Holland ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said.
‘Get what?’
‘Why we’re doing this.’ Holland stopped walking. ‘The kid killed himself. I mean it’s a shame and all that, and I can see why his old man’s upset, but we’re not going to change anything by charging about looking for non- existent murderers.’
‘You heard what he said.’ Thorne took a few steps back towards Holland, put a heavy hand between his shoulder blades and pointed him towards the shuttered-up shop. ‘What he wants and what he’s threatening to do if he doesn’t get it.’
‘I heard, but we can’t create a murder when there wasn’t one.’
‘What if he’s right though?’
‘What are the chances of that? He’s a nutcase, you know he is.’
Thorne was starting to lose his temper, but did not raise his voice. ‘So what, you think we should do nothing?’
‘He doesn’t know what we’re doing, does he? Why can’t we just tell him we’ve looked into it and that we couldn’t find anything.’
‘That might almost be a half-decent plan, Dave… if Helen Weeks wasn’t sitting in there with a gun pointed at her.’
Holland shook his head, still unconvinced.
‘Just get on with it, Sergeant.’
Having signalled to the WPC who was looking after Nadira Akhtar, Thorne walked quickly out of the playground and down the street to his car. When the newsagent’s wife had settled, somewhat nervously, into the passenger seat, Thorne nodded a hello then pulled away; driving slowly and saying nothing until he was through the cordon.
Then he put his foot down.
‘Tell me about your son,’ he said.
SEVEN
‘Tell me about your son… ’
Akhtar was perched awkwardly on the edge of the small chair. He looked down at Helen. He picked up his mug of tea from the desk, then put it down again. He straightened out some papers that were scattered around.
‘Tell me what he was like, Javed.’
Akhtar started to speak, cleared his throat then started again. ‘He was always good,’ he said. ‘You know?’
‘Yes, I remember,’ Helen said. She was not actually sure which of Akhtar’s sons she remembered being served by on several occasions, but as things stood it did not really matter. ‘Whenever he was in the shop he was always very polite. Very helpful.’
‘He always tried to do the right thing,’ Akhtar said. ‘We all did. Now look where it’s got us.’
‘Why was he in prison?’
Akhtar shook his head as though it were a long story, or else one he could still not quite believe. ‘He was trying to protect a friend, that’s all. They were doing nothing wrong and they were set upon. It was all a mess, a big mess… ’
Helen nodded, happy to let him continue. Next to her, Mitchell was still and silent. He had not drunk the tea Akhtar had made for him, not said a word since the newsagent had come back into the room. He sat staring at the floor, his chin on his chest, breathing deeply.
‘We were told that he would be OK,’ Akhtar said. ‘They promised us, the police officers and the bloody lawyers. They said he would be OK and that they would be lenient. Liars, all of them. Lying bastards.’ There was anger in his voice, but it was controlled. ‘He was just a boy, for heaven’s sake, and we trusted them because we were trying to do the right thing. You understand?’
‘Of course I do,’ Helen said.
He nodded. He seemed pleased, but he was studying her.
It was good that they were talking, Helen knew that. She needed to convince him that she did understand, and more, that she sympathised. She needed him to believe that she was on his side and that they would sort everything out together.
That when this was all over, they would walk out of the shop as friends.
‘What happened to him?’
Akhtar grunted. ‘Well, there is what happened and what they say happened and they are two very different things.’
‘What do they say happened?’
‘He was attacked, again. He was attacked and later on he took his own life, but I know my son, believe me. It is not true.’
‘Had he been all right, up to then? When you visited him?’
‘He was not happy, of course he wasn’t. We talked about the appeal and all that and we tried to stay in good spirits, but it was clear enough in his face. He would not have been able to stand it in that place for so long.’ He raised a hand, eager to make a point. ‘But that did not mean he would ever do harm to himself, not at all.’
‘Did he have friends in there?’
‘There was one boy he spoke about, but I think he tried to keep to himself as much as possible. He was always quiet, you understand? Always studying, studying, studying.’
‘Sounds like a bright lad,’ Helen said.
‘Yes, yes, very bright, but in my opinion that only makes it worse. It is more frustrating for someone like my son in one of those places. He did not belong there.’
‘When did you see him last?’
Akhtar blinked slowly, remembering. ‘One week before he died. He was cheerful and we talked about his sister’s birthday and what I could buy for her. To give her as a gift from him, you know? He missed her and his elder brother very much… very much, and this is another reason I know that he was not responsible for his own death.’ He shook his head, waved the flat of his hand in front of him, the certainty bringing a half-smile to his face. ‘He could never have chosen not to see them again.’
‘Why do you think they say that he did?’ Helen was careful to sound as incredulous as possible. She shook her head, as though the very notion were preposterous.
‘You ask them.’ Akhtar spat the words out. ‘Because they are liars like the police officers and the lawyers from the bloody CPS. Maybe because it is easier and will cause less trouble. Nobody wants to admit that anyone could be killed in a place like that. That such things are allowed to happen.’ He leaned towards her, the anger building again. ‘But they are allowed to happen. They were allowed and now Amin will never see his sister get married, will never have the life he was working so hard for.’
He shook his head and bit back whatever was coming next. He reached across to the desktop and moved the gun a few inches closer to him. He leaned back in his chair. ‘Now it is up to your friend Tom Thorne to find out the truth.’
Helen barely knew Thorne, though she had formed a good opinion about him based on how he had behaved during the investigation into Paul’s death the year before. Now, she realised, she was counting on him every bit as much as Akhtar was. Tom Thorne had suddenly become the best friend she had.
‘I know he’ll do his best,’ she said.
*
‘My son is dead,’ Nadira Akhtar said. She spoke quietly and without colour. ‘That’s all, it’s finished.’ She turned her head away and stared out at the concrete blur of the A40 moving past the window.
Thorne accelerated to overtake a white van, gave the driver a good hard look. ‘Javed doesn’t think it’s finished.’
