‘Are you suggesting Meena was killed by someone she knew?’
Thorne sensed nervousness and suddenly Athwal’s performance did not seem as polished. This was not a role he had been expecting to play. ‘No, but possibly by someone who knew her.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I can’t really say any more at this stage. Like I said, I just wanted to tell you that things are moving forward again. To let you know that personally.’
Athwal stared up at the TV for ten, fifteen seconds, as though trying to process the things Thorne had told him. Their implications.
Thorne did not believe he was acting any more.
Athwal pushed back his chair and asked if he could buy Thorne a drink, but Thorne told him he needed to get back to the office as quickly as possible, that there were still a few more of those fresh leads that needed following up.
‘I meant what I said. If you ever need a new TV or whatever. A radio. It would be my pleasure to help, really. I haven’t forgotten everything you did four years ago.’
Thorne said, ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ because he hadn’t forgotten either.
Driving back to Colindale, Thorne turned the volume up when his favourite Merle Haggard track came on.
‘Tonight The Bottle Let Me Down’.
Nosing into slow-moving traffic by Wembley Park station, he thought about Govinder Athwal, a glass in his hand and a dirty turban, dragging his past around like a ball and chain; a future no more than days to be counted down. A man who looked every bit as crushed, as haunted, as he deserved to be.
I’ve always had a bottle I could turn to…
Drinking to keep two women off his mind.
Watering down the guilt with Bell’s and Sam Adams.
TWENTY-THREE
Back at Becke House, Thorne finally caught up with DCI Russell Brigstocke in the canteen. He bought a cheese and tomato roll and a bag of crisps and carried them across to join his boss.
Brigstocke grunted, his mood clearly not helped by the food in front of him. It was certainly a healthier option than the one Govinder Athwal had chosen, and clearly a weapon in the battle Brigstocke was waging against an expanding waistline, but nobody in their right mind could have called it appetising.
‘Pulses,’ he said. As though he’d far rather be looking down at a selection of things that had once had them. ‘Fibre, vitamins, I get all that.’ He glanced up at Thorne. ‘Just the taste thing that’s the issue.’
‘I got your message,’ Thorne said.
Brigstocke nodded and began to eat, chewing like it was actually painful. He swallowed and said, ‘Amaya Shah.’
‘Right.’
Brigstocke waited, pushed his pulses around.
‘I’ve been looking into the possible connection with the Meena Athwal murder we talked about. I spoke to her father this morning.’
‘So, how did that go?’
‘Well, I’m still convinced that she was killed by the same people that murdered Amaya.’
Brigstocke waved his fork as if a fly were annoying him. ‘We’ll get on to that in a minute. What else?’
‘We also talked to Amaya’s brother. Sarah Webster told us that Amaya was scared of him, hinted that he might have been violent in the past.’
‘By “we”, I’m presuming you’re talking about officers on your team, as opposed to one who’s still on compassionate leave and not actually part of this inquiry.’
‘Right.’
‘I’m presuming that, because if I found out this other officer was involved… you know, if you were stupid enough to make it blindingly bloody obvious, I’d probably have to do something about it.’
‘You said.’
‘Like have your bollocks on a plate.’
Thorne nodded down at Brigstocke’s lunch. ‘Tastier than that.’ He watched his boss force another mouthful down. ‘You really shouldn’t eat that shit, Russell. It’s clearly making you miserable.’
‘No, you make me miserable,’ Brigstocke said. ‘This stuff makes me suicidal.’
Thorne laughed. Brigstocke didn’t.
‘What did the brother have to say?’
‘I’m still waiting to hear from the officer who spoke to him.’ Thorne ignored the warning look. ‘But I should imagine he fronted it out, demanded to know when we were going to find Kamal because it’s obviously Kamal that killed his sister.’
‘Well, forensic science would appear to agree with him,’ Brigstocke said.
‘Kamal was gay.’
‘According to this girl you talked to. Certainly not according to the DNA evidence.’
‘Why would Amaya tell her friend that Kamal was gay if he wasn’t?’
‘If she was as scared as you say she was, maybe she didn’t trust anyone. Maybe she said that to throw people off the scent, whatever.’ Brigstocke didn’t wait for Thorne to argue. ‘Yes, it’s possible that she was feeling threatened by her family, that the pair of them were planning to run off together. But that doesn’t mean Kamal didn’t rape and kill her.’
Thorne said nothing.
‘Will you at least accept that’s an explanation?’
‘Yeah,’ Thorne said, eventually. And Shergar’s giving rides to little kids on Southend beach. ‘It’s an explanation.’
‘Good. Thank you.’
‘I just think it’s the explanation we’re meant to accept.’
‘What, stupid coppers like me?’
‘You know I didn’t mean that,’ Thorne said. ‘Come on, Russell —’
‘Oh, sod this.’ Brigstocke pushed his plate away and got to his feet. ‘I’m going to the Oak.’
Thorne knew that the DCI would never dream of drinking halfway through a shift and guessed that the lure of the local pub had more to do with the steak and kidney pie it was famous for.
