Babel

11

T hey went first to Shadwell Road police station and made arrangements with the duty inspector to call in additional officers from surrounding divisional stations. Soon they were joined by Bren Gurney and a carload of people from Serious Crime, including Leon Desai.

Bren cornered Kathy soon after he arrived. ‘Leon insisted on coming over with us, Kathy. What do you want me to do? Send him off somewhere?’

Kathy’s heart sank. So her break-up with Leon was common knowledge. And she had fondly hoped that people didn’t even know they’d been having an affair. Some hope.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said, aiming for total indifference but hearing herself sound snappy. ‘Not an issue.’

Leon himself appeared shortly after. ‘Kathy, can I have a word?’

‘I’m very busy, Leon,’ she said, although embarrassingly she suddenly found herself with nothing particular to do.

‘Yes, but why?’ He was pressing too close to her, trying to keep his voice low as people passed by in the narrow corridor.

‘Why what?’

‘Why are you involved in this? You’re supposed to be on stress leave. Did Brock make you come back?’

She turned on him then. ‘It’s none of your bloody business, Leon. Just bugger off and leave me alone.’

‘Kathy, I’m concerned!’ He choked off whatever he’d been going to add as two men newly arrived from the Divisional Intelligence Unit called out a greeting to a small black woman from the Race Hate Unit at Rotherhithe.

‘You were told to take time off. And you shouldn’t be involved in this,’ he hissed under his breath. ‘This Special Branch stuff, it’s not even your area. I’m going to speak to Brock.’

‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Her yell startled the others, who turned to see what was going on.

‘Let’s talk about it, then.’ He was pleading now, and she hated it more than his high-handedness.

‘Leave-me-alone,’ she said, slowly and deliberately. ‘I don’t want your advice. Do you understand?’

He stared at her, and she saw his dark eyes filled with hurt, and understood finally what was going on. This Special Branch stuff… She thought, some undercover man Wayne O’Brien turned out to be. I should start my own ‘Kathy’s love-life’ website, just in case some distant outpost of the Met isn’t quite up to date.

Brock padded up the stairs, Bren at his shoulder, wondering if anyone had actually made an arrest before in their stockinged feet. No doubt they had, and in frogmen’s suits and tails and long johns too, but there was something peculiarly subversive about being made shoeless, as if the whole ominous dignity of the occasion might be punctured by a pin dropped on the carpet. His hope was that the place would be as quiet as the last time he’d come here, but his optimism began to fade as he picked up sounds filtering down from the upstairs hall, and died altogether when they reached the top and opened the doors. There were maybe two dozen men on their knees in prayer, another dozen in small huddles squatting on the carpet, and one larger group, like an adult class-nearly fifty men in all, enough to start a riot or a massacre.

He scanned their faces, aware of a number of them looking suspiciously at the two of them in their coats and socks. He couldn’t spot anyone resembling Abu, but he did recognise Imam Hashimi, who appeared to be leading the adult education group. The imam caught sight of him at the same instant, and a look of alarm appeared on his face. He gave some kind of instruction to his group, jumped to his feet and hurried over.

‘What do you want here?’ he demanded, voice low.

‘Your help, Imam Hashimi,’ Brock said.

‘No!’ the man said, agitated. ‘Please go at once. You are not welcome here.’

At the same time another man came sidling over, trying to hear what was being said. He must have caught the tone of anger in the imam’s voice, for he said, ‘Is everything all right? Are you in need of assistance, Imam?’

‘No, no. Everything is fine.’

Several more men approached, and Brock recognised Manzoor, the owner of the clothes shop next to the police station, looking particularly dapper in dark business suit and silk polka dot tie. Manzoor recognised Brock too and hurried forward eagerly. ‘This is the police, Imam! This is Scotland Yard!’

‘It’s all right, Sanjeev!’ Imam Hashimi anxiously flapped both hands at him in an attempt at a calming gesture. ‘They want my assistance. I will have to talk to them.’

But Manzoor wasn’t ready to be put off. ‘Is it about the Sharif boy, Superintendent? Have you arrested him? Did he murder the professor?’

A small crowd was gathering now, and the men who had been at prayer were beginning to sit up, looking round in bewilderment.

‘No, Mr Manzoor,’ Brock said firmly. ‘We haven’t charged anyone in connection with that case. I want to speak to the Imam about a private matter. There’s no need for concern.’

Manzoor looked disappointed and the imam took advantage of his hesitation to guide the two policemen away to the door to his office, which he shut firmly behind them.

