by Vicky Newham
‘The Jewish couple?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Dad was friends with her husband. Wasn’t he?’ I fished in the plastic folder for the photograph I’d printed out. ‘She showed me this photo of them.’ I placed the faded image on her lap. It was the one of Dad, Józef, and their two friends outside the barber’s.
The image drew her attention and seemed to pull her out of her haze. ‘Switch that racket off, Maya, will you?’ she snapped suddenly. ‘I can’t think with that noise.’ She examined the image pixel by pixel, much in the way that people study paintings for content, texture and tone. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
My stomach lurched. But she was pointing at Józef. How did she know? ‘Yes. A year ago.’ Should I tell her the news about Dad or was it kinder to keep quiet? How I wished there were rules for what to do and say. ‘Józef’s funeral was local. They had a traditional parade in the street.’
‘Oh?’ Mum’s residential home was in Stepney so she wouldn’t have seen the procession, but she may have read about it in the local paper.
‘Rosa Feldman told me Dad was at the reception. Did you know?’
She frowned, and her eyes glazed over. ‘You told me that.’
‘Yes, just now.’ What did she mean? ‘I’ve only just found out.’ Was she getting mixed up? ‘Did someone tell you before now?’
‘I must be getting confused again. I remember Józef.’ She looked at the photograph of Dad, Józef, Ody and Cyril. ‘And the other two look familiar.’ She pointed at Ody. ‘Who’s this one? I recognise him.’ Mum began rubbing her wrist.
‘That’s Odyek Atyeno. I think they called him “Ody”. He was at the funeral too.’
‘The funeral?’
‘Yes, Rosa Feldman told me that Dad and Ody were at Józef’s funeral a year ago.’
Loss pulled at Mum’s features. She placed her index and middle fingers on the picture of Dad, and it was obvious how much she still missed him. Why hadn’t she talked to us about him more? Told us what had gone on?
‘Rosa told me that Dad was playing with her granddaughters at the funeral reception, and telling them about the canal.’
‘Kazi loved the canal.’ Her watery smile faded as her mind slipped sideways. ‘Do you remember that time he took you, Maya and Sabbir fishing? It was a scorching summer.’ She sniggered. ‘You all came back drenched, but no-one would tell me what happened.’
I fell into the memory. The four of us clambering into the old wooden boat. Me, the youngest and shortest, struggling to climb in. ‘The boat capsized, and we all ended up swimming.’ Why hadn’t we told Mum what happened? It was time to change tack before we both got lost. ‘I’ve brought your phone back so you can have the radio on again. It needed a new battery.’ I took the old iPhone from my bag and placed it on her bedside table; felt a twinge of guilt because it had needed a new battery, but I hadn’t told her I’d taken it for fingerprint testing.
Mum had drifted now, and her expression was glazed.
‘Shall I get you some fresh water?’ I took the plastic jug and beaker over to the sink, swilled them out, relieved to have the time to collect my thoughts. Mum and I were both wading around in different versions of unknowing: Mum, it seemed, couldn’t reliably remember whether Dad was still alive, and I needed reliable evidence. The fingerprints on the iPhone were more recent than Suzie’s photos from a year ago. ‘Mum, has Dad visited you recently?’ She’d first told me this a year earlier and intermittently since then.
‘Kazi?’
I had to hold my nerve. ‘Yes.’
‘You know perfectly well he left us.’
‘Uh-huh. But you’ve said a few times that he’s visited you. Here.’
‘Have I?’
‘And Jasmina said you’d told her that you’d woken up and found Dad here, and then he disappeared.’
‘Argh. My memory . . . It’s like everything’s slipping away . . . ’ It was as though she was genuinely trying to reach through the fog and recall what she’d experienced.
‘If Dad was at Józef’s funeral a year ago . . . ’ I had to say it, I had to tell her, ‘ . . . it means that he’s probably still alive now.’ I took out the image that Suzie had printed, of Dad, Cyril and Ody, sharing a drink to commemorate Józef’s life.
Her eyes were wide now, gaping with the years of not knowing.
