Tell No Tales (36 page)

‘I’ve got a Madox too,’ he said. ‘Are you an admirer of his poetry?’

She smiled at that. ‘I named him after the painter.’

Shotton gestured for her to sit down and listened while she detailed her problems with a local care home’s treatment of her grandmother, all the while wondering how a woman who’d named her son after an artist had arrived at a point where she was wearing cheap, washed-out clothes and an aura of beaten-down poverty. She was in tears by the end of the conversation and he handed her a tissue, promised he would look into the matter, reassuring her that a letter was often all it took to straighten these things out.

The next two appointments came and went and no sign of Talal. He wouldn’t call him again. This needed to be discussed in person.

Talal was their ‘silver bullet’ – as Marshall liked to say – a third-generation Pakistani businessman, devout, highly respected. As long as he campaigned under the EPP banner nobody could say they were a racist party. He commanded a significant voting block too, which was of greater concern. Up to 5 per cent of the turnout hung on his word.

Shotton went out of the cramped office and into the main hall, where a long folding table was set up ready for the after-school club. Christian was sitting drinking tea at the far end with the woman who managed the centre, listening as she talked about the break-in they’d had on Sunday morning. She cornered him every week to bend his ear and he took it with the forbearance only an ex-copper could muster.

He stood up as Shotton approached.

‘Could I have a word, sir?’ He placed his cup and saucer on the table. ‘Excuse me, ma’am.’

‘A private word?’

‘Yes, sir.’

They went out into the car park, where his previous visitor was still sitting in her car, furiously scribbling away at a notepad propped up on the steering wheel. The woman was a professional complainer, from what Shotton could make out, always opposing some planning issue or other. Retired too early and bored to death now, nothing better to do with her time than mount campaigns against the most innocuous developments. She was currently trying to stop a house three streets away from her own being converted into flats.

He’d pointed out that the city was in desperate need of one-bed properties for youngsters trying to set up home and she’d stormed out of the office.

‘I’ve had a call from my contact,’ Christian said.

That drew Shotton’s attention back. ‘Good news?’

‘I think so, sir. They’ve identified one of the murderers,’ he said, squinting against the afternoon sun. ‘The first death I think. We only talked for a couple of minutes. They’ve got a name though.’

Shotton braced himself, sure that the name Christian’s contact had given would be Poulter’s or one of his men.

‘Who is it?’

‘Some foreign bloke. He’s dead now though.’

He wanted to laugh. The relief so overwhelming that he only just managed to stop himself. Not Poulter’s men. Not any of the others either. His money had been well spent and his reputation would remain intact.

‘Are they sure about this?’

Christian nodded. ‘Definitely, sir. Polish I think. But it’s not just the one man. There was a gang of them. A neo-Nazi group by the sounds of it.’

Shotton’s relief faded slightly. It wasn’t the ideal outcome but still far better than he would have expected.

‘Thank you for your help on this, Christian.’ He took his wallet from his back pocket and slipped a couple of fifties out.

‘That’s not necessary, sir.’

‘Don’t offend me,’ Shotton said. ‘Treat your children to a day out or something.’

Christian didn’t look at him as he took the money, acting like it was a bribe rather than a bonus, but he’d get used to it, Shotton thought. There was always something useful a police contact could provide and he had a feeling Christian would prove to be a discreet intermediary.

A battered Transit van pulled into the car park as they headed for the main doors and Shotton hung back to meet the man. Another regular. One of the army of leafleters who’d helped him get elected, a painter and decorator who’d volunteered to plaster up their posters and, when it was necessary, blank out any inconvenient bits of graffiti which popped up around the city.

‘Colin, how are you, mate?’

A firm handshake, a clap on the back.

‘Can’t complain, Mr Shotton.’ He smiled. ‘Well, I
am
going to complain or else I wouldn’t be here.’

Shotton laughed. ‘Come on in then. Let’s see if Mrs Lamb can find us both a cuppa.’

She brought them tea and biscuits in the office while Colin talked about his daughter, away at university in Wales, studying media. Shotton managed to offer enough to keep him chatting, but he was thinking about what Christian had said, how best to play the situation from here.