‘You see? You see how troubled they all are? You shouldn’t have just walked in here. You should have phoned.’ He spoke in a kind of strangled whisper for fear of ears at the door, but his extreme agitation needed an outlet and he paced back and forward in the small space, gesturing with his hands. ‘You should have made an appointment!’

‘I’m sorry, but there hasn’t been time for that. This is a very urgent matter we need your help with.’

‘No! No, no, no! I helped you once and what happened? Three of our young people are in your hands for over twenty-four hours now, and you say you haven’t charged them with any offence? How is this possible? Their families come and ask my advice, and what can I say to them? That I was the one who delivered them up to you?’

‘Everything is being done according to the law, Imam Hashimi. Tell them to get legal advice.’

‘Do you think I don’t do that? But what happens when they find out that I supplied the addresses?’

‘I haven’t told anyone that, and I have no intention of doing so.’

‘All the same, you were seen here, before the boys were arrested. ..’

‘Look, I’m sorry, but time is very short. We came here to try to prevent a death, Imam. One of your parishioners has disappeared and we fear the worst. He left us a message. I think you will understand my concern when I tell you what it was.’

The imam stopped pacing and faced Brock. ‘Yes?’

‘A verse from the Qur’an, Chapter Three.’

‘The Imrans? Yes?’

‘Verse one hundred and seventy.’

He frowned in thought, and then his eyes widened and he whispered, ‘“Do not account those who are slain in the cause of Allah, as dead”. .. Who is this person?’

‘A young man by the name of Abu Khadra, a Lebanese, who works at the university. He worships here with you.’

The imam shook his head slowly, frowning, ‘No, I don’t know the name.’

Brock handed him a copy of the photo from Haygill’s files, but still Hashimi shook his head, then went to the record book on his desk and searched for some minutes before looking up. ‘No, he is not one of our people.’

‘Perhaps he just comes unannounced, without introducing himself, or under another name. He is devout, I believe, and he has been seen in Shadwell Road. We think he may have a room in the area, and friends.’

‘What has he done?’

Brock hesitated. ‘We’re not sure. But we think he can clarify whether your three young men are innocent or not.’

‘You mean he may have led them astray?’

‘That’s a possibility. I wonder, if you were to ask some of your most faithful and regular worshippers, they might tell you if they have seen him here?’

Imam Hashimi thought about that, then nodded agreement and went to the door. He returned ushering in half a dozen of the more senior men and a couple of younger ones. Manzoor was among them, shouldering his way to the front. The imam explained in English Brock’s request for information about the man whose picture he passed round and whose name he told them. Someone then asked a question in another language, and some discussion followed in what Brock took to be Urdu. From time to time the men would glance at him, as if his appearance might clarify some point. Finally Manzoor spoke up. He seemed agitated, striking the air with his fist to emphasise what he said, and giving Brock a look of veiled cunning. The others seemed to agree, and the imam then returned to English to announce to Brock that no one had ever seen this Abu Khadra in the mosque, although some thought they may have seen him in the Shadwell Road in the past. As they filed out of the office, Brock reflected that it had taken an awful lot of discussion to arrive at this conclusion, and wished that he’d been able to understand Urdu. Imam Hashimi patted the last departing man on the back and closed the door again.

‘No, he is not from our congregation,’ he said firmly.

‘That’s disappointing. He specifically mentioned coming to the mosque in Shadwell Road.’

‘Well, now, that is possible. There is another mosque, though strictly speaking, we do not consider them to be Muslim.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘They are Shia. You are aware of the five pillars of our faith, are you, Chief Inspector? They define the necessary steps to be a Muslim. First the shahadah, the profession of faith; second the ritual of worship and prayer, salah; third sawm, which is fasting during the month of Ramadan; fourth is Zakaat, or almsgiving; and fifth is the pilgrimage to Mecca, the hajj.’

Brock tried to interrupt, but Hashimi wouldn’t be stopped. His voice rose and he went on, ‘The most important of these is the first, the shahadah, which is a form of words which must never be changed. The Shiites however, in their misguided error, use a different form of words. Therefore they are not true Muslims. You see?’

‘And where is their mosque?’

‘They call it the Nur al-Islam mosque. A miserable affair. I have never been to it, of course, but I am told it is a very inferior place. They are mainly Yemeni, you know.’ He shook his head. ‘A primitive, desert people.’

‘Is it on Shadwell Road?’ Bren asked.

