Yeah, like have you not been listening?
Like how good a detective are you anyway?
Yeah, like how long have you fucking got?
The cell door swung inwards, nudged a few inches then booted wide open by a gleaming white Nike. The same pair of young boys who had given Thorne such a hard time earlier stood grinning in the doorway. The gobbiest looked at Thorne and then at Daniels. ‘What’s happening, batty-boy? You like them a bit older these days?’
His mate laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.
‘Why don’t you both fuck off?’ Thorne said.
Thorne’s words had little effect, but one hard stare from Daniels was enough to send the pair scurrying away, shouting and laughing at their comic genius. Oddly, the look – the dead eyes and the muscles working beneath the jaw – had seemed even more menacing than it otherwise might, with tears coursing freely down Antoine Daniels’ face.
NINETEEN
Holland and Kitson stood leaning against Kitson’s Mondeo eating their chips. They watched parents collecting their kids from a primary school opposite and Holland called his girlfriend to see what kind of a day their daughter had had at nursery. A boy in her class had taken to biting the other kids and he and Sophie were both a little concerned.
‘Everything OK with Chloe?’ Kitson asked, when Holland had hung up.
‘Still got all her fingers,’ Holland said.
The afternoon was starting to cool off a little as the sky clouded over and the first delicate spatters of drizzle were coming down.
‘Should we knock this on the head?’ Holland asked.
Kitson swallowed. ‘Maybe we should try Clarkson again. Or call the DCI, see if he’s got any bright ideas.’
‘Up to you,’ Holland said.
‘We’ve got to do something.’
Holland looked down at his chips. ‘These are pretty good actually.’ He stuffed a handful into his mouth. ‘Should have got something to drink though. Maybe a sausage or something.’
Kitson nodded ahead. ‘Let’s walk up towards Islington Green.’
‘It’s raining.’
‘It’s only ten minutes away.’
‘What is?’
‘The place where Amin Akhtar and his mate were attacked.’
‘And?’
Kitson began to walk. ‘And I don’t want my car to stink of chips.’
Helen leaned down towards the wrist that was handcuffed to the radiator and checked her watch. They had been there for the best part of eight hours already. By rights she should be stepping off the train about now, getting excited about seeing Alfie again and putting whatever darkness the day had thrown up out of her head until tomorrow.
Her stomach lurched.
He would need collecting from Janine’s in less than ten minutes.
Would Jenny take him home, she wondered. Or would she drop him round at their dad’s place then come back to Tulse Hill? Yes, that’s what she would do, Helen decided, what Helen would prefer her to do. Her sister always enjoyed being where the action was.
A typical car-crash watcher, if ever there was one.
Maybe that’s why she was so bloody fascinated with me and Paul, Helen thought. What we laughably called our ‘relationship’. Yes, there was always plenty of advice and offers of help, but her sister always seemed to… relish it somehow. The fact that Helen needed those things. It made Jenny’s own perfect life that much more perfect, never mind the fact that she was actually neurotic as hell, or that the tedious tosser she was married to thought life began and ended with fishing and fixing up old cars.
Helen took a deep breath.
God, I am such a bitch, she thought. Jenny will be in pieces, and she and her perfectly nice husband will love my son if I don’t make it out of this, and I am such a bitch…
She turned to Stephen Mitchell and said, ‘Tell me about your wife.’
Mitchell opened his eyes and looked a little panic-stricken, as though it might be a trick question. They had spoken a little since he had come back from the toilet and Helen was relieved that he seemed to have settled down. To have become resigned to what was happening.
‘What’s her name?’
Akhtar had gone out into the shop ten minutes before. Helen could not hear him moving about. He was spending longer and longer out there, leaving her and Mitchell alone in the storeroom, and Helen imagined him sitting quietly behind the till. Trying to keep calm and explain to himself, or to his dead son perhaps, why things had gone as far as they had.
Why there could be no turning back from them.
