Blood of the Innocents (8 page)

‘
Salaam Allah Kouom
,’ Millie smiled, knowing that she spoke little English.

The old lady nodded. ‘
Walaik um-asalaam
.’

Millie explained in Urdu the reason for their visit. Scrutinising Mariner’s ID, the old woman nodded wordlessly and indicated that they should follow her. Akram had phoned ahead to let her know they were coming. She led them through the house. Cool and dark with high ceilings, it was neat and tidy and deathly quiet in the absence of anyone else.

Leaving the rest of the house to the uniforms, Mariner and Millie focused their efforts on Yasmin’s bedroom on the first floor. It was comfortably furnished, the décor in feminine pastels, but without extravagance. The giant desk that took up most of the room was clutter-free beneath a solid shelf of reference books, and there was no CD player, TV nor any of the other usual electronic paraphernalia that most kids were reported to have these days. Half a dozen cuddly toys were neatly arranged on the bed and a further shelf displayed a number of photographs, including a formal family group, presumably taken at her older sister’s wedding. Millie picked up the photograph to verify this with Grandma. The two women embarked on an animated conversation, during which Millie successfully shepherded Grandma back downstairs, leaving Mariner to continue the search unobserved.

Yasmin’s hair brushes were neatly aligned on the dressing table. If they were going to need DNA . . . Mariner refused to let his mind move along that track. A small jewellery box contained a few simple gold chains and bracelets. Checking in the drawers, her clothes were neatly folded. The only hidden treasure Mariner found was a small pouch of eye shadows and mascara hidden under some T-shirts at the back of a drawer. Apart from the schoolwork there were no personal items: no diaries or letters that were going to help them out.

Mariner heard the front door slam and, moments later, a small figure appeared in the doorway. Yasmin’s younger brother.

Mariner smiled. ‘Hello. It’s Sanjit, right?’

A nod. ‘You’re a policeman?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Are you looking for Yaz?’

‘Yes. Have you got any idea where she might have gone?’

The boy shrugged. ‘She doesn’t talk to me, except for a bit of verbal abuse.’ He made a quacking gesture with his fingers and thumb and Mariner curbed a smile.

‘What are you looking for?’ Sanjit asked.

‘Anything that might give us clues about where Yasmin is.’

‘Have you found her secret box?’

‘No.’

Without another word the boy dropped to the floor and wriggled on his belly under the bed, emerging minutes later with a small, cardboard shoebox. ‘She doesn’t think I know about it.’ He handed it to Mariner. Inside were an ornately carved rubberwood chest and a ceramic moneybox in the shape of a teddy bear. Mariner lifted the lid of the first. It contained more make-up, a leaflet for the Tate Modern, illustrated with a Lucien Freud nude, and a couple of tickets for the London Underground dated March of that year. ‘Did you go down to London too?’ Mariner asked.

‘No, she went with her school.’

Euston to Embankment. Must have been a special trip if she’d preserved the tickets. And why two tickets? Yasmin and Suzanne?

The moneybox, when he prised off the stopper in its base, contained three ten-pound notes and some loose change.

‘It’s her pocket money,’ said Sanjit. And surely the sort of money Yasmin would have taken with her if the disappearance had been planned.

‘Anything unusual happen lately?’ Mariner asked, replacing the items. ‘Yasmin fall out with anyone?’

Sanjit rolled his eyes. ‘She’s always arguing with Dad, stomping around and slamming doors. We have to walk on egg boxes all the time,’ he said, in an approximation of the phrase.

 

The woodentops had given the house a good going-over but found no sign of Yasmin nor anything else unusual, and nearly an hour after their arrival, Mariner pulled out of the drive hardly any the wiser.

‘Not much to help us then,’ he said. ‘All we know is that Yasmin had a row with her dad about staying at Suzanne’s, then apparently Mum gives in while Dad’s away and says she can go. Did you ask Grandma about that?’

‘Yes, and she has views all right although she was coy about expressing them. Naturally she sides with her son and sees this as a direct consequence of Yasmin’s mother flouting his wishes.’

‘So she blames Shanila rather than Yasmin.’

‘Not exactly. She just implied that Yasmin is no different from your average teenager, and that it’s her parents’ duty to give her strict boundaries.
Righteous women shall be obedient. And those you fear may be rebellious admonish
. It’s what the Koran says.’

