The Divinities

by Parker Bilal

  ‘So how do you explain that?’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Fast Eddie. ‘Unless someone had removed the material from its packaging.’

  ‘And it was detonated by the lighter fuel . . .’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  Drake thanked him and rang off. At Raven Hill he found Milo and Kelly looking frantic.

  ‘Where’ve you been, chief ?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘I was over in the estate, taking a look around.’

  ‘Someone decorated your car, I see.’ She nodded out the window.

  ‘Yeah, artists, what can I say?’ Drake studied the notice board where nothing seemed to have changed. They were running out of time.

  Kelly came to stand beside him. ‘We were beginning to get worried.’

  ‘I’m touched.’

  ‘Seriously, Wheeler keeps popping in to find out how we’re doing. Milo and me, we’re crawling the walls. The fact of the matter is we don’t have shit.’

  ‘Language, DC Marsh.’

  ‘Sorry,’ muttered Kelly.

  ‘What did you get on Thwaite’s finances?’

  ‘Oh.’ Kelly ran a hand through her hair. ‘It’s a mess. He’s up to his neck in debt. The bank are calling in their loans. According to one source he is willing to take money from anyone.’

  ‘The woman at the gallery said that Thwaite lost a lot six years ago.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Kelly leaned over to her desk to retrieve her notes. She flipped through the pages. ‘So, this was a project somewhere in the Gulf. Doha?’ She looked up.

  ‘It’s a place.’

  ‘Right. That much I knew. Anyway, he was supposed to be building some kind of institution. A lot of money involved. And he got into trouble. They couldn’t deliver on time and the contract was sold off at a loss.’ She folded her notebook closed. ‘That’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘Okay, maybe we can arrange to talk to him about that. Can you set up an appointment?’

  ‘Sure, but . . .’

  ‘But?’

  Kelly cast around her. ‘I don’t know, boss. I’m just wondering if we’re not getting off track. Time being what it is and all.’

  Drake perched himself on the edge of Milo’s desk. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘We’re nowhere. We’ve got statements from workers, the ones we could track down, from possible witnesses around the site, even from Mr Cricket, who’s now cooperating, but none of it leads anywhere.’

  ‘Doesn’t that make the case for spreading the net wider?’

  ‘What if it’s just a nut job, a one-man crazy band?’

  ‘We know there are at least two of them,’ corrected Milo.

  Kelly gave him a long glare. ‘Okay, so two crazies.’

  ‘The point is,’ Drake said. ‘We have to keep shaking this tree from every angle, until something falls out.’

  Kelly gave a long sigh. ‘Truth be told, chief, I’m beginning to wonder if we’re not out of our depth. I mean, we’re into day two. We don’t have that much time left.’

  ‘What happened to never say die?’

  Kelly shifted uncomfortably. Milo found a spot on one of his screens that needed cleaning.

  ‘Let’s get back to the facts,’ Drake continued. ‘Milo, how far did you get with tracing Mrs Thwaite’s car?’

  Milo reached for a notepad lying on his desk.

  ‘I traced the Porsche SUV back from the site and picked it up in Vauxhall.’ He cued up the images in a few clicks of his mouse. The black-and-white image rolled, showing the car sliding under lights. ‘Then I lost it.’

  Kelly pulled up her chair. ‘Hideo left his house after receiving a text message. According to his daughter he became very agitated and then went out without explanation.’

  ‘I pulled a text message off Hideo’s Samsung that came from a number that matched with one on Mrs Thwaite’s iPhone. It mentioned a name . . .’ He frowned at the screen. ‘Jakucho.’

  ‘Wasn’t that the woodblock artist the daughter mentioned?’ Kelly asked. ‘Ukiyo-e?’

  ‘Could you trace the number?’ asked Drake.

  ‘Negative,’ said Milo. ‘No activity since then. It’s pay as you go. No name. No address.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Drake. ‘Let’s look at the time.’

  Kelly went over to the whiteboard where a timeline had been marked in. ‘Marsha Thwaite was due at the theatre in Sloane Square at seven-thirty. She never arrived. Her assistant says she left her to close up the shop an hour before that.’

