Tell No Tales (25 page)

‘I hate all this,’ Ferreira said.

‘You hate grief?’

‘The public spectacle. It’s so fake.’ They were walking slowly now, moving to a good vantage point in the lee of the graveyard’s high stone wall. ‘How many people here actually knew Jelena or Dymek?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Of course it matters,’ she said. ‘If they didn’t know them then they’re tourists, wallowing in someone else’s suffering.’

Zigic scanned the faces in the crowd, saw tears and clasped hands, eyes lowered to the ground.

‘They don’t look like they’re faking it.’

Ferreira threw her chin up towards the platform. ‘How about him?’

Zigic followed her gesture to the man helping Father Piec down from the makeshift podium, lending the elderly priest a much needed arm. It wasn’t unusual for a local MP to attend a vigil – PR was PR – but it was unlikely that a single person here had voted for Richard Shotton or ever would. Despite his trumpeted manifesto policy of extending an amnesty to all existing EU migrants once his party pulled the UK out of the European Union.

How he manoeuvred himself into a position to do that was anyone’s guess.

There was no discernible negative reaction among the crowd and it occurred to Zigic that few people here knew who he was. Many wouldn’t be registered to vote and even if they were it was unlikely that his team had gone canvassing on their streets.

‘Don’t you just want to punch him in the face?’ Ferreira said.

‘I’d wait until the Chief Constable isn’t around if I were you.’

Shotton spoke in a calm, measured voice which carried effortlessly across the crowd, expressing his sympathy to the friends and family of those who had died, managing to sound almost like he meant it, the rhythm of his speech familiar from all of those turns on
Question Time
. The little verbal tics, the movements of his hands, each artful pause. All of it carefully crafted.

Zigic could see why he was dangerous. He didn’t look like a right-wing zealot or a crackpot, in contrast to the long line of fascist politicians who’d gone before him. The ones who’d tried and failed to move their ideology into the mainstream.

In the three years since he’d taken control of the English Patriot Party he’d won over the media with his flawless record of military service, his much vaunted but lightly worn erudition and his ability to ‘connect with the common man’. That was the official line the papers took anyway.

But it was Shotton’s appearance which kept him in the public eye, Zigic suspected. He was handsome – by political standards – lean and square-jawed, rugged but slick; every inch the ex-RAF silver fox. When floating voters with no interest in policies could be swayed by a trustworthy face that might be enough to make the EPP a significant political force come the general election in May.

On the podium he’d moved into sombre entreaty mode.

‘It is at times like this, when a terrible tragedy strikes at the heart of our community, that we find ourselves to be strongest.’

Zigic tried to tune him out, watched the mayor resettle his chains around his neck, while Chief Constable Weir stood next to him with his hands clasped, eyes fixed on Richard Shotton, wearing an expression which looked like admiration even at that distance. No surprise really, when Shotton was so vocal on cutting red tape for the police and boosting their budgets.

Ferreira swore under her breath. ‘This isn’t about the hit-and-run.’ She was obviously paying more attention than him. ‘“Social cohesion”? He’s using a vigil to smooth over last night’s riot.’

‘It’s the wrong audience if that’s what he’s up to,’ Zigic said.

‘He’s playing to the cameras. That’s the only audience he cares about.’

Shotton stepped down and returned to his wife’s side, finding her gloved hand, their fingers interlinked throughout the minute’s silence which followed. It was perfectly observed by the crowd but voices blew in from Cathedral Square, kids squealing, parents shouting after them, a
Big Issue
seller calling his wares, drowned out by music from a fast-food van.

Father Piec gave a final blessing and as the crowd began to break up, Weir gestured at Zigic.

‘Come on, Mel, the boss wants us to pay court.’

She fell in step behind him and he hoped she realised what the situation demanded, deference to Shotton if she could muster it, silence if not.

Shotton was watching them approach, nodding at whatever Weir was saying to him, and he favoured them with a politician’s warm but meaningless smile as they drew close.

‘Detective Inspector Zigic and Detective Sergeant Ferreira,’ Weir said, stiff and formal as ever.

They did the handshakes, the nods, and Zigic heaved a silent sigh of relief when Mrs Shotton engaged Ferreira in conversation, addressing her in Portuguese. She was Brazilian, he remembered, ex-UNICEF, the perfect way to complete a power couple.