Once Talal knew the truth he’d come round. One fire put out.

But there was more political capital to be made.

When the news broke he would be able to carefully and skilfully turn the debate to his own ends. If anything highlighted the danger of unchecked immigration from Europe it was this. Neo-Nazi murderers, racially motivated crimes, in a city as small as Peterborough. If it was happening here it could happen anywhere.

This was a gift he wouldn’t waste.

Once he was alone Shotton called Talal’s office. The receptionist took his name and there was a pause as she passed the message along. He half expected Talal not to accept his call but eventually he answered.

‘No, Richard. Whatever you want, no.’

‘We need to talk about what happened.’

‘“What happened”?’ Talal snapped. ‘Your thugs murdering a boy for sport? Asif was a good man, I know his father from years back, they are a good family.’

‘The ENL did not kill Asif.’

‘I’ve spoken to the men who were there. They say there were hundreds of ENL, the police couldn’t control them.’

‘Listen to me,’ Shotton said. ‘I have it on very good authority that the police are about to release the name of the man responsible and he isn’t even English. He’s a Pole.’

Silence from Talal. The sound of his breath whistling through his nose as he considered the new information, weighing up the balance.

‘This doesn’t hurt you, my friend. Just consider it for a moment, your supporters – your community – they don’t like this unfettered immigration, do they?’

‘We’re being made to feel like foreigners in our own country,’ Talal said. ‘All because the Poles are white, they think they have more right to be here than us. Families who have lived in Peterborough for four generations.’

Shotton could feel him softening, knew that he was close to recapturing the man’s valuable support.

‘This is the problem with immigration,’ he said. ‘We share a history, your people have roots here, but the Poles don’t. And when the news is released later this afternoon that Asif was killed by one of them all of your problems will go away.’

Through the office door he heard his final appointment arrive, a loud man already voicing his displeasure.

‘We have to stand together, Talal. We’ve done too much good work to let it be undone by a handful of extremists.’

‘It was not a handful. It was hundreds.’

‘That’s a gross exaggeration.’

‘It’s what the people think,’ Talal said. ‘They’ve been coming to me, saying “Why are you associated with these animals?” They think I’m betraying them. My own wife calls me your lapdog.’

‘Please, Talal –’ Shotton stood, knowing now that he’d miscalculated. He should have gone to the office, talked to him face-to-face, man-to-man. He’d underestimated how much the riot had cost Talal within his community. ‘Listen, this helps us, you have to appreciate that.’

‘How does it help? To have a young man murdered in the street and your people want to see more blood. They do not even have respect for the dead.’ Talal cleared his throat, but the emotion was still there when he spoke, a mixture of anger and regret. ‘I cannot be a part of this any more. I will send you my official letter of resignation.’

The phone went dead in Shotton’s ear.

For a moment he was frozen, staring at the display as it switched to black, then his foot shot out and he kicked the flimsy plastic chair across the office, sending it crashing into a filing cabinet, the sound drowning out his curses.

Christian burst into the office, shoulders squared for violence.

‘It’s fine,’ Shotton said, smoothing a hand over his tie, forcing a smile. ‘Just a text about the cricket score.’

He righted the chair and slowly sat down.

‘Send the next one in, would you?’

The man was small and bald and very angry but Shotton wasn’t listening. The words washed over him while he ran the numbers in his head, the losses represented by Talal’s defection, the gains accrued by his recent media presence. Damage done versus opportunities remaining.

Now was not the time to dwell on the negative.

The riot would be forgotten but the murder would linger in the city’s collective memory bank and if he was very lucky the trial might just coincide with the week of the general election. Racial disharmony meant votes for the English Patriot Party, this he knew for a fact.

The fight was far from lost.

46

GREY SHIELD SECURITY
was based in an unprepossessing breeze-block unit on an industrial estate in Orton Southgate, surrounded by plastic window manufacturers and Internet start-ups which had moved beyond the spare bedroom but not much further, party suppliers and a hot-tub showroom. Nobody was very busy at half past three on a Monday afternoon, with the sky already darkening and rain in the air, along with the sweet, yeasty aroma from the bagel factory nearby.

