‘I know. That’s the obvious answer.’
‘Mind you, now that you mention it, there was something that, well, I didn’t think was odd at the time. All of your current files were accessed by MI6. I thought it was you at first, trying to do some homework, you know what a workaholic you can be. But it wasn’t you, was it?’
‘No.’
‘They’re permitted access because of the relationship with the Albanian case. But with all that’s flying around with this terror threat, why do they want to look at your files? I suspect it was that chap, Gunnymede. Have you seen him since joining them?’
‘It’s not him.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I just am. Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.’
‘Okay. Take care of yourself. Remember that lot don’t care about anyone. Not even their own people.’
‘’Bye.’
‘’Bye.’ She put the phone down and stared into space.
Gunnymede followed the woman into a reception room. It was neat and tidy with simple furnishings. His attention was immediately drawn to a large framed picture on the mantelpiece of a young man he recognised. A black ribbon was draped around it with plastic flowers either side in small, golden vases. Gunnymede took a closer look at the young man, who was smiling broadly with large, bright eyes.
‘You worked with Nahim?’ the woman asked.
‘No. Not exactly.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘A few days before he died.’
‘Do you know how he died? They won’t tell me.’
‘I don’t.’
‘He never told me anything about his work. I didn’t even know he worked for the government. I thought he was with ISIS.’
Gunnymede looked at her. She was smiling but she looked like she might start crying any moment.
‘I asked him before he left if he was a member of ISIS and he didn’t deny it. He spent the last months before he left in a local mosque. But at school he wasn’t interested in religion. He had his prayer mat in his room in the correct gibla, his Koran by his bed, but he never performed wudu at home or prayed. It was for show. He never mentioned any friends. He was living a lie to protect his secret. His last year alive I thought he was an extremist but he wasn’t. He was a good boy. That’s all they would tell me. That Nahim was a good boy.’
‘He saved my life. I came to pay my respects and tell you how very sorry I am that I am unable to thank him in person.’
She seemed touched by Gunnymede’s sincerity. ‘I’ll thank him for you. In my prayers. What is your name?’
‘Devon.’
‘I’ll thank him for you, Devon.’
Gunnymede could see a light in her eyes. Despite her pain there was some kind of positive resignation in them. ‘You see him, don’t you?’
‘I see him,’ she said, smiling. ‘He was a lovely boy. He still is a lovely boy. He is with Allah now. He is happy.’ She made him feel somewhat more at ease about her son’s death.
When he climbed back into the car he was lost in thought. Bethan sat silently, aware he was going through something deep and personal.
‘Can I ask if that was her?’ she eventually asked.
‘Who?’
‘Saleem’s mother?’
‘No. It wasn’t her.’ Something occurred to Gunnymede. ‘She lives near here though. Head towards Wandsworth.’
‘Are we going to see her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do we need to check if she’s been interviewed already? It’s a normal procedure with us.’
‘No. Let’s go. I’ll get the address.’
She drove off as he tapped a message into his phone.
Twenty minutes later she turned into a street lined with narrow terraced houses and packed with cars.
‘Pull in at the end,’ he said as he eyed a particular house they passed.
Bethan parked the car and turned off the engine.
‘Saleem’s mother was interviewed this morning by the police,’ Gunnymede said. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there isn’t some form of surveillance on the place.’
‘Is there a particular reason we’re here? I mean, apart from the obvious profiling.’
‘I’d like to meet her. You coming?’
They climbed out and walked down the street to the front door.
‘Would you do the badge thing,’ Gunnymede said as he looked around.
Bethan knocked on the door. A man in his sixties opened it. He wore a crisp white shirt and looked at them severely. Bethan held up her badge.
‘Who are you?’ Gunnymede asked.
‘I’m the uncle,’ the man said. ‘Did you forget something? The police were just here.’
‘Is Mrs Saleem in?’ Gunnymede asked.
The man frowned and stepped aside as they entered. He led the way down the hallway to a door and indicated they should go in. ‘Would you like me to come in?’
‘I’ll call you if I need you,’ Gunnymede said.
The man walked away and Bethan and Gunnymede entered the room.
Mrs Saleem was seated on a stool in front of a coffee table where there was a picture of Saleem with a black ribbon draped around it. She looked as if she was grieving but there was a hint of theatrics about her posture. Gunnymede and Bethan exchanged looks. She’d also read the insincerity.
Gunnymede nodded to Bethan to take over.
‘Mrs Saleem?’ Bethan said.
Mrs Saleem looked up at Bethan as if she wasn’t aware they were in the room. Her sunless expression brightened. ‘Hello.’
‘I’m with the police,’ Bethan said.
‘Of course. Can I offer you some tea?’ she said, getting to her feet.
‘No thank you. I’d like to ask you some questions?’
‘Are you different police to the ones who were here earlier?’
‘Yes.’
‘The same questions or different questions?’
‘Let’s see shall we. When’s the last time you saw your son?’
‘They asked me that question.’
‘I suppose we’re not so different then. When’s the
