by Scott Hunter
He had no sooner settled into his sofa with a glass of Sangiovese than his phone rang. He toyed with the idea of ignoring it, but he finally admitted defeat. A missed call was always the vital one.
“Moran.”
“Hello? Is that Brendan Moran? It’s Shona.”
Moran frowned, hesitated briefly, and then the penny dropped. Before he could open his mouth, though, the caller beat him to it. “We met at the funeral. Shona Kempster – Kay’s sister.”
With recognition came the pain of loss and guilt. Kay, his one-time ‘special’ friend, had died in an explosion in Moran’s garage. The blast had also killed his brother, Patrick. Eight months had passed but the wound was still raw, And it didn’t take much for it to start bleeding again.
“I – I’m sorry to call. I just needed to talk, I suppose.”
Moran tried to remember Shona’s face. Shorter than her late sister, thinner. Quite attractive, in an anorexic, waif-like sort of way. He remembered her as a little over-bubbly at the funeral, behaviour that he’d put down to the shock of her sister’s sudden death.
“It’s quite all right, Shona. Nice to hear from you. Fire away.”
“Well, you did say to call, if I – you know–”
“Of course.”
“Well–” An awkward pause preceded a nervous laugh. “How are you? How’s things?”
“Oh, you know. Getting back into the swing.”
“Yep. Right. Me too.”
Moran realised that unless he steered this particular conversation it was going to peter out before it had even begun. “Are you all right, Shona? Is there anything troubling you?”
“No, nothing in particular. I think I just need to chew the fat. You know, about what happened. Maybe we could meet up?”
“Sure. When and where?”
“You say. I’m free most of the time.”
Moran dredged his memory. He was positive that Shona had been introduced to him as a sports physiotherapist. “Not keeping you busy enough at the clinic?”
“I – I don’t work there any more.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that. Anyway, you can tell me all about it when I see you.”
“OK. Um, how about next Friday? Cherries wine bar? Eight o’clock?”
“I know the place. Right, well, looking forward to seeing you then, Shona. Bye for now.”
“Great. Thanks, Brendan. Bye.”
Moran ended the call, shook his head pensively, and returned to his Sangiovese.
Simon Peters found the young man beneath the street lamp, waiting, perhaps for a friend. Arms folded, dark hair plastered across his forehead. A quick check, left and right, but there was no one about – not within clear view of the corner, anyway. Now, let the cleansing begin...
The youth glanced up, unsuspecting. A glimmer of recognition, a stock phrase, almost a sneer: “All right?” He looked away.
This is it. The power Simon felt was a huge adrenaline rush. The youth wore an air of disdain he knew well; it was just like the one he’d worn the last time they’d met.
“Yeah, Anoop. I’m good.” The knife came out easily, casually almost, nestling in the cradle of his fingers. Then, just to be sure, the vital question, which he asked with a smile, knowing the answer already.
“By the way, are you a Muslim?”
Moran was dreaming. It was a pleasant dream, a far cry from recent nightmares in which the scene would shift from Charnford Abbey to some dystopian town centre where gangs roamed unchecked, killing and looting at will. The troubled Gregory Neads usually played a starring role in these disturbing scenarios, the ex-detective sergeant’s recent mugging and hospitalisation playing on Moran’s mind. How unlucky could a guy get?
But this dream was different. It was warm and sunny and he was relaxed – happy, even. Trouble was, someone was ringing a bell, harshly and insistently. He wanted to put distance between himself and the noise so he walked further along the beach, past the ramshackle bar and the smiling barman, past the topless girl with the blonde ponytail ... the bell followed, its jangling undiminished. He turned, tried to push it away, but the barman had left his station and now appeared beside him holding a ludicrously inflated telephone.
“For you, boss. Big news.” His smile was ingratiatingly wide, the whiteness of his teeth gleaming in the sun. Moran made a grab for the phone but it moved just out of reach. On the third attempt he woke with a start. His much smaller but equally irritating mobile was vibrating on the bedside table.
