Babel

by Barry Maitland

  ‘I’m afraid the forensic evidence is pretty overwhelming. Both his gloves and his coat were impregnated with the same gunshot residue that was on Max’s clothes.’

  She stared at him in disbelief, as if genuinely unable to reconcile this with something else in her mind.

  ‘Why do you doubt it so strongly?’ Brock pressed her.

  ‘Because . . . because I knew Abu. He wasn’t a mad fanatic. And he didn’t hate Max.’

  ‘How do you know that? Did he know Max?’

  Her eyes shifted away. She sipped her drink. ‘We discussed Max, as my tutor, and because he’d attacked Abu’s boss, Haygill. Abu thought it was rather silly, that’s all. I couldn’t even get him to have a decent argument about it, you know, the ethics of what they’re trying to do and all that.’

  ‘Sometimes people are very good at not showing what they really think, Briony. Especially if they’ve had painful experiences in the past. Did you know he was detained by the Israelis for a time when he was a teenager? Did he ever talk about that?’

  Briony shook her head, the same frown of bafflement on her face.

  ‘And Max was Jewish, wasn’t he?’

  ‘But not practising. He didn’t even support a lot of what the Israelis have done. That’s what I’m saying. You should read the book.’

  Brock said, ‘OK,’ and reached up for Springer’s book. ‘And how’s your work going now?’

  ‘Nowhere.’ She turned away. ‘It’s impossible without him.’

  ‘But wouldn’t he want you to finish it? Surely that would be the best thing you could do to honour his memory?’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that. It has no meaning now, like empty labour. I just feel sick when I think about it. Each day I go in there and sit at the table and hope that he’ll tell me what I should do.’ She pushed the glass aside and walked away.

  15

  Brock made some phone calls, getting the address of a refuge in East London where he could take Nargis. He also spoke to the duty inspector at Tooting police station, and was advised that Mr Manzoor and his companions had been interviewed under caution, then released pending further inquiries. They had claimed to be mourners who had become involved in a minor scuffle when Mr Manzoor had attempted to make contact with his runaway daughter whom he had recognised at the scene. The so-called clubs they were carrying were in fact traditional Kashmir walking sticks. Manzoor demanded that the police execute the warrant issued by the magistrate for the return of his daughter and prosecute anyone who attempted to obstruct it. In particular he wished to make a complaint against a woman police officer at the scene who had made a racist attack on him, injuring his right arm.

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ Brock said. ‘I was a witness to the whole thing.’

  ‘That may be so, sir,’ the inspector said, ‘but I’ve had to follow procedure and notify CIB.’

  Brock’s heart sank. The Complaints Investigation Bureau would follow up any accusation of racial abuse against an officer with vigour. ‘Where is Manzoor now?’ he asked.

  ‘He was given a medical examination here, sir, then taken to hospital for X-rays and further treatment. He had quite a bit of swelling and bruising, and he’d worked himself up into a fair old state. You say you were a witness, sir? Maybe you could come over and give a statement.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Brock shook his head impatiently, wishing now that he’d used some other way to shake off the purple car.

  ‘And what about the daughter, sir? Any information on where we can find her?’

  ‘I think you’ll find that the warrant he referred to covered the East London area,’ Brock said vaguely. ‘You might speak to Shadwell Road. They have the details.’

  ‘Very well . . .’ Brock could hear the caution in the inspector’s voice as he tried to pick his way through what was becoming a minefield—a race complaint against an officer, a DCI from Serious Crime, a warrant for an abducted girl . . . ‘You won’t be approaching Mr Manzoor yourself, will you, sir? Only, if you’re a witness it might be . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ Brock said tersely and rang off. All the same, he knew the man was right.

  While the three women sat huddled together around the gas fire, discussing what they should do, Brock took Kathy into the kitchen and told her what he’d learned. She went pale when he mentioned CIB.

  ‘Now, look, you’ve got plenty of witnesses, Kathy. You used minimum force to prevent a serious assault.’