‘Then perversely, when her mother lets her go beyond those boundaries, Yasmin decides not to go to Suzanne’s after all, but for some reason doesn’t make it home either.’

‘Because she’d had enough of rules and wants out completely?’

‘She didn’t take any money with her.’

‘It’s not necessarily long term. It could just be a gesture. Giving her old man the finger because of the hard time he’s been giving her?’

‘Anything’s possible.’ And that was the whole problem. There was nothing to narrow the scope of the search.

 

Back at Granville Lane DS Tony Knox had requisitioned the CCTV footage from Kingsmead Station, where Yasmin boarded her train.

‘What’s it like?’ Mariner asked as they settled down to watch.

Knox shrugged indifferently. ‘See for yourself.’

The black and white image was crude and snowy. Knox perched on a desk behind Mariner and Millie as they watched a train draw into the station. A number of people alighted while a couple further down the platform climbed on. Then, at the last minute, to the bottom right-hand corner of the screen a figure could be seen running for and jumping on the train. A split second before the doors closed on her she turned and gave them a full facial shot. No question it was Yasmin.

Knox snapped off the film. ‘The footage from the university station isn’t quite so helpful.’ This was the station at which Yasmin would have alighted. ‘It’s harder to see Yasmin: there’s a lot of movement.’ It was the understatement of the year. The platform was crowded and although several people left the train, they had to strain their eyes to pick Yasmin out as any of them.

‘There,’ said Millie, eventually. Reaching out, she pointed to a figure moving across the bottom of the screen.

‘Right height and build,’ Knox agreed. ‘Same colour clothing from what you can see, and a bag over her shoulder.’

‘Like just about everyone else,’ said Mariner.

‘She’s walking pretty casually, too. In no particular hurry.’

‘That’s Yasmin Akram?’ They all turned. They hadn’t heard Fiske come into the room.

‘We think it might be.’ Mariner remained cautious.

‘Good, so we know that she followed her normal route.’

‘We’re not—’

But Fiske didn’t want uncertainty. ‘Which means that she must have disappeared somewhere between the station and her house,’ he cut in. ‘I understand that from there she walks through part of the university campus to get home?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘In that case let’s do a search of the area between the station and her home. If that turns up nothing we’ll do the railway track.’

‘But—’

‘You’ll need to talk to the university security, too. Are we absolutely certain there’s no one she could be staying with?’

‘Her parents have spoken to anyone they can think of. Robbie Thorne is double-checking that. And we’ll do the usual phone round of hospital emergency departments. I think we should—’

‘So let’s just get on with it, shall we? Organise the search for first thing in the morning. I’ll make sure that there are uniformed officers at your disposal and we can bring in an additional search team if necessary.’ He was halfway out of the door before he turned and added, ‘That’s good work all of you. Well done.’

‘He’s easily impressed,’ remarked Millie when Fiske had gone.

‘He’s just hoping that he might be able to stop shitting himself sometime soon,’ said Knox.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Mariner, getting up from his seat. He caught up with Fiske just outside the DCI’s office. ‘Arranging a search at this stage is a bit premature, sir,’ he said.

‘Nonsense,’ said Fiske. ‘We’ve got the CCTV footage. What more do you need?’

‘It’s not entirely clear. I’d like to get it enhanced to be sure.’

‘But I saw it with my own eyes and your colleagues seemed pretty certain. What reason is there to delay? Superintendent Bourne is due to meet with community leaders later this afternoon and it would be beneficial to have something substantial to give them. Get it done, Mariner, first thing tomorrow.’

‘I’ll need to widen the investigation team,’ said Mariner. ‘Millie and I can’t do this alone. And Charlie Glover’s in the same boat.’

‘Use whoever you need,’ said Fiske. ‘Charlie Glover’s on a different enquiry. For the moment our priority is to find Yasmin Akram. If Charlie Glover doesn’t like it he can come and talk to me.’

And giving Mariner no further opportunity to argue, he turned and went into his office, resolutely closing the door.

So that’s what the hurry was all about: Fiske’s desperation to impress Superintendent Bourne with the efficiency of his leadership. Mariner hoped that Yasmin Akram would turn up soon, alive and well. He also hoped that somewhere along the way Fiske would shoot himself comprehensively in the foot.

 

When he got back to the office Knox had gone.

‘Isn’t he a jolly soul?’ said Millie. ‘Not one word to me after you’d gone out.’

