Darr returned shortly to say that Abu wasn’t answering his phone, and that he’d sent the two Iraqis over to his room to fetch him. They rang back a few minutes later with the news that there was a light on in C-210 but the door was locked and there was no response to their knocks.
‘He’s probably just popped out to visit someone,’ Darr suggested huffily, but Kathy knew otherwise and Brock saw the look on her face and said quietly to Haygill, ‘Maybe it would be wise to go over there, and get security to meet us there with a key. What do you think?’
For a moment Haygill looked confused and uncomprehending, then Brock’s tone registered and anxiety brought him to his feet. ‘Yes.. . Yes, you’re right.’
They hurried across the windswept campus, heels clattering on the wet concrete paving slabs, to find the corridor to room C-210 now filled with people. Other CAB-Tech team members had joined the Iraqis, and a number of residents had been attracted out of their rooms by their shouts and the banging on Abu’s door. Two of Mr Truck’s security men were there too, bulky in thickly padded jackets and military style caps. Haygill exchanged a few terse words with them, and the gathering fell silent as one of them pulled out a bunch of keys.
Whatever worse fears the spectators might have had didn’t just evaporate when the door swung open and they saw into the empty room, for although there was no Abu lying unconscious on the little bed or slumped with a rope around his neck, there was still something immediately disconcerting about the room’s bareness which gave an almost supernatural dimension to his vanishing. There were no postcards on the pinboard, no creases on the bedcover, and no curtains on the window to hide the sinister blackness of the river beyond. Only the book lying open on the bare table confirmed that he had once been there.
Brock stepped forward to examine it. No one else seemed inclined to follow him into the room. After a moment he called back over his shoulder, ‘Dr Darr. Do you or one of your colleagues read Arabic?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Darr declared, and waved one of the Iraqis to step with him to Brock’s side.
‘It is the Qur’an, sir.’
‘Yes. He’s underlined one of the verses, here. What does it say?’
The Iraqi stooped to read, then straightened and stared meaningfully at Darr and murmured something. Darr whispered in return, then took a deep breath.
‘It concerns the fate of martyrs, sir,’ he said at last, reluctantly, clinging to the formal mode of address like a shield.
‘Could you translate it, please?’
Darr muttered to the Iraqi, who began to recite.
‘‘‘Don’t think that those who are slain in the cause of Allah are dead. They are alive and in the presence of their Lord, who looks after them and heaps gifts upon them. They are happy that those they have left behind suffer neither fear nor grief. They rejoice in Allah’s grace and bounty…’’’
A murmuring broke out among the people in the corridor as they picked this up, and phrases were repeated for those who hadn’t heard. Some men began to press forward into the room to see the book for themselves. Brock spoke to the security guards, asking them to clear the crowd, which they began to try to do, with some difficulty. He turned to Darr and the Iraqi again. ‘Where could he have gone?’ he demanded.
They shook their heads. Abu was always the outsider in the team, Darr explained, because of his work, in computers rather than the science. He worked to a different pattern, a different timetable. He attended a different mosque.
‘In Shadwell Road? Why there? Did he know people there? Friends?’
They shook their heads, uncertain.
‘’Ang on.’ PC Talbot spoke up. ‘I’ve got ’im now. He drove a motorbike, didn’t he? A little yellow Yamaha.’
They nodded, yes. His pride and joy.
‘Yeah, I can picture ’im now. With a black helmet. I’ve seen ’im down the Road a lot. I thought he lived there.’
Brock turned to Haygill, who was hovering just inside the door to the room as if he wanted to be anywhere but there. ‘Anything you can add, Professor?’
The scientist cleared his throat. ‘Er… Excellent worker. Good computer people are like hen’s teeth these days, and Abu is outstanding. A brilliant young man. He’s had offers from other places, but he’s stayed with us. Believes in the work.’
‘Any relatives in this country?’
‘Not to my knowledge. His family is all in Lebanon, I understand. He went to the Gulf to study. University of Qatar.’