  ‘I don’t know for sure he was going to assault her,’ she said, feeling her heart thumping, adrenalin flushing through her as surely as if the assault on her was a physical one. ‘I didn’t know it was him, or his daughter.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And I can’t remember if I identified myself before I hit him.’

  ‘There was no time. It all happened too quickly. I saw it very clearly, Kathy. You acted quickly and properly.’

  She looked at him directly. ‘But then, you would say that, wouldn’t you? You’re my DCI. That’s what CIB3 will say.’

  There were three complaints departments. CIB1 was administrative and advisory, while CIB2 investigated serious allegations. The third department, CIB3, was different. Its task was to search for police corruption and racism in an undercover, proactive way, even without complaints. The case against Kathy might be investigated by CIB2, but Brock and the others might be tainted by it and become a target for CIB3.

  ‘Let’s not get carried away,’ Brock said. ‘Manzoor’s putting up smoke, covering up his hurt pride. But maybe he’s got more than that to hide.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘If he came to the funeral in the hope of catching his daughter, then he must have known that Abu Khadra was her boyfriend, right? So when and how did he make this discovery? If someone at Chandler’s Yard tipped him off that she was there, why didn’t he just tell the police and get them to execute the warrant? Why wait till the funeral?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ Then something kicked in Kathy’s memory. ‘When was it . . .?’ she said slowly, thinking. ‘On the day after Abu was killed, yes, the Wednesday afternoon, I went back to Shadwell Road, just to sniff around.’

  ‘What? You were supposed to be on leave, Kathy. Russell had taken over the case.’

  ‘I know, but Bren had been going on about how quickly everything had happened, and I was curious. That’s when I met Manzoor—that’s how he recognised me this afternoon. The barman at The Three Crowns had mentioned that he’d seen Manzoor talking to one of the skinheads, so I went into his shop and asked him. He said he’d just tried to persuade the man not to make trouble. Then, when I was leaving, he asked me kind of casually if I knew where Abu had lived. Was it in Chandler’s Yard, or was it the university?’

  ‘You’re thinking that he must have known then that Abu was the boyfriend? And if he knew on the Wednesday, why not earlier, before Abu was killed? But how?’ Brock thought about that. ‘It’d be a terrible irony if I told him, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, suppose he knew the boyfriend’s name, but nothing else. Then Bren and I turn up at the mosque looking for someone of that name and with a picture as well, and one of the other men there says they think that man goes to the mosque in Chandler’s Yard . . . What would Manzoor do?’

  ‘Tell the skinheads?’ Kathy asked softly. ‘Deliberately get Abu killed? Is that possible?’

  ‘It felt as if we were set up,’ Brock furrowed his brow, thinking back. ‘As soon as we stepped out of the alleyway. The crowd waiting for us, the skinheads in the pub doorway falling into step behind, the flying wedge from the front, the sneak attack from the back. Yes, it did feel like we’d been set up, but I put that down to my paranoia at having failed to bring Abu in alive.’

  He reached for the phone again, flicking through the pages of his notebook until he found a number that he dialled. ‘Superintendent Russell, please,’ he said. ‘This is DCI Brock, in connection with the Springer/Khadra inquiry.�
��

  He waited, both of them tense. Kathy began pacing the couple of yards from one side of the kitchen to the other, chewing her lip.

  ‘Cyril!’ Brock said at last, crouching forward over the instrument as if he could focus himself down the line.

  ‘Evening, Brock. Saw you at the service this morning.’

  ‘Yes. I went to the Khadra interment this afternoon, too.’

  ‘So I understand. I gave clearance. You must have been about the only one there, weren’t you? We kept it very quiet. Unfortunately our crew was called away on another matter just beforehand. Everything go off all right?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Cyril. Some outsiders followed the mourners to the cemetery and caused a bit of bother.’

  Russell swore softly, then listened as Brock told him what had happened. Despite the silence from the other end of the line, Brock could imagine quite clearly what was going through the other man’s head. He was within a year of retirement, Brock knew, after a highly distinguished career. The Springer/Khadra case was a potential minefield and his rapid closure treatment of it may have been precipitate, wishful thinking. They had gone to pains to keep the arrangements for Abu’s burial confined to the few people involved, but the absence of a police escort had been, in retrospect, a serious lapse, and uncharacteristic of Russell, normally a punctilious manager.

