‘You might not like it.’
‘Come on, man. You can’t scare me. What kind of thing are we talking about?’
‘Goat’s head soup.’
I breathe in through my nose and nod sagely. Pushing down the image that is forcing my face to fold inwards. Trying to generate an expression somewhere between ‘Oh man, I thought it was going to be something unusual’ and ‘Hmm. A Goat’s Head? I’ve always wanted to eat one of those, ideally in the form of a soup.’
‘That’s great. Looking forward to checking out your place.’
‘You really… okay, if we’re doing this, then great. Fine,’ he says, through sighs. It’s hardly the most enthusiastic dinner invitation but I’m looking forward to it all the same.
‘Okay, pick me up at twelve thirty,’ I say, reasonably.
‘But, I… Okay, fine. See you then.’
If Emre was caught off guard then, the feeling is far from diminished when he picks me up at my flat the next day, Miss Heywood smiling at him as she sits in my kitchen in an old shirt. I can tell he’s judging me, the way Mark did, muted but none too discreetly, but I’m not entirely sure what their problem is. We are two relatively young, free and unencumbered people, one with a taste for wire sculptures of livestock, the other with problems of his own.
She has a birthmark in the shape of Brazil and, when she’s not ‘vaping’, she smokes far more than is acceptable. She had called apropos of nothing, just after I’d watched the two mini-DV tapes. I’d hoped it was about the case in some way or other. But the long talk had turned into something else and before I knew it there was a warm body on my second pillow, a heartbeat from a sleeping partner in the stillness, to provide the company I’ve come to crave, and I wasn’t about to complain.
You can actually make three meals from one goat’s head. As well as the soup, you can eat the tongue by slicing it into sections of about one inch then cooking it with chicken stock and adding salt and pepper. Finally, you roast the brain and then mix it with rice and onions and whatever else you feel like, perhaps ginger and a little cilantro, depending on how you like your brain. I researched all this before arriving at Bartu’s flat, in an attempt to make myself more comfortable with what I was about to indulge in. However, efforts to do so have only resulted in further apprehension thus far. If Aisha is doing it the proper way she’ll start by smashing the head with a mallet or small axe, depending on what she has handy. Typically, in Turkish cuisine, the eyes are left in and offered to the guest of honour as a delicacy. The best method is to stick a fork into the eye, twist it and remove. A website told me ‘there is little resistance when consuming it and they are considered to be delicious’. They’re eaten first, along with the ears, because it’s best to get both while they’re hot. If I am considered the ‘guest of honour’ then this is not an honour I’m whole-heartedly looking forward to having bestowed upon me.
Before the bullet I was a fussy eater. Not a conscientious vegan, or raw food caveman purist. I was one of those fussy eaters who ate reasonably badly and was suspicious of the lesser-known vegetables. I’ve branched out in my tastes but this is taking things much further than I ever intended.
The goat is popular in many countries, including Nigeria and the West Indies, and as I meet Aisha and find she hails from the latter, I become somewhat more confident given that she may have some prior experience of the dish, meaning that the meal will be executed correctly even if I fear the finer details of eating it. She kisses my cheek warmly and pours me a glass of water. Then goes back to poking around at the pot in the kitchen next door. The sound of which calls to mind the noise of feet outside a cell door in the morning light as I’m about to be led to the gallows.
I think I’m sweating.
‘Are your family from around here, Emre?’ I say.
‘Not far from here,’ he says, sitting opposite me at the Ikea dining table, sipping supermarket cola from a tall glass. They take turns to go and poke at the dish, but at the moment she’s in the driving seat. They have one of those hatches, which allows me to rubberneck at what she’s doing in there while we talk.
‘They mostly live in Edmonton. There’s a big community there. I was there at first but when I got the job around here I thought I’d move closer to my beat. It’s home from home. I’ve got an uncle around the corner.’
