She’d looked at him differently after that.
‘It’s too long ago,’ he lied now. ‘I’ve forgotten.’ And in his case there had never been any question of his dad turning up. He wondered if having a dad who comes and goes was worse than having one who’s non-existent.
‘Anyway,’ Colleen went on, ‘Ricky went off to school as usual Monday morning, a bit quiet but I never thought anything of it. He wasn’t there when I got home from work that night. He must have come in after I’d gone to bed. Then last night, he didn’t come in at all. His bed hasn’t been slept in.’
‘Ricky has done this before,’ Mariner reminded her gently. ‘Gone off.’
‘Not like this. A couple of times he’s stayed out all day at the weekend, and sometimes late after school, too.’ She leaned in towards Mariner, urgency written all over her features. ‘But he’s never been out all night. First thing, I got a call from the school asking where he was because he hadn’t turned up. When they talked to his friends - and that didn’t take long - they hadn’t seen him since yesterday afternoon. They got let out early because of the heat. Ricky hasn’t stayed out this long since before Ronnie left us.’
‘No.’ The times Ricky had disappeared before were the occasions when he’d been an unwilling witness to his dad laying into his mum. As gentle as his dad was violent, Ricky hadn’t stood a chance. The last time he’d run away it had been in shame because he hadn’t been able to protect his mother when she’d needed it. He’d been ten years old. Afterwards, Mariner had spent a lot of time with the boy, trying to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault. They’d got to know each other pretty well, too.
‘When Ricky stays out all day, have you any idea where it is he “goes off” to?’ Mariner asked.
Colleen shrugged. ‘It’s not with his mates. And when I ask him he just says “around”. Typical teenager.’
‘How’s Kelly?’ In the past it was Colleen’s older daughter who’d been the real headache, disappearing for days at a time.
‘Kelly’s settled down now. She’s got a baby of her own and a nice fella.’
‘Are you sure Ricky hasn’t taken a leaf out of her book?’
‘Ricky’s different: he’s quiet, sensitive. He’s never stayed away all night. And he never misses school. Something’s happened to him.’
No, that was another thing: Ricky didn’t miss school. The boy’s genetic make-up was a mystery. Against the odds, he was a studious kid with big ambitions and the common sense to know what he had to do to achieve them.
‘Is everything all right at school? Nobody’s giving him a hard time?’
‘No.’
‘He hasn’t fallen out with his mates?’
She snorted. ‘He hasn’t got many to fall out with. You know Ricky, he keeps himself to himself.’
‘Any girlfriends on the scene?’
‘No.’
‘What about you?’ Mariner asked. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’
‘A guy called Steve. He’s a friend.’ A touch of defiance crept in. ‘A good friend. We’ve been together nearly a year.’
‘Does Steve get on all right with the kids?’
‘Yes. No. He finds Ricky hard because he’s always got an answer for everything, always coming out with these long words. But he wouldn’t be enough to make Ricky stay out all night. I know it.’ She stubbed out her cigarette in a final gesture of defiance.
‘All right, we’ll ask around and see what we can dig up,’ said Mariner. ‘I’m sure Ricky will turn up with a good explanation for all this. I want you to go home. Let me know if you hear anything and we’ll keep you posted. And try not to worry, eh?’
She snapped the Zippo and sucked the weak flame into her fifth cigarette. ‘Easy for you to say.’
Showing Colleen out, Mariner stood for a few moments breathing deeply, taking advantage of the relatively clean air while he was outside. Ricky Skeet was a puzzle. The disappearing act was out of character, but then he was fifteen: a difficult age even without the unsettled home life. Colleen was right to be worried, but the chances were that seeing his dad again had provoked emotions that he couldn’t handle and that in the fullness of time, when he’d got over the turmoil, Ricky would turn up. The kid probably just needed some space. Mariner heard the door behind him swing open. It was Delrose, the civilian receptionist.
‘DCI’s looking for you,’ she called. ‘And he seems to be getting a bit impatient.’ Well, wasn’t this developing into a perfect day? What a shame Anna’s pitch at the festival wasn’t the wet sponge stall. Suddenly he had in mind a prime target. His mood deteriorating with every pace, Mariner went straight to the DCI’s office and knocked on the door.