  ‘Any cameras around the shop?’

  ‘I’m ahead of you,’ said Milo. ‘There are security cameras inside the Arcadia gallery. One at the entrance shows Mrs Thwaite leaving at 18.43. She’s late and she’s in a hurry. That’s the last we see of her. I couldn’t find any trace of the car leaving the area until this.’ Milo cued up more footage. ‘This is from an ATM on the corner of the Brompton Road.’

  The camera afforded them a downward angle. The grainy, grey images shunted along at speed, showing people approaching the machine, then walking away. It was there to deter people from being robbed as they withdrew cash. In the background the street was just visible. The wheels of vehicles passing by. The shops on the other side of the street. For a time there was nothing. Then a figure, male, wearing a light-coloured windcheater and chinos.

  ‘Is that Hideo?’ asked Drake.

  ‘Looks like he’s off to play golf,’ said Kelly.

  Hideo seemed to be waiting for something. He walked a few paces, then turned and walked back again.

  ‘He’s meeting someone,’ said Drake.

  ‘Here it comes,’ murmured Milo.

  The Porsche appeared in the foreground, rolling to a halt. Hideo stopped and turned towards the car. The window rolled down, but it was impossible to see into the interior. Then Hideo opened the door and climbed inside.

  ‘It’s like he went willingly,’ said Kelly quietly.

  ‘He was expecting to meet someone. He goes to the agreed spot and a car pulls up. He gets in.’ Drake reached for one of Milo’s rubber bands. ‘We can’t see if Mrs Thwaite is driving.’ He waited for Milo to shake his head. ‘What then?’

  ‘I lost it. There’s nothing until it turns onto the access road by Magnolia Quays.’

  ‘How can that be?’ asked Kelly.

  Drake turned back to the map. Picking up a marker pen he traced a wide arc from Wandsworth Bridge around Clapham Junction and up to Battersea Bridge.

  ‘We have nearly four hours to account for. Between the victims disappearing in the Knightsbridge, SW1 area and when the Porsche is seen entering the site area at . . .’

  Milo consulted his screen. ‘22.47.’

  ‘Okay, so where were they?’ Drake ran a finger over the map. ‘We have to assume they had to be close. They wouldn’t move around in order to avoid traffic cameras. So let’s look at industrial sites, abandoned warehouses, lock-ups, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I’ll get onto it,’ said Kelly.

  ‘Good,’ said Drake. ‘Time is running out and if we don’t start making progress, Wheeler is going to throw this little bone to DCI Pryce, and we don’t want that.’

  ‘Speaking of which, Wheeler was looking for you.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t see me.’ Drake reached for his coat.

  ‘What do I tell him when he asks?’

  ‘Tell him the truth, Kelly. Tell him I’m out there chasing down leads.’

  ‘Of course you are. Oh, and our favourite psychic was looking for you. It sounded urgent.’

  ‘Tell her I’ll call back.’ Drake started towards the door and then stopped. ‘One other thing. Now we know this was not a case of random victims selected by chance. He wanted these two together. Why?’

  ‘He’s Japanese, she’s Jewish,’ Kelly quipped. ‘It’s a natural fit.’

  ‘We need to know more about them both. Can we find out exactly what Hideo was doing for the UN?’

  He snapped the rubber band back to Milo.


  ‘Nice work, both of you. Now let’s wrap this thing up.’

  CHAPTER 21

  At Salon Zarif, Marouan sat reading a newspaper in one of the old flip-down cinema seats that were reserved for waiting customers. Above him hung a framed certificate that declared him a qualified graduate of the Eiffel Tour École de Coiffure. It sounded the way it looked, like it had fallen out of a packet of Frosties.

  ‘Khalil. Long time no see.’

  Marouan insisted on pronouncing Cal’s name the Arabic way. Drake didn’t mind. What he objected to was the way the other man seemed to assume this established some form of trust between them, as if they had known each other for a lifetime. Marouan put aside his copy of Hello! magazine and got slowly to his feet to come over.