‘In Chandler’s Yard. You know The Three Crowns public house? Well, it stands on the corner of Shadwell Road and Chandler’s Yard. Go down there. There is a cafe, the Horria Cafe, run by a man called Qasim Ali. You might ask for him. He is what they call a “muwasit”, what you might call a “Mr Fix-it”. If your man is down there, he will know of it.’

They thanked him and left, aware of the eyes that followed them in absolute silence across the hall, and then the murmur that began as soon as they reached the stairs. Out on the street a soft drizzle had dispersed most of the pedestrians, and Brock spoke into his phone for a moment, then they crossed the street and made towards The Three Crowns and beside it the narrow entrance to Chandler’s Yard.

After twenty yards the narrow laneway broadened into the cobbled square that had once formed the focus of the local candle-making industry from which Chandler’s Yard had taken its name. The jumble of old workshops and storehouses which stood around the yard still bore the marks of their old occupation, their brickwork blackened and door jambs scarred, like veteran craftsmen irretrievably gnarled by a lifetime of labour. Among them, as flamboyant as a belly dancer, glowed the bright shopfront and garish red neon sign of the Horria Cafe.

Inside, four old men played cards at a table beneath a silent TV showing a soccer game, while an ancient juke-box at their side throbbed with Arab music. A very fat, darkskinned man behind the counter wiped fingers like sticky pork sausages across a grubby apron and then flicked at his bushy moustache. He narrowed his eyes at the newcomers suspiciously, and Brock wondered if he was going to need an interpreter to communicate with these ‘primitive desert people’.

After due consideration, the fat man spoke. ‘Yes, gents. What can I do for you?’ he said affably in a broad cockney accent. ‘I got a fresh load of chips on. Stewed lamb’s the speciality of the house, if yer interested.’

‘It smells very good,’ Brock said, feeling suddenly remarkably hungry. ‘Maybe later. Right now we’re looking for a Mr Qasim Ali. Know where we might find him?’

‘Who wants ’im?’

Brock showed him his warrant card.

The man peered at it, then nodded and held up his fat hand. ‘I’m Ali.’

Brock took the hand, warm, smooth and with a surprisingly hard grip.

‘We’re wondering if you can put us in touch with someone we need very urgently to talk to, Mr Ali. A young Lebanese man, twenty-six, name of Abu Khadra, rides a yellow Yamaha bike.’ Brock showed him the picture. Ali gave no sign of recognition as he studied it and slid it back. He reached beneath the counter, produced a pack of Benson and Hedges and a Bic lighter, and slowly lit up, wheezing a long draw.

‘How come you came to me then? No, let me guess. Was it them wankers out there?’ He jerked a hand in the general direction of Shadwell Road, the gesture making the flesh of his arm wobble. ‘The Pakis? Yeah, that’d be right. Any shit they don’t want, they pass it on to old Ali, eh?’

He tipped his head back and exhaled towards a fan slowly beating time with the music. His head began to rock with it. ‘Umm Kalthoum, that is. They don’t make singers like that any more. You heard of Umm Kalthoum?’

‘I believe I have,’ Brock replied. ‘Egyptian?’

‘Yeah. The greatest. This place is named after one of her biggest hits. Horria. That means “freedom”, see? Very important, yeah? We all value our freedom. What’s he wanted for, this Abu Khadra?’

‘We just want to talk to him. But there’s some concern about his state of mind. So there’s some urgency…’ Brock could sense Bren stirring impatiently at his side.

‘Lebanese. What, is he an illegal? Is that it?’

‘No, no.’

‘No, it’d ’ave to be something more serious than that, wouldn’t it? They wouldn’t send two big blokes like you out looking for one little illegal, would they?’

‘The person who suggested we come to you, Mr Ali, said that you were the one man who would know what was going on around here. However, if you can’t help us… There’s a mosque in Chandler’s Yard isn’t there? Where can we find that?’

Ali stared at Brock, then crushed his half-smoked cigarette in a saucer on the counter. ‘I didn’t say I couldn’t help. I just resent those newcomers strutting around, throwing their weight around like they own the place.’

‘Newcomers?’

‘Yeah, the Pakis.’ He thrust his two forearms like hams onto the counter and leaned forward to make his point. ‘Tell me, you’d consider yourself a Londoner, would you? ’Ow long’s your family been ’ere? One generation? Two?’

Brock took a deep breath, trying to remain calm, and replied, ‘Two, I suppose. They came from up north.’

‘Yeah, and what about your friend there, who’s lookin’ so impatient? How long ’as your family been ’ere, squire?’

Bren answered stolidly, ‘I’m the first.’

