‘Do you think he’ll finish your course?’
Something told Alan that Lane’s concern had little to do with Ali’s intellectual career.
‘Why, are you worried my contacts with him might end?’
‘Well, it’s natural I’d be concerned. There’s a lot riding on this, you know.’
‘I’m sorry, Richard. I’m well aware of that.’
Alan took another pull from his beer. ‘Are they… Are the Yard getting at you – nagging you for results?’
‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that. But they’re certainly quite keen.’
‘What’s the rush? I would have thought that getting a good – correct – result would be the most important thing.’
Lane sat back in his chair. He suddenly looked very tired.
‘I think the high-ups are trying to meet a government narcotics target. It’s part of a new annual national drug-usage assessment. They’re looking for easy pickings. Nice statistics. A Daily Mail headline.’
Politics, again, thought Alan. He tried hard not to show his irritation.
‘But why pick on you – on us?’
‘I don’t think they are,’ Lane replied, ‘So far as I can make out it’s countrywide. But I’m trying to find out more.’
‘What’s the assessment’s deadline?’
‘Mid-May. Then they write the report over the summer, ready for the next session of Parliament in the autumn.’
‘So that means they’ll need results fast.’
‘More to the point,’ Lane suggested, ‘it means they’re likely to mount a raid, if they think the time’s right. And they don’t need to give us any prior warning.’
‘Oh, shit. That would screw everything.’
‘It certainly would. So we’ve got to give them enough to persuade them that we’re establishing a case, but we mustn’t suggest that it would be worth going in mob-handed tomorrow.’
‘I’d be prepared to bet that Ali or one of his family firms is involved in the mobile phone business.’
‘Yes, our people in Leicester have traced a cousin of theirs who runs a mobile phone warehouse. He’s in it in a big way.’
‘Legit?’
‘Hard to say. But not openly bent. Cut priced and bit shady.’
‘Not exactly hard-line drugs trafficking though, is it?’
‘No,’ said Lane. ‘And that’s the problem.’
‘What about Abdul? Did you get anything on him?’
Lane consulted his computer, genuinely this time.
‘He’s part of the empire all right. He runs AK Plant. But he doesn’t own it. He’s an employee.’
‘Of Old Mehmet?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And is that normal? Within this kind of community?’
Alan winced as he said it, but Lane clearly knew what he meant.
‘I’ve been talking to some of our own specialists in community relations and they tell me that even today, after sometimes three or four generations in the UK we still see,’ he referred to his netbook, ‘ “a pattern of top-down patriarchy within Turkish families”. But then, think about your white aristocracy, the landed gentry – it’s not so different with them, either, is it?’
Alan had a momentary flashback to the AAC portrait staring down at him from the wall in Alistair’s house. He had to agree.
‘Yes, those who make the money, always have to control it.’
‘Or use it to control others.’
Alan nodded. Lane was absolutely right.
‘So, all we’ve got is two men present at the moment of the murder,’ mused Alan. ‘They could be any combination of Old Mehmet, Ali and Abdul.’
When Lane spoke next his tone was soft, sympathetic even.
‘We haven’t even got that. There’s no conclusive proof that what you heard was actually the… event itself.’
This offered no comfort to Alan whatsoever. Lane hadn’t heard that scream. Alan had. He still did. He was in no doubt at all about what it signified. But in Lane’s world, that was all conjecture.
‘OK, Richard, so what do we do now?’
‘As they say in the movies, we follow the money. So, I want to run a few names past you. See if they ring any bells.’
‘Fire away.’
Alan leant back. Lane focused again on his computer.
‘The first is something called the Anatolian Foundation…’
Alan sat up abruptly.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said, thinking hard, ‘That does ring bells. Harriet mentioned them.’
‘Harriet your… housemate?’
Alan thought he could detect a slight tone of incredulity in Lane’s voice. He chose to ignore it.
‘My co-director at Guthlic’s. She works for PFC.’
‘Sorry, go on, Alan.’
‘Harriet’s working on this massive international dig in Turkey: the Çatol Huyut project.’
‘Yes, I’ve read about it in the Sunday papers.’
‘That’s the one. Well, I’m pretty certain she mentioned the Anatolian Foundation as one of the principal funding bodies – along with the English Research Council, the English Academy, the Archaeological Research Fund and various other major bodies.’
‘That’s very interesting…’
‘Yes, it is,’ Alan continued, ‘because I don’t think such top-flight organisations would get into bed with a flaky outfit. There’d be too much at stake. They must have run independent checks on them.’
‘I agree,’ Lane replied, ‘which only goes to show they must be squeaky clean.’
‘So what else have you found out?’
‘For a start, they’re based here in Leicester.’
‘Yes, come to think of it, she did have to drive here, about a month ago – with a new proposal for the next season. Apparently they’re extremely generous. All she has to do is give an annual lecture to a big Turkish dining club somewhere in the city centre. No official report.’
Lane was now rapidly scanning his computer screen.
‘It seems they disburse about two hundred thousand pounds a year. That suggests they must have capital in the region of… maybe ten million. Something of that order?’
