Текст книги "Bones in the Nest"

Автор книги: Helen Cadbury

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Doncaster

‘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.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

York

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.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Doncaster

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.