Blood On the Wall (7 page)

G
eorgiou and Tennyson were in the office, going through the initial reports from SOCO and uniformed division on the Han Sun murder, when Georgiou’s phone rang.

‘Georgiou,’ he said into the mouthpiece.

It was Superintendent Stokes. ‘I need to see you,’ he said, his anger obvious in his tone. ‘My office, immediately.’

There was a click as the phone disconnected.

Tennyson gave Georgiou an enquiring look.

‘Our lord and master,’ grunted Georgiou. ‘Stokes has summoned me.’

‘A promotion?’ suggested Tennyson sarcastically.

Georgiou laughed. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can persuade him we’re doing all we can,’ he said.

With that Georgiou headed out of the room and up the stairs.

Stokes was pacing as Georgiou walked into his office. Before Georgiou could speak, Stokes turned on him, furious.

‘I’ve just had New York on the phone to me.
New York!
’

Georgiou frowned, puzzled.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t see what we have to do with New
York,’ he said.

‘The press, Georgiou!’ raged Stokes. ‘As if it isn’t bad enough being under siege from the British media, now the world’s press have got hold of it! “Head Killer!” That’s what the headlines say. Not just here but in New York! Three murders, Georgiou! Three!’

‘With respect, sir …’ began Georgiou.

‘No!’ thundered Stokes. ‘No respect at all, because this murderer has none! Certainly none for us! He’s making you look a laughing stock!’

‘With respect, sir,’ continued Georgiou firmly, ‘I only came back to work yesterday morning.’

That made Stokes stop whatever was on the tip of his tongue, but only for a moment. He continued pacing, agitated.

‘In all my long career I’ve never had anything like this. Never! My position is being questioned!’

And not before time, thought Georgiou.

‘And this business in the
News and Star
about you doesn’t help!’ snapped Stokes. He took a deep breath, then turned to Georgiou. ‘I think, in fairness to this department, you ought to consider your position, Inspector.’

A cold chill went up Georgiou’s spine.

‘Consider my position?’ he repeated. ‘Do you mean resign?’

Stokes turned away, unable to meet Georgiou’s look.

‘You know what I mean!’ he blustered. ‘Your actions over this boy—’

‘Unproven allegations,’ interrupted Georgiou.

‘And your appalling lack of success over these murders,’ continued Stokes, as if he hadn’t heard Georgiou’s comment,
‘have brought discredit on this force.’

‘I repeat,’ snapped Georgiou, even more firmly than before, ‘I only returned to work yesterday. Now if you want me to make a statement to the press stating my position, and the difficulties that I have been placed under which hamper my investigation …’

Stokes stared at Georgiou, open-mouthed.

‘What difficulties?’ he demanded.

‘The false allegations against me, the lack of support from superior officers …’

Stokes’s mouth shut like a trap, and he glared at Georgiou.

‘How dare you!’ he challenged. Then he swung away and thought for a moment, before turning back to Georgiou. ‘Under no circumstances will you talk to the press. Not one word.’

The phone on Stokes’s desk rang and he snatched it up.

‘I told you I was not to be disturbed!’ he barked angrily. Abruptly his manner changed, and he said apologetically: ‘Of course. You did the right thing. Put him through.’

Someone important, thought Georgiou.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, his tone respectful, but at the same time breezy and confident. He listened briefly, nodding the whole while, then continued: ‘Actually, Inspector Georgiou is with me at the moment …’ Then suddenly he stopped, his face going white. It was as if someone had punched him in the stomach. ‘Of course, sir. What was that website again?’ He grabbed up a pen and scribbled a note on a pad. ‘Yes, I’ll go onto it straight away, and if it is terrorists …’ He listened again, still nodding, and then said: ‘I’ll get back to
you immediately, sir.’

As Stokes hung up, Georgiou asked, ‘Terrorists?’

Stokes didn’t reply; he was too busy tapping keys on his computer, an expression of urgency on his face. An image appeared on his screen, a figure wearing what looked like a shapeless smock and a hood over his or her face with eyeholes cut in. As Stokes turned up the volume, Georgiou heard the voice, a young man’s, ranting.

‘These deaths are the price the ungodly will pay!’ he shouted, his voice muffled by the hood but still audible. ‘An eye for an eye! A tooth for a tooth! A head for a head!’

