“And then there's Ricky Pickles' garage,” he said.
“What garage?” Mower said sharply. “You mean South Bradfield Autos, his alibi for the attack on Iqbal? That's been checked out and it stands up. He took his Escort in to have a new exhaust fitted and was there for at least an hour while it was done. We've seen the invoice, looked at the car; it's all above board.”
“I went up there last night to have a sniff around, just as they were closing and there was no one around,” Sharif said.
Mower's attention was suddenly fixed on the young DC and he dropped into a chair at the next desk.
“You what?” he said.
“You know as well as I do that Pickles is almost certainly mixed up with this lot, however many alibis he's got. If he didn't do it, he planned it.”
“Wishful thinking, Omar?” Mower suggested quietly, but the young DC shook his head fiercely.
“I told you yesterday, according to someone I spoke to up Aysgarth, Craig Porter, the scumbag we've got banged up for GBH after the trouble outside the Grenadier on Thursday night, is involved in this too. Apparently Porter's got a powerful Kawasaki that he's complaining went missing after he was arrested. I checked his registration number and found the bike at SB Autos, right at the back, tucked away out of sight. And so's another bike that I've seen parked at the British Patriotic Party's HQ. I'd already checked with vehicle registration and that one belongs to Pickles himself. Coincidence? I don't think so.”
“Pickles claims ⦔ Mower began.
“So what? You may have seen the invoice for the work on his car, but there's nothing to say he didn't take off on the bike while the work was being done. Him, Porter and the rest. Why else would two bikes belonging to two racist thugs be together? It's not as if SB is a bike specialist. They're not.”
“So you reckon someone picked up Porter's bike after he was arrested and took it up to SB Autos for safe-keeping?”
“Must have done. Porter apparently doesn't know what's happened to it.”
“It could have been nicked,” Mower said.
“In which case we've got a reason to give SB Autos a going-over.”
Mower hesitated.
“You have to admit it's odd, sarge,” Sharif insisted.
“Porter was remanded yesterday and I've told Armley goal that we need to talk to him about another matter. I'll give them a call and find out when we can go over there â today if possible. I take it you'd like to come? You don't have a weekend break in Ibiza planned?”
“Chance would be a fine thing,” Sharif said, his dark eyes inscrutable, and Mower wondered, not for the first time, just how far Sharif conformed to his community's expectations in matters of sex and marriage.
But in the end, when Mower and Sharif faced Craig Porter in a bleak interview room at Armley Gaol, it was a forensic report which had arrived at police HQ just before they left which made the difference to the case and brought a faint smile of satisfaction to Sharif's face as they inched their way through the football traffic back to Bradfield.
“Take it slowly,” Mower had said quietly as they were escorted through the locked doors and corridors of the gaol. “Don't let him wind you up. Don't rush.”
Porter's initial reaction was stormy. He was a heavily built young man in his middle twenties, pasty-skinned and with a shaven skull and an array of nationalistic tattoos on show beneath his black T-shirt. The pale blue eyes which had flickered over Sharif as he came into the room had been filled with dislike.
“How the hell did you know about my bike?” he asked, addressing himself exclusively to Mower, and as Mower did not know the answer to that question and Sharif was not telling, he had to be content with vague suggestions of âinformation received'. Eventually he admitted that one of his âmates' might have delivered his bike to SB Autos for safe-keeping, although he had no suggestions as to who that might be or how they might have found an ignition key to fit.
“That would be one of your mates from the British Patriotic Party, would it?” Mower asked.
“Who said anything about them?” Porter countered quickly.
“You had a membership card in your pocket,” Mower said. “It's still there, with the other bits and pieces they took from you when you were arrested. A fake, then, is it?”
“Someone's got to stand up for the English,” Porter muttered. “He's a good lad is Ricky Pickles. Knows what's what. Any road, it's not a crime to belong to a political party, is it?”
“Certainly not, so long as the party sticks to politics and doesn't take its battles onto the streets,” Mower said.
“It isn't us that takes the battles onto t'bloody streets, is it?”
“You were found in possession of an iron bar when you were arrested,” Mower said almost casually. “Carry that often, do you, just in case?”
“You need protection from them bastards,” Porter said. “They attacked us, remember? They came up to the Grenadier looking for aggro, didn't they? Self defence is what I'll be pleading, don't you worry.”
“They?” Mower said.
“Bloody Pakis,” Porter spat, with another scowl in Sharif direction.
“The man you hit has a fractured skull,” Sharif came back angrily, only subsiding in response to a sharp glance from Mower, who had known this interview would be edgy and hoped that it would not disintegrate.
