‘What about this letter?’ he demanded at the daily update he’d insisted on. ‘If it’s genuine, it was a pretty open threat.’
‘Forensics have found nothing on it,’ said Mariner. ‘And it’s hard to tell how genuine it is, given that it’s such an indistinguishable note. The Akrams have had similar stuff in the past.’
‘But this follows the consortium letter to the press: a provocative act if ever there was one. If the initial campaign has failed to subdue them - which it patently has - then the perpetrators might feel that it’s time to do something more dramatic. And so far, you don’t seem to have come up with any other logical reason why Yasmin should have gone missing.’
‘We’re still exploring all the possibilities.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, for one thing we’ve learned that everything in the Akram household wasn’t as rosy as we’d been led to believe. Mr Akram and his daughter had disagreed.’
‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t keep the family under scrutiny, but you can do that while following up other avenues. The racist incidents have to be examined. Mohammed Akram has sent us a list of dates and occurrences going back over three years.’
‘I haven’t seen that.’
‘It was passed directly to the superintendent. This is a copy.’
Mariner took the sheet. The incidents were as Akram had described them to him yesterday, fairly low level: excreta through the letterbox, windows broken, graffiti sprayed, sometimes as often as weekly and usually at night. Up until now the school had always been the target. Attached to the list was a copy of the letter written to the local press, by Akram and several other business owners in the area, denouncing what they called ‘terrorism by stealth’ perpetrated by ‘those too weak to reveal themselves’. It described The Right Way as a club for cowards who indulged in covert, petty crime instead of openly confronting the issues. The question was whether it was enough to prompt such drastic action from The Right Way and, if so, could they expect a ransom note at any time?
‘And that, Inspector, should be your next line of enquiry.’
Mariner opened his mouth to complain, but stopped himself. It was a valid route that would have to be pursued at some time. They may as well do it now and with any luck, his deference would keep Fiske off his back for a few hours.
But before entering the lion’s den, Mariner wanted a bit more information about the man they might be dealing with. Detective Sergeant Bev Jordan came over from the Racial Crimes Unit at Lloyd House to talk to him and Millie.
‘What do you need to know?’ she asked when they were installed in Mariner’s office.
‘Everything there is to know about Peter Cox.’
Jordan grimaced. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work in every respect. He runs a very active cell of The Right Way who hold extreme views on repatriation, birth control programmes and all the rest of it. He’s denounced the BNP for being too moderate.’
‘What a charmer.’
‘You said it.’
Mariner handed Jordan the leaflet Mohammed Akram had given him. ‘Is this one of his?’
Jordan nodded. ‘This is exactly the sort of stuff he writes. In the past there have been various threats against groups and individuals. And he has his own little band of fanatically loyal followers in the south of the city and beyond, mainly recruited via the Internet, though not exclusively. He spreads the word in local pubs, particularly those on white, working class housing estates: areas of high social deprivation where white kids are pretty frustrated with their lot, but generally powerless to do anything about it. One of his main themes is the threat of Islamic fundamentalism. Muslims taking over jobs, local businesses—’
‘And schools.’
‘Particularly schools, because that’s where it’s all seen to be taught. He’d be encouraged by the current climate, too. Since September eleventh there’s been a huge rise in the membership of these types of organisation.’
‘And beyond the leafleting and general incitement?’
‘Oh, the usual petty harassment: damage to property, disgusting things sent through the post. We have a couple of informants on the inside, but Cox is clever, he’s very careful not to be directly involved. He relies mainly on the mental instability of his recruits. He provides the ideas, they carry them out. So far we’ve only ever been able to charge a few individuals with criminal damage. There’s one in particular, David Waldron, who’s a real fall guy for Cox.’
‘Are you aware of the antagonism with the Asian business consortium?’
‘Oh yes. That’s been brewing for a couple of years and the letter to the press won’t have helped the situation, but again, Cox is too smart to let something like that get to him. It was only a letter, after all. It’s his followers who would be more upset by it.’
