by Mason, Simon
‘All right, if that’s true it’s a bit weird. But this is the Gimp, Garv. He was a bit weird.’
‘He didn’t buy them to eat. He bought them for another reason.’
Felix screwed up his face. ‘What reason?’
Garvie didn’t answer. He dropped the sweet back into the bin and stood there lost in thought. At last he moved away and started looking at the packets of tablets on the windowsill. Over his shoulder he said, ‘When I went into Jamal’s the other day, Khalid told me he was getting protection.’
‘He’s been telling everyone that. Hundred-and-sixty-pound mastiff from the Safeguard Kennels on the Limewalk Road. He’s going off the rails if you ask me. He was done for gun possession last year, remember? There’s security-minded and there’s asking for trouble.’
‘Why does he need it? ’Cause of the break-ins?’
‘I guess. Unless it’s true he’s putting up storage for Blinkie. Alex would know.’
‘Alex told me he doesn’t.’
‘I don’t know, man. They used to be tight. Word was, Alex owed Blinkie.’
Garvie thought about that. After a while he said, ‘What do you know about Sajid?’
‘Khalid’s kid brother? Nothing. Khalid gives him a hard time, apparently. You could ask Dani. His brother’s in Sajid’s class, I think.’
Garvie nodded. ‘Good.’
There were noises downstairs, a door opening and closing, voices.
‘Time to go,’ Garvie said.
Felix nodded. ‘Well? Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘No.’
‘Never mind. Can’t win them all.’
‘You don’t understand, Felix. I was hoping not to find it.’
‘Not find what, then?’
‘The violin. It’s missing. As I thought it would be.’
16
Dowell stood in front of the operations board, his pale face shining evenly. He had the exhausted, cheated look of a man who had spent the night trying to find an itch. He said, ‘I have to be in a news shout in ten so let’s keep it short. I said we wouldn’t lose the message. We’re losing the message.’
He gestured at his desk, where one of the morning’s newspapers lay, headline uppermost – Police Clueless about Aspi Kid.
‘Now’s the time to take the message back. OK. Where are we with the murder weapon? Darren?’
‘Nothing. The site’s been searched. No sign of it.’
‘Have it searched again. What about the gun the kid had? Where did he get it?’
‘No leads as yet. We know it was stolen, that’s all. We’ve hauled in all the local guys but we can’t pin it on any of them, and they know it. Probably half of them have shifted a Webley in the last year, but they’re not telling us who to, and the only names we get are the usual suspects.’
‘What’s your gut?’
‘They don’t know any more than we do.’
‘Extend the search to Heeley. I want more traders pulled in. Someone somewhere knows that gun. We need to know who had it before the kid. All right, what about Gimpel? Doug?’
‘All the interviews confirm what we knew already. He’s a typical high-functioning Asperger’s kid, had difficulty with social relationships, a restricted range of interests. Borderline obsessive. Highly competent in mathematics and music. Some motor impairment, not serious. Anger management issues resulting in minor incidents, such as the one reported by his music teacher, but no history of violence. Extremely routinized: he did the same thing every day. Went to school by the same route, came home by the same route, watched the same TV shows, ate the same food, played the same computer games, went to bed at exactly the same time every day.’
‘Opportunities for meeting Magee?’
‘Nil. All his time over the last few months can be accounted for. Home, school, orchestra practice. That’s it.’
‘Didn’t he have any friends at all? No one he saw socially?’
‘No one. He didn’t see anyone, he didn’t go anywhere. Literally. When he came home from school he stayed in.’
‘He went to the industrial estate at two o’clock in the morning with a handgun.’
Williams was silent. ‘Nothing in his history explains why he did that.’
Dowell chewed his lip. ‘OK. Darren, where are we with the school? You know how important it is, politically.’
‘Our biggest team’s on it. We’ve had a permanent presence there since day one. No one can be in any doubt how seriously we’re taking it.’
He nodded. ‘And the interviews?’
