The Balance of Guilt (12 page)

‘And those seven are the unobtainable numbers,’ she added. ‘We’ve put them through our computers and the code-breakers have been working on them, but they’ve come up with nothing. So, any ideas?’

Their eyes wandered up and down, left and right over the list, worked through the names and numbers. A telephone rang, but went unanswered.

Claire tapped at her teeth with a pen and ventured. ‘Grid references?’

‘For where? Not to mention what and why?’ Sierra replied.

‘Something hidden. Something incriminating.’

‘But grid references contain six numbers. And we’re dealing with a set of eleven, in which each actual number itself has eleven digits. Which means just about any grid reference you care to name could be found in them.’

‘Are there any patterns in there?’ Adam asked. ‘You know, like the third digit of each number, or the penultimate one, or some sequence like that?’

Sierra shook her head. ‘Acrostics, you mean. No, the code-breakers have been working on all that. No go. No sign of any pattern.’

Claire said, ‘Might another phone number be hidden within the eleven?’

‘Yes, but there’s a similar problem with that theory. Given the eleven numbers, if you took one, or maybe more digits from any of them, you could make just about any phone number on the planet.’

Sierra ran a finger down the list and came to one number, set apart, at the bottom.

07754 983064 ???????

‘The mystery number,’ she said. ‘The one that John Tanton rang just before he went into the Minster to explode his bomb. The pay as you go mobile, whose owner was in Exeter city centre. Answer those question marks, fill in the name and …’

‘The key to the case,’ Claire said quietly. ‘Summed up in one line.’

There was a silence while they all gazed at the number.

Finally Adam said, ‘Going back to those other entries in the phone then – what about the names? Libby and Steve and Susan and all that lot. Is there any hint of anything in there?’

Sierra sat down on the corner of a desk. ‘Not a thing. Again the cryptographers have been all over them. They’ve looked for any kind of patterns or codes, they’ve checked all the names against our databases of suspects or people associated with terrorism or extremism and they have come up with precisely nothing.’

‘But there must be something in the names and numbers,’ Claire said. ‘Something important. Otherwise why would they be there, and why would Ahmed have made such an effort to hide the phone?’

‘That,’ Sierra replied, ‘is the question.’

Adam swirled his tea. ‘You know what’s bothering me? It’s how confident Ahmed was when we talked to him. He didn’t seem ruffled at all that we’d found the phone. There was one moment when I was sure he was worried, but then he relaxed again. And when I went on about the code that was hidden in there, he didn’t even flinch.’

They sipped at their drinks, then Oscar spoke. ‘Don’t let that influence you too much. He thinks he’s clever. And one of the first things you notice when dealing with these people is how sure of themselves they are. They’re zealots and fanatics. That’s what makes them so dangerous.’

‘Any news of Ahmed’s associates?’ Adam asked.

‘We’ve checked them out. None were in Exeter when the bombing happened. And there’s no indication any were friendly with John Tanton, or involved in the plot. I think we can rule them out. We’ve searched Ahmed’s flat and gone through his computer. He’s been looking at plenty of Islamic websites, but none dedicated to terrorism or even extremism. There’s no hint of any bomb-making research or activity.’

‘So, what next?’ Sierra concluded.

Adam ran a hand over his chin. Even this early in the morning the stubble was starting to grow.

‘Ahmed has to remain our prime suspect. He knew Tanton well. He could have radicalised the boy without leaving a trail. Whispers in his ear, encouragement to look at the right websites, a bit of advice on bomb-making, all done with no trace of his involvement. Then a nice little trip to Exeter to watch the results of his handiwork. And he walks away from the carnage, unharmed and untouchable.’

‘I agree,’ Sierra said. ‘But to convict him, we have to have something to link him to Tanton and the bombing. And at the moment we don’t. It all comes down to that phone call Tanton made just before he went into the Minster. OK, it appears most likely it was to Ahmed, but how? And how do we prove it?’

‘We can’t just work on that theory though,’ Claire added. ‘It could have been someone else. We do have other suspects. The Imam and his minder, and that BPP man, Kindle. They all knew Tanton. They might have motives. And they were all in Exeter at the time of the bombing.’

‘We’ve checked their mobiles of course, along with those of all known associates of Ahmed and Tanton,’ Sierra said. ‘And it’s not any of those numbers that Tanton called before the explosion. But that’s not to say they couldn’t have got themselves a pay as you go mobile for the day and given him the number to ring if he needed help, or had doubts. As it seems likely he did.’

