The Secret Fear

by Solomon Carter

  “Sounds difficult.”

  “Even so, I liked some of the things he stood for.”

  “Such as?”

  “He made a stand against Yusuf Yuksel. Against his criminality. He did it because he believed it was right, no matter the consequences.”

  “You admired him for that?” said Palmer.

  “I respected what he did,” he said.

  Palmer nodded. “Respect. What about love, Ahsen?”

  “The world we live in makes love difficult, detective. But it makes every other emotion easier. Love? I find this one difficult. One day, I hope it will be easier.”

  Palmer looked at the young man’s eyes. “Ahsen, forgive me but I have to ask again, for the record – where were you yesterday morning between four am and six am?”

  “I told you, I was asleep.”

  “Your father said he heard your radio on at around six am, so you must have been awake before that.”

  Ahsen frowned. “Maybe I woke up earlier than I thought. But not much earlier.”

  “I need you to be sure, Ahsen. You could be asked these questions in court.”

  “I understand. But I still can’t tell you any different. I’m telling you what I remember.”

  Palmer nodded. “Then what time did you go to bed? Your father says you’re a night owl. You go to bed late, get up early. He said you hardly sleep. So, for the record, what time did you sleep the night before your grandfather died, and when did you wake up?”

  Ahsen shook his head as if he had searched for an answer and couldn’t find one.

  “I was up late, but I can’t tell you when. Sometimes when I go online, I get lost and forget the time. It’s a maze of information. I almost get addicted to it.”

  Palmer looked down at Ahsen’s desk. Beside the basket full of gadgets was a mostly empty two-litre bottle of energy drink. A caffeinated one.

  “They say that stuff’s not good for you, Ahsen. Especially if you want sleep.”

  “I like to educate myself, too. Sleep can wait.”

  “Aren’t you ever tired?”

  Ahsen shrugged. “I get by.”

  “What do you look at so late into the night?” It was a risky question – there was a potentially obvious and awkward answer wherever a young single male was concerned. Ahsen smiled for the first time since she had entered the room.

  “This is where I share my grandfather’s passion for justice, detective. I learn about people’s problems. And I try to help them, just like he believed he was doing.”

  Palmer shook her head. “How do you mean exactly?”

  “There are people in this world who are suffering. It happens everywhere. Syria. Yemen. Saudi. Russia...”

  “Turkey?” said Palmer.

  “That too. And here in this land. People are oppressed here too. We might have been interested in very different things, but my grandfather and me had more in common than he knew.”

  “It sounds admirable,” said Palmer. “But I still don’t understand how you could help people from here in your bedroom. People in warzones... people in distress...?”

  “It’s easier than you think, detective. Have you heard of Anonymous? The group who wear the Guy Fawkes masks?”

  Palmer nodded. “So you’re like them? You’re an online activist?” she said. “A hacker?”

  “They’re called hacktivists.”

  “And you work with Anonymous?”

  “No. Sorry. Even if I was one of them, I couldn’t tell you about it. But I’m not. What I do is something similar. But something more personal.”

  “Now I’m intrigued,” said Palmer.

  “Intrigue – that’s how I started. I was intrigued about how to help people who desperately needed help. So I got involved.”

  “And so, you hack government computers to help people?”

  “Hacking is not the only way to help. Information is a weapon too.”

  “A weapon?” said Palmer.

  “A weapon of peace,” said Ahsen with emphasis. “I believe in peace. I try to help those who are victims of war. I learn things, I find things, and I give that information to others who can use it.”

  “And you were busy doing that the night before your grandfather’s death?”

  Ahsen shrugged. “Like I told you, detective. I didn’t check the clock. I was online, and then I slept a little and then I woke up. When I left my room it was after seven.

  “You’ll understand that’s not the greatest of alibis, Ahsen?”

  “And I understand it’s the truth. I was here the whole time. I never left my room. Please believe me. I didn’t get on well with my grandfather. I didn’t understand him, but I never ever wanted him dead! I wanted peace between us. I’m a pacifist, detective.”

