Bones in the Nest (15 page)

Everyone at the hostel is sick of Chloe using mugs from the kitchen to water the plants, but they’ll shrivel up and die if they don’t get a drink, and she’s the only one who cares. Eventually, Darren brings a watering can from home and lets her use that. She carries it, heavy and sloshing, into the back garden and rations each pot, being careful not to splash the leaves. She asks Darren if he’s got the sprinkler rose to put over the nozzle, but he says he lost it years ago. He’s not much of a gardener. That’s obvious from the amount of spiders and cobwebs in the bottom of the watering can.

No one says anything about Taheera’s absence. Even when Emma asks Darren directly, he shrugs and says he’s not sure when she’ll be back. A new woman has started covering the night shift. Emma says she used to be a screw and none of the girls like her. Chloe hasn’t formed an opinion either way, but the woman let her use the computer early this morning, so she’s prepared to give
her the benefit of the doubt. She found out that the fire in the newsagents’ may have been started deliberately. Chloe would happily have started it herself, to burn up all those copies of
The Doncaster Free Press
with her picture on the front page.

It’s Emma who calls out from the doorway to tell her she’s got visitors. It’s odd the way she says it, sort of snarky. Chloe hesitates. Who would visit her here? She pours the last bit of water onto the soil around the busy Lizzies. They might be the world’s most boring bedding plants, but she’s not going to let them die.

‘Are you coming?’

Chloe lays down the watering can and turns round. She wipes her palms on the back of her jeans and follows Emma inside the building.

They’re standing by the office door. Even as her eyes adjust to the gloom, it’s easy to see what they are from their outline: two female police officers who just want a quiet word. Darren shows them into the office. Chloe wishes he would stay; she’s afraid of what she might say, but he doesn’t, probably not his remit or something.

‘We’ve been asked to come and speak to you, to rule something out. Do you understand?’

Chloe nods, but she doesn’t, not really. Now they haven’t got the light behind them, she can see one of them is plain-clothes. Must be CID. The suit is an ugly dark grey. It’s as if the woman wearing it would rather have the security of her old uniform, so she’s got herself a suit cut in the same style.

‘We want to know where you were on Tuesday night,
that’s the night of Tuesday the seventh of June,’ the detective says and glowers at her, square-jawed like a boxer.

Tuesday the seventh. Chloe’s good with dates. Years and months and weeks of counting down the days have given her an excellent memory for these things. On Monday the sixth she had her first day at work then breached her licence by going to Doncaster. On Tuesday the seventh she went to work again, and early on the eighth Taheera got a phone call which made her cry. She begins to guess what this might be about.

‘Here. Meredith House. I mean, I’ve been here since I left prison, except when I go to work, which is at Halsworth Grange, near Halsworth Main, South Yorkshire.’ The truth is easy and clear, she hopes they can see that.

‘Can anyone confirm that?’

Her memory blanks out for a moment, she almost panics, then it comes back.

‘I was at the IT class that evening. There’s a trainer. She’s from the council. Kath. She’s called Kath. I did the IT class, then I went to bed.’

‘Thank you, we just needed to be sure.’

‘Ask Darren, ask … well, the other girl’s off sick, but she’d know. She was on duty that night.’

‘And what’s her name?’

‘Taheera. Taheera Ahmed.’

Chloe chews her lip. She mustn’t say any more. What she’s told them is real, so far. If she adds to it, she may get it wrong. All she understands is that this visit has got something to do with Taheera and the boyfriend. Suddenly an image flashes into her mind of the young man on the
tower of York Minster and Chloe is pushing him; he’s flying through the air, turning and falling. But that’s wrong. She didn’t go up there. She stayed on the ground. There was a nest with bird skeletons. He wasn’t the one falling in space. She gave the nest to a little boy. That was last week. She needs to focus on the truth. Tuesday evening. The class, her bed, Taheera crying on the phone. The bus. Work. That’s it. It’s all in place. She needs to keep it there.

