The chief rapped a stubby finger against his watch. ‘But it’s not first thing, is it?’
Jack thought about the mango with a stab of regret.
‘Is an hour going to make that much difference, sir?’ he asked.
The chief super threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘Can you get through to this idiot?’ he asked DI Bell.
DI Bell straightened his silver cufflinks. The word around the nick was that Bell had been transferred from Nottingham under a cloud. He’d been promoted to DI because of his father but he hadn’t been able to cut it and had been shunted sideways to Luton.
Jack preferred to give other coppers the benefit of the doubt—he hoped he was right to do so this morning.
‘The trouble is, Jack, the girl’s family have already been in touch asking what exactly we’ve been doing,’ said Bell.
‘I’ll speak to them,’ said Jack. ‘Explain where we’re at.’
‘I think they already know where we’re at,’ said DI Bell.
‘Bloody nowhere, that’s where,’ the chief super grunted.
‘You can see how this looks,’ said DI Bell. ‘Particularly given our involvement in the Khan case.’
Jack was lost. ‘I don’t see the connection.’
The chief super pushed back his chair. It freewheeled away until it crashed into the wall behind.
‘Then you’re a bloody fool.’
Jack wasn’t about to disagree.
‘We’ve been getting criticism for arresting Raffique Khan,’ said DI Bell. ‘There have been mutterings from some quarters that we failed to check other avenues because the defendant is a Muslim.’
The chief pointed at Jack. ‘I should add that those quarters include your girlfriend.’
Jack felt a flush rise up the back of his neck.
‘Our CPS rep just had an uncomfortable hour in court with Miss Valentine,’ said DI Bell.
The sweat glands on Jack’s back began to prickle. ‘I don’t have any control over what Lilly does or says with regards to her work.’
‘That much is obvious,’ the chief snapped.
‘The point is we cannot be seen to pursue the Muslim community on one hand whilst ignoring their concerns on the other,’ said DI Bell.
‘I’ll call Aasha’s parents right now,’ Jack blustered. ‘Tell them I’m on to it.
‘And then,’ the chief bellowed, ‘you will go and get their daughter.’
‘Do I have permission to enter the property in question?’ Jack asked.
The chief was scarlet with temper. ‘You’re supposed to be a copper, not a bloody schoolboy.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jack, and made a hasty retreat.
He considered popping home for his mobile but decided that would be a very bad idea indeed.
Aasha rinses the cutlery under the cold tap and smiles at Ryan.
At home she feels like Cinderella having to do all the chores and she swallows her resentment as she clears away the table. But this morning she feels only too glad to help.
Ryan has carried a terrible burden for a long time.
His mum is called Carrie and she’s mentally ill. She can’t look after herself, let alone her son.
Aasha remembers a neighbour who had to be hospitalised after her third baby. People said she tried to smother it but Aasha doesn’t think that can be true because she was never put in prison or anything.
Instead they took her to a clinic called Meadowlands and gave her lots of medicine. Imran said everyone there was crazy, that they screamed all night and ate their own turds, but Imran was always saying horrible things. He’d never actually been there.
Aasha wonders if Ryan’s mum could get better if the doctors gave her a lot of medicine. Ryan says she’s tried every drug in the chemist’s but they soon wear off.
This morning Aasha made everyone buttered toast. She took a slice and a cup of tea in to Carrie and laid it gently on her bedside table, just the way her own mum had done for her two days before.
‘Are you OK?,’ Aasha gestured to Carrie’s stomach where she had slashed herself. ‘Do you need anything?’
Carrie shook her head.
‘I’ve sent Ryan to the shops for more milk,’ said Aasha.
Carrie blinked at her.
‘And loo roll,’ Aasha laughed.
Carrie winced. ‘I’m not very good at all that.’ Her voice was hoarse and tiny.
Aasha moved closer and sat gently on the bed. ‘You’re not very well,’ she said.
‘I sometimes think Ryan would be better off without me.’
Aasha shook her head. ‘He loves you very much, Mrs Sanders. He just needs some help.’
A single tear ran down the older woman’s translucent cheek and she turned away.
Aasha got up and crept to the door.
‘Thank you,’ Carrie whispered to the wall.
Ryan looks up at her now with his lovely grey eyes. It’s as if he can see right to the very core of her.
