Thorne stood and walked towards the stage, stopping on the way to retrieve the cardboard box and smile at the woman in the green sari, who now looked even more nervous than before.
When he had reached the platform, Bannerjee and the others hurriedly moved their bowls and glasses aside so that Thorne could drop the box down on the table. He took the microphone that Bannerjee was offering him and turned to face the audience.
There were still one or two voices raised in dissent, so he gave it a few seconds.
‘Almost four weeks ago, two young people went missing.’ Thorne waited until he had their full attention. ‘Amaya Shah and her friend Kamal Azim, who were both just eighteen years old, were Bangladeshi Muslims.’ He turned and looked at Mansoor, who nodded gravely. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how concerned their families were and how distraught Amaya’s family was when her body was discovered nine days after she disappeared.’ He saw heads being shaken or lowered in sorrow and was aware that the same thing was happening on the stage behind him.
He unfastened the zip on his leather jacket.
‘While it was understandably terrible for Amaya’s family, the agony for Kamal’s loved ones continued, because he remained missing. But rather than sit there waiting for news they decided to do something, and as Kamal’s father runs a printing business they had T-shirts made with their son’s face on, in the hope that they might help spread the word.’ He reached behind him to touch the cardboard box. ‘In the hope that someone, somewhere, might recognise him and come forward with information.’
He slowly opened his jacket and eased it off.
There was a beat before those lowered heads began to crane forward and the pointing started.
Thorne carried on as though oblivious.
‘I’ve brought them with me tonight, so please feel free to take one – to take several – and, who knows, perhaps seeing one of these will jog someone’s memory…’ He stopped, as though confused by the shouting and the angry gestures, and looked down at the T-shirt he was wearing as though he had only just remembered that, above Kamal Azim’s face, the word MISSING had been crossed out and the word MURDERED scrawled above it in black marker pen.
‘Oh… this,’ he said.
He turned around so that Bannerjee, Dhillon and Mansoor could get a good look. When Bannerjee opened the box and began furiously pulling the T-shirts out to examine them, Thorne put his hand over the microphone and said, ‘I wouldn’t bother. They’re all exactly the same.’
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Dhillon asked.
Mansoor slammed his hand down on the tabletop. ‘This is not what we agreed to. You lied to us.’
Thorne shrugged, then turned back to the audience and spoke over the steadily increasing clamour.
‘Yes, Kamal Azim is missing,’ Thorne said. ‘But I very much doubt that he will ever be found, and certainly not alive. He was murdered by the same people that killed Amaya. The same people that fabricated forensic evidence to make it look as though he was responsible. The fact is their murders were arranged and paid for by people close to them, by people they loved and trusted, and I’m sure there are several people in this room who understand exactly what I mean by that.’
He stared out for a few seconds, letting the noise wash over him.
‘So, please help yourself to a T-shirt… they’re very good quality. Why not get one for a friend? Oh, and if anyone does have any information and feels brave enough to come forward, the phone number remains the same —’
Thorne stopped, aware suddenly that Bannerjee was standing next to him, red-faced and breathing heavily. He snatched the microphone from Thorne’s hand. Said, ‘That’s enough.’
‘Really? I thought I was going down pretty well.’
‘You should leave.’
Thorne picked up his leather jacket and folded it carefully across his arm. He leaned down suddenly to take hold of Bannerjee’s hand, pulled the microphone back to his mouth and said, ‘Thanks for your time.’ Then he marched down the stairs and out towards the door.
He smiled at the woman in the green sari as he passed her.
Doing his best to ignore the industrial language being spat in his direction, including several comments about his mother that were less than flattering, Thorne remained well aware of one man in particular; a man he had spotted within moments of arriving at the meeting, and whose dark eyes never left him as he walked towards the back of the hall.
His face oddly expressionless beneath the gold skullcap.
Those gathered in an ugly scrum outside were making almost as much noise as those in the hall. There were only about a dozen of them, but they’d come prepared with plenty of flags and banners; with well-rehearsed chants and less than artfully reworded football songs.
No surrender, no surrender, no surrender to the Taliban.
I’m England till the day I die.
Who the fuck, who the fuck, who the fuck is Allah?
Arms aloft in celebration of themselves, fists pumping in time to each bellowed chorus of tuneless bile.
A line of uniformed officers in high-vis jackets stood between the protesters and the entrance, barring any further progress and keeping them well away from a group of AHCA activists who looked more than ready to get stuck in. Thorne put his jacket back on. His palms were already slick with adrenalin as he reached for his warrant card and showed it to one of the officers. When the PC moved aside, Thorne stepped forward, until he was face to face with the individual who appeared to be co-ordinating the demonstration.
The singing petered out and finally stopped.
‘So, who are you lot, then?’ Thorne asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘EDL? Britain First? I suppose you could be the East London Gay Men’s Chorus.’
‘I’m a patriot,’ the man said.
