‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Have you been sick? Diarrhoea?’
‘No. But I feel sick.’
‘You must ring them. I’ll get you some water. How were you yesterday?’ She’d not seen him. She’d done eight till four at the store. It didn’t open until ten on a Sunday but she’d been put to work in the delivery hall at the back first, which was freezing cold even in summer. When she had got in he’d been up in his room playing video games and he’d gone out after that.
‘OK,’ he said.
‘Is this because of Friday night?’ she said.
‘What?’
He had a strange expression on his face. She couldn’t read it. ‘Overdoing it in town and still suffering for it?’ She dreaded to think what he might have got up to, drugs and drinking games, lads egging each other on.
‘No.’ He scowled.
‘Did you go on to a club?’
‘No, just a bar. Near the restaurant.’
‘So?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Have you any change, then?’
‘I got take-out last night.’
‘This is down to some dodgy kebab, is it?’
‘Dunno.’
He’d been sick before, eating one, but it hadn’t put him off.
‘Oh, Oliver. Let’s hope it’s just a twenty-four-hour thing. It won’t look good if you miss any more days. Paracetamol,’ she said. ‘Paracetamol and water. And what happened to your shoes? You’re not meant to wash leather.’
‘I didn’t wash them. It was raining and there was a big puddle.’
‘They look like they’ve been in a bloody fountain, never mind a puddle. Next time stuff paper in them to soak it up. Don’t leave them sopping wet.’
No response. ‘Do you hear me?’
‘Yes!’
He’d yelled so loudly that she flinched. The tendons in his neck were up like wires. She wanted to shout back but he was ill and it wouldn’t do any good anyway. ‘I’ll get that water,’ she said, her jaw tight. ‘And if you do feel sick, don’t eat anything until it’s passed.’
He had never been a happy patient even as a little boy. But at least back then she could give him a cuddle, read him a book or settle him on the sofa with a DVD to watch. Now sometimes it felt like they were enemies, but she didn’t know what the battle was, what the war was all about.
She’d told Rose about it on Saturday night. How touchy Oliver was, these days, how bloody rude. How being angry seemed to be his default position. She didn’t know whether he was like that with his friends. He no longer knocked about with the lads from school, and this new crowd, with their odd nicknames, Foz and Seggie, were strangers to her. He never brought any of them home. No girls either, not for a while.
‘And he’s probably watching porn online, like they all are, before he’s even met anyone serious. God knows what he’ll expect. Mind, he’s not exactly Prince Charming at the moment. I wouldn’t wish him on anyone.’
‘Not with you, he isn’t,’ Rose had said. ‘Perhaps he’s like Superman, transforms.’
‘Or Jekyll and Hyde,’ Sonia said. And felt a stab of guilt. This was her Oliver: she didn’t want to be putting him down. ‘I love him to bits but . . .’
‘Give him time,’ Rose said, and nudged her over their karaoke choice. ‘What’ll it be, “These Boots Are Made For Walking” or “Single Ladies” ’
Jade
Mahmoud Jamal Bishaar had a burst blood vessel in his left eye, a red spider against the blue-white of the eyeball. Jade thought of hard-boiled eggs, that same odd white. Cuts to his cheek and lip were scabbing over. His nose was swollen, puffed up, like he’d been thumped.
When Jade had surprised him at the warehouse, as he sat reading by the light from a small fire, he’d legged it. Or tried to. There was only one way out of the building and the uniformed officers she’d brought with her had been ready and waiting for him. Her heart had skipped a beat when she saw he was wearing trainers, a style similar to the type that had made one of the footprints on the body.
Bishaar hadn’t said much since, an air of defeat coming off him.
At the station his clothes and shoes had been removed and pictures had been taken of his injuries. He’d been given canvas pumps and a navy blue jumpsuit, which swamped him, skinny wrists jutting out where he’d rolled up the sleeves.
She began the interview by establishing his details. According to his records, he was thirty-two. He looked older. ‘We believe you were witness to a serious incident on Friday night at Swing Gate Fold. An incident resulting in the murder of Allie Kennaway. What can you tell me about that?’
