Authors: Patricia Hall
Dead Reckoning (18 page)
“Still the revolutionary, Nan,” Laura said tiredly.
“Aye, well, leopards as old as me don't change their spots,” Joyce said.
But Laura's mind was already elsewhere. Ted Grant would be pleased with the information she had gained from Jim Watson, she thought, but she knew that the police would be interested in it too, and that meant talking to Michael Thackeray urgently, something which she had so far signally failed to do for twenty-four hours. She guessed that she now had more than personal reasons for trying again.
Â
As far as Ted Grant was concerned, Christmas had arrived
gratifyingly early and if it seemed a bit unusual to find Santa disguised as a red-headed and somewhat truculent reporter, he was not in a mood to argue. He leafed through the file that Jim Watson had given Laura with the expression of a very satisfied cat in front of a bowl licked very clean.
gratifyingly early and if it seemed a bit unusual to find Santa disguised as a red-headed and somewhat truculent reporter, he was not in a mood to argue. He leafed through the file that Jim Watson had given Laura with the expression of a very satisfied cat in front of a bowl licked very clean.
“Bloody luxury apartments,” he said incredulously. “They'll never sell, mind. Folk in Bradfield've got more sense than those silly beggars in Leeds who think it's smart to live in drafty old warehouses tarted up with a bit of red paint. Any road, it's not a bad story. Brief Bill Bradley and tell him to get on to this fellow Kamal's company. If they won't confirm what's going on I'm sure he'll have some contacts who will. You'll need to talk to the Earnshaws an'all. You can take charge of that side of things. In the circumstances, with the grandson dead and all that, a woman's touch might go down well. Get out and see the old boy. He'll be sick as a parrot if this scheme goes through. You can bet your life he's not sold his shares to Mr. Kamal. You'll get some good quotes there.”
Laura did as she was told and by lunchtime she was out of the office and free to pursue her inquiries with the Earnshaw family for the rest of the day. But as she sat in the
Gazette
reporters' favourite pub over a mineral water and a salad sandwich, she was only too aware that there were several things she had to do first. She had not told her editor that she was almost certain that her father was involved in Firoz Kamal's consortium. Nor had she so far managed to make contact with Jack, on her own or her editor's behalf, as her father had apparently left the Clarendon Hotel early that morning, according to the receptionist, and would not be back until late afternoon.
Gazette
reporters' favourite pub over a mineral water and a salad sandwich, she was only too aware that there were several things she had to do first. She had not told her editor that she was almost certain that her father was involved in Firoz Kamal's consortium. Nor had she so far managed to make contact with Jack, on her own or her editor's behalf, as her father had apparently left the Clarendon Hotel early that morning, according to the receptionist, and would not be back until late afternoon.
And behind all the urgency of working on what would undoubtedly become the front page story of the next day's paper, if the details could be confirmed, loomed the shadow
of Michael Thackeray who had still not contacted her, and whose silence cut into her like a knife every time she allowed herself to think of him. But she knew she must contact the police in some shape or form. Finishing her sandwich she pulled out her mobile and called the central police station, only to discover from a harassed-sounding Sergeant Kevin Mower that the DCI was at county headquarters.
of Michael Thackeray who had still not contacted her, and whose silence cut into her like a knife every time she allowed herself to think of him. But she knew she must contact the police in some shape or form. Finishing her sandwich she pulled out her mobile and called the central police station, only to discover from a harassed-sounding Sergeant Kevin Mower that the DCI was at county headquarters.
“Can I help?” Mower asked, not altogether enthusiastically.
“Come and have a quick drink,” Laura said. “I'm in the Lamb.” Mower had hesitated before agreeing and it was twenty minutes before he turned up, by which time the tension in Laura's stomach had increased by several notches. But when Mower's swarthy features appeared through the lunchtime crush around the bar, and he dumped a pint of lager, a vodka and tonic and a damp-looking baguette on the table in front of her, his smile had its usual warmth.
“You look as if you've lost a tenner and picked up a bent rouble,” he said as he settled himself in his seat. “I got you your usual. Is that really water you're drinking?”
Laura grinned in spite of herself.
“I've got to drive this afternoon,” she said.
