by Denise Mina
Pat stared him out and slid his belt buckle back into the clip. ‘Go on then.’
Eddy’s jaw jutted once, a small punctuation mark to the fight they hadn’t had, and he turned and got out, slamming the door. Pat knew Eddy would be doing his hard man swagger. As a petty act of spite he didn’t watch Eddy stride across the road. He knew the walk well enough: shoulders up, head wheeling left and right, looking for the fates that defied him.
This was the sort of thing Morrow excelled at, looking, seeing, processing. She pulled her office door shut, set her chair at a good distance from the monitor and clicked on the first of Omar’s files.
It was an Excel spreadsheet of meaningless figures, the years at the top, starting with the present, and in the columns below gradually increasing numbers following a starkly straight trajectory. She snorted a laugh when she saw that rounded figure of £80,000 in the final column. Not a penny less, no odd bits of change. It was a joke, a fiction, a bedtime story to himself.
Hurriedly she looked through the other files: badly scanned VAT forms. He didn’t have any capital, or income, didn’t even know how to fill out the form. It was as if he’d heard a rumour about the scam but hadn’t listened properly.
‘Malki Tait’s ma says he was out till two last night.’ Bannerman was smiling at the door, standing a little outside so that she wasn’t really sure he was talking to her. She’d expected him to be annoyed at her for crashing his glory meet with MacKechnie but he seemed quite calm.
‘Where is he now?’
‘Doesn’t know.’
‘Did he just walk out of the house this morning?’
‘Left the house in a minicab this morning. Gobby and Routher called around the local firms and found the cab that attended the address. They’re tracking down the driver for a destination. Anyway,’ he fell back into the corridor, ‘move it. We’ve got Omar upstairs. His lawyer’s with him. I want you with me.’
She looked at the thumbnail images on her screen. ‘I don’t think he’s doing a VAT fraud, Grant, to be honest—’
‘Yeah, let’s go up and find out.’ Bannerman wasn’t looking at her. He was smiling down the corridor.
28
Omar didn’t look up as his lawyer shepherded him down the corridor to the interview room. He didn’t look worried so much as exhausted. His eyes were red, like someone who’d been eccied, up all night, and had just started coming down. Morrow saw him shut them tight a few times, as if trying to coax moisture across them. She felt a bit that way herself. She thought of home and hoped Omar’s interview would drag on and on, that they’d uncover information that would spark an urgent new course of investigation. She was overtired now and felt too delicate to go home.
It was teatime, shift change at the station, and the interview rooms were all empty. Bannerman chose Four, a slightly larger room than Three, with a newer camera lower down on the wall so that their faces would be seen in the viewing room. The lawyer was aware of the camera and tried to get Omar a seat with his back to it. It was a sharp move. A video of even a slight inconsistency in evidence, a sarcastic remark, an unpleasant manner, could go a long way to conviction if it came down to a jury trial. Morrow wondered what Omar had told her.
Bannerman was aware of what they were doing, though, and insisted that they take the side of the table facing the camera. When the lawyer asked him slyly why he said it was because he wanted them facing the camera and he was questioning them, not the other way around.
She conceded and they took their seats, the lawyer on the outside, unpacking her papers and pens, Omar by the wall, shifting about in his seat, wringing his hands under the table, getting them out again. Morrow watched him from the corner of her eye. He didn’t seem unduly nervous, not guilty-nervous, just appropriately uncomfortable.
Lord of them all, Bannerman was the last to take his place at the table. He stood behind his chair and undid his jacket button, flapping the front panels back as if clearing the reach for his guns. He looked at Omar, who looked innocently back and grinned. Then Bannerman sat down.
He and Morrow busied themselves with cassette tapes, fitted them, turned the machine on and waited for the beep to notify them that the recording had begun. Bannerman told it who was here, the date and made the lawyer say her name.
The lawyer was young, a pretty blonde woman with an enormous amount of make-up on. Pearly pink blusher was drawn in thick stripes across her cheeks and eyelashes glued into black sticks.