Adam said, ‘We’d better start looking at those other suspects. We’ll let Ahmed sit in the cells for a while. It might put a bit of pressure on him. In the meantime we can get on with going through all the others. Kindle, and that Imam at the mosque to start with.’

The two spies exchanged a quick glance.

‘What?’ Claire asked, then again, ‘What?’

Adam folded his arms. ‘Is there by any chance something you think you should be telling us?’

Oscar looked to Sierra, who gave another of her little nods of authorisation. ‘The mosque,’ he said. ‘We’ve got an issue with you going in there.’

D
AN OPENED THE FLAT
door and the morning sunshine streamed into the darkness of the hallway. It felt like a laser beaming into the stem of his brain. He grimaced, blinked hard, and went back inside to find his sunglasses. They were somewhere in the lounge, but he couldn’t quite remember where. Rutherford watched as his master fumbled his way through shelves filled with piles of papers, his eyes screwed up against the painful light.

Dan switched his attention to the mantelpiece, then another jumble of newspapers and notes from old stories. He shifted a file and found himself staring at Claire’s smiling face.

It was a photograph from a night out they’d had to celebrate the successful end of a case she was working on, the conviction of a thoroughly unpleasant man for domestic abuse. Claire was wearing a black, shoulderless dress, and looked stunning. Dan groaned to himself, went to throw the photo into the bin, then stopped, clicked his tongue, and slowly put it back in the pile.

He took some deep breaths and tried to clear his thoughts. The plan had been to get up early and go for a good run with Rutherford to wake himself up, but he had overslept. And now he had to get in to the newsroom to prepare for the interview with Ali Tanton. In between her tears of last night she’d said she wanted to speak out. It was a big story and he needed to be sharp for it. Or, at least, a lot sharper than he felt at the moment.

A persistent drummer was playing an enthusiastic bass beat in the back of his mind. Dan caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and wished he hadn’t. He found the sunglasses – in a place where he had already looked, naturally – with an afterthought swallowed a couple more headache tablets and made for the car. He said goodbye to Rutherford, closed the door, yawned hard, fished the car key from his pocket and stopped, stunned.

Dan was no fan of cars, could never understand people who raved about them, their sleek lines, their power and performance, and endlessly fantasised about the purchase of the latest model. He was quite content with the company-issue Peugeot, a passably comfortable, anonymous diesel model. It transported him to and from stories and on to Dartmoor to walk Rutherford, it was reliable, economical, reasonably green, and that was sufficient. It was a background factor in his life, one Dan was hardly aware of.

But today he very much noticed it.

The car had been vandalised. Or perhaps, Dan thought as he gaped, that was a masterpiece of euphemism. It might be more accurate to say it had been the subject of a frenzied attack. Where once the Peugeot was a standard dark blue, now it had been sprayed with paint in a range of colours. On the bonnet it was red, the roof white, the sides green and the back orange.

And each carried the same message.

KEEP YOUR NOSE OUT

Dan drove into work, thankful it was only a five-minute journey. Almost every face he passed was staring. At a set of traffic lights a couple of students even took photos with their mobile phones. Dan tried to slink lower in his seat, but that just made his head pound anew, kindly accompanied by a wave of nausea.

He got to the studios car park just before nine, was going to park right at the back, out of the way, but with an afterthought manoeuvred the car into a space by the main reception.

There are few places gossip travels faster than a newsroom, and within a couple of minutes the car was surrounded by journalists, picture editors, cameramen, engineers, producers, even the kitchen staff, all gawping and asking questions about what had happened. He found his head starting to clear with the potent medicine of being the centre of attention. The familiar clip-clop of fast-moving stiletto heels duly followed, just as Dan had expected it would, and Lizzie arrived, her hair flying.

‘What the hell have you done to valuable company property?’ she barked.

And good morning to you
, Dan thought, before saying, ‘I just found it like this when I came out this morning.’

‘Any ideas why?’

‘It can only be the bombing story. I think someone’s taken exception to the questions I’ve been asking.’

‘Who?’

‘Well, Islamic extremists have to be a good bet. But I wouldn’t rule out the BPP, or someone associated with them. It’s a bit of a coincidence that the mosque was covered in graffiti yesterday and now my car’s suffered likewise.’

