‘Could you tell me your name?’ Tanner asked.
‘Do I have to?’ Earnest, but polite enough.
‘Well, I’m hoping that by answering a few quick questions you’ll be able to help me with an ongoing investigation. So, if you don’t, I’ll probably just be asking myself why you wouldn’t want to do that.’
‘My name is Ilyas Nazir.’
‘And what do you do, Ilyas?’
‘I work in IT,’ he said. ‘Very boring, I’m afraid. I’m a computer nerd, basically.’
‘We all need nerds,’ Tanner said, laughing. ‘I’m probably a bit of a nerd myself, actually. Not computers or anything, but I like details. I like to know stuff.’
Nazir was wearing a dark jacket over a collarless white shirt with fancy stitching, the same gold as his cap. He reached inside for a packet of cigarettes and Tanner watched him light up, saw the plume of smoke curl away and vanish in a column of blue light.
‘Shouldn’t really do this,’ he said.
‘You could switch to vaping, maybe.’
He smiled. ‘Not because it’s bad for you, but because the Prophet, peace be upon him, said “Do not harm yourselves or others”.’ He shrugged and nodded towards a group of men a few feet away, each member of which was also smoking. ‘These things weren’t around back then though, so it’s a bit of a grey area.’
‘Can you tell me where you were yesterday evening?’
He looked away, just for a second or two, and took a drag. He said, ‘Of course. I was at a meeting in Bow. It’s a multi-faith… action group, I suppose you’d call it. They meet to discuss how best to deal with the rise in attacks on Muslims and Sikhs… anyone who certain sorts of people might think has got a bomb in his pocket.’ He nodded towards the area of fresh paintwork, the words bleeding through it. ‘Morons, obviously, but morons who can still hurt you if they feel like it.’
‘Yeah, I saw that.’ Tanner looked up towards the small camera on the side of the building. ‘What about the CCTV?’
‘Makes no difference. They always wear masks or have their hoods up. We pass the tapes on to the police, but nobody has ever been prosecuted.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘This morning there was a pig’s head on the doorstep.’ Nazir shook his head and took another drag.
Tanner watched him smoking for a few seconds. ‘Can you remember who you spoke to at the meeting?’
Nazir took a moment to think and his eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘You were there,’ he said. ‘You were sitting at the back. Why would you ask me where I was if you already knew?’
A man slightly younger than Nazir stepped across and laid a hand on his shoulder; asked if everything was all right. Nazir said that it was and the man walked away, though he did not go very far.
‘So?’
‘I talked to a lot of people,’ Nazir said. ‘Several of my friends are as concerned as I am about these attacks, so obviously I spoke to them. I talked to some of the organisers afterwards, too.’
Tanner tried not to react. The three men in control of the meetings: Bannerjee, Dhillon and Mansoor.
‘What did you talk to them about?’
‘I wanted to let them know I would be happy to help, get a bit more involved. They’ve got a website, but it’s pretty basic, so I offered to give them a hand with it. I talked to a lot of people.’
‘Do you know Haroon Shah?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you talk to him here, yesterday morning?’
‘I have a feeling that’s another question you know the answer to already.’
‘Can you tell me what you talked about?’
He waved an arm around slowly as though trying to recall the conversation, or to buy himself a few seconds. ‘He hadn’t been here for a while, so I said it was good to see him. I told him I was very sorry to hear about his sister. I presume you know about that?’
Tanner said that she did.
‘I told him that extra prayers were being said.’
‘What did Haroon say to you? Can you remember?’
‘Yes, of course. He was very happy to be among friends, happy to be here. We talked about how tragedy can sometimes bring back those who have drifted from their faith a little, how it can help them find their way back to God. How good can come out of evil.’
‘Every cloud, right?’ Tanner looked at him. ‘A silver lining.’
‘Yes, if you want to put it like that.’
