The Balance of Guilt

by Simon Hall

  The thick pile of the carpet reminded Dan of the options to help him rest, and he finally opted for some swan-feather pillows. But despite their comfort, and the softness of the hotel bed, the warmth of the room and the mellowness of the décor, Dan only managed to secure a few hours sleep before dawn.

  He finally did so by concentrating on how many laps of the hotel pool he would swim come the morning, and what a pyramid of a plate he would pile up from the breakfast buffet as a reward.

  But both delights were to be denied Dan. It clearly wasn’t his week.

  He was woken just after half past six by the phone ringing. It was the early producer. There had been a violent assault overnight on an innocent Muslim in Plymouth, and a graffiti attack on the city’s biggest mosque. The police believed both were connected to yesterday’s bombing of the Minster. Lizzie required him to cover the stories, along with any other follow-ups that might surface during the day.

  Dan would have argued, but knew there was no point. Disputing with Lizzie was like trying to take on a frigate in a rowing boat. He would have to miss Adam’s briefing, but with luck he could get back to Exeter later to join the investigation. Being in Plymouth would also give him a chance to get in touch with Alison Tanton.

  There was another advantage in that seeing Claire again would be delayed. She had stalked almost all his sleepless night-time thoughts.

  He’d even got up at one point and debated whether his feelings meant it would be possible for him to join the investigation. All his instincts were to do so; it was only the fear of seeing Claire which held him back. Dan found a piece of paper on the bedside table, divided it roughly in half and made a list of pros and cons.

  The positives filled the left side of the sheet.

  You love helping the police, it’s been a new life for you, you think of yourself as an amateur detective, you’re good at it, you’ve helped to solve cases before, Adam wants – perhaps even needs – you, you could do some real good, help to find the people who radicalised a young man – led him to kill – bring them to justice, get great insights and exclusives for your reports, and finally – IT’S THE RIGHT THING TO DO, STUPID!

  On the cons side was simply, Claire.

  How one small word could carry such weight. Dan sighed to himself and got back into bed.

  The early morning did bring one gift of luck. He’d missed it last night, but on the window was a small schooner of sherry, a present to welcome guests to the room. That was four-star treatment, all right. Dan poured it out into a glass. It would do nicely in lieu of breakfast. It was a one-off, a little tipple to fortify himself for the day, that was all.

  The phone rang again. The producer had forgotten to mention Lizzie’s explicit command that he wasn’t to wait around in Exeter and enjoy a leisurely breakfast, but was to head straight back to Plymouth. A wash was acceptable, but that was the limit of the luxuries in which Dan was permitted to indulge himself.

  He interlaced some forthright comments into a long yawn, got up and knocked on Nigel’s and Loud’s doors. The awakening engineer looked even more disconcerting than usual, with his hair and beard so dishevelled they resembled an aura. He was holding his jaw and still muttering about the malevolent tooth. Nigel was already up and reading a newspaper. Being a father of two young lads made a lie-in bed a long forgotten pleasure, he explained.

  The paper’s headline was “The Sickest Outrage”, a picture of the shattered window of the Minster underneath it.

  It wasn’t the most eloquent piece of graffiti, but the writer had obviously been dedicated to making the point. And for emphasis that point had been made repeatedly, perhaps even obsessively.

  Dan was reminded of one of Adam’s favourite little musings. Ignorance isn’t as common amongst criminals as most people think, the detective would often say, particularly when they were confronted by an investigation where the felon had selfishly left little in the way of clues.

  It’s certainly the case that many people who commit crimes are amongst the more intellectually challenged, their acts often opportunist or just simply thuggish. The courts are filled daily with their wretched procession. But, the man Dan had come to think of – quietly – as the philosopher detective, would say, take the example of the much-vaunted chip and pin technology, which was supposed to put an end to credit- and debit-card fraud. Nothing like it. It merely opened a new field of criminality. The system, which the great ranks of the gullible public was assured was nigh on foolproof, was cracked by thieves almost as soon as it was unveiled.