  ‘I hope I don’t presume too much, Cyril,’ Brock said, having painted the bleak picture, ‘when I say that I regarded ourselves as being your representatives, even though technically both DS Kolla and I were on leave at the time. We felt our earlier involvement made it appropriate for us to play such a role, in the absence of other police presence.’

  Silence, then, ‘I see.’

  Brock knew that Russell was perfectly well aware that if he was being offered, not a life raft perhaps, but at least a life jacket, then there was a price tag attached.

  ‘We’ve been going over a few ideas about Manzoor and his role in all this, Cyril, and we’ve got some thoughts we’d like to share with you, which might even impact on your report. If you thought that would be proper.’

  Russell cleared his throat, then said, ‘I think it would be essential, Brock, if they have a bearing on my inquiry. What sort of thoughts?’

  ‘I wonder if you could tell me if any of your skinhead suspects mentioned anything about being helped, or even encouraged, by the Asians.’

  ‘One of them, a little thug by the name of Wilson, said he talked to some of the Asians in the crowd and they told him about Abu and what he was being arrested for. He said he passed this on to his friends in the pub, but of course denies having anything to do with what followed.’

  ‘Nothing more specific than that? About a particular Asian, perhaps, egging them on?’

  ‘I don’t recall anything specific, but I can check the transcripts of his interviews. You think Manzoor played a more active role?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. However, I’m constrained by the fact that we had to call for back-up from the local force, with whom Manzoor has now laid this complaint against my DS, and being myself a witness to what happened, I can’t be seen to be hounding the man.’

  ‘Ah.’ Russell was beginning to get the picture. ‘Well, let me say, Brock, that although I can’t interfere in any way with what CIB may do, I will certainly lend every support to my people on the ground, including, on this occasion, you and your sergeant. And if either of you have further information . . .’

  ‘Not information, Cyril. What I’m suggesting is that it may be necessary for me to participate with you in having a closer look at Manzoor’s involvement in all this. Not Sergeant Kolla, of course. She can’t possibly be involved while there’s an outstanding complaint against her.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, if you’re fit for duty, Brock, I can’t see any obstacle to that proposal. None at all. Sounds very reasonable.’

  Brock replaced the phone as tenderly as if it were made of fragile porcelain. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good. Now let’s get these people off our hands and get down to work.’

  ‘Brock,’ Kathy said cautiously. ‘Suzanne was expecting me to get you back to Battle in time for dinner tonight. Do you think you should phone her?’

  ‘Oh, Lord. Yes, yes, of course.What the hell do I say?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell her I beat up a suspect and now you’ve got to save me from the CIB.’

  Brock winced and turned back to the phone. Kathy tactfully left him alone and returned to the living room to check on the women. They seemed remarkably comfortable, even Nargis, who was sipping at a weak whisky and water, presumably prescribed by Briony. Both she and Fran had pulled their scarves back, letting their hair fall free, and in the glow of the fire the three of them looked like students comparing notes on boys or movies rather than women grieving the dead.

  From time to time Kathy went to the door and picked up phrases from Brock’s conversation, ‘Knocked him flying with her baton . . . Not a scratch . . . Now that’s unfair, Suzanne, Bren and I were surrounded by dozens . . . She may well be fitter than me, but . . . Anyway, I’ve got to get her out of this mess . . . But you know I can’t drive with this leg . . .’

  Kathy returned to her armchair before Brock appeared at the door, looking more drained than after his conversation with Superintendent Russell. ‘Well, now, ladies,’ he said wearily. ‘Let’s get you sorted, shall we?’

