by Jo Bannister
About the only part of this that Hazel took in was that ‘we’. ‘You want me to come with you? To Istanbul?’
Ford laughed. ‘Well, I can hardly abandon you in Morocco, can I? If we get a flight tomorrow, we’ll be back in England by the weekend.’
Hazel hardly knew what to say. There had been times, she knew, when people she cared about worried that she was becoming impulsive. But even if it was true, underlying that was a solid stratum of common sense that gave foundation to all her judgements, all her actions. If she seemed impulsive, it was only because it didn’t take her long to weigh up pros and cons and reach a decision. She thought quickly. But she did always think.
She didn’t know what to think about this. All she knew about Istanbul she’d learned from the cinema, and girls who allowed themselves to be taken there by men they hardly knew always came to a sticky end. Ford said he’d have her back by the weekend. But there was little to stop him changing their plans again. She’d agreed to a few days in Morocco. Now he was assuming her consent to a few more days, further from home, further into the unknown.
Hazel Best hadn’t been a police officer for very long. But she’d been an intelligent, rational, healthily sceptical human being for twenty-seven years now, and the last time she’d been tempted by an invitation to adventure she’d been thirteen years old and her best friend had wanted them to run away to sea together. (Even at thirteen, though the idea appealed, she had known that nothing but trouble would come of it and regretfully declined. In the end Harry Beswick hadn’t gone either. Running away to sea meant first reaching a port, and he couldn’t work out the train timetables. He’d gone on to become a librarian and an authority on maritime fiction, thus enjoying much of the romance of sea travel without the inconvenience of actually having to go anywhere.)
If a friend had consulted her on a similar offer, Hazel’s response would have been uncompromising. It wasn’t a good idea. No amount of charm on the part of the person issuing the invitation would make it a good idea. It wasn’t wise and it wasn’t safe. What, after all, did she really know about her companion? How far could she trust him? And whether or not she knew the answer, wasn’t the mere fact that she posed the question enough to tell her what the answer ought to be?
Ford was waiting, looking expectant rather than hopeful, as if there was no doubt in his mind what her response would be. He was wearing the chambray shirt she’d bought him, and a straw trilby tipped at a rakish angle over one eye, and fourteen years after she’d disappointed Harry Beswick she opened her mouth to visit the same disappointment on Oliver Ford. It was, after all, the sensible thing to do.
But, to her astonishment, the words that came out were: ‘You organise the flights and I’ll pack.’
FIFTEEN
Constable Budgen – a chastened Constable Budgen, who wouldn’t be asking anyone to hold the fort for him again any time soon – let Ash into the side ward.
Rachid Iqbal appeared to have been waiting for him. At least, his narrow, fine-boned face registered satisfaction at Ash’s arrival.
Ash nodded a cautious greeting from the door. ‘I was told you wanted to see me.’
Iqbal nodded too, politely enthusiastic. ‘Yes. Yes, please. Thank you.’
It was a week since they’d last met. Since then, care and rest had worked a magic of healing in Iqbal’s body. Not his hand – no amount of time, or surgical skill, would restore that, and the bandaged foreshortened stump lay on top of the covers in mute, devastating testimony. But his colour was better, and there was an animation in his face that suggested the return of a little strength. Even that energetic nodding would have been impossible last time Ash was here. But Iqbal was a young man, he’d been in good health before he blew himself up, and his body was winning its battle to get well.
Soon, thought Ash, his problems would really start. ‘Do you want to tell me why?’
Iqbal appeared to give it some thought. Of course, he was doing his thinking in one language before translating his conclusions into another. As someone who had never achieved proficiency in any language other than that he had grown up with, Ash had the utmost respect for people who could make themselves understood in foreign tongues. He’d once had some rudimentary French and German, but he’d never had any understanding of Arabic. He hadn’t much regard for the young jihadi, but he could admire his command of English.
‘I wish,’ said Rachid Iqbal carefully, ‘to explain to you why you are wrong.’
