‘Help! An intruder!’
He looks a bit sheepish.
‘Sorry. It got a bit claustrophobic in there.’ He indicates the inner office. ‘There isn’t a window.’
‘A perfect venue for harassing innocent students, then. Could you not find anyone to terrorise this afternoon?’
‘Has anyone complained about being harassed?’
‘Complaints have been made at the highest level, I gather. Innocent Turkish ladies have been terrorised by our brutal Marlbury police.’
He shakes his head in disbelief.
‘Talking of Turks,’ he says, ‘you think that message this morning was written by a Turk?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘And you’ve got the pen they used?’
I fetch the black board pen in its plastic wallet and I say, ‘Of course lots of people will have used it - not just staff. We quite often call students up to write on the board.’
‘And other classes use that room besides the two-year Master’s class?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘So how many students, roughly, would you say could have handled that pen?’
I calculate. ‘I replaced it last week because the old one was running out of ink, but there will have been four days of classes in there. In theory, it could be as many as a hundred,’ I say.
He gives a snort of laughter.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘since it’s not a murder weapon, I don’t think we’ll go down the path of fingerprinting every foreign student in the place for the sake of identifying the phantom writer.’
He really doesn’t think the message is significant, I can tell. I do, though. I feel sure that someone is trying to tell me something.
‘I’m sure you know best,’ I say, and my tone sounds absurdly sulky.
In revenge, I ask if he got on well with Mme and Mlle Amiel and he gives that shake of the head again. It’s a bit like the shake my cat gives herself when she falls off a fence. He’s a bit stunned, I think.
‘So where to now with the Laurent inquiry?’ I ask.
‘’I need the name of his drugs counsellor. I assume you know it?’
‘I do. But I’m not sure it’ll help. Isn’t there patient confidentiality to consider?’
‘If you could just give me the name and leave the other problems to me?’
I am put in my place. I give him the name and address.
‘Barry Hughes, twenty-seven More Street. He’s a neighbour of mine, actually,’ I say. ‘A lovely chap. He sounds like Neil Kinnock.’
‘Well, that’ll be reassuring.’ He takes my piece of paper and glances at it. ‘I’ll see him in the morning. And if you’re right about that message on your board, I’d better talk to your bloody Turks again.’
14
THURSDAY: Investigation Day Eight
More Street turned out to be much the kind of road Scott had imagined. He’s a neighbour of mine, she had said, and as Scott drove slowly along, surveying the houses, looking for number twenty-seven, he could imagine her in any of them. Solid Victorian semis, they sat behind small front gardens, mostly slightly unkempt. Their windows were spattered with posters and flyers advertising concerts, plays, meetings and charity events; at eight forty-five in the morning, mothers – and the occasional father – were cycling off to playgroups with toddlers strapped in behind them, or ushering groups of older children down the road for the walk to school – no gas-guzzling school runs from this street.
He wondered which was Gina Gray’s house but it really didn’t matter; they would all be much the same. He knew what the insides of these places would be like: no three-piece suites, no polished surfaces, no fitted carpets. There would be sanded floors and stripped pine, junk shop finds and ethnic rugs – that deceptively casual look that belied the care with which it had been, apparently, thrown together. There would be plenty of teachers here, and social workers, and journalists, and musicians, all smug together in their worthiness. He’d bet plenty of Guardians hit the morning doormats in More Street. Oh yes, Gina Gray would be quite at home here.
At number twenty-seven the front garden had been paved, with a couple of terra cotta pots as its only ornament. Scott rang the bell, heard the sound of rapid feet on the stairs and found himself overwhelmed by the force of the man who opened the door. Barry Hughes did indeed have the honeyed Welsh tones of Neil Kinnock but there the similarity ended: he was tall, with the build of a rugby player and a head of vigorous black curls. He grinned broadly, crunched Scott’s hand in an awesome clasp and propelled him into his consulting room at the back of the house. Scott knew enough not to expect a couch but he did wonder, as he looked around, exactly how counselling sessions took place. At first glance the room was simply a small sitting room, with easy chairs arranged round a coffee table. There was a filing cabinet, though, and a wall of books – the tools of the trade.