“So you're not claiming the iron bar was not yours?” Mower said, knowing that it would be difficult for Porter to make that argument as he had been disarmed by two burly officers from the riot squad and the injured man's blood and Porter's fingerprints had been found all over the weapon.
Porter shrugged and lit another cigarette.
“Used it before, have you?” Mower pressed.
“What do you mean?” Porter asked, with just a flicker of anxiety in his eyes.
“I mean we're very interested in people with a history of violence and access to a powerful motorbike, people like you in fact, in connection with the murder of Mohammed Iqbal.”
“Snuffed it, has he?” Porter asked, making no pretence of not knowing who they were talking about. “Bloody troublemaker from what I heard. Nowt to do wi'me, though. One down ⦔ He glanced at Sharif and sneered, not needing to complete the sentence.
“Perhaps you can tell us where you were, then, last Wednesday between five-thirty and six-thirty in the evening,” Mower said quickly.
“In t'Grenadier,” Porter said quickly. “I'm always in t'Grenadier at that time of day having a game of pool. Anyone'll tell you that.”
“And no doubt any number of people can vouch for you?” Mower said. “And you won't be the least bit worried about the fact that our forensic labs have found traces of someone else's blood on that iron bar you were using on Thursday night, will you?
“What do you mean, someone else's?” Porter said. “What are you trying to fit me up with now?”
“You and the four others who rode up to Aysgarth Lane to beat up Mohammed Iqbal,” Mower said.
“Bollocks,” Porter said. “Ask anyone in t'Grenadier.”
“Oh, we'll be doing that, Craig, don't you worry Our labs will also be doing a DNA analysis of the traces they've found on your vicious little club. And if it matches Iqbal's we'll be back. It may take a little while but it's nice to know that you'll be here waiting for us when we come looking.”
Early the following morning, armed with a search warrant,
the police required Ricky Pickles to open the heavily barred doors of the BPP offices and proceeded to remove every computer and paper file inside.
“This is a legitimate political party. I'll have you for this,” Pickles vowed as he watched box after box of the party's information being loaded into police vans. “I'll have you for violating my human rights.”
“You'll find out what it feels like, then,” Omar Sharif responded cheerfully, catching Pickles' remark as he passed him carrying a computer. For a moment the two men's eyes locked in mutual contempt.
“Leave it, Omar,” Mower said, catching the moment. “Let him crawl back under his stone, where he belongs.”
Laura Ackroyd woke late that Sunday morning, with a thumping headache and the sudden desolation of finding herself alone again. Michael, where are you when I need you? she thought. The plane back from Paris the previous night had been delayed and she had finally got home at two, listened to her messages, hoping against hope for some word from Thackeray, but had to be content with her father announcing that he was on his way home. Too disappointed by Thackeray's continuing silence to even try to follow up that bit of news, she had drunk two large vodka and tonics and eventually thrown herself into bed in a state of deep depression. The clouds had not lifted when she finally woke at about eleven although even through the curtains she could see that in the world outside the sun was unexpectedly shining and she could hear a full-throated blackbird singing outside the window.
She got out of bed, picked up the Sunday papers and glanced without much interest at the headlines before dumping them on the sofa. She poured herself a large glass of orange juice in the kitchen and went back to bed again, propping herself up on the pillows as she gloomily reviewed the previous day's nerve-wrenching trip to Paris. She and Amina Khan had made their way back to Charles de Gaulle airport in a silence only broken by the most cursory exchanges about Metro tickets and routes. On the plane, Amina appeared to fall asleep although Laura suspected that this was merely a ploy to avoid any further discussion of her sister's plight. She refused the food and drink on offer and slept again in the car as Laura drove her
back across the pitch black moors from Manchester to Bradfield.
Laura was almost as deeply upset by their trip as Amina appeared to be. She knew that they had to report what they knew to the police, but when they sat in the car outside the Khan's family home in Eckersley, Amina refused point blank to contemplate calling DCI Thackeray herself.
“You can tell them whatever you like,” she said. “And then I suppose they'll come looking for me too. But I can't call them, I really can't. It will cause too much trouble in the family. Tell them to come to talk to me at school on Monday if they must.”
“They'll keep what you say confidential if they can,” Laura had said, without much conviction. Amina looked at her from beneath her nun-like hijab and smiled as if from a great distance.