Stokes stared at the screen, his face ashen.

‘It
is
terrorists!’ he said, shocked. He turned to Georgiou. ‘These killings are being done because of some Jihad, or whatever it is they call it! It’s Al-Qaeda!’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Georgiou. He pointed at the screen. ‘Look at the symbols in the background. That one’s an ankh.’

‘What the hell’s an ankh?’ demanded Stokes, bewildered.

‘It’s an Egyptian symbol,’ said Georgiou.

‘Egyptians!’ exploded Stokes. ‘Muslims!’

‘No,’ said Georgiou firmly. ‘The ankh is from ancient Egypt, predating most conventional religions. It’s found mostly these days in fantasy games, or as a fashion decoration.’

‘So what are you saying?’ demanded Stokes.

‘I’m saying this doesn’t look to me like Islamic terrorists.’

‘So who is he? Could he still be our murderer?’

‘Yes,’ admitted Georgiou. ‘Or he could be just some loner jumping on the bandwagon.’

‘The press will have a field day with this!’ groaned
Stokes. ‘You have to sort it out, Georgiou. Find out who this character is.’

‘I think that might be a job for GCHQ, sir,’ said Georgiou. ‘And then the Terrorist Squad.’

‘You said you didn’t think he was a terrorist!’ said Stokes.

‘I said he doesn’t look like or use the same language as an
Islamic
terrorist,’ countered Georgiou. ‘At least, not the ones we’ve seen broadcasting their demands on TV and the web.’

‘Yes, well, I guess you’d know, if anyone,’ sighed Stokes.

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Georgiou, irritated.

‘Well, with your background. The Middle East.’

‘My background is London,’ said Georgiou firmly.

‘Yes, well,’ said Stokes uncomfortably. ‘The point is that was the chief constable on the phone and he’s worried how this is going to turn out. If this is a terrorist plot we’ll be right in the firing line! The press. Politicians. Demonstrations!’ He glared accusingly at the phone on his desk and growled, ‘New York will be just the start of it!’

I
ain Conway sat in the small room above the Chinese takeaway, his notebook open on his lap, pen in hand, nodding and making notes as Mrs Sun poured out her grief. The shop was in Botchergate, not far from the railway station, in a long street filled with pubs and other takeaways of all sorts: Chinese, Indian, Turkish, Greek, as well as a plethora of burger bars, all selling the same rehashed meat under a variety of names: Mexican Burger, Burger-Q, New York Burger.

The pubs and bars along the street offered the same variety: an Australian bar, an English bar, a Scottish bar. A serious drinker could sup the whole of the United Nations in a pub crawl along Botchergate, interspersed with munching on indigestible so-called international cuisine, most of which tasted the same: burger and chips. With or without mayo or sauce.

Han Sun Chinese takeaway was the same as most along the street: a takeaway at the front opening on to the pavement, with a cramped kitchen behind. And, above, a tiny cramped flat which housed the Sun family: the late Mr
Sun and his wife, Mrs Sun’s younger sister, May, and Mrs Sun’s two brothers, Mr Li Key and Mr Li Chan. There was no sign of any children in this room or elsewhere in the flat, or any clues that children lived here: no toys, no comics.

Conway nodded intently as he listened to them talk. Mainly it was Mr Li Chan, the elder of the two brothers, who did the talking. He was talking now, while Mrs Sun cried and her sister hugged her to her, doing her best to comfort her. Mr Li was talking angrily about racist attacks they’d suffered. He seemed sure that the killing and beheading of Mr Sun was an extension of these racist attacks.

‘We come to this country, work hard, pay taxes, and they spit at us. Break our windows!’ said Li. ‘We call police! Police do nothing!’

‘We’re not sure if there’s a racist motive behind this dreadful crime,’ said Conway, choosing his words carefully. ‘The method seems to have been the same as in two other recent cases, but both of those were English people.’

Mr Li shook his head angrily.

‘This racist!’ he insisted. ‘Who else want kill my
brother-in
-law? He good man. Have no enemies. Always pay taxes. Pay bills on time. He gentle. Everyone like him.’

