Babel (17 page)
‘Bloody hell,’ Brock said, lifting up the last picture for Kathy to see.
It had been cut from a glossy printed page, and the face was younger by ten or fifteen years, the unruly bush of hair thicker and darker, the face plumper, but it was certainly him.
‘Springer?’ Kathy asked.
‘Springer,’ Brock nodded. ‘Our victim.’
He turned the paper over but the back was blank.
‘Looks like it’s come from the dust-cover of a book,’ Brock suggested. ‘His autobiography maybe.’
He put the picture back between the leaves and stared at Kathy. ‘The book of his life.’
T
hey went first to Shadwell Road police station and made arrangements with the duty inspector to call in additional officers from surrounding divisional stations. Soon they were joined by Bren Gurney and a carload of people from Serious Crime, including Leon Desai.
Bren cornered Kathy soon after he arrived. ‘Leon insisted on coming over with us, Kathy. What do you want me to do? Send him off somewhere?’
Kathy’s heart sank. So her break-up with Leon was common knowledge. And she had fondly hoped that people didn’t even know they’d been having an affair. Some hope.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said, aiming for total indifference but hearing herself sound snappy. ‘Not an issue.’
Leon himself appeared shortly after. ‘Kathy, can I have a word?’
‘I’m very busy, Leon,’ she said, although embarrassingly she suddenly found herself with nothing particular to do.
‘Yes, but why?’ He was pressing too close to her, trying to keep his voice low as people passed by in the narrow corridor.
‘Why what?’
‘Why are you involved in this? You’re supposed to be on stress leave. Did Brock make you come back?’
She turned on him then. ‘It’s none of your bloody business, Leon. Just bugger off and leave me alone.’
‘Kathy, I’m concerned!’ He choked off whatever he’d been going to add as two men newly arrived from the Divisional Intelligence Unit called out a greeting to a small black woman from the Race Hate Unit at Rotherhithe.
‘You were told to take time off. And you shouldn’t be involved in this,’ he hissed under his breath. ‘This Special Branch stuff, it’s not even your area. I’m going to speak to Brock.’
‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Her yell startled the others, who turned to see what was going on.
‘Let’s talk about it, then.’ He was pleading now, and she hated it more than his high-handedness.
‘Leave—me—alone,’ she said, slowly and deliberately. ‘I don’t want your advice. Do you understand?’
He stared at her, and she saw his dark eyes filled with hurt, and understood finally what was going on.
This
Special Branch stuff . . .
She thought, some undercover man Wayne O’Brien turned out to be. I should start my own ‘Kathy’s love-life’ website, just in case some distant outpost of the Met isn’t quite up to date.
Brock padded up the stairs, Bren at his shoulder, wondering if anyone had actually made an arrest before in their stockinged feet. No doubt they had, and in frogmen’s suits and tails and long johns too, but there was something peculiarly subversive about being made shoeless, as if the whole ominous dignity of the occasion might be punctured by a pin dropped on the carpet. His hope was that the place would be as quiet as the last time he’d come here, but his optimism began to fade as he picked up sounds filtering down from the upstairs hall, and died altogether when they reached the top and opened the doors. There were maybe two dozen men on their knees in prayer, another dozen in small huddles squatting on the carpet, and one larger group, like an adult class—nearly fifty men in all, enough to start a riot or a massacre.
He scanned their faces, aware of a number of them looking suspiciously at the two of them in their coats and socks. He couldn’t spot anyone resembling Abu, but he did recognise Imam Hashimi, who appeared to be leading the adult education group. The imam caught sight of him at the same instant, and a look of alarm appeared on his face. He gave some kind of instruction to his group, jumped to his feet and hurried over.
‘What do you want here?’ he demanded, voice low.
‘Your help, Imam Hashimi,’ Brock said.
‘No!’ the man said, agitated. ‘Please go at once. You are not welcome here.’
At the same time another man came sidling over, trying to hear what was being said. He must have caught the tone of anger in the imam’s voice, for he said, ‘Is everything all right? Are you in need of assistance, Imam?’
‘No, no. Everything is fine.’
Several more men approached, and Brock recognised Manzoor, the owner of the clothes shop next to the police station, looking particularly dapper in dark business suit and silk polka dot tie. Manzoor recognised Brock too and hurried forward eagerly. ‘This is the police, Imam! This is Scotland Yard!’