‘Let me draw you,’ he says.
Aasha laughs. ‘Shut up.’
‘Seriously.’ Ryan grabs a pad and some charcoal. ‘Keep totally still.’
She’s about to object but his fingers are already flashing across the paper.
‘Don’t make me look fat and ugly,’ she chides.
He doesn’t look up from his work. ‘That would be impossible.’
As he smudges and shades Aasha knows that this is true happiness. If only she could stretch it like elastic and make it last.
But she knows she can’t. Just as Ryan can’t look after his mother for ever, nor can Aasha avoid her brothers.
A group of young boys had congregated outside the
madrassa
, chattering excitedly and flicking each other’s noses with their copies of the Koran as they waited for their lessons. Lilly and Taslima skirted round them as they walked towards the Paradise Halal Butchers.
‘What are you grinning at?’ asked Lilly.
Taslima bit her lip. ‘I think you finally got somewhere with Raffy.’
‘About bloody time,’ said Lilly.
‘All the same, I saw genuine respect in his face,’ said Taslima. ‘He’s decided to co-operate.’
‘Which is fine and dandy,’ said Lilly, ‘except he doesn’t have anything useful to tell me.’
Taslima wrinkled her nose. ‘Not his fault.’
Lilly sighed. It was of course good news that her client was prepared to put his suspicions aside, but how much better it would be if he could give her some information that would help Lilly formulate his defence.
They paused outside the butchers where Mohamed was putting up a poster in his window.
Aqeeqah
sacrifice.
£145 per lamb, £250 for two.
‘Sacrifice?’ asked Lilly.
‘The traditional way to give thanks to God for the birth of a child,’ said Taslima.
‘What’s wrong with a quick dunk in a font and a christening bracelet?’
‘Nothing,’ Taslima laughed. ‘But lots of Muslims like to follow the Prophet, peace be upon him, and pay for someone to slaughter an animal.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Lilly. ‘That’s pretty gruesome.’
Taslima laughed again. ‘Not really. You give your cash to Uncle Mo, he does the business and the chops are delivered for tea.’
When Mohamed had finished he stepped back to admire his handiwork.
‘Bit pricey,’ said Lilly, entering the shop.
Mohamed scowled at her. ‘This is not some conveyor belt, Miss Valentine.’
Lilly raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m just surprised a religious celebration is something you could make money from.’
Mohamed narrowed his eyes at Taslima. ‘Young lady, you would do well to find a master less ignorant than this one.’
Taslima’s spine stiffened. ‘I have no master but Allah.’ She tapped the pound sign with her finger. ‘Can you say the same?’
‘What do you women want?’ Mohamed growled.
‘Do you know anything about an organisation called the PTF?’ asked Lilly.
Mohamed missed a beat, then spoke slowly. ‘I do not.’
‘Have you ever heard of them?’ she asked.
‘I have not.’
He regarded both Lilly and Taslima with open animosity then turned away. ‘If you’ll excuse me I have a business to run,’ he said.
Was it really possible that neither Mohamed nor Raffy had any knowledge of the PTF? Kash and Taslima were all too familiar with their actions so why weren’t the men of the community? Mohamed was lying, Lilly was sure of it.
‘Why will no one talk to us about the PTF?’ she called. ‘What are you hiding?’
Mohamed shook his head, locked the shop door and pulled down the closed sign.
‘I’m not giving up,’ Lilly shouted through the glass.
‘If I do that Raffique will spend the next twenty years in prison.’ She could see Mohamed’s outline and could only hope he was listening. ‘He’s a young frightened boy,’ she shouted, ‘and he needs my help.’
She cupped her hands above her eyebrows and peered inside. ‘Have you ever been to a prison Mr Aziz? They are the most soulless places on earth. Hundreds of prisoners crammed in together like animals. Your lambs might not be on a conveyor belt but the boys at Arlington surely are.’
She saw Mohamed’s hand creep towards the lock.
‘There are constant fights and beatings,’ she added. ‘Suicides are not unusual.’
The door opened a few inches. Mohamed remained inside but his voice floated out.
‘Come,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll give you five minutes.’
He left the closed sign in place and they made their way to the back room.
Lilly could see that the man’s fury was spent. In its place was a weariness that aged him ten years.