‘How the hell do they know where you live?’

Dan hesitated. As ever, Lizzie had cut right to the core of the story. Whoever attacked the car clearly knew more than a little about him. Just as the spooks had yesterday. And equally clearly they weren’t members of the Dan Groves fan club.

‘Don’t know,’ he muttered uneasily.

Lizzie ground a heel into the tarmac, and then said something which took Dan by surprise. ‘Well, you be careful. You’re dealing in a dangerous world at the moment, with these terrorists, murderers, fanatics and spies. Just watch yourself.’

Dan felt his mouth falling open. He was about to thank his editor for her unexpected pastoral care and unprecedented concern when she added, ‘It’s a huge story and I don’t want anything messing up our coverage. Now, what have you got for me today? I want a follow-up, I want it on the lunchtime news, I want it exclusive and I want it good.’

The rest of the crowd began drifting away. The show was over, normal service resumed. Dan explained about his interview with Ali Tanton, received a brusque ‘acceptable’ by way of approval, and the news-seeking missile that was Lizzie was away, heading back upstairs.

‘And you’d better report the damage to the police,’ she flung over her shoulder. ‘Make sure you get a crime number so we can claim it on the insurance.’

Dan walked slowly to the canteen to find Nigel. He sent his friend outside to film the car, just in case it became part of the bombing story, then got himself a coffee and phoned the police. An officer would be dispatched within half an hour to take a statement.

Dan sat down, focused on his notes about the Minster bombing, and started working through what he needed to ask Ali Tanton.

The Stonehouse area of Plymouth, where Ali lived, was an up and coming residential district, bounded by the docks and city centre. It was once the focus of the red light industry and filled with pubs that served as much in the way of measures of drugs as beer, but many of the houses are beautiful Georgian buildings and ripe for gentrification.

As Plymouth grew in wealth, so the efforts to rejuvenate Stonehouse followed and were advancing towards success. Dan suspected Ali’s choice of home indicated her business was doing OK, enough to comfortably live on, without being in danger of propelling her into the ranks of the rich.

It was the same area where they’d joined the brothel raid, only three days ago. They passed the street, the house still looking just as ordinary. But how much had happened in those days. It felt as though the world had changed, and by no means for the better; the arrival of terrorism in gentle Devon, along with murder, spies and intrigue too.

Nigel drove them, sticking carefully to the speed limits, as ever, and taking advantage of the time together to administer one of his fatherly lectures. The twin themes were warning Dan to be careful, as he could be dealing with some ruthless people on this story, and also a few words about his drinking.

‘What drinking?’ Dan asked in surprise.

‘Come on. I can smell it on you. Whisky.’

‘Can you?’

‘Yes.’

Dan felt his face flush. ‘OK, I had a couple of glasses last night. But it was just to make me sleep. I couldn’t get off, and it sometimes helps to have something like that to make you relax and …’

He caught his friend’s look. ‘OK, I’ll try to take it easy on the drinking.’

To escape the subject Dan called Adam. The detective could only speak briefly, but did say he had been interviewing Ahmed.

‘Get anywhere?’ Dan asked.

‘On balance, I would say not.’

‘Got any updates for me?’

‘Not really.’

‘Any chance of me coming to join the investigation after all?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Come on, Adam, I’ve helped out before. I could be useful.’

‘You mean you’re dying to play detectives again.’

‘I mean I’m trying to help.’

‘There’s no chance of you getting in at the moment. The spooks are in charge and they’re going to do things their way.’

Dan snorted. ‘OK then, are you getting anywhere with the mobile numbers and names in Ahmed’s phone?’

‘No.’

‘Any hope of me having a look?’

Now Adam paused, and Dan could sense his friend deliberating. Finally he said, ‘Look, I’d love you to see them. But if you had them, the spooks would know they could only have come from me and they wouldn’t hesitate to have me thrown off the inquiry and probably suspended too.’

‘I’m not going to give up, you know. I will get back in somehow.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? Look, just be patient for now. Let’s see how things go.’

Dan was about to hang up when he remembered what had happened to his car. He related the story.

‘Blimey,’ Adam replied. ‘Looks like someone’s got it in for you.’

‘Thanks for that. The suspicion had occurred to me.’

‘Well, just make sure you watch your back,’ the detective added, and hung up.