“And who am I to ply you with alcohol?” Mower said. “You'll be OK on one. But why so glum? My sainted boss playing up?” The question was too close to home for Laura's quick shake of the head to carry much conviction, but Mower did not dare pursue it. There was a depth to Laura's obvious distress that he did not feel strong enough to probe. But if this relationship broke up, he feared for both sides of it. Laura sipped her vodka and tonic, squared her shoulders and seemed to snap out of her depression.
“Something's come up at the office this morning I thought CID ought to know about,” she said quickly. “Well, two things really.” She filled him in with what Jim Watson had
told the
Gazette
about the secret plans for Earnshaws mill, not leaving out her conviction that her father was involved in the scheme. Mower's eyebrows shot up.
told the
Gazette
about the secret plans for Earnshaws mill, not leaving out her conviction that her father was involved in the scheme. Mower's eyebrows shot up.
“Your dad didn't confide in you then?”
“He refused to tell me anything much. I don't think Michael's going to be too enchanted when he hears.”
“You may be right,” Mower said fervently. “It can only make a fraught situation worse. And what was the second thing?”
“Have you heard from Amina Khan, Saira's sister?” Laura asked cautiously.
“I don't think so,” Mower said, equally carefully. “Should we have done?”
“I wanted to give her the chance to tell you herself, but she's had a letter from Saira. I don't think it'll be an enormous help, but it was postmarked Paris.”
“Well, well,” Mower said. “That's interesting. I don't suppose there was an address and a phone number, was there?”
Laura shook her head, smiling weakly.
“No, I didn't think so,” Mower said.
“Do you think she killed Simon Earnshaw? It didn't sound like it in the letter. She said she was in love with someone and they wanted to marry. If that's the truth, she'll be devastated when she discovers he's dead. She obviously didn't know when she wrote to Amina.”
“There's forensic evidence she was in Simon's flat. Fingerprints all over the place â¦And I never told you that,” Mower said.
“Oh God,” Laura said, looking stricken. “So he was definitely her boyfriend then?”
“I'll have to get back,” Mower said, finishing his pint and not answering her question. “I'll have to follow up on all this sharpish. Shall I get the boss to call you when he gets back?”
“Yes, fine,” Laura said, hoping that Mower would not notice any sign of the lurch her stomach gave at that innocuous remark. “Tell him I may be late home tonight.”
In the event Laura fell out of Ted Grant's good books as swiftly as she had gained entry to them that morning because she completely failed to gain any useful information from any of the surviving Earnshaw men. Matthew, she discovered, was away in London, Frank refused point blank to speak to her on the telephone when it emerged that she had uncovered plans to redevelop the mill, and when in desperation she drove out to Broadley to try to interview old George Earnshaw, he slammed the front door in her face. Admitting all this slightly apologetically in Grant's office she was not surprised to see his face darken.
“You should still be out there on the bloody doorstep, not back here whinging,” he exclaimed. “When I was your age I once doorstepped some dodgy trader for a day and a night without a break in pouring rain â and Annie Freeman â you won't remember her but she was a famous singer in her day - I was outside her fancy pad in Mayfair for three days looking for a quote when her boyfriend topped himself. You don't know what getting a story's all about, you youngsters.”
“Well, if you give me a nice waterproof tent I'll go and camp out on the Earnshaws' front lawn,” Laura said. “But I don't think it'll do you any good. They've closed up as tight as clams, and with all this violence going on with the union, I'm not surprised. Letting on they're definitely planning to close the place down will be like pouring petrol on the flames.”
“Aye, well, we'll have to run with what we've got. Call it discussions instead of a plan, summat of that sort, if they won't confirm or deny. We've got more than enough evidence
for that. We'll lead with it on Monday. It's not the sort of thing we want to be bothering with on a Saturday with the big match on for United. We'll leave the sports lads the front page tomorrow.”
for that. We'll lead with it on Monday. It's not the sort of thing we want to be bothering with on a Saturday with the big match on for United. We'll leave the sports lads the front page tomorrow.”
“You're the editor,” Laura said.
“Aye, and don't you forget it.”