Ash had been about to pull out the chair and sit down; now he changed his mind. He didn’t intend to stay that long. He sighed. ‘Sunshine, if you’re looking for converts, you’ve come to the wrong shop. I thought I made that clear when we talked before. Perhaps you nodded off at the critical moment.’
The young man was frowning, ready to take offence. ‘Sun Shine? This is a reference to my …?’ He went to raise his right hand, remembered he had no fingers on that side, raised his left instead and touched his cheek. ‘My skin?’
Ash coloured deeply. Despite the disproportionate scale of their transgressions – he had made an innocent comment that had been misunderstood, the boy in the bed had tried to murder people – Ash was mortified. ‘No. It’s just something we call people. Sometimes because they’re friends, and sometimes because we don’t know their name.’ As if there was any room for doubt, he added: ‘I don’t know your name.’
Iqbal considered. ‘I do not know your name. Sun Shine.’
Ash gave a little grin. It mightn’t be offensive, but it was pretty silly. ‘My name is Ash. Gabriel Ash.’
‘Jibra’il?’ The boy brightened. ‘Like the angel?’
‘I can only think my mother was still feeling the effects of the epidural.’ Ash waited.
Finally the boy gave a tiny nod. ‘My name is Rachid Iqbal. I am happy to make your acquaintance.’
After a moment longer, Ash pulled out the chair after all and sat down. ‘I really wish I could say the same, Rachid.’
‘You think I am a bad man. I am not a bad man,’ he insisted.
‘Perhaps gods can see deeply enough into men’s hearts to judge their motives. The rest of us have to judge people by their actions. You did a very bad thing. Speaking as a mere human being, I think that makes you a bad man.’
‘I did do a bad thing,’ agreed Rachid Iqbal. ‘I failed.’
Ash shook his head, bewildered by a hatred so comprehensive that all Iqbal regretted was that the people he had burned survived. ‘If that’s how you feel, I don’t think we have anything to talk about. You tried to kill my friend and a bunch of innocent bystanders. I don’t care why. It was such a monstrous thing to do that you forfeited any right to have your voice heard. When you’re well enough, you’ll be put on trial, and no one will care what was in your heart. They’ll only care about the spray-can in your right hand and the cigarette lighter in your left, and your decision to bring them together.’
‘I did not!’ said Iqbal indignantly. ‘Try to kill your friend. Or the innocent bystanders.’
‘Then what were you doing? A bit of impromptu hairdressing? Of course you …’
Then Gabriel Ash did what, at one time, he’d been better at than almost any man alive. He picked up the tiny pieces of a scattered jigsaw, and looked at the shapes of the pieces that were missing, and made an inspired guess about the picture. ‘Ford? You were trying to kill Oliver Ford? Why?’
Immediately the boy in the bed was on his guard. Which was all the confirmation Ash needed. If he’d guessed wrong, Iqbal might have been scathing or amused or relieved. He would not have retreated almost physically into his pillows and muttered, guardedly, ‘I did not say that.’
This was what Detective Inspector Gorman had been hoping for. Ash knew he should probably leave now, call the policeman and tell him that he’d got two significant pieces of information that Iqbal had refused to give to his interrogators: his own name, and the name of his intended victim. It didn’t explain everything. But it would allow Gorman – or CTC,
since it was officially their case now – to focus their inquiries. They might still not get the right answers, but at least they’d be asking the right questions.
Ash stayed where he was. ‘That’s what you meant when you said it wasn’t political. Oliver Ford is an historian: nothing you could do to him would affect British overseas policy. What you did wasn’t an act of terrorism, it was attempted murder. Not political but personal. Why? How do you know Ford? What has he done to you that you’d travel hundreds of miles to make an attempt on his life?’
But Rachid Iqbal knew he’d said too much already. He had never intended to unburden himself to Ash. These were matters he didn’t intend to discuss with anyone. But he’d felt besieged by all the policemen – the big, ugly, perplexed one from Norbold Police Station, who knew nothing about any country where they didn’t play rugby but still struck Iqbal as a basically decent man; and the smaller, quiet, dark-eyed one who’d been sent up from London, who spoke Arabic as well as Iqbal did, and was much more to be feared. Someone in London must have thought their shared heritage would give them common ground. But Iqbal had met a lot of small, quiet, determined men in Turkey, and before that in Syria, and he knew how dangerous they could be.
