by Denise Mina
Bannerman shrugged. ‘It’s an idea.’
‘Plus, think about the order of things: the girl was shot at an irrelevant point in the negotiations. It wasn’t a ploy to up the ante, wasn’t to move the threat forward. It was just a stupid mistake.’
Bannerman wouldn’t look at her.
‘Well, it’s a theory anyway.’ She shrugged. ’Don’t like being wrong, do you?’ She dropped from the step into the street. Buses passed noisily in front of her. Cars edged impatiently around them and drew back at the stream of traffic coming the other way.
Bannerman was at her side. ‘No, but, it’s . . . that’s much worse, isn’t it? If they aren’t used to firearms. They could shoot anyone at any time.’
The traffic in front of them came to a standstill as a bus let its passengers off and the lights changed on the other side.
‘On the upside,’ she stepped out between the back of a bus and a car, ‘they might shoot each other.’
The shop door was sticky and needed a shove. It chimed as Bannerman opened it and stepped in. It was a small room, smelled of dust and stale body odour. On the right the wall was lined with newspapers and magazine racks, with the porn high up and children’s comics. Near the back sat a rack of glass bottles of fizzy juice, laid out on their sides like wine, with an upright crate of empty returns next to them. A central stand displayed household absolute essentials: shampoo next to tea bags and washing powder and nappies. Expensive items like peanut butter were arranged to face the shopkeeper, close enough to lean over and slap any shoplifters who tried their arm. The counter ran half the length of the shop, which wasn’t much. Behind it cigarettes and cheap drink and coffee were kept beyond grabbing distance.
Twenty years of small change had eroded the white plastic counter through to the brown chipboard beneath. Behind it sat two high stools, still angled into one another, as if duettists had just left the stage. On one of the low shelves she saw a little silver short wave radio. It would be a comfy perch to watch the world from.
The shop was being manned by a man who was too young for his beard and old-fashioned manners, as if he was acting a part. He looked at her expectantly but didn’t speak.
‘Hello, are you Mr Anwar’s cousin?’
‘Yes,’ he said, heavily accented, nodding his head passively.
‘DS Morrow.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m one of the police officers investigating your cousin’s kidnapping.’
He didn’t take her hand. ‘Yes,’ he said again, trying, she thought, to process the words she had said individually.
‘This is DS Bannerman.’ She gestured behind her. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Ahmed Johany.’ When he saw her confusion he added kindly, ‘John.’
‘John?’ She laughed.
‘You call me . . . John.’ But he wasn’t smiling now, at least his eyes weren’t smiling, they were sad, as if he was mourning Ahmed Johany and wished he had a place in the shop too.
Bannerman leaned over her shoulder. ‘Mr Johany?’ He pointed to a high corner behind the counter and they all looked up together. A video camera, a small red light next to it. ‘Is that . . . ?’
‘Camera, yes.’
‘Do you keep the tapes?’
He shook his head. ‘For one, two weeks only . . .’
‘Then . . . ?’
‘Tape over.’ Apologetic, he smiled, rolling one forearm over the other. ‘Save on tapes.’
‘Can we have the ones you’ve got from last week?’
He indicated that they could but was worried about leaving them while he went through to the back shop. Bannerman took out his warrant card and showed it to him but Ahmed shook his head, embarrassed at having doubted them. He scuttled off quickly though, glancing back a couple of times as he made it to a door at the back. He took barely twenty seconds to bring out a stack of dusty video cartridges out to them. He hurried back behind the counter, not happy until he got there, and found a thin blue plastic bag to put the tapes in. He tried to fit them all in one bag, but they wouldn’t go and he had to get another bag out from under the counter.
Morrow watched him put them in, careful as eggs, trying not to rip the thin skin of the bag. ‘Have you worked here long?’
‘Hmm.’ Worried at the question, he handed the bags to Bannerman by the handles. ‘I come here just . . . now.’ He added quickly, ‘Not Scotland. Here many years, but shop, I just come now.’
The distrust, the soft passive smile, all reflected poorly either on the neighbourhood they were in or else the one Johany had come from. Morrow felt ashamed, remembered racist graffiti on a shop front when she was small, thought of a shop in Partick that had a felt-tipped sign in the window: ‘This Shop is Run by Scottish People.’
