Babel

by Barry Maitland

  ‘Let me get this straight, Kathy. They want us to reward them for not withholding crucial evidence in a major murder investigation?’

  Kathy smiled. ‘I knew you’d like it. She wants us to do this, not they. They don’t know about this at the moment. She wants your promise and mine that we’ll play ball, and then she’ll approach her boss.’

  Brock rubbed his beard thoughtfully. She smiled to herself at the familiar gesture, the bear ruminating.

  ‘Let me think about it,’ he said. ‘If young Wayne out there has really found what I think he has, then the fatwa line is looking increasingly solid. We may not need Ms Hancock’s special deal.’

  He got to his feet and opened the door, calling the others in. The inspector and the sergeant both shook their heads. Neither remembered seeing the green poster before, or knew who might have put it there. There were so many fly-posters, no one took much notice. And no, they couldn’t point to any particular religious groups or individuals who’d been giving trouble lately.

  ‘What about PC Talbot? Might he know? He seemed to know his way around here pretty well.’

  With great reluctance they agreed that he might know, except that he wasn’t talking to anyone.

  Brock dismissed them and turned to Kathy. She caught the calculating look in his eye and guessed what was coming before he opened his mouth. ‘Why me?’ she asked.

  ‘Because I’ve met him, and I think he might respond to you. He’s a good lad who’s been shafted by senior officers who should have been looking after him instead of their own backs. I promised him it wouldn’t happen, but it did, and now he doesn’t trust me either. It’s important, Kathy. You can see that.’

  It suddenly occurred to Kathy that Brock was testing her, trying to see if she was ready to go back to work. She felt the flutter of panic in her chest, and was surprised at how calm her voice sounded when she replied. ‘Is it really worth trying to push him if he’s got the Federation telling him not to cooperate?’

  ‘He knows all the locals and their stories. Like the Kashmiri next door whose daughter’s run away. He was telling me all about it. That’s the sort of person we need.’

  ‘What approach do you suggest?’

  ‘He’s an honest, decent bobby. Make him see that it’s his duty to help us. And impress on him that we haven’t time to muck about.’

  Greg Talbot’s home was a little rented flat about a mile from the police station. Kathy rang the doorbell and waited. Eventually it was opened a couple of inches to reveal a young woman’s face. It looked as if she’d been crying.

  ‘Mrs Talbot?’ Kathy said brightly, trying not to sound like a dodgy salesperson.

  ‘Are you from the Federation?’

  ‘No, I’m a detective, working on an important murder investigation . . .’

  First lie. The door began to shut.

  ‘We’re not speaking to anyone,’ the woman said, sounding faint.

  Kathy put her hand up to the edge of the door and slipped it in, so that the woman would be obliged to crush her fingers if she slammed it. ‘Please, I know the background to this. I just need ten minutes with Greg. It is very important.’

  ‘I don’t want him to speak to you.’

  Another voice, a man’s, sounded behind her. ‘Who is it, Shirl?’

  ‘A copper. Don’t talk to her.’

  The door opened tentatively and PC Talbot peered out at Kathy, who explained who she was.

  ‘The Federation have told me not to talk to anyone.’

  ‘I know, but something’s come up that you may be able to help us with. No one else can, Greg. It’s really important.’

  He hesitated, then finally stepped back and let her cross the threshold. His wife, who was in a dressing gown, glared at her, and Kathy had the impression that there had been a quarrel. In the background a baby began to cry, and the woman turned and marched away.

  ‘Shirley’s just come off her shift,’ Talbot explained. ‘She’s a nurse.’ He led Kathy through into a cramped living room where they sat down.

  ‘Look,’ she began, ‘I’m really sorry about what’s happened. My boss, DCI Brock, is very angry. He knew nothing about it.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ He sounded very tired. ‘I’m thinking of jacking it in, anyway. Shirley wants me to, and I reckon she’s right. Her young brother is earning twice what I am, and he gets home regular at six each night, and he doesn’t ’ave to put up with people wanting to poke him one, or trying to stick a syringe in ’is face.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. I’m looking to get out myself.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes. And I have nothing to complain about my boss. That must have been the worst thing for you, was it? Not having a boss who’d back you up.’