‘Oh, really?’ Though several of those brandishing flags on either side of him looked predictably thuggish – bullet-headed; football shirts stretched across beer guts and barrel chests – their leader was skinny and rat-faced. He wore a cream-coloured polo shirt buttoned to the neck; a flag of St George was badly tattooed above the collar. ‘Proud Englishman, are you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Want to clear the scum off the streets?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Me too,’ Thorne said. ‘Only thing is, I think we might differ about exactly who the scum are.’ He pointed to the man’s tattoo. ‘You do know St George wasn’t English, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘Half Turkish, half Palestinian.’
‘Come again?’
‘Matter of fact, he’s patron saint to plenty of Muslims in the Middle East.’
The man blinked. ‘You’re talking bollocks, mate.’
Thorne leaned in close and lowered his voice. ‘I tell you what, mate, why don’t you ask your Neanderthal friends to toddle off home to their inflatable girlfriends, I’ll put my warrant card away, then you and me can go somewhere nice and quiet and settle this like men. Like Englishmen. What do you reckon?’
The man shifted from foot to foot. He sniffed and swallowed.
‘I thought not,’ Thorne said.
SIXTY-TWO
‘Is this Jad Hakim?’
‘Yes, who’s this?’
‘I’m sorry for calling so late,’ the man said. ‘We haven’t met, but I was told you have a problem that you’d like dealing with. A family problem?’
There was a long pause, filled only with the sound of breathing through the crackle on the line. The man who had made the call guessed that Hakim was now moving through his house, quietly closing doors behind him. Trying to find somewhere nice and private, where he could talk.
‘Yes, hello,’ Hakim said. ‘I’m here… sorry about that.’
‘It’s fine.’
There was the hiss of a deep breath being taken.
‘Take your time, Mr Hakim. Sit down. Maybe you should get a glass of water or something.’
‘I’m OK.’
‘Good. Well, let’s not waste any more time. I need to ask you a very important question before this conversation goes any further. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you still feel the same way you did when you spoke to Mr Nazir yesterday?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’m sorry, but that’s not good enough. If you aren’t one hundred per cent sure that you want to move ahead with this, I’ll just hang up now.’
‘No, I —’
‘I’m not calling with advice, you understand? I’m calling to discuss how we can get something done.’
‘Of course, yes. I’m sorry… I’m sure.’
‘One hundred per cent?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. It’s just a bit…’ A gulp, another deep breath.
‘I understand.’ He knew exactly what Hakim was going through, because this was the way it usually went, the way it should go. The apprehension and the dread, the squirm of terror deep down in their guts. He could not recall a single client simply answering his call and saying, ‘Right, let’s do it.’ This was not insurance they were buying, after all. They were not debating whether to move house or splash out on a new car. This was not something that could be returned or undone.
They would have to live with it.
‘I have some questions,’ Hakim said.
‘I’d be worried if you didn’t.’
‘Well… how much it will cost.’
‘Really? That’s your first question?’
‘I need to know.’
The man sighed. ‘Obviously I will be talking to you about money at some point, and let me say straight away that the people I use for these things are professionals and you need to be prepared for that. But it bothers me that you think you can put a price on such things.’
‘I was just wondering.’
‘What’s the value of honour, Mr Hakim? Seriously, tell me. A hundred pounds? A thousand? How much is it worth, being able to hold your head up? For your father to walk down the street and look his friends and neighbours in the eye, and come home to a house that isn’t tainted with shame? Such things are priceless, surely. I mean, you must know that. It’s why you can’t sleep or concentrate on anything, why you and your father are so miserable all the time. Isn’t it why you reached out for help in the first place?’
There was another pause, then a soft, ‘Yes.’
‘OK then.’
‘And what you said about… professionals. That’s good to know.’
‘Is there anything else?’
‘I want to… be there. When it happens. Is that all right?’
‘Well…’ He was accustomed to certain requests. Particular methods or perhaps a location that meant something to the family. It wasn’t normally a problem. If such things were significant, he would always try to accommodate a client’s requirements.
‘I want her to know why. I want to see it… and I want it to be quick. That’s important.’
‘I’ll talk to the people responsible, but I’m sure we can sort it out.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So, tell me about Raheema.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Let’s start with her movements and routines. Places she goes or any regular appointments she might have.’ He reached for a notepad and pen. ‘We need to make arrangements.’
Riaz had taken business calls in deserts, in medieval towns and in the foothills of snow-capped mountain ranges. This was the first time he had done so while watching his partner try to knock a golf ball through the mouth of a skull, on the deck of a miniature pirate ship.
They had driven down to Brighton four hours earlier, at the tail end of the rush hour. Riaz had been keen to eat at a wonderful vegetarian restaurant he had discovered when he was in the city sending the fake email from Kamal Azim, and this time Muldoon had insisted on going with him. Riaz was not thrilled, but he was not surprised either. They had been in something approaching a state of limbo since the arson attack at Tanner’s house, and despite his best efforts, and much to his annoyance, he had been unable to shake his partner off for more than an hour or two.
