Innocent Lies (Reissue) Page 9

  * * *

  DCI Fiske, however, had other ideas and any decision on how to prioritise was all but taken out of Mariner’s hands. Now that Yasmin’s disappearance had been on TV the press were on to it and this was exactly the sort of case to capture the public’s imagination. Always on the lookout for an ‘angle,’ the media were playing up the possibility of a racially motivated abduction and, ever helpful, Fiske was taken with this idea too. He was now making noises about a press conference with Yasmin’s parents.

  ‘What about this letter?’ he asked, demanding that Mariner bring him up to date. ‘If it’s genuine, it was a pretty open threat.’

  ‘Forensics have found nothing on it,’ said Mariner. And it’s hard to tell how genuine it is, given that it’s such an undistinguishable note. And the Akrams have had similar stuff in the past.’

  ‘But this follows the consortium letter to the press: a provocative act if ever there was one,’ said Fiske. ‘If the low-level campaign failed to subdue them — which it patently has — then the perpetrators might feel that it’s time to do something more dramatic. And so far you don’t seem to have come up with any other reason why Yasmin should have gone missing.’

  ‘We’re still exploring all the possibilities,’ said Mariner.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, for one thing we’ve learned that everything in the Akram household wasn’t as rosy as we’d been led to believe. Mr Akram and his daughter had disagreed.’

  Fiske looked disappointed. ‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t keep the family under scrutiny, but you can do that while following up other avenues. The racist incidents have to be examined. Mohammed Akram has sent us a list of dates and occurrences going back over three years.’ He held up some papers.

  ‘I haven’t seen that.’

  ‘It was passed directly to the superintendent. This is a copy.’

  Mariner took the sheet. The incidents were, as Akram had described them to him yesterday, fairly low level — excreta through the letterbox, windows broken, graffiti sprayed — sometimes happening weekly and usually at night. Up until now the school had always been the target. Attached to the list was a copy of the letter written to the local press by Akram and several other business owners in the area, denouncing what they called ‘terrorism by stealth,’ perpetrated by ‘those too weak to reveal themselves.’ It spoke about The Right Way being a club for cowards who indulged in covert petty crime instead of openly confronting the issues. The question was whether it was enough to prompt such drastic action from The Right Way and, if so, could they expect a ransom note at any time?

  ‘And that, Inspector, should be your next line of enquiry,’ Fiske said.

  Mariner opened his mouth to complain, but stopped himself. It was a valid line of enquiry that would have to be pursued at some time. They may as well do it now and with any luck his deference would keep Fiske off his back for a few hours.

  * * *

  But before entering the lion’s den Mariner wanted to arm himself with a bit more information about the man they might be dealing with. Detective Sergeant Bev Jordan came over from the racial crimes unit at Lloyd House to talk to him and Millie.

  ‘What do you need to know?’ she asked when they were installed in Mariner’s office.

  ‘Everything of any relevance about Peter Cox,’ said Mariner.

  Jordan grimaced. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work in every respect. He runs a very active cell of The Right Way who hold particularly strong views on immigration, repatriation, birth control programmes; you name it. He’s denounced the BNP for being too moderate.’

  ‘What a charmer,’ remarked Millie.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Mariner handed Jordan the leaflet Mohammed Akram had given him. ‘Is this one of his?’

  Jordan scanned the document and nodded. ‘This is exactly the sort of stuff he churns out. In the past there have been various threats against groups and individuals. And Cox has his own little band of fanatically loyal followers in the south of the city and beyond, mainly recruited via the internet, though not exclusively. He spreads the word in local pubs too, particularly those on white, working-class housing estates, areas of high social deprivation where white kids are pretty frustrated with their lot and generally powerless to do anything about it. One of his favourite themes is the threat of Islamic fundamentalism to the British way of life. Muslims taking over jobs, local businesses—’

  ‘And schools.’

  ‘Particularly schools, because that’s where it’s all seen to be taught. He’d be encouraged by the current climate, too. Since September 11 and other terrorist incidents, and the rise of Islamic State there’s been a resurgence of interest in the membership of these types of organisation.’

