Black Quarry Farm

by Iain Cameron

  He spotted Hobbs, his tall frame visible above the gaggle of diners in what was a busy restaurant. When he saw Henderson approach, he edged out from behind the table and stood to give him a hug.

  ‘Good to see you, Angus.’

  ‘You too, Gerry. You’re looking a lot better than the last time.’

  They both sat down, Henderson with less difficulty than his companion.

  ‘What’s this you’re drinking? Don’t tell me it’s made from lentils, everything else seems to be.’

  ‘No, it’s kale and pineapple with a bit of yogurt. It takes a while to get used to it, but when you do, it tastes delicious.’

  ‘Is it possible to get an ordinary cup of coffee in a place like this?’

  Hobbs gave him a stern look. ‘It might be owned by a couple of vegans, but they’re not Philistines. Just ask.’

  Henderson walked to the counter and did as Hobbs suggested. It was around two o’clock, and even though the restaurant was busy, more were leaving than arriving, and he was served without having to wait long. He had to admit, looking at the menu, the people working here had done some amazing things with vegetables, from platters to pastry bakes, and if he was feeling hungry, even a carnivore such as himself could find something tasty to eat.

  Brighton was often ahead of the curve when it came to trends such as this. Food for Friends, a restaurant in Prince Albert Street, was a vegetarian eatery which was always packed with diners, and had been operating in the town for almost forty years.

  He took his coffee back to the seat, by which time Hobbs was halfway through his drink. It was served in a jar, similar to ones he had at home for storing pasta and rice, and looking more like a meal than a drink.

  ‘It’s good to see you up and about, although it’s a bit of a trek coming in here from Hove,’ Henderson said as he resumed his seat.

  ‘I took the bus this time, but next week I’ll try to walk.’

  ‘At least it’s on the bus route if you get tired. Have they given you a date for coming back?’

  ‘This is why I want to walk, to get the strength back in my legs after sitting around for so long. The doc will see me in two weeks and with a bit of luck, she’ll give me the green light.’

  ‘It would be great to see you back, although you’ve been so long away, it might come as a bit of a shock.’

  ‘Tell me about it. There’ll be investigations that I know bugger-all about, new faces in the office, and thick case files with God knows what information inside.’

  ‘You’ll soon get back into the swing of things, I’m sure. What gives with the radical change to your eating habits?’

  ‘I dunno, I had a sort of epiphany while lying in bed one day. Oh, you know how it goes, if the bullet or the knife had been an inch closer, or in my case, if I’d fallen on a metal spike or whacked my head on a wall. I would never see the twins growing up, never be there when they start a new job, get married, have children, all of that.’

  ‘And the healthy diet?’

  ‘I might have missed the metal spike, but am I sending myself into an early grave by eating crap?’

  ‘It’s hard to avoid it with the sort of work we do, given all the unsociable hours and late nights. You and Claire should have a chat if you’re interested in changing your diet.’

  ‘She’s in cardio, right?’

  Henderson nodded. ‘A lot of her patients are there because of an unhealthy lifestyle, eating junk food, drinking too much, and smoking.’

  ‘Sounds like us. Maybe I will.’

  ‘I’ll ask her to call you, I’m seeing her later on.’

  ‘Have you got the time, Detective Inspector? You’re in the middle of a major murder investigation.’

  Henderson laughed. ‘It’s just the sort of thing the CI we had when you were still there, Steve Harris, would say.’

  ‘I’m glad he’s gone, what a ball buster.’

  ‘Have I got the time? Well, it is Saturday, and you know how it goes in a big investigation. There are periods of intense activity followed by stupefying lulls when you’re desperate for something to happen.’

  ‘Don’t I know it?’

  Henderson went on to explain about Edwards’ refusal to authorise a raid on S&H Fashions, and how he was about to put the building under surveillance.

  ‘It’s a poor second, don’t you think? You could be sitting there for a week and see sod all.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of, but I need to do something. I need to move this forward.’

  ‘Is this a sign Edwards is losing her nerve? Maybe with the divorce and all the changes in her personal life, she’s finding it too much.’

  ‘Maybe, but what we’ve got is a lot of suppositions and not much firm evidence. A raid might have uncovered a major drugs operation, or nothing but a simple textiles factory. However, she told me a few weeks back she’s in line for a Super’s job with the anti-terrorism group at the Met.’

  ‘Ah, that might explain her lack of decisiveness. It was good of her to tell you about it, many of the top brass wouldn’t bother.’

  ‘I think she’s been dotting her i’s and crossing her t’s before deciding anything. Now isn’t a good time for her to blot her copybook by having her name attached to a raid that only succeeds in upsetting the locals.’

  ‘I can see her point. You’ll need to think of something else.’

  **

  Not everyone was working today, not much sense if there was nothing that couldn’t wait until Monday. His surveillance team was in, however, all twelve as they were starting work tonight. At three, he walked into the conference room to brief them.