  ‘Yeah, that didn’t help. So why are you quitting?’

  Quitting. She wished he hadn’t used that word. ‘I had a rough time on my last case. It wasn’t the first time it’s happened. I think I’ve had enough.’

  He nodded sympathetically. ‘Yeah. We had a sergeant that happened to. Great bloke. Got attacked one night by three guys. He reckoned that was the end for him. Just couldn’t stomach it any more.’

  And that was what they’d say, she presumed. Couldn’t stomach it any more. Lost her bottle.

  ‘What exactly do you want from me?’

  Kathy took the photocopy of the green handbill from her pocket and handed it to the constable. ‘This was found in Springer’s room. We think it may have been intended as a threat. We haven’t been able to trace where it came from until we noticed one like it on a wall in Shadwell Road, not far from the police station. No one at the station knows who might have put it there. We wondered if you might.’

  Talbot handed it back with barely a glance. ‘None of them know? The sergeant? The inspector?’

  ‘Right.’

  He smiled bitterly. ‘No, well, they don’t get out much. Not on the beat, talking to people.’

  ‘Do you know, Greg?’

  ‘Yeah, I know who made this.’ He sat back as if he might say no more, then said, ‘They’re a crew calling themselves Islamic Action. Sounds impressive, but it’s really just three young lads who are pissed off with everything. Maybe I should join them. The leader is Ahmed Nathaniel Sharif. He gets real annoyed when you call him by his middle name. Left school two or three years ago. Quite bright really, but hasn’t got a job. People don’t like his attitude and the way he looks. He’s got dreadlocks and a feeble attempt at a beard.’

  ‘Arab?’

  ‘No, Paki, I suppose. Or Bengali. English anyway. He lives somewhere on the council estate east of Shadwell Road. The mosque will know. That’s the Twaqulia Mosque, just up the road from the police station. Speak to the imam, Mr Hashimi.’

  Kathy wrote it all down, checking the spelling. ‘Thanks, Greg. I appreciate that. Brock said you know the local characters, like the Kashmiri with the runaway daughter.’

  ‘Mr Manzoor? Yeah, well, I didn’t tell him the worst part.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Old man Manzoor reckons his daughter’s humiliated him in the eyes of his family, and people say he’s sworn to kill her when he finds her, and the bloke she’s with. He and his two brothers are out most nights after they close up shop, cruising the East End looking for her. They think she’s still around there somewhere. That’s the main reason we’re still keeping an eye open for her, to get to her before her dad does something stupid.’

  ‘Nasty. You know this young Sharif lad then, do you, Greg? Has he been in trouble?’

  ‘About six months ago he attacked The Three Crowns—that’s the pub on Shadwell Road, just across the way from the police station.’

  ‘Attacked it?’

  ‘Yeah. Marched in one Saturday lunchtime and announced that the pub was an offence in the eyes of God, or something, and started to smash the place up. The landlord and a few of the customers managed to restrain him after a bit, but not before there’d been a good bit of damage, both to th
e pub and to him.’

  ‘What did he get?’

  ‘Twelve months good behaviour. He wanted to be a martyr, see, and go to jail, but the magistrate wouldn’t oblige.’

  ‘So he can be violent?’

  ‘You mean, shoot Springer?’ PC Talbot rubbed his nose doubtfully. ‘I never thought of him as bad, really, but he fills his head with these crazy religious ideas. Maybe it makes him feel important, part of something.’

  ‘Greg, I think you should speak to my boss about this yourself. He tells me your inspector and sergeant have agreed to cancel your suspension and give you a private apology.’

  Greg nodded unhappily. ‘Yeah, I know. But the Federation want a public statement printed in The Job. Apparently there’ve been other cases like this, and they want to make an issue of it.’

  Kathy felt sympathetic. Through no fault of his own, circumstances had conspired to make life difficult for PC Talbot. ‘Yes, it’s hard. I suppose that’s up to you in the end. But meantime, we need your help. Will you come back with me and speak to Brock?’