That seemed to be all that they knew of Abu, or were prepared to tell, and Brock asked them to leave while he and Kathy carried out a search of the room. Its emptiness extended into all its corners, no hangers in the wardrobe, no fluff beneath the bed.
‘I don’t think he did live here,’ Kathy said finally. ‘He didn’t have enough time to clean it out this thoroughly.’
Only the book seemed to bear any signs of vital human life, its pages interleaved with small fragments of Abu’s past, an old postcard of the Roman ruins at Ba’albek in the Beqa’a Valley of Lebanon, some letters in spidery Arabic, some photographs, an elderly smiling woman wearing traditional headdress, a family group at a table, two little girls, a middle-aged European.
‘Bloody hell,’ Brock said, lifting up the last picture for Kathy to see.
It had been cut from a glossy printed page, and the face was younger by ten or fifteen years, the unruly bush of hair thicker and darker, the face plumper, but it was certainly him.
‘Springer?’ Kathy asked.
‘Springer,’ Brock nodded. ‘Our victim.’
He turned the paper over but the back was blank.
‘Looks like it’s come from the dust-cover of a book,’ Brock suggested. ‘His autobiography maybe.’
He put the picture back between the leaves and stared at Kathy. ‘The book of his life.’
11
T hey went first to Shadwell Road police station and made arrangements with the duty inspector to call in additional officers from surrounding divisional stations. Soon they were joined by Bren Gurney and a carload of people from Serious Crime, including Leon Desai.
Bren cornered Kathy soon after he arrived. ‘Leon insisted on coming over with us, Kathy. What do you want me to do? Send him off somewhere?’
Kathy’s heart sank. So her break-up with Leon was common knowledge. And she had fondly hoped that people didn’t even know they’d been having an affair. Some hope.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said, aiming for total indifference but hearing herself sound snappy. ‘Not an issue.’
Leon himself appeared shortly after. ‘Kathy, can I have a word?’
‘I’m very busy, Leon,’ she said, although embarrassingly she suddenly found herself with nothing particular to do.
‘Yes, but why?’ He was pressing too close to her, trying to keep his voice low as people passed by in the narrow corridor.
‘Why what?’
‘Why are you involved in this? You’re supposed to be on stress leave. Did Brock make you come back?’
She turned on him then. ‘It’s none of your bloody business, Leon. Just bugger off and leave me alone.’
‘Kathy, I’m concerned!’ He choked off whatever he’d been going to add as two men newly arrived from the Divisional Intelligence Unit called out a greeting to a small black woman from the Race Hate Unit at Rotherhithe.
‘You were told to take time off. And you shouldn’t be involved in this,’ he hissed under his breath. ‘This Special Branch stuff, it’s not even your area. I’m going to speak to Brock.’
‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Her yell startled the others, who turned to see what was going on.
‘Let’s talk about it, then.’ He was pleading now, and she hated it more than his high-handedness.
‘Leave-me-alone,’ she said, slowly and deliberately. ‘I don’t want your advice. Do you understand?’
He stared at her, and she saw his dark eyes filled with hurt, and understood finally what was going on. Thi
s Special Branch stuff… She thought, some undercover man Wayne O’Brien turned out to be. I should start my own ‘Kathy’s love-life’ website, just in case some distant outpost of the Met isn’t quite up to date.
Brock padded up the stairs, Bren at his shoulder, wondering if anyone had actually made an arrest before in their stockinged feet. No doubt they had, and in frogmen’s suits and tails and long johns too, but there was something peculiarly subversive about being made shoeless, as if the whole ominous dignity of the occasion might be punctured by a pin dropped on the carpet. His hope was that the place would be as quiet as the last time he’d come here, but his optimism began to fade as he picked up sounds filtering down from the upstairs hall, and died altogether when they reached the top and opened the doors. There were maybe two dozen men on their knees in prayer, another dozen in small huddles squatting on the carpet, and one larger group, like an adult class-nearly fifty men in all, enough to start a riot or a massacre.
