think he was going for a three-month trek in the Antarctic, not a three-night freebie to Ibiza. Eventually, they managed to get out of the house. Imran tossed the van keys to Yousef. ‘You might as well get used to it while I’m there to sort out any problems,’ he said. ‘Sometimes the clutch sticks a bit, know what I mean?’
Yousef didn’t care about the clutch. What he cared about was taking possession of a van that had ‘A1 Electricals’ emblazoned along the side. ‘Whatever,’ he muttered, starting the van and slamming it into first. The stereo cut in, blasting out some Tigerstyle drum and bass remix so loud it made Yousef flinch. He reached for the volume control and turned it right down. ‘Cut it out, Imran,’ he complained. ‘My ears.’
‘Sorry, man. Them Scottish soldiers know how to hit it.’ Imran punched him gently on the shoulder. ‘Man, I’m gonna hear some great sounds in Ibiza. I really appreciate this, cuz.’
‘Hey, it’s cool. I mean, clubbing’s never been my thing,’ Yousef said. As soon as he’d realized their plan would be made much easier if he could lay hands on a proper tradesman’s van, he’d known his cousin Imran was the answer. The question then became how to separate Imran and his vehicle for two or three unsuspecting days. They’d talked it over a few times, trying to come up with a plan that would work, then Yousef had his brainwave. It wasn’t uncommon for customers and suppliers to hand out freebies, supposedly to encourage loyalty. Neither Yousef nor Sanjar was big into the club scene, but Imran loved to dance the night away. Yousef could pretend that he’d been given a three-day clubbing break in Ibiza then pass it on to Imran as a gesture of goodwill. Imran would be in Ibiza, and Yousef would have access to the van. It had worked like a dream. Imran had been so chuffed that he hadn’t even thought to question why they were going to the airport in his van rather than Yousef’s. Now, ‘You’re welcome, man,’ Yousef said. And he meant it.
‘Yeah, but, I mean, you could have sold it on to somebody, made some readies.’ Imran rubbed fingers and thumb together.
‘Hey, you’re family.’ Yousef half-shrugged one shoulder. ‘We should be there for each other.’ He felt a twinge of guilt. What he was planning would drive a stake through the heart of his family. It would twist the kaleidoscope and create a completely different picture of his actions. He didn’t think any of his relatives would be praising his family spirit any time soon.
‘Yeah, that’s what everybody says, but when it comes to putting money in their pockets, it’s a different story,’ Imran said cynically. ‘So yeah, I’m totally impressed with you, cuz.’
‘Yeah, well, you take it easy out there.’
‘I’ll be cool.’ Imran’s fingers crept towards the volume knob. ‘Just a little bit, yeah?’
Yousef nodded. ‘Sure.’ The music filled the van. Even at low volume, the bass reverberated in his bones. There were only two years between him and Imran, but he felt like his cousin was still a kid. He’d been like that himself not so long ago, but he’d changed. Things had happened to him, things that had made him grow up and take responsibility. Now, when he looked at Imran, he felt like they were from different generations. Different planets, even. It was amazing how someone else’s interpretation of the world could lead you to question what you’d taken for granted all your life. Recently, Yousef had come to understand the way the world really worked and it made a nonsense of pretty much everything he’d been encouraged to believe in.
‘Only thing I feel bad about is missing the match on Saturday, innit? It’s gonna be a big deal, saying goodbye to Robbie. Is Raj going?’
Yousef nodded. ‘Wild horses, man. You’d think it was me or Sanjar had died, not some football player.’
Imran reared back in his seat. ‘Whoa, that’s heresy, cuz. Robbie wasn’t just “some football player”.’ He signed the inverted commas in the air with his fingers. ‘He was
Yousef rolled his eyes. Had the world gone mad? Hysterical grief over Robbie Bishop, and not a hair turned over the daily death tolls in Iraq and Palestine and Afghanistan. Something had gone badly wrong with their values. He couldn’t pretend that he’d been the world’s most perfect Muslim, but at least his thinking had never been as twisted as Imran’s.
Imran fell silent, his fingers beating time on his denim-clad thighs, his Nikes tapping on the rubber floor mat. It kept him occupied the rest of the way to Manchester Airport. Yousef pulled up in the drop-off zone outside Terminal One, keeping the engine running while Imran grabbed his bag and got out. He stuck his head in the door. ‘Be cool, Yousef. See you Monday.’
Yousef smiled. He wouldn’t be seeing Imran on Monday. But there was no need to tell his cousin that.
Tony drifted up from a delicious sleep. Delicious because it came from genuine exhaustion, not a drug-induced escape. Who knew it could take so much energy to get out of bed, move three metres into a bathroom clutching a walking frame, pee and then get back to bed? When he’d slumped back on the pillows, he felt as if he’d climbed a small mountain. The physio had been happy with his progress; he’d been delirious. She’d promised him elbow crutches tomorrow. The excitement was almost too much for him.
He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and woke the laptop from its hibernation. Before sliding into sleep, he’d set up a final array of searches but he’d been out for the count before it finished. He hadn’t been optimistic; he’d even begun to accept that he might not find what he was looking for. That didn’t mean it wasn’t there, just that it was too well hidden.
The screen cleared and to his surprise, a little box in the middle of the display read, ‘(1) match found’. The brackets meant that the match wasn’t perfect but that it was over 90 per cent congruent with the terms of his search. Wide awake now, Tony summoned the search results.
It was a story from a free newspaper covering the west side of Sheffield. There wasn’t much detail, but there was enough to give Tony pause for thought as well as material for further detailed searches.
Eagerly, he typed in a new set of parameters. This was going to be interesting. It looked as if he might just have something to show Carol after all.
Sam Evans left his jacket hanging on his chair and strolled out of the office as if he had nothing more pressing on his mind than a trip to the toilet. Once the door closed behind him, however, he picked up speed and headed for the lifts. He descended to the car park and got into his car. Out came the mobile and he dialled Bindie Blyth’s number.
She answered on the second ring. When he identified himself, she groaned. ‘Not more questions. I’ve already had your DCI on this morning.’
Sweat popped out on Sam’s forehead. What if he’d called earlier, before Carol Jordan? How would he have explained himself to the woman who already had him marked down as too much of a maverick? Shit, he had to be careful with this stuff. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been bothered twice. We each have our own lines of inquiry,’ he said,