The door opened behind them, a puff of noise and dust from the street, and an elderly woman with a severe white perm stood in the doorway. She looked from Bannerman to Johany. ‘Where’s he?’ she said indignantly.
‘Who?’ asked Morrow because Johany didn’t say anything.
‘The wee man.’ She pointed at the counter. ‘Is he sick or something?’
‘How?’ asked Morrow sharply.
The woman scowled at her. ‘Who are yous? Have you bought the shop or something?’
‘No. Who are you?’
‘Who am I?’ She couldn’t quite believe she was being asked. ‘I’m in here every day. I come in here every day. Where’s the wee man?’
‘Which wee man?’
‘The fella, the wee black fella.’
‘Mr Anwar?’ corrected Morrow.
‘Is that his name?’ The woman hung out of the door, looking down the road for her bus and ducked back in to ask, ‘Is he sick then? Is he in hospital?’
‘Mr Anwar isn’t able to come to work today. How long have you been coming in here?’
‘Twenty-odd year. How?’
‘And you don’t know his name?’
‘He doesn’t know mine either.’ She scowled at Morrow. ‘Tell him, anyway, say that the twenty Kensitas and four rolls lady hopes he feels better soon. And my granddaughter’s out of hospital. She’d a boy.’ She looked uncertain. ‘Just saying ’cause . . . eh . . . he’ll be wondering.’ And she left.
18
Omar Anwar was at home, sitting in the peach living room, frightened and watching the rain patter on the window when the phone rang out in the hall, a soft unfamiliar trilling. He heard Billal’s bedroom door fly open and a heavy gallop across the hall.
‘Omar! Get the fuck out here!’
Omar sprang to his feet and hurried out to the hall. The brothers stood away from each other, staring at the strange green phone. It wasn’t their phone. The police had given it to them. It was old and slightly dirty, the rubbery cord on the receiver coated with a layer of grey that came off under the nail. The receiver was so loud it had to be held away from the ear. When they spoke into it they could hear an echo of their own voice. The recording device was a tape recorder plugged into the back. They expected something more high tech and the rudimentary nature of the equipment made them feel dismissed, as if the police didn’t really care too much about their dad.
Billal bent down abruptly, pressed the record button on the tape, checked it was turning and lifted the receiver, carefully holding it to his ear as if he had never used a phone before and was uncertain of it. He listened for a moment, nodded and offered it to Omar, his arm straight, staring at the mouthpiece as if afraid.
Omar took it and listened.
‘Who is this?’ The voice was familiar from last night.
‘It’s eh, Omar. Who’s this? Are you the guy from last night?’
‘Put Bob on.’
Omar looked awkwardly at the recorder. ‘It’s, em, Omar.’
‘We’ve got your dad.’
‘Right? Look, mate, was it yourself who was here last night?’
‘We’ve got him. We want two mill, in used notes, we want it today.’
‘I know, mate, right, there’s no need for thi
s to go on any longer, OK? How is my dad, is he OK?’ Omar was surprised at his own mannerliness, being so polite to a man who had threatened his family, shot his sister and kidnapped his dad, but Sadiqa had drummed social grace into him and, at a loss for protocol, he found it was his default position.
‘Listen, pal, your dad’s fine, fine. Don’t worry.’ He was being polite too. In the background Omar could hear a bus or a car pass: he was calling from a street. ‘Is your sister OK?’
‘My sister?’ asked Omar.
‘Aleesha, that got shot, is she OK?’
‘She’s fine, she’s in hospital.’
‘Is her hand OK?’
Bewildered, Omar looked up and found Billal glaring at him and he was suddenly tearful. ‘No, mate, it’s a mess, to be honest with ye.’ He stopped for breath. ‘She’s lost a thumb and her forefinger and a bit of the next one. They said they can sew her big toe on as a thumb. Mum thinks it’ll look weird. But you need opposable digits for your hand to be any use, y’know . . . ?’
‘Aye, well, OK. Don’t worry.’
‘It’ll look weird though.’