He was alone out there, she thought, because he could not bear to look at what he had done.
‘She’s called Denise,’ Mitchell said. ‘She works in the same bank as me, only she’s out front and I’m sitting upstairs.’ He smiled, more easily than she had seen him do before. ‘Tied to a computer, playing with other people’s money. Your money, maybe.’
‘No money to play with,’ Helen said.
‘She’s pretty… fiery.’ He nodded, thinking. ‘Doesn’t take any crap, you know?’
‘Sounds like we’d get on. I can’t wait to meet her.’
‘Yeah, she’s definitely got a temper on her. Probably because she cares about stuff, well more than me anyway. Politics, animals… the environment, all that. She has a right go at me sometimes, says I should get more worked up about things… but I just like a quiet life, I suppose.’
‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘Right.’ He raised an arm. ‘And look what I get.’
They laughed, and Helen thought, I hope he hears that. Out there in the semi-dark, staring at his shutters and thinking that nobody has ever felt pain the way he’s feeling it. Or hate. She wondered if she should show Akhtar some of the pictures in her bag, read him some of the witness statements from people whose children had been through a damn sight worse than prison.
They did not go out and buy guns. They did not do… this.
‘We were supposed to be going out tonight,’ Mitchell said. ‘You know, presuming I didn’t mess up my interview. Nothing flashy, just a decent steak or something and a nice bottle of wine. Steak for me anyway, she’s a vegetarian.’
‘I tried that a few years ago,’ Helen said. ‘Couldn’t live without bacon sandwiches.’
Mitchell nodded. ‘She likes a glass of wine, Denise does. Neither of us knows a thing about wine, mind you. Only what we like to drink. She says all that “what wine goes with what” and sniffing it and stuff is just about trying to look clever. She said that to one of the managers at the bank once, when he was banging on about some Chateau something-or-other he’d had with his hundred-pound lunch.’ He smiled again, remembering. ‘No, she’s definitely not shy about telling people what she thinks.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Plus, she’s seriously gorgeous.’ He swallowed hard. ‘You know?’ He was suddenly having to work harder to keep that smile in place. ‘So
… ’
‘How long have you been married?’ Helen asked.
‘Three years next month.’ His eyes widened. ‘I can’t believe it’s gone so fast.’
‘You got any kids?’
Mitchell shook his head. ‘We’ve been talking about it quite a lot lately though, trying to work out the best time and all that. I’d love it, you know? I mean we both would, but Denise wants to keep working for a little bit and she’s really brilliant at her job, so… ’
‘It’s not easy.’
‘ You have though, right? I heard you and him talking about it… before.’
‘Yes, I’ve got a little boy.’ Now she was the one struggling to keep the smile from slipping. ‘And trust me, if anyone ever picked the wrong time to have a baby it was me. So don’t worry about it.’
‘OK.’
Helen reached across, took Mitchell’s left hand in her right and squeezed.
‘Denise is out there waiting for you,’ she said. ‘So let’s just do what we have to, all right, St
ephen?’ She waited until he looked at her, squeezed his hand again. ‘Make sure we get out of here so you can have that steak. And those kids.’
From Upper Street they walked west, crossing Liverpool Road and cutting through side streets until they came to Barnard Park. It had been here, between the football pitch and the adventure playground, that Lee Slater, Scott Clarkson and Daniel Armstrong had attacked Amin Akhtar and his friend a year before.
‘What was he doing all the way up here anyway?’ Kitson asked.
It had become obvious fairly quickly that Amin Akhtar was lying about where he had been on the evening he was attacked. At first he had tried to claim that the pub quiz he was supposed to have taken part in near his home had finished early, but later said that he and his friend had gone to a party. Neither could provide an address, however, claiming that they’d just heard about the party through someone else and gone along to see what it was like. Both boys had strict parents, so the subterfuge had seemed reasonable enough, and not particularly relevant to the inquiry. The salient fact remained that they had ended up in Islington, fighting for their lives on snow-covered ground in Barnard Park. Exactly how they had come to be almost ten miles from home, on the other side of London at 11.30 at night, was really only a matter for them and their parents.