  Palmer looked at the bottle of energy drink and empty coffee cups. There was no way to ask about the ginger tea, not until Quentin had given the green light on his verdict. Her eyes roamed thoughtfully across the room. Ahsen picked up the smartphone from the table beside his bed and pressed the button and she watched the screen come to life. Palmer caught a glimpse of the icons on the home screen while Ahsen checked the clock. He switched the phone off and set it back down on the desk. Palmer’s eyes flicked back to the basket of other assorted devices by the computer.

  “Got to get ready for work?” she asked. As she spoke, her eyes narrowed in thought.

  “No. There is no work today, and no work tomorrow. No work until Baba’s little community service has been done and you people give us our shop back. You know, I wonder if these people will be grieving for Baba or grieving for no more free cash and chicken. What do you think, detective?”

  The young man stood up, drawing their conversation to a close. Palmer offered a polite smile. “I think we may need to question you again, Ahsen.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this case could yet change,” she said. “Because of your alibi too.”

  “But my alibi is no weaker than my father’s and you know he didn’t kill Baba either!”

  Palmer nodded in agreement. “Which means, ultimately then, you’ll have no problem either, will you?”

  Palmer stole another glance down at the stack of gadgetry in the plastic basket and made a mental note of what she saw. She opened the door and stepped out into the bright hallway.

  “One more question, Ahsen.”

  The young man ran a hand through his long hair.

  “Do you know whether Baba was keeping any secrets, such as any secret arrangements, payments, or business dealings that you know of?”

  The young man crumpled his chin. He hesitated for a moment and shook his head.

  “I’ve told you all that I know.”

  “Do you know if he was planning to go back to Istanbul?”

  Ahsen grinned in surprise. “No, why?!”

  Palmer ignored the question. “What about Fada? It’s a name we’ve come across recently... Maybe someone Baba knew? Do you know anyone called Fada?”

  “No. Fada? That sounds Arabic, and Baba was full of secrets but that doesn’t sound like one of them. In the end, he was always quite predictable.”

  “Oh?”

  “His secrets. His politics. His routines. His interests. Baba was set in his ways. Yusuf Yuksel must have known my grandfather would never have given up his little campaign against him. In the end, that’s the reason why my grandfather paid with his life.”

  “That’s a very compelling theory, Ahsen. Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he said. He nodded a curt goodbye and closed the door.

  Palmer walked down the stairs from Ahsen’s bedroom and found Orcun Sen waiting for her and smiling benignly in the living room of his apartment. “So? Did my son, Ahsen, enrich your life with his wit and wisdom, detective?” Sen delivered the line with a sparkle in his eye.

  “His repartee might need just a little polishing. But it was very interesting all the same.”

  “You’re being polite.”

  “Did y
ou know he’s an activist, Mr Sen?”

  “Yes. The world’s first inactive activist. He delivers kebabs on a moped and lives like a hermit in his bedroom. He’s very active in his dreams.”

  “I think he’s done a lot more than you give him credit for,” said Palmer.

  “Will you come to Baba’s service tomorrow? Then you’ll see just how many people loved my father.”

  Palmer saw no problem in attending. Hogarth would have probably insisted on it anyway.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’ll bring the raki.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” said Palmer, her face flickering at the thought of the great unwashed downing raki over cold fried chicken.

  “I’m long past good ideas, DS Palmer. I’m not sure Baba would have been pleased. But then he’s not around to judge.”

  THERE WAS ONLY ONE squad car on the pavement in front of the Sunshine Car Showroom, near the roundabout towards Great Wakering. Sunshine Cars wasn’t even a showroom as such. Just a small yard packed with older model cars with a portacabin at the back. The showroom sat beside a BP petrol station. People stood refilling their cars at the petrol pumps and stared idly across at the police activity at Sunshine Cars but none of them would have known any crime had taken place. There was nothing to see but DCI Melford talking animatedly to the bald-headed car salesman, a muscular man in a pink checked shirt who managed to look friendly as well as extremely irritated all at once. Melford’s gleaming metallic saloon was parked beside the car showroom, making all the cars on sale look worth a lot less than the prices pasted on their windscreens. As Hogarth entered the scene, he had the feeling of an extra entering the stage. An unnecessary cameo appearance in the next act of DCI Melford’s nervous breakdown.

