Good as Dead tt-10

by Mark Billingham

  Donnelly turned to Chivers. ‘Bob?’

  It was the first time Thorne had heard Chivers’ Christian name and he thought it suited him quite nicely. Just the one syllable, a ‘Bob’ and not a ‘Robert’. Nice and easy to have tattooed somewhere handy in case he ever forgot it.

  Thorne glanced at Pascoe, but she would not look at him. He told himself it was because she was afraid she might laugh.

  ‘Well, you know what I think,’ Chivers said. He nodded in Pascoe’s direction. ‘With all respect, I’ve probably been on a few more of these things than you have, and in the end the only difference between sitting it out and going in early is a lot of wasted time and effort. Usually the same result in the end.’

  ‘Usually?’ Pascoe asked.

  Chivers clearly saw the question for the challenge it was. The invitation to state his credentials. ‘In five years of these operations, my team has discharged their weapons exactly three times,’ he said. ‘One fatality, two woundings and no hostage so much as scratched. Good enough?’

  Pascoe considered this. There no longer appeared to be too much chance of her laughing. ‘I’m presuming that you don’t regard that one fatality as any kind of failure.’

  ‘Look, if you think I’d send my team charging in there without being convinced they could resolve the situation without the use of force, then you’re wrong. But our hostage taker is waving a loaded gun about, let’s not forget that. So I’m not going to sit here and pretend that his safety is every bit as important to me as the well-being of the hostages. Fair enough?’

  ‘I’d like to get everybody out safely,’ Pascoe said.

  She was about to say more, but Donnelly cut across her. ‘I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,’ he said.

  Chivers looked at Thorne. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m not a big fan of guns,’ Thorne said.

  Chivers nodded, but clearly thought this was akin to confessing to some outlandish sexual perversion. ‘I was asking how your investigation was going,’ he said. ‘The business with his son.’

  ‘Do you care?’

  ‘In so far as you being in a position to give our hostage taker what he wants, which will have a direct bearing on the job I’m trying to do here, yes, of course I bloody care.’

  ‘I think somebody murdered his son,’ Thorne said. ‘And I’m doing my best to find out who.’

  ‘Timescale?’

  The look on Thorne’s face made it clear he thought the question was every bit as stupid as the last time Chivers had asked it. ‘Ten minutes from now? Next week? Never? Still impossible to say, Bob.’

  Donnelly stood up. ‘For now, we’ll carry on as we have been, but I’m taking everything I’ve heard into consideration and obviously we’ll continue to review the situation. OK?’

  Nods around the table, some rather more enthusiastic than others.

  ‘Right, let’s make the call.’

  They trooped back into the hall and once everybody was in position and Donnelly had called for silence, Pascoe dialled.

  Akhtar answered and Pascoe asked how he was. He thanked her and told her he was fine, so she asked if he would mind providing some proof that the hostages were doing equally well. Akhtar briefly passed the phone to Helen Weeks. She told Pascoe that she and Stephen Mitchell were tired but in good spirits and being well looked after, then handed the phone back to Akhtar. Pascoe thanked him and he asked her if she had heard anything from Tom Thorne.

  Thorne leaned in towards Pascoe. Said, ‘I’m here.’

  Akhtar said nothing.

  ‘I just got back from talking to more people about Amin, and I want you to know that I’m making real progress.’ Thorne reached out for Pascoe’s headset, but she seemed reluctant. They both looked for the go-ahead from Donnelly and were given it. Pascoe handed over the headset and Thorne took her seat. ‘OK, Javed?’

  ‘What kind of progress?’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘So, go ahead.’

  ‘In person,’ Thorne said. He was immediately aware of the shock turning quickly to fury around him and of the frantic head-shaking. Donnelly hissed, ‘No way,’ and Pascoe raised a hand in warning.

  ‘I don’t see how that is going to happen,’ Akthar said. ‘I will not allow anyone in here and I hardly think I will be permitted to just pop outside for a… quick chat.’