Before Tanner could ask any more questions, another man arrived from behind her and moved close to Nazir. He nodded politely at Tanner, said, ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I need to drag Ilyas away.’ He looked at Nazir. ‘We need to talk about those network problems before tomorrow’s meeting. I still haven’t seen the spreadsheet.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Nazir said. ‘I have to go.’
Tanner guessed that he had managed to catch the other man’s eye over her shoulder, to signal that he needed ‘rescuing’. She and Susan had done the same thing more than once, on those rare occasions when one had been dragged along to a work do by the other and found herself pinned against a wall by someone desperate to discuss teacher shortages or morale among beat officers.
‘No problem,’ she said. ‘You’ve been a big help.’
Nazir dropped his cigarette and stood on it. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ There was a glimpse of that smile before his friend ushered him away. ‘You know where you can find me.’
Tanner walked back to her car, thinking that a name was somewhere to begin, and about those who claimed to live by certain rules, as long as they could pick and choose.
Thou shalt not steal, but it’s OK to cheat on your taxes. Love thy neighbour, as long as he believes in the same God you do, and he’s not gay.
Thinking about Amaya, Kamal, Meena.
Susan…
Do not harm yourselves or others.
Wondering which part of that simple commandment was so hard to understand.
FORTY-SEVEN
‘You’re funny when you’re pissed,’ Helen said.
‘What?’
‘You want some tea?’ She walked across and flicked the kettle on.
‘I’m not pissed.’
Helen turned and grinned at him.
Thorne grinned back at her as he sat down at the kitchen table. He hadn’t stopped grinning since he walked in. ‘OK, pissed… ish.’
‘How many did you have?’
Thorne shrugged. ‘Not many. Four?’ The grin became a grimace at the taste of the ‘spiced Mexican melt’ he’d eaten in the Royal Oak. The pub’s signature burger, according to the menu. Hendricks, who had also eaten one, had pronounced the signature ‘distinctly fucking illegible’.
‘Did you drive?’
Thorne was peering at his phone, slowly stabbing at the keys.
‘Tom?’
Thorne looked up, blinked.
‘Did you drive?’
He shook his head. ‘I left the car there. Got the Tube to Brixton then a bus up the hill.’ He carried on, laboriously trying to type. ‘Buses are quite nice, aren’t they? Haven’t been on a bus for ages.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m trying to text Nicola Tanner… just… bloody autocorrect.’ He put his phone down. ‘Sod it, I’ll do it tomorrow.’
‘Why are you texting her?’
‘Just to tell her that I’ve managed to get Russell onside.’
Helen mashed the teabag in Thorne’s mug. ‘How pissed was he?’
‘No idea. Good though, don’t you reckon? I mean we’ll probably have to stick with the whole missing persons business for a while, you know… like Kamal’s still our prime suspect… but at least I don’t have to pretend we aren’t doing all the other stuff. He knows we’re on to something and that’s the main thing.’ He laughed. ‘Phil chipped in, you know? Helped me persuade him… like a pincer movement or whatever. “Spit-roasted him”, that’s what Phil said.’
‘Yeah, that’s what Phil would say.’ Helen car
ried the tea across and put it down. ‘And Russell’s fine about you working with Tanner, is he?’
‘Well, he didn’t say he wasn’t.’ He picked up his tea, blew on it. ‘Buses are so much nicer than they used to be, don’t you think?’
He began humming a song that had been playing while he’d been in the pub, though he would not have been able to name it and would have been horrified to discover who it was by. Helen smiled.
‘What?’
‘You are funny when you’ve had a drink.’
‘Thank you.’
‘A bit louder and a bit… happier.’
‘I’m always happy.’
‘Some people get a bit nasty when they’ve had a few, don’t they? Phil can get chopsy, for a start.’
‘Yeah, well, he’s northern.’
‘You actually get nicer when you’re drunk.’
‘So.’ Thorne narrowed his eyes, mock-serious. ‘You saying I’m nasty when I’m sober?’
