Tell No Tales (20 page)

There was a brief return to the studio then they cut away to a street Zigic recognised, London Road, near the Peacock pub. Richard Shotton in a grey overcoat, standing in front of a billboard bearing a blown-up version of himself, the English Patriot Party logo looming large.

Zigic closed the screen before he started talking.

‘Just do what you can please, Nicola. As soon as I’ve got something I’ll let you know.’

‘Make sure you do,’ she said. ‘And, orders from above, there’s a vigil this afternoon at three on the cathedral green, you should be there.’

‘We’re in the middle of an investigation.’

‘This is coming from the Chief. Take it up with him if your schedule’s too hectic.’

Wahlia knocked on the open door. ‘We’ve got an ID on the victim.’

He ended the call and followed Wahlia back to his desk, saw the young man’s file open on his computer screen.

Asif Khalid. He was twenty years old, boyish-looking with a slim, fine-boned face and black hair voguishly cut and carefully styled, a diamond stud in his right ear, wearing a pink polo shirt with the collar turned up. He stood a little under five six by the lines on the wall behind his head, but he had a short man’s air of studied insouciance which the situation hadn’t wiped away.

‘What was he arrested for?’

‘Speeding,’ Wahlia said. ‘A lot of it.’

‘Did he do any damage?’

‘No, he just seemed to like duelling police cars.’

He was only a kid. Stupid and cocky but who wasn’t at that age? Zigic thought. He probably imagined he’d die behind the wheel, harboured some boy-racer fantasy of topping 220 in a gleaming super-car. Music pounding, machine gliding, then a sudden swerve, a crash and a fireball and instant, painless death in a spectacular blaze of glory.

What he got was a commonplace exit, dying half in the gutter under the boots of a pair of fascist thugs.

‘Was he local?’ Zigic asked.

‘Yeah, he lived on Gladstone Street,’ Wahlia said, scrolling down his file. ‘Guess he was on his way home, got jumped.’

‘Alright, I’d better go and break the news.’

Ferreira looked up from her computer. ‘Do you want me to come with?’

‘No, stick with what you’re doing.’ He grabbed his parka from the hook. ‘Keep me updated.’

25

THE CITY CENTRE
was quiet despite the lure of the shopping centre and the Saturday market. The bright spring sunshine was beating down on the ugly 1970s buildings, unbroken by clouds. He’d had a vague notion of pottering in the garden today, clear some of the rubbish from the flower beds, mow the lawn, turn the compost heap. Anna had bought a swing for the boys which needed putting together, he was going to fix it to the gnarled old chestnut tree in the back, but that would have to wait.

Zigic turned onto Bright Street, passing the car park which had been filled with gawkers last night but now only held a few cars. In the far corner a team of men in a white van had their ladders propped against the billboard overlooking Cromwell Road, covering an old, heavily graffitied advert for home insurance with one for payday loans.

Forensics had been and gone and now a yellow street sweeper was trundling along between the parked cars, driven by a man with thick, blond dreadlocks and mirrored Aviators. It gathered up the thrown cans and the broken glass, the shreds of clothing ripped away during the riot and the ephemera which had spilled out of pockets. Anything which forensics had deemed unworthy of pursuing. A strand of striped police tape fluttered into its path and snagged in the brushes, trailing like a banner.

Zigic followed the one-way system up Cromwell Road and past the Faizan-e-Madina Mosque, the sunlight glinting off the building’s arched windows. A small group of men were standing talking at the gate and he noticed Mr Shahzad among them, leaning on his walking stick, listening patiently.

He turned onto Gladstone Street. It was narrow, single-lane, the terraced houses in various states of disrepair behind their low front walls, a patchwork of buff brick, pebble-dash and grey paint, double yellow lines up both sides but a few cars were parked on the kerb, hazard warning lights flashing. More men walking home from morning prayers, women with kids in tow, weighed down with shopping bags.

The street hadn’t changed much since his grandparents lived there in the late fifties. It was the first stop for new migrants and across the years the Slavs and Italians had given way to people from India and Pakistan, still the majority in the area. The most recent arrivals from Eastern Europe were making their presence felt on the neighbouring streets, opening cafes and beauty salons, but they hadn’t reached Gladstone Street, and as he slowed, checking the house numbers, he passed shops selling Islamic books and clothing, halal butchers and grocers with crates of fruit and veg on trestle tables, shaded by striped canopies, a bakery with its windows open, filling the air with a warm, sweet smell.

