for last night, I meant to say, Meesh said you were great with the baby . . .’ He was thinking about Morrow’s breasts, his eyes flickered down and up and he blushed, stumbling over what he was going to say. ‘So . . . thanks.’
‘No problem.’ She grinned, not caring, then looked at Bannerman to redirect the questioning.
Bannerman looked a little ill. ‘Does your brother have an office? Where does he run the business from?’
‘Out the back. There’s a shed . . .’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Do you want to . . .?’
‘Yes.’ Bannerman sounded very tired. ‘Please.’
Billal stood up and Bannerman and Morrow copied him, following him to the door and out into the hall. He tiptoed through the hall, past the soft call of Meeshra’s snores, through the back hallway to the kitchen. There were a couple of other doors leading to other bedrooms but they were shut and the hallway was dark. As they passed through the kitchen Morrow noticed a fat green book on top of the microwave, and stood on her tiptoes to read the title: The Rattlebag.
The back door was old, not replaced by a white plastic UPVC but an old wooden door with glass panels that looked original. Billal took a key from a tin on the worktop and opened it, leaving it wide as he stepped out into the garden. Paving slabs had settled unevenly, sticking up at the corners, sliding into the earth, a graveyard on judgement day. Billal stepped carefully, putting his hands out to steady himself as he walked across, and Bannerman stepped gingerly after him. Morrow hung back. They had looked out here when they searched the house but it was dark and they had all assumed the garden was more shallow than it was. The space was quite deep but a gnarled old tree in the foreground hid a section against the back fence.
Ahead of her Bannerman stood on the corner of a paving stone, tipping the slab down into a puddle of muddy water hidden underneath. A sudden spring of grey water engulfed his beige suede shoe. Bannerman stared at his foot, slowly raised it and shook it out, spitting curses. Morrow padded after him across the choppy garden.
‘Bollocks,’ he said to his foot.
‘’S a shit turn of events,’ she said kindly. ‘Sorry for ye.’
Billal was waiting behind the knobbly tree, in front of a brand new shed of orange wood with a tar paper roof. The same colour as the fence behind it, the shed was well hidden. The door was shut with a big padlock.
‘Em, I don’t have a key though.’
Bannerman had a wet foot but his shock had subsided. Morrow tried to lighten the mood: ‘Know what that’s called?’ She pointed at the padlock.
Billal guessed, ‘A padlock?’
‘A homing device for heroin addicts.’
Billal laughed politely and looked at Bannerman. Bannerman wasn’t smiling. By now he was not only disappointed at the direction of the case but livid. He snatched the padlock. ‘Mr Anwar, we’re cutting this off.’
Billal raised his hands and stepped away from the shed door. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, looking sorry. ‘Absolutely fair enough. Wire in.’
Bannerman stepped down the side of the shed and looked in the high window. His mouth tightened miserably and he turned back to Morrow. ‘Call and get some SOCOs down here. Tell them to bring evidence bags.’
Morrow didn’t mind that he was talking to her like that, or that he was issuing orders. She did exactly as she was asked.
When the cops arrived Morrow and Bannerman stood to the side while they donned their latex gloves and got the metal cutters out of a bag.
‘Fuck,’ muttered Bannerman, almost to himself.
Morrow touched his forearm. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
He looked grateful. ‘Fuck.’
‘It might not be . . .’
‘It is,’ he said, watching the cops clip the padlock open. ‘It’s a fucking VAT fraud and it’s going to get taken over by the Fraud Squad. And like half their fucking cases it’ll end in a ton of paperwork and a hung jury. My arse’ll be in a sling.’ They pulled their latex gloves on and went for a look in the shed.
Disappointing. No dead bodies or loaded shot guns. Just a small desk, a chair, a filing cabinet at the back and a small hard drive sitting on the floor and a long orange extension flex which presumably could be used to reach back to the house and provide power.
The shed was so new it still smelled of seasoning wood. Omar had left it fairly plain, furnishing it with a small Ikea white plastic desk, a chair and a single grey filing cabinet, second-hand judging from the dents in the side. A month by month wall planner had been pinned to the wall but was devoid of appointments. A sheet of stickers was lying on the desk, event markers. The sheet was complete.