He didn’t speak.
Jade said, ‘UK Visas and Immigration know you’re here and that we want to question you as a potential witness. But if you’re not going to cooperate I can send you to a removal centre now.’ She was betting he’d rather be here than there.
‘There was a fight.’ He spoke so softly that Jade had to lean closer to hear. ‘Two men, they were grabbing this girl, pulling her, and they knocked her down. And they were kicking her, over and over.’
‘Where were you?’ Jade said.
‘I was by the bin.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘Sleeping,’ he said.
‘What happened then?’ Jade said.
‘I went to stop them, and one of them hit me. He got me and hit me and hit me and threw me on the floor. And the other one, he kicks me.’
‘Where did they hit you?’
‘Here.’ He pointed to his nose and his mouth. ‘And here.’ The side of his head. ‘And in the stomach.’
‘Then what?’ Jade said.
‘They are both kicking her again. One of them, he spat on her . . .’ Saliva at the scene ‘. . . and they ran off. She wasn’t moving.’ He bowed his head. When he looked up again, his eyes were watery. The red spider trembled. ‘Her phone was on the floor. I rang nine-nine-nine.’
‘Why not use your phone?’ Jade said. Everyone had one, these days. OK, not old Bert, who lived opposite her, but the rest of the planet. Even refugees like Bishaar had them as a way of finding out where they could cross borders and to stay in touch with family. There’d been one in his pocket when Jade had brought him in.
He was silent for a while, staring at his hands. ‘My application for asylum was refused. The police . . . I used her phone. I couldn’t stay with her. Perhaps if I had stayed . . .’
Was he looking for reassurance? Don’t worry, nowt you could have done, mate, too late. He wasn’t getting any from Jade. Guilt would keep him cooperative, she hoped.
‘You didn’t touch her?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t check if she was still breathing?’
‘No,’ he whispered.
‘Did you touch any part of her?’
‘No.’
Was he lying? He didn’t know they had the footprint, yet. Had he joined in the attack? And then what? Had a crisis of conscience?
She needed to take him through it, move by move, the whole choreography of it, but first she said, ‘The two men, tell me what you remember about them.’
‘They were white. One had dark hair and a yellow shirt. Dark trousers. Most of the time he was away from me.’
‘Away?’ Jade said.
‘Facing away. He was . . .’ Bishaar raised his shoulders, pushed out his chest. ‘Like he goes to the gym a lot.’
Jade thought of DD, the fashion for six-packs, for bulked-up pecs and biceps. A look that left her cold. ‘And the other man?’
‘Very short hair, red hair.’ Like the cabbie had told DS Harris.
‘What was he wearing?’
‘A short-sleeve T-shirt with a collar. He was more fat.’
‘How fat?’
‘A little fat, not huge. And tall.’
‘OK, so we’ll call the first man, the dark-haired one, Man A, and the second Man B. Tell me who was doing what when you first saw them.’
‘Ma
n A, he was calling and pulling her.’
‘Calling what?’
He raised his eyes, the red spider jumped. ‘Like, “Come on, girl, come on, you little slag. Don’t be a bitch.” ’
‘And Man B?’
‘He was going, “Yo, yo,” like cheering him on. Then the Man A, he is grabbing at her skirt.’ Bishaar pointed to his own lap. ‘Grabbing her and he screams, “Fucking freak.” ’ Bishaar stumbled over the swear word. ‘ “Slut. Fucking prick.” Lots of words like this. Lots of other things, I can’t remember them all, and he punches her hard and she goes into his friend and he hits her too. I am on my feet. He pushes her and she falls, slides. The ground is wet.’ Bishaar skids his hands in the air. ‘And they are kicking. One each side. Like she is a football. And Man A, he spits on her.’ Bishaar broke off, turned his head away.
This guy was good. Total recall. And she reckoned he was telling the truth. The chance that he’d been one of the attackers faded.