‘Didn’t you ever lie to your mum and dad?’ Holland asked.
‘I suppose so, yeah.’
They walked towards the large playground decorated with brightly painted murals. There was a climbing area with high wooden walk-ways, rope bridges, a paddling pool. ‘I think Amin’s parents were pretty hard on him,’ Holland said. ‘So you can hardly blame him for telling porkies when he wanted to sneak off to a party. Probably some dope around or whatever.’
‘I certainly didn’t do any of that,’ Kitson said.
‘Different for boys, maybe.’
‘It was strictly underage sex and heroin for me.’
The drizzle had got no worse, so for a few minutes they watched a couple of kids clambering over an enormous wooden dragon, while the children’s mothers sat smoking on a bench nearby. Holland was impressed with the place and said he might try and come back with Chloe some time. He said that the play facilities near his place at Elephant and Castle left a lot to be desired, unless you enjoyed games of dodge-the-wino or thought playing with used syringes was educational.
‘North-south divide for you,’ Kitson said.
They walked out on to Copenhagen Street and, crossing the road to head back towards the car, they passed a large pub on the corner opposite the entrance to the park. Loud music spilled out on to the street, where a group of lads sat drinking at a table outside, seemingly oblivious to the drizzle.
A large sign in the window advertised various themed evenings. Thursday: Wild West Night (with rodeo bull!) Friday: Eighties Night! Saturday: Gay Night.
Kitson pointed to the sign. ‘Maybe you should bring Chloe down to the playground on a Saturday. You can always pop in here for a quick one while she’s playing. Maybe get a drink as well.’
‘You’re hilarious,’ Holland said.
‘Denial’s a terrible thing, Dave.’
They walked back to Upper Street, then cut behind the green on to Essex Road. They had almost reached the car and were still trying to decide where to go next when Holland’s mobile rang.
‘I’ve just come out of Barndale,’ Thorne said.
‘And?’
‘And I’m starting to see why Javed Akhtar thought the police got it wrong. Why they all got it wrong.’
‘You’re joking.’ Holland looked at Kitson who raised her eyebrows. He mouthed, ‘Tell you in a minute.’
‘Look, there’s still people I’ve got to talk to,’ Thorne said. ‘I’m not saying I’ve got anything solid to tell him about yet, and it might be that stuff comes out of this he doesn’t want to hear anyway.’
‘Like what?’ Holland stopped at the kerb, waiting for a gap in the traffic.
‘It’s probably got sod all to do with anything,’ Thorne said, ‘but I think Amin might have been gay.’
Holland looked at Kitson again. He remembered something Danny Armstrong had said when they had told him Amin had been raped. A snide remark about how much he would have enjoyed it. He thought about that pub opposite the entrance to Barnard Park.
‘You still there, Dave?’
‘What night of the week was it, when Lee Slater got stabbed?’
‘Saturday. Why?’
‘I think I might know what Amin and his mate were doing in Islington,’ Holland said. ‘And why they were attacked.’
TWENTY
Thorne knew he would hit the rush hour coming off the M40, but he would use the blue light to get through it. With luck he would be back in Tulse Hill within forty minutes or so, though if there had been any major developments he felt sure Donnelly would have let him know.
Now he needed to let Javed Akhtar know that he was doing as he had been asked.
He reached for his phone and dialled. One day he would get around to putting a hands-free kit in the car, but right now getting stopped for driving while using a mobile was the least of his worries.
Helen’s phone rang out and after half a minute went to voicemail. He listened to the message, hung up and tried again. This time she answered almost immediately.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘He was in the next room, so I couldn’t pick up.’
Thorne thought about the confident voice he had heard on Helen’s answerphone and compared it to the one he was hearing now. They might have been two different people.
