Beneath the Bleeding (37 page)

‘I’m sorry.’

Sanjar looked suspiciously at him. ‘What are you sorry for? My brother was a killer, right? We deserve all the shit we get. We deserve to spend the night in police cells. We deserve to have our home ripped to bits.’

The pain and anger were obvious. Tony had carved a career out of his capacity for empathy and imagination. He would have done almost anything to avoid being in the terrible place where Sanjar was. ‘No, you don’t. I’m sorry that you’re hurting. I’m sorry that your parents are suffering,’ he said.

Sanjar looked away. ‘Thanks. OK, I’m here. What did you want to know about my brother?’

‘What do you want to tell me?’

‘What he was really like. Nobody wants to hear what my brother Yousef was really like. And the first thing you need to know is that I loved him. Now me, I couldn’t love a terrorist. I hate those people and so did Yousef. He wasn’t a fundamentalist. He was barely a Muslim. My dad, he’s really devout. And he gets so pissed off with me and Yousef because we’re, like, not. Both of us, we’d find excuses not to go to the mosque. When we were kids, as soon as we were old enough, we quit going to the madrassa. But here’s the thing,’ he carried on, taking over the question Tony was trying to ask. ‘Even if we had been devout, even if we had been down the mosque every day, we wouldn’t have heard no radical shit. The Imam in the Kenton Mosque? He’s totally not into that shit. He’s
the kind that talks about how we’re all sons of Abraham and we have to learn to live together. There’s no secret gangs meeting behind closed doors plotting how to blow people up.’ He ran out of steam as suddenly as he’d found it.

‘I believe you,’ Tony said, almost relishing the expression of bemused surprise on Sanjar’s face.

‘You do?’

‘Like I said earlier, I don’t think your brother was a terrorist. Which raises a question that interests me very much. Why would Yousef take a bomb into Victoria Park and blow a hole in the Vestey Stand?’ Tony deliberately didn’t mention the dead. Not that either of them was going to be forgetting the dead any time soon. But there was no need to drag them into the foreground. The last thing Tony wanted was to put Sanjar even more on the defensive.

Sanjar’s mouth twitched then set in a straight line. Time stretched out before he eventually said, TI don’t know. It makes no sense to me.’

‘I know this is going to sound kind of crazy,’ Tony said. ‘But is there any way he might have been paid to do it?’

Sanjar jumped to his feet and took a step towards Tony, hands bunched into fists. ‘What the fuck? You saying my brother was a hit man or something? Fuck. You’re as fucked in the head as those bastards saying he was some kind of fanatic.’

‘Sanjar, you don’t have to act like you’re defending the honour of the family. There’s only you and me here. I have to ask because there’s some evidence that suggests that maybe Yousef thought he was going to survive yesterday afternoon. That he was going to be
able to leave the country afterwards. Now, that’s not the mindset of a suicide bomber. So I have to try and think of another explanation. OK? That’s all I’m doing.’

Sanjar paced, agitated. ‘You’ve got it wrong, man. Yousef, he was a gentle guy. He was the last man on the planet to be a hit man.’ He smacked his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘He’d never been to no training camp. He’d never been to Pakistan or Afghanistan. Fuck, we’ve never even been to the bloody Lake District or the Dales.’ He clapped his hands to his chest. ‘We’re peaceful, me and Yousef.’

‘He killed those people, Sanjar. There’s no getting away from that.’

‘And it doesn’t make any sense,’ Sanjar moaned. ‘I don’t know how to get you to understand.’ He suddenly stopped, staring at the console table where Tony’s former laptop had been retired. ‘You got wireless? Can I turn your computer on? There’s something I want to show you.’

‘Go ahead.’

Sanjar waited for the machine to boot then navigated his way to a blog called
DoorMAT-the portal for Muslims Against Terrorism.
Meanwhile, Tony managed to get to his feet and cross the room. He leaned against the arm of the sofa and looked at the screen. At the login screen, Sanjar typed in an email address. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Yousef’s address. Not mine.’ At the password prompt, he typed ‘Transit350’. He looked back at Tony. ‘We always use our vehicles for our passwords. That way you don’t forget.’ Once accepted on to the site, Sanjay clicked the mouse a few times and up popped a listing of Yousef’s posts to the blog. Sanjay clicked at random.