‘Everyone. All the teachers, half the students, some of them twice.’
‘Results?’
‘Nothing. The kid turned up, went to his lessons, orchestra practice, whatever, and went home. He didn’t get into trouble. He hardly ever talked to anyone.’
There was a brief silence in the room.
Singh said, ‘What about his extra maths tuition? The Gimpels mentioned it.’
Collier said, ‘Tuesday afternoons, after orchestra practice. Details in the file.’
‘I couldn’t find the name of the teacher. Was it his regular maths teacher?’
Collier hesitated. ‘In the file,’ he repeated.
Singh said, ‘It’s only a detail, but if everything else in Pyotor’s schedule is accounted for—’
Dowell said, ‘All right, all right. Darren, reinterview the teacher. Let’s move on. What about the kid’s computer? Doug?’
‘The lab boys are looking at it now. Early reports are it’s full of photographs.’
‘Photographs of what?’
‘Nothing. Everything. Whatever was in front of him. Standard obsessive behaviour.’
Singh said, ‘Do we know where his violin is?’
They all turned to him. Dowell said, ‘His violin?’
‘Yes. It wasn’t at the scene. I wonder because—’
‘Have you checked the inventory of his room?’
‘Yes. It isn’t listed so—’
‘Why does it matter?’
Singh hesitated. ‘The gun was in the case. So the violin must have been somewhere else.’
‘And the violin’s important in what way?’
Singh hesitated.
‘Listen,’ Dowell said. ‘I said at the beginning, speed’s the thing. OK? We have to focus on the important stuff. Mal, any more on Magee?’
‘A little. I said before, he’s a regular. Registered as self-employed, doing odd jobs sometimes, mainly garden clearance, but he’s done three years already, armed robbery and two counts of assault. He’ll be in and out all his life.’
‘I know his type. Small-time, violent with it.’
‘And ambitious. A couple of years back he was questioned about a big job down south. A furrier’s. Things went wrong. There was a death. No charges brought in the end, mainly because no one was willing to talk. He inspires fear.’
‘He thinks he does. I’m getting bored of his sneers. Anyway, I’ll handle him. You focus on his associates. OK, that’s all. We know what we’re doing. Anyone got anything to say? Good, then I’ll—’
Singh said, ‘Thinking about the hate-crime angle, I’ve been talking to the Polish community, here and elsewhere. There’s plenty of talk about Magee.’
Dowell got ready to leave. ‘OK, but I have to go. What’s the gist?’
‘They’re very clear. Magee was an active racist.’
‘Evidence?’
‘So far, circumstantial.’
Dowell put on his jacket and began to look for his cap. Singh continued, ‘But four of the five corner shops Magee robbed were Polish. The furrier’s mentioned by Mal is owned by a Polish consortium.’
‘OK. Anything else?’
‘It’s a common assumption among the Poles that he’s an official member of an anti-immigration organization. He’s been seen taking part in rallies. It’s the same group that broke up the recent Juwenalia parade.’
Dowell paused at the door, nodded. ‘Give me proper
evidence then,’ he said. ‘Not all this circumstantial stuff. I want all the CCTV along the parade route checked and sorted.’
‘OK. Understood.’
‘By the end of the week.’
Singh nodded.
‘After you’ve finished the corner-shop paperwork. And if I were you I wouldn’t spend any more time thinking about violins. OK?’
Singh held his eyes, nodded again.
They sat in silence watching Dowell button his jacket and adjust his cap. As he went, he said, ‘Last thing, everyone. This case gets solved. I’ve given my word to the chief. I don’t break my word.’
Then he was gone. The mention of the chief seemed to impose a moment’s fretful silence on the room, then Collier, Nolan and Williams began to talk among themselves, and Singh went without speaking out of the office and back to the squad room.