‘And I am running to them and shouting to stop and they turn on me. The Man A he grabs my head and pulls me and gets me like this.’ Bishaar curled his arm against the side of his body to form a circle, mimed a fist punching at the head. ‘I’m bleeding, my nose and my mouth, and he drags me round and throws me down.’ The reports of blood on one of the suspect’s sleeves.
‘And Man B?’
‘He kicks me in the stomach.’
‘Did either of them speak?’
‘Man A. When he was hitting me. “Nigger. Nigger.” And swearing.’
Still no mention of the shoeprint, though.
‘We have forensic evidence that suggests someone wearing shoes like yours kicked the victim. Can you explain that to me?’
For a moment he looked terrified. ‘No, no. I did not do this.’
Jade waited, letting him sweat it. His face cleared, his hands flew apart. ‘When he pulled me, first pulled me, he pulled me over her.’ He gestured with his hands. ‘That must be it.’
‘When he pulled you, you stepped on her, that right?’ Jade said.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Do you know which part of her body you stepped on?’
‘I think . . .’ He hesitated, pressed his index finger between his eyebrows. ‘I think, near the middle, maybe her leg or her hip.’
Near enough.
‘Anything else you remember?’
‘They’d been drinking. I could smell it.’
‘Yes.’
‘They laughed. When they ran off, they were cheering, shouting.’ He looked pained.
‘How tall were they?’
‘Man A was taller than me. I am one hundred and sixty-eight centimetres so he is one hundred and seventy-three, I think. And Man B is taller. Six, seven centimetres, more maybe.’
‘Did you see which direction they went in?’
‘They went right.’
‘Away from Deansgate?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re going to get your statement written up and I’ll use a scale plan to mark exactly where you were. I’d like you to work with a police artist to create photo-fits of the men.’
‘Do you have a pencil?’ he said. ‘Some paper?’
So you can stab me in the eye and make a bid to escape? She stared at him. He met her gaze, gave a half-smile, the red spider in his eye shifting.
Curiosity won. Jade turned to DC Thwaite taking notes, who shrugged. ‘Only a pen.’
‘Pen is OK,’ Bishaar said.
He took it in his left hand and effortlessly he sketched an oval, divided it into sections, drew in features, eyes, mouth. He was like those portrait artists on Market Street. He added short hair, largish ears, a smattering of freckles, thick eyebrows.
‘This is Man B?’ Jade checked.
‘But the nose isn’t right. With a pencil it’s better.’
‘You an artist, then?’ Jade said.
‘Illustrator. Back home, graphic designer. Once,’ he said, regret and bitterness in that last word.
And he’d be going back. Jade didn’t know the ins and outs of his situation but she reckoned there’d be no warm welcome for him on his return to Somalia, no flags and fatted calves.
‘Man A, he’s not so clear,’ Bishaar said. ‘Most of the time he was away from me.’
‘Have a go anyway, with our photo-fit artist,’ Jade said.
She ended the recording and was at the door before she remembered. And hesitated – it wasn’t like he’d come in of his own free will. She’d had to track him down, drag him here. Still, for the sketch alone it was worth playing nice. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you for all your help.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Martin
Jade came to him after the Bishaar interview. Donna was tied up in a meeting with the press office. Yesterday there’d been headlines in all the Sundays. Trans Teen Tragic Murder probably took the medal for the punchiest.
‘I’ve let the boss know Bishaar’s given us enough for photo-fits,’ Jade said. ‘The descriptions aren’t far off what Louise Hill and Feroz Hassan told us.’
He listened to her summarize the witness testimony.
‘It all chimes with the forensics,’ she said, ‘right down to where he was when he was losing blood, and how he stepped on the victim. But he says the two lads went right, away from Deansgate, so that might change the focus for the CCTV.’
Martin touched his screen, pulling up the mapping software, which showed locations flagged with key facts and times.
He used the cursor. ‘OK, here’s the nine-nine-nine call from Bishaar at eleven twenty, and here, at eleven thirty-five, is where Louise Hill saw them hail a cab on Deansgate.’
