Liz Carlyle - 06 - Rip Tide (10 page)

‘So how does someone like Amir end up in Somalia?’

Fontana had clearly thought about this before. He said, ‘I think they go through a sort of identity crisis. All this Western culture is only skin-deep with them; a lot of these kids don’t feel they can ever truly be English, and once they realise that, they feel alienated both from their parents and from this country and Western culture as a whole. Most of them don’t share the same work ethic as their parents; without that, they’re very vulnerable to the concept of a cause. Enter the extremist imams.’

They turned off the Stratford Road, on to a residential avenue that led gently uphill. ‘This used to be all Irish a century ago,’ said Fontana. ‘Then after the war immigrants from the Caribbean lived here. But for the last thirty years it’s been Asian. Lots of small businesses – people like the Khans, just trying to get ahead.’

He turned the car again, and they drove up a street of small Victorian terraced houses with little front gardens behind low walls. The street looked to be in good order – the houses freshly painted, the windows clean, dustbins neatly lined up in the front gardens – but when Fontana pulled over to park outside a house in the middle of the terrace, Liz was surprised.

He saw her expression and laughed. ‘Don’t be fooled. Mr Khan could buy half this street, but it’s not his style. He’d never want to leave this neighbourhood – most of his extended family live within a quarter of a mile of here, and all his friends. You’ll never find him in a mock-Tudor villa out in the suburbs.’

Fontana’s knock on the half-glazed front door was answered by a small fierce-looking man, who seemed to be in his sixties. His hair was white, and his black, sharply trimmed moustache was speckled with grey. His self-important demeanour made it clear that he was the lord of this particular manor.

‘Hello, Mr Khan, very nice to see you again. This is Miss Forrester from the Home Office. I told you she’d be coming along.’

Khan nodded curtly, and led them into the front room. The heavy gold curtains were pulled back, but the windows facing the street were covered by dense lace nets. A small woman was sitting, slightly hunched, on a maroon sofa. ‘My wife,’ said Khan, waving a hand towards her. She nodded but did not get up. Mrs Khan was wearing a brown
salwar kameez
and a woollen cardigan; her head was almost covered by an embroidered shawl.

Liz and Fontana sat down in the pair of armchairs that faced the sofa. Mr Khan remained standing, and said to Fontana, ‘Now, officer, what is all this about?’

Liz replied, ‘I’ve come to see you about your son.’

‘Which son?’ asked Khan sharply.

‘Amir,’ said Liz. ‘I want to talk to you about Amir.’

Mrs Khan lifted up her head and looked at Liz, her face a mask of concern. ‘Is Amir . . . ?’

‘He’s fine,’ said Liz soothingly. ‘I’ve seen him myself. He’s in good health.’

Mr Khan was now sitting on the sofa beside his wife. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded, looking pointedly at Fontana. This is a man constantly on the brink of losing his temper, thought Liz. And he’s not used to being questioned by a woman.

She continued, ‘I am afraid that he is being held by the French authorities in a prison in Paris. He may be extradited to the UK – or possibly not. That’s still up in the air.’

‘What has he done?’

‘He was part of an attempt to hijack a cargo ship off the Horn of Africa. We believe he had been living in Somalia.’

For the first time Mr Khan seemed at a loss for words. He sank back against the sofa cushions and exhaled noisily. Liz said, ‘When I talked to him, he said that he’d ended up there by accident, that he’d been press-ganged into helping a crew of pirates. He’s being held in France because the French Navy arrested him – they stopped the pirates from seizing the ship.’

Mr Khan latched on to his son’s explanation greedily. ‘He’s a good boy. I would believe him if I were you.’

‘We’re not sure what to think, Mr Khan. The first thing we’d like to establish is how your son got to Somalia.’

Mr Khan was silent. Liz noticed he didn’t look at his wife.

‘When did you last hear from Amir, Mr Khan?’ Fontana interjected gently.

He said stiffly, ‘Amir went to Pakistan last year. He was working for a relation of my wife’s. The last letter we had from him was in . . .’ He paused, and for the first time looked over at his wife, as if asking for confirmation. He’s lying, Liz suddenly sensed.