  He stared gloomily down at his feet, then said, ‘I’ll talk to Shirley.’

  Kathy waited by the front door to see what the answer would be. She heard Shirley’s voice, angry, and wasn’t optimistic, but eventually Talbot appeared, pulling on a coat, and they went out to the car.

  He directed her to a lane running behind Shadwell Road, from which they turned into a yard behind the police station. Another vehicle was there, a van from which men were unloading folding screens. Kathy spotted Leon Desai among them, and guessed they were a forensic team, preparing to retrieve the green poster from the wall. Wayne O’Brien was with them, talking to Leon, and she said hello to them as she and Greg Talbot passed, avoiding Leon’s attempts to catch her eye.

  After they’d gone inside, the Special Branch man, who had been watching Kathy meditatively, turned to Leon and said, ‘What do you reckon on her, then? Know her, do you?’

  ‘Yes, I know her,’ Leon replied, but didn’t offer more.

  ‘Well, I reckon she’s dead gorgeous. I go for that arctic blonde look, and just a hint of haggard, like she had a heavy night last night, know what I mean?’

  Leon turned away with a discouraging frown. ‘No, can’t say that I do.’

  But Wayne wasn’t going to be put off. ‘Come on, old son. You must know something about her. Is she hitched?’

  ‘She’s not married, no,’ Leon said, his disapproval beginning to sound pompous.

  ‘Going steady?’

  Leon hesitated before replying. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ he said softly.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Just believe me, OK? Leave her alone.’

  But Wayne loved a challenge, and he hadn’t got where he was by taking things on trust.

  Inside the police station Brock shepherded the reluctant PC Talbot towards the interview room, ordering coffee and cakes from the reluctant desk sergeant. He turned to Kathy with a beam of satisfaction.

  ‘I knew you could do it, Kathy. Well done. I’m just sorry I had to involve you. You on your way back to Suzanne now? Give her my best.’

  He was in a hurry and she was being dismissed, she realised.

  ‘I’ve got one or two things to do in town,’ she said. ‘I’ll probably stay at my place tonight. What about the reporter, Clare Hancock?’

  ‘Do nothing. If she contacts you, tell her I’m thinking it over. Say it may be a day or two before we can give her an answer.’

  ‘Is that a good idea? Suppose she takes her material to someone else?’

  ‘I think she’s already worked out that we’re her best hope. At the moment it’s still our case.’

  He gave her a reassuring nod and turned away. Kathy dug her hands in the deep pockets of her coat, feeling suddenly dispensable and at a loss.

  ‘Hi there!’

  She turned to face Wayne O’Brien, a big infectious grin on his face. ‘It’s my lunchtime. How about you? Fancy another expedition into the Hindu Kush?’

  She smiled back, grateful. ‘Don’t they need you here?’

  ‘They can spare me for an hour. Come on.’

  7

  Brock walked alone to the steps which led up to the front door. It was unlocked, and he stepped inside without pulling on the iron bell handle. When he closed the heavy door behind him the noises of the street abruptly ceased. Inside was silence.

  Immediately in front of him, laid out on the cheap blue vinyl floor covering, were several pairs of shoes. He bent and removed his own, placed them alongside, and padded forward in his stockinged feet. The place smelled musty, as if years of irretrievable dust had settled in the cracks around the old skirtings and wooden floor boards whose irregularities his feet could feel through the vinyl. A stair with a heavy wooden banister rose steeply against the wall to his left, while ahead lay a corridor running to the head of another flight, leading downwards. He went that way, picking up the sound of dripping water as he approached the stairs and descended.

  He came to a white-tiled ablutions room, with taps and duckboards running along each flank and on both sides of a low central dividing wall, three or four dozen wash places in all. He was taking this in when a cough behind him made him turn. A man was watching him suspiciously from the stairs.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Brock said. ‘I would like to speak to the imam. Can you tell me where I might find him?’