At this, Mrs Sun wailed again and began crying loudly and painfully. Her sister threw her arms around her and hugged her close, letting the widow sob into her. So much pain, thought Conway. So much grief. And we get it all the time. No one ever hears good news from us. It’s always: ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Your husband, wife, son, daughter, has been killed.’ And then the face looking out from the doorway would fall, the tears would start.
Sometimes they’d faint. At least this time, the family had already been given the bad news and Conway was there to fill in the details of Mr Sun’s life, and what he might have been doing near Birdoswald at midnight.

‘He not go there,’ said Mr Li, again shaking his head firmly. ‘Racists take him there and kill him.’

‘What racists?’ asked Conway.

‘Racists who break our windows. Shop windows,’ he added. And then, in case Conway had forgotten, he repeated: ‘We tell police.’

Conway made a note to check with HQ as to when these attacks on the Suns’ takeaway had been carried out, and whether there’d been any progress in finding the culprits. He doubted it. There’d been a rise in racist attacks lately, mainly against Pakistani-owned shops and businesses. Or, rather, against business owned by people that these racists
thought
were Pakistani. Which meant that Indians, Burmese, Sikhs, Greeks, Turks, even some darker-skinned Spaniards, had been attacked under the mistaken belief that they were supporters of Islamic fundamentalism, and so responsible for attacks on British troops in Afghanistan. Racists and bigots weren’t noted for their intelligence, reflected Conway. And that extended to his own countrymen and the outbreaks of violence whenever Rangers and Celtic played in an Old Firm game. Protestant and Catholic. The Union Jack and the green, white and gold of the Irish flag. Broken bottles and knives. God save us from the mindless havoc of bigots and racists, thought Conway ruefully.

He stayed for another half-hour, filling his notebook with details about Mr Sun’s last hours, and then, after once more
offering his condolences, walked down the narrow stairs to Botchergate. As he reached the street, his mobile rang.

‘Conway,’ he said.

‘Tennyson,’ said the DS. ‘Something’s come up. The boss wants everyone back here for a meeting, so if you and Richard can get here as quick as you can, that will be very much appreciated.’

‘No problem,’ said Conway. ‘I’m just in Botchergate. I’ll be there in five minutes.’

He hung up, and frowned. That was one question that really puzzled him: where was Richard Little? When he’d called at the Littles’ house that morning, Vera had told him that Richard was ‘still at work’. This puzzled Conway. What work? Did Richard have another job at night, a moonlight? Richard had never mentioned anything about such a thing to him. And there’d been something in Vera’s manner that had been odd. Furtive. She’d been pleasant enough to Conway when she opened the door to him, but there had been something else behind her plastic smile: tension. She looked worried.

Something’s wrong, thought Conway. It could be that Richard and Vera were having problems. If so, he wondered whether he should say anything to Georgiou. Georgiou would certainly wonder where Richard was. Whatever was going on, one thing Conway knew was that Richard wasn’t ‘at work’. Tennyson had said for him
and
Richard to get back to HQ. So if Richard wasn’t at work, and he wasn’t at home, where was he?

Maybe Vera had just been lying, and Richard was at home, but hadn’t wanted to show himself. Maybe that’s why
Vera’s manner had been so shifty. But, if that was the case, surely Vera would have come up with a better excuse than ‘he’s still at work’. She’d have said that Richard was ill in bed at home, asleep, or something. Or maybe ‘being at work’ was just the first excuse to come into her head.

He thought it through. Vera was shifty. Maybe lying. Lately, Richard had been acting oddly. Tense. Tired, as if he hadn’t been sleeping properly. All of which suggested that there was something not right between Richard and Vera. But
if
Richard and Vera were having personal problems, that was their business. Conway was sure that Richard wouldn’t thank him for bringing their boss into it. For the moment, the best thing was to keep a low profile on it.

The rest of the team were already assembled when Conway walked into the briefing room. Seward, Taggart and Tennyson were clustered around a laptop, studying the screen, while Georgiou stood behind them, pointing at different parts of it. Georgiou look at Conway as he joined them, an inquisitive frown on his face.

‘Where’s Little?’ he asked.

‘I couldn’t get hold of him,’ said Conway.

Georgiou frowned.

‘Why? Wasn’t he at home?’

‘No,’ said Conway. ‘I tried his mobile as well, but he’s not answering.’

‘That’s not like him,’ said Georgiou.

