‘Is it on Shadwell Road?’ Bren asked.
‘In Chandler’s Yard. You know The Three Crowns public house? Well, it stands on the corner of Shadwell Road and Chandler’s Yard. Go down there. There is a cafe, the Horria Cafe, run by a man called Qasim Ali. You might ask for him. He is what they call a “muwasit”, what you might call a “Mr Fix-it”. If your man is down there, he will know of it.’
They thanked him and left, aware of the eyes that followed them in absolute silence across the hall, and then the murmur that began as soon as they reached the stairs. Out on the street a soft drizzle had dispersed most of the pedestrians, and Brock spoke into his phone for a moment, then they crossed the street and made towards The Three Crowns and beside it the narrow entrance to Chandler’s Yard.
After twenty yards the narrow laneway broadened into the cobbled square that had once formed the focus of the local candle-making industry from which Chandler’s Yard had taken its name. The jumble of old workshops and storehouses which stood around the yard still bore the marks of their old occupation, their brickwork blackened and door jambs scarred, like veteran craftsmen irretrievably gnarled by a lifetime of labour. Among them, as flamboyant as a belly dancer, glowed the bright shopfront and garish red neon sign of the Horria Cafe.
Inside, four old men played cards at a table beneath a silent TV showing a soccer game, while an ancient juke-box at their side throbbed with Arab music. A very fat, darkskinned man behind the counter wiped fingers like sticky pork sausages across a grubby apron and then flicked at his bushy moustache. He narrowed his eyes at the newcomers suspiciously, and Brock wondered if he was going to need an interpreter to communicate with these ‘primitive desert people’.
After due consideration, the fat man spoke. ‘Yes, gents. What can I do for you?’ he said affably in a broad cockney accent. ‘I got a fresh load of chips on. Stewed lamb’s the speciality of the house, if yer interested.’
‘It smells very good,’ Brock said, feeling suddenly remarkably hungry. ‘Maybe later. Right now we’re looking for a Mr Qasim Ali. Know where we might find him?’
‘Who wants ’im?’
Brock showed him his warrant card.
The man peered at it, then nodded and held up his fat hand. ‘I’m Ali.’
Brock took the hand, warm, smooth and with a surprisingly hard grip.
‘We’re wondering if you can put us in touch with someone we need very urgently to talk to, Mr Ali. A young Lebanese man, twenty-six, name of Abu Khadra, rides a yellow Yamaha bike.’ Brock showed him the picture. Ali gave no sign of recognition as he studied it and slid it back. He reached beneath the counter, produced a pack of Benson and Hedges and a Bic lighter, and slowly lit up, wheezing a long draw.
‘How come you came to me then? No, let me guess. Was it them wankers out there?’ He jerked a hand in the general direction of Shadwell Road, the gesture making the flesh of his arm wobble. ‘The Pakis? Yeah, that’d be right. Any shit they don’t want, they pass it on to old Ali, eh?’
He tipped his head back and exhaled towards a fan slowly beating time with the music. His head began to rock with it. ‘Umm Kalthoum, that is. They don’t make singers like that any more. You heard of Umm Kalthoum?’
‘I believe I have,’ Brock replied. ‘Egyptian?’
‘Yeah. The greatest. This place is named after one of her biggest hits. Horria. That means “freedom”, see? Very important, yeah? We all value our freedom. What’s he wanted for, this Abu Khadra?’
‘We just want to talk to him. But there’s some concern about his state of mind. So there’s some urgency…’ Brock could sense Bren stirring impatiently at his side.
‘Lebanese. What, is he an illegal? Is that it?’
‘No, no.’
‘No, it’d ’ave to be something more serious than that, wouldn’t it? They wouldn’t send two big blokes like you out looking for one little illegal, would they?’
‘The person who suggested we come to you, Mr Ali, said that you were the one man who would know what was going on around here. However, if you can’t help us… There’s a mosque in Chandler’s Yard isn’t there? Where can we find that?’