  “Sir? What’s the problem?” said Hogarth as he walked into the midst of the conversation. The bald guy had been talking, Melford nodding grimly as he spoke. Melford looked hangdog, his thinning brown hair wafting in the wind. Hogarth watched him looking about as they spoke, checking the area for invisible enemies.

  “I’ll let Mr Gerber do the talking. Then you might begin to get it,” said Melford.

  Hogarth raised an eyebrow and nodded at the car salesman, Gerber.

  “We had a visitor earlier on. Some bloke. He said he was interested in test-driving a car. Now that struck me as odd because he didn’t even look at the cars. Nothing more than a cursory look anyway, like he was going through the motions. To be honest, he looked like he couldn’t have cared less about buying one. That was the first thing. Next thing was his manner. Blunt. Hard. Not friendly at all. It really put me on the back foot – his attitude was the thing that got me.”

  “But what actually happened here?” said Hogarth.

  “He’s telling you, man,” said Melford.

  “As I was explaining to DCI Melford here, the bloke just didn’t look right. He was a grown man, your or my age, but wearing a baseball cap and trainers with jeans and a hooded top. It looked like he was playing dress-up. Like he was in disguise. He asked to test drive a car, but by then I knew he was dodgy so I told him to piss off.”

  “And then?”

  The man looked to Melford for help. Again as Hogarth watched, he had the impression that something had been conveyed between them. A message. An understanding. But Hogarth couldn’t fathom what.

  Gerber looked at Hogarth. “The man hung around at the edge of the forecourt, looking around at the cars, making a real show of himself. I wasn’t sure what he was going to do next to be honest, whether he was going to attack me, or torch one of my cars or something. I wasn’t gonna let some lunatic smash up one of my cars for fun. Or steal one. So, I called you.”

  Hogarth frowned. “So a car wasn’t actually stolen then?” Something else had bothered him too. Something in the way Gerber spoke about Melford...

  “Nope,” said the man.

  Hogarth grimaced. “And there was no cash robbery, nothing like that.”

  “No.”

  “Have you got any of this on camera?”

  “No. Damn it. I should have thought of that.”

  “So, then,” Hogarth began to count bullet points on his fingers. “There was no robbery, no loss, no damage, no evidence. Just a strange confrontation that you dealt with yourself.”

  “But that man was full of threat and menace. It felt dangerous,” said the salesman, sensing Hogarth’s disbelief. “And I gave a full witness statement to the man in the uniform over there.”

  Hogarth looked to the squad car and recognised PC Jordan in the front seat. He gave Jordan a nod and saw the nonplussed look on his face. Jordan was muttering something into the radio. Hogarth could almost read the baby-faced PC’s mind. “What the hell are we doing out here?” And if Jordan was thinking that, he would have been spot on.

  “So then, sir, it all seems in hand. No robbery after all, sir. Just another false alarm.”

  “It wasn’t a false alarm,” said Gerber. “This guy is serious, I’m telling you. If he doesn’t come back to me here, I’m telling you, he’ll only hit someone else.”

  “Hit?” said Hogarth.

  “He’s going to do something,” said Gerber. “He’s itching to. That’s what I saw. I’m just glad it wasn’t me.”

  Melford looked around at the traffic and across the roundabout before he tuned back into the conversation.

  “And that’s the whole point,” said Melford. “This is the second time this man has targeted a local business. If we stay on top of this, we can prevent this turning bad.”

  “Stay on top of what, sir?”

  “You know, the warnings. And what happened here again today is another one,” snapped Melford.

  Hogarth’s temples were throbbing. The Hamlet Court Road case was a priority, and here he was again on another bogus errand.