‘It’s possibly nothing,’ said Conway, keen to move off the topic. But, knowing that Georgiou wouldn’t let the subject rest, he added reluctantly: ‘It’s just a hunch, but I get the
impression things may not be right between him and Vera.’ He knew that anything else he said would just raise further, and more awkward, questions about Richard.

‘Marriage!’ snorted Tennyson.

‘Let’s leave that for the moment,’ said Georgiou, cutting off further discussion about the pros and cons of marriage before Taggart could rise to the bait. He pointed at the computer screen. ‘Right now we’ve got a PR problem to deal with because it’s giving our lord and master upstairs, and his lord and master, the chief constable, panic attacks.’

‘Worse than three headless bodies?’ asked Conway.

‘Yes,’ said Georgiou. ‘Take a look.’

Conway stepped forward and looked at the figure on the screen: the shapeless smock, the hood, heard the ranting voice, and he drew in his breath sharply.

‘I don’t believe it!’ he said, awed. ‘Not Al-Qaeda claiming these!’

‘That’s what Superintendent Stokes seems worried about. And the chief constable,’ muttered Georgiou. ‘But take a closer look.’

Seward and Taggart moved their chairs to one side so that the big Scot could get a better look at the screen.

‘That’s an ankh,’ he commented, pointing to the shape that Georgiou had earlier identified to Stokes. He frowned, pointing at another. ‘And that’s a swastika. Or, almost a swastika.’

‘The original swastika symbol,’ said Taggart. ‘I did symbols for one of my modules on my OU degree. The swastika was a symbol denoting Shakti in Indian religions. Hindu or Buddhist. It was only turned into a Nazi symbol in
the 1930s.’

Conway frowned. ‘So what are we saying?’ he asked. ‘That this guy’s a Nazi?’

‘No,’ said Taggart. ‘If he was, he’d be using the modern version of the swastika, not the ancient Indian one. There are also other symbols in the background. Some are conventional religious symbols, some are pagan or pre-Christian.’ She pointed at the screen. ‘Those are ancient runes from Scandinavia. And those mixtures of lines in small groups are Ogham.’

‘Ogham?’ echoed Conway.

‘A pre-Christian form of writing,’ explained Taggart. ‘They were carved into trees or the corners of stones. The lines are symbols, with a different number of lines meaning a different word.’

‘Still this OU degree?’ asked Conway.

Taggart nodded.

Conway sighed. ‘I’m surrounded by intellectuals,’ he sighed.

‘I haven’t finished it,’ said Taggart. ‘I’m just doing a module now and then, when I can.’

‘So, any deductions on this guy?’ asked Georgiou.

‘A religious nut, but not for any particular religion,’ suggested Tennyson. ‘Listen to him rant. The only reference to religious is when he says the victims were killed because they were “ungodly”. That covers a lot of things.’

‘In fact, I’m not sure if it’s actually a
religious
nut,’ said Taggart thoughtfully. ‘There’s such a mish-mash of symbols here. It reminds me of those geeks who spend all their time in their bedrooms playing fantasy fighting games on their
computers, and give themselves names like WarDeath.’

‘But even they sometimes come out of their bedrooms and start killing people,’ put in Georgiou thoughtfully.

‘Usually with automatic weapons,’ added Tennyson.

Conway gestured at the screen.

‘So, could he be a suspect?’ he asked.

‘If he is, hopefully we’ll find out soon enough,’ said Georgiou. ‘I’ve got GCHQ digging into it to try and trace where the website’s coming from.’

‘It could be anywhere on the planet,’ said Taggart. ‘America, Asia, Australia.’

‘If that’s the case, it means he’s not our killer,’ observed Tennyson.

‘No, but he may be connected to the killer,’ said Georgiou. ‘An accomplice. The public voice of our secret assassin.’

He pressed the pause button, and they all looked at the shape on the screen, stopped in mid-rant, arms thrown up high.

‘There are too many lunatics out there,’ sighed Conway. ‘Once upon a time they just stayed in their rooms, or walked along the street talking to themselves. Now, with the internet, they have a global audience.’ He shook his head. ‘Instant uncensored communication! All it does is make a bad world worse!’

‘Maybe, but at least you can get the racing results quicker than you used to,’ observed Tennyson.