Omar looked even thinner than yesterday but that was due to his clothes. They weren’t baggy like the traditional dress he had worn the day before but western clothes, a black T-shirt of thick cotton, a yellow ‘Diesel’ slogan on it. It was fitted around his narrow waist and broad shoulders, and his baggy jeans sat halfway down his hips with white underpants showing above them. He looked like a model, not cut-glass handsome but one of those daring models who straddled the ugly/handsome boundary.
When they were all settled he looked up and recognised Morrow from the night before. ‘Oh, hi again,’ he said, eyes open and hopeful, pleased to see her, not at all like an accused.
Both Bannerman and the lawyer put their hands on the table in front of him to stay the conversation. ‘Let’s do the formalities,’ prompted the lawyer nodding at Bannerman who cleared his throat.
‘Omar, in the course of our investigations we have uncovered some facts that we would like to ask you about. In relation to that you’re being detained here and I’m going to read you this caution, OK?’
Omar answered at the same time as his lawyer’s formal response that he was willing to cooperate in any way: ‘Oh, ’course, aye, yeah. Fine.’
Bannerman held the laminated sheet up and read the formal caution slowly. He looked at the lawyer at the end to make sure she’d witnessed it. She gave him a noncommittal nod. Bannerman asked Omar, ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I do,’ said Omar, whose attention seemed to have wandered a little during the recitation.
‘Well, Omar, first of all, you said in the interview last night that the gunmen were looking for—’
‘Rob, I know.’ Omar covered his eyes with his willowy hand and cringed. ‘I know, sorry. I spoke to Billal and he said you knew it was Bob. Sorry about that.’
‘. . . not be flippant,’ muttered the lawyer.
Omar straightened his face and opened his giant hands towards them in appeal. ‘No, I know, I am sorry. I am. We just, you know, thought it would be better if you were looking for those guys instead of thinking it was something to do with me.’
‘When did you decide to lie?’
Omar frowned as if he thought Bannerman was being rather rude dwelling on it. They didn’t need to know the details but Morrow knew Bannerman was taking charge, drumming home that he was the man and Omar shouldn’t fuck with him.
Coldly Bannerman repeated, ‘At what point in the evening did you decide to tell us a lie?’
Omar dropped his gaze. ‘Well, um, after we called 999. When the ambulance came, just before the ambulance came.’
‘How did you decide?’
Omar’s mouth flapped once. ‘Wha’?’
‘Did you all get together and agree a version of what happened?’
‘No,’ he was adamant, ‘no, no, no, listen we were, Mum was, tying a tea towel to Aleesha’s arm, and we just sort of said, you know, might be best if we said Rob instead of Bob.’
‘You said it?’
‘I dunno, no, I think Bill said it. Said, you know, best just say Rob instead, since some folk call me Bob.’ He looked confused. ‘Is it that big a deal?’
‘So your family know you’re called Bob by some people?’
‘Yeah, yeah, they know.’
‘Your dad knows you’re called Bob?’
It was a good move, Morrow had to give it to him, a good build to the point and a good crash. Omar frowned at the table.
‘What do you suppose your dad’s thinking now? They came looking for you and you didn’t own up
so they took him. What do you think he’s thinking now?’
Tearful, Omar shrugged.
Bannerman leaned in, spoke softly: ‘Do you get on with your dad?’
Omar’s voice was soft, childlike. ‘Not . . . great. Better recently.’
‘Better recently?’
He shrugged again, a small gesture, shameful. ‘Been trying harder.’
‘Why?’ asked Morrow.
He sucked his teeth, looked as if he was thinking about telling a lie, looked at Bannerman and Morrow in turn. ‘He’s loaning me the capital to start a business. The condition is that I abide by his rules.’
‘Capital for a business?’
‘Yeah.’ He seemed quite happy to talk about it but Bannerman brushed it aside for the moment.
You lied to us and said ‘Rob’ so that it didn’t look as if it was about you?’
Omar nodded at the table.
‘But it was about you.’