‘It’s all right, Sanjeev!’ Imam Hashimi anxiously flapped both hands at him in an attempt at a calming gesture. ‘They want my assistance. I will have to talk to them.’
But Manzoor wasn’t ready to be put off. ‘Is it about the Sharif boy, Superintendent? Have you arrested him? Did he murder the professor?’
A small crowd was gathering now, and the men who had been at prayer were beginning to sit up, looking round in bewilderment.
‘No, Mr Manzoor,’ Brock said firmly. ‘We haven’t charged anyone in connection with that case. I want to speak to the Imam about a private matter. There’s no need for concern.’
Manzoor looked disappointed and the imam took advantage of his hesitation to guide the two policemen away to the door to his office, which he shut firmly behind them.
‘You see? You see how troubled they all are? You shouldn’t have just walked in here. You should have phoned.’ He spoke in a kind of strangled whisper for fear of ears at the door, but his extreme agitation needed an outlet and he paced back and forward in the small space, gesturing with his hands. ‘You should have made an appointment!’
‘I’m sorry, but there hasn’t been time for that. This is a very urgent matter we need your help with.’
‘No! No, no, no! I helped you once and what happened? Three of our young people are in your hands for over twenty-four hours now, and you say you haven’t charged them with any offence? How is this possible? Their families come and ask my advice, and what can I say to them? That I was the one who delivered them up to you?’
‘Everything is being done according to the law, Imam Hashimi. Tell them to get legal advice.’
‘Do you think I don’t do that? But what happens when they find out that I supplied the addresses?’
‘I haven’t told anyone that, and I have no intention of doing so.’
‘All the same, you were seen here, before the boys were arrested . . .’
‘Look, I’m sorry, but time is very short. We came here to try to prevent a death, Imam. One of your parishioners has disappeared and we fear the worst. He left us a message. I think you will understand my concern when I tell you what it was.’
The imam stopped pacing and faced Brock. ‘Yes?’
‘A verse from the Qur’an, Chapter Three.’
‘The Imrans? Yes?’
‘Verse one hundred and seventy.’
He frowned in thought, and then his eyes widened and he whispered, ‘“Do not account those who are slain in the cause of Allah, as dead” . . . Who is this person?’
‘A young man by the name of Abu Khadra, a Lebanese, who works at the university. He worships here with you.’
The imam shook his head slowly, frowning, ‘No, I don’t know the name.’
Brock handed him a copy of the photo from Haygill’s files, but still Hashimi shook his head, then went to the record book on his desk and searched for some minutes before looking up. ‘No, he is not one of our people.’
‘Perhaps he just comes unannounced, without introducing himself, or under another name. He is devout, I believe, and he has been seen in Shadwell Road. We think he may have a room in the area, and friends.’
‘What has he done?’
Brock hesitated. ‘We’re not sure. But we think he can clarify whether your three young men are innocent or not.’
‘You mean he may have led them astray?’
‘That’s a possibility. I wonder, if you were to ask some of your most faithful and regular worshippers, they might tell you if they have seen him here?’
Imam Hashimi thought about that, then nodded agreement and went to the door. He returned ushering in half a dozen of the more senior men and a couple of younger ones. Manzoor was among them, shouldering his way to the front. The imam explained in English Brock’s request for information about the man whose picture he passed round and whose name he told them. Someone then asked a question in another language, and some discussion followed in what Brock took to be Urdu. From time to time the men would glance at him, as if his appearance might clarify some point. Finally Manzoor spoke up. He seemed agitated, striking the air with his fist to emphasise what he said, and giving Brock a look of veiled cunning. The others seemed to agree, and the imam then returned to English to announce to Brock that no one had ever seen this Abu Khadra in the mosque, although some thought they may have seen him in the Shadwell Road in the past. As they filed out of the office, Brock reflected that it had taken an awful lot of discussion to arrive at this conclusion, and wished that he’d been able to understand Urdu. Imam Hashimi patted the last departing man on the back and closed the door again.
‘No, he is not from our congregation,’ he said firmly.
‘That’s disappointing. He specifically mentioned coming to the mosque in Shadwell Road.’