He scanned their faces, aware of a number of them looking suspiciously at the two of them in their coats and socks. He couldn’t spot anyone resembling Abu, but he did recognise Imam Hashimi, who appeared to be leading the adult education group. The imam caught sight of him at the same instant, and a look of alarm appeared on his face. He gave some kind of instruction to his group, jumped to his feet and hurried over.
‘What do you want here?’ he demanded, voice low.
‘Your help, Imam Hashimi,’ Brock said.
‘No!’ the man said, agitated. ‘Please go at once. You are not welcome here.’
At the same time another man came sidling over, trying to hear what was being said. He must have caught the tone of anger in the imam’s voice, for he said, ‘Is everything all right? Are you in need of assistance, Imam?’
‘No, no. Everything is fine.’
Several more men approached, and Brock recognised Manzoor, the owner of the clothes shop next to the police station, looking particularly dapper in dark business suit and silk polka dot tie. Manzoor recognised Brock too and hurried forward eagerly. ‘This is the police, Imam! This is Scotland Yard!’
‘It’s all right, Sanjeev!’ Imam Hashimi anxiously flapped both hands at him in an attempt at a calming gesture. ‘They want my assistance. I will have to talk to them.’
But Manzoor wasn’t ready to be put off. ‘Is it about the Sharif boy, Superintendent? Have you arrested him? Did he murder the professor?’
A small crowd was gathering now, and the men who had been at prayer were beginning to sit up, looking round in bewilderment.
‘No, Mr Manzoor,’ Brock said firmly. ‘We haven’t charged anyone in connection with that case. I want to speak to the Imam about a private matter. There’s no need for concern.’
Manzoor looked disappointed and the imam took advantage of his hesitation to guide the two policemen away to the door to his office, which he shut firmly behind them.
‘You see? You see how troubled they all are? You shouldn’t have just walked in here. You should have phoned.’ He spoke in a kind of strangled whisper for fear of ears at the door, but his extreme agitation needed an outlet and he paced back and forward in the small space, gesturing with his hands. ‘You should have made an appointment!’
‘I’m sorry, but there hasn’t been time for that. This is a very urgent matter we need your help with.’
‘No! No, no, no! I helped you once and what happened? Three of our young people are in your hands for over twenty-four hours now, and you say you haven’t charged them with any offence? How is this possible? Their families come and ask my advice, and what can I say to them? That I was the one who delivered them up to you?’
‘Everything is being done according to the law, Imam Hashimi. Tell them to get legal advice.’
‘Do you think I don’t do that? But what happens when they find out that I supplied the addresses?’
‘I haven’t told anyone that, and I have no intention of doing so.’
‘All the same, you were seen here, before the boys were arrested. ..’
‘Look, I’m sorry, but time is very short. We came here to try to prevent a death, Imam. One of your parishioners has disappeared and we fear the worst. He left us a message. I think you will understand my concern when I tell you what it was.’
The imam stopped pacing and faced Brock. ‘Yes?’
‘A verse from the Qur’an, Chapter Three.’
‘The Imrans? Yes?’
‘Verse one hundred and seventy.’
He frowned in thought, and then his eyes widened and he whispered, ‘“Do not account those who are slain in the cause of Allah, as dead”. .. Who is this person?’
‘A young man by the name of Abu Khadra, a Lebanese, who works at the university. He worships here with you.’
The imam shook his head slowly, frowning, ‘No, I don’t know the name.’
Brock handed him a copy of the photo from Haygill’s files, but still Hashimi shook his head, then went to the record book on his desk and searched for some minutes before looking up. ‘No, he is not one of our people.’
‘Perhaps he just comes unannounced, without introducing himself, or under another name. He is devout, I believe, and he has been seen in Shadwell Road. We think he may have a room in the area, and friends.’
‘What has he done?’
Brock hesitated. ‘We’re not sure. But we think he can clarify whether your three young men are innocent or not.’
‘You mean he may have led them astray?’
‘That’s a possibility. I wonder, if you were to ask some of your most faithful and regular worshippers, they might tell you if they have seen him here?’
