Still Midnight (19 page)

“Popular?” Lander’s eyes searched the carpet. “Well, people come into the shop a lot.”

“The same people?”

He nodded. “Often the same people. There’s a bus stop outside so people on their way to town often come in for a paper but after rush hour in the morning and the afternoon our customers are mostly locals, yes.”

“How long have you worked there?”

“About fourteen years. Nearly fourteen years.”

“And what shifts do you do?”

“Ooh.” He rolled his eyes up. “Well, I start at six thirty a.m. and finish at twelve thirty. But I often stay on or go back in for the afternoon shift, help with the lunchtime rush and stocking up and so on. Sometimes I go back in to listen to the cricket with Mr. Anwar.”

Morrow chimed in, “So, he’s a friend?”

“Very much so,” said Lander seriously. “Very much a friend.”

“Are you paid for those extra hours?”

He seemed offended at the suggestion. “In the afternoon?”

“Yes.”

He gave a small cheerless laugh. “Paid for listening to cricket matches?”

Morrow blinked slowly. “When you work extra hours are you paid for them?”

Lander’s expression hardened towards her. “No. I’m paid for my shift in the morning. Anything else I can do for Mr. Anwar is a gesture of friendship.”

“You do it out of loyalty?” She meant it as a compliment but he seemed to have taken against her.

The lip beneath his mustache tightened. “And friendship.”

“I am just asking ye questions, Mr. Lander.” Her voice was soft. “It’s my job to find Mr. Anwar and bring him back safe and sound. I take it very seriously.”

“Good,” he said and blinked. She realized suddenly that he was terrified for his friend.

“How much are you paid an hour?”

Lander was a little embarrassed. “I’m paid two hundred pounds a week, flat, whatever hours I do.”

“I see.” She jotted it down. “Not that much for a thirty-hour week.”

“Thirty-six. Sometimes forty-two if I work the full week but it suits me,” he said simply.

“In what way?”

“The hours, the location, and the company.”

“You get on well, then?”

He spoke as if it was a prepared speech, looking over her shoulder to another audience. “Mr. Anwar and I have been friends for fourteen years. Over that time we have become as brothers.” His hand chopped the air a little for emphasis.
“He is as a brother to me.”

Having finished, he coughed, embarrassed. Morrow recognized his discomfort, his inability to Oprah-sob on demand. Like him, she didn’t believe sincerity was marked by incessant emotional revelation. She yearned for a time when it was enough to tell a man you loved him on your wedding day and expect him still to know ten years later.

Lander was controlled and would be hard to wrong-foot. She slouched in the chair and sucked her teeth sarcastically. “Yeah, I see, kind of, what you’re on about.”

“Do you see?” He was suddenly angry. “Do you?”

“Oh, aye, yeah, see whit ye mean.”

“What do you see?” He seemed furious, at both her belittling tone and scattered grammar.

She slapped the air carelessly. “You work together, you enjoy cricket together?”

“Correct.” He pointed a finger at her nose and his rage subsided. “Correct.”

Morrow stared at him, letting him stew for a moment. “In the days and weeks running up to the kidnap, did you see anyone hanging around the shop?”

“Many people hang around the shop.”

“Anyone unusual? Anyone take a special interest?”

“In what?”

“In Mr. Anwar? In the shop’s income, anyone ask about the takings, for example?”

He thought about it for a moment. “No,” he said finally. “No, not that I can think of. We get a lot of odd types. Alcoholics, junkies, odd types, but they’re all locals, if you don’t know who they are you’ll know who they belong to.”

“Belong to?” asked Bannerman.

“Who their family are, their mother’s name or granny’s name.”

“No unusual phone calls?” asked Morrow.

“No.”

“Can you think of anyone Mr. Anwar owes money to?”

“No.”

The answer came a little too fast; he hadn’t considered the question. Even if there had been someone, Morrow felt sure that Johnny Lander would not tell her. He wouldn’t say anything harmful to Aamir. His loyalty ran too deep.

“What do you think happened?”

“Wrong address.” He sounded certain.

“Why?”

“They’re a modest family. Religious. They give a lot of money to charity, on the quiet, the way it should be.”