‘Sorry to be meeting you under such terrible circumstances,’ Shotton said. As if they’d meet under any others. ‘But it’s good to see the community pulling together at a time like this.’

‘It’s a tight-knit area,’ Zigic said.

‘I dare say the rest of Peterborough could learn a thing or two from them. Strictly between us.’ Another smile, very thin. ‘How’s the young woman doing now? The one who survived?’

Zigic thought of Sofia Krasic, back in hospital, under guard. ‘She’s recovering well.’

‘Good.’ He pointed at Zigic’s head. ‘Looks like you took a knock yourself, Inspector.’

The cut was throbbing from the cold but he resisted the urge to touch it. ‘Not all community gatherings are this peaceful unfortunately.’

Weir cleared his throat, a low warning rumble.

‘I hear you’ve made an arrest.’

‘We made several,’ Zigic said. ‘But I doubt that will stop them. Most of them have long histories of racially motivated violence and public order offences. A night in the cells won’t alter their thinking.’

Shotton tucked his hands into the pockets of his grey wool overcoat, the bulge of his fists visible through the soft fabric. ‘And what about the man responsible for the murders?’

‘He’s in custody,’ Weir said, voice firm, eyes on Zigic.

‘Has he told you why he did it?’

Zigic didn’t answer, looked back to Weir expecting him to make the standard comment on not discussing operational issues, but he didn’t.

How far would the Chief Constable go to curry favour with Shotton? Zigic wondered. Lay it all out for him over an expensive lunch on Shotton’s tab? Name names? The desperation was there in Shotton’s eyes, the need to know exactly who they had locked in a cell and how much bad press it might generate.

Luckily they had nothing for Weir to pass on, only a suspect who wouldn’t talk and who they hadn’t yet identified.

‘We’re in the process of questioning him,’ Zigic said. ‘It’s a complicated matter, as I’m sure you can appreciate.’

‘Of course.’ Shotton’s gaze slipped away from them, moving across the last few stragglers leaving the green. ‘And you’ll want to be getting back to it.’

Weir gave him the barest gesture of dismissal, his displeasure at how the conversation had progressed clearly marked on his face as the group broke apart, Ferreira and Mrs Shotton saying their goodbyes in a warmer manner than Zigic would have expected.

He waited until they were out of the courtyard, crossing Cathedral Square, before he asked what they’d been talking about.

‘She’s setting up a mentoring programme for the daughters of local immigrants,’ Ferreira said, her voice laced with bitter humour. “To give them the opportunities that their mothers didn’t have.”’

‘That sounds very worthwhile.’

‘Yeah, it’s going to be hugely worthwhile to his campaigning.’ She slowed as they passed a chrome fast-food van but kept walking. ‘She thought I might like to get involved.’

Zigic laughed. ‘I can just see it – your face all over Shotton’s election brochures.’

She grinned. ‘Shut up.’

‘Melinda Ferreira – the poster child of New British Facism.’

32

THE PLACE THAT
Alex had so carefully avoided calling a hotel was a Premier Inn on the side of the A1, ten minutes south of Peterborough. Nothing much around it but sleepy villages and a rubbish dump which blanketed the area with the scent of smouldering plant matter and melting plastic. The car park was large but quiet, a dozen vehicles clustered together in the spaces closest to the main doors, where a woman in a tight cobalt-blue dress stood smoking, glancing at her watch every few seconds.

Waiting for a man, Ferreira thought, as she locked her car. All dressed up and wondering if he was still coming.

She hadn’t made as much effort herself. Debated it for about two minutes, standing in front of her wardrobe with her hair damp from the shower, before she pulled out a pair of jeans and a slouchy black jumper. If Alex wanted to pretend this was purely about work then she would too.

She hated the ambiguity though.

It was just like him. He drifted and dithered, was never one to take control and make something happen. Which was why it had ended between them. He didn’t want her to go to Hendon but he never attempted to stop her, insisting he respected her decision to join up even though he thought the police were institutionally racist and sexist and rotten at some deep, unreachable level which could never be cleaned out. Maybe he knew her well enough to realise he couldn’t change her mind but she wanted him to try, make a stand for once, be a man.

