Still Midnight

17

The street of tenements was tall and narrow but surrounded by fields, like a lone passenger crammed into the corner of an empty lift. The pink sandstone was stained to blood red over the years by the black belching from the backsides of cars and buses passing through the stone valley. It was part of a city now gone, the buildings running along either bank of a road that once snaked through other tall streets. All its neighbours had been knocked down before they crumbled away, the families of mine and dock and factory workers decanted to the schemes and new towns.

The Anwars’ shop would never have excited the interest of an avaricious passer-by. It was a poor corner shop. The shop front was painted with what looked like navy blue undercoat, matt and dusty from the street, with ‘Newsagents’ hand painted in red, weathered to pink, above the window. The window was frosted with dirt, the counter inside abutting glass obscured with adverts for newspapers and magazines and comics. A blue plastic ice-cream selection board sagged drunkenly in the window, too far in to be read, too old to be true.

The close was straight across the road and the outside door didn’t give a good account of the neighbourhood. Wired glass scarred with poorly drafted graffiti in felt tip. Names on the intercom were messy, biroed onto stickers, stuck over the outside of the perspex. Something dark yellow, possibly paint, had been spilled on the red floor tiles and scrubbed into the grout.

Nestled in among the messy names ‘J. Lander’ was typewriter-written in an old-fashioned font, the plastic over his name was clean, as if he had tended it carefully over the years. Morrow pressed the button.

‘Hello?’

‘Is this Mr Lander?’

‘It is indeed.’ His voice was high but steady, neat, like his name plate. ‘Who is this?’

‘Mr Lander, we’re from Strathclyde CID. We’d like to speak to you concerning Mr Anwar.’

‘Of course.’ The door clicked open in front of them and Lander came back on the intercom. ‘Two up, first on the left.’

Morrow thanked him and he hung up.

The inside of the close was clear, no piles of rubbish bags or discarded furniture, well tended but the building was in bad shape: a white plastic mobility handrail had come loose from its shorings at one end and was resting forlornly on the floor, as spent as the tenant who had requested it. The walls above the skirting board were damp-bubbled, crumbling but held together with thick burgundy gloss paint. The imprint of a heel in the skin of paint had burst a bubble and white plaster powder had been walked up and down the steps.

Above in the echoing stairwell a door opened. Footsteps clipclopped out onto the landing and a man called over the balcony, ‘Hello?’

‘Hello?’ Morrow led Bannerman up the stairs. ‘Mr Lander?’

‘Aye, that’s you, come on,’ he said, guiding them, as if there was any way of getting lost in a close. ‘Up this way.’

Morrow looked up and saw a small man in his sixties leaning over the rail, big hands clutching the banister. Brown cardigan, grey slacks with stay-press seams down the front, a neat white moustache no wider than his mouth, grey hair that had been tidied with a watered comb.

‘Good morning, officers,’ he said, withdrawing as soon as he was sure they had seen him and knew where to go.

Morrow reached the top of the stairs first and followed him through the brown front door. His front step was dust free, the ‘welcome’ mat clean and square to the door.

She stepped into a moss green hallway and found Lander standing patiently at the door to the living room, watching behind her for Bannerman. When Grant stepped into the hallway behind her and shut the door Lander nodded, muttered a little orderly, ‘Uh huh’ to himself and went into the living room, ready to receive them.

The hall had a single shelf above the radiator with a bowl for keys on it. On the back of the door was a single peg for a scarf. No coats chucked on chairs, no bags dumped on the floor, no shopping bag of rubbish left hanging on a handle ready to be taken out when someone remembered.

Morrow followed Bannerman into the living room.

An old-fashioned box television sat on a low table. A small settee in orange velvet and matching armchair, both old but well preserved. Hanging on the arm of the chair was a cloth pocket for TV remotes and a booklet of the weekly television listings inside. There was nothing in the living room that was not functional or essential, no display cabinet of half-loved ornaments or better-day mementoes, no unread newspapers. It was more than bachelor-flat tidy. It was institutional tidy. Morrow made a mental note to check for a prison record.

They stood in front of the settee in a perfect equilateral triangle. Bannerman looked at Morrow expectantly, telling her to take charge of the questioning, as if he was saving his own moves for the more important interviews.

‘Please,’ said Mr Lander, taking the prompt for himself, opening his hand to the settee. ‘Sit down.’

Against his orders Morrow sat in the armchair, and saw Lander’s eye twitch. He would have to sit next to Bannerman on the settee, sandwiched between them. He pulled his trousers up at the knees with an irritated flick of the wrist and sat down.