“What charities?”

“Earthquake appeal, important things.”

“Humanitarian appeals?”

“Yes.”

“Afghanistan?”

“Never mentioned it specifically. Pakistan I think…”

“Any connection with Afghanistan? Do they have family there?”

“Not that I know of. They’re both from Uganda.”

“How about yourself, did you serve there, ever?”

“No. After my time.”

She tried a blank card. “Would you say that you are a loyal person?”

“Yes.” No flinch or hesitation, not a moment’s doubt or a glimmer of shame.

“But you don’t have a family of your own?”

“No.”

“Are you friends with Mr. Anwar’s family?”

“No. Just Mr. Anwar.”

“But you must know the family?”

“A little. Billal and Omar both worked Saturdays in the shop when they were at school, but I don’t really know them.”

“You worked every Saturday with them for years but you don’t know them?”

“No. I didn’t work with them. Their daddy worked with them. I didn’t go in then, when they were on. There isn’t really room behind the counter for three and I used to fish, so…” Small shrug. “I was glad.”

“You must hear a lot, though, know about them?”

“No. Mr. Anwar doesn’t really talk about his family.”

“Does that seem odd to you?”

“No. Why?”

“Most parents like to talk about their children. But Mr. Anwar doesn’t?”

“He doesn’t talk about anything but the shop.”

“Doesn’t that get tedious?”

“And cricket. We talk about cricket too.”

“Now”—she sat forward—“
that
must get tedious.”

Lander warmed to that a little, allowed himself a small, crisp smile.

Bannerman interrupted, “Are you still involved with the Territorial Army?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me when you left the TA?”

“I can: in April 1993.”

“Quite a while ago, then?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still know people in the TA?”

Morrow could tell where he was heading with it, the military connection, the guns and gear the gunmen had, could have indicated a TA connection, but the gunmen weren’t trained, they made mistakes so fundamental no one with any army training would have made.

“No. I know people who
were
in the TA at the same time as me but I am not in contact with them on a regular basis.”

“How about an irregular basis? Who has seen you in the shop?”

He thought hard. “No one.”

“Not one single person from the TA has ever come into the shop?”

“Why would they? Sure, most of them live in Stirling. If you don’t believe me you could contact the HQ and ask for addresses. I’ll give you the number.”

He was very exact, his military mind-set letting him answer without questioning their authority. Most interviewees struggled to understand the reasoning behind a train of questioning, attempted to connect with their questioner. It was refreshing.

She took over. “Do you get arms training in the TA?” Bannerman’s eyes widened in warning, as if she was giving too much away. When she looked back Johnny Lander’s back was straighter than before.

“Of course. There wouldn’t be much point in having an army if they can’t use arms.”

The damage was done now so she went for it. “Handguns?”

“Certainly. But if you’re thinking I had anything to do with Mr. Anwar’s kidnap you are very wrong indeed. He is a good personal friend of mine and I most certainly would never do anything to harm him in any way.”

He was panting a little at the end, looked upset, and she reached over to him, touching the air above his knee. “There’s no suggestion of that at all, Mr. Lander, but the men used guns and we have to explore every possible connection with Mr. Anwar.”

“I see.” He still looked nervous.

“It’s our job to get him back and we are trying our hardest.”

“Good.” He pursed his lips tight. “Good. He’s… a good man. If there’s anything I can do…” He thought they were going and leaned forward to stand up but Morrow stayed him with a hand.

“The TA—what sort does it attract?”

He sat back down. “Ex-military, who can’t quite give it up.” He twitched his mouth, touched his chest indicating himself. “Poor men with families, in it for the money. Others…” He shrugged and wondered about it. “Seen too many action movies. They don’t last.”

“How come?”

“They want to be heroes. Not what the job is. Discipline. Can’t take it. Not about being popular. Not about being nice.” He smiled knowingly at Morrow.

“What happens to them, then?” asked Bannerman.

“Leave or get put out. It’s hard to do things right.” He nodded at Morrow and dropped his voice. “You were doing something hard there, before, weren’t ye? Noising me up, trying to shake a monkey out of the tree?”