‘Come.’ The request was barely audible but Mariner went in anyway. As Acting Detective Chief Inspector Gavin Fiske looked up from his desk, Mariner was reminded of a tortoise emerging from its shell, blinking slowly with a smile that didn’t hang around long enough to reach his eyes. His movements were slow and calculated, like those of a reptile conserving energy in the heat. A fly buzzed around the room and it would have been no surprise to Mariner to see the DCI flick out a long tongue to catch it.
As smooth as Jack Coleman was rough, Fiske was a good ten years younger than Mariner; all designer suits and Samsonite briefcase, with just the right amount of gel styling his hair and doubtless a bathroom cabinet full of ‘male grooming products’ at home. His bag for the gym sat conspicuously on the floor of his office, the habit reflected in the toned physique but not the unhealthy, pallid complexion. Mariner could never understand the logic of paying hundreds of pounds for the privilege of walking on a machine in a room full of sweaty bodies when the same effect could be achieved in the fresh air and changing landscape of the countryside. How could MTV ever seriously complete with the stunning view over the vale of Evesham from the top of Breedon?
In the three weeks that Fiske had been in the station covering while Jack Coleman was seconded to Complaints Investigation Bureau on an internal investigation, he’d already acquired a nickname. The first time Mariner had heard him referred to as ‘Fido’ he didn’t get it.
‘Thinks he’s the big I Am,’ a staff sergeant enlightened him. ‘Like the dog food.’
‘Ah,’ Mariner had said. ‘And I’d assumed it was because he thinks he’s the dog’s bollocks.’
‘Glad you could find a window,’ Fiske said. It took a couple of seconds for Mariner to work out what he meant. The consensus was that Fiske had risen so quickly through the ranks partly due to his snappy vocabulary. He could ring-fence like no other and he was the first man Mariner had come across who regularly diarised, something that sounded to him like a complex medical procedure. What Fiske didn’t yet appreciate was that though the buzz words might impress interview panels, in the real world they had the potential to make him a laughing stock. He’d walked into his first briefing at Granville Lane deporting a shield of ignorant self-confidence that had temporarily protected him from the sniggers that greeted his lexical repertoire, but that wouldn’t hold for long. Mariner couldn’t wait.
‘Interesting afternoon, Inspector?’ Fiske asked now, his unfortunate nasal inflection adding value to the patronising tone.
‘Yes sir, I’ve been following up on a missing juvenile.’
‘And prior to that? I’ve been trying to raise you on your mobile.’
‘I’m sorry. The battery must be flat, sir.’ Mariner hedged, suppressing the slightest twinge of guilt.
‘Do I look like a complete prat, Mariner?’
What a question, thought Mariner, wondering if there was any way he could get away with the truth. Luckily the DCI saved him from himself. ‘Where were you?’ he demanded.
‘I was responding to a call sir, PC Grady can conf—’
‘Oh yes, from a “Miss Streep”. Would that be Meryl by any chance? Fitting you in between filming, was she?’ Guilty as charged, Mariner was annoyed to find himself colouring in response. How the hell did Fiske know where he’d been, unles
s he was checking up on him? Fiske didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Not exactly the example we want to set for junior officers, is it?’ he said mildly. ‘If you’ve ambitions to become Granville Lane’s very own Peter Stringfellow, I suggest you wait until the end of the working day like the rest of us.’
‘Thanks for the analogy, sir.’
But for all that, Fiske’s irritation was carefully controlled. I’m on your side, said the knowing smile. We’re all lads in this together. Failing to realise that Mariner wasn’t together with anyone nor had he ever been.
The dressing-down complete, Mariner started towards the door. ‘I’ll take more care in future, sir.’ In more ways than one.
But Fiske hadn’t finished. ‘Talk me through this missing juvenile.’
Stupidly, Mariner mistook the command for interest. ‘Ricky Skeet, aged fifteen, went out yesterday morning but didn’t come home.’
‘Where’s home?’
‘Nansen Road. It’s on the—’
‘Oh, I know where that is.’
