Good as Dead

by Mark Billingham

  The imam unlocked the door and invited Thorne across the threshold, leaving his followers to wait outside. The room was the largest Thorne had been in since he’d arrived, white and windowless. There were half a dozen wooden benches against the walls, a wide-screen TV on a stand and a scattering of plastic chairs across a thin blue carpet. At the far end, a simple altar draped in purple sat beneath a large metal cross.

  Shakir sat on one of the benches and Thorne took a chair a few feet away.

  ‘Yes, it is rather strange,’ Shakir said, watching Thorne take in his surroundings. ‘At the moment this is the only place of worship we have, so we are forced to share it.’ The imam was somewhere in his mid-fifties with a wispy grey beard. He was slight, birdlike, and the eyes that shone behind rimless glasses were almost as bright as the perfect teeth that flashed when he smiled. ‘There is rather more work for us than for my fellow priests as we have a little more … paraphernalia than they do to remove when it is our turn.’ He fluttered a hand towards the altar. ‘We need nothing but our prayer mats.’

  ‘Nice and easy,’ Thorne said.

  ‘And of course, we pray rather more often.’ He smiled at Thorne. ‘I am hoping that we will have our own place of worship very soon. It would be more convenient for everyone.’

  ‘You wanted to talk about Amin Akhtar.’

  Shakir nodded and lowered his head. Muttered, ‘Yes, yes … ’

  Thorne waited a few seconds. ‘Is there something you can tell me about his death?’

  Shakir looked up. ‘Why he did it, perhaps?’

  ‘That would certainly be helpful.’

  Another fifteen seconds passed. Thorne glanced at his watch, hoping that the imam might catch it.

  ‘Most of the young men who come to this place are looking for something,’ Shakir said. ‘The fact that they have not found it might explain why they have turned to violence or drugs to fill the holes in their lives. In here, those options are of course denied them, so they search for something else. There are gangs of course, even inside these walls, but those who wish to change their lives will seek out something they can belong to that nourishes them and shows them a different path. I believe passionately that Islam offers them that. I have no idea if you are a man of faith at all, it does not matter, but does what I’m saying make sense to you?’

  Up to a point, Thorne thought. He just nodded.

  ‘You only have to look at the numbers. In an hour’s time I will have twenty or more boys in this room. Black, white, whatever, all praying and reading from the Qu’ran. I can assure you that is many more than the Catholic priest might expect. Or the … vicar.’ He enunciated the word very precisely, smiling as though he found it amusing. ‘Muslims are less than three per cent of the population outside,’ he said, holding up fingers to make his point. ‘Four times that number in here, and at other institutions such as this one. Many finding their faith, you see?’

  Thorne tried to look impressed, but in truth he was not surprised.

  He had read about the increase in the Muslim population in UK prisons, which to a large extent was due to the numbers of those converting to Islam while behind bars. There were those who were every bit as concerned at these figures as Shakir was delighted; pointing to what they saw as a troubling degree of radicalisation going on at the same time. They held up the example of Richard Reid – the so-called ‘shoe bomber’ – who had become radicalised at Feltham YOI, and of Muktar Said Ibrahim – one of the leaders of the failed 21/7 attacks in London – who had spent two and a half years in Huntercombe YOI. Numerous reports now openly declared that those the imam believed to be searching for something were finding it in the more extreme elements of the Islamic faith.

  Fuel to the fire, sadly, for those with an ultra-right-wing agenda, and to the simply ignorant who imagined plots being hatched beneath every minaret.

  Worrying reading, nonetheless.

  Shakir clearly saw the way Thorne’s mind was working and nodded. ‘Of course, I know how this … blossoming is being interpreted in certain quarters. I am familiar with all the predictable scaremongering. “Breeding grounds for Jihad.” “Universities of terror.”’ He shook his head. ‘It is a shame that boys who have been called gangsters and jail-birds are now called terrorists, when all they are doing is sitting peacefully and reading, and I don’t need to remind you that none of those studying the Bible seem to be labelled in the same way.’