“Wishful thinking,” she said. “I don't think any of this is going to remain confidential for very long. My father and brother will be furious, my mother will be heart-broken and the community will be scandalised. If the police bring Saira back to Bradfield she won't be safe. She'll have to stay in hiding. Even if my family wish her no harm, someone will take it upon himself to uphold the old ways. You probably know as well as anyone that we're not all medieval fanatics, but there are some, and they're dangerous and unpredictable.” She had opened the car door then.
“Thank you for coming with me,” she said. “I am grateful, but there's nothing either of us can do for Saira now. It's all over. She will have to make her own way in the world.” She closed the door quietly but, Laura thought, with a finality which was chilling.
Which left Laura to face the next day with a thick head and an unwelcome task to perform. She desperately wanted to
speak to Michael Thackeray but about matters very far removed from the problems of Saira Khan. Like a child reluctant to get ready for school, she showered and dressed slowly, before making a large pot of strong coffee to help her consider her options. But before she could even begin to sort out her thoughts, the phone rang and she found herself assailed by Jack Ackroyd in full flood.
“Laura? I'm at Heathrow, on my way home. Where the hell were you yesterday? I must have tried your flat a dozen times. And I got nowt out of your mobile. Didn't you get any of my messages? I wanted to tell you I was packing up. I told your grandmother. Whole trip's been a bloody waste of time, it turns out. Backers have turned tail and fled after all this trouble around Aysgarth. Can't say I blame them, really. I think we were flogging a dead horse: luxury apartments in the centre of Bradfield! Best bet is to turn Earnshaws mill into a gaol, if you ask me. Lock all these rioting beggars up, black, white and everything in between. They're wrecking Bradfield between them. Who's going to invest with all that going on in the streets?”
“Dad,” Laura said, trying to absorb all this sound and fury through her dulled perceptions. “I'm sorry it's all fallen through, though I always thought you were being a tad optimistic ⦔
“Now you tell me,” her father said.
“You didn't exactly ask my opinion,” Laura snapped back.
“Aye, well, I think I'm well out of it,” Jack conceded.
“Does anyone know about all this?” Laura asked, her reporter's instincts snapping belatedly into gear. “Has it been announced officially?”
“Firoz Kamal's issuing some sort of statement tomorrow, I think,” Ackroyd said. “It's nowt to do with me now. I'm finished with it. Any road, I've got to go. They're calling my
flight. Why don't you get your grandmother out to Portugal for some sunshine? And you too, if you like. Always glad to see you.” And with that he hung up.
“And goodbye to you too,” Laura muttered, staring at the gently purring phone in exasperation, thinking that winter sunshine was very appealing. At least the conversation had penetrated her depression. If she was the only journalist aware of this unexpected reverse for the Earnshaws she could earn a few Brownie points on a quiet Sunday by following it up ready for the next day's paper. For the moment, she thought, she would put the problems of the Khan family on one side and do her job by trying to get comments from the Earnshaw family about the mill's now very uncertain future.
She started with George Earnshaw, partly because she thought his reaction would be the most uninhibited as he saw his son's plans confounded, and partly because she had been intrigued by Saira Khan's revelation that the old man had been willing to help finance his grandson's liaison with the Muslim girl and his move to France. An hour after speaking to her father, Laura, muffled up in a skiing jacket and scarf, was standing on the doorstep of Earnshaw's modest Broadley home, where the pale sunshine glittered on frostspangled banks of winter heather and the first virginal snowdrops nestled in a rockery of dark millstone grit like a glimpse of dawn at midnight.
The old man was slow to open the door and Laura was shocked to see his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes above a gaunt frame still dressed in grubby-looking pyjamas and dressing gown at midday. This was a man whose son had described him as fighting fit and still working as a director of Earnshaws only a week ago. Frank's efforts to keep his business afloat, she suspected, were as over-optimistic as his view of his father's health.
George Earnshaw was still waiting and as he did not seem to recognise her from her last abortive visit she explained quickly who she was and why she had come, and saw a flicker of satisfaction light up his face. He waved her into the house and through to a cluttered sitting room.
“Fallen through then, has it?” Earnshaw said. “I can't say I'm surprised. Bloody stupid scheme that was. I told them. Stupid and unnecessary. If we make the savings we planned there'll be no need to sell the mill. Trade'll pick up. It always does.”
“Can I quote you on that?” Laura asked, pulling her tape recorder from her bag. The room was warm and stuffy and she took off her coat and dropped it onto a chair. She took a seat as far from the gas fire as seemed decent.
“Of course you can quote me, my dear,” Earnshaw said. He was clearly delighted with the news she had brought.
“But you're still facing the same problem with the union, aren't you?” Laura asked. “The workers aren't going to be happy to see their pay cut however necessary that is to save the mill.”