“Moran.”
“Brendan? It’s Shona.”
Moran squinted at the bedside clock. “Shona, do you know what time it is?”
“I’m really sorry, Brendan. I just needed to talk to someone.”
Moran sighed. “Go on.”
“Well, it’s about Kay – of course,” she added. “I keep thinking – you know, why? Why her?”
“I know. I wish I could give you an answer. It should have been me, but–”
“And your brother. They were getting on so well, weren’t they?”
“Yes.” Moran thought of the wrecked garage, the shell of his Land Rover squatting in the ruins.
He kept up the sympathetic responses for another ten minutes before Shona’s voice slowed to a normal rhythm. Highly strung, that’s for sure. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been as free and easy with his mobile number. But, he reminded himself, she was Kay’s little sister. He owed it to Kay to provide a listening ear. It was the least he could do.
He signed off with a promise to keep the Cherries appointment and fell asleep with the image of Kay’s smiling face looping around the spools of his mind.
Seconds later, or so it seemed, the mobile was vibrating again. Moran raised himself on his elbow and smashed the pillow with his fist.
“Moran.”
“Guv?” Phelps’ barrow-boy growl grated from the phone’s speaker. “We have an incident.”
“Where?”
“Town centre. Outside Dixon’s, Broad Street.”
“Details?”
“A murder, guv. Stab wound.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
Moran ducked under the outer cordon and negotiated the metal stepping stones of the common approach path set up by the crime scene manager.
Phelps waved a welcome. “What do you reckon, guv? Gang killing?”
Moran peered at the corpse. It was a miserable scene: in the crepuscular early morning light, huddled in the shop doorway was a young Asian boy of around twenty-two, twenty-three perhaps, with a dark stain on his jacket and a surprised expression in his widened, lifeless eyes. Moran felt sick at the sheer waste of it.
“Mobile?”
“Negative, guv. Either he wasn’t carrying one or the killer took it.”
“ID?”
“Nope. Nada.”
“CCTV?”
Phelps looked up and down the street and shook his head. “Dead spot.”
Moran watched the hooded forensics officer swabbing the bloodstains and committing the results to his tamper-proof evidence bags. A bag of life – or death, according to how you looked at it.
“Ah, Moran. How goes it?” A familiar brogue came from behind them. Sandy Taylor, the police doctor, had arrived to certify the time of death.
“It goes the same as it always goes,” Moran said flatly. “Another one for your record book.”
“Don’t be so morbid,” Taylor retorted. “If I kept a record book I’d only get depressed, and I can think of better ways to spend the rest of my life than trying to engage with the world through a haze of sertraline.”
Taylor’s examination was swift. “Stab wound to the neck. Death probably within seconds. I’d guess that he was half-carried or dragged off the street and dumped in the alcove.”
“OK. Strong assailant, then. He’s a big lad.”
“Indeed.”
“Time of death?” Phelps prompted.
“Oh, let’s see – I’d say somewhere between one and two in the morning, give or t
ake thirty minutes.” Taylor stood up, shaking his head. “Sad, sad, sad. Still, a little more straightforward than your last case, eh?”
Moran grunted. “They’re never straightforward, Sandy, trust me.”
Taylor clicked his tongue and snapped his briefcase shut. “I do, my dear Brendan. Implicitly.”
He paced the flat, adrenaline buzzing through him as if he were a live wire. His hands were filthy with mud, his shoes were soaked through and his jacket was torn. He had made a mistake. Someone had seen him – a girl. To his surprise, she had chased him. He had let her catch up by the canal and she hadn’t put up much of a fight in the end. It was all right now. He’d dealt with it, but he was shaking like a man with the ague.