‘Well, now, that is possible. There is another mosque, though strictly speaking, we do not consider them to be Muslim.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘They are Shia. You are aware of the five pillars of our faith, are you, Chief Inspector? They define the necessary steps to be a Muslim. First the shahadah, the profession of faith; second the ritual of worship and prayer, salah; third sawm, which is fasting during the month of Ramadan; fourth is Zakaat, or almsgiving; and fifth is the pilgrimage to Mecca, the hajj.’
Brock tried to interrupt, but Hashimi wouldn’t be stopped. His voice rose and he went on, ‘The most important of these is the first, the shahadah, which is a form of words which must never be changed. The Shiites however, in their misguided error, use a different form of words. Therefore they are not true Muslims. You see?’
‘And where is their mosque?’
‘They call it the Nur al-Islam mosque. A miserable affair. I have never been to it, of course, but I am told it is a very inferior place. They are mainly Yemeni, you know.’ He shook his head. ‘A primitive, desert people.’
‘Is it on Shadwell Road?’ Bren asked.
‘In Chandler’s Yard. You know The Three Crowns public house? Well, it stands on the corner of Shadwell Road and Chandler’s Yard. Go down there. There is a café, the Horria Café, run by a man called Qasim Ali. You might ask for him. He is what they call a “muwasit”, what you might call a “Mr Fix-it”. If your man is down there, he will know of it.’
They thanked him and left, aware of the eyes that followed them in absolute silence across the hall, and then the murmur that began as soon as they reached the stairs. Out on the street a soft drizzle had dispersed most of the pedestrians, and Brock spoke into his phone for a moment, then they crossed the street and made towards The Three Crowns and beside it the narrow entrance to Chandler’s Yard.
After twenty yards the narrow laneway broadened into the cobbled square that had once formed the focus of the local candle-making industry from which Chandler’s Yard had taken its name. The jumble of old workshops and storehouses which stood around the yard still bore the marks of their old occupation, their brickwork blackened and door jambs scarred, like veteran craftsmen irretrievably gnarled by a lifetime of labour. Among them, as flamboyant as a belly dancer, glowed the bright shopfront and garish red neon sign of the Horria Café.
Inside, four old men played cards at a table beneath a silent TV showing a soccer game, while an ancient juke-box at their side throbbed with Arab music. A very fat, darkskinned man behind the counter wiped fingers like sticky pork sausages across a grubby apron and then flicked at his bushy moustache. He narrowed his eyes at the newcomers suspiciously, and Brock wondered if he was going to need an interpreter to communicate with these ‘primitive desert people’.
After due consideration, the fat man spoke. ‘Yes, gents. What can I do for you?’ he said affably in a broad cockney accent. ‘I got a fresh load of chips on. Stewed lamb’s the speciality of the house, if yer interested.’
‘It smells very good,’ Brock said, feeling suddenly remarkably hungry. ‘Maybe later. Right now we’re looking for a Mr Qasim Ali. Know where we might find him?’
‘Who wants ’im?’
Brock showed him his warrant card.
The man peered at it, then nodded and held up his fat hand. ‘I’m Ali.’
Brock took the hand, warm, smooth and with a surprisingly hard grip.
‘We’re wondering if you can put us in touch with someone we need very urgently to talk to, Mr Ali. A young Lebanese man, twenty-six, name of Abu Khadra, rides a yellow Yamaha bike.’ Brock showed him the picture. Ali gave no sign of recognition as he studied it and slid it back. He reached beneath the counter, produced a pack of Benson and Hedges and a Bic lighter, and slowly lit up, wheezing a long draw.
‘How come you came to me then? No, let me guess. Was it them wankers out there?’ He jerked a hand in the general direction of Shadwell Road, the gesture making the flesh of his arm wobble. ‘The Pakis? Yeah, that’d be right. Any shit they don’t want, they pass it on to old Ali, eh?’
He tipped his head back and exhaled towards a fan slowly beating time with the music. His head began to rock with it. ‘Umm Kalthoum, that is. They don’t make singers like that any more. You heard of Umm Kalthoum?’
‘I believe I have,’ Brock replied. ‘Egyptian?’
‘Yeah. The greatest. This place is named after one of her biggest hits. Horria. That means “freedom”, see? Very important, yeah? We all value our freedom. What’s he wanted for, this Abu Khadra?’