On the desk a Celtic mug with a broken handle was being used for two pencils and a biro. The desk had a thin layer of white dust on it, undisturbed. Even the chair had dust on it.
‘Oh.’ Billal stood in the doorway looking in, disappointed. ‘I thought it would be busier. He spent a lot of time in here, I just thought . . . I dunno.’ He was looking at the filing cabinet, the only object of promise in the room other than the hard drive. Bannerman followed his gaze and went over to it, opening the top drawer and finding it empty. He opened the second drawer. A set of accounts books still in the sealed clear wrapper.
In the third drawer down by the floor he pulled out two cricket magazines and, rummaging at the back, a copy of Asian Babes. Billal saw it and seemed shocked.
Bannerman stood up and pointed at the hard drive. ‘We’re going to take this, OK?’
Billal shrugged. ‘Sure.’
‘Because it may have something on it.’
‘Sure, sure.’ He shrugged again. ‘Take whatever you want.’
Everything was bagged and tagged and loaded into the van. Billal had finished his prayers and came out of the bedroom looking calmer, ready to see them out. He stood at the door and signed the evidence receipts for Bannerman. Morrow made a point of shaking his hand.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Bye.’
‘Where does your brother do business with?’ she asked.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Where does he import from? Does he ever have dealings with Arabic countries?’ She was asking to find an anomaly in the pattern, to give Bannerman hope. VAT fraud was an EU crime.
‘Like where?’
‘Oh, you know, Saudi Arabia, those countries, maybe even Afghanistan?’
‘No,’ said Billal thoughtfully. ‘Just Europe, I think. They don’t make silicone chips in Afghanistan, do they?’ He half smiled. ‘They can’t even make chips there, can they? Bit backward . . .’ Bannerman turned away.
She tried again. ‘What makes you think he only deals with Europe, does he travel?’
‘No, he just mentioned it.’
Morrow looked at him but found he was looking at Bannerman’s back. ‘Thank you for all your help, Mr Anwar. We’ll listen to the tape and see what we can find out about your dad.’
‘Thank you.’ Billal was still watching Bannerman. ‘Thank you very much.’
Behind him a bedraggled Meeshra appeared at the door of the bedroom, the baby crying behind her. ‘Billal . . .’ she said plaintively.
‘Coming,’ said Billal over his shoulder. ‘I’m coming.’
The atmosphere in the car was so tense that at one point she thought Bannerman might be on the verge of crying. He drove, hunched over the wheel and his voice sounded changed.
‘Before five o’clock I want you to go to the university and see if you can find out more about him,’ he said. ‘If he’s working this with anyone else. He could have made contacts there.’
‘You going to liaise with Fraud?’
‘Only if I have to.’
‘Makes sense of the ransom demand though, doesn’t it? Remember they shut the Cayman Island banks where everyone was laundering the VAT money?’
‘Did they?’
‘Yeah, in that lecture they said no major movement of money had happened for a year, since they clamped down on the Caymans. Said they must be keeping it all in cash, look out for lock-ups. Big boxes of readies, large cheques cashed.’
‘So, Omar could have millions in boxes in a lock-up and he’s let them keep his dad?’
‘Could be.’
‘What kind of prick does that?’
Morrow shrugged. ‘A prick that doesn’t want to get caught?’ She smiled.
‘You’re fucking chuffed, aren’t you?’ He spat the words through a tense jaw, threatened, as if she’d orchestrated the whole thing to spite him.
‘Well, I’m fucking delighted it’s not my case.’
The frank admission broke the space between them and Bannerman smiled at the road ahead. ‘Bastard.’
They drove on for a moment until Morrow spoke. ‘Billal’s not that bright, is he?’
‘Hmm. Very into his family. Did you see him blushing when I found that scuddy mag?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘That’s odd. You saw the rows of that stuff in his dad’s shop. It’s no worse than them and they’re straight across from the counter. He’d have been looking right at it every day he worked there.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t use porn. Maybe he did once, and feels bad about it.’
