Bones in the Nest (12 page)

She shook her head. ‘I was watching telly. Corrie and then that thing with the feller off
Bergerac
. I usually close the curtains early, even in the summer. I don’t like the dark creeping up on me.’

‘I see.’

‘It’ll be dark soon, I said, I’ll close the curtains.’

‘You saw the young man and closed the curtains?’

‘Yes.’

He was trying to picture it, but it wasn’t helping. He hoped it might make more sense to DCI Khan. He got up
to go, pausing by the glass-fronted cabinet to look at the framed school photographs.

‘Would you mind if I borrowed your mop?’

‘My mop?’

‘Just to get it checked over by forensics.’

‘Well, I suppose so.’ She went through into the kitchen and on to the small concrete balcony, where Sean could see the mop standing in a bucket. She squeezed the water out of it and gave it a shake.

‘Try not to let it drip on you trousers, son, it’s got a bit of bleach in the water.’

He said goodbye and carried the mop, at arm’s length, down the stairs.

Lizzie was waiting for him in the foyer by the main front door.

‘Let me see if I’ve got a big enough bag for that,’ she said. ‘Might have to be two.’

‘Don’t hold your breath, she’s had it in a bucket of bleach.’

‘Blood is thicker than bleach, Sean.’

He returned her smile and looked away fast; it wasn’t fair that she could still look so good, when he didn’t stand a chance.

‘I’ll see you around,’ he said and headed for the door.

‘Yeah, see you.’ She was already focusing on her work again, her voice muted inside the lift.

Sean sat up in bed and scooped his clothes off the floor. His phone started to ring on his bedside cabinet at the very moment he was shoving his head into his T-shirt. He got one arm into a sleeve hole and grabbed blindly, but as his fingers brushed the screen, the phone clattered to the floor. The neck of this T-shirt had always been too tight and he was still trying to force his head through, upside down over the side of the bed, when he heard Khan’s voice.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello! Sean Denton speaking.’

‘Did I wake you?’

‘No, I … No, sir, I’m awake.’

‘You sound like you’re having a fight in a shoebox.’

‘Dropped the phone. Hang on … there, that’s better.’

‘Can you meet me at Doncaster Royal Infirmary as soon as possible? A stab victim came in late last night. At the moment the hospital doesn’t have a name. All we know is that he was found behind the shops on Winston Grove, on
the edge of the Chasebridge estate. The ward sister’s just phoned to say he’s woken up, and he’s all ours.’

‘Is the victim Asian or white?’ Sean said, upright now and half-dressed.

‘Sorry?’

‘Asian or white, or black, even?’

‘Asian, since you ask. And he’s refusing to give his name.’

‘OK. I just …’

‘Denton?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

He put Saleem’s veiled threat to the back of his mind. ‘They take one of ours; we’ll have to take one of theirs.’ Not this time. He made a mental note: don’t jump to conclusions.

At the hospital they found their way to the ward and stopped at the nurses’ station to ask where their patient was. A student nurse waved them towards a bay, but Khan turned back.

‘Do you have any details from the ambulance crew that brought him in?’

‘I’ve just come on shift. Look, sorry, I’ll try and find out, but I’ve got to sort out a leaking catheter bag.’

DCI Khan was breathing hard through his nose.

‘Are you all right, sir?’

‘Fine, but hospitals don’t agree with me.’

They walked along the corridor, glancing into the bays until they came to the one they were looking for. A thin figure was lying in a bed near the window. The other occupants of the bay were finishing their breakfast, but their target was lying on his side with his back turned. The toast was cold on his plate and his cup of tea untouched.

‘Morning, son,’ Khan said.

‘I’m not your son.’ He didn’t turn his gaze from the window.

Khan gave Sean a nod and he walked round the other side of the bed and pulled up a chair.

‘Hello, Saleem,’ Sean said. ‘Are you going to tell us what happened?’

The other patients had stopped talking and Sean suspected they’d stopped chewing too. Saleem Asaf turned on his back, wincing.

‘I ain’t talking to you lot.’

‘We want to find out who did this to you. You’re the victim of a crime. But you’ll have to help us,’ Sean said quietly.

The boy continued to stare above his head, trying not to blink. A muscle pulsed in his cheek.

‘Do you have the clothes you were wearing when you came in?’ Khan’s voice was quiet too, but more insistent. ‘We’ll need to take them for forensic testing, to see if your attackers left any evidence. Are they in here?’

Khan opened the cupboard by the bed and the boy tried to turn towards him, but the pain forced him back.