Morrow looked around. The electric bar fire was surrounded by framed photographs. She expected to see a wife, grand-children, perhaps a mother in a formal pose but instead found photographs of Lander in military uniform, standing among friends in uniform.

‘A military man?’ she said, apropos of nothing. Bannerman looked up, suddenly interested.

‘Yes.’ His tone was clipped. ‘Twenty years in the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. Ten served in the First Battalion and then a further ten years in E Company.’ As if he sensed her reservations he said, ‘E Company is the TA.’

The intense attraction of order had a pull over her too. She had considered the army herself. ‘Dedicated,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said and thought about it. ‘Yes.’ Patting his knees with his open hands he turned to Bannerman. ‘So, tell me about Mr Anwar. Do you know who took him?’

They weren’t supposed to give away any information, but a stonewall was often cold news to an interviewee so Bannerman tempered it. ‘Well, Mr Lander, I’m sure you’ve seen the papers. We really can’t say anything other than what’s in there-’

‘He was taken by gunmen demanding a ransom?’

‘Yes-’

‘And Aleesha was shot in the hand?’

‘-But what I can tell you is that Mr Anwar was kidnapped last night for a money ransom. Do you know anything about that?’

‘Other than what was on the radio,’ Lander breathed heavily through his nose, as if he was holding back a strong emotion, ‘all I know is I got a call this morning from his cousin,’ he said the word disapprovingly, ‘telling me that I was not required this morning because Mr Anwar had been indisposed last night. I had to dig for information. He’s over there.’ He nodded out the window. ‘Now. Working the shop for him.’

Bannerman carried on. ‘Is Mr Anwar a popular man? With locals?’

‘Popular?’ Lander’s eyes searched the carpet. ‘Well, people come into the shop a lot.’

‘The same people?’

He nodded. ‘Often the same people. There’s a bus stop outside so people on their way to town often come in for a paper but after rush hour in the morning and the afternoon our customers are mostly locals, yes.’

‘How long have you worked there?’

‘About fourteen years. Nearly fourteen years.’

‘And what shifts do you do?’

‘Ooh.’ He rolled his eyes up. ‘Well, I start at six thirty a.m. and finish at twelve thirty. But I often stay on or go back in for the afternoon shift, help with the lunchtime rush and stocking up and so on. Sometimes I go back in to listen to the cricket with Mr Anwar.’

Morrow chimed in, ‘So, he’s a friend?’

‘Very much so,’ said Lander seriously. ‘Very much a friend.’

‘Are you paid for those extra hours?’

He seemed offended at the suggestion. ‘In the afternoon?’

‘Yes.’

He gave a small cheerless laugh. ‘Paid for listening to cricket matches?’

Morrow blinked slowly. ‘When you work extra hours are you paid for them?’

Lander’s expression hardened towards her. ‘No. I’m paid for my shift in the morning. Anything else I can do for Mr Anwar is a gesture of friendship.’

‘You do it out of loyalty?’ She meant it as a compliment but he seemed to have taken against her.

The lip beneath his moustache tightened. ‘And friendship.’

‘I am just asking ye questions, Mr Lander.’ Her voice was soft. ‘It’s my job to find Mr Anwar and bring him back safe and sound. I take it very seriously.’

‘Good,’ he said and blinked. She realised suddenly that he was terrified for his friend.

‘How much are you paid an hour?’

Lander was a little embarrassed. ‘I’m paid two hundred pounds a week, flat, whatever hours I do.’

‘I see.’ She jotted it down. ‘Not that much for a thirty-hour week.’

‘Thirty-six. Sometimes forty-two if I work the full week but it suits me,’ he said simply.

‘In what way?’

‘The hours, the location and the company.’

‘You get on well, then?’

He spoke as if it was a pre-prepared speech, looking over her shoulder to another audience. ‘Mr Anwar and I have been friends for fourteen years. Over that time we have become as brothers.’ His hand chopped the air a little for emphasis. ‘He is as a brother to me.’

Having finished, he coughed, embarrassed. Morrow recognised his discomfort, his inability to Oprah-sob on demand. Like him, she didn’t believe sincerity was marked by incessant emotional revelation. She yearned for a time when it was enough to tell a man you loved him on your wedding day and expect him still to know ten years later.

Lander was controlled and would be hard to wrong-foot. She slouched in the chair and sucked her teeth sarcastically. ‘Yeah, I see, kind of, what you’re on about.’

