Good as Dead

THIRTY-ONE

‘What happens if Thorne doesn’t find what you want him to find?’ Helen asked. ‘What do you do then, Javed?’

Akhtar was sitting at the desk. He had been to fetch an assortment of reading material from the shop, and had been staring at the same page of a motoring magazine for half an hour. He looked across at Helen. ‘Is he a good policeman?’

‘I think so.’

‘OK, then.’ Akhtar shrugged as if there was therefore nothing to worry about. ‘So we have to trust that he will do a good job. A better job than his colleagues made of things, at any rate.’ He went back to his magazine, turned the page.

‘Sometimes it doesn’t matter how good you are,’ Helen said. ‘How hard you work. You don’t always get the result you want.’ She waited, but he didn’t look up. ‘Do you know how many times I’ve had to watch while someone I know is guilty as sin gets away with it? Someone who’s hurt children and who will go on hurting them.’

Akhtar closed his magazine. ‘And you wonder why I no longer have any faith in the law?’ He shook his head. ‘Justice is a bloody joke, you have just made that very clear yourself.’

‘Things don’t always work out the way they should, I’m not saying they do.’

‘I know that, believe me.’

‘But that doesn’t mean… this is right. What you’re doing.’

‘Right does not come into it. I know that this is not right, but in the end I did not have a choice.’

‘Course you did.’

Akhtar stood up and took down a carton of cigarettes from one of the shelves. He brandished it, angrily. ‘You know, I could be doing what everybody else does and driving across to France or Belgium and bringing thousands of these things over in the back of a van. I would save myself a fortune, but I always refused to do it because I never believed that sort of thing was right. You break a small law and soon the bigger ones become easier to ignore. So I always did things the correct way, I always obeyed every rule because the most important thing was that I could sleep at night. That mattered to me, Miss Weeks, however silly it might sound now. I never had to worry that someone would come knocking at my door in the middle of the night, you understand?’ He tossed the carton on to the floor. ‘I was stupid,’ he said. ‘I believed that the law would look after my son, that he would be treated fairly.’ He took a deep breath and wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his face. ‘And when he died, I believed, stupidly, that the person who was responsible would be found and would be punished.’

They both turned at the sound of a raised voice somewhere outside the front of the shop. They waited. Helen guessed it was just some copper shouting at a subordinate and shook her head to let Akhtar know there was nothing to get excited about.

He nodded and sat down.

‘Sometimes people get it wrong,’ she said.

‘ I was the one who got it wrong,’ Akhtar said. ‘Because I trusted in people who I thought were far cleverer than me. Who were supposed to be good at their jobs.’ He picked up the gun then laid it down again. ‘Now look where we are… ’

Helen groaned as she shifted her position to relieve the ache in her buttocks. In an effort to ease the cramp in her calves she reached forward with her free hand and pulled back on her toes.

‘Shall I try and find another cushion?’ Akhtar asked.

‘It’s fine,’ Helen said. She leaned back. ‘You never answered my question.’

‘Which?’

‘What if all Thorne’s efforts aren’t good enough?’ Helen stared at him, her face neutral, no more than curious. Thinking: what if you’re just a misguided old man with a screw loose? And even if you’re not, will it bring your son back? Will it bring Stephen Mitchell back? ‘What if you don’t get the answers you’re waiting for?’

‘Very simple. I keep waiting. I have plenty of time.’

‘We can’t sit in here for ever, Javed.’ She nodded towards the shop. ‘They won’t let that happen.’

Akhtar shook his head and slapped his palm against the desktop. ‘No, no, I am the one in charge here.’

‘Yes, you are,’ Helen said.

‘Good, because everyone needs to understand that. You and the people outside.’

‘They understand, believe me.’

‘And you’re doing well, yes?’ He pointed at her. ‘I’m looking after you OK?’

‘Very well,’ Helen said. ‘Thank you.’

Akhtar seemed pleased and began searching eagerly through the pile of magazines on the desk. He asked Helen if she would like something to read, told her he always kept an excellent selection. He offered her Hello!, Bella and Brides Monthly. Helen said thank you and told him that she would look at them later.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Helen nodded towards her phone. It was sitting on the desk, plugged into the charger that Helen always kept in her handbag. ‘Do you think I could make a quick call?’ she asked.

‘Who to?’

‘My sister,’ Helen said. ‘I just want to see how my son’s doing, you know?’