‘It didn’t used to be like this,’ he said. ‘My generation were good, law-abiding people. We knew the meaning of the word respect.’
He reminded Lilly of her nan, who had shaken her laquered head in disgust at everything that happened after 1970. She used to speak fondly of painting her legs with gravy browning during the war—conveniently forgetting the thousands killed in the Blitz.
‘These young folk care nothing for the sacrifices we made to come here.’ Mohamed shook his head. ‘Do you know I came to England with ten pounds in my pocket?’
Lilly had no idea where he was leading but experience taught her to let him continue. She nodded in encouragement.
‘We tried to fit in, assimilate, as they say. We ignored the racists,’ he continued, ‘because we knew once this country saw what we had to offer they would accept us, that everything would open up for our children.’
Taslima looked as if she were about to speak but Lilly nudged her foot. There was a fundamental sadness emanating from Mohamed, but it could so easily return to anger with one wrong word.
‘But what do they do?’ said Mohamed. ‘They throw it in our faces, too busy joining their gangs to apply for medical school.’
‘You mean the PTF?’ asked Lilly.
Mohamed wiped the back of his hand across his brow as if it contained a lifetime’s toil. ‘We don’t speak the names.’
‘Why not?’ asked Lilly.
Mohamed circled his arm to encompass the room. ‘This place might not look like much to you, but it’s all I have.’
Something switched on in Lilly’s brain. Mohamed was frightened. She had thought he was hiding something, that he supported the PTF, but now she realised he was frightened of them.
‘Can you tell us anything about them?’ she asked.
Mohamed shook his head but it was in weariness, not denial.
‘If Raffy is to stand any chance, I need some information,’ said Lilly. ‘Nothing will lead back to you.’
Mohamed gave a small, humourless laugh. ‘Do you think they are stupid?’
Lilly knew he was right and that it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out who had spoken to her about the PTF, but she needed some help here.
‘Think of Raffy.’ She let the words hang in the air and didn’t breathe.
The three of them stood in silence.
At last Mohamed exhaled. ‘I hear things.’
‘What sort of things?’ asked Lilly.
‘Not details,’ he said.
Lilly swallowed her impatience and waited.
‘They have been involved in putting pressure on some girls around here,’ he said.
Taslima coughed and Lilly kicked her.
‘Was
pressure
applied to Yasmeen?’ she asked.
Mohamed sighed. ‘I don’t know, really I don’t.’
Lilly believed him.
‘Do you have any names?’ she asked.
He looked at Lilly with heavy lids and again she waited.
‘Abdul Malik,’ he said. ‘He delivers the chicken.’
Jack was still smarting when he arrived at the Clayhill Estate.
He’d left Northern Ireland to get away from all the bloody politics and now found himself in the midst of a sectarian war of a different kind.
Between worrying what this community or that newspaper would make of things, an honest copper couldn’t get his job done.
Maybe he was an eejit not to have called the chief super last night, but it wasn’t as if the senior officer cared less what happened to the girl. He was far more bothered about a whiff of bad publicity.
He slammed the car door shut and crossed the park. The glue sniffers were in their usual spot.
‘Why aren’t you lot in school?’ he growled.
One of the boys looked up, his jaw slack.
‘Have you no self-respect?’ Jack shouted. ‘Now go on, piss off.’
They stumbled away to find another rock to hide under.
As for Ryan Sanders, Jack wished he’d never laid eyes on the little shitbag. He was a nothing, a nobody, causing heartache and mayhem until one day he took up his rightful place in Arlington.
He climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. The place had its habitual stench and was covered in rubbish. He kicked a carton of chips across the stairwell. These people were animals. Chips and ketchup scattered across the concrete. Then Jack realised it wasn’t ketchup, but blood.
No doubt some kids had been fighting. Would anyone have called the police? Not likely. They’d be in accident and emergency right now, having their heads stitched and swearing they’d had an accident on the swings.
By the time he reached the Sanders flat, Jack was furious. He would march in there and demand to see Aasha. If Ryan gave him any lip, Jack would slap him in handcuffs and if his face just so happened to scrape against the wall, then so be it.
He pulled back his fist and hammered as hard as he could on the door.
When it opened under the pressure Jack was taken aback. No one left their door unlocked on the Clayhill.