‘Do you think any of them would go as far as abduction?’
‘Up until recently I’d have said no, but there has been a worrying trend lately, which is that - thanks to the Internet - these groups are developing international links and are being increasingly influenced by their counterparts across the pond.’
‘In what way?’
‘A spate of letter bomb attacks in the South of the US was followed, weeks later, by the letter bomb attacks here, in Manchester and Leeds last month, remember?’
‘And?’
‘Three weeks ago there was a high profile abduction of a black senator’s daughter by right-wing activists in Savannah, Georgia. The senator was proposing legislation to curb the distribution of certain right-wing propaganda.’
‘And has the girl been found?’ asked Knox.
‘Oh yes. Strangled and dumped in a garbage skip. It’s believed that there was no intention to release her alive.’
‘Christ Almighty. Do you think there’s anyone in The Right Way who would go that far?’
‘It only takes one. We know that the case has been discussed among them and Cox likes his followers to “prove themselves” by using their initiative, so it would only take one of them with a particular bent for this kind of activity, and we have our abduction.’
‘And Waldron?’
‘He’s on remand at present, so effectively out of the picture. It might be worth a chat with Peter Cox, though. Find out if he’s hired any new recruits lately. Yasmin was last seen at four forty-five on Tuesday afternoon, wasn’t she? It would be interesting to know what Cox was doing then, too.’
‘I can’t wait to meet the animal who causes so much misery.’
‘He’s not what you’d expect,’ said Jordan. ‘He might not put it to any great use by working for a living, but he’s bright; a graduate. He just prefers to utilise his talents for stirring up trouble.’
The other surprise was that Peter Cox lived in a smart neighbourhood in a homely 1930s semi with bay windows and a porch. Given what Jordan had told them, Mariner guessed that it was his parents’ house, the one he’d been born and raised in. What set it apart from its neighbours was the jungle of a garden and the limp, discoloured curtains hanging behind grimy windows. It was a neighbourhood for young families. As there were no garages, Mariner drove the length of the street, looking in vain for a parking place, and was eventually compelled to settle for a neighbouring street.
He craned his neck to concentrate on a reverse park, which he executed smoothly.
‘Very neat,’ said Knox. It was the only time he’d spoken on the entire journey. His words seemed to sweeten the air somehow, but Mariner dismissed the sensation as his own over-active imagination. They climbed out of the car and walked back to number forty-eight, where the warm smell of decaying refuse became stronger.
The doorbell showed little indication of being connected to anything, but Mariner pressed it anyway and beside them at the bay window the faded velvet drape was pulled aside and a round, white face peered at them.
‘Mr Cox?’ Mariner called out, politely, holding up his warrant card. ‘Could you spare us a few minutes?’
The face regarded them with dist
aste, but the curtain dropped back and moments later the door was opened.
‘Can we come in?’ Mariner asked. It was obviously the last thing Peter Cox wanted, but he nevertheless stepped back to allow them in.
What sprang out first at Mariner from the gloomy hallway were the framed posters on the walls. From his limited knowledge of the Third Reich, Mariner thought one of them might have been Rudolf Hess. The other was unmistakable: Adolf Hitler’s eyes focused purposefully on something in the middle distance, one hand on his hip in a pose which, in Mariner’s opinion, made the Führer look rather camp. He thought it best not to mention this. The atmosphere inside the house was acrid: stale cigarette smoke with an underlying feral smell. Cox took them into a small, front living room that was piled high with books and papers, in the centre of which was an old battered sofa. A computer monitor hummed gently from the corner of the room.
Cox himself was small and weedy, as unhealthy as a plant starved of natural light, as if he never ventured out of his dark and dingy lair. Balding slightly, he was pale as uncooked pastry and the amber-coloured stain on the index finger of his right hand tallied with the pile of home-rolled dog-ends in the makeshift ashtray. ‘How can I help you, Officers?’ he asked politely, with what sounded more than anything like bored resignation.
