‘Who wants ’im?’
Brock showed him his warrant card.
The man peered at it, then nodded and held up his fat hand. ‘I’m Ali.’
Brock took the hand, warm, smooth and with a surprisingly hard grip.
‘We’re wondering if you can put us in touch with someone we need very urgently to talk to, Mr Ali. A young Lebanese man, twenty-six, name of Abu Khadra, rides a yellow Yamaha bike.’ Brock showed him the picture. Ali gave no sign of recognition as he studied it and slid it back. He reached beneath the counter, produced a pack of Benson and Hedges and a Bic lighter, and slowly lit up, wheezing a long draw.
‘How come you came to me then? No, let me guess. Was it them wankers out there?’ He jerked a hand in the general direction of Shadwell Road, the gesture making the flesh of his arm wobble. ‘The Pakis? Yeah, that’d be right. Any shit they don’t want, they pass it on to old Ali, eh?’
He tipped his head back and exhaled towards a fan slowly beating time with the music. His head began to rock with it. ‘Umm Kalthoum, that is. They don’t make singers like that any more. You heard of Umm Kalthoum?’
‘I believe I have,’ Brock replied. ‘Egyptian?’
‘Yeah. The greatest. This place is named after one of her biggest hits. Horria. That means “freedom”, see? Very important, yeah? We all value our freedom. What’s he wanted for, this Abu Khadra?’
‘We just want to talk to him. But there’s some concern about his state of mind. So there’s some urgency…’ Brock could sense Bren stirring impatiently at his side.
‘Lebanese. What, is he an illegal? Is that it?’
‘No, no.’
‘No, it’d ’ave to be something more serious than that, wouldn’t it? They wouldn’t send two big blokes like you out looking for one little illegal, would they?’
‘The person who suggested we come to you, Mr Ali, said that you were the one man who would know what was going on around here. However, if you can’t help us… There’s a mosque in Chandler’s Yard isn’t there? Where can we find that?’
Ali stared at Brock, then crushed his half-smoked cigarette in a saucer on the counter. ‘I didn’t say I couldn’t help. I just resent those newcomers strutting around, throwing their weight around like they own the place.’
‘Newcomers?’
‘Yeah, the Pakis.’ He thrust his two forearms like hams onto the counter and leaned forward to make his point. ‘Tell me, you’d consider yourself a Londoner, would you? ’Ow long’s your family been ’ere? One generation? Two?’
Brock took a deep breath, trying to remain calm, and replied, ‘Two, I suppose. They came from up north.’
‘Yeah, and what about your friend there, who’s lookin’ so impatient? How long ’as your family been ’ere, squire?’
Bren answered stolidly, ‘I’m the first.’
‘Right. So you’re like them out there, newcomers. Did you know that the Yemenis are the oldest Muslim residents of London? My great-grandfather was ’ere when the old queen died-Victoria that is. We came ’ere ’cause the Merchant Navy made an ’abit of picking up engine-room crews everywhere they went. Sixteen men to a crew- twelve stokers, three greasers and one donkeyman-all the same race, no mixing. Sixteen Chinese from Singapore, sixteen blacks from the West Indies, sixteen Yemenis from Aden, see? And when they got back to England they dropped them off wherever they landed, Newcastle, Cardiff, London.’
‘That’s very interesting, Mr Ali, but…’
‘I ’aven’t finished yet. My point, you see, is that as Londoners of such long standing, we may feel a certain obligation to shelter a stranger of our own faith, cast ashore among us, without necessarily knowing all of his circumstances.’
‘I understand.’
‘I ’ope you do. ’Ave you got a search warrant?’
‘No.’
Ali lowered his head, pondering, then said quietly, ‘The mosque is up those stairs.’ He nodded towards stairs at the back of the cafe. ‘The kid’s praying. He’s been ’ere for over an hour.’
‘Thank you. Is there anyone else up there with him?’
‘No.’
‘And would you know if he’s armed, by any chance?’ Brock asked mildly.