It was the kind of place a right-wing extremist would want to strike at, Zigic thought, slowing to let a woman in a niqab cross the road ahead of him. This was exactly what the ENL were raging against, with their dialogue of cultural dilution and restoring traditional English values.

They were easy to shrug off as harmless cranks, only interested in getting together in scuzzy pubs to talk about a revolution they would never manage to provoke, more likely to fight among themselves than raise a concerted attack on the minorities they were so opposed to.

But all it took was one man more committed than the rest.

Or two.

He pulled up outside Asif Khalid’s house. It was the same as all the others, painted white but grubby from exhaust fumes, one window up, one window down, a plastic front door with a patterned glass panel, a concrete standing with the bins lined up and a small trough with a few bulbs about to flower. The Victorian-style light next to the front door was still on and as he rang the bell he thought of the people inside, leaving it on for when Asif rolled in, not wanting him to come home to darkness.

A young woman in jeans and a linen tunic opened the door, hair tied back from a round face and a feather duster in her hand.

‘Miss Khalid?’

‘Mrs Khalid,’ she said, eyeing him suspiciously, moving slightly, ready to slam the door shut. ‘What do you want?’

‘Detective Inspector Zigic,’ he said, showing her his identification. ‘I’m sorry, but do you think I could come in?’

‘Is this about Asif?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t tell me he’s been arrested again.’ She shook her head. ‘I told him he couldn’t keep driving without his licence. Does he listen to me? Does he hell. Now he’ll lose his job –’

‘Mrs Khalid, he hasn’t been arrested,’ Zigic said softly. ‘Please, can we discuss this inside?’

He followed her into the living room and she sat down on the cream leather sofa, threw the duster into an armchair, large brown eyes fixed on him, tears already springing up.

‘What’s going on?’

‘I’m sorry, there’s no good way to tell you this –’

‘No.’

‘Asif was attacked last night –’

She pressed her face into her hands. ‘Is he – he’s not dead? Please. He can’t be dead.’

‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid he was killed.’

‘Why? Was it a robbery?’

‘No,’ Zigic said, feeling useless, standing there in her neat pillar-box-red living room, unable to do anything to help, knowing there was nothing he could say or do to soothe the pain on her face. ‘We’ve arrested the man who did it. He’s in custody.’

She cried quietly, shoulders shaking, her arms wrapped around her middle. He asked if there was anyone he could call for her and she shook her head. Asked if she’d like a family liaison officer to come round, was told no. And what would they do anyway? he thought. Make her tea, explain the slow, horrific process she would have to face, the trial and media intrusion.

He went into the kitchen at the back of the house, all gleaming chrome surfaces and black tiles, the washing machine humming to itself behind a cupboard. He gave her a couple of minutes alone, looking out across their small garden where a tabby cat was sunning itself on the decking, thinking of how this would change things.

Didi’s and Ali Manouf’s murders had gone largely ignored, no community to speak for them, nobody to vent a righteous fury that they had been killed so brutally, so casually. But Asif Khalid had a young wife, likely parents and siblings in Peterborough, and they would demand the men responsible were caught. Both of them, not just the sullen thug currently eating his breakfast in a cell at Thorpe Wood Station, gathering his strength for another round of one-sided interrogation.

They would want blood. And Zigic couldn’t blame them.

By now it was likely that word of the second attacker was out, circulated at morning prayers, shared across the counters of the local shops. The presence of the ENL at the crime scene too. Reprisals were a definite possibility. Something the ENL might welcome, stir up even, to make themselves look like victims. It was a well-worn tactic of theirs, good for drumming up support.

He poured a glass of water and returned to the living room. Mrs Khalid took it from him, her hand shaking, but didn’t drink.

‘Can I see him?’

‘Asif was beaten quite badly.’

‘I don’t care, I want to see him.’

Zigic squatted down in front of her. ‘Mrs Khalid, it really wouldn’t be wise. Asif sustained serious injuries. Multiple, serious injuries to his face and head. I’m afraid he is no longer recognisable.’