‘Well…’
‘Fair enough.’ He picked up his phone again and studied it. ‘I’ll settle for that.’
‘Have you spoken to Tanner about these two men still being around? About the fact that she might want to be careful?’
‘She’s not stupid,’ Thorne said.
‘No, but sometimes when you’re obsessed with one thing, you can miss something else that’s blindingly obvious.’
‘I’m sure she knows,’ Thorne said. ‘I definitely mentioned it.’
Helen stood up and walked across to the sink. ‘Yeah… you’re probably right. She strikes me as the type who doesn’t like to admit there’s anything to be scared of.’
Thorne nodded and hummed through the fuzzy remembrance of saying something about the two hired killers to Hendricks in the pub; Tanner in his car and a picture of six tiny white feet.
‘You do know that’s a Coldplay song, don’t you?’
Thorne wasn’t listening. He nodded again and sipped his tea. He said, ‘I think Nicola Tanner can take care of herself.’
Tanner felt something move across her face and woke up choking. She sat up quickly and heard the thump as the cat that had been pawing at her chest jumped, yowling to the floor.
The bedroom was hot and full of smoke.
She threw herself out of bed and stumbled to the light switch, but the room stayed dark. Blacker than dark. Even if the lights had not already fused and she had still been wearing the contact lenses she had taken out before going to bed, she would have been unable to see what was six inches in front of her. The smoke was thick enough to feel as it rolled across her arms and legs and, gasping for air, it felt as though she was breathing in oily water.
She knew she had to think fast.
She needed to cover her face.
The front bedroom was her best chance.
Get down…
She knew it was important to stay as low as possible, that any clean air would always be nearer the floor. She dropped to the carpet and began to crawl towards the door. Holding her breath, struggling to focus, the smoke she had already inhaled burning in her chest.
The phone was down in the hall.
Her mobile was in her handbag in the kitchen.
The only way out was upstairs.
She pulled the door a few inches further open and squeezed out on to the landing. Her face was pressed into the carpet and she could hear the crackle from below through the boards. Looking down into the shifting wall of smoke, she could see the glow of the fire downstairs, the flames that had begun to climb.
She sucked in fumes as something shattered loudly downstairs, turned away from a surge of heat and the next moment she had no idea where she was. She groped forward, feeling nauseous and disorientated, struggling suddenly with the familiar geography of her own home.
Come on…
Bathroom to her left: she could soak a towel to cover her head. She peered into the blackness. Front bedroom to her right: no more than a few feet down from there to the sloped roof above the bay window. She needed to go left, then right… quickly.
She turned sharply and cried out as her head smacked hard into the newel post at the top of the stairs.
A few seconds, ten, until the pain gave way to panic.
She would not have enough time.
She moved quickly backwards into the blackness towards her bedroom; towards where she guessed her bedroom was. Hands sweeping the floor until she felt the burn of the metal carpet divider, before she dragged herself across the threshold, reached for the door and slammed it shut.
Keeping low was safest, she knew that, but it was taking too long. There wasn’t time to play things by the book. She took a deep breath, retched as she took the poison into her lungs, then got to her feet and ran to the window.
It would not open.
She screamed with the effort, but the frame would not shift.
Susan had painted the damn thing shut.
Remembering the bottle of water on her bedside table, she launched herself towards the bed. She grabbed for the T-shirt she had taken off the night before and quickly soaked it before clamping the material across her mouth and nose.
Minutes, now; she had no more than that.
She turned back to the window. A twenty-foot drop on to the patio below, maybe fifteen if she could hang on to the window ledge. It wasn’t like she had a lot of choice.
She fought to picture the room, to locate an object in the dark she could use to break the glass.
The lamp, unreachable, plugged in somewhere behind the bed.
The heart-shaped box she kept jewellery in. Soapstone, heavy…
She moved for it, then stopped.
The cat. Where was the fucking cat?
She removed the T-shirt from her mouth and called the cat’s name. Gagged as she shouted. She dropped to the floor and moved her arms back and forth, searching beneath the bed, once, twice… until she could barely lift them.