DC Mohammed Sharif, dressed in white shalwar kameez under his navy anorak, and with a lace cap clinging slightly precariously to his short cropped hair, stood outside the Aysgarth Lane mosque after Friday prayers watching the small groups of men wriggling their feet into their shoes and following him out. The Punjabi conversation was animated, and amongst more than one group, obviously angry. Sharif still regarded himself as very much part of this community and yet he was acutely aware that his job as well as his flat on the other side of town placed him apart. Some of the anger swirling around Aysgarth Lane â with its network of tightly packed Asian streets, and Pakistani butchers and groceries which served as meeting points for the many men who wanted to keep abreast of events â would be shared with a detective, but much of it would not. He watched a group of young bearded men gesticulating wildly a little further down the street. He could almost guess what they were saying, but if he went any closer he knew that the conversation would stop and wary glances would flicker in his direction from under hooded eyes. Two white men had been attacked on the Heights estate the previous night and Sharif guessed that there were youths here who knew who had wielded those baseball bats, even if they had not done so themselves. But an almost Sicilian
omerta
ruled. He would never be told. And if he would not, then the chances of any white police officer infiltrating the gangs, criminal or religious, which had sprung up within the community recently, were minimal.
omerta
ruled. He would never be told. And if he would not, then the chances of any white police officer infiltrating the gangs, criminal or religious, which had sprung up within the community recently, were minimal.
What he was hoping to glean from his unaccustomed observances at the mosque that morning was the latest
gossip about the murderous attack on the union official, Mohammed Iqbal, who was still lying in a coma in the Infirmary. Nothing so far had linked the assault to Ricky Pickles and his racist friends in the British Patriotic Party, even though Sharif had now established, to his mind much too late in the day, that the motorbike frequently parked at the back of the BPP offices belonged to Pickles himself. But no hint of a recognisable registration number had emerged from witnesses to the attack on Iqbal by the heavily leathered bike-riders, and Pickles had provided what looked like a solid alibi at the relevant time, not with an auntie in Harrogate but at a garage on the other side of town, just as DCI Thackeray had predicted he would. Sharif's schedule for the day included an unauthorised and surreptitious snoop around that garage too.
gossip about the murderous attack on the union official, Mohammed Iqbal, who was still lying in a coma in the Infirmary. Nothing so far had linked the assault to Ricky Pickles and his racist friends in the British Patriotic Party, even though Sharif had now established, to his mind much too late in the day, that the motorbike frequently parked at the back of the BPP offices belonged to Pickles himself. But no hint of a recognisable registration number had emerged from witnesses to the attack on Iqbal by the heavily leathered bike-riders, and Pickles had provided what looked like a solid alibi at the relevant time, not with an auntie in Harrogate but at a garage on the other side of town, just as DCI Thackeray had predicted he would. Sharif's schedule for the day included an unauthorised and surreptitious snoop around that garage too.
But before he could insinuate himself casually into the group of men he knew were union associates of Iqbal's, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“We don't often see you here for prayers,” Sayeed Khan said softly. “Perhaps you're like me? Living away but felt a bit of solidarity was called for?”
“I'm still trying to get a lead on the pigs who almost killed Mohammed Iqbal,” Sharif told the solicitor with a shrug.
“No progress there then?”
Sharif shook his head.
“Nor with the kids who attacked the Malik girl,” he said. “If this goes on we're going to have to persuade people to be more watchful up here. You'd think someone would have got a number from one of the bikes.”
“Most of the time people feel safe enough,” Khan said. “That's why they live here and are so reluctant to move out. I know what it's like. We were the first Muslim family to move into suburban Eckersley. People didn't like it. You feel
exposed if you're on your own, in the street, at school â praying instead of drinking, being different in ways which irritate people, making them feel it's a reflection on their morals and way of life.”
exposed if you're on your own, in the street, at school â praying instead of drinking, being different in ways which irritate people, making them feel it's a reflection on their morals and way of life.”
“Tell me about it,” said Sharif who knew all about exposure in a largely white organisation, but Khan shook his head angrily.
“But it won't do, will it, in the long run? We have to get closer. We can't go on living parallel lives. And there's no sense in clinging onto the security blanket of Muslim areas if people aren't even aware enough to notice when they're being attacked. Rather defeats the object, don't you think?”