‘Do you see?’ He was suddenly angry. ‘Do you?’

‘Oh, aye, yeah, see whit ye mean.’

‘What do you see?’ He seemed furious, at both her belittling tone and scattered grammar.

She slapped the air carelessly. ‘You work together, you enjoy cricket together?’

‘Correct.’ He pointed a finger at her nose and his rage subsided. ‘Correct.’

Morrow stared at him, letting him stew for a moment. ‘In the days and weeks running up to the kidnap, did you see anyone hanging around the shop?’

‘Many people hang around the shop.’

‘Anyone unusual? Anyone take a special interest?’

‘In what?’

‘In Mr Anwar? In the shop’s income, anyone ask about the takings, for example?’

He thought about it for a moment. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘No, not that I can think of. We get a lot of odd types. Alcoholics, junkies, odd types, but they’re all locals, if you don’t know who they are you’ll know who they belong to.’

‘Belong to?’ asked Bannerman.

‘Who their family are, their mother’s name or granny’s name.’

‘No unusual phone calls?’ asked Morrow.

‘No.’

‘Can you think of anyone Mr Anwar owes money to?’

‘No.’

The answer came a little too fast; he hadn’t considered the question. Even if there had been someone Morrow felt sure that Johnny Lander would not tell her. He wouldn’t say anything harmful to Aamir. His loyalty ran too deep.

‘What do you think happened?’

‘Wrong address.’ He sounded certain.

‘Why?’

‘They’re a modest family. Religious. They give a lot of money to charity, on the quiet, the way it should be.’

‘What charities?’

‘Earthquake appeal, important things.’

‘Humanitarian appeals?’

‘Yes.’

‘ Afghanistan?’

‘Never mentioned it specifically. Pakistan I think…’

‘Any connection with Afghanistan? Do they have family there?’

‘Not that I know of, they’re both from Uganda.’

‘How about yourself, did you serve there, ever?’

‘No. After my time.’

She tried a blank card. ‘Would you say that you are a loyal person?’

‘Yes.’ No flinch or hesitation, not a moment’s doubt or a glimmer of shame.

‘But you don’t have a family of your own?’

‘No.’

‘Are you friends with Mr Anwar’s family?’

‘No. Just Mr Anwar.’

‘But you must know the family?’

‘A little. Billal and Omar both worked Saturdays in the shop when they were at school, but I don’t really know them.’

‘You worked every Saturday with them for years but you don’t know them?’

‘No. I didn’t work with them. Their daddy worked with them. I didn’t go in then, when they were on. There isn’t really room behind the counter for three and I used to fish, so…’ Small shrug. ‘I was glad.’

‘You must hear a lot though, know about them?’

‘No. Mr Anwar doesn’t really talk about his family.’

‘Does that seem odd to you?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Most parents like to talk about their children. But Mr Anwar doesn’t?’

‘He doesn’t talk about anything but the shop.’

‘Doesn’t that get tedious?’

‘And cricket. We talk about cricket too.’

‘Now,’ she sat forward, ‘that must get tedious.’

Lander warmed to that a little, allowed himself a small crisp smile.

Bannerman interrupted, ‘Are you still involved with the TA?’

‘No.’

‘Can you tell me when you left the TA?’

‘I can: in April 1993.’

‘Quite a while ago then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you still know people in the TA?’

Morrow could tell where he was heading with it, the military connection, the guns and gear the gunmen had could have indicated a TA connection, but the gunmen weren’t trained, they made mistakes so fundamental no one with any army training would have made.

‘No. I know people who were in the TA at the same time as me but I am not in contact with them on a regular basis.’

‘How about an irregular basis? Who has seen you in the shop?’

He thought hard. ‘No one.’

‘Not one single person from the TA has ever come into the shop?’

‘Why would they? Sure, most of them live in Stirling. If you don’t believe me you could contact the HQ and ask for addresses. I’ll give you the number.’

He was very exact, his military mindset letting him answer without questioning their authority. Most interviewees struggled to understand the reasoning behind a train of questioning, attempted to connect with their questioner. It was refreshing.

She took over. ‘Do you get arms training in the TA?’ Bannerman’s eyes widened in warning, as if she was giving too much away. When she looked back Johnny Lander’s back was straighter than before.

‘Of course. There wouldn’t be much point in having an army if they can’t use arms.’

The damage was done now so she went for it. ‘Hand guns?’

