grounds that he could be needed at short notice in London, which wasn’t true. Kathy had interpreted this as a kind of pride, or perhaps vanity, not wanting to be seen in his battered state, like some veteran boxer staggering from the ring. She could sympathise, especially in view of Brock’s uncertain relations with Suzanne’s two resident grandchildren, but his stubbornness was inconvenient, for whereas he might have had a ground floor room at Battle, in his own house the main rooms were at the top of a winding stair up from the front door, with his bedroom another floor above. Although he wasn’t completely immobile, being able to stomp around on a crutch, in practice he came to rely on Kathy bringing him daily supplies and generally making life more tolerable. She made up a bed for him on the sofa in the living room, and rearranged his key possessions so that he could survive in that room, the kitchen and the bathroom.
He told her that the new team was headed up by a Superintendent by the name of Russell, an experienced, sound detective, he said approvingly, then added, with less enthusiasm, that he was unlikely to be distracted by divergent evidence. Russell had interviewed Brock early on the morning after Abu’s murder and was already fully conversant with both cases. He seemed convinced that forensic evidence would prove decisive in the end.
‘He’s riding Leon hard,’ Brock had said. ‘And who knows, he may be right.’
Kathy just nodded dumbly, feeling even more disconnected from events.
It wasn’t the possibility of bumping into Leon that took her back to Shadwell Road on the late afternoon of that Wednesday, or at least that’s what she told herself. Rather, it was Bren’s perplexity, repeated by Brock, over how the skinheads had known Abu’s name.
After all the media attention she had expected the street to be alive with activity, but instead it was eerily deserted, as if people were ashamed or embarrassed to be seen there. Police barriers had been erected at each end to stop vehicles entering, and many of the shops were closed, some freshly boarded with plywood sheets, the owners apparently afraid of some new outbreak of trouble. Kathy walked to the front of the police station, then retraced the route diagonally across Shadwell Road that Brock and Bren and their prisoner had followed. The road surface and gutters seemed unnaturally clean, and Kathy guessed that the whole area had been vacuumed and scraped by scene of crime teams, though their barriers and screens and tapes had been removed.
The Three Crowns too was deserted. Stan, the same hefty barman who had served her and Brock when they had been there the previous evening, complained that he had only just been allowed to reopen the pub. All day the street had been teeming with thirsty coppers and reporters, and he hadn’t been able to sell a single drink.
‘I suppose they were interested in where the skinheads were sitting, were they?’ Kathy asked, ordering a glass of wine.
‘Yeah. They were over there by the games machine most of the evening, and hanging around the door.’
‘It was a bit cold to have the door open, wasn’t it?’
Stan nodded. ‘They came and went, not all together. I had to ask them at one point to close the door, they were letting all the heat out.’
‘Do you mean they looked organised?’
‘Not organised, exactly. More like they were on the lookout for trouble. And it made me nervous, I tell you. We don’t usually get types like that coming down Shadwell Road unless they’re looking for trouble, and like I told your guvnor yesterday, we’ve had groups of them drop in the last couple of nights, getting bolder, talking louder, drinking more.’
‘When there was the trouble last night, some of the lads reckoned that the skinheads knew the name of the bloke we’d arrested-Abu. Did it look like that to you?’
‘The other coppers asked me that. What I think is that they picked it up from the Pakis out there in the street. See, what happened was that we all began to realise something was going on about ten fifteen or thereabouts. The bovver boys left the machine and gathered round the front window there, looking out to the street where a crowd was building up. Then one of them, a little bloke with a furry parka hood, came running in through the front door, all excited like, and they went into a huddle, and then the bloke went out again. I wanted to see what was going on, so I went after him to the door and looked outside. There was quite a crowd milling around in the street there, some looking down the lane, and I saw the skinhead talking to them.’
‘Talking to the local people?’
‘Yes. Most didn’t like the look of him and turned away, but others spoke to him. That old busybody across the street, Mr Manzoor, he was one. Then the bloke came running back and I got behind the bar again. It was soon after that that they all started to hang around the doorway, and then the trouble started. I gave their descriptions to the other coppers. And I’ll tell you what, they had a mobile phone.’
‘You saw them using it?’
Stan nodded. ‘Several times.’
Kathy finished her drink and went back out into the street. Across the way an illuminated sign advertised Yasmin’s Finest Asian Sweetmeats, next to the deserted window of Bhaskar Gents Hairstylist. V amp; K International Discount Travel on its other side gave Kathy a small squirm of guilt. She should have spoken to Tina to tell her how her interview had gone, and to Suzanne, too. She had avoided telling Suzanne what her plans were for returning to Battle, simply because she’d avoided making any. She knew she must get in touch. Tonight, for sure.
Next to the travel agent was Manzoor Saree Centre, its lights bright, though, like everywhere else, doing little business. She crossed the street and opened the shop door to an accompanying tinkling of a bell. The interior was dazzling, bolts of multi-coloured fabric stacked and cascading everywhere over counters, mannequins and rails. Mr Manzoor himself, in a dark suit, formed the only note of sobriety in all this exuberance. He smoothly closed the order book he was studying and glided forward to greet Kathy with a little bow, his eyes examining her critically as his head dipped.
‘Good evening, madam. How can I be of assistance? You would like a silk business suit, perhaps? Or something for evening wear?’
‘I’m with the police, Mr Manzoor.’
‘Ah.’ He sighed regretfully. ‘But still, the police need affordable clothes of excellent quality just like everyone else. I have given away many cards today. I expect many orders in the fullness of time.’ He offered Kathy a business card.
‘Thank you. I’m just following up one or two loose ends from the day. You were interviewed, weren’t you?’
Manzoor gave a modest little bow of assent. ‘Like all my fellow traders in Shadwell Road, I did my best to assist the officers to reconstruct the shocking events of yesterday.’
‘Because you were there, weren’t you, in the street at the time the man was killed?’
‘Sadly so, although I saw nothing of it, with such a crowd… I am not a tall man, as you see.’ He smiled deprecatingly.
‘And before that, you actually spoke to one of the skinheads, I understand.’
Manzoor looked momentarily startled. ‘Why, yes! You know, I had forgotten that until you reminded me. The riot, the fighting, it was so terrifying that what happened before had faded in my mind. Did the skinhead tell you that?’
‘Another witness mentioned it. What did you talk about?’
‘Well…’ Manzoor thought for a moment. ‘The man was coming through the crowd, asking people what was going on, why we were there. Most people looked away and pretended not to hear him. He was about the only European among us, but more than that, he was a skinhead, an ugly little fellow. People didn’t want to talk to him. He approached me, and I said that we didn’t want any trouble. I have to confess that I was thinking more of my shop windows. I had no idea that anything worse than that might happen.’
‘He mentioned Abu by name, did he?’
Manzoor looked vague. ‘I don’t recall that.’
‘But you knew of the name Abu?’
‘Oh, yes. I was at mosque when the two officers came to speak to Imam Hashimi. He called several of us in to ask if we knew of this Abu Khadra.’
‘Did he say what he was wanted for?’
‘Not in so many words, but we assumed it was to do with the murder at the university.’
‘And did the crowd in the street learn about this?’
‘The imam asked us to be discreet, and to keep it to ourselves, but pretty soon I gathered that the story was