He’d returned the car to the lock-up and walked home in a daze, legs trembling like a pair of rubber stilts. The car was well off limits now. Maybe he should burn it, trash the whole row of garages... Calm down, he told himself. You’ve sorted it for now. No one knows it’s there. As for the woman, he didn’t care who she was. The way she was dressed she could have been any Saturday night girl. Or maybe a professional, with a skirt like that.
Forget it, he told himself. Some collateral damage was inevitable. Stupid cow. What had she been thinking? What had she hoped to achieve? He shuddered; he could still feel her body folding into unconsciousness, pressing against him. He’d hardly touched her; she was probably drunk.
He kicked off his shoes and went into the bathroom. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that he had made a start, and he should mark that somehow, shouldn’t he? What he needed was a new name, something to complement his new identity. As the hot water gurgled into the tub he thought of Jaseena’s brothers, remembered what they had called him behind his back.
Kafir...
He looked at his reflection in the half-steamed bathroom mirror. He saw a strong face and a look of fierce determination. Yes. Kafir. That had a ring to it.
Later, after he had bathed, he went to his laptop and looked the word up.
In Islamic parlance, a kāfir is a word used to describe a person who rejects Islamic faith, i.e. hides or covers [viz. the truth]. The word means ‘unbeliever’. First applied to Meccans who refused submission to Islam, the term implies an active rejection of divine revelation.
He said the word slowly, savouring each syllable. Perfect. So be it. If he was a kafir, he would be the Kafir. Simon Peters popped a breath mint into his mouth and began to think about his next appointment. This time he would be more careful. Best avoid Reading, mix it up a bit. The location was irrelevant to him; there were Allah-worshipping Asians everywhere.
It was almost too easy.
Chapter 3
Cherries wine bar was tucked beneath the old Top Rank building near the railway station in a small parade of shops that included, nostalgically, a greasy spoon called Rankin’ Robin’s. Cherries was not busy. There were a few office workers knocking back a swifty or two before catching the next train home to the wife, one or two singles sitting at high stools by the window, and a dishevelled-looking woman at a corner table nursing a glass of red wine. What story would you tell me, love? Moran wondered as she glanced hopefully in his direction. Moran looked away. Everyone had a story, most of them tales of woe or disaster. Best not to know; disasters usually found their own way to Moran’s doorstep without much prompting.
Moran drummed his fingers on the imitation brass tabletop and pondered his easy acquiescence to this meeting. He had a bad feeling about it – irrational, maybe, but a bad feeling nevertheless.
He was also troubled by the young Asian lad’s murder. No apparent motive, no sign of a struggle. It bore all the hallmarks of an unprovoked attack. The boy had no marks on him except for the knife wound. A normal racist attack would have kicked off with a beating. Moran shook his head slowly. Normal. Was he so desensitised? There was nothing ‘normal’ about murder.
His reverie was interrupted by a new customer, a woman of around thirty-five with a short, blonde bob. She cast about this way and that, checking each occupant of the bar in turn. With a jolt of recognition Moran realised it was Shona. The last time he’d seen her she’d had shoulder-length auburn hair and, he recollected, an excess of make up – no doubt to mask her distress. On the day of Kay’s funeral her face had been drawn, but now she looked completely different. Attractive. Very attractive. Moran stood and raised his hand self-consciously. At once she smiled and walked gracefully towards his table, drawing covert admiring glances from the lone male clientele.
“Hi.” Her smile was wide and her teeth, as Moran remembered from the first time they had met, were perfectly white.
“Hello. Nice to see you.” Moran pulled a chair over and made a gesture of invitation. “What’ll it be?”
“Hmm. A glass of Pinot Grigio, if they have it.”
“I’m sure they do.”
Moran returned with their drinks and settled into his chair. “Well, cheers.” They clinked glasses. Shona took a delicate sip and placed her glass carefully on the ‘Chill at Cherries’ logo-embossed coaster. She looked briefly down at the table as if unsure how to begin, and then raised her chin and smiled again, apparently flustered. A pink stain appeared at her throat and spread quickly to her cheeks and ears. She chewed her bottom lip, a mannerism he remembered from their first meeting, and sighed.