She had the impression that it was Bannerman’s own story. ‘Maybe he’s short-sighted,’ she said to brush over it. ‘Anyway, he just gave his brother up.’
Neither of them said anything but they were both thinking that Billal didn’t seem all that sad about it.
Shugie stayed on the same bar stool all afternoon. Even when he went out for a smoke he came back and found that Senga had shooed squatters away from his perch. The money evaporated over six rounds or so, he found he only had enough for a whisky but he didn’t want to ask her for that. Women knew when the money was running out. They could smell it, like loneliness.
Shugie stumbled off his stool, caught himself from falling by grabbing hold of the end of the bar, just had time to congratulate himself on his snake-like reflexes when his knees melted like butter in a pan and he dropped softly to the floor, sighed and fell asleep on the cold stone. A guy coming back from a smoke saw him go down and moved to yank him up again.
‘Leave it!’ ordered Senga protectively. ‘Leave it.’
The men in the bar looked at Shugie, lying on his side, cuddled into the brass foot rail. Senga might allow dozing on chairs but she forbade sleeping on the floor. There must be something between them.
24
The absolute dark took on a life. It was an animal, a gas, a liquid that filled Aamir’s nose and suffocated him, coated his eyes, crept in through his ear canal and crossed membranes, seeping into capillaries, veins, arteries, catastrophically colonising.
There was nothing. No noise from outside, no chinks of light, nothing coming back. Nothing.
Aamir shook his head, opened his eyes wide, shut them, slapped his own face, tugged at the skin on his belly but nothing could stop it. He began to move, slowly at first, tentatively trying to get away from it. He shuffled his feet, chipping rust dust from the floor with his toes, scurrying back and forth along the lowest point of the drum, touching each end with his outstretched hands, slamming into the wall and pushing himself back. He did it several times before he realised that he wasn’t outrunning it but running into it, deeper and deeper and now he was fathoms down into the dark and would never be able to swim out of it.
He doubled over, dropped messily to his knees. Face pressed tight to his knee, he bared his teeth and bit deep into the skin but felt nothing. His hands stretched slowly out in front of him. He could feel the rust flaking off in papery sheets, coming away at the merest nudge of his finger
tips.
Through the blackness the deep red blood on his mother’s sari seeped towards him and he was powerless to move away. He closed his eyes and felt the warm blood wash over his scalp, down his back, over his buttocks. Engulfed in the salt of her he continued to breathe. There was not a chink of mercy left in the world for him.
He could hear himself breathing loudly through his nose, panting like a dog. Rust crumbled to dust, he could smell it. Shards scratched at the material of his pyjamas, cutting into it and sticking into the soft skin on his knees.
His life had no meaning. It was intolerable. The last three decades had been a hollow waste of time.
Hands searched the floor in the oily darkness, fingertips jamming recklessly into rusting iron, pulling it up and crumbling it in his hands, feeling again and again, getting sharp splinters of it stuck under his nails, in his palms, until he found a shard of iron that was solid.
He held it, pressed the middle of it with his thumb, tried to bend it with both hands but it was hard. Like a fossil of a bone the earth fell away around it. He sat up and looked through the darkness imagining the object in his hand. With touch as his guide he cleaned it off, coming to know every speck of its surface, feeling for a flaw but failing. He spat on his hand and cleaned it, wiping it dry on his pyjama top.
As long as a pencil with a serrated edge and sharp tip. A knife.
Insistent pains nagged at his knees and fingers but he resisted the distraction. He extended his left hand into the molten dark and pulled the sleeve up. Slowly, as if in a ritual, he found the sinews of his wrist with his fingers and drew the metal hard across the skin.
Warm wet dripped from him into the void. He held his right hand below it and felt the welcome blood run over his fingers, drip through and drop, wetting the dusty Ugandan soil.
Aamir raised his face to the God who had suffered him to live through children and work and meals, a million bloody meals, sleep and changes of carpet and striving, endless pointless striving.