The Balance of Guilt

by Simon Hall

  ‘Indoctrinated him?’

  Ahmed rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, you would see it that way. I just taught him, that was all, answered his questions.’

  ‘His mum said he looked up to you. He started talking like you. Echoing your opinions.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, they’re pretty good opinions.’

  ‘What – on murder? Holy war?’

  ‘We’ve already done that bit, haven’t we? If we’re gonna keep going over the same thing this is gonna take a long time.’

  ‘I’m in no rush. 28 days the law gives me. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the inside of a cell for a month.’

  Ahmed shrugged, shifted his slight figure on the wooden chair, unzipped his top and adjusted its hood. The room was growing uncomfortably warm.

  Claire took off her jacket, leaned forwards and said gently, ‘What are your views, Ahmed? About British society for example?’

  He gave her a glare which overflowed with loathing. ‘I don’t wanna talk to you.’ He pointed distastefully to Claire’s chest. ‘You make me feel dirty with your tarty clothes and your disgusting flesh everywhere. Cover yourself up, woman.’

  Adam slapped a hand on the table. There was another pointed cough from the back of the room.

  ‘Answer her questions,’ the detective said.

  Ahmed grinned. ‘You her boyfriend then?’

  ‘Just answer the questions.’

  ‘Well, since you ask, I’m no fan of not very great Britain. The place is decadent, immoral and full of shit – if you want my view.’

  ‘In what way?’

  His face contorted into a sneer. ‘Are you blind, mate? Haven’t you looked around you? Like at a Saturday night in Plymouth? Gangs of women going out almost naked. Throwing drink down their throats. Staggering around, being sick everywhere. Men getting drunk senseless and fighting in bars. People having sex in the streets. You call that a society, do you?’

  ‘Then why,’ said Adam forcefully, ‘do you live in such a disgusting place? Why not go somewhere else?’

  ‘I might. Someday. But for now I’m trying to do me best to change it.’

  ‘By murdering people?’

  Ahmed gave Adam a pitying look. ‘I told you all that. I ain’t nothing to do with any bombing. I’ve got me views, but I air them peacefully and that ain’t against the law, is it?’

  ‘What were you doing in Exeter on Monday?’

  ‘I was shopping. Looking for some new clothes.’

  Adam leaned forwards. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Bit of a coincidence you happened to be here when your mate’s letting a bomb off, isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe. But it happened. It’s a bit of a coincidence you’re ugly as well as stupid, ain’t it?’

  Adam didn’t respond, instead let the silence run. The second hand of the clock turned. Then he said quietly, ‘We have found it, you know.’

  Now there was a reaction. It was only slight, just a widening of the man’s eyes, but it was definitely there. ‘Found what?’

  ‘Your mobile. The one you tried to hide.’

  ‘You’re bluffing me. Trying it on.’

  ‘No. We found it.’

  ‘You’re bullshitting. Trying to get me to talk.’

  ‘No. I knew you were trying to hide something with your little disappearing act. So I had the arcade searched. And we found it.’

  Ahmed was leaning forwards, his arms folded tight across his chest. ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘No, we’ve got it.’

  ‘Bollocks! You’re trying it on, you bastards.’

  ‘No. We found it, right where you tried to hide it, in that drain.’

  Ahmed sat back on his seat. ‘So? So you’ve found the phone. So what?’

  Claire said quickly, ‘Why have two mobile phones, Ahmed?’

  ‘Dunno. I think I just forgot to cancel one when I got a new one.’

  ‘And two different sets of numbers on them?’

  ‘I couldn’t be bothered to transfer them all over together.’

  ‘So why try to hide that second phone in the arcade?’

  ‘Dunno. Suppose I just didn’t want any trouble for my mates. It’s got some of their numbers on. I knew you’d go through it and hassle them.’

  Adam snorted. ‘But if it’s all innocent, why worry?’

  ‘’coz I know what you’re like. Anyone with a different-coloured skin, anyone who believes in Islam – they’re all terrorists to you.’