‘Right. So you’re like them out there, newcomers. Did you know that the Yemenis are the oldest Muslim residents of London? My great-grandfather was ’ere when the old queen died-Victoria that is. We came ’ere ’cause the Merchant Navy made an ’abit of picking up engine-room crews everywhere they went. Sixteen men to a crew- twelve stokers, three greasers and one donkeyman-all the same race, no mixing. Sixteen Chinese from Singapore, sixteen blacks from the West Indies, sixteen Yemenis from Aden, see? And when they got back to England they dropped them off wherever they landed, Newcastle, Cardiff, London.’

‘That’s very interesting, Mr Ali, but…’

‘I ’aven’t finished yet. My point, you see, is that as Londoners of such long standing, we may feel a certain obligation to shelter a stranger of our own faith, cast ashore among us, without necessarily knowing all of his circumstances.’

‘I understand.’

‘I ’ope you do. ’Ave you got a search warrant?’

‘No.’

Ali lowered his head, pondering, then said quietly, ‘The mosque is up those stairs.’ He nodded towards stairs at the back of the cafe. ‘The kid’s praying. He’s been ’ere for over an hour.’

‘Thank you. Is there anyone else up there with him?’

‘No.’

‘And would you know if he’s armed, by any chance?’ Brock asked mildly.

The fat man looked startled. ‘Blimey. I dunno about that. Are you expecting trouble?’

‘Thanks very much for your help, Mr Ali. Tell me, would it be very disrespectful if we kept our shoes on, under the circumstances?’

Qasim Ali gave his dispensation, then hurried over to get the four elders, protesting, to their feet.

The young man kneeling on the middle of the carpet in the little room which served as the Shiite mosque of Shadwell Road looked slight and vulnerable in his white T-shirt and jeans. In the lobby outside, above his grey trainers, a dark coat hung from a peg. It looked to Brock very much like the coat they had seen on the assassin in the security film, but there was no weapon in its pockets, or on the person of Abu, who submitted to his arrest without surprise or resistance.

Umm Kalthoum’s song throbbed plaintively in the deserted cafe as they led the young man out into Chandler’s Yard. The rain had stopped, leaving puddles on the cobbles. There was no one in the dark square or laneway, but beyond they could see many figures moving about under the brighter streetlighting of Shadwell Road.

‘Let’s make this quick,’ Brock said, and they hurried forward, each gripping one of the lad’s elbows, his wrists cuffed together at his back. It wasn’t until they were practically out into the main street that they realised that the people there were waiting for them. They stopped abruptly as the crowd recognised the detectives and cries went up, ‘Here they are! Here, here!’ Brock recognised faces from the Twaqulia Mosque, eager, excited, among the people pressing forward to see who they had brought out of the yard.

‘Let’s keep moving,’ he murmured, and they stepped forward again, holding Abu tight between them. As they passed the corner entrance of The Three Crowns they saw the doors were open, a group of pale-faced young men standing against the light, shaved heads. One of them shouted, ‘Hello, Abu!’ and Abu twisted between the detectives to try to see who had called his name. Others from the doorway joined in, right arms raised, their yells becoming a chant, ‘Aaa-booo, Aaa-booo.’ Brock saw alarm growing on the faces of the crowd from the mosque as the chanting youths fell into step behind them. The crowd wavered as Brock and Bren pressed forward, stepping out into the roadway, then they heard a scream and a running of feet from behind a group of turbaned men ahead. The men turned and began to scatter and in a sudden clatter of boots more skinheads were bursting through from the front. One was swinging something, an axe handle or a baseball bat, others throwing punches and now everyone was shouting and screaming and running. Bren swore, his arm raised to block a blow as they charged on, almost lifting the man between them off his feet in their effort to keep their momentum. Brock felt a numbing blow to his knee, hands grabbing at his arm trying to drag him down, a boot flailing past. Then more shouts and he glimpsed the entrance to the police station ahead and uniformed men running out, batons in their hands. A scream of pain very close to his left ear, then a surge as they stumbled clear and hands were hauling them inside. Bren was shouting something. ‘Made it… bloody made it…’ But Brock was too winded to speak, his ears singing, and it was a moment before he realised that their prisoner was lying face down on the floor between them, not moving.

They rode together in the ambulance, the three of them, Brock, Bren and Abu, but the young Lebanese was dead before they reached the hospital, two deep stab wounds in his back. Apart from these almost invisible wounds he was unblemished, in contrast to the other two who were battered and bloody.