  ‘And beyond the leafleting?’ asked Mariner.

  ‘Oh, the usual petty harassment: damage to property, disgusting stuff pushed through letterboxes and sent through the post. We have a couple of informants on the inside, but Cox is clever. He’s very careful not to be directly involved. He relies mainly on the susceptibility and fanaticism of his recruits. He provides the ideas, they carry them out. So far we’ve only ever been able to charge a few individuals with criminal damage. There’s one in particular, David Waldron, who’s a real fall-guy for Cox.’

  ‘Are you aware of the antagonism with the Asian business consortium?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Jordan. ‘It’s been brewing for a couple of years and Akram’s letter to the press won’t have helped the situation, but again Cox is too smart to let something like that get to him. It was only a letter, after all. It’s his followers who would be more upset by it.’

  ‘Do you think any of them would go as far as abduction?’

  Jordan frowned. ‘Up until recently I’d have said no, but there has been a worrying trend lately, which is that, thanks to the internet, these groups are developing international links and being increasingly influenced by their counterparts across the pond.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘A spate of letter bomb attacks in the South of the US was followed weeks later by similar attacks here, in Manchester and Leeds last month — remember?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You may not know this – there was a press embargo – but a couple of months ago the daughter of a black, US senator was abducted by right-wing activists in Savannah, Georgia,’ Jordan said. ‘The senator was proposing legislation to curb the distribution of certain right-wing propaganda.’

  ‘And has the girl been found?’ asked Knox.

  ‘Oh yes. Strangled and dumped in a garbage skip. It’s believed that there was never any intention to release her alive.’

  Mariner was appalled. ‘Do you think there’s anyone in The Right Way who would go that far?’

  ‘It only takes one nutcase,’ said Jordan. ‘Cox likes his followers to “prove themselves” by acting on their initiative, so it would only take one of them with a particular bent for this kind of activity, and we have our abduction.’

  ‘And Waldron?’

  ‘He’s on remand at present, so effectively out of the picture. It might be worth a chat with Peter Cox, though. Find out if he’s hired any new recruits lately. Yasmin was last seen at four thirty on Tuesday afternoon, wasn’t she? It would be interesting to know what Cox was doing then, too.’

  ‘I can’t wait to meet the animal who’s caused so much misery.’

  ‘He’s not what you’d expect,’ said Jordan. ‘He might not put it to any great use by working for a living, but he’s bright: a graduate. He just prefers to utilise his talents for stirring up trouble.’

  * * *

  The other surprise was that Peter Cox lived in a smart neighbourhood in a homely 1930s semi with bay windows and a porch. It was a neighbourhood for young families and, given what Jordan had told them, Mariner guessed that it was his parents’ house, the one he’d been born and raised in. What set it apart from its neighbours was the jungle of a garden and the limp, discoloured curtains hangin
g behind grimy windows. As there were no garages, Knox and Mariner drove the length of the street looking in vain for a parking place and were eventually compelled to settle for a neighbouring street. Mariner craned his neck to concentrate on a reverse park, which he executed smoothly.

  ‘Very neat,’ said Knox. It was the only time he’d spoken on the entire journey. His words seemed to sweeten the air somehow, but Mariner dismissed the sensation as his own overactive imagination. They climbed out of the car and walked back to number forty-eight, where what prevailed was the smell of decaying refuse.

  The doorbell showed little indication of being connected to anything, but Mariner pressed it anyway and beside them, at the bay window, the shabby curtain was pulled aside. A round white face peered out at them.

  ‘Mr Cox?’ Mariner called out, politely, holding up his warrant card. ‘Could you spare us a few minutes?’

  The face regarded them with distaste, but the curtain dropped back and moments later the door was opened.

  ‘Can we come in?’ Mariner asked. It was obviously the last thing Peter Cox wanted, but he nevertheless stepped back to allow them through.