  And so it has been with cashpoints and internet banking and just about any innovation, the security standards of which were promised to be mighty and impassable. Criminals apparently see them as challenges, and ones to which they never fail to rise.

  The pickings in the shadowlands are too lucrative. Crime doesn’t pay is a comforting mantra for the law-abiding majority. But it is lamentably far from the truth.

  There is though one area of lawlessness where ignorance always prevails, Adam’s argument ran, and that is with hate crime. Be it homophobic, racist or vented against people with disabilities or religious faith, it is invariably the product of not just misunderstanding, but having no desire whatsoever to even try to understand.

  These thoughts slid across Dan’s mind as he stood behind Nigel, watching his friend’s back as he filmed the graffiti on the mosque. The message was straightforward, and gave the police an obvious clue that on this occasion they weren’t looking for a master criminal.

  BASTERD TERORISTS

  The words had been sprayed in red, in letters several feet high, and had been repeated on as many spaces of wall as the vandal could find. The final attempt had either been interrupted, or the offender had run short of paint.

  BASTERD TERORI

  It was the sort of attack which would usually have been ignored by the media. But after yesterday’s bombing, and the assault on a Muslim last night, it encapsulated a fear that the police, local authorities and minority communities themselves had all felt, but none voiced, in case it precipitated that which they had now witnessed. An upsurge in hate crime.

  It was just after nine o’clock on another fine September day. The morning light was shining from the red brick of the Islamic Centre. It was a long, squat building, looked like a standard 1960s masterpiece, which had been converted as a focal point for Plymouth’s growing Muslim community.

  As they parked outside, Dan called Adam to apologise for being unable to make the briefing. He’d received a strange response.

  ‘That might be a blessing. I’ll talk to you later.’

  Dan couldn’t stop himself asking the question. ‘Is it about Claire? Doesn’t she want me there? Is that it?’

  ‘No. It’s nothing to do with Claire. It’s far more murky. I can’t talk to you now. I’ll call you later.’

  ‘Any news on the case?’

  ‘I think we’ve found the vital clue. It’s just a question of making it stick to our suspect.’

  ‘What clue?’

  ‘I reckon our radicaliser was in Exeter at the time of the bombing.’

  ‘Ahmed, you mean? But you know he was there. You arrested him.’

  ‘Possibly it was Ahmed, but we’ve got a problem with that theory. We could be looking for someone else. Someone who couldn’t resist coming along to see their little protégé carrying out his deadly work.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Well, it would have to be someone who knew John Tanton – and knew him well.’

  ‘Who? Adam, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Later! I’ve got to go.’

  Dan was left staring at his phone and wondering what was going on. He’d have to get back to Exeter later. The investigation was moving fast.

  A caretaker emerged from the doors of the mosque. He was carrying a bucket and brush and began scrubbing at the graffiti. Nigel swung the camera and started filming. A few photographers were also taking snaps, Dirty El amongst them. His chubby and f
reckled face was usually set in a sleazy grin, particularly at the scent of a big story and the prospect of good money to be made, but today El was looking oddly glum.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Dan asked. ‘I’d have thought you’d be wallowing in this one.’

  El nodded over his shoulder in a furtive manner, lumbered along the road, and Dan followed. It was only when they were well away from the other media the photographer said, ‘That attack on the Minster. It …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It, well …’

  ‘Yes?’

  El looked genuinely at a loss, a state which was almost a story in itself. ‘Well, it’s got to me.’

  ‘Got to you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Dan couldn’t keep the bafflement from his voice. ‘You mean, as in you’re suffering an emotion?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Even – an empathy? For the people who suffered, and the damage to the Minster?’

  El’s glumness intensified. ‘Don’t take the mick. That’s exactly what I mean.’

  He fiddled distractedly with his camera and lowered his voice to the most confidential of whispers. ‘Did I ever tell you I was religious as a kid? Me parents sent me to Sunday school and all that. I grew out of it, but I’ve always had this thing for the church. I reckon that’s what’s done me in. That, or I’m losing me edge. It’s got me well worried.’