  It was only when the whole team was in the same room it could be appreciated how labour-intensive surveillance was. This one required two pairs of officers to be there for twenty-four hours, one team covering the front of the S&H Fashions building and the other at the rear. Based on eight-hour shifts, it took six officers to man one team. Detectives often worked much longer than eight hours while working a case, but surveillance could be tedious work, and he wanted them sharp so they didn’t miss anything.

  A couple of officers had been drafted in from John Street to supplement the numbers and, over the next fifteen minutes, he briefed them on the details of the case.

  ‘Now the place you will be watching is S&H Oriental Fashions in Haringey,’ Henderson said. He fiddled with his laptop for a few seconds before the screen behind him lit up with a view of the building taken from Google Maps.

  ‘Viewed from the front,’ he said, producing a picture on the screen to mirror his words, ‘it looks a large place, but if I return to the satellite view, you can see there’s also a big extension out back. It must be massive, all told. You can also see this gate here,’ he said, pointing, ‘in the side street. This allows access to the loading bay at the back of the building. The gate looks substantial and a combination of it and the wall obscures the activities going on there from passers-by.’

  ‘True,’ Phil Bentley said, ‘but we should be able to see everything going on from our position in the building overlooking.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I did some research on the building Phil’s talking about,’ Sally Graham said.

  ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘It’s owned by a Jersey company, which in turn is owned by another company. To cut a long story short, it’s ultimately owned by our old friend Gohar Cheema.’

  ‘Is it really? What a great spot, Sally,’ Henderson said.

  ‘There’s more, he’s submitted plans to the council to build six, four-bedroom houses, none of which will overlook the loading bay. This development will replace the block of flats on five floors which did.’

  ‘It convinces me more and more that something illegal is going on in there which Cheema doesn’t want the world to see.’

  ‘If only CI Edwards could feel the same,’ Vicky Neal said.

  ‘Going back to this building, Carol, what I want from your team located in the flat, is photogr
aphs. We want pictures of trucks moving in and out, the people unloading them, and the goods being unloaded. These are dangerous people we are dealing with, so you are not to move from your position unless it is compromised. When your shift is up, leave the building with caution, making sure you are not being watched. You are not to follow any suspects or intervene in any activities without my authorisation. Do I make myself clear?’

  Carol Walters and her team members voiced their agreement.

  ‘Vicky, you’re in charge of the car-based team at the front of the building. I want the car changed every shift. Grab what you can from the pool, the dirtier and shabbier the better.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Your team are also there to take pictures of any significant movements. I want to make two points. You are only to take pictures when it is safe to do so. Remember where you are. There is often a strained relationship between the police and residents in places like Haringey, and if someone knows there’s a police operation going on, they’ll call on their mates. Before you know it, you’ll have a mob surrounding the car.’

  ‘We had the same sorts of problems in parts of Manchester,’ Neal said.

  ‘I can believe it,’ Henderson said. ‘The saving grace is the building we’re focussed on is in an industrial area, not in a busy street. Now, the second point is this, and it’s an important one. Up to thirty women work there. As far as I know, we don’t need photographs of each and every one.’

  This brought a little levity to the proceedings. Officers were understandably wary of surveillance. It could leave them exposed in what could be a dangerous area. He didn’t think this just because they were working in Haringey, but any time spent watching the movement of criminals, especially those suspected of murdering four people, had the potential to blow up in their faces.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Henderson answered questions and told them as much as he knew, before sending them home. Some would be heading off for a few hours’ sleep before the first shift tonight, others spending what little time they had with their families.

  Henderson returned to his office and finished off some important paperwork. Tonight, Claire had decided to take him to a party at the house of one of her colleagues at the hospital. Despite not knowing anyone there, and not working in the medical profession, he was looking forward to it. He liked talking to those in similar professions as himself as they understood the fierce tug of emergencies, shift-working, and how hard it was creating a balance between work and home life.

  On the point of packing up, Carol Walters walked in.

  ‘What are you still doing here?’ Henderson said. ‘I thought everyone went home ages ago. I take it you’re not on the first shift tonight?’

  ‘No, I avoided that one, the benefit of rank. I’ve just taken a call from a friend of mine in the Met. I was talking to him about this case, and you know how the gun used to kill Saunders was also used to kill Nazari?’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘It was also the same gun used to wound a student called Faisal Baqri.’

  ‘I remember this too.’

  ‘Well, my friend told me, his parents have just reported him missing; they think he’s been kidnapped.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Henderson drove along Vale Road in Haringey trying to keep calm as S&H Oriental Fashions came into view. He spotted the dirty Ford Focus containing two members of the surveillance team parked about twenty metres down the road from the target, but still with a good view of the front entrance. As they passed the parked car, Henderson didn’t offer any acknowledgement and they didn’t either.

  ‘Having seen so many pictures of the building, it’s like I’ve been here before,’ Phil Bentley beside him said.

  ‘I know what you mean. It’s such a big place, see how it extends around the back.’

  They turned the corner and drove round the side of the building, cruising past the area where deliveries were received, the yard, and the back of the building hidden behind closed metal gates.

  ‘Can you see anything, Phil?’ Henderson asked as they drove slowly past, like businessmen looking for an address, but without trying to attract attention to their activity.