‘Is he there now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I speak to him?’
He waited while Helen asked the question.
‘He wants you to talk to me,’ she said.
‘OK… tell him I’ve spent the day at Barndale, that I’ve been talking to people about what happened to Amin. The governor, the doctor that treated Amin. Amin’s friends. Tell him that.’
He waited again, easing the BMW into the outside lane and pushing it up to ninety, while he listened to Helen Weeks relaying the information to Akhtar.
‘OK, he’s got that.’
‘But you also need to keep telling him that this is going to take time. I’m going flat out here, but it’s not like anybody’s confessing to anything. He needs to understand that.’
Helen started to talk to Akhtar, but Thorne cut her off.
‘But I will find out what happened,’ he said. ‘Tell him that. No, promise him that.’
Helen passed on what Thorne had said.
‘And this is the most important thing, Helen. Are you listening?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Tell him I believe him, OK?’
TWENTY-ONE
‘Jesus, that’s terrible. Sorry if I was a bit… ’
‘It’s fine.’
‘So, what can I do to help?’
The man who had spent six months putting together an appeal that would never be heard had not sounded best pleased to be receiving a phone call from a police officer at eight-thirty in the evening. But as soon as Thorne had told Carl Oldman who he was and explained the circumstances, the solicitor was only too keen to answer his questions.
‘I saw Amin a week or so before he died,’ Oldman said. ‘The day before he was attacked. Actually, I think I might well have been the last person to visit him.’
‘And how was he?’
‘He was in pretty good spirits as I remember. I ran through our appeal with him and he had every reason to be happy about it. I think we had a hell of a good chance of getting his sentence reduced.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘On the grounds that the bloody judge went way over the top, pure and simple. Based on the circumstances and all the pre-sentencing reports, Amin should have got three years tops, and then the judge starts banging on about this ridiculous “dangerousness” business. There’s no basis for that in any of the reports he was given, not a whisper. It
was quite clearly a self-defence incident, Amin’s character was nigh-on spotless and any fool could see that he wasn’t a danger to anyone.’ Oldman sighed heavily. ‘Some of these idiots see a knife involved and start reaching for an imaginary black cap, you know what I mean?’
‘Yeah, I’ve come across a few of those,’ Thorne said.
‘Right. Well, I was definitely up for going after this one, I tell you that.’
The solicitor was clearly angry, though whether it was aimed at the judge in question, or the fact that Oldman would never now have the chance to challenge the sentence he had handed down, was hard to tell.
‘So you wouldn’t say he was depressed when you saw him?’
‘Not even close.’
‘Or showing any signs that he was feeling suicidal?’
‘Look, I’m not a psychiatrist,’ Oldman said. ‘And I can’t possibly know what that attack did to him, but he seemed fine to me. He was excited about the appeal and he was pleased that he had this move coming up. I think there were some friends he was going to miss and he was a bit upset about that, but he was keen to get this qualification, so… ’
‘So were you surprised at what happened?’
There was a pause, and Thorne heard Oldman take a drink of something. He suddenly imagined the solicitor on a designer sofa with a glass of wine, while an angry wife or girlfriend pointed towards a plate of dinner that was getting cold. Mind you, he also knew plenty of briefs who lived alone in grubby flats and survived on Stella and pot noodles.
‘I was gutted,’ Oldman said. ‘And pissed off. I spend half my bloody life looking after scumbags, but Amin was a good lad.’
When Thorne had thanked Oldman and hung up, he walked across to the stereo and slid a Willie Nelson disc into the CD player. Then he sat down on the floor and leaned back against the sofa, looking up at Phil Hendricks who was sitting there studying the PM report. He held up the phone that he was still carrying. Said, ‘No way did that kid top himself.’
Hendricks held up the report. ‘It certainly looks like he did.’
‘ Looks like it,’ Thorne said. ‘That’s the point.’
Good as Dead tt-10 Page 12
