know now that it’s a link. I don’t know what it means, or if it means anything at all, but it’s definitely something they all had in common.’
‘There’s something else they had in common,’ Kevin said. ‘They were all rich. Robbie from football, Danny from the lottery and Popeye from the football pools. Some people thought he must be on the take, to afford a house on Dunelm Drive. But he wasn’t. He just got lucky.’
‘Interesting point, Kevin. And good work, Paula,’ Carol said.
‘Do you think we should be warning former pupils of Harriestown High who have gone on to make a mint?’ Chris said.
Carol looked startled. ‘I don’t think we’ve got nearly enough to be setting the cat among the pigeons like that. Can you imagine the panic that would set in if we did that? No, we need to have a much clearer idea of what’s going on here. I’m going to see Mrs Cross this morning. Let’s see what comes out of that. Paula, can you speak to Mr and Mrs Bishop, see if Robbie knew Tom Cross? And Sam, the same thing with Danny’s family. Kevin, the phone records have just come in for Aziz’s mobile. I want you to pursue that. Also, since you’ve got the connections, get hold of the head teacher at Harriestown High and see if the school had fostered some connection between the three of them. Like you said, they were all rich. Maybe the school had been hitting them up for donations? Maybe the head had invited them over for drinks? Check it out. And Chris, I want you to take the phone over to CTC. Apologize profusely for us getting our wires crossed and thinking we’d told them about the phone. Smile a lot. See what they’ve got. And guys? I want you all to keep an open mind on the bombing. I spoke to Tony last night and he has one or two ideas that seemed pretty off the wall to me. But he’s been right before in unlikely circumstances, so let’s make sure we don’t jump to conclusions based on preconceptions and prejudice. Let the evidence do the work. And speaking of evidence, how are you getting on, Stacey?’
‘Some interesting bits and pieces…Chris asked me to check out hopefully.co.uk to see if Aziz had saved his login details on the laptop. We got lucky. The login was on the machine. But he’d booked nothing else.’ Stacey paused. She did like to keep them dangling, Carol thought, noticing the expressions of her team. And how they hated it. ‘However,’ Stacey continued, ‘I was able to dredge up a list of things on the site he’d been looking at. And what attracted the Bradfield bomber were rental cottages in Northern Ontario. I have a list.’
‘He was planning to escape to a cottage in Canada?’ Kevin expressed the incredulity Carol thought they were probably all feeling. ‘Canada?’
‘He was thinking about it, at least,’ Stacey said.
‘You wouldn’t think Canada would be the destination of choice of an Islamic fundamentalist fugitive, would you?’ Chris said.
‘They’re very tolerant, the Canadians,’ Paula said.
‘Not that tolerant. But they do have a significant population from the sub-continent, Carol said. ‘OK. Kevin, you take care of the cottages. You probably won’t be able to do much before tomorrow, but make whatever start you can. Chris, when you get back from CTC, take over the mobile numbers from Kevin.’ She smiled at them. ‘You’re all doing really well. I know we’ve got a lot on our plates, but let’s show them what we’re made of. Make sure everything you get comes across my desk.’ She stood up, signalling the end of the meeting. ‘Good luck. God knows, we need it.’
Tony couldn’t help feeling sorry for the residents of Vale Avenue. Their normally quiet suburban boulevard, with its grassy central reservation and its flowering cherries lining the verge, was under siege. Now the eyes of the world were on a street where normally the most provocative event was a dog owner allowing their pet to foul the pavement. TV vans, radio cars and reporters’ vehicles were scattered along either side of the road. Police and forensic vans formed a tight cluster round 147. Sitting in the back of the black hack-the cab he’d ordered because it had enough room for his leg-Tony wondered again at the public’s capacity for every last drop of so-called news coverage.
As well as those who had more or less legitimate reasons for being there, there were the ghouls and gawpers. Probably some of the same people who had contributed to Robbie Bishop’s shrine. People whose lives were so limited they needed the validation of being somehow part of a public event. It was easy to despise them, Tony thought. But he felt they did perform a function, acting as a kind of Greek chorus, commenting in their unconsidered way on the events of the day. Paxman might interview the great and the good, inviting their incisive insights, but the people on the pavement also had something to say.
‘Drive right up to the police cordon,’ Tony said to the driver, who did as he was asked, crawling through the knots of people, using his horn to clear a path. When he had got as far as he could, Tony struggled upright and shoved a twenty through the gap in the window. ‘Wait for me, please.’ He opened the door, then manoeuvred his crutches on to the ground. It was ungainly and painful, but he managed to struggle out on to the road. Armed officers stood at intervals across the drive and along the hedge of 147. On the pavement, Sanjar Aziz was giving another interview. He was tiring. His shoulders were starting to droop, his stance was more defensive than before. But the passion in his face was still alive. The lights went off, the interviewer gave perfunctory thanks and turned away. A look of dejection spread across Sanjar’s face.
Tony swung himself over on his crutches. Sanjar looked him up and down, clearly unimpressed. ‘You want an interview?’
Tony shook his head. ‘No. I want to talk to you.’
Sanjar screwed his face up, incomprehending. ‘Yeah, right. Talk, interview, same thing, innit?’ He was looking over Tony’s shoulder, impatient for somebody else to talk to, somebody who would listen to what he had to say, not get into a verbal fencing match with him.
Tony gritted his teeth. It was amazing how much effort it took just to stand upright, never mind standing upright and talking. ‘No, it’s not the same. The interviewers want you to say what they want to hear. I want to hear what you have to say. The thing that they’re not letting you talk about.’
Now he had Sanjar’s attention. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, his good-looking face twisted into wounded aggression.
‘My name’s Tony Hill. Dr Tony Hill. I’d show you my ID if I could,’ he said, giving his crutches a frustrated glance. ‘I’m a psychologist. I often work with Bradfield Police. Not this lot,’ he added, nodding towards the impassive riot-clad guards with a trace of contempt. ‘I think you’ve got things to say about your brother that nobody wants to hear. I think that’s frustrating you beyond belief.’
‘What’s it got to do with you?’ Sanjar snapped. ‘I don’t need no shrink, all due respect. I just want this lot–’ he gestured expansively at the media and police ‘-to understand why they’re wrong about my brother.’
‘They’re not going to understand,’ Tony said. ‘Because it doesn’t fit what they need to believe. But I do want to understand. I don’t think your brother was a terrorist, Sanjar.’