It was several hours before Kathy was able to see either of them. She sat in the casualty waiting room, watching the staff process a motorbike accident case, an asthmatic child, two men hurt in a pub fight, a coronary victim, and decided that there were worse things than being a copper. It was exactly a month since she’d lain on a bed in a place just like this, waiting to be treated. The harsh lighting, the smells, the sense of an invisible but relentless process, all seemed designed to bring home the reality of the fragility of life. Here all the comforting little props and reassurances of normal routine were stripped away. You came here damaged, hoping to be saved and put together again.

She had seen it all from an upstairs window of the police station, from an office where they had the computer link to CRIS, the Crime Report Information System, which she was trying to trawl for information about Abu Khadra. In truth she’d gone there to keep out of the way while Leon Desai was around, an absurd and unnecessary reaction since he’d made himself scarce immediately after their encounter. The fact was that his vulnerability and her reaction to it had shaken her. She had never seen him off-balance like that before, and her response had been so hostile because she had felt herself being touched by it. She realised that she was tempted to think back again over the time they had spent together before Christmas, to pick over the memories of what for a few short days had seemed euphoric, to find new, more forgiving interpretations of their split. And she was resolved not to do that. She had decided on a fresh start, and that was that.

So she’d bashed another spelling of ‘Khadra’ into the machine and sat back and stared out of the window at the unexpectedly crowded street. Then she’d seen Brock and Bren emerge at the corner of the pub with the slender young Arab held tight between them. She saw him raise his head just once and turn towards some men who were following them, skinheads dressed in army fatigues, who seemed to be chanting and waving. Then he turned back, his head bouncing as the two big men broke into a jog, and the crowd parted in front of them, people scattering in all directions, and six or seven men, looking almost like a single flailing animal, charged directly at them from the front. For a second the impact brought the three of them to a halt, but then they recovered and heaved forward again, lashing out with fists at their attackers who slithered round their flanks.

A nurse finally called Kathy and led her down a corridor to a small ward where she pulled back a curtain to reveal Bren sitting looking glum and alone. His right eye was covered by a large gauze pad, his mouth swollen and bruised, his right hand bandaged and in a sling.

‘Oh, hello, Kathy,’ he said disconsolately.

‘Bren! How are you?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m fine. Nothing worse than a match against the All Blacks.’

‘That’s a miracle. I thought you’d both be dead.’

‘You saw it?’

‘Yes, from the office upstairs at the station. You were both fantastic.’

Bren looked down at his bandaged hand and sniffed modestly. ‘We’d have been kebabs if we’d been twenty yards further from the station or the lads had been slower coming out for us.’ He grinned reluctantly. ‘The boss did all right, though, didn’t he? Like an old warrior. He clocked the guy with the pickaxe handle, did you see that? Knocked him out cold.’

‘Where is he?’

‘They’re worried about his left knee. It took a bashing. They’re doing some more X-rays. But that’s not what’s pissing him off. It’s what happened to the Arab kid. He’s dead, Kathy.’

‘I know.’

Bren shook his head in disbelief. ‘When we got him into the station I couldn’t believe our luck. He looked completely untouched. It must have been those bastards behind us, from the pub. Did you see it happen?’

‘No. I wasn’t aware of anything like a knife. They’re hoping a street camera might have picked something up.’

‘How did they all appear like that, out of nowhere? And how did they know his name, Kathy? That’s what I can’t fathom.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Those fucking Nazis, they knew Abu’s name. They were chanting it as they came out the pub.’ He wearily rubbed the unbandaged parts of his face with his good hand. ‘On the way here in the ambulance, Brock was going on about how he’s never lost a prisoner. He’s really cut up about it. Hell, me too.’

‘Yes.’ She could imagine the feelings of outrage and dismay the two of them must feel at having failed to protect the helpless Abu. And there would be ramifications. While she had been sitting outside in the waiting room, Kathy had recognised a plain-clothes officer who had come in and stood waiting at the information desk. At first she couldn’t place him, and had assumed he must be following up on one of the other cases, the motorbike accident or the pub fight. But as he turned from the counter and walked away she remembered him, an inspector in the Crime Support Branch, which watches over the performance of the other specialist operations groups, such as their own Serious Crime Branch. And it had come home to her how completely Abu Khadra’s death changed everything. Now Brock and Bren were no longer simply investigating officers, but were themselves witnesses and participants in a murder. Herself too perhaps? Would she now be isolated and corralled while a new major inquiry squad took over? Then again, she was on leave. Strictly speaking, in this investigation she didn’t exist at all.