Hughes waved him to a chair and offered coffee or orange juice. Scott opted for coffee, though he was well wired on Lavazza already; Hughes disappeared and returned with a mug of coffee for Scott and a glass of orange juice for himself. He sat down opposite Scott and leaned back, one leg crossed high over the other. He was wearing tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt and looked as though he might be just back from a run; he exuded good health and well-being. Scott, imprisoned in his work suit, felt flabby and jaded by comparison. Time to square up, he told himself, or this genial shrink would be running rings. He set down his mug, sat forward and looked Hughes in the eye.
‘Mr Hughes, we are extremely concerned about the disappearance of Laurent Amiel and finding him is a high priority. I know you have your professional ethics but I have to warn you that if you obstruct our investigation by hiding behind patient confidentiality I shall be quite prepared to –‘
‘Whoa, whoa!’ Hughes rocked back in his seat and put up two protesting hands. ‘Did I say I wouldn’t co-operate? I’m in the dark here. I didn’t even know the guy was missing until you phoned yesterday.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Monday last week.’
‘And were you expecting to see him this week?’
‘No. We meet once a fortnight.’
‘What did you talk about at your last session?’
‘See, now that’s where we get ourselves into difficulties. I can’t tell you anything he said to me – that is covered by client confidentiality. Client, by the way, not patient. I’m not a doctor.’
He drained his orange juice and leaned forward.
‘Ground rules, OK? First thing, would you mind turning your mobile off? I ask all my clients to do that, and I guarantee I won’t be taking any phone calls myself. We’ll have a better conversation without interruptions. Second thing, I won’t tell you anything that could incriminate my client and I won’t tell you anything he said to me, but you know already that he has a drug problem and I acknowledge that it hasn’t gone away. And if you tell me what you know about his disappearance – if that’s what it is – I’ll tell you what I think he’s likely to have done, given what I’ve learnt about him over the past weeks. All right?’
There we are, thought Scott, running rings.
Aloud he said, ‘OK’.
It was very warm in the room; the sun was hot through the big window behind him. He took off his jacket, turned off the mobile in its pocket and loosened his tie.
‘Laurent Amiel was last seen on Friday afternoon. He didn’t tell his flatmates he was going away. He’s emptied his bank account. He hasn’t used his mobile phone – it’s switched off – and he hasn’t used his credit cards. He hasn’t made contact with his family – his mother and sister have come over.’
Barry Hughes smiled.
‘Ah, the mother and sister, yes. I hope I get a chance to meet them.’
He was thinking hard, though, Scott could see, and after a moment he said, ‘The thing you have to know about Larry –‘
‘Larry?’ Scott queried.
‘He likes to be called La
rry here. He thinks it’s cool.’
And nobody thought to tell us that, Scott fumed privately. Nobody thought it might help our search if we knew what people called the guy.
Hughes continued, ‘What you have to know about him is that he’s pretty bright. He’s idle and he’s screwed up but he’s on the ball. He’ll know that he can be traced through his credit card – that’s why he drew the cash. And that’s why the phone’s switched off. Might be worth finding out if he bought himself another phone before he went missing.’
‘You think deliberately disappearing is something he’d be likely to do?’
‘Oh yes. If things got tough, that’s what he’d do.’
‘And had things got tough for him?’
Hughes smiled again. ‘You tell me,’ he rumbled. ‘I think there are a few things you haven’t told me. Like why you’re so worried that a student has dropped out of his life for a bit.’
‘There’s a lot I can’t tell you, I’m afraid. It’s –‘
‘Client confidentiality, is it?’