“I’m sorry, Inspector Moran, you must think it rather odd that I called you the way I did.”
Moran was thinking how like Kay she was. The eyes, the curve of her ears, the delicate, darker pigmentation of her lips... “No, no. It’s quite all right. I’m glad you did.”
“Even at three in the morning?”
“Yes.” Moran laughed. “My sergeant called ten minutes later so my beauty sleep was interrupted anyway.”
Shona frowned. “Oh dear. I hope he doesn’t make a habit of it. I shan’t,” she added quickly.
“It happens–” Moran sipped his wine and grinned. “–actually more often than I care to think about. In this particular case it was an urgent call, though. A murder.”
“Oh no.” Shona’s hand went to her mouth. “How awful. In Reading?”
Moran nodded briefly. “Yes. But I can’t say too much at this stage, I’m afraid.”
“Of course. I understand.”
“But we’re not here to talk about my problems,” Moran prompted, raising his eyebrows in what he hoped was an encouraging expression. “Are we?”
“No,” Shona agreed with a slight side-to-side movement of her head. “No, we’re not.”
“If it helps, Shona, there’s not a day goes by that I don’t think about Kay, and about how I could have done something – anything – to–”
Shona placed a cool hand on his wrist. “Stop. I don’t blame you. Let’s get that straight before we move on, OK?”
Moran let out his breath in a long sigh. “Well ... OK. Thanks.”
The hand was withdrawn, but Moran could still feel the tingle of her fingers on his flesh.
“I suppose I’m just looking for ... closure – that’s what they call it, isn’t it?”
“I understand. When you receive bad news second-hand it’s a common reaction. You weren’t there. You wish you had been so that you could have done something to prevent it.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, that’s how I feel, too,” Moran said. “I lent her the keys. I had no idea – at that stage – that I had been targeted.”
“I know.”
There was a slight lull in conversation. Moran let the silence be, giving Shona time to compose her thoughts.
“Was she really happy the last time you saw her?” Shona blurted the question.
Moran nodded vigorously. “Absolutely. I’ve never seen her so animated, so optimistic.”
Shona smiled, a sad little smile that made her appear childlike, lost. She nodded, mulling his words over. “That’s good. It makes it a little more bearable, to know that she was happy.” She paused. “But it must have been a bit weird f
or you – you know, her being with your brother, with your history...”
Now it was Moran’s turn to feel discomfited. He’d had an on-off relationship with Kay for years, but he had never been able to commit. There’d always been something in the way – doubts, whatever...
“I’m sorry.” Shona reprised her magazine smile which made Moran feel instantly better. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
Moran laughed and ran his hand through his hair. “Not at all. It was a long time ago.”
“I know, but nevertheless...” Shona smiled mischievously.
“I suppose I felt ... protective towards her,” Moran said. “My brother wasn’t in the best of health. He was unstable, unpredictable. Kay didn’t need that. She needed someone solid and reliable.”
“We all need that, don’t we?” She held his gaze. Moran turned his eyes away, unsettled by her directness. Or had he misinterpreted the look?
She reached over the table and took his hand. “Brendan, I know you’ve lost someone close to you as well. Your brother had problems, but he was still family, wasn’t he? And you and Kay ... well, you were old friends. I just want you to know that if you need anyone to talk to, I’m here, OK?”
Flustered at this unexpected role-reversal, Moran muttered his thanks.
“I mean, we can help each other, right?”
Moran cleared his throat and composed himself. “Right. Of course.”
Shona sat back in her chair and studied him as if he were some kind of biological specimen. “You’re such a typical man. You can’t open up, can you?”
Moran coughed. “Well, I–”
“Of course you can’t. Maybe when we know each other a little better?”
Moran inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Sure. I’m sorry.” He shook his head self-deprecatingly. “Emotional stuff is not my forte.”