  “But, sir, we won’t know the man’s intention until he does something,” said Hogarth.

  “And that’s exactly what we don’t want happening!” said Melford. “If you see him again, Mr Gerber, call me directly. I’ll see to it that you get immediate police help.”

  The car salesman frowned and nodded at the same time. Melford’s excessive offer of help didn’t seem enough to placate him. Hogarth wondered what more Gerber could want. A twenty-four-hour armed guard?

  “Thanks. I’ll call you if I see anything.” Hogarth narrowed his eyes as Gerber bade them farewell and walked back to his portacabin.

  “What did he mean by that, sir?” said Hogarth.

  “He’ll call us if the villain returns, I expect.”

  “It sounded as if he meant he would call you personally,” said Hogarth.

  Melford sighed. “Figure of speech, I’m sure.” He didn’t meet Hogarth’s eyes. “Thank you for coming,” he added.

  “You didn’t exactly give me any choice, sir.”

  “I didn’t know I had to ask,” said Melford, angrily.

  “We’re dealing with a murder, sir. A murder you said you want solved quickly. Now I can do my level best to work to solve that case, provided I get the time and support I need. But, sir, if you keep calling me away to deal with incidents like this—”

  “Like what?” said Melford.

  “Non-crimes. It’s not what you pay me for, sir.”

  “Non-crimes?”

  “The salesman, Gerber, he dealt with this himself. Even PC Jordan needn’t have come. We could have sent one of the PCSOs to take a witness statement.

  “Don’t overstep the mark, DI Hogarth.”

  “Sir, If I was in your shoes, sir, I doubt I would have paid this incident a second thought, let alone get dragged in and bring in another senior officer.”

  Melford’s dark eyes flared. “You have no idea. This isn’t a case of what if – this is a case of when. And no matter how busy you think you are, your duty as a police officer is to protect the people in this town, including people like Gerber.”

  Hogarth was ready to shoot back a reply when he s
aw the emotional intensity in Melford’s eyes. The DCI looked ready to shout him down again, and if that happened, Hogarth would have shouted back. Instead, he opted to change tack. He swallowed his anger and ignored his throbbing temples.

  “Sir. If you don’t mind. Just what is going on here?”

  “What do you mean?” said Melford.

  “Something’s going on, sir, and I don’t know what it is. I’d like to help.”

  Melford took a long deep breath before carefully selecting his words.

  “If you want to help, then do your duty and stop questioning my judgment. Are we clear?”

  Hogarth looked deeper into the man’s eyes.

  “Sir,” said Hogarth quietly. “Do you think you’d be able to trust me if I was making the same calls.”

  Melford fell silent. The wind tugged at his widow’s peak, making it flap like a shark’s fin.

  “I hope so, inspector.”

  Hogarth grimaced and walked away.

  “Where are you going?” said Melford.

  “Back to what you pay me for, sir. I’m going to find our killer.”

  Hogarth shook his head at Jordan as he passed and Jordan chuckled through the glass. Hogarth sensed trouble on the horizon. He could feel Melford brooding behind him as he climbed into his car. Whatever. He had enough on his plate. Hogarth still had to face another problem from his past. Miray. He would have to face her again, knowing her fate, knowing there was nothing he could do to save her from it. As he drove away, he realised what had bothered him about Gerber. The car salesman had called Melford DCI. Not many people in the public used that acronym for his title. It was almost as if Gerber knew Melford from before. Hogarth’s fingers tensed on the steering wheel. His temples throbbed harder.

  Twenty-two

  Hogarth’s phone buzzed as he paced passed the West Road car wash. As the phone rang, he felt a burning sensation in his gut. Angst and frustration. If this was Melford calling again, he was going to give the man a few choice words and pay the price later. There was only so much a man could take, after all. But it wasn’t Melford’s name on the screen – it was Ed Quentin. Hogarth’s ill feelings turned to a sudden nervous excitement. Hogarth stopped walking and answered the call as the traffic streamed by.