She straightened. ‘Then it might not be him.’

‘We’ve matched his fingerprints. I’m sorry, it’s definitely your husband.’

The glass slipped from her hand and bounced on the thick carpet, water splashing across her bare feet, soaking Zigic’s jeans.

‘I don’t understand why this happened,’ she said. ‘Why him? Asif was a good man, he didn’t drink, he didn’t start fights with people. Why would anybody want to hurt him?’

Zigic righted the glass, retreated to the armchair opposite her.

‘The man responsible didn’t know Asif. At least we don’t believe he did at this stage. It’s highly likely he targeted Asif purely because of his skin colour.’

She swore under her breath. ‘But you’ve arrested him.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you can prove it was him?’

‘We’ve got solid witnesses, Mrs Khalid. He’s not going anywhere.’

She asked no more questions and after a couple of minutes’ silence, with only the sound of the cat flap banging in the kitchen and the laughter of children out on the street, he realised there was nothing else he could say to her.

He gave her his card as he left, told her that if she had any questions, if she needed anything, she could call him. She nodded and retreated into the house, closed the door and switched off the light glowing next to it.

26

THEY STOOD IN
front of the forty-six-inch flat screen, Shotton, Selby and Marshall, who was no longer watching it, focused instead on his iPad. Like Google could give him the name of the man they were looking for if he knew exactly how to phrase the question.

It wasn’t a matter of how you phrased it, Shotton knew, but who you asked.

He dialled Ken Poulter’s number and when he answered said, ‘I need a taxi at my place. Immediately.’ Hung up without waiting for a reply.

Sky News was playing the same two minutes of footage on a loop, concentrating on the moment the ENL stormed the barricade of heavily armed Asian men, a plain-clothes policeman hitting the ground and being dragged away.

Then it got really ugly.

Scenes Shotton had paid good money to make sure wouldn’t happen. Big, drunken men throwing their weight about, saluting the onlookers whose phones had captured this PR disaster. He could feel power slipping away from him as the seconds passed, knew how the voters he was courting would recoil from the sight of uniformed officers wading into the filth who peddled the most noxious version of his policies.

‘You were there,’ Shotton said.

Selby inhaled sharply. ‘No, I wasn’t.’

‘You were supposed to be talking to this lot, don’t tell me you didn’t run along with the rest of them.’

‘I wouldn’t be here now if I was, would I?’ Selby said, his voice rising. ‘I was in the Red Lion when the messages started coming through and they all took off.’

The sound was muted but Shotton knew what the newsreader was saying, had heard it half a dozen times already, could recite it word for word.
Police in Peterborough are calling for calm today after a riot broke out at the scene of what is believed to be the third in a series of racially motivated killings in the city. The latest death comes less than a week after forty-six-year-old Ali Manouf, an Iranian asylum seeker, was brutally murdered, but a spokesperson for Cambridgeshire Constabulary denied that the situation has moved beyond their control. We are currently awaiting a statement on the arrest of a man at the crime scene.

In the background he could see the corpse, covered in a white sheet, an elderly man standing next to it, and knew that in a moment the newsreader would break away to a reporter in the field, a pre-recorded package with the local imam, outside his mosque. He would make the same appeal for calm that the police had, but Shotton had watched him carefully twice already and saw that his blood was up. He didn’t want calm, he wanted reprisals, and they would come tonight.

It might undo some of the damage, Shotton thought. Balance the books.

‘What did you get out of them before they left the pub?’ he asked.

Selby dragged his eyes away from the screen. ‘I don’t think they’re behind it.’

‘My God, man, look at this fucking mess. Some bloke gets killed and your ENL friends are at the scene before the police and you don’t think they’re responsible?’

‘They’re too talkative,’ Selby said. ‘They only mouth off when they’ve got nothing to hide.’

‘What are they saying then?’

‘They’re bigging up whoever did it, saying what a hero he is, that he deserves a medal, that sort of thing. They’re acting like it could be the beginning of something but it’s all just talk. Believe me, I know these blokes, I know how they think. When something’s in the offing they clam up. They’re paranoid when you get right down to it.’