Earnshaw's face darkened.
“Pity we ever let the blasted union back on the premises,” he said. “But they'll come round. They'll see which side their bread's buttered. They always do.” Laura nodded and did not argue although she expected to find Frank Eamshaw and his remaining son rather less sanguine about their chance of keeping the mill going. She glanced round the room curiously for a moment, Earnshaw's collection of Indian brasses and bronzes reminding her of the second reason for her visit.
“You seem to have been the only person in the family who knew about Simon and Saira Khan,” she said. “I saw her yesterday and she told me you'd agreed to help Simon financially with his move to France.”
For a moment she thought that George Earnshaw was having some sort of seizure. His face went into spasm and he clutched the arms of his chair with a white-knuckled grip, gasping for breath.
“Are you all right, Mr. Earnshaw?” she said anxiously. “I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sure Simon's death is still very distressing for you.” But the look Earnshaw flashed as he regained his composure was not one of grief but of hatred.
“Help him?” he said, though gritted teeth. “Help him? Are you mad, girl?”
“I'm sorry?” Laura said. “Saira said ⦔
“Saira? Is that what she's called. As if it wasn't bad enough for Simon and the rest of them to go along with some Muslim chancer's scheme to take over the mill. Then he tells me he wants to marry one of them. I was appalled, do you hear, appalled ⦔
“But I thought,” Laura hesitated, glancing round the room again. “Saira said ⦠You obviously spent some time in India ⦔
“Do you know what happened in India after the war, girl?” Earnshaw said, almost spitting the words in her face. “I was in the RAF, 31 squadron, ended up airlifting British families out of Kashmir when the balloon went up. Fifteen at a time in Dakotas with no oxygen and fuel turning up in cans if you were lucky. Chaos. Bloody murderous chaos. They were smuggling their Hindu servants out to get them away from the Muslims, while down on the ground village after village was burning and whole trainloads of people were being massacred as they tried to get to the right side of the new borders.”
“I knew there was a lot of bloodshed,” Laura said. “On both sides, though, wasn't it?”
The old man did not answer. He got to his feet with difficulty and rummaged in a carved wooden box on a side-table
which seemed to be full of photographs, most of them old. He handed Laura a tattered and faded black and white snapshot of a young woman in a sari.
“That was the Hindu girl I planned to marry,” he said, his face contorted with bitterness. “She was going to Bombay to take a boat to England. I put her on a train which never arrived. Not a single person survived. And then Simon comes to tell me that he'll back me in the dispute with his father if I'll make it worth his while. And what does he want the money for? To set himself up with a bloody Pakistani girl, a Muslim ⦠He couldn't wait for the sale.”
“So you turned him down?” Laura said quietly. “You wouldn't help him.”
“Of course I wouldn't help him.”
“But he wouldn't have known about your experiences in India, would he?” She touched the worn photograph lightly with her finger. “It's so long ago ⦔
“I never told anyone,” Earnshaw said. “That sort of relationship wouldn't have been welcomed by my family in those days. She was killed. Quite possibly burned alive. What good would telling anyone have done?”
More good, perhaps, than burying his bitterness for fifty years had done him, Laura thought, looking at the creased features etched, she now realised, as much by disappointment and despair as by his illness. Evidently his love had faded like the photograph of his lover, but the hatred her death had sparked had survived more than a generation to blight his grandson's life.
“So you turned Simon away when he came to see you?”
“I told him I wouldn't help him,” Earnshaw whispered.
“And what was his response to that?” she asked, guessing that Earnshaw could not have been happy with his grandson's reaction.
“He said he'd go along with his father's scheme,” the old man said. “He'd help them close Earnshaws down. He was furious with me but I wouldn't listen ⦔ He closed his eyes for a moment and Laura thought he had exhausted himself and had fallen asleep. But then he roused himself again and his eyes blazed and Laura guessed he had been reliving the final row with Simon.
“I killed him,” he said unexpectedly and very quietly, leaning back in his chair with an almost peaceful expression on his face. “I hit him, I hit with all the strength I had, and he lost his balance and fell, and I couldn't rouse him. He'd caught his head on that table there.” He waved vaguely at the heavy glass-topped coffee table. Laura felt a chill grip her stomach and she swallowed hard.
“It was an accident then?” she whispered.
“Oh, no,” George Earnshaw said. “I wanted him dead. He was going to become one of them, give me great-grandchildren with murderers' blood in their veins. At that moment I wanted him dead. My own grandson â can you believe that?”