‘Blimey.’ Alan was impressed. Something stirred in the back of his mind. He shut his eyes and thought hard. Then it came to him.
‘As I recall, Harriet was put onto them by Paul.’
‘That’s interesting…’
Alan could see that Lane was very focused now. Perhaps too focused.
‘They work together. To be honest, it would be odd if they didn’t share funding information.’
Alan was doing his best to sound casual. He wasn’t at all sure it was working. He pushed on, regardless, ‘Anyhow, from what Harriet told me, Paul put her in touch with the Foundation about five years ago, when PFC was still quite small. He’d had money from them when his company did the reference collections for the new British School at Izmir…’
He thought for a few moments, then continued: ‘That’s right, it was one of Paul’s other enterprises, Reference Collections Ltd.’s, very first projects. I think he still maintains some form of contact with them.’
‘Them?’
Lane was getting muddled.
‘Them: the Anatolian Foundation – although I’m not sure how he manages to keep in touch.’
As Alan said this, he was becoming uncomfortably aware that if Lane continued down this route he’d soon discover the PFC and AK Plant double-accounting system. And that would be it. The St Guthlic’s Post/X would be shut down. The whole company would be engulfed by the scandal. He didn’t care that much about what happened to Paul, or to himself for that matter; but Harriet… She’d lose valuable research material, it would probably also compromise her book deal. It could ruin the academic repu
tation that she’d fought so hard to achieve. After all, there were plenty of people out there – the same jealous academic types that spread rumours about her difficult reputation – who would positively delight in such a spectacular fall from grace, of the illustrious Dr Harriet Webb.
Alan realised he’d have to contain the situation the best he could, at least for now. He needed time to think. He focused on Lane’s next question.
Lane was still interested in the Foundation.
‘I assume they have a properly set-up and established grant-giving side. We do know from Companies House that they’re a limited company without share capital and with charitable status.’
‘Yes,’ Alan cut in, ‘that’s more or less universal in the heritage/archaeology sector. Usually there’s just one nominal share worth a pound. The point is, that such companies don’t have to use the word “Limited” in their title, but they do have to conform to Companies House rules and regulations. Like any company they have detailed Mem. and Arts.’
‘What?’
Alan was hoping that this smokescreen of jargon and technicalities was doing the trick. He pressed on.
‘Memorandas and Articles of Association, and of course they must follow strict accounting rules to retain the tax advantages of a charity. I’m involved with the Walbeach Historical Trust and I can tell you the bureaucracy can be a right pain…’
‘Well, anyhow,’ Lane continued, ‘I also persuaded my friendly forensic accountant to take a look at their published records. It seems that once again, they’re entirely above board.’
‘And I assume Mehmet is a big donor?’
‘No,’ Lane replied, ‘he’s the donor.’
‘So the tax advantages of maintaining the Foundation’s charitable status must be important to him?’
‘Oh, certainly. But I think there’s more to it than that. I gather the Foundation is held in very high esteem by the British Turkish community and Kabul is seen as the grandfather.’
‘Shouldn’t that be godfather?’
Alan couldn’t resist it. But Lane seemed to have taken it seriously.
‘Honestly, I don’t know.’ Lane paused. ‘I’ll be frank with you, Alan. I’m also not entirely convinced about the whole drugs business. The more we look into Mehmet, the cleaner he seems.’
‘But what about Abdul?’
‘Ah, well. He’s another matter. We know he’s very sharp and has done some distinctly shady things in the past.’
‘Does he have form?’ Alan asked
‘So far not. He’s too shrewd for that. Anyhow, he’s now running Ali’s van business very efficiently too.’
‘What,’ Alan broke in, ‘better than Ali did?’
‘My sources say that he’s at least as good. Possibly better. It’s still too early to know for certain. But the interesting thing is, he’s running it as a separate entity to the rest of Old Mehmet’s empire. This is Abdul’s baby, so’s to speak.’
‘And you – or rather the Yard – reckon drugs could be behind it all?’
‘Yes. I gather they suspect Abdul in particular.’
‘But again no proof?
Lane shook his head. But Alan couldn’t let it rest there.
‘But surely these Middle Eastern families are known to be very close. You’ve said so yourself. You can’t expect me to believe that if Abdul’s up to no good, then the man who brought him up – who raised him – his own grandfather, wouldn’t be aware of it?’
‘I agree. That’s what worries me.’
‘But don’t the high-ups at Scotland Yard share your worries?’
‘I don’t know.’
Alan was astonished.
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’
Lane was getting visibly frustrated.
‘What I said. I don’t know. They haven’t asked me, so I haven’t mentioned my views. As far as they’re concerned, the opinions of a mere provincial copper aren’t very important.’
This was a complicating factor Alan hadn’t anticipated.
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Look, Alan, I have to work in the real world. And I won’t get far if I’m constantly bickering with those higher up the tree, in London. And besides, like them, I need evidence to support any allegations.’
It seemed like they were back at square one.
‘I know,’ Alan broke in. ‘We need hard evidence. Of murder. Or drugs. Or both.’