  ‘Was Amin one of those boys?’

  ‘Amin was … lost,’ Shakir said. ‘That was very obvious.’

  Thorne thought about how the governor had described Amin. Studious and quiet, with a small group of friends. ‘That’s not the impression I’ve been given,’ he said.

  ‘Whatever your impression, he had that same emptiness inside him that so many others in this place have. I reached out to him, but sadly I could do nothing to help.’

  Thorne remembered a boy who, though raised as a Muslim, had shown no inclination whatsoever towards profound religious belief.

  He said as much to Shakir.

  ‘I am aware of that, but what better opportunity could he have had to rediscover the faith he had lost? A guiding force which would offer hope and comfort. And believe me, such things are in short supply around here.’

  ‘So, when you say you “reached out” … ’

  ‘Approaches were made to him by several boys whose lives have already been changed.’

  Thorne pictured the posse of Shakir’s acolytes waiting just outside the door. He could not help but ask himself how gentle these ‘approaches’ had been and if one or two of the boys in grey skullcaps would be altogether welcome when they came knocking on a cell door. He wondered if one of them might even have been responsible for the attack that had put Amin Akhtar in hospital.

  Had his rejection of the faith been taken too personally?

  Once again, Shakir appeared to have seen something in Thorne’s face. ‘I also spoke to him myself,’ he said. ‘Several times, in fact. But as I have already said, I could not get through to him. I could see that he was lost and, if I am honest, I was not surprised at what eventually happened.’ He raised a hand and laid it against his narrow chest. ‘I must accept that my failure was at least partially to blame for … what he did.’

  The distaste had been plain enough in the imam’s reedy voice. ‘You don’t like the fact that he killed himself?’

  ‘Of all the bounties bestowed on human beings by Allah, the most precious gift is life.’ Shakir leaned towards Thorne. ‘It has been granted to us, but it is not our possession and is not ours to throw away. The Qu’ran makes it perfectly plain, I’m afraid. To take one’s life is as sinful as taking any other.’

  Thorne asked himself what Mohammad Sidique Khan or any of the other 7/7 suicide bombers would have thought about that, but he said nothing.

  ‘Most other faiths believe this too, I think you’ll find. Suicide was illegal in this country, once upon a time.’

  ‘Right,’ Thorne said. ‘And in theory you can still be banged up for not practising archery twice a week.’

  Shakir smiled, a few less teeth on display. ‘You used to bury their bodies at a crossroads,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Those who had taken their own lives. At night, with a stake through the heart.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ Thorne smiled back. ‘You think we should have done that with Amin’s body?’ He gathered up the files that he had set down next to the chair. ‘Maybe asked his mother and father to do it?’

  The imam chuckled and stood up slowly. Said, ‘You are being rather facetious now, I think, but that is fine, and I can tell that you are keen to get on.’

  Thorne thanked Shakir for his time, though even as they shook hands he remained unsure as to exactly why the imam had thought their conversation would be of any use. He felt rather as though he had just seen muscle being flexed. He opened the door and, with no more than the odd brush of shoulders, eased his way through the devoted ga
thering outside, which had now grown to more than a dozen.

  As he walked away, he was aware of Shakir beckoning them into the chapel. Without a word, they trooped inside. Thorne guessed that afternoon prayers were imminent and there was unwelcome paraphernalia to be cleared away.

  FOURTEEN

  She hadn’t stopped thinking about Alfie of course, not for one second, but there had been practicalities to consider. A relationship to establish with Javed Akhtar and the worrying condition of the man sitting next to her.

  A situation to try and get on top of.

  Now, as Helen looked at her watch, the image of her son’s face knocked the breath from her, and she pictured the childminder trying to get him to sleep for half an hour after his lunch. Janine, holding him and shushing while she rubbed his back. The way Helen had shown her – small circles, low down on his back – even though Janine had three kids of her own and knew perfectly well what to do.