It was the third personal safety warning Dan had received in an hour and none were serving to make him feel any more comfortable. He turned on the radio to distract himself and tried to tap along with the beat of some modern hit he had no hope of recognising. It barely sounded like music, an indiscernible melody accompanied by indecipherable lyrics. He must be getting old.

Nigel stopped at a petrol station and Dan bought a packet of mints. It would scarcely be ideal for Ali to smell the drink on him. As he queued at the till, he was aware of a woman to his side, watching him. She was striking without being obviously attractive; tall, thin and flame-haired. He looked over and she smiled.

‘Can I have a word with you in a minute? Outside,’ she added, in a way that sounded meaningful.

Dan nodded. ‘Sure.’ He paid for the sweets, waited outside the kiosk, then remembered Nigel’s comments about his breath. He quickly opened the packet and chewed on a couple, being careful to run them all around his mouth.

‘Sarah Jones,’ she said, holding out her hand as she emerged. ‘I think you drink in my local sometimes. The Castle, on Mutley Plain.’

Dan shook the hand. It was cool and smooth, the nails long and painted emerald green. ‘Yes, I do. They serve good beers.’

She chuckled. ‘I prefer the wine, but I like the atmosphere. I’ve tried to catch your eye a couple of times, but you’ve always seemed engrossed in what you’re thinking about.’

‘Have you? Hell, the things I miss.’

Sarah laughed again, took a step forward so their faces were close together and whispered, ‘I’ve got something I need to talk to you about. I think you’ll find it interesting.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

Her eyes were so distractingly green that Dan was struggling to find any words to say. ‘Err, what’s it about?’ he managed.

‘I can’t tell you here. We’d have to have a proper chat. If I give you my number will you call me?’

Dan hesitated. ‘Err, yeah, of course …’

Sarah gave him a look. ‘Then I think I’d better take yours.’

She held out her hand. Dan found himself placing his mobile in it. She typed in her number, then rang it. In her bag a phone trilled. ‘There,’ Sarah said. ‘That’s you logged on my mobile. Now there’s no getting away. I’ll look forward to seeing you.’

She got into her car, a low-slung, gleaming black sports model. Dan walked automatically over to Nigel, who was grinning broadly. As she pulled out of the petrol station Sarah wound down a window and blew a lingering kiss.

‘I think she likes you,’ Nigel observed.

They climbed into the car and set off for Ali’s house. It was just a couple of minutes away.

Dan checked his phone. The name the vision of emerald and flame had typed in was “Sexy Sarah”.

Outside Ali Tanton’s house a sizeable press pack was gathered, all moaning about the lack of any pictures or interviews. The news of John’s death had been released to the media and it was the story of the day. Ali was the interview everyone wanted, and no one had got it.

At least not yet.

Dan found himself smiling, a rare and unexpected experience of late. It was an expression which was only enhanced by a lingering hint of the perfume Sarah Jones had been wearing rising from his shirt. He helped Nigel to get the camera kit from the car and they made for the house.

Dirty El slunk through the pack and materialised beside them in that spectral way of his.

‘You got an in with her?’ he whispered. ‘Care to share it with your old pal? A snap’ll be worth thousands to poor El. It’ll help tide him through the lean winter months.’ He patted his far from emaciated stomach, then looked down and stopped with the realisation he was unlikely to convince anyone of his poverty. The only six pack El would ever boast would be made up of tubs of lard.

‘Anyway, beers on me if you can grease me way in, and maybe a little rhyme too,’ he added, and produced a sleazy grin.

‘You’re feeling better,’ Dan noted. ‘We haven’t had the privilege of one of your dreadful bursts of improvised poetry since the bombing, and oh how we’ve missed them. Sunday school hangover lifted, has it?’

‘You can’t keep a good man down for long. Or a bad one.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise, not even for you. It depends how she is.’

El’s chubby face slipped into a conspiratorial wink. Dan picked his way through the disgruntled mass.

‘Don’t bother, mate,’ grumbled a reporter from The National News. ‘She’s not answering.’

‘Yeah, it’s pointless,’ added another, who Dan recognised as working for one of Britain’s most disreputable tabloids. ‘She won’t even come out to pose for a piccie, the selfish bleeding woman.’

The feeling of enjoyment grew. Dan put on his best smile, led Nigel through the last of the photographers and reporters and knocked gently. A curtain twitched and the door opened.