I find myself locking hollow eyes with him, unable to concentrate on anything he said past the word ‘They’. My mind is on what we’re about to consume. I am open to new experiences, it’s what my life recently has been all about, but I can’t help seeing that goat’s head peeking out at me from behind a wooden fence. I picture grabbing its head and giving it a lick. I taste his forehead on my tongue.
‘But, what about you… you – what are you doing, man?’ Bartu says.
I pull my tongue back into my mouth, a good deal too late for him to avoid catching me in an unhealthy daydream with a live billy goat.
‘Nothing, man,’ I say, still tasting him on my tongue.
As Aisha arrives beside him with a steaming pot, she can sense Bartu’s concern but chooses to ignore it. She’s heard stories of me, I can tell by the way she stares. I smile at both of them, surreptitiously bringing the back of my hand up to my mouth. I lick it gently to take the imaginary taste I’ve conjured away, as her ladle delves into the pot and brings out lashings of hot goat juice.
The smell is chestnut coloured. It fills my field of vision like I’m wearing brown tinted shades. I hear a G sharp lightly ringing. And I feel the texture of khaki trousers on my fingertips.
‘Here you go. So are you from London originally, Tom?’
I try to answer but I don’t want to breathe through my nose. I know it’s all in my head, I know it’s only food, but not for the first time, my head is getting the better of me.
‘Yes, yes. Hmm. Not too far from here, actually,’ I mumble.
Bartu can see what’s going on and I think he’s enjoying it. But I’m doing a passable effort at being comfortable for Aisha’s sake. She smiles indulgently and gives me some ‘Mm-hm’s, the sounds of which possess a West Indian tone, light and sweet.
‘And do the family still live nearby, Tom?’ she says. I close one eye and gaze down at the soup, poking at it with my eating implement and watching it ripple. I look up and catch Bartu’s eye, which says, ‘It’s perfectly good food, mate. You asked to come here. Don’t put on a performance,’ he telepaths.
‘It’s not a performance,’ my mind tries to telepath back.
‘Well, my family… they were actually driving over… err…’ I mumble. Glancing up at them, then down at the spoon paddling below.
I pause. The room clicks with only the sound of delicate and considerate eating.
‘They were driving over… to pick me up from university… a few years ago now. Mum and Dad. They used to be pretty wild but became very careful people. You know? Ha. Those kind of parents. My dad wouldn’t go on the motorway. Only ever used A-roads. Don’t ask me why…’
Mm. Hm. Ha. Dampened laughs as they eat.
‘And there was some sort of… I remember it because I was waiting… It was my first term, I had all my stuff piled in the corner in the hallway. The warden stayed with me… because when everyone’s gone the cleaners come in straight away… to clean up the intense levels of mess the students have made in their first term away from home… I remember one guy had three piles of pizza boxes in his room that went from floor to ceiling, and one day he just threw them out of the window… no consequences… and I… they died, they were killed, on the road, on the way. So they’re… they’re dead. Yep.’
My spoon dives deep into soup. I hear the plink of hers being left to gently lie against the bowl and in my periphery I see Emre holds a piece of bread that he is yet to tear.
‘I’m… I’m really sorry to hear that,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘So, so sorry, Tom.’
The spoon reaches my mouth and the liquid travels over my tongue and to th
e back of my throat. My tongue searches around my teeth in its wake. It tastes fine. It’s better than fine, in fact. It’s good. The G sharp rings out warmly and the room glows in a shade of chestnut.
‘Well, it was a long time ago now,’ I say. It’s surprising how few times I’ve actually had to tell people this story. You can certainly cut down on reliving things if you’re willing to have few close friends.
‘I still live in the same room I did when they passed away. Passed away…’ I say, picturing the crash I saw in my first week of being a PCSO. The first dead bodies I ever saw couldn’t help but remind me of mum and dad.
‘… But, you know, now the place is mine. I can stay up as late as I like. Eat what I want. I’ve turned their room into my workout space. That sort of thing.’
Aisha makes a different kind of ‘Mm-hm’. The stuttering sound of eating commences again. I haven’t stopped for a moment since the first spoonful.
‘This is good,’ I say. ‘Mmm. This is really good.’