He’d thought he could buy himself a little time by offering to talk again with the big shambling man, almost as ugly as the Norbold detective, who had treated him with some kindness when Iqbal was at his most vulnerable. He hadn’t intended to tell him anything useful either; but while there was the possibility that he might, the dark-eyed policeman from London would leave him alone. Iqbal had heard that English policemen relied on guile and persuasion to extract the truth from their suspects. But he didn’t believe it. He thought that, sooner or later, when they thought he was sufficiently recovered from his injuries, if he still wouldn’t answer their questions they would beat him.
Iqbal was still young, and on the whole older men endured beatings better, but he was moderately confident that he could hold his tongue. Not out of pride, or because a great cause hung on his silence, but because the reputation of someone precious to him depended on it. He would keep it safe as long as he could. He believed he could suffer a few broken bones without betraying his purpose. But Iqbal was mortally afraid that if the London policeman wanted an explanation enough to put the blackjacks back in the toy-box and take out … well, he didn’t know how long he would be able to hold his tongue then.
So the longer he could keep them guessing, keep them hoping that he might tell them what they wanted to know carelessly, or foolishly, or unsuspectingly, the better. Asking to speak to Ash had been a delaying tactic, no more. But the fewer tools a man has in his kit-box, the more value he will put on each of them. Iqbal had been genuinely pleased to learn that Ash was willing to visit him again.
He was wondering now if that had been a mistake. Gabriel Ash looked like many westerners Iqbal had seen – large, pale, awkward, infinitely less impressive than they believed themselves. But already it was clear to Rachid Iqbal that this westerner thought with more agility than he moved. And he had the disconcerting ability to hear what hadn’t been said. Iqbal wondered if he might have been better taking his chances with the policemen after all.
He lay back, mumbled into his chest, ‘I am not well. You will go now, please.’
But Ash stayed where he was, his deep-set eyes boring into Iqbal’s face. Iqbal thought it entirely possible that, even if he said nothing more, Ash might at any moment drill down into his brain and syphon off the thoughts and memories he had considered safe there.
But perhaps actual mind-reading was beyond the Englishman after all. After a minute Ash straightened in his chair, and looked away briefly, and when he looked back it was with an apologetic little half-smile. ‘I’m sorry, I know you must be tired. I’ll go in a minute. First though, I need a straight answer to a very simple question. I’ll explain why I need to ask, because I think – I hope – when you understand, you’ll be willing to answer.
‘You remember the girl you asked about? The one who got burned. I told you she’s a friend of mine. Well, that’s a bit of an understatement. She’s been the best friend anyone could ask for. She looked out for me when I was in trouble; she believed in me when I lost belief in myself; she risked her own neck to rescue me from danger. And not because it was her job, but because she has a heart the size of Warwickshire and will do just about anything for just about anyone if it’s in her power. You know this. It’s how she got burned.’
He waited. After a moment Rachid Iqbal nodded reluctantly. ‘Yes.’
‘You were concerned about that. You never meant for her to get hurt. Almost the first thing you said, when you regained consciousness, was to ask if she was all right.’
‘You said she would be.’
‘I did,’ agreed Ash. ‘I thought it was true. Now I’m not sure. Rachid, I could be wrong about this too, but I think that – despite the evidence – you are basically a decent young man. I don’t know why you did what you did, but I think you must have had a reason. You know Oliver Ford, or you know something about him, or someone you care about has known him and had cause to regret it. Am I right?’
Iqbal refused to answer. But his face answered for him.
‘She’s with him now. My friend Hazel. She went on holiday with him. I don’t know where they are, or when they’re coming back. I need to know if she’s in danger.’
For the longest time it seemed as if Iqbal wasn’t going to answer that either. But Ash had read his silences well enough. Finally he nodded. He had no idea if he was making things better or worse for himself, but the big Englishman needed to know.