‘No.’ Scott could feel himself blushing. ‘It’s a murder investigation and we can’t be loose with information.’
‘Murder? Oh, I see. You think Larry’s disappearing is connected with this murder they’ve had at the College? Well, Larry’s not a murderer. I can tell you that for nothing.’
‘We didn’t think he was. But it’s possible that he’s in danger from whoever killed the Turkish student.’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘I can’t say, but can you answer me this: if Amiel’s supply of drugs was cut off, would he be likely to put himself in danger to get hold of some from another source?’
‘This Turkish guy was Larry’s supplier?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Of course you can’t. So it turns out, Chief Inspector Scott, that there’s more you can’t say than I can’t say.’
‘And the answer to my question? Would he be likely to put himself in danger?’
‘Any addict will do that. Danger means nothing to an addict in need of a fix.’
‘And Amiel is an addict?’
‘I can’t say.’
He grinned amicably. Enough, Scott thought. He’d got what he came for. He wasn’t staying to play games. He thanked him and left.
He took DS Kerr with him to Marlbury College to talk to Valery Tarasov. At the English Language Teaching Office he enquired where Tarasov would be and was told that he would be coming out of a Listening class in Seminar Room 2 shortly. He left Kerr in Gina Gray’s inner office and walked along to the seminar room, intending to catch Tarasov before he left. He found a man outside the room, apparently also waiting. He was looking intently through the glass panel in the door, watching the class inside, but as Scott approached he moved rapidly away. A foreigner of some sort, Scott thought, though he’d only caught a glimpse of his face. Greek perhaps, or Turkish. The door opened and the class started to trickle out. Tarasov emerged among the last, chatting to Irina Boklova. They both looked with distaste at Scott.
‘I’d like another word, please, Mr Tarasov,’ Scott said, ‘about your father’s business interests.’
Tarasov hardly acknowledged that Scott has spoken to him. Instead he turned to Irina and said something in Russian. As she started to reply, Scott cut in, ‘Right away, please. Either here or at the Police Station. Your choice.’
As he locked eyes with Tarasov, he saw Irina give him a little push and mutter something to him. Tarasov shrugged.
‘Fine,’ he said.
In the windowless office, Tarasov sprawled in a chair, but his apparent nonchalance was undermined by the nervous movements of his eyes and hands. Scott didn’t allow him to get comfortable. As Kerr drew a chair up close to the Russian, he leaned across the desk towards him.
‘We know about your father’s criminal activities, Valery. And we know about his connections with Yilmaz. It’s a pity you didn’t think to tell us about them yourself.’
Tarasov flushed but he maintained his insolent sprawl.
‘Why I tell you?’ he demanded.
‘Because your father was murdered and now Yilmaz has been killed. Aren’t you worried that you might be next?’
‘Why I worry? My father’s business not my business. I am student only. I study only.’
Simon Kerr intervened, drawing out a sheaf of mobile phone records from a file.
‘I don’t think so, Valery. Not judging by the calls you’ve been making back to Russia. Hours and hours of them. Cost you a fortune.’
‘To my family, my mother I call.’
‘Twice, Valery, in the last month you called your mum. Four minutes, five minutes. What about all these others? To your aunts and uncles were they?’
Tarasov stopped lounging and sat forward, hunched in his chair.
‘I must arrange my father’s affairs. I must fix. I am man of family now. My mother can’t fix all these things.’
‘Are you trying to run your father’s business from here, Valery?’ Scott asked.
‘No, no. I just fix. I pay who needs paid. I arrange.’
‘And you’re not afraid that whoever killed your father will try to kill you?’
‘I know why my father killed. There is no danger for me. This is UK. Is safe for me here.’
‘It wasn’t safe for Yilmaz, though, was it?’ Kerr asked.
‘Was for drugs. For drugs they killed him.’
‘Really?’ Scott stood up and came round the desk to stand over him. ‘Do you know who killed him then?’