‘Um . . . couldn’t she wear gloves?’
Omar frowned at the phone, it seemed an odd thing to say. ‘Maybe . . .’
‘Nice gloves, I mean, different colours on each hand . . . ?’
‘Different colours?’
‘Just a thought, anyway, um, tell her . . . say we’re sorry about that.’
Billal saw Omar’s confusion and poked him in the arm, shaking his head at him, asking what was going on. Omar ignored him. ‘We’ll tell her,’ he said, ‘that you’re sorry.’
‘OK. OK then . . .’ The kidnapper’s voice sounded as if it was retreating from the phone and Omar had the feeling the conversation was coming to an end, as if he had forgotten about the ransom.
‘Mate, didn’t you want to ask us about something?’
‘Oh, aye, yeah, listen, right: we want two million in used notes by tonight.’
‘Look, mate, I want to do whatever you want, right? I want to help you, make this OK, get my dad back safe and sound. Thing is, yeah?’ He took a desperately needed breath. ‘Um, are you still there?’
‘Aye, I’m here.’
‘Thing is, we don’t have anything like that kind of money.’
‘You don’t have that . . . ?’
‘We don’t, but listen, I’m going to the bank right now, mate, yeah? I’ll get whatever I can out and give it to you tonight, happily give it to you tonight, I’ll give you anything we can get, right? For my dad.’
‘Well . . . how much is that gonnae . . . ?’
‘I’ve no idea, mate, right? I can get a loan. But I can definitely get, like forty K right away.’ He said it like that, forty K, instead of forty thousand because he thought it sounded like a bit more. ‘But whatever I can get I’ll give it all to ye really happily, right? Will ye phone back later? Say at five o’clock and we’ll arrange to meet?’
‘Forty K’s not enough, mate.’ He breathed loudly into the receiver, this almost friend, held it close to his mouth so the sound was breathy and distorted. ‘OK, listen to me now: we know about you.’
Omar looked at the tape recorder. ‘What?’
‘We know about you,’ he said carefully. ‘See what I’m saying here? We know about you.’
Omar was watching the tape turn, ‘OK, mate, honestly, I don’t know what you’re on about, right? Genuinely. But listen, right? If you call back in two hours I’ll have been to the bank and I’ll see what I can do for ye, right?’
‘We know all about ye.’ And he hung up.
Pat could see Eddy sitting in the Lexus, stroking the leather of the steering wheel, and smiling smugly to himself.
He drawled as Pat got back in. ‘What did he say?’ His blink was too long, the smile too fixed for it to be real and Pat knew that Eddy was off again, gangster tripping, imagining himself more than a fat divorcee in a hire car.
‘Well,’ Pat pulled the seat belt over himself, ‘spoke to Bob and he said he’ll get out what he can. He’s got forty K already but he’ll get more. We’ve to phone back at five to arrange a drop. This should be over pretty soon, I think.’
Eddy nodded slowly and blinked again. He was so caught up in the role play he almost seemed drunk. ‘Good one, man, good work,’ as if Pat was working for him and he’d pleased him. ‘Was he niggaring about it?’
Pat flinched. ‘What?’
‘Niggaring, ye know, havvering about the money.’ Eddy started the car and pulled out smoothly, driving to the end of the road.
Pat didn’t know what to say to him, didn’t want to implicate himself in the general air of ignorant madness by responding to the term. He wished Malki were in the car to say something. ‘He said he doesn’t know how much more he can get, but he’ll try his best.’
‘Yeah.’ God almighty, he was even doing an American accent now. ‘Yeah, niggaring it.’
That’s not really a word, Pat thought of saying. He licked his lips, drew a breath, but by the time he had his courage up the moment had passed. He held his newspaper to his chest with two hands, like a woman clutching an evening bag in a dark alley.
‘Aye, wait an’ see, those fucker’s’ll pay up, right enough . . .’ Eddy gabbled on, still doing the accent, confident again now that the arrangement had been made. Pat answered in grunts, trying not to engage but keeping Eddy going, studying him.
The realisation was slow but profound: whatever amount the family offered tonight Pat would accept it to get away from Eddy. All the years of listening to him, coaxing him, rearranging facts to suit him, smiling away from him, it was over. Pat had other things to do, other matters to take care of.
