But calm. No sense of panic or despair. If anything, a trace of amusement.
No sign of the boy or Mrs Milsom.
‘It’s about Jake, isn’t it?’ said Milsom, putting his glass down on a hand-painted Moroccan side table.
Turnbull kept his face straight, his eyes blank. Falling right back into police training. ‘You tell me.’
A smile danced around Milsom’s face. ‘I find you on my property going through my bins. You tell me.’
‘Yes, it’s about Jake.’
Milsom looked at the floor, then back to Turnbull. ‘Are you police?’
Turnbull shook his head.
Milsom looked at Turnbull, pointed a finger, like it was a guessing game. ‘But you were police.’
Turnbull gave a small nod, acceded that much.
‘So, what? Immigration? Home Office?’
Turnbull thought before answering. How much to give away. ‘Privately employed.’
Milsom nodded and smiled, pleased he had got the answer correct. ‘Right. Well, at least that’s something. Do I get to know who sent you?’
‘I’m working for a private client.’
‘And what’s his interest in Jake?’
‘Again, that’s private.’
‘I think I have a right to know.’
Turnbull’s features hardened. ‘I’ll have to check with my client.’ He said nothing more, letting Milsom know that was the end of the matter.
Milsom persisted. ‘What if I call the police? Tell them of your intrusion?’
Turnbull shrugged. ‘Up to you.’
Milsom sat back, nodded. His bluff called. ‘OK. Fine.’ He sighed, took another mouthful of whisky.
Turnbull did the same. It was good whisky. He waited.
‘So,’ Milsom said eventually, ‘you want to know about Jake. Where he came from. How he suddenly showed up. You don’t believe he was the cousin of a relative who was emigrating?’
‘Your story,’ said Turnbull, sipping the whisky.
Milsom smiled. ‘OK. Two years ago, I was in Eastern Europe. Making a documentary about the orphanages in Romania. I was there on a follow-up to one I made about ten years ago. Yeah, I know, it’s been done to death, but it’s something I’ve got a bit of a passion for. That first one changed lives. Which was incredible. I mean, how many times can you do that with a TV programme? I mean, it didn’t make things perfect but—’ he shrugged ‘—you know, a lot better for some.’
Turnbull nodded. He remembered the documentary, if that was the one Milsom was talking about. It had affected him deeply. How could it have not? Children in appalling conditions, many with mental and physical problems. Children in pain, neglect. Charities had been set up, aid sent out there. New orphanages built, lives changed for the better. If Milsom was behind it, it was a fine thing he had done.
‘But, you know, you move on to other things. Nature of the job. But I kept in touch with some of the kids, even sent stuff, made donations, you know, to orphanages they were in. I suppose I had one eye on making a follow-up, but I was genuinely interested. Kept going back over there, that sort of thing.’
Another slurp of whisky for the two of them. Turnbull noticed his glass was empty. So did Milsom.
‘Refill?’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ It was the best whisky Turnbull had tasted in a long time.
Milsom left the room, returned with the bottle. ‘Best just leave it here, I think.’ He smiled, poured, topping his own up too. Settled back into his chair. ‘Where was I?’
‘You keep going back over to Romania,’ said Turnbull. Would take more than a good whisky for him to forget what he was there for.
‘Right. Well, yeah. To cut a long story short, I saw Jake, as I called him. Jakob was his real name. One of the brightest kids in there.’ A smile spread across Milsom’s face. ‘Once we’d sorted him out. Always happy, cheeky, you know? Laughing and smiling. And clever. Just a joy to be with. When I saw him this time well, he, he wasn’t in a good way. He’d been … let down by his environment.’
Turnbull put his drink down, leaned forward. ‘How d’you mean?’
Milsom’s eyes darkened. ‘Jake has … Jake’s HIV-positive. Not his fault, obviously. And he was, was in a lot of pain. Not being properly looked after.’ He picked up his glass, swirled the liquid round, slowly, watching it. ‘And it just … pained me to see him like that. Like I almost didn’t recognize the same smiling little boy. I told Celia. We talked about it, and we, we came to a decision. And that’s why he’s here now.’