Tarasov raised a protective arm as if to ward off a blow. Had he had dealings with the Russian police, Scott wondered.
‘I guess,’ Tarasov protested. ‘I know he deals drugs – everyone knows this. I guess this reason for his death.’
‘Do you do drugs, Valery? I can send my officer here to search your room right now, so you might as well tell me.’
‘I don’t. I don’t do. I am good Russian.’ He attempted a smile. ‘Vodka and whisky only I do.’
‘So you feel quite safe do you?’
‘Yes. I am safe here. I am UK student. I work hard. I am safe, isn’t it?’
As they walked back to the car, Scott took out his phone to call the station: he was anxious to know about the call to the porter on the night of the murder and he had been expecting to hear from Boxer. As he opened the phone, though, he realised that it was switched off. It had been off ever since Barry Hughes had asked him to turn it off that morning. He turned it on. 3 missed calls. Damn! There was also a text message from Gina Gray. He opened it and read:
Have u heard? Turks going home
2day. Orders of turkish govt.
Can they do that? Have another
board message 4 u. Hope barry
was help. gg
Sender:
Gina Gray
DS Simon Kerr was startled out of his usual poise when Scott jumped into the car and revved off in a flurry of gravel before he had even managed to close his door.
15
THURSDAY: Negative Sentences
THE CRIMINAL WAS EXECUTED
The sentence sits in the middle of the board, drawing my eye as I walk into the room. The students are there before me, chatting or finishing off homework. I’m glad of the opportunity to confront them with this; I’m getting tired of it.
‘Good morning,’ I say before I’ve even reached the front of the class. ‘Would anyone like to tell me what this is all about?’
I draw a thick black line under the sentence with the new board pen I’ve just picked up from the office. The students gaze at it with polite and detached interest, then Denis speaks, his tone courteous but puzzled.
‘It relates to our lesson yesterday,’ he says.
Of course it does. Ekrem, the message implies, was a criminal, so his death was not murder but execution. In yesterday’s killing chart, we tick the execute box.
‘I know that, Denis,’ I retort. My tone, I know, is shrill. ‘But
who wrote it? Who thinks it’s funny to keep writing these things on the board?’
I look around at their faces and notice, in passing, that there is a gap where Asil and Ahmet should be sitting. Innocence and bewilderment look back at me.
‘You didn’t write it?’ Farid asks.
And now I understand. They think (well, all but one of them, presumably) that I have written this up as a starting point for the forthcoming lesson. I am exasperated.
‘No, I didn’t write it, Farid. Does it look like my writing?’
Farid is saved from answering by a commotion at the door, and Asil and Ahmet sidle into the room, one carrying a shinily-wrapped parcel and the other a bunch of flowers.
‘We are coming to say goodbye,’ Ahmet explains. ‘We are leaving this afternoon.’
‘Leaving? Before the end of term? Has something happened at home?’ I ask, and then I take in the significance of the flowers and the parcel.
‘You are coming back next term, aren’t you?’
They smile awkwardly and Ahmet shakes his head.
‘Our government is calling us come back home, Mrs Gray. We will not return. I am very sorry.’
He thrusts the bunch of flowers towards me. I reach out for them automatically but then I stop.
‘But Ahmet,’ I say, ‘will the police allow you to go home?’
Ahmet is too embarrassed to speak but Asil answers,
‘Our government is arranging. We have immunity.’
He beams with pride as he delivers the new word. I, for once, am lost for words, so I go into familiar farewell mode. I accept their gifts, shake their hands, remind them to keep practising their English and hope they’ll come back to England one day. With more smiling and shuffling they exit. And then there were nine.
I turn on the class.
‘Did you all know they were leaving?’ I demand.
They don’t meet my eye. They are embarrassed and hurt. They are wondering why I’m being so aggressive to them. Why have I turned into a harpy? What happened to their nice teacher?
This Is a Dreadful Sentence Page 10