Having only taken one bite, he rewrapped his lunch in the cling film it had come in and followed Brigstocke out.
Walking down the stairs, Brigstocke said, ‘So, how’s the search for Kamal going?’
‘We’re still doing everything we can,’ Thorne lied. ‘Obviously.’
‘Bank cards, mobile phone?’
‘Nothing. And there’s not going to be.’
‘Maybe we should think about a second appeal.’
‘Really?’
The appeal for information following the DNA match with Kamal Azim had quickly yielded what, in any other circumstances, would have been positive results. Though they had yet to trace him through YouTube, the boy who had shot the mobile phone footage on the train had come forward, but only to confirm that Kamal and Amaya had been threatened by a well-built Irishman and rescued by an older Asian man who had led them off the train. It hadn’t looked to the boy as if the abuser was following them.
There had been sightings of Kamal from all over the country and though he’d known it would be a waste of time, Thorne had dutifully followed up every one of them.
A woman who ran a café on the Holloway Road had come forward to say that two men matching the description of those in the Tube photograph had eaten breakfast there two days after the incident. Thorne had taken the information to Brigstocke but it had not cut a great deal of ice.
‘There’s a lot of well-built Irishmen around,’ he’d said. ‘A lot of middle-aged Asians. It’s the boy we should be concentrating on.’
Nicola Tanner had been rather more excited.
‘They’re sticking around,’ she had said. ‘Probably waiting until Amaya’s body was found because they wouldn’t get paid until then.’
Thorne had said nothing, because he was worried about what else the killers might be sticking around for.
Now, descending the final flight of stairs, Brigstocke said, ‘I think another appeal would be a good idea.’
Thorne trudged down a step or two behind him. ‘We’re doing exactly what they want,’ he said. ‘Buying the story they’ve set us up to buy.’
Brigstocke pushed through the doors into reception, stoppe
d at the main exit. ‘Listen, I’ve already given you a ton more leeway on this than I should have, OK?’
‘I know, and I’m —’
‘I’ve let you go down this other road, the honour killings stuff, this pair who are doing it for money. I’ve agreed to this second line of inquiry, but I can’t afford to look like an idiot.’
Thorne stepped close to him, spoke low and urgent. ‘They killed Kamal at the same time they killed Amaya. Did whatever they needed to create this DNA evidence. That was always the plan. Why are we wasting our time looking for someone who’s already dead?’
‘You sure about that?’
Thorne watched Brigstocke reach into his pocket then produce a folded sheet of paper with the same flourish he might once have used when he completed a magic trick. Ta daaa!
‘Danny Mirza got in touch.’ Brigstocke handed the paper across. ‘He received this last night.’
Thorne unfolded the piece of paper and read the printout of an email sent just after eleven o’clock the previous evening:
hey Danny. just checking in, let you know i’m getting everything sorted. all of a bit of a mess right now. don’t know what you’ve heard but will explain when i see you. it’s complicated, yeah? keep the faith, man. K
‘Disposable email account,’ Brigstocke said. ‘The lab’s on it, but I’m guessing an internet café or some remailer service. He obviously wants to stay hidden.’
‘Or the killers don’t want us to know it’s them sending the email.’ Thorne waved the paper at Brigstocke. ‘Come on, this doesn’t tell us Kamal’s still alive.’
‘It tells me that we aren’t wasting our time,’ Brigstocke said. ‘And if I was to do anything else but make finding him our priority, it’d be my bollocks on a plate. So, Kamal Azim remains our prime suspect in the murder of Amaya Shah, OK?’
‘Russell —’
‘Your prime suspect.’
Before Thorne had a chance to fight his corner any further, Brigstocke was through the doors and away across the car park. Annoyance or just the thought of a decent lunch, he was moving faster than Thorne had seen him do in a long time.
When Tanner called, she said, ‘I talked to the brother.’
Thorne was at his desk, after an hour of conversations with team members he did not want to have and pointless exchanges with technicians tracing an email sent by a young man he knew to be dead.
He was watching the clock.
He said, ‘How did that go?’
Tanner described a conversation that was almost exactly as Thorne had told Brigstocke it would be, even if he had been somewhat evasive about which officer Haroon Shah had been talking to.
Well aware the whole time that Brigstocke knew exactly who it was.
‘Shaken him up, I reckon,’ Tanner said.
‘You think?’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘I went to see Meena Athwal’s father.’
‘And?’
‘Sounds like he’s a better actor than Haroon Shah.’
‘I was thinking,’ Tanner said. ‘Maybe we could put Haroon under surveillance. I’m pretty sure he’s rattled and he might be just daft enough or scared enough to lead us straight to whoever’s organising all this.’
Tanner sounded fired up and Thorne knew he was about to piss all over the flames. ‘I can’t see it.’
‘You’re probably right, but we should be all over his mobile phone at least. Reckon you can twist your boss’s arm?’
‘Not a hope in hell,’ Thorne said.
‘What’s happened?’
Thorne told her about the email from Kamal Azim, the clear instruction from Brigstocke to keep the investigation firmly on whatever track led them to him.
Tanner took the news better than he had expected.
