Dead Right (12 page)

“Anyone hurt?”

“Mrs Mahmood, sir. She was undressing for bed at the time. The brick missed her head by several inches, but a long sliver of glass broke free and sliced into her upper arm. She was bleeding pretty badly when her husband hurried her to Eastvale General. It took fourteen stitches, and the doctor insisted they call the police.”

“They weren’t going to?”

“They were reluctant, sir,” Susan said. “Her husband said it would only cost them time and trouble, and they didn’t expect any results in return. Apparently, this kind of thing had happened before, when they ran the shop in Bradford, and nobody ever did anything about it.”

“Well, this isn’t bloody Bradford,” said Gristhorpe. “Any leads?”

“They’d had a customer, a teenage girl, earlier in the day who complained about getting the wrong change. When Mrs Mahmood insisted she was right, the girl swept the newspapers and sweets off the counter and stalked out. We finally tracked her down, but she was in Penrith by the time of the incident. After that, nothing.”

“Could it have been Jason Fox, given his views on immigrants?”

“I suppose so,” Susan said. “It happened about half past ten on a Saturday night, and we know Jason came to Eastvale on weekends. But we didn’t know that then. I mean, we’d no reason to suspect him. And George Mahmood couldn’t have known it was him.”

“Couldn’t he? Maybe he had his suspicions. Maybe he even
saw
him. But you’re right, we should avoid too much speculation at this point. Perhaps you should have another word with Jason’s family, Susan, see if they’re a bit more forthcoming. After that, you can try the Mahmoods again, then the Nazurs at the Himalaya, see if they can tell you anything else about what happened on Saturday night.” He looked at his watch, then smiled at Susan. “Time it right, lass, and you might be at the Himalaya just around lunch- time.”

Hatchley laughed, and Susan blushed.

“That just about covers it.” Gristhorpe rubbed his bristly chin. “But wherever we go,” he said, “we tread carefully. On eggs. Remember that. Chief Constable Riddle is taking a personal interest in this case.” He cleared his throat. “By the way, he apologized for not being with us this morning.”

Banks overheard Hatchley whisper to Susan Gay, “Breakfast television.”

Gristhorpe ignored them. “What we’ve all got to bear in mind at this point,” he said, “is that while this case looked simple at first, things have changed. It’s got a lot more complicated. And however odious a character Jason Fox is beginning to sound, remember, he didn’t get a chance to fight back. That’s voluntary manslaughter, at the very least, and more than likely it’s murder. And don’t forget, we’ve got all the ingredients of a racial incident here, too: white victim; handy Asian suspects picked up, interrogated and locked in the cells overnight. When you add to that the fact that Jason Fox was a racist, George Mahmood is busy exploring his Muslim roots and Asim Nazur’s dad is a pillar of the community, then you’ve got a powder-keg, and I don’t want it going off on my patch, Jimmy Riddle or no Jimmy Riddle. Now let’s get to it.”

II

It was quicker to walk to the Leaview Estate than to drive around Eastvale’s confusing one-way system, so Susan nipped out of the fire-exit and took the winding cobbled streets behind the police station down to King Street. She passed the infirmary, then the Gothic pile of Eastvale Comprehensive on the right, with its turrets, clock and bell tower, and the weedy, overgrown rec on her left before entering the Leaview Estate. The weather was overcast today, windy, too, with occasional drizzle, but at least it wasn’t cold.

The Foxes’ garden looked less impressive in the dull light, Susan thought as she rang the doorbell, yet the roses still seemed to burn with an inner glow of their own. She felt like picking one to take home, but she didn’t. That wouldn’t look good at all. She could just see the headlines: PoliceWoman Steals Prize Roses From Grieving Family. Jimmy Riddle would just love that. His pate would turn scarlet. And bang would go her promotion.

Josie Fox had her hair tied back today, and her face looked pale and drawn, lips bloodless without make-up. She was wearing a baggy olive jumper and black jeans.

“Oh, it’s you. Come in,” she said listlessly, standing aside.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Susan said, following her into the living-room. “But I have a few more questions.”

“Of course. Sit down.”

Susan sat. Josie Fox followed suit, folding her long legs under her. She massaged the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger.

“Where’s your husband today?” Susan asked.