‘Yes,’ he said simply.
SIXTEEN
Fifteen minutes earlier, Detective Inspector Gorman would have been able to refer Ash to his colleague from Scotland Yard. But Detective Inspector Serai was on his way back to London, to discuss his lack of progress and his next move with colleagues whose views he valued more than those of a provincial DI. His train was pulling out as Ash presented himself at the front desk at Meadowvale and asked for an urgent meeting with the senior CID officer.
Gorman had him shown up. He was hoping for some useful information from Ash’s visit to the hospital. Ash’s obvious agitation startled him. ‘Sit down, man. What’s happened? What did he tell you?’
Ash did as he was told; and took the tacky plastic cup that Gorman pressed on him. ‘It was Oliver Ford he was after. I don’t know why – he wouldn’t say. He just kept saying it was personal, not political.’
Gorman frowned, the heavy brows gathered over the lopsided nose. ‘OK. Well, that’s good, isn’t it? One man with a grudge rather than a gang of conspirators with a cause? We bang this one up – did you get his name, by the way? – and that’s an end to it.’
‘His name’s Rachid Iqbal,’ said Ash. He sipped the scalding coffee – at least, he thought it was coffee; the machine on the landing also dispensed tea and oxtail soup, and occasionally an unholy combination of all three. ‘And I wish that was the end of it. Hazel’s with Ford, and I don’t know where they are, and Iqbal says she’s in danger. We have to find them, Dave. We have to bring her home.’
At a time when Hazel Best had had very few friends at Meadowvale Police Station, DI Gorman had given her a fair hearing. He still had a lot of time for her, thought she had the makings of a good CID officer – if she could stay out of trouble long enough. By the same token, he couldn’t think of anyone better capable of looking after herself. He seriously doubted that a TV historian could give Hazel more problems than she could deal with. ‘What sort of danger?’
Ash shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Iqbal wouldn’t say.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Just that. That if Hazel was with Oliver Ford, she was in danger. He was concerned for her. He knew he’d hurt her at the museum, wanted to know if she was all right.’
But Gorman knew that everything Ash said, everything he worried about, had to be passed through the filter of his
own history. The man had gone into free-fall after his wife and children disappeared – naturally that affected how he viewed the world. Gorman knew he wasn’t lying about this. He also knew he could be over-reacting.
‘She went away with him,’ he said. ‘What, for a holiday?’ That was fairly non-committal. ‘You’ve no reason to think Ford kidnapped her?’
‘No, none,’ said Ash quickly. ‘The weather put his filming on hold, he invited her away with him for a few days and she went. But I don’t know where they went to.’
‘Is there any reason you should?’
Ash blinked. ‘No, of course not. She does what she wants, with whoever she wants to. I thought nothing of it’ – that wasn’t strictly true – ‘until Iqbal said he was trying to kill the man. That Ford had made an enemy who was willing to cross Europe to try and kill him.’
‘Why?’
‘He wouldn’t say.’
‘Then why assume it’s Ford that’s dangerous? It’s Iqbal who’s dangerous. But he’s not going to be anywhere near Hazel again.’
Ash was finding it hard to explain. He knew what Iqbal had done. In spite of that, and despite his account being more holes than fabric, he believed what Iqbal had told him. He tried again.
‘Rachid Iqbal went to a lot of trouble to get at Ford. It’s not easy to travel here from Turkey when you’ve no passport. God knows how he got together the money for his air fare, let alone the false papers. Without the clout of an organisation behind him, it must have taken him months. So he didn’t do it on impulse. He didn’t take a swing at someone who’d offended him – he followed Ford from the far side of Europe to a little museum in a village he could never have heard of, and he tried to burn his face off.
‘Even without knowing why, we have to assume it was a matter of importance. I don’t expect Iqbal knew it would cost him his hand, but he must have known it would cost him his freedom. And he still thought it worthwhile. That says Iqbal is a hot-headed, bloody-minded young man with little regard for the rule of law. But it says something about Ford as well. That he did something to provoke that kind of hatred.’