And I mean it.
‘Right. I’m sorry, Emre Bartu, I’ve been thinking I don’t like days off. I want to run a few things by Aisha.’
24
‘Put away your pencil cases,
It’s the end of another long day,
Boys and girls, all their pretty faces,
Are coming out to play.’
‘I wanna know who that leg belongs to,’ she says, shaking her head gravely.
‘Well, that’s a good question, Aisha,’ I say.
‘And what about the lipstick on that car window?’ she says.
‘We shouldn’t even be talking about this,’ says Emre, sitting back in his chair.
Everyone likes to play the amateur sleuth these days, everyone has a thirst for true crime, it’s a zeitgeist I’m all too aware of. It’s something real. Blood and bone. In a world of fake news, politics and corporate interest, it’s difficult to know who to trust; what’s real, what’s advertising and who’s kidding who. But here are real life mysteries, and even if their absolute truths are buried, there is an undeniable reality somewhere to be found. And right now we have an unquenchable thirst for that. And yes, that includes me.
‘What would you say the lipstick means?’ I say, one hand gently on my stomach, sated.
‘I don’t know. Is it a sign from the kidnapper? A cry for help from the victim?’ Aisha says.
‘Both good options. And the one thing about kids is there are always a hundred examples of their handwriting around.’
‘But that means going back to the school,’ Emre says, putting his drink down, calmly enough.
‘Or going back to the second house. The Bridges’ house,’ I say.
‘Can you do that? Are you allowed to do that?’ Aisha says, another hint that Emre has already told her how far I push things. That he’s told her that he doesn’t want me to drag him into any kind of trouble if he can help it.
‘No, we’re not doing that,’ Bartu says, fixing me with a stare.
‘But if it’s important. If it’s going to bring these girls home?’ she says.
‘The lipstick handwriting thing? That’s going to crack it?’ Bartu says.
‘Could be nothing. Could be everything,’ I say.
‘You’re not more interested in that leg?’ he says.
‘Forget the leg, we can’t get anywhere near the leg. Having said that, what’re your guesses on the leg, Aisha?’
I haven’t forgotten my suspicions about Emre. I want to bring her in close and get her on my side, just in case he’s planning to do the dirty on me in some way I haven’t quite figured out yet.
‘I don’t know, but it’s horrible. That poor, poor girl. Whoever she is. Someone’s got to do something. Are they doing all they can?’ she says, with a fresh sense of purpose. She glances at me supportively.
‘Of course they are,’ Bartu says.
‘Well…’ I say.
‘Hey, Jarwar is leading a “stop and speak” around Tottenham, which’ll have covered around three hundred people yesterday alone,’ Bartu says. ‘Showing them pictures of the girls, and they’ll do the same today and –’
‘No, no. There’s no point, the girls will be locked away somewhere already. Unless they have a picture of him, then it’s pot luck.’
‘Right, and how do you plan on getting one of those?’ he says.
‘Now that’s the kind of question we should be asking,’ I say.
‘Photo-fit? Or –’ she says, but Bartu cuts her off, much to the detriment of the mood.
‘I’ve told you, they’re doing all they can.’
I’m not using her. I really do want an outsider’s view on things. I’m so close to it all, I have to make sure my next move is a good one. Minimum risk and maximum result.
‘Of course. I’m just saying it’s not a bad thing for us to gently follow up our leads. The picture was a dead end, but the caretaker did place someone suspicious outside the school; someone must’ve got a better look at him, we just need to speak to the right student. Stop in at the Da Silvas’ home as well, and I know there’s something going on at that Fraser house –’
‘We shouldn’t even be talking about this!’ he says, bringing his glass down hard on the table. The air in the room gets less healthy. Aisha goes to clear up, tactfully deciding that Emre and I might have things to discuss that he isn’t comfortable with her hearing. But she’s still just beyond the white hatch doors.
‘I get one day off. That’s all. Just… please. Tomorrow. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. I like to keep the work where it is, all right?’