‘Fifteen minutes,’ Jade said.
‘So they could have gone round the houses and joined Deansgate here or here or here.’ He highlighted the possible junctions. ‘We’ve been focusing on the junction with New Mill Street. I’ll pass that on.’
Jade was almost shaking with the thrill of it. He wondered if she was like him, enjoyed the chase and the hunt, a piece of the action. He guessed she’d yet to discover that most investigations were slow, steady. Evidence came grudgingly. Some was misleading, or wasn’t there for the taking, or was contradictory.
‘It isn’t always like this,’ Martin said.
‘Like what?’ she said.
‘Productive, making progress. You got a lucky break, finding Bishaar, a witness to the whole thing with a good eye for detail.’
‘Might hit a brick wall yet, if no one IDs our photo-fit,’ she said.
Where was she from? Well, where were her parents from? What did they think about her working in the police? How did the rest of her community see her? And the short hair, were they allowed to do that? The name ‘Bradshaw’, what was that about? Had she married out? No ring on her finger, though.
There’d been a lot of Asians at Dale’s school, cliquey, stuck to themselves. Only one of them ever played in the football teams. Keener on cricket, probably. Some people said they were put off by racism in soccer. Same argument people trotted out about the police. But if the talent wasn’t there, or if people couldn’t cope with the real world and a bit of banter, that was their own look-out.
He glanced at Jade, hunched over her desk, working away. She probably did have the skills needed. She’d done all right so far but whether she could stick it for the long haul was another matter. He’d seen others like that, smart and ambitious but not committed to the job. Using it as a stepping-stone to a career in public service. Either that or turning round and biting the hand that fed them, crying racism at the first clash of values, the lost promotion or the poor progress report.
His phone rang. The boss.
‘Martin, the photo-fits are ready and we’re releasing them with a public appeal. Can you make sure everyone on the investigation is briefed, and tell the incident unit to get posters up on the van and in key locations around Deansgate.’
‘Will do.’ He switched to a call waiting from Dale, answered it
before his voicemail cut in.
‘It’s Saturday, Dad – they just told me. They want me to try out on Saturday.’
Martin grinned. He felt like punching the air. ‘Brilliant! I’m not sure I’ll be able to get away.’
‘It’s cool,’ Dale said, breathless. ‘I just wanted to tell you.’
‘Brilliant, mate. Now, don’t go mad. Train today and Thursday. But you should rest tomorrow, Friday as well. Just do your stretching. Don’t go mad. Right? You can do this. See you later. Good lad.’
He must have raised his voice. Jade was watching. ‘Our Dale,’ he said to her, still grinning. ‘Trying out for the league. Footie. Been out of the running with an injury for long enough. Hoping he gets picked up.’
‘Great.’ She smiled, and that was it. Not her thing but he didn’t let it take the edge off his buzz. He could see himself now in the VIP box, Dale man of the match. Captain maybe, one day. A natural. Like Marcus Rashford at Man United, like Beckham or Best.
Brilliant.
Steve
There were piles of cards, dozens of them. Steve told Teagan she could open them with Nanny. His father had been sent out shopping for essentials. When he’d left the house they’d heard a chorus of questions from the reporters who clustered around the drive. They put Steve in mind of a nest of chicks shrieking for food.
‘What do they want?’ he asked Yun Li.
‘A story. Anything they can get hold of, but we’d still advise you not to speak to anyone yet.’
‘Are they allowed to do that? Isn’t it harassment or something?’ his mother said.
‘Free speech,’ Teagan said.
There was a ping: a notification from Allie’s Facebook page. It had become an online shrine.
Teagan dropped the envelope she was opening and turned her attention to the computer. Her face clouded and reddened. ‘Oh, my God. That is so horrible. People are leaving horrible comments.’ She looked at Yun. ‘Can you stop them?’
‘We can report them to the moderators but it could still take a day or two to be taken down.’
‘Don’t read any more,’ Steve said.
‘But—’ Her face was twisted.
The Girl in the Green Dress Page 11