  ‘We can talk through the shutters,’ Thorne said. He waited, trying to ignore the anger of the officers close to him and the pressure of the superintendent’s hand on his arm. He stared at the image of the shopfront on the monitor, listened to the rasp of Akhtar’s breathing. ‘Just come to the door on your side of the shutters and I’ll be on the pavement right outside.’

  Akhtar grunted and swallowed. ‘All right.’

  ‘I’ll be there in five minutes,’ Thorne said.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Donnelly spent almost half of those minutes shouting; making sure Thorne knew that whatever happened and however the situation ultimately resolved itself, he would make it a priority to have his balls for breakfast. Thorne stood and took the dressing-down, but could not resist pointing out that Donnelly would probably still be hungry afterwards. Then, he walked out of the school with Pascoe and Chivers in tow.

  ‘This is stupid,’ Thorne said. He slapped at the Kevlar vest Chivers had insisted on him wearing.

  ‘Doesn’t happen without it,’ Chivers said. ‘Simple as that.’

  They crossed the road and walked towards the newsagent’s. ‘How’s he going to take a shot at me from behind those shutters?’

  ‘It’s not open for discussion.’

  ‘What do you think he’s got in there? A bazooka?’

  As Thorne moved closer to the shop, he was aware of eyes on him. Those of Donnelly and the many others watching on the monitors; of the uniformed officers still manning cordons a hundred yards away either side of him and probably unsure of what was happening. He was most aware, most apprehensive, about the armed officers who had been swiftly briefed and instructed to take up firing positions behind appropriately placed vehicles. Thorne knew that eyes were not the only things being trained in his direction.

  ‘It’s them I’m scared of,’ Thorne said. He nodded back towards the helmets just visible above the bonnet of a Volvo. ‘Not him.’

  ‘Well, you’d better hope those shutters don’t start to open then,’ Chivers said. He seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘And just remember whose bright idea this was in the first place.’

  There was not much Thorne could say. He looked at Pascoe, but she was walking with her head down. She had not spoken to him since the call had ended.

  They stopped a few feet from the front of the shop.

  ‘Just talk,’ Chivers said. ‘That’s it. On no account suggest that you go inside or that he comes out, because if those shutters do go up and he’s got a gun in his hand, you’re in all sorts of trouble. Clear?’

  ‘Clear,’ Thorne said.

  Finally, Pascoe spoke. ‘And if the conversation starts to move in a direction you’re not comfortable with, back away. I’ve been working hard to build up his trust and I really don’t want that compromised.’

  ‘I’m not trying to step on your toes,’ Thorne said.

  ‘I never suggested that you were.’

  ‘I just need him to know I’m doing what he wants and that I might actually be getting somewhere. He needs to trust me as well.’

  ‘Can we crack on?’ Chivers said.

  Thorne stepped up and knocked on the shutters. There was a distant hum of traffic from the nearest main road, but suddenly everything went very quiet.

  ‘I’m here,’ Akhtar said.

  It was strange, hearing the man’s voice at close quarters. It was muffled by the glass in the shop’s front door and Thorne had to lean in close to the sheet of ridged, spray-painted metal that separated them still further.

  ‘Thanks for doing this.’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  Thorne
saw little point in lying. ‘No. Sue Pascoe is with me and so is the head of the firearms unit. That’s just the way things have to be done, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘But it’s just you and me talking, Javed, so… ’

  ‘What do you want to tell me?’

  ‘I wanted to tell you in person that I think you’re right,’ Thorne said. ‘I don’t believe that Amin took his own life. It would be easy enough for me to say that anyway, whatever I thought, because I know it’s what you want to hear, but I’m not just saying it. I need you to believe that, and to believe that I’m doing everything I can to find out who killed him. To get you the truth.’

  There was a long pause, then Thorne heard Akhtar say, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ve already talked to the authorities at Barndale and to Amin’s friends. I’ve spoken to the boys and the relatives of the boys who attacked him a year ago, and to Rahim Jaffer.’

