‘And that’s the one we know nothing about,’ Carol sighed, getting up and walking round her desk.
‘I think it’s a fair bet he’s used the same initials,’ Stacey said. ‘It’s classic scammer behaviour. Strange but true.’
‘That’s not much use, is it? It’s not going to take us anywhere. It’s about as much use as Chris and Paula’s barman, the one who wanted a reward for overhearing a first name.’
Stacey shook her head. ‘Actually, it’s not useless. I have some pretty sophisticated search software. I built it myself. It might just get us somewhere.’
Carol looked faintly worried. It was a look Stacey was used to from her boss. ‘I sometimes think you really shouldn’t tell me all the things you can do, Stacey. OK, get cracking. Do what you can. We need to find this guy.’ She stepped out into the squad room behind Stacey. ‘Paula,’ she called. ‘I’ve got a job for you.’
The nurse bustled in with Tony’s chart and his medication, still emanating an aura of deep disapproval. ‘Oh good, you’re still here,’ she said.
He looked up from the laptop screen. ‘And there was me thinking this was a hospital, not a prison.’
‘You’re here for a reason,’ the nurse said. ‘Look at the oedema in that leg. You’re not supposed to go gallivanting when the mood takes you.’
‘The physio said I should get dressed and move around today,’ he said, obediently taking the pills and swallowing them with a glass of water.
‘She didn’t say you should leave the building,’ the nurse said severely, sticking a thermometer in his mouth and taking his pulse. ‘Please don’t disappear again, Tony. We were worried. We were afraid you’d fallen somewhere you couldn’t attract attention.’ She whipped the thermometer out. ‘You’re lucky you’re not in a worse state.’
‘Can I go off the ward if I tell you where I am?’ he said meekly. Not that he had any plans to move; his energy levels were too depleted for another adventure like this morning’s.
‘As long as you don’t leave the building,’ the nurse said sternly. ‘You’re very lucky we don’t have matrons these days. My auntie was one, you know. She’d have strung you up by your naughty bits.’ She was halfway to the door when she paused. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Your mum stopped by earlier. She wasn’t very pleased either.’
Tony felt a weight come down on him. ‘Did she say when she’d be back?’
‘She said she’d try and come by later this afternoon. Make sure you’re here, now.’
Left to himself, Tony made a fist and punched the mattress. He really didn’t want the distraction his mother would bring in her wake. He was operating well below his normal level and he needed all the acuity he could summon to focus on the bombing and the poisonings. In spite of the promise he’d made to the nurse, he thought he might be making another bid for freedom that afternoon.
But for now, he could restore his energy levels by lying here, doing nothing more strenuous than reading. He’d gone back to the blog Sanjar had taken him to. Reading through all Yousef Aziz’s posts had been fascinating. Here was a young man, intelligent but not articulate enough always to express himself clearly. Quite a few of his posts were made in response to people who had misunderstood a previous point because he hadn’t managed entirely to say what he meant.
The overall picture Tony formed was of someone who was frustrated at the inability of people to coexist peacefully. Aziz respected other people’s views; why couldn’t everyone see that was the sensible way to live? Why did some people seem to have such a big investment in conflict?
On his first pass through the posts, nothing struck Tony. But when he re-read the earlier posts with the later ones still fresh in his mind, he sensed something different. He went back and forth a few times, almost at random. He was right. There was something going on there. Something that chimed with what Sanjar had told him. Now he was definitely going to have to make a break for it.
It took more than a major bomb attack to stop premiership football. So Paula discovered when she turned up on Steve Mottishead’s doorstep to talk about the old school mate whose photo he’d sent to the police. ‘I’m watching the game,’ he said petulantly. ‘It’s Chelsea v Arsenal. I told you all I know about Jack Anderson when I spoke to you before.’
‘We can talk while you watch, can’t we?’ Paula smiled sweetly.
‘I suppose,’ he said, grudgingly holding the door open and letting her in. Steve Mottishead’s house was a former council property on the edge of Downton. The rooms were on the small side, but the house butted on to the golf course that formed the natural boundary between Moortop and Downton so the views from the through lounge he led her into were spectacular.
Paula was the only one interested in the view, however. Sprawled on the sofa in front of a vast TV were two other men who were definitely brothers under the skin. All three wore England shirts, tracksuit bottoms and big fat trainers. Each clutched a can of Stella Artois and the air was thick with cigarette smoke.
‘I’ll need binoculars to see the game from here,’ Mottishead complained, scratching his belly as he sat on a chair Paula would have sworn couldn’t take his weight. He plonked his can on the table and took his cigarettes from his pocket. ‘I don’t suppose you’re allowed to have a beer while you’re working?’ He lit up, making Paula long for one herself. But she tried not to smoke during interviews, even when the punter did. She worried it could make her look weak and dependent.
‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’m surprised the game’s on after yesterday,’ Paula said.
‘It’s football, love,’ one of the others said. ‘Spirit of the Blitz. What made this country great. Two minutes’ silence then the show must go on. No fucking Paki bomber’s going to put a stop to our national game.’
‘He doesn’t mean it like that,’ Mottishead said. ‘It’s just that we’re all upset about what happened yesterday. We were there, like.’
‘Yeah, we were,’ his mouthy mate said. ‘So why aren’t you out there finding that bastard bomber’s mates instead of bothering Stevie?’
‘Because I’m too busy trying to find who killed Robbie Bishop,’ Paula said. ‘I’d have thought you’d approve of that.’ Her aggressor harrumphed and pointedly settled back into his game. Paula turned back to Mottishead. ‘I