‘I want to be there when the call comes,’ the Irishman had said. ‘I want to know when we’re getting our money.’
When the call had come – from a man he had spoken to many times, but never met – Riaz had been drinking herbal tea at a table near the booking office, overlooking a floodlit course festooned with Jolly Rogers and plastic parrots. Such a game was unquestionably a pastime for imbeciles, but even so he had been enjoying the sight of Muldoon growing increasingly frustrated at being held up by the family in front of him; red-faced and ready to bludgeon them all with his putter.
It had almost been a shame to look away.
‘Should be fairly straightforward,’ the broker had said towards the end. ‘The brother wants to be there, by the way.’
‘I can’t say I’m altogether comfortable with that.’
‘I’ve told him there will be a premium to pay and that will of course be passed on to you.’
The money meant less to Riaz than it did to his partner, and he had more than enough anyway, but he did not see much point in arguing. He said, ‘What about payment for the Tanner job? The Irishman’s nagging me about it.’
‘You’ll get that when this one’s done. Both payments together. Then I think it might be a good idea to disappear for a while.’
‘Happy to,’ Riaz said. ‘Just to get away from him.’
‘Obviously I’ll be in touch if other jobs come in, but in the meantime it would be best to keep your heads down. Let things settle. Tanner might be out of the way for a while, but now others are making a nuisance of themselves.’
‘So, when are we talking?’ He looked down at the name he had scribbled on a paper napkin. Raheema Hakim.
‘Within the week. It shouldn’t be too complicated. I’ll be in touch with the details, but I know you’ll want to do some work in advance, so I’ve got some useful information already…’
When the call had ended, Riaz looked up to see Muldoon striding across the course towards him, tossing his club away and kicking aside several other players’ balls as he came.
Riaz sipped his tea and waited.
‘So?’ Muldoon had clearly seen Riaz on the phone.
‘Another job.’
‘We finishing the copper?’
‘No. I think that’s been set aside for a while.’
‘Makes sense.’ Muldoon sat down. ‘I mean, what are we supposed to do, march in there dressed as doctors?’ He looked at Riaz. ‘You might get away with it, mind you. You know, plenty of your lot in hospitals and all that.’ He laughed, failing to notice Riaz wince at the sound of it. ‘But I don’t think anybody’s going to buy me as a quack.’
‘This is something else.’
‘Right, but what about —?’
‘We’re getting the money for both jobs when it’s done.’
‘Fair play, boss.’ Muldoon leaned back, seemingly satisfied. ‘So, what’s the story?’
‘Just the usual,’ Riaz said.
Muldoon nodded. ‘Usual’s good. Can’t be doing with any more of that complicated crap, fucking smoke alarms. Something nice and easy.’
Riaz let out a long breath and stared past him; out across Madeira Drive, towards the grey sky and the black sea beneath, crawling to kiss the shingle, then slinking away again. ‘As a matter of fact I think we already have the ideal scenario.’
SIXTY-THREE
Coming along the corridor, Thorne saw the door open and watched a man he recognised step out of Tanner’s room, exchange a word or two with the officer outside the door. There was still a list of those allowed access, but Tanner had insisted that it be enlarged a little, aware that some of her colleagues were keen to visit. Now, a warrant card was enough to get you inside.
DS Soran Hassani, acting SIO of what was nominally the Honour Crimes Unit, glanced up before he began w
alking. He had clearly spotted Thorne, but kept his eyes on the polished grey linoleum as he closed the gap between them.
‘You got time for a quick chat?’
‘As long as it is quick,’ Thorne said. ‘I’ve got a lot on.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Hassani smiled. ‘Busy man.’
They took the stairs to the small cafeteria three flights up. Hassani bought himself a latte and a tea for Thorne, folded the receipt into his wallet and carried their drinks across to a table near the window.
‘She’s doing well,’ he said.
Thorne nodded through the flutter of irritation in his chest, annoyed suddenly at Hassani’s show of concern for Tanner. We’re the ones who care about her, he thought. Me and Helen and Phil. It was momentarily disconcerting, how… territorial he felt. ‘Yeah, she’s on the mend.’
The small talk dispensed with, they turned to look out of the window at the same time, as though it had been rehearsed. The few seconds of calm before the commencement of hostilities. A line of yellow ambulances idled below them. Cars nosed along Artillery Lane looking for a parking bay and, visible in the gaps between buildings, the walls of HMP Wormwood Scrubs rose just a hundred metres away; dirty brown blocks and ornate Victorian turrets.
‘So, come on then.’ Hassani sat back and folded his arms. ‘What the hell was that stunt about last night?’
‘Stunt?’
‘At the meeting. Pissing about with T-shirts.’
Thorne cradled his mug. ‘I was asking the community for their help.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s modern policing. Inclusive, you know?’
‘Do you think I’m stupid?’
‘Is that a trick question?’
Hassani grunted and said, ‘I can see why Nicola wanted to work with you.’
‘I presumed it was something to do with my sunny disposition.’
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