  After they dropped Nargis and Briony at the refuge, Kathy drove on towards Shadwell Road with Fran who was anxious to get back to her husband George. She directed them to approach the area through the neighbouring back streets, parking the car at the end of a short lane that connected with the far end of Chandler’s Yard. By this way they were able to arrive at the illuminated front of the Horria Café without going into Shadwell Road itself. As Kathy kept pace with Brock’s limping steps, Fran ran ahead into the café. From the darkness of the yard they watched her joyful reunion with her husband inside. There was a crowd this evening in the Horria, and they saw Qasim enthroned in the centre, a bandage round his head like a turbaned potentate.

  Brock pulled the door open, was hit by warm smells of cooking and a hubbub of noise, and hobbled in. Immediately the noise died away and he found himself standing there facing a wall of implacable faces. For a moment he felt like the clown who opened the wrong door and found himself inside the cage of man-eating tigers. Then someone shouted something and pointed, and the faces immediately lit up and a great roar of approval echoed round the café walls. Only they weren’t looking at him. He turned and saw Kathy at his shoulder, grinning at them, and then they were clapping, the claps falling into a chanting rhythm, and Qasim hoisted himself off his seat and lumbered forward and grabbed her hand and led her into their midst.

  Ignored, Brock stood by the door watching as George and Qasim demonstrated with flashing arm gestures the way in which Kathy had felled Manzoor. They urged her to produce her weapon and demonstrate it before them all, but she modestly declined, and murmured a few words to Qasim who reluctantly waved Brock over and seated them both at what was apparently the table of greatest status in the Horria. Here was already seated an old man whose leathery features were embellished with a magnificent large moustache and an embroidered skullcap.

  ‘This is my grandfather, also called Qasim Ali,’ Qasim explained. Grandpa Qasim was the patriarch, the doyen of merchants and wisest of men. He gracefully welcomed his guests while Qasim junior explained that, when he was a boy, before the Pakis had become so numerous, his grandfather had owned several shops and warehouses on Shadwell Road and had been the principal businessman in the neighbourhood. He had also been the king of the trade in qat, a narcotic leaf chewed by Yemenis, which Grandpa Qasim flew in twice a week to London from Ethiopia and Kenya, and stored in fridges that used to fill the rear store- room of the Horria, freshness being of the utmost importance to the connoisseur of qat.

  ‘Those days are gone,’ Qasim junior said sadly. ‘In those days any man foolish enough to interrupt a f
amily burial would have ended up in a grave himself. But look at us today, shamed by those Paki cowboys. Only Kathy came out of it well.’

  ‘I know what you mean, Qasim,’ Brock nodded, rubbing his knee.

  ‘Oh, but yours was a great battle, two against hundreds. You couldn’t help what happened to Abu.’

  ‘How do you think Manzoor knew that Abu and his daughter were close?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I can tell you that nobody here, in Chandler’s Yard, told him. If they had, he’d have known that she was here . . .’ he pointed up at the ceiling, ‘all the time.’

  ‘Her room is up there?’

  ‘Top floor, in the attic above the mosque, across the landing from George and Fran.’

  ‘And Abu spent a lot of time with her there?’

  Qasim shrugged. ‘It’s not something the imam would approve, perhaps, but they’d both experienced suffering, and who were we to say they weren’t good for each other?’

  ‘I know about Nargis’ story, but what suffering had Abu experienced?’

  ‘I don’t know all the details, but he came from a poor family in Lebanon, and they went through some very bad times and he got into some kind of trouble. But he was lucky, he said. He might have become a kid of the streets or maybe a terrorist, but instead he got a sponsor who helped him get an education. He went to university in Saudi or the Gulf, and when he was qualified he got a job from this professor who brought him over here. He said he owed this man everything. He said he was like a father to him.’

  ‘Professor Haygill?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. He just said this English professor had saved his life.’

  They were interrupted by several women from Qasim’s kitchen who began to bring dishes to the table, containing stews and loaves of flat bread. ‘A feast for the heroes!’ Qasim announced, and then, in an undertone to Brock, added, ‘This is yer classic Yemeni asid. But I can do you steak and chips if you’d rather, eh?’ Brock said he’d stick with the stew, and everyone began to eat.