The door to the sitting room opened then and a young woman appeared. She looked to be about twenty or so and was strikingly beautiful, with thick black hair that flowed over the shoulders of the rose-pink embroidered
kameez
she wore over wide white trousers.

Mr Khan looked up angrily. ‘Tahira, why aren’t you at the shop?’

‘You know we close early on Tuesdays, Papa,’ she said. ‘Besides, when Mama said the police were coming, I wanted to hear if there was news of Amir.’ Seeing her mother’s expression, she hesitated. ‘Is he . . . ?’

‘He’s alive and well,’ Liz said firmly. She wanted to keep Mr Khan from dismissing his daughter, who seemed more likely to speak her mind than his submissive wife.

The girl’s eyes lit up. ‘Where is he? Is he coming home?’

‘Tahira, go to your room—’ Mr Khan started to command her, but Liz interrupted. ‘He’s in France.’ She explained again about Amir’s arrest in the Indian Ocean, adding, ‘We’re trying to understand how he got from Pakistan to Somalia. To be honest, what your brother’s told us doesn’t make sense. We don’t know how he got to Africa.’

‘I thought he was in Athens,’ said Tahira.

‘Athens?’ Fontana and Liz said simultaneously.

Tahira looked at her father, who seemed to have given up any attempt to send her away. He shrugged, stony-faced. Tahira said, ‘Father, didn’t you tell them?’

‘Tel them what?’ Fontana asked firmly.

Liz almost felt sorry for the girl, who seemed bewildered. Tahira looked at Liz and, finding sympathy in her expression, said, ‘He sent us a postcard from Athens. Said he was working there.’ She looked again at her father, but his face remained blank. It was as if he had wiped his hands of any responsibility for his son, having made the obligatory attempt to protect him. Doubtless, if sufficiently provoked, he would wipe his hands of Tahira too.

‘Did he say where he was going next?’ Liz pressed her.

‘He said he was working until he had saved enough money to come home.’ Realising suddenly this must have been the last thing Amir had in mind, his sister faltered and stopped talking, on the verge of tears.

Mr Khan suddenly erupted. ‘Tahira, that’s enough! Go to your room.’

Shaking her head, she said, ‘I knew Amir should not have changed mosques.’

‘Tahira . . .’ her father said warningly.

Liz held up a hand to silence him. ‘Which mosque did he attend?’ she asked the girl.

‘The New Springfield,’ Tahira managed to say, and then broke down, sobbing. Her mother stood up and put her arms round her. Mr Khan sat mute on the sofa with his arms crossed. It was obvious to Liz that she wasn’t going to get anything more out of the family on this visit.

Outside, Fontana sighed. ‘I should have warned you about Mr Khan.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m just glad Tahira showed up.’

‘What would you like me to do?’  The DI seemed younger now, not quite so confident.

‘Stay in touch with the Khans and keep your ear to the ground. If you hear anything about Amir, let me know. I’ll keep you posted with any news of what the French do with him so you can keep the Khans informed.

‘If you can find out who Amir’s friends are, that would be helpful. But stay clear of the New Springfield Mosque. We’ve got a source there and we don’t want to queer his pitch.’

‘OK. It’s not far from here, you know. In fact, it’s just two streets away,’ Fontana added. ‘Would you like to see it?’

‘Yes, I would,’ said Liz. ‘I think everything that’s happened to Amir is going to turn out to have links back to that place.’

The mosque stood on the intersection of a residential street and a wider thoroughfare of shops. It was a large, squat, two-storey building of red brick that must have been built in the thirties. It had a row of small-paned windows along its façade and, above an ugly flight of concrete steps, an entrance comprising two sets of double swing doors.

As they passed the building the doors suddenly burst open and a stream of Asian men emerged, obviously having just finished prayers. A few wore T-shirts and jeans, but most of them were in robes or white shirts and cotton trousers and with embroidered skullcaps on their heads. Several stopped to smoke and chat on the front steps.