‘You go through his posts, that’s what they’re like. That doesn’t sound much like a hit man, does it?’

‘No,’ Tony said, thinking how much he wanted to spend some time with Yousef’s posts when his brother wasn’t looking over his shoulder. ‘You make your point very well. So has anything changed recently? Has Yousef changed? Has there been anything different about him lately? New friends? New routines? New girlfriend?’

Sanjar’s brow furrowed in concentration. ‘He’s been a bit up and down the last six months or so,’ he said slowly. ‘Off his food, not sleeping. Up, like a geezer with a new lady, then down like she’d dumped him. Then up again. I didn’t see him with anybody, though. We’d go out together, clubbing or just for a meal with friends, and he wasn’t hanging with any of the girls in particular. I never saw him with a girl, not lately. He’d been working pretty hard too, nailing down some new contracts. A lot of meetings and shit. So he didn’t really have time for a new girl, innit?’

‘And he never said anything?’

Sanjar shook his head. ‘No. Not a thing.’ He looked
at his watch. ‘Look, I gotta go. I promised my dad I would be back.’ He stood up and stretched a hand out to Tony. ‘I appreciate you listening. But I don’t think this is ever going to make sense.’

Tony searched his pockets till he finally unearthed a business card. ‘This is who I am. Call me if you want to talk.’

Sanjar pocketed it with the nearest Tony had seen to a proper smile. ‘No disrespect, like, but I don’t think I’m gonna need a shrink.’

‘I’m not a shrink. Not the way you’re thinking of it. I don’t have people lying on couches telling me about their miserable childhoods. I get too bored too easily. What I do is find practical uses for psychology. Often, I don’t know what they are till I get there. I like trying to fix what’s broken, Sanjar.’

The younger man smiled and reached for the pen and notepad beside the computer. He scribbled something and dropped it back on the table. ‘My mobile, innit? Call me if you want to talk. I’ll see myself out.’

Tony watched him go, feeling quite deeply disturbed. As Sanjar had said, same genes, same upbringing. If Yousef Aziz had been anything like his brother, Tony couldn’t imagine how he’d ended up blowing thirty-five people to kingdom come. He desperately wanted to read those blog contributions. But first, he’d better get back to hospital before they called the cops. Carol would really love that.

Kevin reckoned that Nigel Foster would never have made head teacher of the Double Aitch in his day. The man who had ruled the roost back then had the build of a prop forward and a voice like a foghorn. Foster
was tall, already slightly stooped at forty-something. His polo shirt and jeans hung baggy on his thin frame. His head and neck had the defleshed look of a wasted old man. But his expression was lively, his eyes bright and watchful. He’d suggested meeting at his home, but Kevin had wanted to see the Double Aitch up close and personal. Foster had protested that it was too much hassle to disarm the building security, so they’d compromised. They’d settled on the rickety wooden stand that overlooked the football pitch. A swell of nostalgia surged through Kevin. He’d had some of his finest hours on that turf. He could still remember some of the plays. ‘I loved playing here,’ he said. ‘Not many schools had a proper spectator stand like this. You could almost believe you were doing it for real.’

‘It’s due for demolition, I’m afraid,’ Foster said in a pleasant tenor voice with traces of a Welsh accent. ‘Health and Safety. It would cost too much to fireproof it the way they want it.’

Kevin’s face twisted into a cynical sneer. ‘We mollycoddle them these days.’

‘We’ve developed a culture of blame and litigation,’ Foster said. ‘But I mustn’t waste your time. How can I help you with your investigation, Sergeant?’

It was, Kevin thought, a subtle rebuke for taking up the headmaster’s valuable Sunday. ‘Three men have died recently from a variety of poisons. We think the cases may be connected, and one of the links between them is that they are all former pupils.’

A quick flash of surprise crossed Foster’s face. ‘I knew about Robbie Bishop, of course. But there have been others?’

‘You might have missed the story, with all the news coverage of the bomb. But another man died yesterday, nothing to do with the explosion. Ex-Detective Superintendent Tom Cross.’

Foster frowned. ‘He died? I read something about him being one of the heroes of the hour.’

‘His death didn’t make the early editions. But he died from poisoning too, similar to Robbie. And a third man, Danny Wade. Also a former pupil. Also poisoned.’

‘That’s shocking. Terrible.’ Foster’s expression was troubled, like a priest who’s losing his faith.

