The words were always more or less the same, but there had been something about this one that had bothered him. The police officer had seemed a little nervous and he found it hard to believe that it was simply down to the fact that he was appearing in front of the camera. Didn’t they do this sort of TV appearance all the time? Weren’t there training courses, that kind of thing?
No, not nervous exactly. Unconvincing.
It might have been that the officer was trying to put across the urgency of the situation, but it smacked a little of trying too hard. It looked as though he was giving a performance, and that in itself was worrying.
In theory, the fact that the police were making the appeal meant that they did not think the murder of Amaya Shah was anything it did not appear to be. Yet he had watched the police officer trotting out those familiar words and had felt uneasy.
He had met Detective Inspector Tom Thorne and he knew that the man was far from stupid.
He would need to be watchful.
THIRTY-SIX
Tanner had called her brother as soon as she’d got home; told him she wasn’t feeling well and that there was no point in him coming round. He said that his wife had made some soup and that it was no problem to pop over with it.
‘I think I’ll just get an early night,’ she had said.
From the Facebook group set up by the Anti Hate Crimes Alliance, Tanner had found out that the next meeting was taking place that evening at the Sikh temple on Harley Grove, in Bow. A few more minutes online and she discovered that there had been a gurdwara on the site since the late seventies, that it had once been a synagogue and that it had been extensively rebuilt after an arson attack in 2009.
It was a beautiful building. Grade II listed; she had found that out as well.
Approaching the entrance with several others, she could see that there were even more amateur bouncers outside than there had been at the meeting a week before. It made sense. There had been another attack after all, and if she could find out where the meeting was being held, then so could those who might want to come along and cause trouble.
This time, Tanner just produced her warrant card, and a smile that was met with a series of blank stares.
She was already looking for a face that might be significant.
Inside, she followed the crowd past the main hall to a room at the back of the building. Having seen some of the notices, she guessed that this was where community groups would gather to play music, dance or take lessons in gatka, which, from the pictures, appeared to be some form of combat involving wooden sticks. Rows of chairs that might normally have been used for weddings had been arranged in rows on the crimson carpet and most were already taken. With five minutes before the meeting was due to start, most of those in attendance were engaged in conversation, standing between rows or grouped around the edges.
As before, the religious divides were obvious enough.
While discreetly checking the photos she had taken that morning on her phone, Tanner scanned as many faces as she could see. Though there were several she recognised from the previous meeting, she saw nobody to get excited about; nobody as yet whose presence might justify hers. When anyone turned to look directly at her, she let her gaze drift innocently up to one of the many colourful pictures that decorated the sky-blue walls. They were clearly sacred portraits, but Tanner was not sure who the men in the pictures were supposed to be. Were they gurus? Or saints?
Did Sikhs even have saints?
Some were of smiling older men with white beards and beatific smiles, while the younger men in the pictures looked like dashing heroes straight out of Bollywood. They had flashing eyes and coal-black beards. They wore heavily bejewelled turbans and their delicate hands carried curved daggers or provided perches for fierce-looking birds of prey.
Holy and hot, Tanner thought. If you liked that sort of thing.
Looking around, the crowd seemed bigger than at the last meeting, though the room was smaller, so it was difficult to be sure. There was no stage, only a trestle table at the front of the room, but there was certainly as much food as there had been at the school. In front of two tables in one corner, each laden with cling film-covered trays, three women in saris stood handing out paper cups of fruit juice poured from cartons.
Tanner’s mouth was dry, so she walked up to take one. The woman clasped her hands together and bowed her head.
Tanner said, ‘Thank you,’ and bowed hers.
When one of the men she had seen at the door stepped to the front and announced that the meeting was about to start, those not already seated moved quickly to take empty chairs. Tanner did the same, which was when she saw the man to whom Haroon Shah had been talking privately at the mosque that morning.
Tanner double-checked her phone as she took a seat at the end of the back row. It gave her a good view of proceedings and more importantly of the man whose picture she had taken at the mosque.
The man in the gold skullcap.
The same three men as last time made their way to the front and took the seats behind the trestle table. Bannerjee, the Hindu businessman, Mansoor the imam and the Sikh community leader, Dhillon, who took the seat in the middle and spoke first. He was wearing a turban rather less ornate than those in some of the portraits and he spoke calmly and quietly. There were no microphones and one or two at the back began shouting for him to speak up, which was probably why he handed over to the imam so quickly.
The man in the gold skullcap applauded politely.
Mansoor was a little more demonstrative. He talked about the desecration of a mosque in south London a few days earlier; was resolute in his determination to oppose the cowardly attacks on all their communities, but urged restraint.
Bannerjee was the final speaker. He was immaculate in a well-cut, black collarless jacket and, as before, was by far the most charismatic of the three. ‘I echo the imam’s comments,’ he said. ‘If we resort to violence, then we lower ourselves to the level of the animals that are committing these crimes. There are other ways to fight.’
