never been to Pakistan or Afghanistan. Fuck, we’ve never even been to the bloody Lake District or the Dales.’ He clapped his hands to his chest. ‘We’re peaceful, me and Yousef.’
‘He killed those people, Sanjar. There’s no getting away from that.’
‘And it doesn’t make any sense,’ Sanjar moaned. ‘I don’t know how to get you to understand.’ He suddenly stopped, staring at the console table where Tony’s former laptop had been retired. ‘You got wireless? Can I turn your computer on? There’s something I want to show you.’
‘Go ahead.’
Sanjar waited for the machine to boot then navigated his way to a blog called DoorMAT-the portal for Muslims Against Terrorism. Meanwhile, Tony managed to get to his feet and cross the room. He leaned against the arm of the sofa and looked at the screen. At the login screen, Sanjar typed in an email address. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Yousef’s address. Not mine.’ At the password prompt, he typed ‘Transit350’. He looked back at Tony. ‘We always use our vehicles for our passwords. That way you don’t forget.’ Once accepted on to the site, Sanjay clicked the mouse a few times and up popped a listing of Yousef’s posts to the blog. Sanjay clicked at random.
OK, Salman31, I haven’t lived in a city where the BNP have seats on the council. But I know if I did, I would be making protests that got better headlines than the rabble on the streets in Burnley. The BNP thugs act like savages, it’s what people expect from chavs with shaved heads. Nobody thinks any worse of them, but we do the same, and suddenly we got no reputation, we should know better, ect, ect. We have to be better than them, we have to be.
‘You go through his posts, that’s what they’re like. That doesn’t sound much like a hit man, does it?’
‘No,’ Tony said, thinking how much he wanted to spend some time with Yousef’s posts when his brother wasn’t looking over his shoulder. ‘You make your point very well. So has anything changed recently? Has Yousef changed? Has there been anything different about him lately? New friends? New routines? New girlfriend?’
Sanjar’s brow furrowed in concentration. ‘He’s been a bit up and down the last six months or so,’ he said slowly. ‘Off his food, not sleeping. Up, like a geezer with a new lady, then down like she’d dumped him. Then up again. I didn’t see him with anybody, though. We’d go out together, clubbing or just for a meal with friends, and he wasn’t hanging with any of the girls in particular. I never saw him with a girl, not lately. He’d been working pretty hard too, nailing down some new contracts. A lot of meetings and shit. So he didn’t really have time for a new girl, innit?’
‘And he never said anything?’
Sanjar shook his head. ‘No. Not a thing.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Look, I gotta go. I promised my dad I would be back.’ He stood up and stretched a hand out to Tony. ‘I appreciate you listening. But I don’t think this is ever going to make sense.’
Tony searched his pockets till he finally unearthed a business card. ‘This is who I am. Call me if you want to talk.’
Sanjar pocketed it with the nearest Tony had seen to a proper smile. ‘No disrespect, like, but I don’t think I’m gonna need a shrink.’
‘I’m not a shrink. Not the way you’re thinking of it. I don’t have people lying on couches telling me about their miserable childhoods. I get too bored too easily. What I do is find practical uses for psychology. Often, I don’t know what they are till I get there. I like trying to fix what’s broken, Sanjar.’
The younger man smiled and reached for the pen and notepad beside the computer. He scribbled something and dropped it back on the table. ‘My mobile, innit? Call me if you want to talk. I’ll see myself out.’
Tony watched him go, feeling quite deeply disturbed. As Sanjar had said, same genes, same upbringing. If Yousef Aziz had been anything like his brother, Tony couldn’t imagine how he’d ended up blowing thirty-five people to kingdom come. He desperately wanted to read those blog contributions. But first, he’d better get back to hospital before they called the cops. Carol would really love that.
Kevin reckoned that Nigel Foster would never have made head teacher of the Double Aitch in his day. The man who had ruled the roost back then had the build of a prop forward and a voice like a foghorn. Foster was tall, already slightly stooped at forty-something. His polo shirt and jeans hung baggy on his thin frame. His head and neck had the defleshed look of a wasted old man. But his expression was lively, his eyes bright and watchful. He’d suggested meeting at his home, but Kevin had wanted to see the Double Aitch up close and personal. Foster had protested that it was too much hassle to disarm the building security, so they’d compromised. They’d settled on the rickety wooden stand that overlooked the football pitch. A swell of nostalgia surged through Kevin. He’d had some of his finest hours on that turf. He could still remember some of the plays. ‘I loved playing here,’ he said. ‘Not many schools had a proper spectator stand like this. You could almost believe you were doing it for real.’
‘It’s due for demolition, I’m afraid,’ Foster said in a pleasant tenor voice with traces of a Welsh accent. ‘Health and Safety. It would cost too much to fireproof it the way they want it.’
Kevin’s face twisted into a cynical sneer. ‘We mollycoddle them these days.’
‘We’ve developed a culture of blame and litigation,’ Foster said. ‘But I mustn’t waste your time. How can I help you with your investigation, Sergeant?’
It was, Kevin thought, a subtle rebuke for taking up the headmaster’s valuable Sunday. ‘Three men have died recently from a variety of poisons. We think the cases may be connected, and one of the links between them is that they are all former pupils.’
A quick flash of surprise crossed Foster’s face. ‘I knew about Robbie Bishop, of course. But there have been others?’
‘You might have missed the story, with all the news coverage of the bomb. But another man died yesterday, nothing to do with the explosion. Ex-Detective Superintendent Tom Cross.’
Foster frowned. ‘He died? I read something about him being one of the heroes of the hour.’
‘His death didn’t make the early editions. But he died from poisoning too, similar to Robbie. And a third man, Danny Wade. Also a former pupil. Also poisoned.’
‘That’s shocking. Terrible.’ Foster’s expression was troubled, like a priest who’s losing his faith.
‘The thing is, they were all rich men. And we wondered if you’d maybe brought them together for some fund- raising project? With them all being alumni…’ Kevin paused expectantly.
Foster shook his head rapidly. ‘No. Nothing of the sort.’ He gave a bitter little laugh. ‘It’s a good idea, but it