‘Certainly. But if you’re thinking I had anything to do with Mr Anwar’s kidnap you are very wrong indeed. He is a good personal friend of mine and I most certainly would never do anything to harm him in any way.’

He was panting a little at the end, looked upset and she reached over to him, touching the air above his knee. ‘There’s no suggestion of that at all, Mr Lander, but the men used guns and we have to explore every possible connection with Mr Anwar.’

‘I see.’ He still looked nervous.

‘It’s our job to get him back and we are trying our hardest.’

‘Good.’ He pursed his lips tight. ‘Good. He’s… a good man. If there’s anything I can do…’ He thought they were going and leaned forward to stand up but Morrow stayed him with a hand.

‘The TA. What sort does it attract?’

He sat back down. ‘Ex military, who can’t quite give it up.’ He twitched his mouth, touched his chest indicating himself. ‘Poor men with families, in it for the money. Others…’ He shrugged and wondered about it, ‘seen too many action movies. They don’t last.’

‘How come?’

‘They want to be heroes. Not what the job is. Discipline. Can’t take it. Not about being popular. Not about being nice.’ He smiled knowingly at Morrow.

‘What happens to them, then?’ asked Bannerman.

‘Leave or get put out. It’s hard to do things right.’ He nodded at Morrow and dropped his voice. ‘You were doing something hard there, before, weren’t ye? Noising me up, trying to shake a monkey out of the tree?’

She smiled and he leaned forward, his face close to hers. ‘When you get old,’ he whispered, ‘it’s very hard to find people you can stand the sight of.’

Morrow whispered back, ‘I have that trouble now.’

He smiled and sat back. ‘D’you think you’ll find him alive?’ he said, his voice cracking a little.

She gave an honest shrug. ‘The gunmen came in asking for someone called Bob,’ She watched him for a reaction.

‘There ye are then,’ Johnny Lander said certainly. ‘It was the wrong address.’

He led them out to the hall, opened the door and saw them out formally, shook their hands in turn and gave all the formal pleasantries a gentleman would, nice to meet you, anything I can do. He watched them take the stairs, looking over the banister again, lifting a hand to wave when they looked up to see if he was still there.

Morrow found herself leaving the neat world of Mr Lander reluctantly, dragging her feet as she tripped after Bannerman down to the bubbling damp and noisy street. He was a soldier, had that capacity to form ferocious, blind attachments, lived in a world of moral absolutes. She envied it. He probably never had to call into question the army; it must have served him well. Her own experience of joining the force was her father and the rest of the family turning from her, thinking themselves betrayed. It was twelve years ago and she still wondered if the desire to shed them was the reason she joined. She saw herself as an old woman in a personality-free house, sitting in a desolate silence as a bus rumbled past the window.

Outside the close the day had descended into cold drizzle.

‘You shouldn’t have said that about the guns.’ Bannerman squinted out into the road.

Morrow pulled her coat closed. ‘Those guys last night, they aren’t firearms trained.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Omar did that, didn’t he?’ She threw her hand to the side, the way Omar had during questioning the night before, at a low ninety degree angle. ‘I was watching on the remote.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Doesn’t that look like recoil put it there?’

Bannerman looked at her hand, reluctant to admit she was right.

‘And he said he thought the guy had a long face under the balaclava. He said that, “a long face”, until he shut his mouth.’ She dropped her jaw in shock and shut it again. ‘Just after he fired the shot.’

Bannerman shrugged. ‘It’s an idea.’

‘Plus, think about the order of things: the girl was shot at an irrelevant point in the negotiations. It wasn’t a ploy to up the ante, wasn’t to move the threat forward. It was just a stupid mistake.’

Bannerman wouldn’t look at her.

‘Well, it’s a theory anyway.’ She shrugged. ’Don’t like being wrong, do you?’ She dropped from the step into the street. Buses passed noisily in front of her. Cars edged impatiently around them and drew back at the stream of traffic coming the other way.

Bannerman was at her side. ‘No, but, it’s… that’s much worse, isn’t it? If they aren’t used to firearms. They could shoot anyone at any time.’

The traffic in front of them came to a standstill as a bus let its passengers off and the lights changed on the other side.

‘On the upside,’ she stepped out between the back of a bus and a car, ‘they might shoot each other.’