Imam Hashimi thought about that, then nodded agreement and went to the door. He returned ushering in half a dozen of the more senior men and a couple of younger ones. Manzoor was among them, shouldering his way to the front. The imam explained in English Brock’s request for information about the man whose picture he passed round and whose name he told them. Someone then asked a question in another language, and some discussion followed in what Brock took to be Urdu. From time to time the men would glance at him, as if his appearance might clarify some point. Finally Manzoor spoke up. He seemed agitated, striking the air with his fist to emphasise what he said, and giving Brock a look of veiled cunning. The others seemed to agree, and the imam then returned to English to announce to Brock that no one had ever seen this Abu Khadra in the mosque, although some thought they may have seen him in the Shadwell Road in the past. As they filed out of the office, Brock reflected that it had taken an awful lot of discussion to arrive at this conclusion, and wished that he’d been able to understand Urdu. Imam Hashimi patted the last departing man on the back and closed the door again.
‘No, he is not from our congregation,’ he said firmly.
‘That’s disappointing. He specifically mentioned coming to the mosque in Shadwell Road.’
‘Well, now, that is possible. There is another mosque, though strictly speaking, we do not consider them to be Muslim.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘They are Shia. You are aware of the five pillars of our faith, are you, Chief Inspector? They define the necessary steps to be a Muslim. First the shahadah, the profession of faith; second the ritual of worship and prayer, salah; third sawm, which is fasting during the month of Ramadan; fourth is Zakaat, or almsgiving; and fifth is the pilgrimage to Mecca, the hajj.’
Brock tried to interrupt, but Hashimi wouldn’t be stopped. His voice rose and he went on, ‘The most important of these is the first, the shahadah, which is a form of words which must never be changed. The Shiites however, in their misguided error, use a different form of words. Therefore they are not true Muslims. You see?’
‘And where is their mosque?’
‘They call it the Nur al-Islam mosque. A miserable affair. I have never been to it, of course, but I am told it is a very inferior place. They are mainly Yemeni, you know.’ He shook his head. ‘A primitive, desert people.’
‘Is it on Shadwell Road?’ Bren asked.
‘In Chandler’s Yard. You know The Three Crowns public house? Well, it stands on the corner of Shadwell Road and Chandler’s Yard. Go down there. There is a cafe, the Horria Cafe, run by a man called Qasim Ali. You might ask for him. He is what they call a “muwasit”, what you might call a “Mr Fix-it”. If your man is down there, he will know of it.’
They thanked him and left, aware of the eyes that followed them in absolute silence across the hall, and then the murmur that began as soon as they reached the stairs. Out on the street a soft drizzle had dispersed most of the pedestrians, and Brock spoke into his phone for a moment, then they crossed the street and made towards The Three Crowns and beside it the narrow entrance to Chandler’s Yard.
After twenty yards the narrow laneway broadened into the cobbled square that had once formed the focus of the local candle-making industry from which Chandler’s Yard had taken its name. The jumble of old workshops and storehouses which stood around the yard still bore the marks of their old occupation, their brickwork blackened and door jambs scarred, like veteran craftsmen irretrievably gnarled by a lifetime of labour. Among them, as flamboyant as a belly dancer, glowed the bright shopfront and garish red neon sign of the Horria Cafe.
Inside, four old men played cards at a table beneath a silent TV showing a soccer game, while an ancient juke-box at their side throbbed with Arab music. A very fat, darkskinned man behind the counter wiped fingers like sticky pork sausages across a grubby apron and then flicked at his bushy moustache. He narrowed his eyes at the newcomers suspiciously, and Brock wondered if he was going to need an interpreter to communicate with these ‘primitive desert people’.
After due consideration, the fat man spoke. ‘Yes, gents. What can I do for you?’ he said affably in a broad cockney accent. ‘I got a fresh load of chips on. Stewed lamb’s the speciality of the house, if yer interested.’
‘It smells very good,’ Brock said, feeling suddenly remarkably hungry. ‘Maybe later. Right now we’re looking for a Mr Qasim Ali. Know where we might find him?’
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