Bones in the Nest (14 page)

‘Who was that man and what did you say to him?’ Khan was clicking the end of his ballpoint pen.

‘Terry Starkey. I saw him earlier in the day, painting over a slogan. I did speak to him, but I didn’t … I don’t know …’

‘You don’t know?’

‘I didn’t say anything about Mohammad Asaf.’

‘So you never told this gentleman about, and I quote, “one dead Paki”?’

‘No,’ Sean’s mouth was so dry his tongue was sticking to the inside of his cheeks. ‘He doesn’t know I’m a police officer and I never said “Paki”, I mean, I would have used the word “Asian”.’

‘You mean you said, for the point of argument, “dead Asian” instead of “dead Paki” because that’s better in some way, is it? And which part of “media silence” did you not understand? The press office has been bombarded with calls since last night.’

The ballpoint pen cracked in Khan’s fist. Sean was glad there was a desk between them, and the door was on his side of it.
Always check your exit is clear if there’s a risk of attack. Personal safety. Unit 1.

‘You’re suspended, Denton. Hand your badge in. Speak to your union rep and get out.’

‘Excuse me?’ There was no air in his lungs. He felt his mouth open and close like a fish landed on a bank. ‘But …’

‘You heard.’ Khan spun his chair away and fixed his stare out of the window.

Sean found Rick Houghton in the canteen.

‘He’ll have to follow formal procedure,’ Rick said. ‘You’ll be suspended on full pay until it’s sorted. I expect you’ll have to have another meeting with the lovely Wendy Gore from Professional Standards.’

‘But I haven’t done anything!’

‘Can you prove it?’

‘Look, this guy, Starkey, he’s stirring it up for some reason. Maybe he wants another bloody riot, I don’t know.’

He’d said nothing to Rick about his dad or the CUC meeting. It wouldn’t help his case, especially as he needed to convince them that Starkey was nothing to do with him.

‘It’s a shame you’re suspended, Sean. I was hoping to show you some mugshots of the lads we’ve had in our sights for drug dealing on your manor.’

‘Is it connected to our case? Sorry, Khan’s case. Not mine any more. I don’t have a fucking case and I’m not going to have a job soon, thanks to that bloody Nazi.’

‘Calm down, man! Anyone hears you calling Khan a Nazi and you’ll definitely never work again.’

Sean realised the canteen had gone quiet.

‘I’m not talking about DCI Sam Nasir Khan.’ He was speaking to Rick but he made sure everyone else could hear. If they were so keen to listen to his conversation, they might as well get the truth. ‘I’m not the racist here. I’m talking about the guy on the telly. Terry Starkey. A man with a “Made in England” tattoo on his neck.’

‘You want to know his story?’ Rick lowered his voice. ‘That shouldn’t be difficult, especially with a tattoo like that. I didn’t see the news myself. Sounds like I missed a treat though.’

‘Check it out on iPlayer. But the tattoo’s on the other side. He knew which way to turn from the camera.’ Sean pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘By all means look into it, Rick, as a mate. But beyond that, forget it. Don’t do me any favours that are going to get you into trouble.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it. But it might help the investigation, two investigations actually. Look, you get off home, enjoy your extra bit of paid holiday and call me if anything comes up.’

Sean had never had a dog of his own, but he’d seen plenty, and right now he felt like one who’d been kicked very hard and had its nose rubbed in its own shit. He walked out of the station and across town, eyes on the pavement in front of him, counting the fag butts and pressed circles of gum. He stopped at the edge of the market and watched the stallholders and shoppers, busy like ants. He wondered if Lizzie Morrison had found the other half of the ant corpse from the shoe prints. He’d probably never find out. The Red Lion on the corner had a pie and a pint special offer in its window and there was no reason not to go in.

‘We’re not serving food until eleven-thirty, love,’ the woman behind the bar said.

He looked at his watch and realised it was only quarter past ten.

‘I’ll just have a pint then.’

After another two pints, he was ready for pie and chips, not to mention the peas and gravy that came with it. He found himself thinking he should bring his dad in here some time, get some decent food in him. It was cheap and the landlady was doing her best to make it cheerful. Then he remembered the AA meetings and the liver problem. Perhaps a pub wasn’t the best idea.