The shop door was sticky and needed a shove. It chimed as Bannerman opened it and stepped in. It was a small room, smelled of dust and stale body odour. On the right the wall was lined with newspapers and magazine racks, with the porn high up and children’s comics. Near the back sat a rack of glass bottles of fizzy juice, laid out on their sides like wine, with an upright crate of empty returns next to them. A central stand displayed household absolute essentials: shampoo next to tea bags and washing powder and nappies. Expensive items like peanut butter were arranged to face the shopkeeper, close enough to lean over and slap any shoplifters who tried their arm. The counter ran half the length of the shop, which wasn’t much. Behind it cigarettes and cheap drink and coffee were kept beyond grabbing distance.

Twenty years of small change had eroded the white plastic counter through to the brown chipboard beneath. Behind it sat two high stools, still angled into one another, as if duettists had just left the stage. On one of the low shelves she saw a little silver short wave radio. It would be a comfy perch to watch the world from.

The shop was being manned by a man who was too young for his beard and old-fashioned manners, as if he was acting a part. He looked at her expectantly but didn’t speak.

‘Hello, are you Mr Anwar’s cousin?’

‘Yes,’ he said, heavily accented, nodding his head passively.

‘DS Morrow.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m one of the police officers investigating your cousin’s kidnapping.’

He didn’t take her hand. ‘Yes,’ he said again, trying, she thought, to process the words she had said individually.

‘This is DS Bannerman.’ She gestured behind her. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ahmed Johany.’ When he saw her confusion he added kindly, ‘John.’

‘John?’ She laughed.

‘You call me… John.’ But he wasn’t smiling now, at least his eyes weren’t smiling, they were sad, as if he was mourning Ahmed Johany and wished he had a place in the shop too.

Bannerman leaned over her shoulder. ‘Mr Johany?’ He pointed to a high corner behind the counter and they all looked up together. A video camera, a small red light next to it. ‘Is that…?’

‘Camera, yes.’

‘Do you keep the tapes?’

He shook his head. ‘For one, two weeks only…’

‘Then…?’

‘Tape over.’ Apologetic, he smiled, rolling one forearm over the other. ‘Save on tapes.’

‘Can we have the ones you’ve got from last week?’

He indicated that they could but was worried about leaving them while he went through to the back shop. Bannerman took out his warrant card and showed it to him but Ahmed shook his head, embarrassed at having doubted them. He scuttled off quickly though, glancing back a couple of times as he made it to a door at the back. He took barely twenty seconds to bring out a stack of dusty video cartridges out to them. He hurried back behind the counter, not happy until he got there, and found a thin blue plastic bag to put the tapes in. He tried to fit them all in one bag, but they wouldn’t go and he had to get another bag out from under the counter.

Morrow watched him put them in, careful as eggs, trying not to rip the thin skin of the bag. ‘Have you worked here long?’

‘Hmm.’ Worried at the question, he handed the bags to Bannerman by the handles. ‘I come here just… now.’ He added quickly, ‘Not Scotland. Here many years, but shop, I just come now.’

The distrust, the soft passive smile, all reflected poorly either on the neighbourhood they were in or else the one Johany had come from. Morrow felt ashamed, remembered racist graffiti on a shop front when she was small, thought of a shop in Partick that had a felt-tipped sign in the window: ‘This Shop is Run by Scottish People.’

The door opened behind them, a puff of noise and dust from the street, and an elderly woman with a severe white perm stood in the doorway. She looked from Bannerman to Johany. ‘Where’s he?’ she said indignantly.

‘Who?’ asked Morrow because Johany didn’t say anything.

‘The wee man.’ She pointed at the counter. ‘Is he sick or something?’

‘How?’ asked Morrow sharply.

The woman scowled at her. ‘Who are yous? Have you bought the shop or something?’

‘No. Who are you?’

‘Who am I?’ She couldn’t quite believe she was being asked. ‘I’m in here every day. I come in here every day. Where’s the wee man?’

‘Which wee man?’

‘The fella, the wee black fella.’

‘Mr Anwar?’ corrected Morrow.

‘Is that his name?’ The woman hung out of the door, looking down the road for her bus and ducked back in to ask, ‘Is he sick then? Is he in hospital?’

‘Mr Anwar isn’t able to come to work today. How long have you been coming in here?’

‘Twenty-odd year. How?’

‘And you don’t know his name?’

‘He doesn’t know mine either.’ She scowled at Morrow. ‘Tell him, anyway, say that the twenty Kensitas and four rolls lady hopes he feels better soon. And my granddaughter’s out of hospital. She’d a boy.’ She looked uncertain. ‘Just saying ’cause… eh… he’ll be wondering.’ And she left.