“I don't live up here any more either,” Sharif said. “But to be fair, the bikers and the muggers seem to have been well covered up. They're not stupid, whoever they are.”
“Oh no, they're not stupid,” Khan agreed. “And what worries me is how well-funded they seem to be. I wouldn't be surprised if Ricky Pickles doesn't get onto the council in the next elections. He's making a big thing about his publicity, getting quoted in the Gazette, sounding reasonable though I shouldn't think for a moment he's changed his spots.”
“We'll have to make sure we lock him up first,” Sharif said, only half joking.
Khan glanced around at the lingering worshippers and drew Sharif away slightly so that they could not be overheard.
“There's one thing you can do for me,” he said. “We've still heard nothing from Saira. Have you made any progress in tracing her?”
Sharif shrugged.
“You know I can't tell you about on-going investigations ⦔
“This is my sister we're talking about,” Sayeed Khan
whispered angrily. “There is talk in the community. My family is frantic with worry. My father's threatening to use informal channels to try to find her and you know what that means. I don't want that. It's very dangerous for Saira. I really need to know what's going on.”
whispered angrily. “There is talk in the community. My family is frantic with worry. My father's threatening to use informal channels to try to find her and you know what that means. I don't want that. It's very dangerous for Saira. I really need to know what's going on.”
“DCI Thackeray ⦔
“ â¦will tell me nothing,” Khan interrupted again sharply. “But you could. You owe the community that at least.”
“From what I hear there'll be no love lost between Saira and the rest of the community now,” Sharif objected. “The further away from Aysgarth she's gone the safer she'll be, I reckon.”
“And you think that's right? A young unmarried woman?”
“You know the law, Mr. Khan. She's a free agent. She can do what she chooses to do, and nothing you or I might think about her morals has any bearing on anything.”
Khan's face darkened in anger but Sharif stood his ground, aware of other eyes watching the exchange between him and the solicitor. Suddenly Khan seemed to come to some conclusion.
“It might be different, if I could tell you something of interest in return, perhaps?”
“Like what?” Sharif asked cautiously.
“Like give you a lead to Iqbal's attackers.”
“And how could you do that?” Sharif asked. “And why wouldn't you come forward with that information anyway. As a lawyer?”
“Because I heard it in confidence, as a lawyer,” Khan said so quietly that Sharif could hardly hear him. “I was duty solicitor the other night, and picked up a client who really didn't want a âPaki' brief but he had to put up with it or do without. He let something slip that might be relevant to your inquiries â and earn you some credit with Mr. Thackeray.”
“OK,” Sharif said. “It's a deal. Not that I can tell you much about Saira, because there's not much to tell that you don't know already. But we've confirmed that she was having a relationship with Simon Earnshaw.”
“You're sure?”
“Her fingerprints are all over the flat. Her voice is on the answerphone. Her friends identified it. There's no doubt.”
Khan groaned slightly at that.
“So where is she now?” he asked.
“We have no idea,” Sharif said. “She's not been seen since his body was found. And according to our latest information we suspect she might have gone abroad.”
“Abroad?” Sayeed Khan was evidently stunned by that. “Does that mean you think she killed this Earnshaw fellow? Is she a suspect? Are you going to Interpol and all that stuff to find her?”
“Let's just say that DCI Thackeray is very anxious to have her help us with our inquiries,” Sharif said quite formally, aware that if he said much more he would almost certainly unleash a fury in the Muslim community that might be difficult to contain. The Khan family might be liberal in the way that they had educated their daughters but he could see from Sayeed's expression that there might well be limits to their tolerance.
“Don't let your father do anything stupid about Saira,” he said.
“I don't know what you mean,” Khan said.
“You're a lawyer. Leave it to the law,” Sharif came back sharply. “You do know what I mean.”
“I love my sister,” Khan muttered. “But this â¦?” He was obviously stunned by what Sharif had told him.
“So what can you tell me about this client of yours?” Sharif changed the subject quickly. “What makes you think he
might be involved in the attacks on the textile workers' union?”
might be involved in the attacks on the textile workers' union?”