Mariner wasn’t surprised. Long and winding, Nansen Road took its name from the grim council housing estate through which it ran, and whose reputation was notorious. Built in the 60s when housing was cheap and shoddy, the development comprised rows of boxy white stucco houses, interspersed with more space-efficient low-rise flats and maisonettes. During the 70s, the local authority had made it their policy to rehouse ‘problem families’ on these estates, in the hope that they would learn from their more socially conscientious neighbours. Of course that wasn’t the direction in which the osmosis occurred. Instead, what had subsequently developed was a ghetto of problem families living alongside those like Colleen Skeet who couldn’t afford to move on. It was also one of the crime hot spots of the locality and it was clear that Fiske had already passed judgement.
‘Why wasn’t this just reported to the duty sergeant and passed to uniform?’ he asked.
‘I have a history with this family.’
‘Oh? Would that be personal or professional?’
Mariner hardened his voice. ‘Colleen Skeet’s former partner was violent. Over the years I got called to the house a number of times—’ Where he’d spent hours trying to persuade Colleen to go into a refuge. On one occasion he’d succeeded, but she hadn’t stayed long.
‘Was?’
‘Ronnie Skeet did everyone a favour and cleared off a couple of years ago, with another woman.’
‘And is that the sole basis for your relationship with this family?’ Mariner hesitated. ‘I can look up the case notes,’ Fiske reminded him.
‘The older girl has been in trouble: truanting, shoplifting, that kind of thing. She’s run away before, too.’
‘So. Not what you’d call a model family.’
‘Colleen’s had her share of problems over the years, yes, sir. She’s a woman on her own trying to raise her kids and keep them from being poisoned by the influences around them. It doesn’t make her a bad person. And I thought that was what we were here for, sir. To help people who are in trouble.’
‘Don’t lecture me, Mariner. Are we sure that this is a genuine disappearance?’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘Are we sure that this boy wants to be found?’
‘His mother wants him found. That’s why she came to me.’ Mariner made to leave. ‘And if there’s nothing else, sir, I need to get started on the risk assessment paperwork. ’
‘Someone else can do that. I need your expertise on something else.’ Expertise. Good choice of word. Mariner should have been flattered. He wasn’t.
‘With respect, sir, this mother has approached me directly. I know the family and I think I’m the person best placed to—’
‘And as your superior officer I think I’m the person best placed to determine your priorities, don’t you think, Inspector?’
‘And they are?’
‘Another missing teenager.’ His face said that the irony wasn’t lost even on him. Christ. The OCU covered only one small area of the south of the city. What were the chances of two kids disappearing on their patch in the same day? ‘In this case it’s a seventeen-year-old girl,’ said Fiske. ‘I want you to handle it.’
Mariner had a premonition of a poisoned chalice heading his way. ‘But I’m already—’
‘Charlie Glover can take that on.’
‘So that I can look for another missing kid? That makes sense.’
‘Don’t play the smart arse with me, Mariner. It won’t do you any favours.’ Fiske’s voice was icy. ‘This case is not the same as Ricky Skeet.’
‘Oh, really,’ said Mariner, unconvinced.
‘I want you to follow it up. Consider it an order.’ The pulse at his temple throbbed dangerously.
‘Yes, sir.’ And fuck you, too.
Fiske handed Mariner a picture of a young Asian girl who smiled happily from a standard school portrait. She looked younger than seventeen and wore the uniform of the girls high school located in a middle-class residential area, several miles from Kings Rise Comprehensive where Ricky was a pupil. Middleham Road ran between the two, parallel to the Birmingham to Bristol railway line. The two kids were quite literally from opposite sides of the track. ‘Yasmin Akram,’ Fiske announced, importantly. ‘Last seen by her friends getting her train at Kingsmead Station yesterday afternoon to go home. It’s worth bearing in mind that her parents have some influence within the Asian community. I think you’ll find the risk assessment profile on this one rather more urgent.’
So that was how this one was different. Yasmin Akram had hit the jackpot. She was young, female and respectable middle class. At one time, being Asian might have counted against her, but not any more, not in the wake of the Macpherson report; the enquiry into police racism that had followed the bungled investigation into the murder of black student Stephen Lawrence. These days, being from a minority ethnic group could be a positive bonus. Mariner bit back his objections. On that score Fiske was right, it wouldn’t do him any good. The pretty teenager smiling up at him had to be found. She was young, vulnerable and at risk. It just didn’t meant that Ricky Skeet wasn’t.