Tanner was keeping a watchful eye on the man a few rows in front of her, and it wasn’t until the meeting was thrown open to the floor that she looked to her right and saw another face she recognised. Someone whose presence at the meeting was a little more worrying.
DS Soran Hassani.
There was a good deal of shouting from the audience, more than the previous week, but Tanner found it hard to concentrate on what was being argued about. She was doing her best to focus on the man Haroon Shah had spoken to, the man she believed he had been at the mosque to seek out, but her mind was racing.
Struggling to work out why Hassani was there.
As soon as the meeting broke up and people were on their feet, Tanner had to fight to keep an eye on the man with the gold skullcap. He was talking to those around him, but it looked to Tanner very much as if he was slowly making his way towards the trestle table at the front.
Towards Bannerjee and the others.
She thought about using the camera on her phone again, but decided that it might not be a good idea. As her quarry reached the table, she took a few steps towards the front herself, pushing through the crowd, at the same time trying to keep one eye on Hassani, who was chatting with a fellow Muslim in the queue for food.
It certainly looked as though the man in the gold skullcap was talking to Bannerjee, though Dhillon and several others were standing close by, perhaps in earshot, and Bannerjee had his usual support group around him: his son, Ravi, and some of his mates. The man moved away slightly and now he appeared to be saying something to the imam, Mansoor.
Tanner was craning her neck to see who was talking to who and was unaware of Bannerjee’s approach until he was all but upon her.
‘Don’t you think this is getting a little ridiculous?’
‘I told you I wasn’t going anywhere,’ Tanner said.
‘When my son was advising me to complain about this, I warned him he was overreacting. I am
starting to think he was right and that this is nothing short of harassment.’
On cue, Ravi Bannerjee appeared at his father’s side.
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Well, I’m not sure exactly what it is you think I’m doing,’ Tanner said. ‘But you certainly know why.’
‘I know what you say you’re doing.’ The boy took a step closer. ‘Hitmen and all that rubbish. But if you ask me, it’s starting to look like something else.’
‘What would that be?’
The boy grunted, shook his head. The beard he was trying to grow still looked unconvincing.
‘You think I’m a racist, Ravi?’ Tanner drank the last of her fruit juice. ‘When I’m trying to catch men who are killing Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs? You seriously think that?’ She stared at him. ‘I can understand why people are getting worked up at these meetings, but the rest of the time you need to keep it in check, OK? It can upset people.’
Bannerjee senior laid a steadying hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Yes, I think that’s sound advice. It’s never a good idea to throw such accusations around.’
‘I didn’t,’ Ravi said.
Bannerjee looked at Tanner and shook his head. ‘He’s just a boy and he’s only trying to stick up for me. Aren’t you, Ravi?’
Ravi grunted again, looked at his feet.
‘I might still have another word with your superiors, though.’ Bannerjee wagged a finger at Tanner. ‘You’re making a nuisance of yourself.’
‘Go ahead,’ Tanner said. ‘I’m on leave anyway, so I’m not sure anyone will really care.’ She looked past him. ‘Actually, the officer running the team in my absence is around somewhere, if you’d like a word now.’
Bannerjee seemed shocked and began looking around. There was no sign of Hassani.
‘Probably saw whatever he needed to,’ Tanner said. ‘As did I, so I should probably be getting off.’
‘What does that mean?’ Bannerjee asked. ‘What did you see?’
‘I’ll get out of your way.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Ravi said.
Bannerjee led his son away, but looked back more than once to watch Tanner heading for the door.
Hassani was leaning against his car on the other side of the road. He had his phone pressed to his ear, but put it away as Tanner crossed and walked towards him.
She said, ‘Shouldn’t one of us ask what the other one’s doing here?’
Hassani smiled. ‘Probably better if we don’t.’
‘In which case, I’m not sure we’ll have much to talk about.’
‘I’m sorry about your partner,’ Hassani said. ‘I never got a chance to tell you in person.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I hadn’t realised it was a she.’ He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. ‘I mean, I didn’t know you were…’
‘A rug-muncher?’
‘A homosexual.’
Tanner tried not to laugh at the way he’d said it. ‘That OK, is it?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
Tanner turned back towards the temple, watched as those attending the meeting wandered out. ‘Well, there’s probably one or two in there who’d have a problem with it.’
‘Not me.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Tanner said. ‘There’s a fair number of us in the Job. Never really been sure why.’
‘I’ve heard all the jokes.’
‘Something about truncheons, was it?’
Hassani shook his head, disgusted, though it was not altogether clear why. He said, ‘I saw your friend Tom Thorne today. He’s a difficult customer.’
Tanner was pleased to hear it. ‘Really?’
‘It just seems stupid to be so… confrontational, when we are all on the same side.’
‘Glad to hear that, too.’
‘Having said that, I made my feelings about what the two of you are doing clear, I think. You already know what they are.’
‘Oh yes. I also know that unless you’ve been promoted very recently I outrank you, but maybe you don’t think that matters.’