I passed her the photo, and quietly said, ‘Mum, I’m sure Dad’s still alive.’ I tapped on his image, and summoned the courage to voice the question I’d wanted to ask for twenty-nine years. ‘Did you know?’
And once the question was out, I felt a rush of relief and release . . . followed by a thud of fear.
What was it?
Why had we all been so scared to broach the subject?
Maya, 10.30 p.m.
I sped away from Mum’s residential home, still reeling from the day’s events. It was hard to shake the feeling I’d had at the squat, when Ali ran off, that we would never see him alive again. In my head, as I drove home, scenes of Ali’s dead body, and the room where he’d been shot, were playing on a loop. I’d known the crime scene was not going to be pleasant, but this was as though the images were lasered onto the back of my eyes, and much as I tried to blink them away, they came back. I saw the fear in his eyes. Heard his voice, saying over and over, ‘He kill me. He fucking kill me. And all of us.’
Then, there was the stuff with Dad.
When I arrived home in Mile End, I hoped I could leave the day behind. As I opened the flat door, I got a waft of burning logs and chilli con carne. In the lounge, Dougie was half-asleep, iPad on his lap and the telly on.
I stuck my head round the door. ‘Hi. I’m going to . . . shower and balcony,’ was all I managed, and the only thing I caught that mattered was the kindness in his smile.
*
Twenty minutes later, I was out of the shower, my skin prickling in my pyjamas from the heat of the water. On the kitchen balcony, I sat on a plastic chair, cradling a bowl of chilli and staring at the inky shimmer of the night sky. The canal felt full of ghosts. Under the gaze of the full moon, Johnson’s Lock was bathed in light. The lurking strangers were mere bushes and undergrowth. The shadows, which were usually shrouded in darkness, tonight were tricks of the light.
TUESDAY
Dan, 1 a.m.
It had been a long night. It was well after midnight, and Maya and Dan had made little progress. They’d been on the streets for two hours, searching for people who knew Patrick Ryan and the Hayes brothers. So far, several people remembered Ryan from various locations around London, but none knew Hayes – or would admit to it.
They were leaning against a wall, drinking watery tea that they’d bought from an all-night van.
‘I’ve booked my ticket to Sydney,’ Dan said. ‘Cleared it with HR. I’m off in a week.’
‘That’s great news,’ Maya said. ‘The girls will be so excited to see you. And you’ll catch the end of the summer.’
He chuckled. Maya hadn’t met the girls yet, or Aroona, but he had a feeling they’d get on well. ‘The smell from that van is making me hungry. I’m either going to get a bacon sarnie or suggest we call it quits for the night. What’s your shout?’ He stood up.
Maya was deep in thought again. After Ali’s murder, she’d been alternately quiet and hyper, and was more determined than ever to find Kenny Hayes.
‘Maya? Do you want a sarnie or shall we knock off?’
‘What? Oh.’ She paused, frowning. ‘Sorry. I can’t for the life of me figure out why Ryan would’ve had a row with someone at the youth centre. He’d have known it could jeopardise his role there. Why risk that when he’d worked so hard to get his life back on track? Everyone’s told us how much he was enjoying his volunteering.’
‘It does seem odd.’
‘In her statement, Nicola Grant said Ryan wasn’t naturally aggressive. What if it wasn’t the way Nilufar’s colleagues saw, and the other guy started on Ryan or deliberately provoked him? Maybe they
wanted to get him into trouble or out of the way?’ Her voice was animated. ‘We know Hayes and his brother were using the youth clubs to recruit kids to LfA. What if Ryan knew what they were doing?’
‘And confronted them, you mean?’ Dan asked.
‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’ Maya’s expression was determined. ‘Nicola told me that Ryan was principled, and spoke up when he saw something that wasn’t right. That could be why they killed him and cut his tongue out. He knew what they were up to and threatened to go to the police?’
Dan sensed that Maya was onto something. ‘Ryan was dead when they brought him to the Manor House site. They didn’t need to douse his body with petrol unless they wanted to suggest a link with the arson.’
‘Same with cutting his tongue out and tying an LfA bandana over his mouth.’ Her voice was quiet now. ‘All three things are symbolic, aren’t they? Ryan knew something that whoever killed him wanted kept quiet, I’m sure of it. Not necessarily who the arsonists were, but something that was enough to make someone want to get rid of him.’