It was a discreet location though, looked like a place you’d go for run-of-the-mill burglar alarms and CCTV cameras with short ranges, designed for spying on prowlers and monitoring expensive cars parked on downmarket streets.

The website told a different story. Sleek and no-nonsense, it offered an array of services from security teams for commercial concerns to personal bodyguards and something called ‘complete defence solutions’.

Zigic wasn’t sure what that entailed but it sounded sinister.

The company boasted that it recruited personnel from the military and the police, only the most reliable men and women, highly trained and above reproach. No mention of the ex-cons on their books, the men like Tomas – and Zigic guessed he wouldn’t be the only oversight – who’d learned their craft on the wrong side of the law.

He pulled into a space in front of the unit, next to a hunter-green Range Rover with tinted windows, so chunky it might have been armour-plated, and climbed out of the car. The office door opened with a light buzz, letting him into an anonymous reception area, the glass-and-chrome desk unmanned, the modernist black leather chairs empty. There was a single white orchid in a pot on the windowsill, filling the room with a rotten-flesh smell.

As Zigic closed the door a middle-aged man in a modishly tailored suit came to meet him, hand already outstretched.

‘Detective Inspector is it now?’ he said, smiling with too many teeth on show.

Zigic shook his hand. ‘DCI Broad.’

‘It’s been a long time since anyone called me that.’

Five years, Zigic thought, then realised it must be longer. Ten since Broad took early retirement from the force, barely forty-five then, and nobody could quite understand why he left, no obvious cloud hanging over him, his prospects of promotion good enough to carry him to Chief Superintendant if that was what he wanted. He claimed it was for his health and looking at him now Zigic saw the change had done him good. He had the lean build of a runner, a tanned complexion and a thick head of hair.

‘Well, let’s go through. See if we can’t help you out in your hour of need.’

Zigic followed him into an open-plan office, clinical-looking with its polished concrete floors and aluminium lights, the company logo in laser-cut steel bolted to the smoke-grey wall. There were four desks, well spaced within glass partitions, designed to give their customers a semblance of privacy. Only one was occupied right then, likely the woman Ferreira had spoken to on the phone.

Broad was going to handle this personally though.

His office was at the back of the space, these glass walls frosted, thicker, the same chrome-and-leather scheme but everything subtly better. They took their seats on either side of his desk, where stacks of brochures and client folders were arranged with military precision.

‘So, Tomas Kaminski. What can I tell you?’

‘I need his full records,’ Zigic said.

‘That’s not a problem.’ Broad reached for his keyboard and typed while he spoke. ‘Which is he then? Victim or suspect?’

‘Both,’ Zigic said. ‘Had you had any trouble with him?’

‘Not that I can see here.’ Broad tapped the keyboard, scrolling, face set in concentration too fixed for the simple task. ‘We had him on as a doorman. I don’t deal with that side of things though.’

‘Maybe I should speak to whoever does?’

‘Michael’s away on holiday. Honeymoon, I should say. He’ll be back next week, but I imagine there are time constraints involved.’ A printer began to hum under his desk, the paper tray racking brashly. ‘Is this to do with the hit-and-run on Lincoln Road? I saw your press conference, Ziggy – this thing’s got people’s blood up.’

‘We’re not sure exactly how Kaminski’s involved yet.’

Was this natural curiosity? he wondered. Broad might have left the police but he still thought like a detective, wanted to find the pattern, slot the pieces he knew into it and see how they fitted. Or was it something else? Concern for his company’s image prompting him to ferret out details he had no right to, preparing to shape a suitable narrative for when the news became public.

‘There are two other men working for you. Pyotr Dymek and –’ Zigic reached into his pocket for the mugshot taken a few hours before Lukas hanged himself. ‘This man, we’re not sure of his surname but we think he’s Lukas something.’

Broad took the photograph and studied it for a moment, shook his head. ‘He looks a right piece of work.’