  What sprang out first at Mariner from the gloomy hallway were the framed posters on the walls. From his limited knowledge of the Third Reich, Mariner thought one of them might have been Rudolf Hess. The other was unmistakable — Adolf Hitler, eyes focused purposefully on something in the middle distance, one hand on his hip in a pose which, in Mariner’s opinion, made the Führer look a bit camp. He thought it best not to mention this. Cox was not a friend of fresh air it seemed and, in the heat, the atmosphere inside the house was acrid with stale cigarette smoke and had a vaguely feral undertone. He took them into a small front living room that was piled high with books and papers, in the centre of which was an old and battered sofa. A lap top, its screen blanked, was wired up in a corner of the room.

  Cox himself was small and weedy, as unhealthy as a plant starved of natural light, as if he never ventured out of his dark and dingy lair. Balding slightly, he was as pale as uncooked pastry and the amber coloured stain bleeding along the index finger of his right hand was consistent with the pile of home-rolled dog-ends in the makeshift ashtray. ‘How can I help you, officers?’ he asked politely, his accent unexpectedly refined.

  ‘By answering a simple question for us,’ said Mariner. ‘Where were you on Tuesday afternoon at around four thirty?’

  ‘Now why would you want to know that?’ But before they could answer, he laughed out loud. ‘This is about that little Paki, isn’t it?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Dear me, you must be desperate if you’ve come to me about that.’

  ‘Her family seems to be on the mailing list for your enlightening pamphlets,’ said Mariner.

  ‘Are they? I really wouldn’t know. We have an extensive target audience.’

  ‘And David Waldron, one of your party members was caught inflicting damage on property in the vicinity of the Allah T’ala school.’

  ‘As I think I told your colleagues at the time, I can’t be responsible for the actions of all our members. All I do is provide a forum for like-minded people to share their views and concerns.’

  ‘In the same way that the National Socialist Party of Germany provided a forum?’ said Knox.

  Cox’s tone hardened. ‘I repeat, Waldron was acting independently. I had nothing to do with any of that.’

  ‘—until Mohammed Akram brought your name into it. He said some not very nice things about you publicly, some highly provocative things.’

  Cox smiled. ‘Do you seriously think a bit of name-calling’s going to bother me? It’s what you get when you’re prepared to stand up for what you believe in. It goes with the territory; our territory.’ He noticed Knox’s gaze roving around the room. ‘Want to have a closer look, do you?’

  ‘It would help us to—’

  ‘Well, you’ll need a warrant and a fucking good reason,’ Cox said, mildly.

  ‘So maybe you could answer the question, just for the record,’ said Mariner. ‘Where were you?’

  But disappointingly Cox did have a pretty unassailable alibi; at that precise time he’d been speaking at a meeting of ‘like-minded people’ in Walsall. He travelled on the train. And if, as he said, the meeting didn’t end until five, it would have been practically impossible for him to have been anywhere near Yasmin Akram when she disappeared. It would be easy enough to verify.

  * * *

  ‘It still doesn’t mean that he hasn’t put someone else up to it,’ Mariner said to Knox, as they traipsed back along the street.

  ‘Mm.’ Knox grunted.

  Back at the car Mariner saw he had a missed call on his mobile. He rang back. It was Millie. ‘I’ve got a name for you. The disgruntled parent we spoke about is a man called Abdul Sheron. Oh and another thing—’ suddenly she sounded uncomfortable. ‘DCI Fiske is organising a press conference.’

  CHAPTER 10

  ‘Police Constable Khatoon should get her facts straight before she comes bleating to you.’ Pacing the floor of his office, DCI Fiske was angry. Extremely angry, if the twitching muscle in his jaw was anything to go by. Even so he seemed keen to defend his actions, Mariner thought with some satisfaction. ‘I am not organising a press conference, I have merely indicated to the press that one is imminent, and asked the TV station to be on standby.’