‘Just a simple question,’ said Mariner. ‘Where were you on Tuesday afternoon at around four forty-five?’
‘Now, why would you want to know that?’ But before they could answer, he laughed out loud. ‘This is about that little Paki, isn’t it?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Dear me, you must be desperate if you’ve come to me about that.’
‘Her family seems to be on the mailing list for your enlightening pamphlets.’
‘I hardly think that’s significant. We have an extensive target audience.’
‘And David Waldron, one of your party members, was caught inflicting damage on property in the area.’
‘As I said at the time, I can’t be responsible for the actions of all our members. All I do is provide a forum for like-minded people to share their views and concerns.’
‘In the same way that the National Socialist Party of Germany provided a forum?’
‘I repeat, Waldron was acting independently. I had nothing to do with any of that.’
‘Until Mohammed Akram brought your name into it. He said some not very nice things about you publicly, some highly provocative things.’
‘Do you seriously think a bit of name-calling’s going to bother me? It’s what you get when you’re prepared to stand up for what you believe in. Goes with the territory. Our territory.’ He noticed Knox looking around. ‘Want to search the house, do you?’
‘It would help us to—’
‘Well, you’ll need a warrant and a fucking good reason,’ Cox said, mildly.
‘So maybe you could answer the question, just for the record.’
But disappointingly, Cox did have an alibi, and a fairly unassailable one at that: at the crucial time he’d been speaking at a meeting of ‘like-minded people’ in Walsall. He travelled on the train. And if, as he said, the meeting didn’t end until four thirty, it would have been practically impossible for him to have been anywhere near Yasmin Akram when she disappeared. It would be easy enough to verify.
‘It still doesn’t mean that he hasn’t put someone else up to it,’ Mariner said to Knox, as they traipsed back along the street.
‘Mm.’ Knox grunted.
Back at the car Mariner saw he had a message on his mobile. He rang back. It was Millie. ‘I’ve got a name for you. Fakhra has coughed up the identity of that disgruntled parent: a guy called Abdul Sheron. Oh and another thing—’ Suddenly she sounded uncomfortable. ‘DCI Fiske is organising a press conference.’
Chapter Six
‘Police Constable Khatoon should get her facts straight before she comes bleating to you.’ Pacing the floor of his office, DCI Fiske was angry. Very angry, if the colour of his face was anything to go by. Even so he seemed keen to defend his actions, Mariner thought with some satisfaction. ‘I am not organising a press conference, I have merely indicated to the press that one is imminent, and asked the TV station to be on standby.’
‘Which, with respect, sir, is as good as declaring it where the media are concerned,’ said Mariner, seriously wondering if Fiske was beginning to lose it already. More than accustomed to keeping the press at bay, he’d never had to fend off an over-zealous commanding officer before. ‘The timing of press conferences is crucial and I’d have preferred to hold it when I was ready. If you want me to continue as SIO then I need to be able to do things my way.’ His powers of diplomacy were being stretched to the limit.
‘That seems to involve doing very little, as far as I can make out. This case is developing a high profile—’
Yes, and who have we to thank for that? thought Mariner.
‘We need to be seen to be acting. We should be looking at running a reconstruction, too. People expect it.’
That was the problem with having all these bloody crime programmes on TV. The public thought they knew better how to do the job. ‘It’s much too soon. We’re following up outside leads, and after a week, we’ll get someone to walk the route to encourage any new witnesses to come forward, but we can’t discount Yasmin’s family and immediate friends yet. We already know that the parents aren’t telling us everything.’
‘So having them in for a press conference would provide you with an opportunity. TV cameras are an excellent way of stripping away any pretence.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mariner turned to go, thinking that in some cases just the opposite was true. ‘And maybe, sometime, you could go over that egg sucking thing with me again, sir,’ he murmured under his breath.