  ‘Not a whisper. They’ve got the place closed up tight as a drum.’

  Looking up, he could see the empty building where DS Walters’ team were based. From the top floor, he imagined they had a clear view of what was going on in the yard behind the gates. Perhaps surveillance would give him the answer he wanted after all.

  ‘Reprogram the sat-nav would you, Phil?’ Henderson asked his passenger.

  ‘Sure thing. Etherley Road, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They drove past rows of houses and flats, and it seemed to Henderson that only by coming to places like this could anyone appreciate where the bulk of London’s ten million plus population lived. It wasn’t among the shopping areas of Oxford Street, the restaurants of Covent Garden, or the theatres around Victoria, but in huge housing developments like this.

  They turned into Etherley Road. It was lined on both sides by semi-detached and terraced houses. They weren’t packed as close together as in some parts of Brighton, the likes of Kemptown or Poet’s Corner, but he imagined when Haringey was built the developers had green fields to work with and not ancient Victorian terraces.

  Halfway along, they stopped and parked. Unlike their neighbours, many of whom had gardens filled with half-a-dozen bins indicating multiple occupants, this one contained a range of well-trimmed bushes, a recently painted fence, and a patio devoid of weeds. The wooden door, not a white uPVC one like the houses on either side, topped off Henderson’s view of a well-cared for house and garden.

  Henderson knocked on the door and it was opened by a girl aged about sixteen with the largest brown eyes he had ever seen. The rest of her face complemented her distinctive eyes, making him think the boys in her class in school must have had a hard time concentrating on their studies with such a pretty girl sitting close by.

  ‘Detectives Henderson and Bentley to see your mum and dad. Are they in?’

  ‘Is this about Faisal?’

  Henderson nodded.

  ‘Yes, they are,’ she said holding the door wide. ‘Please, come in.’

  She led them into the living room where they found Mr and Mrs Baqri sitting, she on a chair with a handkerchief in her hand, and her husband slumped on the settee. He got to his feet as the detectives entered and shook their hands. His wife muttered something about tea, rose from her seat and walked into the kitchen.

  When they had all sat down Henderson said, ‘We are here, Mr Baqri, to help find your son.’

  Henderson expected some resistance or complaint as they weren’t the first cops to visit the household, but instead Mr Baqri sighed and said, ‘I will try to help you as best I can.’

  ‘Faisal was a student at The Royal Central School of Speech and Dance, I understand.’

  ‘Yes, he was there to become a better singer.’

  ‘What sort of music, pop?’

  ‘Oh no. Proper singing. He sings at weddings and funerals. He has a lovely voice. There is quite a demand in the Pakistani community for such people. My friend Hakim has made a fine career out of it.’

  ‘Do you have a background in music too?’

  ‘No, I do not. I am an underground train driver on the Metropolitan Line. There isn’t the opportunity to do much singing on a noisy train.’

  ‘Where was Faisal going when he disappeared?’

  ‘To the bus stop. He was doing some extra tuition at college.’

  ‘Who would know where he was going? It was early on Saturday morning, I understand.’

  Baqri shrugged. ‘His tutor, of course, but who knows with social media? The boy was always on there talking about his day, where he had been, where he was going. Earlier this year, a boy down the road organised a party when his parents were away. He put something about it on social media and the very same evening, this street was lined with
cars. There were fights, drinking, drugs–’

  ‘Are you talking about that party again?’ Mrs Baqri said, walking towards the coffee table where she placed a tray. Her daughter did the same a few moments later. ‘It was a noisy party, young people having fun, nothing more.’

  ‘They were taking drugs, drinking and smoking out in the street. I saw them.’

  ‘Pah, it was nothing.’

  ‘It wasn’t nothing Mama,’ the daughter said, ‘it got really exciting when the police wagons pulled up, and they were running after the boys as they tried to escape through the back gardens.’

  ‘Aisha,’ Mr Baqri said with a flick of his wrist, ‘be off with you. You must have something you need to be doing.’

  ‘I want to stay and help find Faisal.’

  ‘No. This is adult talk. Go now and see to your chores.’

  It was interesting for Henderson to hear, in the course of one generation Aisha had lost her Pakistani accent which so characterised her parents’ speech. From a vocal perspective at least, she sounded like any other Londoner.

  In front of them lay a feast which had more in common with afternoon tea at a posh London hotel than a mere coffee and biscuit served up by the parents of a missing boy. Five plates were filled with a variety of small cakes and biscuits, none of which looked familiar, but that wouldn’t stop him giving one or two a try.

  When Aisha had left the room, Henderson accepted a cup of tea from Mrs Baqri and resumed his questions.

  ‘Did Faisal have any enemies?’

  ‘He’s a twenty-one-year-old student, Detective. He hasn’t been out in the world long enough to make any enemies. He doesn’t smoke, he doesn’t drink, and he doesn’t do drugs.’

  ‘He’s never complained about bullying, receiving threats, silent phone calls, any of those things?’

  ‘No, he has not.’

  ‘If I can talk about the time before when he was kidnapped and shot in the leg.’