She sighed. “Steven’s at work. I told him not to go in, but he said he’d be better off with something to do rather than just being stuck in the house all day. I can’t say I’m not glad to see the back of him for a few hours. I couldn’t face going in, myself. My daughter’s come down from Newcastle to stay with us, so I’m not alone.”

“Is she in at the moment?”

“Upstairs, yes. Why?”

“Will you call her down, please?”

Josie Fox frowned, then shrugged and went to the bottom of the stairs to call. A minute or so later, Maureen Fox joined them. Susan’s first impression was of a rather bossy, probably very fastidious sort of girl. She was attractive, too, in a sort of bouncy blonde, healthy, athletic way, with a trim figure that looked good in the tight jeans she wore, and symmetrical features, plump red lips, a creamy complexion.

Though Maureen Fox was obviously grieving, there was still a kind of energy emanating from her that she couldn’t hide; it showed itself in the way her foot kept tapping on the floor, or one leg jerked when she crossed them; in her constant shifts of position, as if she were uncomfortable no matter how she sat. Susan wondered if Jason had been at all like her. Probably not, if Susan’s own family were anything to go by: her brother the stockbroker, who could do no wrong, and her sister the solicitor, apple of her father’s eye. Susan had nothing in common with either of them, and sometimes she thought she must have been a changeling.

“Why did you let them go?” Josie asked. “You had them in jail, the ones who did it, and you let them go.”

“We don’t know that they did it,” Susan said. “And we can’t just keep people locked up indefinitely without evidence.”

“It’s because they’re coloured, isn’t it? That’s why you had to let them go. It would’ve been different if you thought Jason had killed one of
them,
wouldn’t it?”

“Mother!” Maureen cut in.

“Oh, Maureen. Don’t be so naïve. Everybody knows what it’s like these days. The authorities bend over backwards to help immigrants. You ought to know that, being in nursing. It’s all opportunities for ethnics, not for decent, hard-working white folks. Look what happened to your dad.”

“What did happen to Mr Fox?” Susan asked.

“Oh,” said Maureen, with a flick of her head, “Dad got passed over for promotion. Blamed it on some Asian bloke.”

“I see. Well, you’re right in a way, Mrs Fox,” Susan went on, looking at Josie. “The police
do
have to be very careful about how they treat people these days, especially visible minorities. We try to handle everyone the same way, no matter what colour they are.” She knew it was eyewash. In the overall scheme of things, racism, along with sexism, was alive and thriving in the police forces of the nation. But, damn it, that was what
she
tried to do. “In this case, though,” she went on, “we simply have no evidence yet to connect the suspects to the crime. No witnesses. No physical evidence. Nothing.”

“Does that mean they didn’t do it?” Josie asked.

“It raises doubts,” said Susan. “That’s all. I’m afraid I can’t say any more about it at the moment.”

“You haven’t given up, have you?”

“Certainly not. We’re investigating a number of leads. That’s why I’m here.” She paused. “I’m afraid we turned up a couple of disturbing facts about your son.”

Josie Fox frowned. “Disturbing? Like what?”

“Did you know about Jason’s racist views?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he never talk about his opinions to you?”

“He never really talked about anything much,” she said. “Especially not these past few years.”

“Were you aware of what he thought about Asians and blacks?”

“Well,” said Josie Fox, “let’s put it this way. I knew he had some opinions that might be unpopular, you know, about foreigners,
immigrants and such, but I wouldn’t say they were particularly extreme. Lots of people think the way Jason does and it doesn’t make them racists.”

That was a new one on Susan: having racist views doesn’t make you a racist? “Did Jason ever mention belonging to any sort of an organization?” she asked. “A group of like-minded people?”

It was Maureen Fox who broke the silence. “No. Jason never mentioned it, but he did. Belong to a group, that is. We only found out about it yesterday.”

“Maureen!”

“Oh, Mother. Jason was a creep and you know it. That’s why he could never keep a girlfriend. I don’t care if I am speaking ill of the dead. I could never stomach him even when he was at school back in Halifax. All his talk about bloody racial purity making the country great again. It made me want to puke. It was those skins he hung around with at school, you know, them and their masters, the ones who prey on schoolkids in depressed areas. You should have done something, you and Dad.”

“Like what?” Josie Fox beseeched her. “What could we have done to change him?”