  Only one of the two big red chairs was occupied. Mimo, Marouan’s young assistant, was drawing a pattern with a razor in the back of a young man’s bristly head. Drake sat down in the other chair. In the mirror he watched the reverse image of the television screen high on the wall behind him. It was tuned to a religious channel that was playing a recital of a verse from the Quran. The slow rhythmic tones rose and fell in time with a bouncing ball that ran over the text running across the screen. It seemed incongruous, considering Marouan’s inclinations. But this was just his way of trying to look respectable. The sound of the recital was familiar. It felt like an echo from a lifetime ago.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Marouan stood behind him.

  ‘Just run over it with the machine.’ Drake glanced in the mirror at the man sitting next to him who, on closer inspection, must have been all of seventeen. ‘Nothing fancy.’

  ‘Nothing fancy,’ chuckled Marouan. ‘That’ll be the day.’ He snapped a nylon apron and placed it over Drake, tying it at the neck over a folded strip of tissue before going about preparing the electric trimmer. ‘You’re not the type to fuss over yourself.’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Drake caught the look from the kid in the mirror. Not exactly disapproval, but it made having your hair cut and spliced in whatever weird form was in vogue into something more than a fashion statement. The look in the kid’s eyes told him he knew Drake was police.

  Settling into the big chair, Drake closed his eyes. The truth was that he did appreciate the attention that went into all of this. He wasn’t sure about any school in Paris, but there was a degree of professionalism in Marouan’s attitude. He watched the older man’s eyes in the mirror.

  ‘So, what brings you around here?’ Marouan asked as he blew the blades clean.

  ‘Do you still pray in the mosque over in Freetown?’

  ‘That’s why you’re here, the fire?’ Marouan lifted his shoulders. ‘I thought that was all forgotten.’

  ‘Nothing’s forgotten. Things just take time these days.’

  ‘Right,’ said Marouan slowly. ‘But you’re on it now.’ He blew at the head of the machine. ‘Makes sense, I guess.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just what you expect, right? I mean, they’re never going to respect you.’ Marouan shook his head as he buzzed the trimmer into action. Drake put a hand up to stop him.

  ‘Hold on a second.’

  ‘It’s just my opinion, right?’ Marouan held up his hands defensively. ‘Everybody is entitled to an opinion, right?’

  Drake held the other man’s gaze in the mirror. ‘You were there that day.’

  ‘It was a Friday, everyone was there.’ Marouan clicked the trimmer on again and pushed Drake’s head to one side.

  ‘I’m not talking about everyone. I’m asking about you.’

  Marouan was clearly annoyed. He didn’t like being talked to this way in front of his employees and customers. He turned to his assistant.

  ‘You nearly finished?’ Marouan asked. Mimo looked up, surprised.

  ‘Nah, still got this innit?’

  ‘Finish up later, okay? On the house, all right mate?’

  The kid in the chair wasn’t happy. He ripped the smock from around his neck before Mimo could finish removing it and started towards the door.

  ‘Boss?’ protested Mimo, but Marouan aimed his thumb at the door. Mimo grabbed his coat from behind the door and followed his client out. Marouan looked at Drake in the mirror.

  ‘So, what’s this all about then? Why you come here accusing me?’

  ‘I’m not accusing anyone. You got something on your conscience?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.’

  ‘Everyone assumed that fire was a bunch of kids with swastika tattoos.’

  Marouan rolled his fleshy shoulders. ‘Who else is gonna do something like that?’ The trimmer buzzed back into life as he pushed Drake’s head forward to work on the back of his neck.

  ‘I used to know your father,’ Marouan murmured. ‘In the old days. He was a gentleman.’

  ‘A gentleman? That’s a new one.’

  ‘You don’t remember. You were young. But your father had class. He was good to everybody. In those days none of us had any money. We couldn’t afford fine clothes or good food. The way you judged character was all about how you conducted yourself. And in that sense your father was royalty.’

  ‘That’s not how I remember him.’

  Marouan shrugged. ‘People change. When he left your mother it wasn’t because of another woman, it was because he simply couldn’t take it any longer. Living in this country is not easy. The defeats, the setbacks, the prejudice. It changed him. Back then it was difficult for all of us.’