Hassani nudged a shoe against the wheel of his car, ran his palm across his scalp. ‘What matters is that others who are senior to both of us have already dismissed these theories of yours. No, not dismissed.’
‘Chosen to ignore?’
They waited as a group of five or six men who had been at the meeting crossed the road on to the pavement a few feet away and walked towards a café. The heated debate looked as though it was continuing.
‘Look, Nicola, you know how hard things are for us already. We’re up against families closing ranks, whole communities if we’re unlucky, and you and Thorne charging around is only going to make that worse. Talking about hired killers, all that nonsense… people are going to get angry. More angry.’
‘I understand that,’ Tanner said. ‘And I’m sorry, but I don’t much care.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Hassani said.
It had begun to drizzle. Tanner took an umbrella from her bag as she walked away. She stopped and turned back to him.
She said, ‘You shouldn’t forget how angry I am.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
The girl hadn’t enjoyed it very much – the look on her face when she’d left had made that pretty obvious – but Muldoon didn’t care a great deal. She didn’t have to like the things he’d done or made her do and he wasn’t stupid enough to believe that any of them ever did. That wasn’t part of their job, was it? The truth was, he rather liked the fact that she hadn’t enjoyed it, got an even bigger kick out of the fact that she couldn’t even be arsed to pretend.
She’d left with eighty quid in her purse, hadn’t she? Forty more than the price advertised online. That could buy plenty of mouthwash and whatever that stuff was that got rid of bruises.
He walked into the bathroom, spread his legs at the sink and washed himself off. The girl had been keen to get away by the end, snatching up her clothes in a real hurry, and he wondered if she’d bother to clean herself up before the next punter. She might have called it a night, of course, and been heading straight home. All the same, it tickled him, thinking about some poor sod stumping up for sloppy seconds and licking Irish sweat off her.
Maybe she’d offer him a discount.
He walked back into the bedroom and flopped down on to the bed. He flicked through the shitty menu of TV channels and thought about Riaz a few rooms away. Mr Holier-Than-Thou, praying in his jim-jams like a good boy or already tucked up and dead to the world. Sleeping peacefully and dreaming sweet dreams, where animals didn’t get eaten and girls did what they were told.
What had tonight’s girl said to him? She’d been all smiles at the start, of course.
‘You here on business, then?’
‘Yeah.’ He’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her strip and stroking himself to attention. ‘Supposed to have been a quick job, but it’s dragged out a bit.’
‘All good though, darling. More money, yeah?’
That was when he’d asked if she’d be interested in a bit of a bonus. Talked about a few of the things she might be willing to do for a couple of extra twenties.
He found some football highlights, but it was hard to concentrate. He was thinking about the girl and still thinking about Riaz. The things his partner had said about him enjoying the job too much.
It still rankled.
He thought about those teenagers, the ones they’d taken off the train.
They had both been crying, of course, the girl and her queer BFF, and in the end he’d had to arrange them. Heave the boy on top of her like he was a sack of spuds and use the edge of his knife once or twice to get the little poof’s arse pumping. So then he’d had to watch, hadn’t he? He’d had to make sure it was done properly, and it wasn’t like Riaz wasn’t getting an eyeful as well.
It was different, that was for sure. On other jobs he’d had to do the business himself, make it look like whatever girl it was had been killed by some r
andom rapist, but this was a set-up they hadn’t tried before, what with there being two of them to get rid of.
So, had he enjoyed it? Had he… whatever the word was… revelled in it?
Listening to the boy blubbing and saying ‘Sorry’ over and over. And the girl underneath him with her eyes screwed shut, telling him it was OK and shushing and stroking his back. Wiping the blood away while he wept into her shoulder.
Had he?
It was seriously cold, he could remember that much. Like a freezer in that bloody warehouse, it wasn’t like that lad could have got it up, even if he’d been that way inclined. His little cock all shrivelled up to nothing.
So, fine. He’d watched and listened to it all, and so what if it hadn’t been the worst thing he could have been doing at that moment. So what if his own little cock had perked up a bit? At the end of the day, he’d been thinking about the money, hadn’t he? Same as Riaz, however much his partner banged on about these things ‘needing’ to be done.
Goats and pigs and all that shite.
Always the money.
End of the day, very few people enjoyed what they did at all. Not people slaving in offices, or cleaning cars, and certainly not working girls. He was one of the lucky ones, so no way was he going to accept the suggestion that enjoying what he did meant there was anything wrong with the way he did it. He wasn’t going to feel guilty about that, either. It was a perk, so why shouldn’t he grab it with both hands? Bankers had bonuses, didn’t they?
This next job might not be quite so much fun, though. All a bit round-the-houses for his liking. Nothing to see at the end of it, which was a shame because that was the part he enjoyed the most. The looks on faces those last few moments, the noises they made. So, there wouldn’t be any of that with this one, but like the girl said, it was extra cash, so he wasn’t going to complain.
He’d do what he was told and let Riaz get all creative about it.
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