‘No, no, no, it wasn’t anything to do with me—’
‘They came looking for you. Gunmen were after you and you just stood back and let them take your dad.’
The force of indignation brought him to his feet. ‘No!’ but his lawyer slid her hand over the table again, a flat hand that commanded him to sit back down. She had coached him well because he did.
Bannerman opened his mouth to speak but Omar burst in: ‘As I told you last night I was sitting in that car and ran in when the gun went off. I was stunned. My wee sister was shot up! There was blood every fucking where, I could hardly hear what they were saying but if you see guys wi’ guns and there’s blood everywhere, you know whatever they ask you to do isn’t going to be good, is it? You can’t hardly hear what anyone’s saying in a situation like that either, I didn’t think they’d grab him.’
‘OK,’ said Bannerman, sounding reasonable. ‘Fair enough.’
‘You wouldn’t put your hand up to it. S’counter intuitive.’
‘OK.’ Bannerman looked at his notes and Morrow caught his eye, asking permission. He blinked a yes.
She spoke softly. ‘Why were you and Mo sitting outside in the car?’
He sucked a hiss through his teeth, thinking about the consequences. ‘OK: Nugget’s well religious—’
‘Nugget?’
‘My da.’ He scowled at her. ‘His name in the family. Nugget.’
‘How come?’
‘It’s what Aleesha calls him - Naggy Uganda Guts.’
Morrow smiled. ‘She’s got quite a strong character, Aleesha?’
Omar nodded admiringly. ‘If that’s what you call it.’
‘What would you call it?’
‘Mental. Scared of none of them. Told Meeshra to fuck off and shut up when she was in labour.’
‘Someone told us you expected her to run away when she turned sixteen.’
‘I’m amazed she hasn’t. They treat her like shit.’
‘Your mum treats her like shit?’
‘Nah, Mum admires her. I think she wishes she was her. They sent us to private school and sent her to a comprehensive, did you know that?’
‘Did they run out of money?’
‘No. Girls don’t need an education, according to him. What is this, the 1850s?’
‘You don’t agree with that?’
‘She reads all my books on her own, my uni text books. Didn’t go in for the last three months of school and still got top grades in her GCSEs. School don’t want her to leave. She’s upping the entire year’s average.’
‘Has she got a boyfriend, friends who could have done this?’
‘No.’ He was certain. ‘Stays in her room working, reading mostly, only comes out to watch telly when no one else is around.’
‘Doesn’t go to Mosque?’
‘She’s an atheist.’ He was so impressed by her he could only whisper it.
‘But she doesn’t get on with your dad?’
‘Naggy Uganda Guts.’
‘Is he a nag?’
‘Non-stop. Calls from the shop, on the hour, to find out what we’re doing and tell us to stop it and do something else.’ Omar didn’t sound bitter but fond, wistful, as if he was missing it.
‘So he’s very religious?’
‘Um, yeah, he is now. Never used to be much, sent us to Catholic school and that, but Billal got big into religion and Nugget sort of started going mad for it as well. I think, well . . .’
‘Well what?’
He shrugged. ‘Getting older, eh? Sort of feel your family move away from you. Religion’s something to have in common. Now I have to go along with it, condition of getting help wi’ my business.’
Whenever he mentioned the business she could feel Bannerman thrill next to her. It was to be his finale with Omar but the fact that Omar kept bringing it up was as significant to Morrow as the silly numbers in the income columns. It meant the business was a nothing. Something to talk about.
‘Why did Billal get religious?’
‘Dunno.’ Omar avoided her eye. ‘Just did.’
‘When?’
‘Couple of years ago.’
‘Nothing to do with 9/11 or anything, the backlash to that?’
‘Nah.’ Omar was sure. ‘Long after that. To be honest I’ve taken less religious abuse since 9/11, but, I suppose, I’m not making my way to school everyday in a green and gold uniform anymore.’
Green and gold, Catholic colours. The school would be just as well sending the kids home with a ‘kick me’ sign on their backs.
Morrow smiled. ‘Did you take abuse for that?’