Every ounce of strength in her was gone.
Easy enough to just close her eyes against the stinging of the smoke and the tears. To crawl beneath the bed or clamber on to it; curl up and let it happen. She knew she would lose consciousness before the flames arrived…
A thought.
A basic instinct, the most basic. A jolt of adrenalin and a surge of energy, but it all began with a thought.
I will not die face down on an oatmeal carpet. Not both of us.
She reached for the edge of the bed and hauled herself to her feet. She lurched towards the door, which she knew would very soon begin to crack and blister. The doorknob was not yet hot enough to burn.
I’m not going anywhere without the cat. Without Susan’s cat.
Tanner pressed the soaking T-shirt to her face, opened the door and stepped back out on to the landing.
FORTY-EIGHT
Thorne could smell it as soon as he turned on to Tanner’s road, well before he saw the cones and the crime-scene tape, the line of vehicles parked outside the house. A couple of marked cars either side of the CSI van, several others that probably belonged to exhibits officers and fire service techs. He recognised Tanner’s blue VW Golf parked fifty feet away. It had recently been cleaned and, unlike those parked nearer to the house, was not coated in soot.
She would have been pleased about that.
He showed his ID to a uniformed constable and walked across Tanner’s front garden. Forensic equipment had been arranged on a trestle table on the small patch of grass and a number of fire-damaged items had already been laid out on a sheet of white plastic: shoes; a singed blanket; what looked like one of the prints he’d seen on the wall in Tanner’s front room. He couldn’t tell which one.
Stedman – the officer from the Fire Investigation Unit Thorne had spoken to on the phone – was waiting for him by what was left of Tanner’s front door. It hung oddly, warped and splintered, though it was hard to tell how much of the damage was down to the fire and how much to the firefighters who had kicked it in just after three o’clock in
the morning.
Stedman reached into a cardboard box and handed Thorne a blue forensic suit, gloves and a mask. He watched as Thorne took his jacket off and climbed into them.
‘OK?’
‘Fine,’ Thorne said. ‘Just the smell.’
Stedman swigged from a bottle of water. The suit made it all but impossible to tell how old he was, but the accent was most definitely Scottish. ‘I would have thought you Homicide boys smelled much worse things than this.’
Thorne leaned against the fence to pull on a plastic bootee. ‘My father died in a house fire.’
‘Oh.’
‘A while back.’
Stedman nodded, then stepped away and spent half a minute or so pointlessly rearranging the items on the trestle table until Thorne was ready.
‘Let’s have a look then,’ Thorne said.
The reek was even stronger inside. The hall carpet had burned through to the underlay, its remains damp and spongy underfoot. The walls were jet black and the glass in the large mirror was cracked and coated in soot. Thorne glanced up past the charred spindles on the stairs then put his head round the living room door. He nodded to a CSI working near the bay window. The damage in there was less severe, though the walls were every bit as black and a layer of soot lay across the sofas and TV.
He turned back to Stedman. ‘No doubt, then?’
Stedman shook his head and pointed to a square of blackened floorboards just inside the front door, from where what was left of the carpet had been removed. ‘Obvious evidence of accelerants there. We’ll need to analyse the ILR… ignitable liquid residue… but I’m guessing a rag soaked in petrol or paraffin and stuffed through the letterbox. Same thing at the back of the house.’
He walked away towards the kitchen and Thorne followed, noticing another CSI crouched on the landing at the top of the stairs. Scraping and bagging.
In the kitchen, Stedman pointed again. ‘Put it through the cat flap, see?’
Once again, a square had been removed from what remained of the twisted linoleum. Once Thorne had finished coughing and lowered his mask to spit in the sink, he looked around. The cupboards had burned back to their frames and the black walls were still slick with foam and water. The door of the dishwasher was open and he could see that the innards had melted, fusing with the blackened crockery inside.
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