  The way he liked.

  Panic-stricken suddenly, she tried to reassure herself that she had packed the soft toy he liked to clutch when he was sleeping. The raggedy, greenish-brown thing that might have been a frog and might have been a bear.

  Yes, she had packed it. She had packed everything.

  The same chaotic routine every morning, struggling to get herself and Alfie ready and out of the flat. Snatching bites of toast while she got dressed and made up and Alfie crawled unerringly towards every sharp corner he could find or reached up for any heavy object he might just be able to pull down on top of himself. Stuffing things into her own bag, and into his. Court reports and photographs of bruised and bleeding children. Nappies, toys and teething gel.

  Then the struggle with the pushchair on those sodding stairs. Ten minutes’ walk to Janine’s and that last cuddle, then on towards the station. Chewing gum and chocolate.

  That last cuddle …

  She thought about the catch in his voice that killed her when he cried and the way he gummed at her chin, fastening on like a limpet as he tangled his fingers in her hair.

  The smell when she nuzzled at the back of his neck.

  Akhtar was next door in the shop. Helen could hear him moving things around and the noise of glass being swept. She guessed that he was trying to clear away the mess he had made earlier.

  That was a good sign, she thought. A desire for order.

  Stephen Mitchell sat bolt upright at her side, running with sweat and scratching at himself. His eyes were closed and he was mouthing words she could not make out clearly.

  Alfie would need picking up in a couple of hours’ time. Janine was always strict about that, with a school run to take care of and a husband coming home from work. Helen would always call, even if she was going to be just a few minutes past pick-up time …

  Sweating, as she ran from the station.

  They would have organised something, she was sure about that. Maybe Janine had already heard about it, seen something on the news. Helen hoped it would not be a uniformed officer knocking on Janine’s door. Some big awkward oaf scooping Alfie up and carrying him out to a squad car. No, they would have told Jenny, surely … which was probably the best thing.

  Good in a crisis, her younger sister. Organised. Cold.

  She rolled her wrist around inside the metal cuff.

  Proof positive, of course, that Jenny had been right all along. Had known best, as usual. Hard enough to cope on your own, never mind going back to a job like that. Not so quickly anyway. Think about the baby.

  Now look where you’ve got your bloody self!

  She wondered if they were outside. Jenny and her dad. The old man nagging every copper he could get hold of, demanding to be told what was being done, with Jenny trying to keep him calm. Taking charge and finding out where the tea and biscuits were.

  Being Mum.

  She tried not to think about it, but it was like trying not to breathe.

  At least Jenny knew the best way to get Alfie off. Helen had shown her plenty of times, enjoyed showing her.

  Small circles, low down on his back—

  ‘It’s going to be OK, isn’t it?’ Mitchell asked suddenly. ‘You said so before. I mean, you’re not just saying it, are you?’

  She looked at him. He was blinking quickly and trying to smile. He looked like a little boy.

  Her phone rang.

  She stared at it – the vibration causing the handset to inch across the floor between her legs – until Akhtar came hurrying back in.

  ‘Is it Thorne?’

  Helen shook her head. She did not recognise the number. She pointed towards the front of the shop. ‘Probably them,’ she said. ‘They’ll want to talk to you.’

  Akhtar sat down and picked up the gun. He let the phone ring for another few seconds, then nodded.

  ‘Answer it.’

  On his way back towards the library, Thorne slipped into one of the prison officers’ tea rooms to call Holland. He walked into the corner and took out his phone, smiling at the two occupants, despite stares only marginally less aggressive than those he’d received out on the landing.

  ‘Any joy?’

  ‘Slater’s old man was as much of an arsehole as you’d expect,’ Holland said. ‘But he was surprised enough to hear that Amin was dead.’

  Thorne wasn’t surprised to hear it. A result that fast was way too much to hope for. ‘What about Lee Slater’s mates?’