‘Fuck aye, non-stop. Boys on the train used to chuck lit matches at us.’
‘So, a couple of years ago Billal got religion and then your dad got into it?’
‘Yeah and he’s mad for it. Thinks it’ll bring us together as a family but, well . . .’ And suddenly here before them was the terrified son, bent, tremble-chinned, afraid for his daddy and horrified by his part in all of it. His spine bent slowly until his nose was an inch from the tabletop, hiding his face in his hands. He clutched the hair on his crown, holding his head off the table as he choked out spluttering tears.
Bannerman adjusted his collar. The lawyer fingered her notes. Only Morrow watched the boy as his back heaved and he managed to draw in a breath. He couldn’t look at any of them. His hands swiped the wet away, first right, then left. The lawyer held out a tissue between two fingers, not looking at him. Her manner told him to stop it, stop embarrassing all of them by bringing this turmoil into their work.
Omar took the hankie. ‘I’m not that . . . You know . . . committed. I was outside in the car when the gunmen . . . because me and Mo left Ramadan prayers early. I knew if I went in to the house early Nugget’d be mad . . . I was just waiting . . . till it was the right time, so he’d think . . .’
Morrow asked, ‘Was Billal converted by someone?’
‘No, no.’
‘Just spontaneously got very religious?’
‘Uh huh.’ Omar wouldn’t look at her, swallowed as if he was trying to stop himself saying something and brought it back to himself: ‘I’m not that committed.’
Bannerman took a breath as if he was going to speak but Morrow cut him off - ‘Your dad wanted you to be a lawyer?’
Omar looked surprised, but it was hardly a difficult deduction. ‘Aye, he does.’
‘But you never even went for interviews?’
‘Nah. Not for me.’
‘We met Tormod MacLeòid.’ Morrow raised an eyebrow.
‘Yeah, you might understand what put me off then.’
‘So, you’ll defy your dad on that issue, but not on the matter of religion?’
‘Well, different thing, eh?’
‘How?’
‘Well, it’s about being part of something for him. Nugget’s not part of much, he’s had a hard life . . . I want to please him, he’s my da, he’s financing my business but I mean, Ramadan’s two hours prayers every night—’
Bannerman couldn’t resist any l
onger. ‘Omar, what is the business you’ve just set up?’
‘Importing cars.’
‘Cars?’
‘Yeah, classic cars. They don’t last here because of the weather. You can import them from, like, Spain and Italy and that. Fraction of the price. If you can get them here you can make a big margin selling them on.’
‘How much does shipment cost?’
‘I don’t know. Shipping companies won’t really tell ye until you’ve got an actual thing to import but on the Internet I noticed the differential in the market and the prices between, like, here and there. Could be making like three, four thou on every single car . . .’
Bannerman smirked. ‘What if it cost that much to ship them?’
This had clearly never ever occurred to Omar. He shrugged, exhausted. ‘It can’t.’
Morrow butt in. ‘Can’t?’
‘Yeah. It can’t cost that.’
‘Why not?’
He shrugged. ‘Just . . . can’t cost that much.’
She thought about Billal. ‘Why did you tell your brother you were importing silicone chips?’
Omar snorted a laugh. ‘Silicone chips?’
‘He thought it was chips you were importing.’
‘Billal’s . . . we don’t talk about business.’ He seemed a bit annoyed about it.
‘Why did you have VAT forms scanned onto your computer?’
‘Oh, well, I know there’s loads of admin, running a business, I was just playing around. Got like a spreadsheet package, payroll, tax forms and stuff came free with it. Just messing about.’ He frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Did your dad buy the shed?’ Bannerman glanced at Morrow.
‘Aye. He took me to PC World and bought the small business package as well.’
It was the most ill-considered business plan she’d ever heard but Omar seemed certain it would work. It occurred to her that Omar was not quite the criminal mastermind they had supposed and yet he was clearly very bright.
Morrow stepped in. ‘Omar, how come you can afford a Lamborghini?’
The lawyer jerked her head around to face him and Omar panicked. ‘Lamborghini?’