17
At ten o’clock the following evening as Singh sat alone at a monitor in Investigative Division, scrolling inch by inch through grainy black-and-white footage of a four-hour, eight-mile-long street procession, across town, in Eastwick Gardens, Garvie Smith lay in his bedroom not revising. It was a cool summer night, the dark blue sky so smooth it seemed to be coloured paper fitted neatly to the windowpane, and Garvie turned his head and stared at it without blinking.
An hour passed.
Garvie’s mother began to get ready to leave for her shift at the hospital; Garvie could hear her opening and shutting her wardrobe door, taking her uniform coat from the chair. Soon she would go into the living room and hunt in vain for her keys, which were on the kitchen windowsill. Sure enough, after a minute or two, he heard her moving stuff around on the mantelpiece, rummaging in drawers, muttering to herself.
After a while he called out, ‘On the windowsill!’
He heard her go across the room in the same firm, direct way she did everything. In a minute he would hear her come back the other way, equally firm, equally direct, and stand in his doorway to ask how much revision he’d done and what time his next exam was, and why he hadn’t settled down to sleep already.
She duly appeared, considering him with a serious expression, which he returned with his usual impassivity. Something unspoken passed between them, some blend of irritation and love. She opened her mouth and before she could speak he said, ‘Couple of hours on Geography. Half an hour Eng. Lit.’
After a moment she opened her mouth again and he said, ‘Friday afternoon, two thirty, school gym. Mobile phones are not allowed in the auditorium.’
She regarded him with a long and searching look. ‘If only you could be such a know-all in the exam. What about Special Maths? That’s the one I’m really worried about. High level, Miss Perkins said. Gifted and talented students only.’
‘Nearly three weeks off. It’ll be fine. I’ll wing it.’
‘Wing it! I know your wing it. Your wing it has nothing to do with flying.’
She was looking at him in that sceptical way again.
‘I can’t stop thinking about that poor boy,’ she said.
He could feel her watching him closely. He said, after a while, ‘What poor boy?’
‘You know who I mean.’
‘Oh. The Gimp.’
His mother’s face softened. ‘Do you remember him when he was small, at nursery?’
‘I never had anything to do with him. He was just around.’
‘He never played with anyone. He just sat there looking like he was thinking sad thoughts. The only thing he used to do was put all the toys in rows. Line them up. And if anyone disturbed them he cried. He cried a lot. Not like a little boy. Like a grown-up, to himself.’
Garvie said nothing.
He felt his mother focus on him again. ‘I’m surprised you don’t remember.’ Then she sighed. ‘Don’t stay up too late. You need a good night’s rest. You should have settled down already.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t even think of going out.’
‘Course not. Don’t worry about me. Off you go. Be good at work.’
She came across the room and kissed the top of his head, and he smelled the hot, dry smell of the iron on her uniform, medicinal odours of hairspray and hand gel, and then she was gone. He heard the flat door clicking behind her, her footsteps echoing like slow handclaps in the stairwell, the outer door closing with a distant whump, then silence, and he was on his own.
For a long time he lay there staring at the window. He frowned. He was fed up with people pestering him about the Gimp. Did you know him? Didn’t you know him? Why are you interested in him? Why do you care that some kid got shot? You don’t care, do you, it’s just a puzzle to you, isn’t it, just a distraction from your exams?
He thought about the Gimp. It was all very well spilling over with pity. Didn’t he deserve a bit of justice too, same as everyone else? The Gimp had never needed his pity, and didn’t need it now. Better to ask the interesting questions. What had the Gimp needed? Even better: what had the Gimp wanted?
Yeah, that was interesting.
Sighing, he got up, took his old leather jacket from the floor in the corner of his room and went out of the flat, down the stairs and through the little car park into Pilkington Driftway, deserted now and cool in the purple evening. The sky was blurred and thick. No stars. Five Mile didn’t do stars. It was half past eleven, and he drifted down the street towards the shops, jacket zipped up, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, his face blank. When he got to the corner of Bulwarks Lane he took out his phone and dialled a number.
‘Singh here.’
‘What’s up, dude?’
‘Who is this? Garvie?’