It was warm and Sean was full of food. His eyes were closing, as if lead weights were pressing on his eyelids. He shuddered awake, checking to see if anyone had noticed, but the pub was the same as before. He rubbed his face but it was no good, his head nodded forward until his forehead rested on his arms on the table in front of him. He drifted into a dream of blood on concrete, soaking into his shoes, and Rick Houghton calling his name.

‘Sean, mate?’

He jerked upright and realised Rick was standing on the other side of the table. He could only have been asleep for a few minutes. The beer was pressing on his bladder.

‘Hang on,’ he said, ‘I’ll be right back.’

It was cooler in the gents’ toilet and he felt more awake. He had what must have been the longest piss in the world, washed his hands and splashed his face with water.

There were two cups of coffee on the table when he
got back and Rick was laying out photographs on top of a brown envelope.

‘Stills from the CCTV at Winston Grove shops,’ Rick said.

Sean peered at the grainy images, each of which included Terry Starkey.

‘That’s him, right?’ Rick asked. ‘What about the others, the ones you saw painting the wall?’

‘This guy,’ Sean pointed. ‘He’s called Gary. Right little fascist, he is.’

‘We’ve got footage of him being quite the model citizen, helping the fire brigade and keeping the youth out of the way. He’s not known on our patch, but I’ll send his face around the other forces.’

‘What about that face recognition thing they’re using in the Met?’

‘No budget for it up here, mate. And to be honest, it’s not that great. You’re sure he’s not local?’

‘Not as far as I know. Sounds Mancunian, or some place like that. Starkey gave the impression he’d got these guys in to help. Maybe he met them inside.’

‘Well he had plenty of time to make friends at Her Majesty’s pleasure. He served a long stretch for armed robbery, so your hunch was spot on. Put a ring round any of the others you think are part of Starkey’s crew, then we can have their prints ready for comparison with anything at the scene.’

Sean found the other two faces easily.

‘They’ll have kept their hands clean,’ he said, ‘but you could get them on incitement to racial hatred.’

It was a mistake not to have told Khan he’d been at the meeting, but Sean wasn’t sure how he was going to get away with suddenly remembering something he couldn’t possibly have forgotten. Then it came to him. Maureen.

‘Give my nan a ring. She might be able to tell you what was said at the Clean Up Chasebridge meeting.’

‘Nice one.’ Rick drained his coffee and put the photos back in the envelope.

‘And, Rick, she might mention I was there too. I just sort of forgot to tell DCI Khan.’

Rick hesitated.

‘You know the oath in court, Sean?’

Sean nodded.

‘The reason it’s “the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth” is because anything else will tie you in knots. A white lie here and there, and before you know it, you’re up to your neck in shit. Why didn’t you tell him?’

Sean shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I thought it would come out wrong. I went to the meeting with my dad, to bond with him or something stupid. I felt sort of dirty just hearing that stuff and you know what? I didn’t want to offend Khan. That’s pathetic, isn’t it?’

‘No. It’s naïve.’ Rick sighed and leant heavily against the back of the seat.

When they’d finished talking, and Rick had paid for another two coffees, they said goodbye and went in opposite directions. Sean left the moped parked in the yard at the police station – he didn’t need to add a drink-driving conviction to his problems – and set off to the bus stop. As
he passed the estate agents’ shop, he paused for a moment, pushed the door open and went in.

The well-appointed studio apartment had already been let. He wasn’t entirely surprised. But there was something else, if he was interested. He found himself agreeing to a viewing there and then. The estate agent drove him to a pretty Georgian square only five minutes’ walk from the police station. At least the agent said it was Georgian. Sean just thought it looked old, seriously old but very smart. He was already shaking his head and trying to form the words ‘out of my price range’ but the agent kept on talking. Gavin Wentworth had told him about attending a burglary on this square and the money people had here was eye-watering. Never mind a studio, it would have to be a broom cupboard before he could afford it.

They stopped in front of a tall, brick building, maybe not as old as some of the others, but certainly dating back to the time when the Chasebridge estate was fields, covered in deer or bears or something. Sean was beginning to regret the three pints. In spite of the coffee, his mind was all over the place, and he was dying for another piss. The house had an imposing flight of stone steps up to the front door and at least ten doorbells to choose from.

‘It’s right at the top,’ the agent said. ‘Super views.’