  ‘Which, with respect sir, is as good as declaring it where the media are concerned.’ said Mariner, seriously wondering if Fiske was beginning to lose it already. More than accustomed to keeping the press at bay, he’d never had to fend off an over-zealous commanding officer before. ‘The timing of press conferences is crucial and I’d have preferred to hold it when I was ready. If you want me to continue as SIO then I need to be able to do things my way.’ His powers of diplomacy were being stretched to the limit.

  ‘That seems to involve doing very little, as far as I can make out. This case is developing a high profile—’

  Yes, and who do we have to thank for that, thought Mariner.

  ‘We need to be seen to be acting,’ Fiske went on. ‘We should be looking at running a reconstruction too. People expect it.’

  That was the problem with having all these bloody crime programmes on TV. The public thought they knew better how to do the job. ‘It’s much too soon,’ said Mariner, firmly. ‘We’re following up outside leads, and after a week we’ll get someone to walk the route to encourage any new witnesses to come forward, but we can’t discount Yasmin’s family and immediate friends yet. We already know that the parents aren’t telling us everything.’

  Fiske pounced. ‘So having them in for a press conference would give you an opportunity,’ he said. ‘TV cameras are an excellent way of stripping away any pretence.’

  ‘Not necessarily-’ Mariner began, knowing that in some cases just the opposite was true.

  ‘Right, that’s settled then,’ Fiske cut across him. ‘As soon as we can.’

  Mariner took a deep calming breath. ‘Yes, sir.’ He turned to go. ‘And maybe sometime you could go over that egg-sucking thing with me again,’ he muttered under his breath. By the time he’d walked back to the main office he was resigned to it.

  ‘Let’s bring in Mr and Mrs Akram,’ he said to Millie.

  ‘Any particular way you want me to steer things?’

  ‘No, save that for afterwards. Keep it all light and conversational on the journey here. That way Akram’s guard won’t be up — if that makes a difference.’

  * * *

  As SIO, Mariner had no choice but to accompany Fiske to the appeal, which passed in a blur of flash-bulbs and quick-fire questions. Afterwards, he, Knox and Millie watched the playback. Mohammed Akram was calm and dignified while even his wife, holding on to her husband for support, remained composed despite the obvious strain. She seemed diminished since two days ago, as if she’d lost about half a stone and all of it from around her face where the skin was pale and sagging. Mohammed Akram did all the talking, reading from the
prepared statement he’d been given by the press officer, appealing to Yasmin to come home, or to anyone who may be holding her to please let her go. Throughout, his voice was clear and steady, his gaze straight into the camera.

  ‘He’s a cool one,’ Mariner conceded.

  ‘Don’t be fooled,’ said Millie. She was right to be cautious. Even when parents made emotional public appeals for the return of their offspring, they couldn’t be eliminated from the enquiry. Distress and guilt had the habit of manifesting themselves in very similar ways and in recent years increasing numbers of murderers had successfully, at least for a while, concealed one with the other.

  * * *

  Before being returned home the Akrams were taken into a side room and offered refreshment and after fielding the volley of questions from reporters, Mariner went to talk to them. Two sets of eyes turned pleadingly towards him as he went into the room. He shook his head, ‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing new. But I do need to clarify a couple of things with you.’

  ‘Anything,’ said Akram.

  ‘We’ve spoken to Yasmin’s friends and I understand that you were not entirely happy about Yasmin staying the night with Suzanne,’ Mariner said.

  Mohammed Akram responded instantly. ‘It was nothing. It was the kind of thing every parent goes through with their child.’

  ‘Is that why it didn’t seem important enough to mention?’ asked Mariner. ‘I must impress on you that anything out of the ordinary, however small could help. Tell me what happened exactly.’

  ‘Yasmin asked to go and stay with her friend, overnight. I said no,’ said Akram matter-of-factly.

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘It was a school night and she would have had homework. It was inappropriate.’ There was more to it than that, Mariner was certain. But he wouldn’t push it now. Was Akram just trying to be diplomatic about his dislike of Suzanne, or were there power games between Mum and Dad?