Maya, 7.30 a.m.
By sunrise, and after four hours sleep, I was back at the office, spooning sugar into a mug of extra-strong coffee while HOLMES loaded on my PC. The sound of footsteps caught my attention.
Alexej stopped at my desk, drumming a bunch of papers with a pen. ‘Still nothing on Abbie,’ he said, his voice tight with worry. ‘Another search team is about to set off.’
‘Oh, God. I hope they find her today. I was about to check for updates.’
‘Good news though. Our old boy, Arthur Monro, called in late last night. Originally, he thought the person he saw going into the rear garden at the soup shop on the morning of the arson was female, but he’s seen the images of Ali Kousa on the TV and says that’s who he saw.’
‘Is he sure? Why would Ali have been going into the soup shop garden?’
‘Arthur says he’s definite. He recognised the white trainers. He’s coming in this morning to give a statement.’
‘Shit. That means Ali could have torched the soup shop.’
‘Yup.’ He added Ali’s name to the suspect list. ‘What do you want us to do?’
‘Can you give me a minute?’
‘We’ve circulated Kenny Hayes’ photo and description as widely as we can. And his brother’s.’ He fiddled with a paperclip while he thought. ‘You can’t miss Kenny because of his tattoo, and six feet three isn’t common. John’s younger and —’ He stopped. ‘John’s a student at New City College . . . ’ He pointed at my computer. ‘Is your update log open?’
‘Be my guest.’ I was still thinking about Ali as our arsonist. ‘Did you write down what Arthur Monro said?’
‘Yeah. Here.’ Alexej tossed me his notebook and put HOLMES on full-screen. ‘Look. Shen checked with New City College’s registry but I’m not sure she remembered to include his aliases.’ Click, click. ‘Kenny Hayes used the aliases Kyle Cox and Karl Cox. And . . . ’ He traced his finger down the list of students named John.
John Nugent
John Brodi
John Hamilton
John Davison
Jon Kadare
John Arnold
John Cox
‘Bingo,’ Alexej shouted. ‘John Cox. We should be able to get an address now. Unless he’s using an alias, of course.’ He checked the time. ‘I’ll speak to the Registry as soon as it opens.’
It was a breakthrough at last.
While we were waiting, I resumed reading Alexej’s notes on his call with Arthur Monro. The person he described sounded like Ali. ‘Did Arthur mention Ali having a bag with him?’
‘Don’t think so. He’s due in at nine. I’ll ask him.’ He returned to his screen.
‘Assuming New City College’s records are correct, it means that Hayes has got his kid brother involved with criminality, as we suspected. What a scumbag. He doesn’t give a shit who he drags into his vile world, does he? I wouldn’t mind betting those two are holed up somewhere.’ I rubbed my dry eyes. I was wracking my brain for where else we could get John’s address from so we didn’t have to wait for the Registry to open. It was so frustrating to have another delay.
‘It’s exactly what he did in Manchester and Salford.’ Jackie had joined us and was circling Hayes’ mugshot on the board. ‘He started with drugs and quickly diversified. He regularly changed his habits and locations, and fired and hired to avoid being caught. I wouldn’t mind betting Kenny’s behind the arson and Ryan’s murder. It’s exactly his style. If anyone poses the slightest threat to his business, he takes them out.’
I sensed that what Jackie was saying was true, but I had a nagging feeling that it wasn’t the whole story. Kenny Hayes might be the common denominator, but I couldn’t see any tangible reason for him to want to burn down Rosa’s shop, or the soup shop. I was sure there was more to it than— ‘That’s it. I’ve got it.’
I stood, facing Alexej and Jackie.