Akhtar looked suspicious, but his expression was almost melodramatic, as though he believed it was how he ought to look. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s not what’s supposed to happen.’

‘Please, Javed. Only for a minute.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper, but she kept it even at least. ‘I want to check he’s all right.’

‘No.’ Akhtar stood up. ‘ I’m running this bloody show and I decide what happens.’ He picked up the gun to emphasise his authority, but did not point it at her. He walked towards the shop then stopped in the doorway, calmer suddenly. ‘Anyway, we need to keep the phone free in case Thorne calls.’

‘I just wanted him to hear my voice,’ Helen said. ‘That’s all.’

Akhtar looked at his feet for a while, then disappeared into the shop.

Helen closed her eyes and lay down.

A few minutes later, she could hear him crying again next door.

Sue Pascoe emerged from the toilet cubicle and crossed to the row of small sinks to wash her hands and splash some water on her face. She smiled at seeing that someone had written ‘Wesley is a big knob’ in black felt-tip on the mirror. Wondered if Wesley, who could be no more than eleven, would have the wherewithal to change ‘is’ to ‘has’.

It was the first time all day that she had found a few minutes to herself or thought about anything other than the job in hand.

The first time she had smiled.

She looked at her watch. It was now thirty hours since Javed Akhtar had taken two people hostage at gunpoint. Donnelly seemed happy enough with the way things were progressing, though in a situation such as this one, that only meant that nothing bad was happening. Chivers was still making noises about the need for advanced technical support and Pascoe knew there would soon be pressure from elsewhere to relax the cordon so as to ease traffic congestion in the area, or at least make an effort to get the station at Tulse Hill reopened.

God forbid the commuters should suffer.

As things stood, none of this was her concern, but it soon would be if the whispers about resolving the hostage situation as quickly as possible grew any louder. If Donnelly started to listen. Then it would become Helen Weeks’ concern too.

She dried her face and brushed her hair. She groaned at the amount of grey coming through and determined to get back to the hairdresser’s as soon as she got the chance. She reapplied her lipstick, then stepped out into the school corridor feeling better. Passing one of the classrooms, she glanced in through the small window and saw a black woman talking animatedly to a WPC. The woman saw her and immediately stood up and walked towards the door.

Pascoe swore quietly and braced herself. She knew Denise Mitchell had clocked her, that there was now no possibility of walking quickly away.

The woman was pretty, with flawless skin and hair in cornrows, and she had begun talking before she had opened the door. ‘Look, nobody will tell me what the hell’s going on. I’m going mental stuck in here.’

‘Everybody’s doing everything they can,’ Pascoe said.

‘It doesn’t feel like it,’ Denise said. ‘It feels like everyone’s rushing around with serious faces, but nothing’s actually happening.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ Pascoe said. ‘Obviously if there was anything to tell you, I would.’

‘Right.’

‘Honestly.’

‘Even if it was something I really didn’t want to hear?’ The woman’s eyes were suddenly wet. ‘Is that your job or do they give that one to somebody else?’

‘Look, I think perhaps you’d be a lot more comfortable staying elsewhere. Has anybody talked to you about a hotel?’

A nod.

‘Don’t you think that would be a good idea?’

‘I don’t want to go on my own.’

‘What about family?’ Pascoe asked. ‘There must be somebody… ’

‘There’s just Steve.’ Denise reached into the sleeve of her sweater and drew out a used tissue. She lifted it towards her face then stopped and crushed it in her fist.

‘Everybody’s doing everything they can,’ Pascoe said.

‘Yeah, you keep saying that.’

‘Because it’s the truth.’

‘Really?’ The woman narrowed her eyes and stared at the Met Police badge on the lanyard around Pascoe’s neck. The WPC had appeared behind her in the doorway. ‘What are you doing?’

Pascoe wondered if there was anything she could say that would make this woman feel better. I’m the one being paid to negotiate with the man who has your husband. I’m the one whose job it is to keep him alive.

Denise Mitchell did not bother waiting for an answer. ‘It’s not fair,’ she said. ‘Steve hasn’t done anything.’ Her voice cracked as she raised it. ‘You should stop talking about it and get him out of there, because he hasn’t done anything.’

Now, Pascoe really had nothing to say.

She watched as the WPC guided the woman back into the room, then turned and walked back towards the hall.