‘These girls don’t get a day off, Emre. They don’t get a day off. And they’re scared. And God knows what’s happening to them! Listen, there’s something I found, something I’ve seen and I should’ve told you.’
‘Oh man. No, I don’t think I want to hear this. You’ve actually reached the point where I don’t want to… Fuck it. What is it?’
I glance up to where Aisha is then lower my voice further.
‘I found a mini-DV tape. At the Da Silva house. And I dug out my old camcorder last night and put it inside.’
‘Was it Nina’s? What was on it?’ he whispers, with penetrating hush.
‘Just girls playing. At first. She must’ve got it as a gift, but I’m guessing not from her folks. It’s retro, like the polaroid. The video starts with her doing silly voices. Then she’s presenting her own TV show. Then it cuts and she’s in her gym skirt and top, talking to the camera again, but this time it’s different. She introduces who she is. Kind of dead-voiced like she’s done it before. She takes off her top. Shows her bra. And you can tell there’s someone else there.’
‘Who? Do they speak? We need to turn this in.’
‘We don’t hear their voice. And they certainly don’t step in front of the camera. But in the room, which isn’t her room, there’s a TV. And in the reflection of its screen I could make out the silhouette of the other figure.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Not he, Emre. She. Long hair. I think – I think it was a woman.’
His eyes flicker up to Aisha.
‘The image wasn’t clear enough for more than that. But we’re no longer merely looking for a him. Maybe it’s a him that looks like a her. Or vice-versa. Or maybe it’s a couple, I don’t know, but I can’t sleep well until they’re found.’
‘So what’s our next step? What are you saying?’ he says.
‘We’ll hand the tape in on Monday. Come clean. It’s too big not to. But right now, I’m saying… with no other options available to us, we need to take another gamble–’
He leans in and talks animatedly in violent whispers.
‘You’re going to go over to that school? Say you’re right, say someone has seen something, it’s a fair assumption, but we don’t know who! You want to question them one by one? Maybe they don’t even know the significance of what they saw and even if they do… they sure as fuck don’t want to come forward about it. Th
e school isn’t even open today. Go home! Watch a movie. Better still, join a club, get a hobby.’
I stand to leave. It’s a good thought and it sticks in my head.
‘You’re right. A hobby, that’s a good thought.I’m going now.’
Emre pulls on his jacket hurriedly and calls to Aisha. ‘Just going to be a minute!’
I want to thank her again for her hospitality and it bothers me not to, but he’s hustling me out of the door already.
‘Okay, where are we going?’ he says.
‘You’re going to drive me home, right?’ I say.
‘No, no. You’re not that good a liar. Your eyes are lit up like fairy lights. Wherever you’re going, I’m coming, too.’
How transparent I must’ve become. I’m going to have to get a better poker face.
‘I can do it on my own,’ I say.
‘No you can’t, Tom. I’m not going to let you go. Not because I’m worried about you, not because it might be dangerous, but because everything you do is now linked to me.’
It’s a fair point, but he’s the one who’s been dropping the ball; information, his lighter. So I find that speech a little rich, but I decide to let it go because I don’t want to walk.
‘So, what are you thinking?’ he says
‘Hobbies,’ I say, biting my bottom lip. ‘I’m thinking about clubs and hobbies.’
*
We’d already rung the bell twice. I was considering a third but didn’t want to seem pushy. If the Da Silvas reported us for intruding on their time, that really would leave us firmly stranded up the proverbial creek.
Mr Da Silva opened the door and wordlessly stood back to let us in.
‘My wife is sleeping,’ he says.
He takes a long look at the two plain-clothed men standing before him.
‘We… thought it was best to come without the full costume,’ Bartu says.
‘Thought it might soften the blow, given how much you’ve seen of us lot recently,’ I add.
Mr Da Silva scratches his head and examines his kitchen tiles before looking up at both of us again. It’s the subtlest acknowledgement that someone has just spoken you could imagine, but then Mr Da Silva’s mind is understandably on places far away from our feelings.
Head Case Page 17