The fat man looked startled. ‘Blimey. I dunno about that. Are you expecting trouble?’
‘Thanks very much for your help, Mr Ali. Tell me, would it be very disrespectful if we kept our shoes on, under the circumstances?’
Qasim Ali gave his dispensation, then hurried over to get the four elders, protesting, to their feet.
The young man kneeling on the middle of the carpet in the little room which served as the Shiite mosque of Shadwell Road looked slight and vulnerable in his white T-shirt and jeans. In the lobby outside, above his grey trainers, a dark coat hung from a peg. It looked to Brock very much like the coat they had seen on the assassin in the security film, but there was no weapon in its pockets, or on the person of Abu, who submitted to his arrest without surprise or resistance.
Umm Kalthoum’s song throbbed plaintively in the deserted cafe as they led the young man out into Chandler’s Yard. The rain had stopped, leaving puddles on the cobbles. There was no one in the dark square or laneway, but beyond they could see many figures moving about under the brighter streetlighting of Shadwell Road.
‘Let’s make this quick,’ Brock said, and they hurried forward, each gripping one of the lad’s elbows, his wrists cuffed together at his back. It wasn’t until they were practically out into the main street that they realised that the people there were waiting for them. They stopped abruptly as the crowd recognised the detectives and cries went up, ‘Here they are! Here, here!’ Brock recognised faces from the Twaqulia Mosque, eager, excited, among the people pressing forward to see who they had brought out of the yard.
‘Let’s keep moving,’ he murmured, and they stepped forward again, holding Abu tight between them. As they passed the corner entrance of The Three Crowns they saw the doors were open, a group of pale-faced young men standing against the light, shaved heads. One of them shouted, ‘Hello, Abu!’ and Abu twisted between the detectives to try to see who had called his name. Others from the doorway joined in, right arms raised, their yells becoming a chant, ‘Aaa-booo, Aaa-booo.’ Brock saw alarm growing on the faces of the crowd from the mosque as the chanting youths fell into step behind them. The crowd wavered as Brock and Bren pressed forward, stepping out into the roadway, then they heard a scream and a running of feet from behind a group of turbaned men ahead. The men turned and began to scatter and in a sudden clatter of boots more skinheads were bursting through from the front. One was swinging something, an axe handle or a baseball bat, others throwing punches and now everyone was shouting and screaming and running. Bren swore, his arm raised to block a blow as they charged on, almost lifting the man between them off his feet in their effort to keep their momentum. Brock felt a numbing blow to his knee, hands grabbing at his arm trying to drag him down, a boot flailing past. Then more shouts and he glimpsed the entrance to the police station ahead and uniformed men running out, batons in their hands. A scream of pain very close to his left ear, then a surge as they stumbled clear and hands were hauling them inside. Bren was shouting something. ‘Made it… bloody made it…’ But Brock was too winded to speak, his ears singing, and it was a moment before he realised that their prisoner was lying face down on the floor between them, not moving.
They rode together in the ambulance, the three of them, Brock, Bren and Abu, but the young Lebanese was dead before they reached the hospital, two deep stab wounds in his back. Apart from these almost invisible wounds he was unblemished, in contrast to the other two who were battered and bloody.
It was several hours before Kathy was able to see either of them. She sat in the casualty waiting room, watching the staff process a motorbike accident case, an asthmatic child, two men hurt in a pub fight, a coronary victim, and decided that there were worse things than being a copper. It was exactly a month since she’d lain on a
bed in a place just like this, waiting to be treated. The harsh lighting, the smells, the sense of an invisible but relentless process, all seemed designed to bring home the reality of the fragility of life. Here all the comforting little props and reassurances of normal routine were stripped away. You came here damaged, hoping to be saved and put together again.