‘The thing is, they were all rich men. And we wondered if you’d maybe brought them together for some fund-raising project? With them all being alumni…’ Kevin paused expectantly.

Foster shook his head rapidly. ‘No. Nothing of the sort.’ He gave a bitter little laugh. ‘It’s a good idea, but it never occurred to me. No, I’ve never met any of them. And as far as I know, none of them had any connection with FODA.’

‘FODA?’

‘Friends of the Double Aitch. It’s an alumni organization that organizes reunions and raises money. I’m surprised you’ve not been approached to join.’

Kevin gave him a flat, level stare. ‘Apart from the footie, it would be fair to say that these were not the best days of my life.’ Without taking his eyes off Foster, he pulled out his notebook. ‘We believe Tom Cross was lured to his death by someone purporting to be you,’ he said.

Foster literally flinched, as if Kevin had slapped him. ‘Me?’ he yelped.

Kevin glanced at the notes he’d taken from the conversation he’d had with Carol Jordan only minutes before meeting Foster. ‘A letter on what appears to be the school’s headed notepaper was sent to Cross, apparently from you, asking for his help arranging security at a charity fundraiser for the school.’ Kevin showed the phone number to Foster. ‘Is this the school number?’

Foster shook his head. ‘No. Nothing like it. I don’t recognize it.’

‘It connects to an answering machine that says it’s Harriestown High. According to Superintendent Cross’s widow, her husband left a message on the machine and someone claiming to be you called him back.’

Foster, agitated and twitchy, said, ‘No. This is all wrong. Nothing remotely like this ever happened.’

‘It’s all right, sir. We’re not treating you as a suspect. We think you’ve been impersonated. But I need to run these things past you.’ He almost wanted to pat Foster on the knee in a bid to calm his twittering.

Foster sucked his lips in and made a visible effort to pull himself together. ‘OK. I’m sorry, it’s just a little shaking to be told you’re implicated in a murder inquiry.’

‘I appreciate that. The fundraiser was supposed to be at Pannal Castle?’

‘No, this is mad. I don’t know Lord Pannal or anybody connected to him. I mean, it would be wonderful to do an event there, but no. Nothing has ever been suggested, never mind planned.’

Kevin continued without a pause. ‘Now, again according to Mrs Cross, the person claiming to be you told her husband to liaise with the event organizer, a man called Jake Andrews. Have you ever worked with anyone by that name? Jake Andrews?’

Foster breathed out heavily. ‘No. That name means nothing to me.’

Kevin, watching him carefully, saw nothing to indicate the man was lying. ‘I need you to check the school records,’ he said.

Foster nodded, his Adam’s apple bouncing up and down. ‘We’ve been computerized for a few years now, but all the old stuff is still on paper. I’ll call the school secretary. She knows where to find it. If there’s any record of this man, we’ll find it.’

‘Thanks. Sooner the better, really. We may want to come back and talk to some of your longer-serving staff members,’ Kevin said, getting to his feet. ‘One last thing–where were you yesterday lunchtime? Around one o’clock?’

‘Me?’ Foster seemed unsure whether to be angry or upset.

‘You.’

‘I was birdwatching at Martin Mere in Lancashire with a group of friends,’ he said, standing on his dignity. ‘We arrived around noon and stayed till sunset. I can supply you with names.’

Kevin fished out a card with his email address. ‘Send them there. I look forward to hearing from you.’ He gave the pitch a last lingering look, then walked away, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t often life presented him with the chance to make a teacher miserable in the course of duty. It was petty, he knew, but he’d enjoyed taking a small revenge on behalf of his sixteen-year-old self.

The Campion Locks had started life as a boatmen’s drinking house back when the canals of the north of
England had shifted coal and wool back and forth across the Pennines. It was set back from the canal, near the basin where three major waterways came together. When it had been built, Temple Fields was a literal name for the area. Now, instead of animals grazing outside the pub, the Sunday-morning crowd grazed on bruschetta and bagels, calming their scrambled stomachs with eggs and smoked salmon.

As they approached, Chris checked out the eclectic mix of customers. She nudged Paula in the ribs and said, ‘Now this is a bit of all right. Jordan should send us places like this more often. We fit right in here, doll. I’ll have to bring Sinead down here one of these Sundays, remind her what young love feels like.’