  ‘Why are you talking to Rahim?’ Akhtar asked.

  ‘I’m talking to anyone I can think of.’

  ‘You think Rahim knows something?’

  ‘I think… he might know things about your son’s life that you didn’t, that’s all.’ Thorne was choosing his words carefully. ‘Sometimes we can talk to our friends about things we might not want to discuss with our parents.’

  ‘He talked to us about everything,’ Akhtar said.

  ‘I’m sure he did.’

  ‘There is nothing Amin could not come to us about.’

  Thorne turned to see Pascoe and Chivers watching him. He could still feel the eyes on him and the telescopic sights of the sniper rifles. ‘Javed, I need to know that you’re ready to hear whatever I find out.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying to me.’

  ‘Listen, I know that you don’t want to hurt anyone, or hurt yourself, so I’m asking you to hang on. To be patient, and to be prepared if the facts about what happened to Amin are not very pleasant.’

  ‘My son was murdered,’ Akhtar said. ‘How could the facts be pleasant?’

  ‘They might not be easy to hear, that’s all.’

  There was another long pause. Pascoe signalled to Thorne that he should step away. Mouthed: ‘That’s enough.’

  Then Akhtar spoke, his voice a little louder suddenly, as if he too were leaning close to the shutters. ‘The lies we have been told about Amin, about what happened to him in that prison, have torn our hearts out, Mr Thorne. Mine and Nadira’s. They have sucked away my decency and turned me into the kind of man I despise. The kind of man who no longer has any respect for the law and would do something unspeakable like this.

  ‘Lies have done these things, do you understand? So how can I be afraid of the truth?’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Just a few seconds after Akhtar came back into the storeroom, a phone began to ring. They both looked at Helen’s handset still sitting on the desk, then quickly realised that the noise was coming from the shop.

  Mitchell’s mobile, ringing in his pocket.

  They sat and listened to it ring, then when it had stopped, Akhtar said, ‘I meant to tell you this before, but I wrapped Mr Mitchell’s body up as best I could. There were some black bags, so… ’

  ‘That’s OK,’ Helen said. ‘I don’t see what else you could have done.’ She was already wondering when the body would start to smell. It would not be long, not in this heat.

  Akhtar sat down. ‘I am so ashamed that he is lying out there… like that, so very ashamed, but I promise you this, Miss Weeks. When all this is over, I will do everything necessary to make sure that he has a proper burial. It does not matter what it costs. I swear to do that.’

  Helen just looked at him. The nodding, the earnestness. Did he really think that when it was over he would just walk out of here and go back to his old life? Home to his wife and dinner on the table and up again at half past four the next morning to open the shop? Did he really think there were any other options besides death and prison?

  And what were her options?

  She thought again about the price she was likely to pay for keeping Stephen Mitchell’s death a secret, the career she had worked so hard for and had now jeopardised, and she felt a hot rush of anger for the man lying dead in the next room. Why had he not listened, why had he been so stupid? He was the one who had put her in this position.

  Had made her lie and squirm and snivel…

  When the anger had finally subsided, she felt every bit as ashamed as Akhtar did. The truth was that she would sacrifice anything, her stupid career included; that she would crawl out of this shop bleeding and limbless if it meant the chance to see her son again. And she knew that if she did, when she did, Stephen Mitchell would be carried out in a body-bag, stinking, in a shroud of bin-liners.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss Weeks?’

  Helen looked at him and tried to smile. ‘Don’t you think “Miss Weeks” is a bit formal? I mean, considering where we are and everything.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Akhtar said. ‘Stupid.’

  ‘It’s Helen.’

  He nodded and moved his chair a little closer to her. ‘I think this might be over soon, Helen.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Helen said. A genuine smile broke, unbidden, across her face and for the first time in many hours she forgot the numbness in her backside and the pain where the cuff had bitten into her wrist. ‘That’s really good, Javed.’ She did not want to push it, to ask him what he and Thorne had been talking about at the shutters. She had heard Akhtar’s voice but could not quite make out what Thorne had been saying. She was happy enough to wait until Akhtar told her.