She had seen it all from an upstairs window of the police station, from an office where they had the computer link to CRIS, the Crime Report Information System, which she was trying to trawl for information about Abu Khadra. In truth she’d gone there to keep out of the way while Leon Desai was around, an absurd and unnecessary reaction since he’d made himself scarce immediately after their encounter. The fact was that his vulnerability and her reaction to it had shaken her. She had never seen him off-balance like that before, and her response had been so hostile because she had felt herself being touched by it. She realised that she was tempted to think back again over the time they had spent together before Christmas, to pick over the memories of what for a few short days had seemed euphoric, to find new, more forgiving interpretations of their split. And she was resolved not to do that. She had decided on a fresh start, and that was that.
So she’d bashed another spelling of ‘Khadra’ into the machine and sat back and stared out of the window at the unexpectedly crowded street. Then she’d seen Brock and Bren emerge at the corner of the pub with the slender young Arab held tight between them. She saw him raise his head just once and turn towards some men who were following them, skinheads dressed in army fatigues, who seemed to be chanting and waving. Then he turned back, his head bouncing as the two big men broke into a jog, and the crowd parted in front of them, people scattering in all directions, and six or seven men, looking almost like a single flailing animal, charged directly at them from the front. For a second the impact brought the three of them to a halt, but then they recovered and heaved forward again, lashing out with fists at their attackers who slithered round their flanks.
A nurse finally called Kathy and led her down a corridor to a small ward where she pulled back a curtain to reveal Bren sitting looking glum and alone. His right eye was covered by a large gauze pad, his mouth swollen and bruised, his right hand bandaged and in a sling.
‘Oh, hello, Kathy,’ he said disconsolately.
‘Bren! How are you?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m fine. Nothing worse than a match against the All Blacks.’
‘That’s a miracle. I thought you’d both be dead.’
‘You saw it?’
‘Yes, from the office upstairs at the station. You were both fantastic.’
Bren looked down at his bandaged hand and sniffed modestly. ‘We’d have been kebabs if we’d been twenty yards further from the station or the lads had been slower coming out for us.’ He grinned reluctantly. ‘The boss did all right, though, didn’t he? Like an old warrior. He clocked the guy with the pickaxe handle, did you see that? Knocked him out cold.’
‘Where is he?’
‘They’re worried about his left knee. It took a bashing. They’re doing some more X-rays. But that’s not what’s pissing him off. It’s what happened to the Arab kid. He’s dead, Kathy.’
‘I know.’
Bren shook his head in disbelief. ‘When we got him into the station I couldn’t believe our luck. He looked completely untouched. It must have been those bastards behind us, from the pub. Did you see it happen?’
‘No. I wasn’t aware of anything like a knife. They’re hoping a street camera might have picked something up.’
‘How did they all appear like that, out of nowhere? And how did they know his name, Kathy? That’s what I can’t fathom.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Those fucking Nazis, they knew Abu’s name. They were chanting it as they came out the pub.’ He wearily rubbed the unbandaged parts of his face with his good hand. ‘On the way here in the ambulance, Brock was going on about how he’s never lost a prisoner. He’s really cut up about it. Hell, me too.’
‘Yes.’ She could imagine the feelings of outrage and dismay the two of them must feel at having failed to protect the helpless Abu. And there would be ramifications. While she had been sitting outside in the waiting room, Kathy had recognised a plain-clothes officer who had come in and stood waiting at the information desk. At first she couldn’t place him, and had assumed he must be following up on one of the other cases, the motorbike accident or the pub fight. But as he turned from the counter and walked away she remembered him, an inspector in the Crime Support Branch, which watches over the performance of the other specialist operations groups, such as their own Serious Crime Branch. And it had come home to her how completely Abu Khadra’s death changed everything. Now Brock and Bren were no longer simply investigating officers, but were themselves witnesses and participants in a murder. Herself too perhaps? Would she now be isolated and corralled while a new major inquiry squad took over? Then again, she was on leave. Strictly speaking, in this investigation she didn’t exist at all.