They had driven around quiet streets for half a mile before they hit the main road. Mid-morning traffic was building up and they joined a queue of cars trying to dodge through the traffic. Eddy saw the lights changing up ahead and squeezed the brake on, bringing the big car to a stop. A brand new Mini was next to him, blue, shiny, and the woman driver saw the Lexus’ silver bonnet and turned to look into the car. Her eyes were obscured by the Mini’s roof. All that was visible was a lipsticktackity mouth hanging open, looking at them. She smiled and Eddy drank it in, smiling at his steering wheel.
‘Check this cunt checking me, eh?’
Pat didn’t answer.
‘Pat, man, check this bird checking the car.’
Pat wasn’t looking at him.
‘Man . . .’
Eddy followed Pat’s eyeline, over the dash, over the bonnet, past the lights to a green and white tiled rotunda in a traffic island. It was a strange wee building, like something from a garden but in the middle of a sea of traffic. A hand-painted sign on the window read ‘The Battlefield Rest’. Eddy looked back at him.
‘Had your dinner in there?’ he asked.
But Pat didn’t answer. A horn tooted behind them, the lights had changed. Eddy cursed the driver and took off.
Pat wasn’t looking at the rotunda, he was looking over the road again, to a small wall around a visitors’ car park and a tall Victorian building. Built in a comma around the cars it was the Victoria Infirmary.
‘Pat, man, you’re miles away.’
Eddy was right. Pat stared at the building and his mind took him out of the car, away from the racial slights and the bad role play and the hint of Shugie’s piss on Eddy’s trousers.
Pat and his beloved newspaper were in the lift in the Victoria Infirmary. Pat was holding a bunch of flowers, yellow flowers, he could feel the cold damp from the stems creeping through the tissue paper in his hands. And he had a suit on.
19
Perhaps because Bannerman had believed her when she pretended to stand up for him over the 999 call detail, or because they were both tired and bored of fighting, for whatever reason peace broke out unexpectedly as Bannerman drove them to the Victoria Infirmary. He took the drive slow, hardly talking except to fill in the spaces in the briefing as they occurred to him. His d
elivery was thoughtful and Morrow found him beating her to conclusions a couple of times. More astute than she had given him credit for.
‘Why burn it out in Harthill, is the question. Either they went to Edinburgh or pass there often, knew it and sensed it would throw us off the scent.’
‘Serial number trace on the van’s origins?’
‘Nicked from a dealers in Cathcart. Nothing unusual about the theft.’ He slowed for the lights at Gorbals Cross.
‘Could explain them burning it out there, if one of them was an experienced car thief. The farmer said he’d had nicked cars there before.’
‘Yeah. Could be a known place to leave cars. Tried and tested, they’d know it would take a good few hours before anyone would find it.’
‘What’d the burnt-out look like?’
‘Professional. You know that fire ball effect you get sometimes? ’ He waved his hand flat over his head, skimming the roof of the car.
She did. ‘When they leave the tank full and it explodes and burns itself out?’
‘Exactly.’ He smiled a little, pleased that she knew what he was talking about. ‘Well, no sign of that. They doused the inside thoroughly and it burned nice and steady so there’s no fibre or hair traces or anything.’
‘Did the family have any Afghanistan visas?’
‘Nah, no connection. Doesn’t seem to be one. Mum and dad are both refugees from Uganda. Any extended family they have is from there as well. Couple of cousins from Pakistan, distant, Ugandan émigrés.’
‘I think Mo and Omar were right, it’s just the thing an idiot would say to Asian people. If they are unprofessional enough to use a gun they’ve never fired before . . . You’d think they’d try it out.’
‘I know.’ The lights changed to green and he eased the car through the junction and down the Vicky Road. ‘They did make one big mistake: tin foil wrap found in among the trees.’
‘No!’ She grinned at him. ‘No!’
‘Yeah.’ He was smiling too. ‘Heroin. But let’s not get too excited because even if it was from the kidnappers and not the van thieves, it’s so hard to trace anything from a wrap.’