  Dan was too surprised to reply. The revelation that the infamous Dirty El, acknowledged master of sleaze and low tricks, might have some small and shrivelled corner of his mind which nonetheless hosted the shrunken remains of what was once a conscience was almost too much to take in.

  He was about to try to find some words of reassurance when the wooden doors opened again and a tall, heavily built man wearing a black suit stepped outside.

  ‘The Imam will see you,’ he announced.

  Dan and Nigel took off their shoes and were led up a staircase to a large office. The Imam was working at a desk. He was wearing a stark white robe. The man in black stood beside him and folded his arms, but didn’t speak.

  He’d obviously chosen the suit to emphasise his physique, which was impressive to the point of being over-inflated. The jacket was struggling hard to contain his muscles. As for other issues of fashion, his taste in colour was noticeably limited. To match the black suit, he wore a black shirt and black tie. His shoes were also black. On the walk up the stairs, Dan had noted that even his socks were black.

  He was tempted to ask if the man also wore black Y-fronts, but suspected the joke wouldn’t be appreciated.

  They waited. The Imam’s pen scratched at some paper. The occasional deep breath emerged from the block of humanity as the air completed its long and wearying passage around his lungs. Still they waited, static and silent. It was almost comical. Finally, the man at the desk looked up and gave them a warm smile.

  ‘Imam Tahir Aziz,’ announced the man in black loudly. He stood up and they shook hands. He was small and slight, his white robe giving him a ghostlike presence.

  ‘And my assistant is Abdul Omah,’ the Imam replied, in a gentle voice. There was another round of hand-shaking, the man’s grip making Dan wince.

  ‘It is not our way to speak out,’ the Imam began. ‘We try to live a quiet and modest life. But given the events of yesterday, I believe we have no choice. I am prepared to go on your television station and answer the questions you wish to put to me.’

  Nigel began setting up the camera, watched carefully by Abdul.

  ‘Thank you,’ Dan replied, taking out his notebook. ‘What is it you wanted to say?’

  ‘I need to tell you that Islam is a peaceful religion. We utterly denounce terrorism. Those who choose that path, and claim the backing of our faith for it, are entirely incorrect and utterly misguided. The Koran preaches the greatest respect for life.’

  ‘And yet some do choose that path?’

  Dan was aware the man in black had taken a step towards him and was now uncomfortably close. He shifted on his chair.

  The Imam’s smile didn’t falter. ‘What is your religion?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have one.’

  ‘Then were you born into a faith?’

  ‘Catholicism.’

  ‘And you would say it’s a peaceful religion?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yet it was responsible for dreadful persecutions in the Inquisition.’

  ‘Which was hundreds of years ago.’

  ‘And not so long ago, did not many in Northern Ireland claim the faith as the basis for their terrorism?’

  ‘I think there was a little more to it than that.’

  The Imam spread his arms. ‘My point precisely. There is always more to it. Any person may take any belief, twist it in their minds and use it as justification for their actions. It is the nature of the weakness of man. But it does not change the fact that Islam is a religion of peace and tolerance. We may have different ways to many in the western world, but we can disagree, yet still live side by side.’

  The large man in black emitted a low grunt. The Imam gave him a fond look. ‘Abdul is a little less accommodating than me. He finds many western habits difficult to take. But he is still a man of peace too.’

  Another grunt from the dark rectangle.

  The sunlight was beaming through the windows, straight into Dan’s face. He blinked hard and shifted on his chair again. Abdul moved too, so that he remained just a little too close. He had a dense presence like the air before a storm.

  ‘I’m ready and rolling,’ said Nigel, cheerfully. The man in black took a couple of paces back until he was by Tahir’s side and folded his arms once more. They made an odd pair, everything about them a contrast, from their clothes to their build.