Turnbull took another sip, swallowed what he had just heard along with the whisky. Questions began to form.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Milsom said. ‘Why didn’t I just adopt, go through the proper channels. Why didn’t I keep him in his own country, make sure he received the care he needed over there.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I should have done. But that all takes time. Something he might not have. So …’ He shrugged, sat back. ‘So here he is.’
Turnbull looked round as if expecting the boy to make a dramatic entrance. He didn’t. There were just the two of them. And the whisky.
‘So there you go,’ said Milsom, sitting back. ‘Are you going to tell all that to your mysterious employer?’
‘Yes.’
‘And will that be enough? Will you leave Jake alone?’
Turnbull took another pull of the whisky. It was slipping down very smoothly. He was starting to feel comfortable. Always a dangerous sign. ‘That’s up to him.’
Milsom’s eyes hardened as he took another mouthful of whisky. It wasn’t the answer he had wanted to hear. ‘Well, I think it’s only fair,’ he said, ‘since I’ve told you everything, you tell me why your employer is so interested in Jake.’
Turnbull wondered whether some kind of exchange was in order. The man seemed genuine and his whisky was certainly good. But years on the force had left Turnbull naturally suspicious. He didn’t give in that easily. ‘Sorry, can’t say.’
Something flashed in Milsom’s eyes. Fear? Anger? Turnbull didn’t catch it.
‘Have you a photo of Jake I could take with me?’ Turnbull said. ‘If you don’t mind.’
A smile nearly made it to Milsom’s lips. ‘I don’t think so.’ He stood up, his glass empty. The warmth had dropped out of his voice. ‘I’m sorry you wasted your time. But I hope that’ll be an end of it.’
Turnbull rose also, draining his glass as he did so. ‘Let’s hope so,’ he said.
‘Could I ask you for a bit of … circumspection as regards to Jake?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘He’s been through a lot. We just want to make sure the rest of his life’s as good as we can make it. We’d appreciate it if you didn’t go mentioning this to the school or the media or … anything like that.’
‘I shouldn’t think that’ll be a problem.’ Turnbull looked at the whisky, checked the label. Thought of buying some for himself. Jura. Ten-year aged malt. Good stuff.
Milsom walked him to the door. They shook hands.
Turnbull walked back to his car. Milsom had seemed sincere, he thought, but there was something … something not quite right. A little further digging was called for.
He drove away, unaware that Milsom was still at the door, staring intently as he went. The moonlight glinting off his glasses, his eyes twin balls of cold, bright flame.
Donovan blinked, turned the Drive By Truckers up further and sang along to ‘Blessing and a Curse’, windows open letting in as much air as possible. Forcing himself to stay awake as he drove up the M1 back to Newcastle. He had the road virtually to himself: too late for the night drivers, too early for the morning.
It felt like a twister was in his head, spinning the last few days around, giving him a headache. And now Jamal’s message to get back there as quickly as possible: something bad had happened.
He was thinking all this, pushing the Scimitar as hard as he could, paying no attention to the black 4×4 with
the tinted windows overtaking him. He started to become aware of it when it didn’t overtake, just sat alongside him, matching its speed to his.
He looked at it, puzzled. He was doing seventy, the Scimitar flat out. He imagined the 4×4 could easily top that. He dropped back slightly to allow it to pass. The 4×4 did the same. Donovan speeded up. The 4×4 did likewise.
He looked round. Panic began to rise. The 4×4 was staying with him for a reason.
It didn’t take him long to find out what.
It edged slightly in front of him, then pulled over towards him. Trying to catch the front of his car, force him to spin off the road.
‘Shit …’
Fully awake now, Donovan slammed on the brakes, hoping that no one was too near behind him. Luckily there wasn’t. The 4×4 did likewise. Donovan speeded up again, tried to pull round the 4×4.
