Blood At The Root

background here. First off, find out if George Mahmood and Jason Fox really did know each other better than George is letting on. Maybe they’d crossed swords before. Let’s also find out what we can about Asim Nazur and that cousin of his, Kobir… what’s his name…?”

“Mukhtar, sir,” said Susan.

“Right. Someone get in touch with Bradford CID and find out if they’ve got anything on Kobir Mukhtar.”

“I’ve already done that, sir,” said Susan. “There was nothing on the computer, so I put in a request for information while we still had them in custody, just before… before the CC came round yesterday, sir.”

“And?”

“Nothing, sir. Seems clean.”

“All right.” Gristhorpe frowned. “Susan, don’t I recollect something about an incident involving the Mahmoods recently?”

“Yes, sir. About a month ago. Someone stole a brick from the building site by Gallows View and lobbed it through the Mahmoods’ window. They’d covered the shop windows with wire mesh a while back after a previous incident, so the yob responsible chucked this brick through the bedroom window.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“Mrs. Mahmood, sir. She was undressing for bed at the time. The brick missed her head by several inches, but a long sliver of glass broke free and sliced into her upper arm. She was bleeding pretty badly when her husband hurried her to Eastvale General. It took fourteen stitches, and the doctor insisted they call the police.”

“They weren’t going to?”

“They were reluctant, sir,” Susan said. “Her husband said it would only cost them time and trouble, and they didn’t expect any results in return. Apparently, this kind of thing had happened before, when they ran the shop in Bradford, and nobody ever did anything about it.”

“Well, this isn’t bloody Bradford,” said Gristhorpe. “Any leads?”

“They’d had a customer, a teenage girl, earlier in the day who complained about getting the wrong change. When Mrs. Mahmood insisted she was right, the girl swept the newspapers and sweets off the counter and stalked out. We finally tracked her down, but she was in Penrith at the time of the incident. After that, nothing.”

“Could it have been Jason Fox, given his views on immigrants?”

“I suppose so,” Susan said. “It happened about half past ten on a Saturday night, and we know Jason came to Eastvale on weekends. But we didn’t know that then. I mean, we’d no reason to suspect him. And George Mahmood couldn’t have known it was him.”

“Couldn’t he? Maybe he had his suspicions. Maybe he even saw him. But you’re right, we should avoid too much speculation at this point. Perhaps you should have another word with Jason’s family, Susan; see if they’re a bit more forthcoming. After that, you can try the Mahmoods again, then the Nazurs at the Himalaya, see if they can tell you anything else about what happened on Saturday night.” He looked at his watch, then smiled at Susan. “Time it right, lass, and you might be at the Himalaya just around lunchtime.”

Hatchley laughed, and Susan blushed.

“That just about covers it.” Gristhorpe rubbed his bristly chin. “But wherever we go,” he said, “we tread carefully. On eggs. Remember that. Chief Constable Riddle is taking a personal interest in this case.” He cleared his throat. “By the way, he apologized for not being with us this morning.”

Banks overheard Hatchley whisper to Susan Gay, “Breakfast television.”

Gristhorpe ignored them. “What we’ve all got to bear in mind at this point,” he said, “is that while this case looked simple at first, things have changed. It’s got a lot more complicated. And however odious a character Jason Fox is beginning to sound, remember, he didn’t get a chance to fight back. That’s voluntary manslaughter, at the very least, and more than likely it’s murder. Don’t forget, we’ve got all the ingredients of a racial incident here, too: white victim; handy Asian suspects picked up, interrogated and locked in the cells overnight. When you add to that the fact that Jason Fox was a racist, George Mahmood is busy exploring his Muslim roots and Asim Nazur’s dad is a pillar of the community, then you’ve got a powder keg, and I don’t want it going off on my patch, Jimmy Riddle or no Jimmy Riddle. Now let’s get to it.”

II

It was quicker to walk to the Leaview Estate than to drive around Eastvale’s confusing one-way system, so Susan nipped out of the fire exit and took the winding cobbled streets behind the police station down to King Street. She passed the infirmary, then the Gothic pile of Eastvale Comprehensive on the right, with its turrets, clock and bell tower, and the weedy, overgrown rec on her left before entering the Leaview Estate. The weather was overcast today, windy, too, with occasional drizzle, but at least it wasn’t cold.

The Foxes’ garden looked less impressive in the dull light, Susan thought as she rang the doorbell, yet the roses still seemed to burn with an inner glow of their own. She felt like picking one to take home, but she didn’t. That wouldn’t look good at all. She could just see the headlines: POLICEWOMAN STEALS PRIZE ROSES FROM GRIEVING FAMILY. Jimmy Riddle would just love that. His pate would turn scarlet. And bang would go her promotion.

Josie Fox had her hair tied back today, and her face looked pale and drawn, lips bloodless without makeup. She was wearing a baggy olive jumper and black jeans.

“Oh, it’s you. Come in,” she said listlessly, standing aside.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Susan said, following her into the living room. “But I have a few more questions.”

“Of course. Sit down.”

Susan sat. Josie Fox followed suit, folding her long legs under her. She massaged the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger.

“Where’s your husband today?” Susan asked.

She sighed. “Steven’s at work. I told him not to go in, but he said he’d be better off with something to do rather than just being stuck in the house all day. I can’t say I’m not glad to see the back of him for a few hours. I couldn’t face going in myself. My daughter Maureen’s come down from Newcastle to stay with us, so I’m not alone.”

“Is she in at the moment?”

“Upstairs, yes. Why?”

“Will you call her down, please?”

Josie Fox frowned, then shrugged and went to the bottom of the stairs to call. A minute or so later, Maureen Fox joined them. Susan’s first impression was of a rather bossy, probably very fastidious, sort of girl. She was attractive, too, in a sort of bouncy blond, healthy, athletic way, with a trim figure that looked good in the tight jeans she wore, and symmetrical features, plump red lips, a creamy complexion.

Though Maureen Fox was obviously grieving, there was still a kind of energy emanating from her that she couldn’t hide; it showed itself in the way her foot kept tapping on the floor, or one leg jerking when she crossed them; in her constant shifts of position, as if she were uncomfortable no matter how she sat. Susan wondered if Jason had been at all like her. Probably not, if Susan’s own family were anything to go by: her brother the stockbroker, who could do no wrong, and her sister the solicitor, apple of her father’s eye. Susan had nothing in common with either of them, and sometimes she thought she must have been a changeling.

“Why did you let them go?” Josie asked. “You had them in jail, the ones who did it, and you let them go.”

“We don’t know that they did it,” Susan said. “And we can’t just keep people locked up indefinitely without evidence.”

“It’s because they’re colored, isn’t it? That’s why you had to let them go. It would’ve been different if you thought Jason had killed one of them, wouldn’t it?”

“Mother!” Maureen cut in.

“Oh, Maureen. Don’t be so naive. Everybody knows what it’s like these days. The authorities bend over backward to help immigrants. You ought to know that, being in nursing. It’s all opportunities for ethnics, not for decent, hardworking white folks. Look what happened to your dad.”

“What did happen to Mr. Fox?” Susan asked.

“Oh,” said Maureen, with a flick of her head, “Dad got passed over for promotion. Blamed it on some Asian bloke.”