  Dan was about to phrase a question, but the Imam spoke first. ‘This is what I am willing to tell you. All true Muslims condemn yesterday’s bombing as strongly as anyone else. We believe terrorism is an evil which must be eradicated and we will do all we can to help the police in that. We ask for no more attacks on our mosque, or our followers. We simply wish to live in peace together.’

  Dan nodded. ‘Did you know the bomber, John Tanton?’

  ‘I am not prepared to discuss that.’

  ‘Did he ever come here to the mosque?’

  ‘I am not prepared to discuss that.’

  ‘Another man has been arrested on suspicion of radicalising him, a man called Ahmed Nazri. Did you know him, or did he come here?’

  ‘I am not prepared to discuss that.’

  ‘Did you know the man who was attacked last night?’

  ‘That too I am not prepared to discuss.’

  Dan nudged Nigel and he stopped recording. It was hopeless. The Imam had adopted the old politician’s trick. He had one message he wanted to spread, so that was the only thing he was going to say. He might not be a fan of western culture, but he wasn’t above adopting one of its tactics.

  They packed up the equipment and prepared to leave. Dan remembered the earlier conversation with Adam. The words had stayed in his mind – to find the radicaliser they were looking for someone who knew John Tanton, and who was in Exeter at the time of the bombing.

  Questions, as ever it was down to questions. The arts of both detective and journalist were all based on asking the right questions. But the Imam was far too sophisticated for a direct approach.

  ‘What did you think when you heard about the bomb attack?’ Dan said conversationally as they made for the stairs, closely escorted by the looming black mass.

  The Imam’s smile faded. ‘I was deeply shocked.’

  ‘And what did you do at a time like that? Did you gather everyone here around to talk about it?’

  Tahir studied him impassively. Dan was almost sure he understood the point of the question. He wondered if he would be getting an answer.

  ‘I was not here at the time,’ the Imam said finally. He paused and laced his hands together, then added, ‘By sheer coincidence – qui
te remarkable chance – both myself and Abdul were in Exeter for a meeting with the trustees of the mosque there. It was indeed an extraordinary coincidence.’

  Dan reached for the door, but hesitated. The word coincidencedanced up and down the stairs in the narrow corridor.

  The mosque was Plymouth’s biggest and busiest. It was likely, to say the least, that Tanton worshipped here. Which meant Tahir and Abdul could both know him. And both were in Exeter yesterday.

  Dan found his thoughts interrupted by the door being pushed open, and a less than gentle hand from Abdul ushering him out.

  Chapter Seven

  NIGEL AND DAN WALKED blinking in the sunlight to find an already difficult morning had decided to bless them with a new set of problems. On the pavement, opposite the Islamic Centre, was a small demonstration by the British People’s Party.

  A dozen people, mostly older, but a couple of younger men and women too, stood, staring from behind a wall of placards. They were all alike, stamped with the party’s logo, and each read, Britain for the British.

  It was a strangely quiet and static protest. None of the banners waved and there was no chanting, but the expressions of the people were intent with implacable hostility. All glared at the mosque, as if its temerity to even dare to exist was an affront to the very principles of civilisation, and the power of their resentment would be sufficient to see it turn to dust before them.

  From the passing cars came the odd supportive hoot of a horn, but there were many more obscene gestures as fingers waved angrily out of windows.

  One of the men walked over to Dan and held out a hand. He hesitated, then shook it.

  ‘Norman Kindle, BPP Regional Organiser,’ came a deep and confident voice. ‘As I recall, the law says you broadcasters have to cover stories fairly. Every significant strand of opinion must be aired. We got ten per cent and more in some wards around here in the last local elections.’

  He pointed over to the Islamic Centre. ‘They got to do their bit. I’d like to do mine.’

  The man was looking at him expectantly. Dan gave Nigel a nod, and he slowly walked over and began filming the demonstration. The cameraman would normally play a crowd, chat to them, jokingly ask them to show their best side or say that Hollywood would be on the phone the moment the story went out, but this time he went about his work without saying a word.