  The man considered him without speaking for a moment, then said, ‘Follow me,’ and turned on his stockinged heel. Brock went after him, back up to the entrance, then up the long flight of stairs to the first floor, where the man told him to wait while he went through a door in a partition nearby. He was standing in the corner of a hall, surprisingly large, with timber-fronted balconies cantilevered around three sides, and half a dozen elaborate chandeliers suspended from the high ceiling. It was bare of all furniture, as if it might be used for dancing, except that the whole floor was carpeted. The pattern on the deep green carpet was a repeated motif of the yellow outline of a shape like a small pointed archway, or an artillery shell, and the disconcerting thing was that, instead of pointing towards one of the walls, in line with the geometry of the room, the carpet had been laid with the motifs all pointed at a skew angle, as if some great hidden magnet had swung them all off course.

  After a few minutes the man returned to the doorway and waved Brock through. In a small office, amid filing cabinets and the clutter of stationery, a small black-bearded man in a white skullcap and black gown looked up from the desk where he was writing.

  ‘Mohammed Hashimi,’ he said cautiously, unsmiling through his spectacles. ‘I am the imam. How may I help you?’

  Brock thanked him for seeing him, and asked if he might speak with him in private.

  The imam frowned, then nodded to the other man who had remained waiting at the door. He left, closing the door behind him, and Brock then explained who he was.

  Imam Hashimi invited him to sit, and said, ‘Our relations with the local police are excellent. What kind of help do you want from me?’

  ‘I’m working on a serious case. You may have read about it. The murder of a Professor Springer, at the university near here.’

  A tremor of alarm crossed the imam’s face, and he slowly bent to a side drawer in his desk and drew out a copy of that morning’s Herald, as if he were producing something dangerous or dirty that he hadn’t wanted to leave out in public view.

  His fingers touched the headline. Brock nodded confirmation.

  ‘But surely, we can’t help?’ The man’s Pakistani accent was modified by a soft nasal Yorkshire twang.

  ‘We’re trying to eliminate people from our inquiries. And we want to do it without barging into a community and causing unnecessary alarm. I believe you may be able to help us with some local people we’d like to speak to.’

  ‘You’ve got lists of people in our community?’

  ‘Not lists, no, no. Nothing like that.’ Brock tried to sound reassuring.
‘Just three lads who’ve been expressing some rather extreme views, I understand. I dare say that’s all it is, youthful exuberance, but I’d like to speak to them anyway. These are their names.’ He handed the imam a piece of paper.

  ‘Oh, Islamic Action,’ he murmured wearily.

  ‘Sharif has been in a bit of trouble in the past, hasn’t he, expressing his views in a fairly violent way?’

  The imam sighed. ‘A very stupid incident. Ahmed gets carried away by ideas and expresses the impatience that all young people feel from time to time, but in a most intemperate way. It’s good to see a young man taking a passionate interest in his religion, of course, but there was always something excessive about his piety. It would distress me very much if he’s done anything really bad. He is a bright, impressionable boy. The other two follow him for their own reasons.’

  ‘Where does Ahmed get his ideas from?’

  ‘Ideas are everywhere, Chief Inspector. He reads books, watches satellite TV programmes from the Middle East, and follows the web sites.’

  ‘I was thinking more in terms of human contacts. Is he in personal touch with any groups, here or overseas?’

  ‘If so I’m not aware of it. He probably wouldn’t tell me anyway. He’s always respectful to me, but I think he believes I’m too ready to accommodate and compromise. He is what the people back in Pakistan call a BBCD, a “British Born Confused Desi”. BBCDs have a problem with their cultural tradition, basically. They either reject it totally and try to become more English than the English, or they go to the other extreme and embrace it with a fanaticism that is embarrassing to those back home who still actually live in it.’

  ‘What about his family?’

  ‘Ah, yes. He lives with his mother who is a good, mildnatured woman who cannot control him. His father was white, and left them years ago. You can make what you want of that. Ahmed took his mother’s family name when he was a teenager and refused to answer to his father’s, whatever it was, I forget.’

  ‘What about this man Springer? Would Ahmed have known of him do you think?’

  ‘I can’t imagine how. I’ve never heard of him. As far as I know I’ve never heard his name mentioned. That’s what seemed so improbable when I read this story in the paper. I said to myself, a fatwa against whom? Surely this is nonsense. But dangerous nonsense.’