‘Let’s bring them in,’ Mariner said to Jamilla on his return to the office.
‘Any particular way you want me to steer things, sir?’
‘No, save that for afterwards. Keep it all light and conversational on the journey in. That way, Akram’s guard won’t be up - if it needs to be.’
As the Senior Investigating Officer, Mariner had no choice but to accompany Fiske at the appeal, which passed in a blur of flash-bulbs and quick-fire questions. Afterwards, he, Knox and Millie watched the playback. Mohammed Akram was calm and dignified while even his wife, clinging to her husband for support, remained composed, despite the obvious strain. She seemed smaller than she’d looked two days ago, as if she’d lost about half a stone, and all of it from around her face, where the skin was pale and sagging. Mohammed Akram did all the talking, reading from the prepared statement he’d been given by the press officer, appealing to Yasmin to come home, or to anyone who may be holding her to please let her go. Throughout, his voice was clear and steady, his gaze straight into the camera.
‘He’s a cool one,’ Mariner conceded.
‘Don’t be fooled,’ said Millie. She was right to be cautious. Even when parents had made an emotional public appeal for the return of their offspring, they could-n’t be eliminated from the enquiry. Distress and guilt had the habit of manifesting themselves in very similar ways and in recent years, increasing numbers of murderers had successfully, at least for a while, concealed one with the other.
Before being returned home, the Akrams were taken into a side room and offered refreshments. Having fielded the inevitable questions from reporters, Mariner went to talk to them. Two sets of eyes turned hopefully on him as he went into the room. He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing new. But I do need to clarify a couple of things with you.’
‘Anything,’ said Akram, looking shaken now that the ordeal was over.
‘We’ve spoken to Yasmin’s friends and I understand that you were not entirely happy about Yasmin staying the night with Suzanne.’
Mohammed Akram responded instantly. ‘It was nothing. It was the kind of thing every parent and child goes through.’
‘Is that why it didn’t seem important enough to mention?’ asked Mariner. ‘I mu
st impress on you that anything out of the ordinary, however small, could be of help. Tell me what happened exactly.’
‘Yasmin asked to go and stay with her friend, overnight. I said no.’
‘Why was that?’
‘It was a school night and she would have homework. It was inappropriate.’ More to it than that, but Mariner wouldn’t push it now. Was Akram just trying to be diplomatic about his dislike of Suzanne, or was it power games between Mum and Dad?
He looked from one to the other parent. ‘So am I to understand that Yasmin was defying you by going to Suzanne’s?’
‘She was defying me, not her mother.’ Akram glanced at his wife. ‘After I had left the house on Tuesday morning, Shanila allowed Yasmin to go.’ The accusation was there along with the obvious source of that additional tension.
Shanila Akram made a weak show of sticking up for herself. ‘Yasmin was threatening to go to Suzanne’s anyway. I thought it much better that she should go with our blessing than deceive us. I thought if she was allowed to go once she would get it out of her system.’
‘So you encouraged her to collude with you in deception. ’ Mohammed Akram’s anger was building.
But his wife was equal to it. ‘I would have told you when you returned.’
‘Do you approve of Suzanne, Mr Akram?’ Mariner asked. There followed enough of a hesitation to confirm the antagonism that existed there.
‘It’s not a question of approval.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘You went to see Yasmin’s friends. You’ve met Suzanne?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’ll know that she is very different from Yasmin.’ Full marks for tact.
‘And does that bother you?’
‘As we’ve already told you, Yasmin is relatively inexperienced at life. It would be easy for her to be influenced by a stronger, more . . . worldly personality, someone who has different values.’
‘So you’ve discouraged the friendship.’
‘We have been realistic. We can’t prevent Yasmin from mixing with whoever she wants to at school. Let’s just say that we haven’t done anything to encourage it.’
Blood of the Innocents Page 9