‘Exactly,’ said Lane grimly. ‘And we need it soon.’
* * *
The night sky out in the Slodger’s car park was superb. There was a slight amber glow to the north over Walbeach and a larger one far away where Peterborough lit up the western horizon. But the rest of the sky was infinitely black and mysterious. The stars seemed to be hanging there, in three dimensions, as if tethered. Lane was staring upwards, transported for the moment.
‘Isn’t it amazing, the night sky out here? So clear. I suppose you take it for granted, but in Leicester we never see it.’
But Alan’s mind was firmly down on earth. As they’d walked across to their vehicles, it had come to him that Ali wasn’t the only route to penetrate the Kabul family. Somebody else had done it, seven years ago.
‘There’s one other thing, Richard. You told me when I came to see you that first time in Leicester that the main prosecution evidence came from Sofia’s fiancé?’
‘That’s right, Indajit Singh Gupta.’
‘At the time we spoke, he was in India. Is he back now?’
‘Oh yes. In fact I’ll be seeing him shortly, about a new case. D’you want me to put you in touch?’
‘That would be great, Richard, it really would. Tell him I’d like to see him over the weekend. Text me his phone number.’
‘No problem. I’ll mention you’re interested in the Flax Hole business. I know he still feels strongly about it.’
By now Lane had got into his car and started the engine.
Alan, standing alongside him, asked:
‘Still, after all this time?’
‘Yes,’ Lane replied, frowning now, his face lit by the dashboard lights, ‘so please go carefully, Alan…’ He paused, then continued: ‘The thing is, I like the man, I really do. And I’d hate to see him more distressed.’
‘It’s as bad as that, is it?’
‘No, not on the surface. But deep down something about Flax Hole still worries him. I sometimes wonder whether it’s been the reason he never married. Anyhow, see what you can discover, but please, please tread carefully…’
And with that he drove off into the night.
Alan watched as the tail lights of Lane’s car disappeared into the darkness.
He was grappling with his conscience. Lane was being open and honest with him and he was doing the very thing that he had promised he wouldn’t: withholding information. Should he have told Lane about Ali’s threat to Paul? Probably. Almost certainly. But then it led to the same dilemma as the dodgy accounting: there was simply too much to lose by drawing attention to PFC, at least at the moment.
He told himself he’d take it step by careful step. He could see that he was too close to the case, too emotionally involved. Ali was certainly not the innocent young man he’d first assumed him to be when he read that news clipping all those months ago. But beyond that, he had no idea what to think.
He needed a different perspective. A lawyer’s perspective. He’d listen without prejudice to Indajit Singh’s case. Only then could he decide on his next move.
Twenty
Alan was sitting in the waiting room of a smart legal practice in central Leicester, thumbing through a copy of Country Life. Mr Singh, the receptionist had told him, would be with him shortly. Lane had warned Singh in advance that Alan would be in touch with him, but even so, Alan didn’t find their short phone conversation the previous nig
ht particularly pleasant. The lawyer sounded preoccupied and made it quite clear that he didn’t need yet another appointment in an already over-stacked diary. But Alan insisted, and at last he relented.
Indajit Singh had been a junior graduate lawyer, then serving in a practice in Nottingham at the time of the killing. He had been twenty-five, then; now Alan reckoned, he must be about thirty-three.
A list of names displayed on a list on the wall had already informed Alan that the confident young man who walked into reception was now a partner in the firm. He was dressed in a sober dark suit and brightly polished black Oxford shoes. His complexion was urban, un-tanned and he wore his hair short. Like many non-religious Sikhs he did not have a beard or a turban. He said a few words to the receptionist, an astonishingly beautiful young Asian woman, and walked across to Alan.
They shook hands.
‘I could see you were an archaeologist from the other side of the room. It’s your beard, you know. We Sikhs wear them too, but not as often as you archaeologists.’
‘I’m sorry to be so predictable, Mr Singh…’
He cut him off as if he were in court:
‘I’d rather everyone were predictable,’ he said lightly, ‘It would make lawyers’ lives so much simpler. Now how can I help you?’
He was putting on a light overcoat; he was on his way out to lunch. Alan knew he would have to grab his attention fast if he had any hopes of detaining him for long.
‘As I mentioned on the phone last night, I was an archaeologist working at the Flax Hole Depot in 2002.’
The young lawyer’s expression had grown somewhat severe.
‘Yes, I remember. But how does that affect me?’
Alan was surprised at this change in Mr Singh’s attitude. He tried to make his reply non-confrontational.
‘I know you put together the case against Ali Kabul. I’d like to talk to you about it. To get the full picture.’
Singh brushed this aside, rather irritably.
‘He was convicted in court and is now in jail. What more is there to say?’
Indajit Singh had turned on his heels, shaking his head and walked straight out of the office. Despite Lane’s recommendation, he plainly thought Alan was another sad – or worse, sick – crank. Through the front window Alan could see the lawyer turn right outside the office main door, probably heading towards the smarter restaurants nearer the centre of town. Alan looked across to the receptionist, who smiled awkwardly and gave a barely perceptible shrug of her shoulders.
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