‘Not the end of the world,’ she said. ‘Actually, there’s an argument for making it look like we’ve fallen for it. Like we’re going in the wrong direction because we’re daft. You never know, whoever’s running this thing might get over-confident and then they might do something stupid.’
‘You’re staking a hell of a lot on people being stupid,’ Thorne said.
‘Because they are, most of the time. There’s a lot of links in this chain and someone’s going to mess up, because there’s always someone stupid. But we’re not.’
Thorne watched as Brigstocke wandered through the incident room on his way back from lunch. It didn’t look like the steak and kidney pie had done much to improve his mood. Or perhaps they had sold out.
‘We’re back to where we started, that’s all,’ Tanner said. ‘Dream team.’
‘What?’
Tanner laughed. ‘Just something Phil Hendricks said.’
Thorne turned to his computer screen as an email about an email pinged into his inbox. No, he wasn’t stupid, not all the time, anyway. Which was why he knew there was every chance the dream could turn into a nightmare.
He said, ‘Well, Phil Hendricks is a fucking idiot.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Haroon ended the call and tossed his mobile on to the bed. He dropped down next to it, then almost immediately stood up again, unable to settle.
One job sorted… boom… but a much bigger problem to think about.
From one wall of his bedroom to another in four paces. Four. How sad was that? What the hell was he still doing living at home, anyway? Mooching around above the shop in the same room he’d had since there were David Beckham posters on the wall? Assistant manager sounded good, was what he said to his mates and what he told girls whenever he had the chance, but at the end of the day, he was still a glorified till-monkey.
Taking as much shit as money from the winos and the chavs and the shoplifters.
Cider and cat food and bog-roll…
Work hard, this place will be yours.
Like it was a done deal and there could not possibly be anything else he might want to do. Like maybe he fancied dossing about at college for a while; making some real money afterwards, opening a string of shops.
He felt guilty that he wasn’t a bit more grateful. He felt disrespectful. He knew how hard his father had worked for all this, still worked.
And now, of course, Haroon was the only child.
Not that everything wouldn’t have come to him anyway, being the only son. Not that his sister would have been a lot of help.
Glittery tops and eyeliner, when there was stock that needed shifting.
He picked up his phone and checked the time.
He needed to get back down to the shop and give his father a break. His old man’s arthritis was getting worse by the day and he could only manage a couple of hours at a time. His mum did what she could, but she still got flustered dealing with the customers and that boy they had helping out was worse than useless.
Kid wasn’t all there, to be honest. A favour for one of his father’s cousins.
He had to make some decisions though before he went back to work. Take some steps, or figure out what they should be, at least. He didn’t want to worry his mother and father with any of this; it was still tough enough as it was. Tough for all of them, because it wasn’t like Amaya had never existed, was it? Like they hadn’t loved her. More important, he wanted to show his parents and anyone else who’d been part of this business that he could deal with the problem himself.
He was going to be the one to step up. It was about responsibility and doing what was expected, simple as that. Besides, taking this on would make him feel better about those occasional doubts. Those disrespectful thoughts when he saw his mates out in flash cars until all hours and lying in bed until lunchtime.
Maybe he needed to write it all down, he thought. Get organised.
What did she really know, anyway? That stupid woman copper with her basket of crap and her questions about spying.
Fishing, that was all. We heard this, we heard that.
Who should he talk to first? Who had it started with?
He couldn’t think straight.
/> He’d get it all down on paper, once the shop was closed, then start talking to people tomorrow. He’d make it go away, so that his father would never even have to know about it.
His mobile pinged. A mate he knew he could trust.
SORTED 4 L8R.
Haroon was in a much better mood as he walked downstairs. Past the calendar, the photographs of Rangpur and Chittagong where so many of his family still lived, the pictures of his sister.
At least he’d have something good to think about, help get him through his shift.
He showed respect and now he would earn it.
And those who did not know what it meant would have to learn.
A wake-up call, wasn’t that what they called it?
Govinder Athwal would never use such a phrase, but he knew what it meant and it certainly summed up the way he felt about his conversation with Detective Inspector Tom Thorne in the pub. Sitting there telling a virtual stranger all that, the car crash that his life had become, in such detail. Since when had he sounded like one of those terrible TV shows he sometimes watched in the middle of the morning, when he’d found some excuse to take the day off work? Maybe what he really needed was a jeering audience. Some arsehole in a suit shoving a microphone in his face, telling him to pull himself together.
People die. What sort of excuse is that? What sort of man are you?
Perhaps now was the time to do something about it, he thought. To change once again. Since his lunchtime conversation, he had thought about little except the man he had once been.
Two children once upon a time, and a wife.
A life.
He looked around the room and the shame was like acid in his stomach. He hadn’t told Thorne about this place, though he might have done if Thorne had accepted his offer of a drink. The family home unnecessary, now that there was no family to live in it. A poky flat, a flat… with noise from the street and damp creeping up the bathroom wall like a shadow; with just enough space for his son to stay when the boy needed his bank account topping up and bothered coming home from university.
Meena’s little brother. All that was left of Govinder Athwal’s family.
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