Sean woke up with his hip squashed under him and his arm tingling with pins and needles. The slope of the settee had prevented him from turning over in his sleep. He adjusted the hood of the sleeping bag where it had slipped down. He stretched out on his back, his feet up on the arm. He felt his spine click straight again. The morning light filtered through the dirty nets, picking out dust in the air. Yesterday he’d cleaned and swept and scrubbed until every muscle ached. The kitchen cupboards were spotless and he’d managed to replace the fuse in the water heater.

The sitting room was getting warmer and a rank smell was rising from the carpet. He thought about hiring one of those steam cleaners. They weren’t pricey. His legs itched inside the sleeping bag and he longed for a shower, so he extricated himself carefully and put his feet in his shoes. The bathroom was looking better than when he’d started. The black mildew was gone from around each tile, but the bath itself was still scratched and stained. It looked like the inside
of an old teapot. There was no shower as such, just a rubber attachment shoved on the taps. He didn’t like the look of it so he ran water into the sink, filled his hands and drenched his face. He dried it on his T-shirt and decided he needed some air. His nan would be up by now, she was an early riser. A proper shower and a decent breakfast were calling.

The estate was quiet apart from a car changing gear, coming down the hill towards The Groves. He caught a glimpse of the driver, a woman in a green uniform tabard, an agency carer he supposed, or a cleaner, up and out early.

Particularly observant with an eye for detail
was the final comment on his police training report. Not observant enough to keep his bloody mouth shut and stay away from Terry Starkey when a camera crew turned up, and now he was facing a disciplinary, and he wouldn’t get off as lightly this time. He kicked a stone so hard it ricocheted off the base of a lamp post with a surprising clang.

He was so focused on wishing he could turn back the clock that his eyes and ears nearly let him down, and he would have missed it, if the sound of a car door hadn’t caught his attention. In front of the shops, a woman had got out of a taxi. It was like an action replay of the scene he’d witnessed a couple of days ago. Only this time the young woman’s hijab was askew and her face was grey with tiredness. She held out her hand to help someone struggling to get out of the car, beseeching them to hurry up so they could get inside, but the figure who emerged did so slowly, holding his waist with one hand and gripping the roof of the car to pull himself to standing.

As Saleem Asaf turned to slam the car door shut, he
looked up and his eyes locked on to Sean’s. He was as thin as a whippet, apart for a thick band around his middle, pushing against a rusty brown mark on his tight T-shirt. Sean could make out the contours of a newly-applied dressing.

As Ghazala and Saleem approached the front of the shop, a police officer waved them away. They stood for a moment and Sean saw how lost they were, like two refugees in a scene from the ten o’clock news. He told himself not to be so soft. Saleem Asaf deserved to be in the nick, not constantly slipping through their fingers, but as Ghazala adjusted her hijab and straightened her drooping shoulders, he found himself approaching them.

‘Anything I can do to help?’

‘You can tell that bastard that we need to get into our flat,’ Saleem began, but was cut short by Ghazala slapping him round the side of the head.

‘Why don’t you just shut up for once? Eh?’

Saleem looked at his feet.

‘Yes, please,’ Ghazala turned to Sean. ‘You’re police, right? We need to get upstairs to the flat. I need to find the insurance documents.’

Sean was going to tell her that he wasn’t working, but at that moment the officer by the shop recognised him and beckoned him over.

‘All right, mate? It’s PC Denton, isn’t it?’

‘Aye, that’s me,’ Sean said.

He couldn’t remember the other man’s name. He worked the day shift in a different unit. There was nothing in his open smile that suggested he knew anything about Sean’s suspension.

‘Look, technically I’m off duty,’ Sean said, ‘but would it be OK if I accompanied the young lady into the flat? I think we can get around the back without disturbing the crime scene.’

‘I don’t see why not, if you’re quick.’

Ghazala followed him and Saleem tagged along behind her.

‘No, son,’ Sean said, ‘you stay right here, where my colleague can see you.’

‘What you saying? I can’t go in my own home? You saying you don’t trust me?’

‘That’s right, Saleem, that’s exactly what I’m saying.’