“Talk to him yourselves,” Khan said, his voice thick with emotion. “You took him in after a fight outside the Grenadier pub last evening. You know there was some trouble on the Heights last night. Not content with his fists, he'd hit someone with an iron bar. But what seemed to be bothering him more than anything when I spoke to him was that his motorbike had been damaged in the mayhem, and no one seemed to know what had happened to it. It was a large powerful Kawasaki. A coincidence maybe, but one you might like to investigate, Detective Constable. It wouldn't do your reputation any harm, would it, either up here with your brothers or down there with your boss?”
Sharif shivered and pulled his jacket tighter around himself. The line he walked had never seemed fainter and more difficult to follow. Khan turned away dismissively to join another group and Sharif glanced around for the Earnshaws workers he had been seeking but they seemed to have drifted away. Yet the gesticulating bearded youths were still there, and he noticed that one of them had a heavily bandaged hand. He walked over to them slowly and, as he expected, the conversation petered out and he was faced with a sullen silence and half-a-dozen pairs of deeply suspicious dark eyes. He greeted them in Punjabi.
“I hear some of our people went up to the Heights last night,” he said conversationally. “It's not my job to track down people looking for a fight, though my uniformed friends might be trying to find out who they were. What I'm concentrating on is much more important and that's the people who come up here looking for much worse. People throwing acid at our children, people on motorbikes thrashing our brothers almost to death. You know the sort of people.”
The silence continued though one of the young men spat in the gutter and Sharif thought the unfriendly eyes became just marginally less unfriendly. He was, he guessed, pressing the right buttons though not hard enough yet.
“One of the thugs who uses the Grenadier is complaining that his motorbike has been stolen,” he said. “Pity that, because it just might be one of the bikes that came up here when Mohammed Iqbal was attacked. It might give us some forensic evidence ⦔ He wondered if he imagined the faintest flicker of interest in one pair of eyes but still the young men said nothing.
“Iqbal is still in a coma,” he said. “The doctors aren't hopeful he'll recover.” He said no more, hoping his words would ease open a crack in the young men's hostility, but still no one spoke and the silence lengthened. Eventually he shrugged.
“We need something on the bikes. We need something on the men riding them. We need forensic evidence,” he said. “This may turn into a murder inquiry and if it does I won't be asking for information nicely; my bosses will be up here demanding it. And so will everyone who lives up here and works at Earnshaws and is furious at what's happened to Iqbal. You may think you can deal with this yourselves, but you're wrong. So get in touch, why don't you, when you've anything to tell me. You know where to find me.”
Sharif turned on his heel and walked quickly back to his car. When he glanced back as he unlocked the driver's door the group of young men had disappeared into the side streets leading up the hill to the mill.
“Stupid idiots,” he said to himself in English. “Stupid, stupid idiots.”
Â
Kevin Mower was surprised at how curtly DCI Thackeray greeted the two men who were already sitting in the largest
of the police headquarters' interview rooms that afternoon. He was very aware that Thackeray knew both of them well enough to offer more than the nod he gave Jack Ackroyd and his solicitor, who turned out to be Victor Mendelson, the doyen of legal practice in Bradfield and the father of one of Thackeray's closest friends. Both men were formally dressed in dark suits and silk ties, both responded only minimally to the DCI's greeting.
of the police headquarters' interview rooms that afternoon. He was very aware that Thackeray knew both of them well enough to offer more than the nod he gave Jack Ackroyd and his solicitor, who turned out to be Victor Mendelson, the doyen of legal practice in Bradfield and the father of one of Thackeray's closest friends. Both men were formally dressed in dark suits and silk ties, both responded only minimally to the DCI's greeting.
“Thank you for coming,” Thackeray said as he let Mower and DC Val Ridley settle themselves on the other side of the table. “I think you probably know why I asked you to come in and the sort of questions I need answered to assist my inquiries into the murder of Simon Earnshaw. But I won't be staying myself while you talk.”
Jack Ackroyd raised an eyebrow.
“Too close to home, lad?”
“Victor would have every reason to object,” Thackeray said, and Mendelson nodded imperceptibly in agreement.
“There is such a thing as commercial confidentiality, you know,” Ackroyd offered, aiming the remark at no one in particular but evidently very angry beneath the apparently urbane facade.
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