Liz and Fontana walked on, and at the next corner the policeman looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got an appointment back in the centre of town. I’ll drop you at New Street on the way.’

‘Birmingham International station is closer, isn’t it? I can take a taxi there.’

‘Would you mind?’ He pointed in the direction of where he had parked, a couple of streets away. ‘Let’s go back to the car and I’ll drop you on the Stratford Road.’

But Liz wanted to get the feel of the neighbourhood. ‘I’ll walk down – the fresh air will do me good.’

‘You sure?’ When she nodded, Fontana said, ‘If you have any problem finding a taxi, there’s a minicab office on the corner.’

‘Great. Thanks for all your help. I may need to come and see the Khans again. And if I do,’ she added with a grin, ‘I’ll want you to come with me.’

Fontana laughed. ‘Old Khan hasn’t much time for women. Not those in authority anyway.’

‘It’s Tahira I’d really like to talk to. If you can, find out how I could meet her alone. I don’t get the feeling Mr Khan knows much about the company his son was keeping before he left – but I bet she does.’

Chapter 14

Liz turned left at the corner and started to walk down the gently sloping street towards the Stratford Road. Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned and saw two young Asian men about thirty feet away, walking fast so as to catch up with her. They were both bearded, and neatly dressed in pressed jeans and T-shirts. One of them, the taller of the pair, was wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap. He grinned at her, and Liz smiled back then continued walking.

‘Are you Fontana’s girlfriend?’ one of them called out.

Liz stopped and turned around to face the two men. The taller one was grinning again; his sidekick, short but stocky, wasn’t smiling at all – his expression was grim and tight-lipped.

‘Or are you a cop too?’ the tall one in the cap said. They were only a few feet away now, and both stood still, watching Liz.

‘What do you want?’ she asked sharply. She gave a quick look round, but the street was empty.

‘What do
you
want is more like it. What are you and the cop doing checking out the mosque?’

‘What I’m doing is none of your business.’ Liz turned on her heel and started walking again. Ahead she could see the traffic on the Stratford Road, but it was several hundred yards away. There was still no one else on the street, and no passing cars.

She sensed the men move behind her, and then suddenly there was one on either side of her. Keep calm, she told herself as she kept walking.

‘I don’t think you’re a cop,’ offered the tall one, only now he wasn’t smiling. ‘I think you’re from MI5. Am I right?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Liz, hoping that by answering she could buy herself some time. There was an unmistakable sense of menace in the way the men were crowding in on either side of her. Then the shorter, heavy-set man on the street side of the pavement put his hand around her left wrist.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she said, her voice rising sharply. She twisted out of his grasp, but suddenly the man in the baseball cap man grabbed her other arm and twisted it sharply up behind her back. His grip was like steel.

To slow the men down she stumbled deliberately, hoping to break the iron grip on her arm. She tilted her head up to one side, and shouted as loud as she could: ‘Help!’

The shorter man grabbed her hair and jerked hard, pulling her head back. The pain was excruciating. She tried to dig her heels in, but now they were half-pushing, half-towing her by both arms. Ahead, a narrow alley led off the street and she suddenly felt sure they were planning to force her up it, out of sight of any passersby, and then she’d be completely at their mercy. They reached the entrance to the alley, the men still holding tightly on to her, and as they turned, pulling her with them, Liz suddenly tripped over a pile of rubble and fell to one side, dragging the man in the cap down with her. He let go of her wrist for a moment but the shorter man crowded in from her left, reaching for her arm to pull her up.

It was then Liz made her move. Standing up, she spread the first two fingers of her freed right hand and jabbed them viciously into the eyes of the smaller man. As he began to howl in pain she swung her elbow back ferociously into the groin of the tall man in the Yankees cap, who was still off balance. Then she turned away and ran into the street, where a car was driving slowly along from the direction of the Stratford Road. She stood in front of the oncoming vehicle, hands held up to force it to stop. She saw the startled face of the driver, a middle-aged Sikh in a turban, as he hit the brakes. His little car skidded once, twice, then stopped with a squeal of its tyres about three inches from Liz.