At the time Mariner had barely noticed but now he thought about it, Knox had seemed unusually subdued, and he hadn’t been particularly welcoming to Millie. ‘Promotion back to CID must be losing its novelty value,’ he concluded, hoping he was right. After all, it had been a couple of months since Knox had returned to the fold following his digression, so the initial elation must be wearing off.

‘Anything else?’ he asked.

Picking up the phone, Millie shook her head. ‘I’ll start on the calls.’ She’d be checking the usual: hospitals, hostels, and women’s refuges, within a ten-mile radius. If that yielded nothing, they’d spread the net.

Meanwhile, Mariner ensured that the photograph of Yasmin was being circulated citywide, including to the press, and fixed a TV bulletin for the nine o’clock local news.

It was close to eleven when they both resurfaced. Now they had to sit back and wait for the results. ‘We’ve done everything we can for now. We might as well knock it on the head for tonight,’ said Mariner.

‘I’ll see you in the morning, sir.’

 

It being mid-week Anna would have her hands full with Jamie, so there was little point in Mariner calling round to see her tonight. Despite the heat, the aromas of Sparkhill had lingered with Mariner and were tweaking at his appetite, so when he drove past Yasser’s, his local Balti house, and saw that it was still open, it was impossible to resist stopping.

Only when he was inside did he see that Tony Knox had fallen on the same idea. Nodding a greeting, Mariner placed his order and sat down beside Knox on the bench.

‘Dinner’s in the dog, eh?’ he joked.

Knox looked momentarily blank. ‘Oh yeah,’ he said, eventually catching on.

‘Tell Theresa it’s my fault,’ Mariner went on. ‘Keeping you out all hours.’

‘Sure.’ But unusually for the otherwise gregarious Knox, he wasn’t inclined to talk. Not that Mariner minded. He was tired himself, and there had been enough talking today. So they sat in companionable silence until Knox’s order was called and he got wearily to his feet.

‘See you in the morning,’ said Mariner.

‘Right, boss.’

But ten minutes later, as he left the restaurant himself, Mariner was surprised to see Knox with his carrier bag: standing, waiting at the bus stop. He pulled over and lowered a window. ‘Want a lift?’

‘Nah, you’re all right, boss.’ Knox glanced up the road hopefully, though it was late and Mariner could see in his rear-view mirror that there was no sign of any red, white and blue double decker.

Both men knew that Mariner would have to virtually drive past Knox’s doorstep on his way home and by now Mariner was curious to know what was going on. ‘This is ridiculous, Tony,’ he said. ‘Get in.’

Knox wouldn’t meet his eye, but this time he concurred.

‘I didn’t know your car was off the road,’ said Mariner conversationally as his own vehicle began to fill with the warm smell of cumin and coriander.

‘The bus is fine.’

Drawing up outside Knox’s house Mariner noted the complete darkness. Knox’s kids were grown up now, his daughter living with her own child and partner and his son away at university. ‘Theresa not home, then,’ Mariner said.

‘She’s up in Liverpool, has been the last few weekends. Her mother’s not well.’

‘I’m sorry. How old is she?’

‘Seventy-two.’

‘Well, I hope she pulls through.’

‘Thanks.’ Knox pushed open the car door. ‘I won’t ask you in, boss, the place is a bit of a tip. But cheers for the lift.’

Closing his front door on the world, Tony Knox bent to pick up the mail from the mat. He’d recovered from that first plunging disappointment he’d felt on seeing the empty driveway, but now anticipation rose again as he embarked on the emotional bungee jump that had become his end-of-the-day ritual. He sifted through the post, each letter stabbing at him anew as he passed over bills and junk mail and found none bearing her handwriting. Disgusted, he tossed them on to the growing stack. She hardly ever wrote to anyone so why would she suddenly take to writing him letters? Especially now.

For a moment he hovered over the phone, wondering whether to check call minder now, or to wait, in the superstitious hope that patience would be rewarded with a positive outcome. Superstition lost out. Leaving his supper on the kitchen table, he returned to the phone and keyed in the number of the answering service. Two new messages. His hopes soared again. ‘Come on, come on!’ he urged the recorded voice. But call one was from a call centre in Delhi, asking him to reconsider his mortgage arrangements and message two was a hang-up. Cresting the wave of optimism, he came tumbling down on the other side and the searing emptiness that had taken temporary residence somewhere above his diaphragm returned: the same black hole he’d woken up with every morning for the last two weeks.