12
T he sense of being invisible grew in Kathy during the following days. As she had anticipated, a new major inquiry team was rapidly established to take over both the Max Springer and Abu Khadra murder investigations, but, although Kathy remained in London in case she was needed, she was not interviewed or contacted by them, presumably because neither Brock nor Bren mentioned her participation. In any case, it was soon clear that the new team would be so inundated by information and advice that its problem would be focusing on the material issues. Abu’s murder had occurred just in time on the Tuesday night to make the first editions of the Wednesday morning papers, and the morning radio and TV news bulletins were dominated by the ‘Shadwell Road Riot’ and its fatal outcome. National and international news services headlined the story for days afterwards, and by the weekend, when interest might have begun to wane, the arrest of half a dozen members of a right-wing white supremacist group brought it back to the front pages.
Throughout these days Kathy was in touch with the unfolding developments, and even pursued some inquiries of her own, yet she felt curiously distanced from them, neither touched nor noticed by the storm of legal, media and political activity, flitting almost like a ghost across the scene, or an unseen shadow in the wake of the new investigation team.
She saw Brock regularly, acting as a kind of domestic help in his first days of incapacity. Apart from a host of relatively superficial wounds to his upper body, arms, head and pride, his knee was badly bruised and had suffered a fracture, probably as a result of a blow from the same thug with the pickaxe handle that he had subsequently felled. Although Suzanne tried to persuade him to come and stay with her in Battle for a while, he had refused on the grounds that he could be needed at short notice in London, which wasn’t true. Kathy had interpreted this as a kind of pride, or perhaps vanity, not wanting to be seen in his battered state, like some veteran boxer staggering from the ring. She could sympathise, especially in view of Brock’s uncertain relations with Suzanne’s two resident grandchildren, but his stubbornness was inconvenient, for whereas he might have had a ground floor room at Battle, in his own house the main rooms were at the top of a winding stair up from the front door, with his bedroom another floor above. Although he wasn’t completely immobile, being able to stomp around on a crutch, in practice he came to rely on Kathy bringing him daily supplies and generally making life more tolerable. She made up a bed for him on the sofa in the living room, and rearranged his key possessions so that he could survive in that room, the kitchen and the bathroom.
He told her that the new team was headed up by a Superintendent by the name of Russell, an experienced, sound detective, he said approvingly, then added, with less enthusiasm, that he was unlikely to be distracted by divergent evidence. Russell had interviewed Brock early on the morning after Abu’s murder and was already fully conversant with both cases. He seemed convinced that forensic evidence would prove decisive in the end.
‘He’s riding Leon hard,’ Brock had said. ‘And who knows, he may be right.’
Kathy just nodded dumbly, feeling even more disconnected from events.
It wasn’t the possibility of bumping into Leon that took her back to Shadwell Road on the late afternoon of that Wednesday, or at least that’s what she told herself. Rather, it was Bren’s perplexity, repeated by Brock, over how the skinheads had known Abu’s name.
After all the media attention she had expected the street to be alive with activity, but instead it was eerily deserted, as if people were ashamed or embarrassed to be seen there. Police barriers had been erected at each end to stop vehicles entering, and many of the shops were closed, some freshly boarded with plywood sheets, the owners apparently afraid of some new outbreak of trouble. Kathy walked to the front of the police station, then retraced the route diagonally across Shadwell Road that Brock and Bren and their prisoner had followed. The road surface and gutters seemed unnaturally clean, and Kathy guessed that the whole area had been vacuumed and scraped by scene of crime teams, though their barriers and screens and tapes had been removed.
The Three Crowns too was deserted. Stan, the same hefty barman who had served her and Brock when they had been there the previous evening, complained that he had only just been allowed to reopen the pub. All day the street had been teeming with thirsty coppers and reporters, and he hadn’t been able to sell a single drink.
‘I suppose they were interested in where the skinheads were sitting, were they?’ Kathy asked, ordering a glass of wine.
‘Yeah. They were over there by the games machine most of the evening, and hanging around the door.’
‘It was a bit cold to have the door open, wasn’t it?’
Stan nodded. ‘They came and went, not all together. I had to ask them at one point to close the door, they were letting all the heat out.’
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