My body ran hot then cold as the realisation took shape in my mind. ‘I thought it could have been any of Kenny’s recruits, but it’s been under our noses all the time. Ali’s the person who got the shop wrong.’ I got up and went over to the board. Pointed at the SMS and looked at Jackie. ‘“The shop on right wiv a star above a blue front door.” It’s such an easy mistake to make. If they weren’t sure, most adults would check, but a kid might not. They’d assume the adult gave them the right information. If they were in a panic, living a life of chaos and fear, they’d be even less likely to check.’ All eyes were on me. ‘Ali’s English isn’t good either. When I interviewed him on Friday, he got his left and right mixed up. I reckon he got the wrong shop and that’s why Kenny killed him – not because he brought the social workers to their door, but because he ballsed up a job.’
Alexej jumped out of his seat and joined me at the boards.
‘I knew whoever made the mistake was going to pay.’ I said. ‘You were right, Jackie. Kenny will not stop at anything.’
Maya, 9 a.m.
Nicola Grant opened the door looking very different from the way Dan had described her. Gone was the make-up and the expensive clothes. She had greasy night cream plastered all over her face and was wearing pyjamas. Her skin was red and blotchy from crying, and her eyes looked sore.
‘I rang a few times but kept getting your voicemail,’ I said. ‘I would like to ask you a few more questions. Could I come in?’
There were no signs or sounds of either daughter in the flat.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as though needing to inhale some patience, some strength perhaps. ‘If you have to,’ she said unenthusiastically, and she stepped back for me to pass her into the flat.
‘Sorry if I woke you.’
‘I’ve had migraine. I got up to get the girls ready for school. Alan’s just dropped them off and gone to work. I went back to bed.’
She took me into the lounge. ‘Has something happened?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘We’ve received some information which puts the arson in a fresh light. As we believe they’re connected, that affects how we are approaching Patrick’s murder.’
Nicola’s face was pale, so I waited for her to sit down. She sunk onto a chair and attempted to straighten her hair.
‘We believe that Patrick may have met the man who killed him during the period when he was sleeping rough. Unfortunately, we have little knowledge of the people he hung out with, if he made any friends, who he got into rucks with. Can you help us?’
Nicola’s face changed immediately. ‘Do you think so?’ Concern and protectiveness replaced her irritation. ‘I’ve been going over and over all the people he met, trying to think who might want to hurt him. All the times I saw him, and followed him, and went to meet him. I kept engineering things so I would bump into him, just to check he was OK. I was convinced he was going to get murdered on those bloody streets.’ The words came out with a whoosh of emotion, followed by deep sobs.
I waited a few moments. ‘C
an I make you a cup of tea or something? I’m aware I’ve barged in and it’s hardly likely to help your migraine.’
She dabbed at her nostrils with a soggy tissue, and blew her nose. ‘Thank you.’ She checked the clock on the wall. ‘I can take a couple more Migraleve actually.’
‘While I put the kettle on, could you cast your mind back? Did Patrick ever mention meeting a man called Kenny Hayes? Sometimes he used the name Karl or Kyle.’
Her face registered nothing.
In the kitchen, I flicked the kettle on to boil and took two mugs from the draining board. While I was waiting for the water to heat, I let my gaze wander round the room. A solid wood worktop lay over a breakfast bar, and high stools had been fashioned of the same wood. A cream retro fridge occupied a corner, and matching cream cabinets nestled against the walls under soft lighting. It was a lovely room. Clearly Nicola Grant’s new husband earned good money, and they were very comfortably off. On the wall over the radiator, someone had assembled a collage of photographs. At least a third of these had Patrick in. With Nicola and Amanda; with both girls; on his own; in his hard hat, boots and reflective gear at the Manor House site; on their wedding day; with a few of his peers on the trading floor at the bank. One image in particular caught my eye. In it, Patrick Ryan was eating some food from a paper plate. In the background, several guys were also tucking into food, including a very tall one.
‘Nicola?’ I yelled towards the lounge. I leapt over to the door and shouted down the hall. ‘Can you come in here a second?’
It was Kenny. The pinched features. The small skull. The ugly tattoo. The door-frame height.
‘What is it?’ She was shaking.
‘Do you know this man?’ I pointed at the photograph.
She screwed up her eyes to get a good look. It wasn’t a brilliant picture. Slightly out of focus. ‘Hold on. Let me get my glasses.’ She turned and scanned the room. Grabbed them up from the worktop by the fruit bowl.