No good. The black car anticipated his move, went with him.
Donovan flew out into the third lane, flooring the accelerator as hard as he could. The 4×4 sped up, easily caught him. Started to pull over to the right, push him into the crash barrier.
Donovan held tightly to the wheel, checked his mirrors for other traffic. There were cars and articulated lorries in the two other lanes. He couldn’t just speed up or drop back; he might hit something. He kept his foot pressed down hard.
The 4×4 edged closer to him.
Donovan kept going. The 4×4 matching him.
He looked up. A slip road signposted, half a mile ahead. A desperate, reckless plan began to form. He looked round, tried to calculate the distance between himself and the traffic behind him, the 4×4 edging closer all the time.
The signs for the turn-off appeared.
Three bars …
Two bars …
One …
Donovan slammed the brakes on, skidded almost to a standstill. The 4×4 was slow to react, slammed to the right, collided with the crash barrier, sent up a shower of sparks as it dragged along.
Donovan didn’t dare stop, didn’t dare look round. He slammed the car into gear, crossed diagonally over the road, eyes virtually closed as horns blared, brakes squealed.
He opened his eyes again. He had made the turn-off.
Barely slowing down, he hit the roundabout at the bottom, went round to the right and off down whichever road he was on. No time to check where he was. He kept driving, throwing occasional glances into the mirror.
No 4×4.
Eventually he reached a small town, pulled the car off the road, drove into a pub car park and parked up as far from the road as possible. Waited.
No 4×4.
He got out of the car, sighed.
Walked over to some bushes. Threw up.
When he was ready he continued his journey home.
By minor roads.
29
Richie Vane sat in the passenger seat of Peta’s Saab convertible. He looked through the windows, at the dashboard, the CD player, even the door handle and seat belt. A dislocated smile played on his face. ‘Lovely car, this, lovely.’
‘Shut up, Richie,’ said Whitman, not taking his hands off the wheel, his eyes off the road. ‘I have to think.’ And fast, Whitman knew. He had to get away. Put as much distance between them and where they had come from as fast as they could.
Outside the community centre, Richie Vane had let his hand drop once Whitman had realized who he was.
‘What the fuck? Richie?’
Richie had put his finger to his lips, kept Whitman pressed up against the side of the community centre until the van was well away. Once it had gone he relaxed his grip.
‘What the fuck’s happening? Why are you here?’
‘They’ve got her. Peta, her name is.’ Richie’s face was grave in the shadowed streetlight. He looked at the door. Sadness came into his eyes. ‘Nice name. Unusual. Did you choose it?’
‘What? Richie we’ve got to …’ What? What could Whitman do now? ‘Let’s go and see Mary. Is she still inside?’
Richie frowned. ‘Mary isn’t in there. I saw them come in an’ wait. So I waited. But no Mary.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Them two?’ Richie pointed along the street the van had disappeared down. ‘Abdul-Haq’s strongarm boys. Seen them with him before.’
‘Gideon?’
‘Abdul-Haq now.’ Anger came into Richie’s eyes. ‘Twat would be a better word.’
‘Where have they taken her, d’you know?’
Richie shook his head.
Whitman paced in a circle. ‘Shit … shit …’ He stopped, looked at Richie. ‘Why are you here?’
Richie gave another cockeyed smile. ‘I was watchin’. Like I told Peta I would. Be her eyes and ears. Her word on the street. I came here ’cos I thought somethin’ was up.’
Whitman’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you know, Richie?’
‘About what?’
‘About what’s going on?’
Richie frowned. ‘About …’ He shrugged. ‘Peta told me you were gettin’ phone calls from the old days. I said I would ask around.’
Whitman scrutinized him, tried to see if he was telling the truth. Decided he was. Richie was many things but duplicitous wasn’t one of them. Unless he had changed a lot.
‘OK …’ Whitman looked around. The van was now long gone. He was in internal turmoil; emotions churning, he didn’t know which one to latch on to, go with first. ‘We’d better get out of here, do something about finding Peta.’