‘Didn’t wake you, did I? I assumed you’d be on your night shift.’
‘I’m … Never mind. What do you want? Is it about Pyotor?’
‘Just wondered if you’d got any more updates for me.’
There was a pause. ‘Remember,’ Singh said, ‘that you promised to help me too. So far it’s been all the other way round. You haven’t even thanked me for the things I sent you.’
‘Yeah. Truth is, I was surprised you changed your mind about that. And I’ve been a bit busy with exams. Though you’ve been busy too, probably, working nights, handing out traffic fines, whatever it is demoted coppers do.’
Singh made a noise of irritation. ‘So what did you think of the material? The interview with Pyotor’s grandparents, for instance?’
‘All right. Some of it was even interesting.’
‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘Don’t rule out Magee just yet. All your problems might just be the result of one very simple thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Police incompetence.’
Singh made an exasperated noise. ‘The problem is time,’ he said. ‘We couldn’t charge him with murder, so he was charged with resisting arrest in order to detain him for further questioning, but if we don’t bring new charges soon we have to release him on bail. His lawyers are already pushing for it.’
‘Good luck to your ace interrogator then. Oh, by the way, got a quick question for you.’
‘Yes?’
‘Does Jamal have a unit in the lock-up?’
There was a pause. ‘Jamal who runs the store in Bulwarks Lane?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I don’t know. Why do you ask?’
‘Can you find out?’
There were more noises of irritation on the other end of the line. ‘You know, Garvie,’ Singh said, ‘I’m risking a lot to pass on information to you. It’s strictly against regulations.’
‘Yeah. And I know what you feel about regulations. Beautiful things.’
Singh ignored him. ‘I need something back, and I’m not getting anything.’
‘Shocking, isn’t it?’ Garvie said ‘But I’ve got to go now. Laters, man.’
18
By this time he’d drifted down Bulwarks Lane in the direction of the taxi rank where Abdul kept his cab and was
standing across the street from Jamal’s, closed now with metal grilles shuttering the windows. There was a faint light in a fringe around the curtained windows upstairs where the family lived. The shop was dark, the street deserted, and Garvie stood there alone, unmoving, like a figure in a photograph titled Nightscape in the City.
He lit a Benson & Hedges, puffed out a little smoke. At the back of the shop was the flat where Zuzana Schulz lived, and her image came into his mind, her black hair, wide mouth, her eyes – her eyes especially, not so much their size or brightness but the expression in them, the way she’d looked at him in that mocking, shining way, so difficult to read. He pictured her clearly, remembered the tone of her voice, the shape of her gestures – of her shoulders, her hips, her legs – but when he tried to think about her he just felt confused. He took a deep drag on his cigarette and frowned. She’d unsettled him. He was unsettled now to find himself thinking about her, hanging round outside her flat. The last thing he wanted to do was to fall for his best friend’s girl. Alex had turned himself round because of her, and Garvie was glad for him. He pinched out his cigarette, and was turning to go when he heard a faint noise from the other side of the street.
A tapping. He couldn’t tell whether it came from inside the shop or behind it.
After a moment it came again. It had a secretive, insistent tone, like a coded message.
Discarding his Benson & Hedges, he crossed the empty road and went quietly down the unlit alley at the side of Jamal’s to where it turned round the back of the building. As the tapping came a third time, now the unmistakable sound of knuckles on glass, he peered round the corner. The alley was dark. On the near side was the back door to Jamal’s shop, on the other a brick wall with a wooden gate in it, slightly ajar, and at the far end the door to Zuzana’s flat, darkly shadowed. Someone was standing there with his back to Garvie: a short guy wearing an outsized retro tracksuit and a Dirty Ghetto Kids Snapback. His Timberlands glowed like pumpkins in the dark. As Garvie watched, he knocked again on the door and moved back into the shadows, grinning to himself. After a moment he turned to look back down the alley, his glasses flashing in the moonlight, his idiot eyes blinking big and slow, and Garvie pressed himself against the wall.