As the agent was fumbling with the keys, the front door opened and there stood Lizzie Morrison. The agent said ‘thank you’ and walked in, but Sean stayed where he was, frozen to the top step.

‘Hello,’ she said.

They ended up round the corner in The Salutation, a
friendly pub with a good choice of beers, but Sean wasn’t tempted. When he got back from the toilet, Lizzie had already ordered two double espressos. If this didn’t sober him up, nothing would. The estate agent had left him with his card, unable to understand why Sean had changed his mind about the viewing. He wasn’t sure himself, he just knew he couldn’t live in the same block as Lizzie; it would drive him insane.

She listened as he told his story about the Clean Up Chasebridge meeting and how he wished he’d tipped someone off about the torchlit parade. He described the fire and the television crew and Khan’s reaction.

‘It’ll be OK,’ she said for the third or fourth time.

She sounded like she was on his side, but she had no advice to give him other than to wait and see.

‘He’ll calm down, I’m sure of it. He’s got no proof that you leaked Asaf’s death. I’m sure the whole estate knows who the victim was. Let’s face it, the locals usually know more than we do.’

‘It’s a nice square,’ Sean wanted to change the subject, talking about his job was making him feel miserable. He forced a smile. ‘Have you lived in your flat for long?’

‘Are you drunk?’ Lizzie said. ‘You sound a bit drunk.’

‘Slightly, but as I don’t have to work, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Fair enough.’

She studied the dregs at the bottom of her cup, as if she was playing for time. He didn’t want to hear about it if the flat belonged to a boyfriend, the successor to Guy of the Rovers, or whoever she’d been seeing in London. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t asked.

‘I moved in when I got back from London. My dad
bought it,’ she said finally, and looked at him as if he was going to criticise her.

‘Nice. That was nice of him.’ And he meant it. She lived there alone. Probably. That was nice, very nice.

‘Were you really looking to rent a flat?’ she said.

He was startled. ‘Yes, why? Did you think I was stalking you?’

She laughed and shook her head. ‘Of course not.’

‘Lizzie?’

‘Sean?’

‘How am I going to get out of this mess?’

‘I don’t know. But I do know I’ve got to go to work. There’s a burnt out shop needs checking over.’

‘If you fancy a brew while you’re up there …’

But he didn’t finish. He wasn’t sure she’d be welcome at his nan’s. She’d been there once before, when they first knew each other, and it hadn’t gone well. Different worlds. He suddenly thought about Jack, about the cleaning equipment he’d left there and the sleeping bag he’d taken up, before the whole estate went mad. He wouldn’t be making Lizzie a cup of tea in that kitchen either, but he might be able to make his dad something to eat and have a go at cleaning up the bathroom. A caffeine-induced sense of purpose was stirring within him. Stuff DCI Khan; Sean had work to do.

When the bathroom floor was clean again, right to the edges, the knees of Sean’s jeans were black and his throat was parched. He resisted the urge to sneak off to the shop for a beer. There was no AK News and Convenience Store now anyway, just a blackened frontage between the library and
the bookies, where right now Lizzie was probably picking over the wreckage.

‘Stop it,’ he said to himself. ‘Leave her alone, or she really will think you’re a stalker.’

His dad had perked up.

‘I’ll make you something to eat, lad, if you don’t mind that I can’t cook.’

He’d been shovelling down all kinds of pills and he told Sean he had good days and bad days. This was a good day.

‘There’s a tin of mushroom soup,’ Jack said, ‘if you fancy it and I’ve got some sliced bread in that top cupboard. Toaster still works, more or less. More than can be said for its owner,’ he wheezed, laughing at his own joke.

They didn’t talk much that evening. Sean’s arms and back ached. He’d never realised what hard physical work cleaning could be. They watched the television, with Jack’s running commentary, until he limped off to bed and Sean unrolled his blue sleeping bag on the settee. He took his jeans off and hung them over the back of a chair, kept his socks on, and his shoes close by. The carpet was dark and stained with unidentifiable marks and he couldn’t be sure there wasn’t some broken glass among the discarded newspapers.

He slid inside the bag, pulled the hood round his head to keep his face away from the greasy fabric of the settee and let exhaustion wash over him. Tomorrow he’d go out and get more bin liners and some carpet spray. Cleaning this place up would keep his mind off Khan, and Starkey, and the mess he was making of his career.