Blood of the Innocents (3 page)

‘Interesting afternoon, Inspector?’ Fiske asked now, his unfortunate nasal inflection adding value to the patronising tone.

‘Yes sir, I’ve been following up on a missing juvenile.’

‘And prior to that? I’ve been trying to raise you on your mobile.’

‘I’m sorry. The battery must be flat, sir.’ Mariner hedged, suppressing the slightest twinge of guilt.

‘Do I look like a complete prat, Mariner?’

What a question, thought Mariner, wondering if there was any way he could get away with the truth. Luckily the DCI saved him from himself. ‘Where were you?’ he demanded.

‘I was responding to a call sir, PC Grady can conf—’

‘Oh yes, from a “Miss Streep”. Would that be Meryl by any chance? Fitting you in between filming, was she?’ Guilty as charged, Mariner was annoyed to find himself colouring in response. How the hell did Fiske know where he’d been, unless he was checking up on him? Fiske didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Not exactly the example we want to set for junior officers, is it?’ he said mildly. ‘If you’ve ambitions to become Granville Lane’s very own Peter Stringfellow, I suggest you wait until the end of the working day like the rest of us.’

‘Thanks for the analogy, sir.’

But for all that, Fiske’s irritation was carefully controlled. I’m on your side, said the knowing smile. We’re all lads in this together. Failing to realise that Mariner wasn’t together with anyone nor had he ever been.

The dressing-down complete, Mariner started towards the door. ‘I’ll take more care in future, sir.’ In more ways than one.

But Fiske hadn’t finished. ‘Talk me through this missing juvenile.’

Stupidly, Mariner mistook the command for interest. ‘Ricky Skeet, aged fifteen, went out yesterday morning but didn’t come home.’

‘Where’s home?’

‘Nansen Road. It’s on the—’

‘Oh, I know where that is.’

Mariner wasn’t surprised. Long and winding, Nansen Road took its name from the grim council housing estate through which it ran, and whose reputation was notorious. Built in the 60s when housing was cheap and shoddy, the development comprised rows of boxy white stucco houses, interspersed with more space-efficient low-rise flats and maisonettes. During the 70s, the local authority had made it their policy to rehouse ‘problem families’ on these estates, in the hope that they would learn from their more socially conscientious neighbours. Of course that wasn’t the direction in which the osmosis occurred. Instead, what had subsequently developed was a ghetto of problem families living alongside those like Colleen Skeet who couldn’t afford to move on. It was also one of the crime hot spots of the locality and it was clear that Fiske had already passed judgement.

‘Why wasn’t this just reported to the duty sergeant and passed to uniform?’ he asked.

‘I have a history with this family.’

‘Oh? Would that be personal or professional?’

Mariner hardened his voice. ‘Colleen Skeet’s former partner was violent. Over the years I got called to the house a number of times—’ Where he’d spent hours trying to persuade Colleen to go into a refuge. On one occasion he’d succeeded, but she hadn’t stayed long.

‘Was?’

‘Ronnie Skeet did everyone a favour and cleared off a couple of years ago, with another woman.’

‘And is that the sole basis for your relationship with this family?’ Mariner hesitated. ‘I can look up the case notes,’ Fiske reminded him.

‘The older girl has been in trouble: truanting, shoplifting, that kind of thing. She’s run away before, too.’

‘So. Not what you’d call a model family.’

‘Colleen’s had her share of problems over the years, yes, sir. She’s a woman on her own trying to raise her kids and keep them from being poisoned by the influences around them. It doesn’t make her a bad person. And I thought that was what we were here for, sir. To help people who are in trouble.’

‘Don’t lecture me, Mariner. Are we sure that this is a genuine disappearance?’

‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘Are we sure that this boy wants to be found?’

‘His mother wants him found. That’s why she came to me.’ Mariner made to leave. ‘And if there’s nothing else, sir, I need to get started on the risk assessment paperwork. ’

‘Someone else can do that. I need your expertise on something else.’
Expertise.
Good choice of word. Mariner should have been flattered. He wasn’t.

‘With respect, sir, this mother has approached me directly. I know the family and I think I’m the person best placed to—’

‘And as your superior officer I think
I’m
the person best placed to determine your priorities, don’t you think, Inspector?’