  Instead, he asked, ‘How do you know Mr Thorne?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ she said.

  Akhtar shrugged. ‘I don’t think either of us is going anywhere for a little while, at least.’

  ‘My partner died, just over a year ago. Just before Alfie was born.’

  ‘Ah,’ Akhtar said, nodding. ‘I had wondered why I never saw the baby’s father. I would never have asked, of course.’

  Helen swallowed, took a few seconds. ‘Paul was… killed, and it was Thorne’s job to find out what happened.’

  ‘Like this, then?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes.’

  ‘So, did he?’

  ‘Well, actually I found out the truth myself.’ Helen shook her head, still not quite able to believe, a year on from it, that she had done the things she had. Taken such stupid risks. Putting herself close to gangs and killers like a kid poking at a wasps’ nest and tearing around like a lunatic while eight months pregnant with Alfie.

  She had felt proud of herself though, in the end, and vindicated because she knew how proud Paul would have been. It had helped her cope with the grief, and the guilt.

  ‘Well, perhaps I should be asking you to find out what happened to Amin,’ Akhtar said, grinning. ‘And Thorne should be sitting where you are.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Helen said.

  Akhtar stood up and flicked the kettle on. There was a lightness to his movements suddenly, as he reached for mugs and spoons. A squareness in his shoulders. ‘Yesterday, when he suggested swapping places with you? That told me something very important about the kind of man he is. Told me he was the right man… ’

  Helen suddenly remembered talking to Thorne a year before, at Paul’s funeral. He had looked uncomfortable in a stiff collar and tie and had told her he was going to be a father. ‘One on the way,’ he had said. ‘Not as far gone as yours but… on the way.’ So just a couple of months, but that meant Thorne would have a baby of his own now.

  Yet still he had offered to take her place.

  When it came, Helen drank her tea and ate the biscuits that were given with it, feeling anything but proud. Because she knew that she would not have done the same.

  THIRTY-SIX

  With an insight gained solely from episodes of The Young Ones, Thorne still imagined that most students lived in glorious and chaotic squalor,
with Che Guevara posters covering up the damp patches on the walls, washing-up growing mouldy in the sink and a note stuck to the fridge saying, ‘Don’t eat my yoghurt!’ It was an out-of-date stereotype, but comforting. It served to water down the envy Thorne felt for those less than half his age, with three years free to enjoy a plethora of sex and freedom from responsibility. It eased his regret at never having been one of them himself.

  Rahim Jaffer’s flat would have made most people envious.

  Jaffer lived a stone’s throw from the Old Vic theatre, on the ground floor of a converted warehouse just off The Cut in Waterloo. After a curt exchange over the intercom system and a short staring match on the doorstep, Jaffer had shown Thorne into a sitting room that would not have disgraced an up-market design magazine.

  ‘Nice,’ Thorne said.

  Jaffer said nothing.

  The white walls were broken up with rows of framed black-and-white photographs; portraits of people who, with the exception of Marlon Brando and Imran Khan, Thorne did not recognise. A lamp at the tip of a thin metal arc reached fifteen feet into the room from a marble block in the corner and hung above a coffee table shaped like a strand of DNA. Some Japanese designer, Thorne thought, though he could not remember the name. He was sure that nothing in the place had come in a flat-pack, and when he saw that all the electrical appliances were Bang amp; Olufsen – the TV, the stereo, even the absurdly shaped telephone – he remembered what Holland had told him about Peter Allen’s flat, though he could not imagine that it was quite as tastefully done as this.

  He sat down in a chrome and leather armchair that had clearly been bought for looks rather than comfort and watched as Rahim lounged on the matching sofa. The boy was wearing the same clothes Thorne had seen earlier in the day, though he had since dispensed with socks and the trainers had been replaced with soft red moccasins.

  ‘You feeling better yet, Rahim?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I spoke to your tutor.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’