Ferreira scanned the bar area as she went in, one fast, practised sweep that took in everything; the bland art and the migraine-inducing carpet, a couple in an alcove having a fraught conversation, the guy on the next table pretending absorption in his laptop as he cocked his head to eavesdrop, a few more lone men scattered about, all eating without pleasure, none of them Alex.

She ordered a dark rum and took it to an out-of-the-way table, sat opposite the flat screen bolted to the wall. The seven o’clock bulletin was just starting, leading on Syria, then it was a series of weekend-friendly puff pieces, no mention of the riots, and she knew Zigic would be breathing a sigh of relief, a couple of days’ respite from Gilraye’s demands.

It bothered her how quickly they got bored though. Three men brutally murdered, the city descending into racially motivated anarchy, and a film premiere in London had made third spot in the running order.

With no compelling reason to hold him Zigic had released Poulter when they got back to the station. Within half an hour he was on Facebook, soapboxing to his followers about the treatment he’d received, throwing around accusations of prejudice and harassment, ramming home his belief that as a white working-class man he had become an oppressed minority in his own country.

She was still convinced he knew more than he was saying, but without some kind of leverage he wouldn’t give it up.

Their suspect was maintaining the silent treatment too. An hour and a half they spent needling and cajoling him this afternoon, and he remained upright and tight-lipped, let them talk themselves hoarse without giving them so much as a change in expression.

He was inhuman. She had never seen anyone so completely blank in an interview room. A few she’d come across had started out that way, thinking they were tough enough to weather a barrage, but they all cracked eventually, out of fear or weariness or sheer boredom at having the same questions thrown at them dozens of times. Not this one though. He was going to protect his partner right to the end, ensure his continued liberty and take satisfaction from knowing he would be partly responsible for any further crimes the man committed.

It killed her that there was nothing she could do about it.

She sipped her rum.

When she looked up again Alex was coming round the corner, eyes fixed on her, that sweet, lazy smile making her smile right back like it always had. It was the only thing about him which hadn’t changed though; the grungy boy was now a smart man, dressed like he’d just stepped down from a Gap advert, the beard gone, the Afro cropped close to his skull. He’d lost the piercings from his ears but acquired a wedding ring.

She stepped round the table and into a hug, felt the hard body she remembered and backed away before she began to think about it.

‘It’s great to see you again, Mel.’

‘Yeah, you too,’ she said, returning to her seat. ‘You look different.’

He sat down. ‘You mean older?’

Both still smiling.

‘More mature.’

‘You look just the same.’

She reached for her drink. ‘You know us Portuguese girls, we don’t go to seed until forty. Then it gets really bad, really fast.’

‘I don’t know, your mum was pretty hot as I remember.’

‘I’ll tell her you said that.’

Alex leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, settling. ‘How are they all? Did they stay over here? Your dad was talking about leaving.’

‘They stayed. I don’t think they’ll go home any time soon, not with the way the economy is over there. Although Peterborough’s getting kind of inhospitable lately.’

‘Everywhere is,’ Alex said. ‘Right across Europe. They might as well be here. At least we’re trying to deal with the problem.’

She almost jumped on the ‘we’, decided not to. It would be easy to fall into the old argument, him thinking the best way to make a difference was educating people, her certain a tougher line needed to be taken. They’d been through it a hundred times without softening each other’s positions and she imagined that the intervening years wouldn’t have changed him.

It hadn’t changed her.

‘So, you’re lecturing?’

‘No.’ He took a mouthful of his wine, put the glass down very carefully but held onto the stem, turning it between his fingers. He gave her a wry smile. ‘Things didn’t quite work out how I planned. I got, let’s say, distracted.’

‘By what?’

‘An offer I couldn’t refuse.’

‘You’re in the mafia then?’

His eyes lit up. ‘Something like that.’

‘Were you always this annoyingly vague?’ Ferreira said.

‘I’m not being vague, you just think I am because you’re one of those ball-busting lady coppers now.’ He moved forward, elbows on his knees, filling the space between them. She could smell his aftershave, warm and leathery. ‘That was some impressive riot-breaking you did last night. Leading from the front like a good general.’