Ali stared at Brock, then crushed his half-smoked cigarette in a saucer on the counter. ‘I didn’t say I couldn’t help. I just resent those newcomers strutting around, throwing their weight around like they own the place.’
‘Newcomers?’
‘Yeah, the Pakis.’ He thrust his two forearms like hams onto the counter and leaned forward to make his point. ‘Tell me, you’d consider yourself a Londoner, would you? ’Ow long’s your family been ’ere? One generation? Two?’
Brock took a deep breath, trying to remain calm, and replied, ‘Two, I suppose. They came from up north.’
‘Yeah, and what about your friend there, who’s lookin’ so impatient? How long ’as your family been ’ere, squire?’
Bren answered stolidly, ‘I’m the first.’
‘Right. So you’re like them out there, newcomers. Did you know that the Yemenis are the oldest Muslim residents of London? My great-grandfather was ’ere when the old queen died-Victoria that is. We came ’ere ’cause the Merchant Navy made an ’abit of picking up engine-room crews everywhere they went. Sixteen men to a crew- twelve stokers, three greasers and one donkeyman-all the same race, no mixing. Sixteen Chinese from Singapore, sixteen blacks from the West Indies, sixteen Yemenis from Aden, see? And when they got back to England they dropped them off wherever they landed, Newcastle, Cardiff, London.’
‘That’s very interesting, Mr Ali, but…’
‘I ’aven’t finished yet. My point, you see, is that as Londoners of such long standing, we may feel a certain obligation to shelter a stranger of our own faith, cast ashore among us, without necessarily knowing all of his circumstances.’
‘I understand.’
‘I ’ope you do. ’Ave you got a search warrant?’
‘No.’
Ali lowered his head, pondering, then said quietly, ‘The mosque is up those stairs.’ He nodded towards stairs at the back of the cafe. ‘The kid’s praying. He’s been ’ere for over an hour.’
‘Thank you. Is there anyone else up there with him?’
‘No.’
‘And would you know if he’s armed, by any chance?’ Brock asked mildly.
The fat man looked startled. ‘Blimey. I dunno about that. Are you expecting trouble?’
‘Thanks very much for your help, Mr Ali. Tell me, would it be very disrespectful if we kept our shoes on, under the circumstances?’
Qasim Ali gave his dispensation, then hurried over to get the four elders, protesting, to their feet.
The young man kneeling on the middle of the carpet in the little room which served as the Shiite mosque of Shadwell Road looked slight and vulnerable in his white T-shirt and jeans. In the lobby outside, above his grey trainers, a dark coat hung from a peg. It looked to Brock very much like the coat they had seen on the assassin in the security film, but there was no weapon in its pockets, or on the person of Abu, who submitted to his arrest without surprise or resistance.
Umm Kalthoum’s song throbbed plaintively in the deserted cafe as they led the young man out into Chandler’s Yard. The rain had stopped, leaving puddles on the cobbles. There was no one in the dark square or laneway, but beyond they could see many figures moving about under the brighter streetlighting of Shadwell Road.
‘Let’s make this quick,’ Brock said, and they hurried forward, each gripping one of the lad’s elbows, his wrists cuffed together at his back. It wasn’t until they were practically out into the main street that they realised that the people there were waiting for them. They stopped abruptly as the crowd recognised the detectives and cries went up, ‘Here they are! Here, here!’ Brock recognised faces from the Twaqulia Mosque, eager, excited, among the people pressing forward to see who they had brought out of the yard.
‘Let’s keep moving,’ he murmured, and they stepped forward again, holding Abu tight between them. As they passed the corner entrance of The Three Crowns they saw the doors were open, a group of pale-faced young men standing against the light, shaved heads. One of them shouted, ‘Hello, Abu!’ and Abu twisted between the detectives to try to see who had called his name. Others from the doorway joined in, right arms raised, their yells