Saleem gave an exaggerated shrug, sucked his teeth at Sean and flounced off to sit on the low wall in front of the library. A flicker of annoyance passed across Ghazala’s face but she shut it out. She and Sean walked quickly up the alley beside the library to the back of the shop. He was impressed by the way she was handling this situation; the more businesslike the better, as far as Sean was concerned. Any moment now, the officer at the front of the shop might catch on and call in to the station, then he’d find out that Sean had no right to be here.

Ghazala opened two padlocks on the security shutter and pulled it up. She unlocked the back door and Sean followed her. They were in a hallway with a flight of stairs ahead of them and an internal door to their right. The air smelt of burnt plastic and the paintwork was clouded with smoke stains. Ghazala pulled her scarf across her mouth and nose as she climbed the stairs to the inner door of the flat.

Inside the living room, the smell was overpowering.

‘Please touch as little as possible,’ Sean said. ‘Just find the papers and then we need to leave.’

She stood still and looked around.

‘Everything’s ruined,’ her voice cracked as she swallowed back tears. ‘My dad doesn’t know yet, he …’

Sean stood helplessly, wanting to comfort her, but knowing he shouldn’t touch her.

‘Saleem said your father was in Pakistan with your uncle.’

She nodded, her eyes coming to rest on a bookcase with an inbuilt sliding cupboard at eye level. She took a tissue out of her pocket and made sure she didn’t touch the wood as she slid the cupboard open. The tissue was grey with soot as she let it fall to the carpet.

‘Are they on their way back?’ Sean said. ‘I imagine your uncle, at least, would want to bury his son, and now this fire. It’s not fair to leave you to deal with everything.’

He felt cruel, reminding her of Mohammad’s death on top of the disaster of the fire, but it had been bothering him that there was still no sign of the two heads of this family. Ghazala didn’t answer. She lifted an A4 box file out of the cupboard and opened it.

‘Do you mind me asking, miss, what they’re doing there? In Pakistan?’

She shrugged. ‘Family business.’

‘But what about their family here?’

‘Are you interrogating me, officer?’ Ghazala’s eyes flashed as she spun round, almost dropping the box file. ‘Because if you are, I want a solicitor. I know my rights. Do you think I’m just some young girl you can push around and hint at all kinds of things?’

Sean opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

‘Well, I’m not stupid,’ Ghazala continued. ‘What are you
trying to say? That we’re all criminals? Because Mo and Saleem have been stupid boys and mixed with the wrong people? Or because you assume all Pakistanis are drug dealers or terrorists? Is that it?’

Her voice was shrill now and Sean was afraid the officer outside would be able to hear them. He held up his hands in surrender.

‘I’m not saying that.’

‘My dad and my Uncle Hassan have taken my granddad home. He’s old and sick. We haven’t told him about the fire. It’ll probably kill him, because this was his shop. You see? He opened it with his sons twenty-five years ago. Now all he wants is to see his village, one last time.’

Sean didn’t know what to say. The acrid smell from the fire was biting into his throat. He swallowed and his saliva tasted bitter.

‘My granddad was planning to stay over there for a few weeks, say goodbye to all his relatives, but he can’t now, can he?’ Ghazala continued, not looking at Sean. ‘He has to come back and bury his grandson, as you said.’ Her voice faltered and she turned towards the window where net curtains hung grey with soot. ‘They’re still trying to find a flight with spare seats, while my cousin’s body lies in the mortuary because your people aren’t even close to finding out who killed him.’

Sean cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Are you?’ Her voice was low, but anger pulsed through it. ‘I saw you on the TV. You were right here, outside on the pavement with that mob. Hanging around with those thugs. I know who you are.’

‘Miss Asaf, please, I’m not … Look it doesn’t matter. We need to go. The smoke damage, I mean, the air we’re breathing, it’s not healthy. If you’ve got the papers you need, let’s get out.’

She held the box file close to her chest and looked around the room. It was clear that it would take a lot of work to get everything back to normal.

‘I hope the insurance covers all this,’ Ghazala said quietly.

‘I hope so too.’ Sean gestured towards the door and she responded by walking slowly down the stairs, the fight gone out of her.

Outside, Saleem came to meet them.

‘How are the stitches?’ Sean tried to sound sympathetic.

‘OK,’ Saleem said. ‘They had to redo a bit.’