‘Her parents, Shanila and Mohammed Raheem Akram, run an independent Islamic prep school, Allah T’ala, in Sparkhill,’ said Fiske. ‘And until we’ve established that this is a simple missing persons, we need to keep our options open.’
Mariner picked up the inference immediately. For months now, right-wing nationalist groups had been taking advantage of the public fears of Islamic fundamentalist terrorist incidents to stir up unrest, and in recent weeks a number of Islamic institutions had themselves been under attack - from the eighty-six mosques in the city to countless businesses, large and small. Muslim schools in the city were amongst the obvious targets, mainly because of the threat posed by their academic success.
‘If this does turn out to be politically sensitive,’ Fiske went on, ‘I need someone on it who knows what they’re doing and will cover all the angles right from the beginning. ’
Coming from Jack Coleman, that would have been a compliment, but Mariner wasn’t naive enough to take it as such from Fiske. The DCI was simply covering his own back. Mariner had the distinct impression that Fiske was out of his depth already. His previous posting in rural East Anglia had been poor preparation for a city as huge and socially complex as Birmingham. And while he’d probably read a few textbooks and attended a couple of seminars on equalities, Mariner doubted that Fiske would have any real grasp of the issues involved.
At the turn of the millennium, Birmingham had become the first European city to no longer have a single ethnic majority and Mariner had lost count of the number of minority groups that made up the million plus population. The whole spectrum of racial integration was represented, from communities that remained closed and self-sufficient, to those individuals whose physical characteristics were the only indication that their ancestors weren’t of Anglo-Saxon origin. Over the years, Mariner had worked with colleagues and members of the publ
ic from every background imaginable, but he still wouldn’t presume to understand all the subtle implications of living inside a different coloured skin.
Added to that were the infinite configurations of family life, regardless of culture or class. He also wondered how much the DCI understood about handling the press on a case as potentially high profile as this. If Yasmin’s disappearance should turn out to be racially motivated, then they would be eager to join the dots and draw their own conclusions.
Fiske buzzed through to his PA. ‘Is WPC Khatoon here yet?’ In response, the door opened and a young Asian woman came in. Almost matching Mariner for height she was generously proportioned, and Mariner was reminded of how unflattering the police uniform could sometimes be.
‘This is Jamilla Khatoon, a family liaison officer who’s going to be on loan to us from Operational Command Unit 2,’ said Fiske. ‘She’ll be working with you on this for obvious reasons. Jamilla, this is DI Mariner.’
He didn’t hang about, did he? As they shook hands, Jamilla’s expression was guarded and Mariner was left wondering how Fiske had prepared her for this introduction. Mariner forced a smile. ‘Nice to meet you, Jamilla.’
Her tentative smile stretched to one that was broad and white. ‘It’s Millie, sir.’
‘OK.’
‘I want you to keep this low key,’ Fiske intervened. ‘Just the two of you on the preliminaries until we know what’s going on. Talk to the family, friends, the usual. If this does develop into anything, we’re going to have the media and the politicians crawling all over us. So let’s get it cleared up quickly and cleanly, whatever it takes.’ Then if I do screw up, at least not too many people will know about it, Mariner tacked on, in his head. It was Fiske’s dismissing remark.
Chapter Two
Mariner seethed with resentment on the walk down to his office. For the second time that day he was leaving an encounter feeling manipulated. First Anna and now Fiske, working him like a puppet on a string.
Although there was a strong possibility that Fiske could be right, he resented the dismissal of Ricky Skeet’s disappearance as routine, and entirely down to the kind of home life the kid had. Never mind that he was bright. He didn’t stand a chance. Colleen wasn’t going to like this one little bit. Added to that was the clumsy assumption that as a white, male officer, Mariner needed help to handle the Akrams. He’d be the first to admit that he was far from being an expert on Asian conventions, but the initial interviews would be standard stuff, establishing the facts. This was far too much too soon.
Blood of the Innocents Page 2