  ‘And your mates, the numbers on the phone – a hairdresser in Bath, a businessman in Hull amongst others, none of whom have even heard of you, and lots more numbers which don’t belong to anyone? Which aren’t even in use? Care to explain that?’

  ‘Guess my friends must have changed their numbers then.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘I think so. I think you radicalised John Tanton, set him off to bomb the Minster and came to Exeter to watch the show. I think you’re a coward. You wanted to hit out at Britain, but you didn’t have the guts to do it yourself. So instead you found a patsy.’

  Ahmed grinned and smoothed his jeans with a calm hand.

  ‘Nice fantasy,’ he said, then nodded towards Claire. ‘Are you getting all uptight with me ’coz you’re not getting any from her?’

  Adam ignored the jibe. ‘There’s something hidden in that phone of yours, isn’t there? Some number, some code, something which will give you away.’

  The smile grew. ‘If you say so, mate. Good luck in finding it then.’ Again he nodded to Claire. ‘And with Miss Frosty there.’

  Adam stared at him. Ahmed’s expression was easy, his face glowing with smugness in the closeness of the room. The detective reached out and slapped the young man’s hands from behind his head.

  A body was by his side in a second, a firm grip on his shoulder. Oscar.

  ‘Naughty naughty,’ Ahmed clucked as he was led grinning from the interview room.

  The Bomb Room was almost empty, just a couple of detectives making calls and another tapping away at a computer. It was pleasantly cool after the heat of the interview room. A woman was making coffees and teas from a kettle at the far end. She brought over a tray and they helped themselves.

  Sierra positioned herself beside Adam and said quietly, ‘No more of that. However much we might think they deserve it we don’t do things that way. It’s also counterproductive. It just makes them more sure of their righteousness and helps them recruit. I understand your feelings, but please control them.’

  Adam didn’t reply. They formed a semi-circle around one of the boards. It was dominated by a series of numbers and names, in three groups.

  07987 122311 Jim

  07109 570285 Achmel

  07463 098261 Stan

  07310 645367 Erin

  ‘Those four are the numbers which are actually in use,’ Sierra said. ‘I’ve had background checks done on their owners, and there is absolutely nothing suspicious about any of them. As for the names, they do not in any way correspond to the owners.’

  She pointed to the next list.

  07104 772097 Libby

  07263 585712 Steve

  07991 340654 Susan

  07711 439071 Prit

  07232 401301 Ed

  07809 317563 Jazzy

  07074 119463 Leanne

  ‘And those seven are the unobtainable numbers,’ she added. ‘We’ve put them through our computers and the code-breakers have been working on them, but they’ve come up with nothing. So, any ideas?’

  Their eyes wandered up and down, left and right over the list, worked through the names and numbers. A telephone rang, but went unanswered.

  Claire tapped at her teeth with a pen and ventured. ‘Grid references?’

  ‘For where? Not to mention what and why?’ Sierra replied.

  ‘Something hidden. Something incriminating.’

  ‘But grid references contain six numbers. And we’re dealing with a set of eleven, in which each act
ual number itself has eleven digits. Which means just about any grid reference you care to name could be found in them.’

  ‘Are there any patterns in there?’ Adam asked. ‘You know, like the third digit of each number, or the penultimate one, or some sequence like that?’

  Sierra shook her head. ‘Acrostics, you mean. No, the code-breakers have been working on all that. No go. No sign of any pattern.’

  Claire said, ‘Might another phone number be hidden within the eleven?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s a similar problem with that theory. Given the eleven numbers, if you took one, or maybe more digits from any of them, you could make just about any phone number on the planet.’

  Sierra ran a finger down the list and came to one number, set apart, at the bottom.

  07754 983064 ???????

  ‘The mystery number,’ she said. ‘The one that John Tanton rang just before he went into the Minster to explode his bomb. The pay as you go mobile, whose owner was in Exeter city centre. Answer those question marks, fill in the name and …’

  ‘The key to the case,’ Claire said quietly. ‘Summed up in one line.’

  There was a silence while they all gazed at the number.