‘You want to take it easy, no more climbing into windows.’

‘You can’t resist having a go, can you?’ Ghazala snapped at Sean. ‘He’s been in hospital half the night and for your information he’s not been charged with anything, so leave him alone!’

‘Really?’ Sean said.

Saleem nodded. ‘Just got told off. It’s all right, Ghazala. He’s OK, really.’

He looked like he might have something else to say, but his sister put her arm round his shoulders and hurried him away to the bus stop without a backwards glance.

When he got to his nan’s, Sean found Maureen on her knees in front of the oven. The kitchen smelt of caustic soda. Only his nan would think it was normal to clean her oven this early in the morning.

‘Hello, love.’ She straightened up, out of breath. ‘I
thought I’d get this done before the day gets too hot. I’m not going to complain about a decent summer for once, but they say we’re due for another heatwave. I reckon it’s that global warm-up.’

‘Warming, Nan. Shall I put the kettle on?’

‘Aye, why not. I’ll be done in a minute, just need to rinse the gunk off.’

She didn’t question why he was there or mention him staying at his dad’s last night. When the tea was brewed and she’d finished what she was doing, she piled his plate with toast and he lathered each slice with a thick, melting slab of butter. He started to tell her about DCI Khan, about how it had all been going so well and how he had suddenly got it so badly wrong. He was careful not go into too much detail, especially about Mohammad Asaf, but he mentioned bumping into Terry Starkey. He told her he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time when the TV crew turned up. He didn’t tell her he’d been suspended. For some reason the words got stuck and when he tried to form them, his head rushed like it used to when he was a kid and he thought he was about to cry. He told himself it was the fumes from the flat still making his eyes sting. He sank his face into his tea mug and she nodded, reassuring him that she’d never for a moment thought he was in with Terry Starkey’s crowd.

‘You know him?’

‘Of course, I thought I told you,’ Maureen said. ‘He’s batty Bernadette’s lad, different name because he was from the first husband, John Starkey. John used to work at Markham Main with your dad. Died in a scaffolding accident not long
after the strike. Fell off drunk probably. Anyway, then she married Bob Armley.’

Sean tried to process what he was hearing.

‘That poor woman,’ she said. ‘As if she hadn’t had it hard enough after losing the younger one, that Terry went and got himself banged up for armed robbery.’

‘Come again?’

‘I thought you knew. The one that got pushed off the flats, that was her younger son. Terry tried to use it in court, in whatsit …’

‘Mitigation?’

‘That’s right. But his was a nasty crime. Armed robbery’s armed robbery, at the end of the day.’

He thought about the pictures in Bernadette Armley’s flat – two young boys with red hair and freckles.

Maureen topped up his tea and sat back in her chair, lighting up a cigarette.

‘First one of the day,’ she sucked on it with her eyes closed.

‘Nan, you shouldn’t. It’s not ladylike,’ he joked.

‘My days of worrying about being ladylike are long gone. Anyway, some fellers still think it’s sexy,’ she laughed a deep smoker’s laugh.

He could sense a dangerous change of subject and sure enough, she was asking him about girls and whether there was anyone special in the picture. He decided to tell her he’d seen Lizzie Morrison, but regretted it as soon as the words were spoken.

‘What’s she doing back in Doncaster?’ Maureen’s eyes lit up. ‘Is she still seeing that bloke from Donny Rovers?’

‘I don’t know Nan, I’ve not really thought about her.’

‘Well you be careful with that one.’

It struck him as ironic that the people who cared about him were constantly warning him to be careful of the people he admired. He wondered if he was gullible, or maybe he trusted the wrong people. But were Lizzie Morrison and Sam Nasir Khan the wrong people? Or were they just people who were out of his league socially, professionally and in every way he could imagine?

‘It’s not right,’ Nan said, ‘the shop being attacked. They’ve gone too far with that Clean Up Chasebridge thing, let it get out of control. I told your friend Rick, I said to him, they’re just jumping on the bandwagon most of them.’

‘He rang you, then?’

‘Yes, I told him you left the meeting early, reckoned you didn’t want to be associated with that lot.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

Maureen refilled his cup, the tea darker than ever.