  ‘Clarkson wasn’t in and we’re just on our way to see Armstrong.’

  ‘OK. Quick as you can, Dave.’ Thorne heard Kitson in the background, saying she couldn’t find a place to park. ‘Just park anywhere,’ he shouted.

  Holland said something, but Thorne lost it in the blare of a passing siren.

  ‘Dave?’

  ‘I said, what about you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Any joy?’

  Thorne was still struggling to process everything he’d heard and seen since he’d arrived at Barndale. The reactions to Amin Akhtar’s death from Bracewell and McCarthy. The psychological analysis from Shakir. He looked at his watch, then glanced across at the two POs cradling mugs of tea and looking as though they could not wait for the day to end.

  ‘Precious little in here,’ Thorne said.

  FIFTEEN

  Sue Pascoe was grateful – despite the speakers that had been set up to listen in – that the microphone on her handset was not sensitive enough to pick up the sound of her heart beating.

  The phone continued to ring out …

  She had done everything required of her up to this point, gathering all available information about both hostages and hostage taker and working to formulate a negotiation strategy, but that would be worth next to nothing if this first call did not go well. The initial contact with the hostage taker was always the most delicate part of any operation. The foundation on which, if it went according to the textbook, everything else could be built.

  The problem was that Javed Akhtar was anything but a textbook hostage taker.

  Outside of situations involving domestic disputes or disgruntled employees, hostage takers usually fitted neatly into one of four categories: criminals, the mentally disturbed, prisoners or terrorists. They were part of structured groups or they were unstable individuals and the actual taking of hostages was either well planned or spontaneous.

  It was easy enough to see which of these boxes Akhtar ticked, but from that point on he had ceased to be predictable.

  To be someone you could be trained to deal with.

  The received wisdom was that any hostage taker was faced with three options. He could surrender to the police. He could lessen his demands and continue to negotiate. Or he could choose martyrdom by killing the hostages and/or himself. Akhtar could yet choose to do any of these of course, but trying to predict which and guiding him towards an outcome in which nobody was harmed depended almost entirely on what he was demanding.

  There were well-structured reactions to demands for money, or drugs, or the release of comrades in
arms. There was an accepted response to a simple need for attention. This time though, Sue Pascoe listened to the phone ring inside the newsagent’s shop and felt as though she would be making it up as she went along, because the man who was holding two hostages at gunpoint appeared to want nothing but answers.

  And she could not be sure Tom Thorne would be able to provide the ones he was looking for.

  Done much of this? he had asked her. Cheeky bastard obviously thought he was God’s gift.

  All those gathered around the speakers in the school hall leaned that little bit closer when the call was answered. Donnelly gave Sue Pascoe the nod and the hostage negotiator spoke softly into the phone.

  ‘Helen?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  Pascoe looked at Donnelly who quickly nodded his understanding. It was clear from the echo that Helen Weeks’ phone was also on speaker. That Akhtar was listening in.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Sue Pascoe and I’m working here with the team that’s trying to get this situation resolved, OK?’

  ‘OK … ’

  ‘First of all, how are you doing in there?’

  ‘I’ve been better, obviously.’

  Pascoe gave Donnelly a thumbs-up. Always a good sign if the hostage felt able to make light of their predicament. That they were permitted to by the person holding them. ‘Well, I can promise you that everything’s being done to get this sorted out as fast as possible.’

  ‘What about my son?’

  Another look to Donnelly, who shrugged. It had been agreed that Pascoe would try to avoid talking about Helen Weeks’ child, but clearly the subject could not be avoided if Helen Weeks brought it up.

  ‘That’s all taken care of, Helen. You don’t need to worry about that.’ Pascoe knew at once that it was a stupid thing to say. Of course she would be worried. ‘We’ve made all the arrangements, OK?’

  ‘OK … ’

  ‘How’s Stephen?’

  ‘He’s … doing OK.’

  Pascoe took a deep breath. ‘Can I talk to Javed, Helen?’