  Finally Adam said, ‘Going back to those other entries in the phone then – what about the names? Libby and Steve and Susan and all that lot. Is there any hint of anything in there?’

  Sierra sat down on the corner of a desk. ‘Not a thing. Again the cryptographers have been all over them. They’ve looked for any kind of patterns or codes, they’ve checked all the names against our databases of suspects or people associated with terrorism or extremism and they have come up with precisely nothing.’

  ‘But there must be something in the names and numbers,’ Claire said. ‘Something important. Otherwise why would they be there, and why would Ahmed have made such an effort to hide the phone?’

  ‘That,’ Sierra replied, ‘is the question.’

  Adam swirled his tea. ‘You know what’s bothering me? It’s how confident Ahmed was when we talked to him. He didn’t seem ruffled at all that we’d found the phone. There was one moment when I was sure he was worried, but then he relaxed again. And when I went on about the code that was hidden in there, he didn’t even flinch.’

  They sipped at their drinks, then Oscar spoke. ‘Don’t let that influence you too much. He thinks he’s clever. And one of the first things you notice when dealing with these people is how sure of themselves they are. They’re zealots and fanatics. That’s what makes them so dangerous.’

  ‘Any news of Ahmed’s associates?’ Adam asked.

  ‘We’ve checked them out. None were in Exeter when the bombing happened. And there’s no indication any were friendly with John Tanton, or involved in the plot. I think we can rule them out. We’ve searched Ahmed’s flat and gone through his computer. He’s been looking at plenty of Islamic websites, but none dedicated to terrorism or even extremism. There’s no hint of any bomb-making research or activity.’

  ‘So, what next?’ Sierra concluded.

  Adam ran a hand over his chin. Even this early in the morning the stubble was starting to grow.

  ‘Ahmed has to remain our prime suspect. He knew Tanton well. He could have radicalised the boy without leaving a trail. Whispers in his ear, encouragement to look at the right websites, a bit of advice on bomb-making, all done with no trace of his involvement. Then a nice little trip to Exeter to watch the results of his handiwork. And he walks away from the carnage, unharmed and untouchable.’

  ‘I agree,’ Sierra said. ‘But to convict him, we have to have something to link him to Tanton and the bombing. And at the moment we don’t. It all comes down to that phone call Tanton made just before he went into the Minster. OK, it appears most likely it was to Ahmed, but how? And how do we prove it?’

  ‘We can’t just work on that theory though,’ Claire added. ‘It could have been someone else. We do have other suspects. The Imam and his minder, and that BPP man, Kindle. They all knew Tanton. They might have motives. And they were all in Exeter at the time of the bombing.’

  ‘We’ve checked their mobiles of course, along with those of all known associates of Ahmed and Tanton,’ Sierra said. ‘And it’s not any of those numbers that Tanton called before the explosion. But that’s not to say they couldn’t have got themselves a pay as you go mobile for the day and given him the number to ring if he needed help, or had doubts. As it seems likely he did.’

  Adam said, ‘We’d better start looking at those other suspects. We’ll let Ahmed sit in the cells for a while. It might put a bit of pressure on him. In the meantime we can get on with going through all the others. Kindle, and that Imam at the mosque to start with.’

  The two spies exchanged a quick glance.

  ‘What?’ Claire asked, then again, ‘What?’

  Adam folded his arms. ‘Is there by any chance something you think you should be telling us?’

  Oscar looked to Sierra, who gave another of her little nods of authorisation. ‘The mosque,’ he said. ‘We’ve got an issue with you going in there.’

  Chapter Eleven

  DAN OPENED THE FLAT door and the morning sunshine streamed into the darkness of the hallway. It felt like a laser beaming into the stem of his brain. He grimaced, blinked hard, and went back inside to find his sunglasses. They were somewhere in the lounge, but he couldn’t quite remember where. Rutherford watched as his master fumbled his way through shelves filled with piles of papers, his eyes screwed up against the painful light.

  Dan switched his attention to the mantelpiece, then another jumble of newspapers and notes from old stories. He shifted a file and found himself staring at Claire’s smiling face.