Richie nodded, followed Whitman to Peta’s car.
He drove away, thinking hard, trying to get his mind in some semblance of order. To find a hook he could hang on to. He turned to Richie.
‘So, Richie, long time no see. How’ve you been keeping?’
*
Rani Rajput couldn’t sleep. She didn’t even know if it was time for sleep. Days and nights were becoming one long medicated somnambulant blur. Ever since he died.
Ever since her husband was revealed to be a suicide bomber.
The police had taken her in for questioning, held her for two whole days. All she did was break down in tears, try to tell them through the sobs that it wasn’t him, they must have the wrong man. He would never do anything like that. Even told them that they hardly ever went to mosque, just on special occasions – family things, birthdays. Like Christmas and weddings for Christians, she said. They hadn’t listened.
Her son had gone to stay with his grandparents, but even he was questioned by a family liaison officer. Rani would never forget the looks of the police: stone-eyed hatred disguised by a veneer of professional courtesy. Even the few Indian ones, they were looking at her like all she and her husband were doing was spoiling it for the rest of them.
They let her go eventually to find that they had seized Safraz’s computer, CDs, books, everything that they could. The house had been gone through thoroughly, like a polite bomb had hit it. She had just sat down in the centre of her living room and cried.
The bank she worked for in the city centre told her not to come in for a few days. Take as much time off as you want. She knew what they meant. Don’t come back at all. And all her friends, the white ones especially, didn’t want to know her any more.
She had tried to get herself back together, tidied the house. Gone to Tesco. But she heard the voices. They didn’t bother to whisper, just said it straight out to her face.
Told to go back to where she came from.
Now that her husband was gone she could go to Iraq and fuck Osama.
That she should have her son taken away from her by social services in case she infected him with her hatred. She was an unfit mother.
Spat on her.
Not crazed, right-wing Fascists, just ordinary people.
She had gone back home, slammed and locked the door behind her. Vowed never to go out again.
And then the rumours had started. They hadn’t gone on holiday to Greece last summer. Safraz had been on an al-Qaeda training camp in Afghanistan. All that drinki
ng and not going to mosque was just a cover. Playing football with his mates, all a cover. That’s what they wanted people to think. And the wife was in on it too. How could she not be? How could all that be going on and she didn’t know?
She didn’t know. That was it. She didn’t know.
She didn’t believe he was a suicide bomber. He couldn’t be. He had gone to play football and ended up in a part of Newcastle they never went to, didn’t know anyone there. Safraz wasn’t hiding anything from her. He was terrible at keeping secrets.
The tears came again. And again.
She had refused to talk to the media, but now, with things mounting up against her, she decided she had better put her side of the story. She gave an interview to the local paper. Turned down lots of money from the nationals because she didn’t know how they would treat her. How they would twist her words.
She just wanted to give her side, have her say. Let them know what a loving husband Safraz was, a good father. And voice her suspicions too, get them out in the open.
The reporter had set her mini tape recorder down, gently asked her questions, listened attentively, nodded encouragingly. Afterwards, Rani felt good about it. Like her side of the story was finally going to be put. Maybe now people would leave her alone. Maybe now people would believe her.
And then the story came out:
SUICIDE BOMBER WIFE REVEALS: HE HAD SEX WITH ME BEFORE EMBARKING ON CAMPAIGN OF HATRED
The media had embarked on a feeding frenzy. The local journalist sold her story, the interview went everywhere. Everyone was now beating down her door.
And Rani couldn’t cope any more.
So now she lay on the bed, not sleeping but not awake either, a picture of her husband and son clutched to her chest, tears in her eyes and a bottle of sleeping pills next to her.
She didn’t want to die. But she didn’t want to live either. She just wanted something to take the pain away. She didn’t want to be hated any more.
She looked at her husband, her son, through wet, blurred vision. Her son would understand one day. She hoped.
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