‘And they are?’

‘Another missing teenager.’ His face said that the irony wasn’t lost even on him. Christ. The OCU covered only one small area of the south of the city. What were the chances of two kids disappearing on their patch in the same day? ‘In this case it’s a seventeen-year-old girl,’ said Fiske. ‘I want you to handle it.’

Mariner had a premonition of a poisoned chalice heading his way. ‘But I’m already—’

‘Charlie Glover can take that on.’

‘So that I can look for another missing kid? That makes sense.’

‘Don’t play the smart arse with me, Mariner. It won’t do you any favours.’ Fiske’s voice was icy. ‘This case is not the same as Ricky Skeet.’

‘Oh, really,’ said Mariner, unconvinced.

‘I want you to follow it up. Consider it an order.’ The pulse at his temple throbbed dangerously.

‘Yes, sir.’ And fuck you, too.

Fiske handed Mariner a picture of a young Asian girl who smiled happily from a standard school portrait. She looked younger than seventeen and wore the uniform of the girls high school located in a middle-class residential area, several miles from Kings Rise Comprehensive where Ricky was a pupil. Middleham Road ran between the two, parallel to the Birmingham to Bristol railway line. The two kids were quite literally from opposite sides of the track. ‘Yasmin Akram,’ Fiske announced, importantly. ‘Last seen by her friends getting her train at Kingsmead Station yesterday afternoon to go home. It’s worth bearing in mind that her parents have some influence within the Asian community. I think you’ll find the risk assessment profile on this one rather more urgent.’

So that was how this one was different. Yasmin Akram had hit the jackpot. She was young, female and respectable middle class. At one time, being Asian might have counted against her, but not any more, not in the wake of the Macpherson report; the enquiry into police racism that had followed the bungled investigation into the murder of black student Stephen Lawrence. These days, being from a minority ethnic group could be a positive bonus. Mariner bit back his objections. On that score Fiske was right, it wouldn’t do him any good. The pretty teenager smiling up at him had to be found. She was young, vulnerable and at risk. It just didn’t meant that Ricky Skeet wasn’t.

‘Her parents, Shanila and Mohammed Raheem Akram, run an independent Islamic prep school, Allah T’ala, in Sparkhill,’ said Fiske. ‘And until we’ve established that this is a simple missing persons, we need to keep our options open.’

Mariner picked up the inference immediately. For months now, right-wing nationalist groups had been taking advantage of the public fears of Islamic fundamentalist terrorist incidents to stir up unrest, and in recent weeks a number of Islamic institutions had themselves been under attack - from the eighty-six mosques in the city to countless businesses, large and small. Muslim schools in the city were amongst the obvious targets, mainly because of the threat posed by their academic success.

‘If this does turn out to be politically sensitive,’ Fiske went on, ‘I need someone on it who knows what they’re doing and will cover all the angles right from the beginning. ’

Coming from Jack Coleman, that would have been a compliment, but Mariner wasn’t naive enough to take it as such from Fiske. The DCI was simply covering his own back. Mariner had the distinct impression that Fiske was out of his depth already. His previous posting in rural East Anglia had been poor preparation for a city as huge and socially complex as Birmingham. And while he’d probably read a few textbooks and attended a couple of seminars on equalities, Mariner doubted that Fiske would have any real grasp of the issues involved.

At the turn of the millennium, Birmingham had become the first European city to no longer have a single ethnic majority and Mariner had lost count of the number of minority groups that made up the million plus population. The whole spectrum of racial integration was represented, from communities that remained closed and self-sufficient, to those individuals whose physical characteristics were the only indication that their ancestors weren’t of Anglo-Saxon origin. Over the years, Mariner had worked with colleagues and members of the public from every background imaginable, but he still wouldn’t presume to understand all the subtle implications of living inside a different coloured skin.

Added to that were the infinite configurations of family life, regardless of culture or class. He also wondered how much the DCI understood about handling the press on a case as potentially high profile as this. If Yasmin’s disappearance should turn out to be racially motivated, then they would be eager to join the dots and draw their own conclusions.

Fiske buzzed through to his PA. ‘Is WPC Khatoon here yet?’ In response, the door opened and a young Asian woman came in. Almost matching Mariner for height she was generously proportioned, and Mariner was reminded of how unflattering the police uniform could sometimes be.