  It was a photograph from a night out they’d had to celebrate the successful end of a case she was working on, the conviction of a thoroughly unpleasant man for domestic abuse. Claire was wearing a black, shoulderless dress, and looked stunning. Dan groaned to himself, went to throw the photo into the bin, then stopped, clicked his tongue, and slowly put it back in the pile.

  He took some deep breaths and tried to clear his thoughts. The plan had been to get up early and go for a good run with Rutherford to wake himself up, but he had overslept. And now he had to get in to the newsroom to prepare for the interview with Ali Tanton. In between her tears of last night she’d said she wanted to speak out. It was a big story and he needed to be sharp for it. Or, at least, a lot sharper than he felt at the moment.

  A persistent drummer was playing an enthusiastic bass beat in the back of his mind. Dan caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and wished he hadn’t. He found the sunglasses – in a place where he had already looked, naturally – with an afterthought swallowed a couple more headache tablets and made for the car. He said goodbye to Rutherford, closed the door, yawned hard, fished the car key from his pocket and stopped, stunned.

  Dan was no fan of cars, could never understand people who raved about them, their sleek lines, their power and performance, and endlessly fantasised about the purchase of the latest model. He was quite content with the company-issue Peugeot, a passably comfortable, anonymous diesel model. It transported him to and from stories and on to Dartmoor to walk Rutherford, it was reliable, economical, reasonably green, and that was sufficient. It was a background factor in his life, one Dan was hardly aware of.

  But today he very much noticed it.

  The car had been vandalised. Or perhaps, Dan thought as he gaped, that was a masterpiece of euphemism. It might be more accurate to say it had been the subject of a frenzied attack. Where once the Peugeot was a standard dark blue, now it had been sprayed with paint in a range of colours. On the bonnet it was red, the roof white, the sides green and the back orange.

  And each carried the same message.

  KEEP YOUR NOSE OUT

  Dan drove into work, thankful it was only a five-minute journey. Almost every face he passed was staring. At a set of traffic lights a couple of students even took photos with their mobile ph
ones. Dan tried to slink lower in his seat, but that just made his head pound anew, kindly accompanied by a wave of nausea.

  He got to the studios car park just before nine, was going to park right at the back, out of the way, but with an afterthought manoeuvred the car into a space by the main reception.

  There are few places gossip travels faster than a newsroom, and within a couple of minutes the car was surrounded by journalists, picture editors, cameramen, engineers, producers, even the kitchen staff, all gawping and asking questions about what had happened. He found his head starting to clear with the potent medicine of being the centre of attention. The familiar clip-clop of fast-moving stiletto heels duly followed, just as Dan had expected it would, and Lizzie arrived, her hair flying.

  ‘What the hell have you done to valuable company property?’ she barked.

  And good morning to you, Dan thought, before saying, ‘I just found it like this when I came out this morning.’

  ‘Any ideas why?’

  ‘It can only be the bombing story. I think someone’s taken exception to the questions I’ve been asking.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Well, Islamic extremists have to be a good bet. But I wouldn’t rule out the BPP, or someone associated with them. It’s a bit of a coincidence that the mosque was covered in graffiti yesterday and now my car’s suffered likewise.’

  ‘How the hell do they know where you live?’

  Dan hesitated. As ever, Lizzie had cut right to the core of the story. Whoever attacked the car clearly knew more than a little about him. Just as the spooks had yesterday. And equally clearly they weren’t members of the Dan Groves fan club.

  ‘Don’t know,’ he muttered uneasily.

  Lizzie ground a heel into the tarmac, and then said something which took Dan by surprise. ‘Well, you be careful. You’re dealing in a dangerous world at the moment, with these terrorists, murderers, fanatics and spies. Just watch yourself.’

  Dan felt his mouth falling open. He was about to thank his editor for her unexpected pastoral care and unprecedented concern when she added, ‘It’s a huge story and I don’t want anything messing up our coverage. Now, what have you got for me today? I want a follow-up, I want it on the lunchtime news, I want it exclusive and I want it good.’