“How do I know what you should have done? But you’re his parents. You should have done
something
.” She turned to Susan. “Yesterday we went to visit my granddad,” she said. “He showed us a pamphlet he thought Jason had sent him in the post. He was very upset about it.”

“The Albion League?”

“You know?”

Susan nodded. “Your grandfather told DCI Banks yesterday evening.”

Maureen looked at her mother. “There. I told you Granddad wouldn’t be able to keep it to himself.” She turned to Susan. “Mum thought we should keep it in the family, to protect the family name, but …” She shrugged. “Well, the cat’s out of the bag now, isn’t it?”

“I still don’t see what this has to do with anything,” Josie Fox protested. “Now you’re making out my Jason was the villain, but he was the victim. Are you suggesting those boys might have killed him because of his beliefs?”

“Could they have known?”

“What do you mean?”

Susan paused for a moment, then continued softly, “Jason wasn’t here very often, Mrs Fox. He didn’t put down roots, didn’t get to know people. Could those boys have known about him, about what he … believed?”

“They could have found out somehow, I suppose. They’re Asians, so I suppose they have their own gangs, their own networks, don’t they? Maybe he did talk to one of them, that one in the shop.”

“Do you know if he ever shopped there?”

“I don’t know, but he might have done. It’s not far away, especially if you go to the bus stop down on Cardigan Drive.”

“But Jason had a car.”

“Doesn’t mean he never took the bus, does it? Anyway, all I’m saying is he
might
have gone in the shop. It wasn’t far away. That’s all.”

“Do you remember about a month ago, when someone threw a brick—”

“Now, wait a minute,” said Josie. “You’re not going to blame that on our Jason. Oh, no. Be nice and easy for you, that, wouldn’t it, blaming a crime on someone who can’t answer for himself, just so you can make your crime figures look better, write it off your books.”

Susan took a deep breath. “That’s not my intention, Mrs Fox. I’m trying to establish a link between Jason and George Mahmood, if there is one. Given Jason’s feelings about Asians, it doesn’t seem entirely beyond the realm of possibility that he chucked the brick and George knew about it.”

“Well, you’ll never know, will you?”

Susan sighed. “Perhaps not. Do you know if Jason gave out any of those pamphlets to anyone on the estate?”

Josie Fox shook her head. “I shouldn’t think so. No, I’m fairly certain he didn’t. I’d have heard about it.”

I’ll bet you would, Susan thought. “Did any of Jason’s colleagues ever call here?”

“I told you the other day. No. We didn’t know his friends.” For a moment, Susan had imagined a scene like the one in the Krays’
east London home, the boys upstairs planning murder and mayhem while good old mum comes in with a tray of tea and biscuits, beaming at them. Obviously not. “You’d almost think he was ashamed of us,” Josie Fox added.

“Or of them,” said Susan. “Look, he was seen drinking with this lad in The Jubilee on Saturday night.” She turned to face Maureen again and showed her the picture. “We’re trying to trace him. He might be able to help us find out what happened. Have you ever seen Jason with anyone like that?”

Maureen shook her head. “No.”

“Mrs Fox?”

“No.”

“You told us Jason was working at a plastics factory in Leeds. Did you know that he left there two years ago, that he was asked to leave because of his racist views?”

Josie Fox’s jaw dropped and she could only shake her head slowly, eyes disbelieving. Even Maureen paled.

“Do you know where he went after that?” Susan pressed on.

“No,” said Mrs Fox, her voice flat, defeated. “As far as we knew that’s where he worked.”

“Did he ever mention anything about studying computers?”

“Not to me, no.”

“Do you know where Jason lived in Leeds?”

“I gave you the address.”

Susan shook her head. “He hasn’t been living there in eighteen months. He moved to Rawdon. Did you never visit him?”

Again, she shook her head. “No. How could we? We were both working during the week. Jason, too. Besides, he came to visit us at weekends.”

“Did you never telephone him?”

“No. He said it was a shared telephone, out on the landing, and the people in the other flats didn’t like to be disturbed. He’d usually ring us if he wanted to tell us he was coming up.”

“What about at work?”

“No. His boss didn’t like it. Jason would always ring us. I don’t understand. This is all … Why didn’t he tell us?”

“I don’t know, Mrs Fox,” said Susan.