She smiled and he leaned forward, his face close to hers. “When you get old,” he whispered, “it’s very hard to find people you can stand the sight of.”

Morrow whispered back, “I have that trouble now.”

He smiled and sat back. “D’you think you’ll find him alive?” he said, his voice cracking a little.

She gave an honest shrug. “The gunmen came in asking for someone called Bob.” She watched him for a reaction.

“There ye are, then,” Johnny Lander said certainly. “It
was
the wrong address.”

He led them out to the hall, opened the door and saw them out formally, shook their hands in turn, and gave all the formal pleasantries a gentleman would, nice to meet you, anything I can do. He watched them take the stairs, looking over the banister again, lifting a hand to wave when they looked up to see if he was still there.

Morrow found herself leaving the neat world of Mr. Lander reluctantly, dragging her feet as she tripped after Bannerman down to the bubbling damp and noisy street. He was a soldier, had that capacity to form ferocious, blind attachments, lived in a world of moral absolutes. She envied it. He probably never had to call into question the army; it must have served him well. Her own experience of joining the police force was her father and the rest of the family turning from her, thinking themselves betrayed. It was twelve years ago and she still wondered if the desire to shed them was the reason she joined. She saw herself as an old woman in a personality-free house, sitting in a desolate silence as a bus rumbled past the window.

Outside the close the day had descended into cold drizzle.

“You shouldn’t have said that about the guns.” Bannerman squinted out into the road.

Morrow pulled her coat closed. “Those guys last night, they aren’t firearms trained.”

“How do you know?”

“Omar did that, didn’t he?” She threw her hand to the side, the way Omar had during questioning the night before, at a low ninety-degree angle. “I was watching on the remote.”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t that look like recoil put it there?”

Bannerman looked at her hand, reluctant to admit she was right.

“And he said he thought the guy had a long face under the balaclava. He said that, ‘a long face,’ until he shut his mouth.” She dropped her jaw in shock and shut it again. “Just after he fired the shot.”

Bannerman shrugged. “It’s an idea.”

“Plus, think about the order of things: the girl was shot at an irrelevant point in the negotiations. It wasn’t a ploy to up the ante, wasn’t to move the threat forward. It was just a stupid mistake.”

Bannerman wouldn’t look at her.

“Well, it’s a theory anyway.” She shrugged. “Don’t like being wrong, do you?” She dropped from the step into the street. Buses passed noisily in front of her. Cars edged impatiently around them and drew back at the stream of traffic coming the other way.

Bannerman was at her side. “No, but, it’s… that’s much worse, isn’t it? If they aren’t used to firearms. They could shoot anyone at any time.”

The traffic in front of them came to a standstill as a bus let its passengers off and the lights changed on the other side.

“On the upside”—she stepped out between the back of a bus and a car—“they might shoot each other.”

The shop door was sticky and needed a shove. It chimed as Bannerman opened it and stepped in. It was a small room, smelled of dust and stale body odor. On the right the wall was lined with newspapers and magazine racks, with the porn high up and children’s comics at the right height to tempt little hands. Near the back was a rack of glass bottles of fizzy juice, laid out on their sides like wine with an upright crate of empty returns next to them. A central stand displayed household absolute essentials: shampoo next to tea bags and washing powder and nappies. Expensive items like peanut butter were arranged to face the shopkeeper, close enough to lean over and slap any shoplifters who tried their arm. The counter ran half the length of the shop, which wasn’t much. Behind it cigarettes and cheap drink and coffee were kept beyond grabbing distance.

Twenty years of small change had eroded the white plastic counter through to the brown chipboard beneath. Behind it sat two high stools, still angled into each other, as if duettists had just left the stage. On one of the low shelves she saw a little silver shortwave radio. It would be a comfy perch to watch the world from.

The shop was being manned by someone who was too young for his beard and old-fashioned manners, as if he was acting a part. He looked at her expectantly but didn’t speak.

“Hello, are you Mr. Anwar’s cousin?”

“Yes,” he said, heavily accented, nodding his head passively.

“DS Morrow.” She held out her hand. “I’m one of the police officers investigating your cousin’s kidnapping.”