‘This is Jamilla Khatoon, a family liaison officer who’s going to be on loan to us from Operational Command Unit 2,’ said Fiske. ‘She’ll be working with you on this for obvious reasons. Jamilla, this is DI Mariner.’

He didn’t hang about, did he? As they shook hands, Jamilla’s expression was guarded and Mariner was left wondering how Fiske had prepared her for this introduction. Mariner forced a smile. ‘Nice to meet you, Jamilla.’

Her tentative smile stretched to one that was broad and white. ‘It’s Millie, sir.’

‘OK.’

‘I want you to keep this low key,’ Fiske intervened. ‘Just the two of you on the preliminaries until we know what’s going on. Talk to the family, friends, the usual. If this does develop into anything, we’re going to have the media and the politicians crawling all over us. So let’s get it cleared up quickly and cleanly, whatever it takes.’ Then if I do screw up, at least not too many people will know about it, Mariner tacked on, in his head. It was Fiske’s dismissing remark.

Mariner seethed with resentment on the walk down to his office. For the second time that day he was leaving an encounter feeling manipulated. First Anna and now Fiske, working him like a puppet on a string.

Although there was a strong possibility that Fiske could be right, he resented the dismissal of Ricky Skeet’s disappearance as routine, and entirely down to the kind of home life the kid had. Never mind that he was bright. He didn’t stand a chance. Colleen wasn’t going to like this one little bit. Added to that was the clumsy assumption that as a white, male officer, Mariner needed help to handle the Akrams. He’d be the first to admit that he was far from being an expert on Asian conventions, but the initial interviews would be standard stuff, establishing the facts. This was far too much too soon.

‘Congratulations on being hand-picked by Mr Fiske,’ he said to Millie, not without sarcasm. ‘The press would have a field day with this: prejudicial use of resources so early on. We haven’t even filled out the risk assessment yet.’

‘With respect, I’m not sure that it’s—’

‘How long have you been in the job, Millie?’ Mariner ploughed on.

‘Just over a year, sir.’

‘Something you might want to remember. If you want the police and media to sit up and take notice when you disappear, you’d better be female and from a “good” family. Don’t ever be male and from a broken home, with a dodgy dad, like Ricky Skeet, because then the media aren’t interested and the police won’t give a fuck.’

‘Girls are more vulnerable,’ Millie pointed out.

‘Which doesn’t means that boys aren’t,’ Mariner replied, with feeling.

‘No, sir. Who’s Ricky Skeet?’ Millie asked.

‘He’s another kid who disappeared yesterday. I know the family so his mum contacted me. I’ve just been pulled off it. Not a good use of an inspector’s time, as he’s probably only a runaway. No fanfare of trumpets or special resources for Ricky Skeet, but then he’s the wrong kind of MisPer.’

‘I’m sure the officer it goes to will give it his best shot.’

‘The officer it’s gone to doesn’t know the family and is up to his neck in other unsolveds.’

‘And you’re not? Sir?’

Said so innocently, Mariner couldn’t help but smile. ‘Let’s get a drink, Millie. And then we’ll see who knows anything.’

 

Fresh-faced PC Robbie Thorne knew more than anyone, having been the uniformed constable who responded to the initial missing persons call for Yasmin Akram. Summoned to Mariner’s airless office, he sat down to form the apex of a human triangle with Mariner and Millie, and read from his notebook.

‘Yasmin was last seen yesterday afternoon at around four thirty, when she left the girls school with a group of friends to go home,’ Thorne said. ‘She took her usual route: travelling three stops on the train to the university station where she gets off and walks several streets to her house. She was last seen by the friends, running for the train at Kingsmead.’

‘And no one’s heard from her since?’

Thorne shook his head. ‘She carries a mobile, which as far as we know is working, but she hasn’t used it. That’s partly why nobody was panicking at first. She wasn’t even reported missing until this morning.’

‘After she’d been gone all night?’ said Mariner.

‘The father is away and the mother thought she’d gone to stay with a friend. It wasn’t until the school called her this morning to say that Yasmin hadn’t turned up that she realised that wasn’t the case. That’s when she contacted us.’