  ‘You’re breaking my heart.’

  Marouan stared at him in the mirror. ‘He lost his soul.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I mean, there is good and bad in all people. He started out good, but in the end it was the bad that took over.’

  ‘You know where he is?’

  Marouan resumed his work. ‘I haven’t seen him for years, and I don’t want to see him.’

  Drake thought about this for a moment. He hadn’t come here looking for his father. That was a whole other story that would have to be addressed at some other time and place.

  ‘Tell me about the fire.’

  ‘What’s to tell?’ Marouan spread his hands wide. ‘It was a fire.’

  ‘You saw it happen?’

  ‘I was in the room with everyone else.’

  ‘The prayer room.’

  ‘Right, the prayer room. There was a noise. Imam Ahmad went out to see what was happening. The next thing we heard screaming.’

  ‘Who was screaming?’

  ‘Everyone. The imam, his wife. He was in flames.’ Marouan blew the air out of his lungs. ‘That was scary. I mean, the man was on fire. We ran out and tried to save him.’

  ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘Hear?’

  Drake held Marouan’s eyes in the mirror. ‘Was there one explosion, or two?’

  ‘What difference does it make?’ The big, fleshy face was a picture of indifference. Then he frowned. ‘Okay, maybe it was two. One small, and then a bigger one.’ He went back to his work.

  ‘Do you know if anyone was staying there?’

  ‘In the masjid?’ Marouan stopped again, the trimmer still buzzing. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You’re an old regular. You know the imam.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘I asked his wife, she seemed unsure.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what to say. Maybe.’

  ‘Look, it makes no difference to me. That’s not what I’m after.’ Drake waited. Marouan said nothing. He stared at the floor. ‘So, what are we talking about, illegals?’

  ‘Refugees,’ Marouan shrugged.

  ‘From where?’

  ‘I don’t know. Syrians, Yemenis, Sudanese.’

  ‘And they slept in the masjid?’

  ‘You didn’t hear it from me.’

  ‘I never said I did.’ Drake watched him in the mirror as Marouan resumed his work. ‘So they would stay
in the front room, by the entrance, right?’

  ‘Front room?’ Marouan stopped. ‘No, they just slept on the floor in the prayer room. They came and went.’ He paused. ‘No, you’re thinking of Waleed’s room.’

  ‘Waleed?’

  ‘The imam’s son. He has . . . problems.’ Marouan tapped his head. ‘Breakdown. Very sad.’

  ‘What kind of breakdown?’

  ‘It’s confusing for young people. This country, I mean. To stay true to your faith. Everyone wants you to go out drinking, chasing women.’

  ‘And that led to a breakdown?’

  Marouan lifted his shoulders. ‘Some people can’t handle it. Live one life at home, another outside. It confuses them.’ He circled a finger around his temple. ‘He was in hospital for a time. This all started years ago. He goes along fine for a time, but then he has another episode. They don’t like to talk about it. They’re ashamed, you know? Their son. It’s painful. You understand that.’

  For a time there was only the buzz of the machine.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Marouan asked after a while. ‘I mean, you used to be one of us. You used to come to masjid. You were part of the study group. You was interested in politics.’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘We all change, but joining the army? Going to fight in Iraq? We all know that it’s a war against Muslims. And now this, the police?’

  ‘Tell me about Waleed. How can I find him?’

  The trimmer stopped its buzzing as Marouan clicked off the machine. Drake followed him with his eyes in the mirror.

  ‘You used to be one of us. The moment you put that uniform on you became one of them.’ Marouan was shaking his head. ‘They will never accept you. One day, maybe you’ll realize that.’

  ‘I get it. You have a noble idea of the past. Islam, the old country, some sense of order. You look around and you see a world gone to hell. We all see it. The drink, the drugs, the crime. The money that goes flowing past. The prejudice, ignorance, the hatred. Well, I’ve seen all of that too.’

  ‘They are using you. It makes them look good to have a brown person on their side.’

  Drake got to his feet, pulling the apron from around his neck.

  ‘If all you care about is saving yourself you’ve already lost.’