‘Fuck off! You can’t touch my stuff.’

The man in the bed opposite paused with a spoonful of Rice Krispies suspended in mid-air.

‘I can take what I want, especially if what I want will help us find out who hurt you.’ The cold steel in Khan’s voice made Sean’s skin prickle. ‘And I don’t need a warrant, if that’s what you’re thinking, because this is a public place. Now, why don’t you calm down and I’ll see if the nurse can give you something for the pain.’

Sean looked at the tense face, eyes fixed on a light fitting above him. It was the first time he’d seen the boy so still. Khan went to find a nurse.

‘Saleem,’ Sean said, ‘who was it?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t see them. They jumped me and that was it.’

Sean thought about the conversation they’d had at the college. Not just a wind-up merchant then. Someone really was out to get Saleem. Perhaps he could have stopped this from happening, but if Saleem was too stubborn, or too scared, to give them anything, there was a limit to what he or Khan could do. He got up and looked out of the window. There was a sepia haze hanging over the town; and out there someone was going about their business, someone who had attacked a teenage boy, perhaps the same someone who had murdered his cousin.

In the call room, Sandy Schofield, a middle-aged civilian whom Sean had known since his days as a PCSO, handed him the transcript of Mrs Armley’s 999 call.

‘It’s odd that she doesn’t describe the victim as a man or a woman,’ she said, ‘just as a body.’

‘I know, it’s been bothering me, too.’

‘Do you want to hear the original?’

‘It’s OK, another time. I’d better get back up to DCI Khan. There’s a briefing in five minutes.’

‘No problem.’ Sandy peered over her reading glasses at him. ‘You all right? You look a bit worried.’

‘I’m OK. But I need to keep on my toes around DCI Khan.’

‘You’ll be fine. You’re a people person.’

‘Er, thanks.’

‘Any time, pet!’

He dragged his feet on the way back to the incident room. The grit in the treads of his trainers pulled against the concrete. It had been a relief when Khan told him to leave the suit at home.

‘Can’t have us both looking like loan sharks,’ he’d said on the phone.

Sean had shuddered, inwardly. He wished Khan had never clapped eyes on his father.

The board in the incident room had Mohammad Asaf’s picture in the centre, next to an aerial photograph of the estate, the dates and estimated time of the assault. To the right, Khan had written ‘College’ and three bullet points, one for ‘teachers’, one for ‘other customers’ and one which read: ‘Saleem Asaf, first cousin of deceased. Non-fatal stab victim’. As the room filled up with officers, Sean hung back by the door. Khan saw him and gestured for him to take a seat at the front. As he worked his way through the tangle of chairs he heard someone quietly, but distinctly, say ‘Paki lover’ as he passed. He turned, but no one was looking in his direction. The colour rose up his neck and into his cheeks.

Khan called the room to order and talked through the events so far. He explained what had happened to Saleem.

‘This lad,’ Khan said, ‘referred to his cousin by the nickname, “Mocat”.’

The pen squeaked on the whiteboard as Khan began to write it up.

‘He also made an overt threat against young white males on the Chasebridge estate,’ he continued.

‘Sean, did he say “Mocat”?’ The voice came from behind him. Sean turned to face Lizzie Morrison.

‘Hi Lizzie.’ Casual. Or so he hoped.

‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a picture on my phone which might be interesting. Oh, flip, how do I …’

‘Shall we continue while Miss Morrison sorts out how to operate her mobile phone?’ Khan’s tone was icy. Any laughter that threatened to start up was quickly muffled.

Sean felt a hand squeeze his elbow and Lizzie’s lips almost brushed his cheek, as she whispered: ‘Here, look.’

Don’t touch me. For God’s sake. His cheek burnt and he could feel the pressure of her hand long after she’d taken it away.

‘This was on the wall outside the Keepmoat Stadium,’ she said. ‘It’s fresh.’

The screen showed an image of green and purple lettering sprayed onto a concrete wall. ‘
MOCAT
RIP
’.

‘What’s the point of media silence now?’ Sean wondered out loud.

‘Denton?’

‘Graffiti, sir.’ He passed the phone to Khan. ‘Saleem knew about Mohammad’s death, even before we told the family, didn’t he? So maybe this is his work.’

He wondered what Lizzie was doing at the stadium, but then he remembered that her dad was on the board of the football club. She used to go out with the marketing manager there, before she went down south.

‘Is your friend Guy still working at the Rovers?’ He whispered back to her. She didn’t reply.

Khan was asking if the house-to-house inquiries had
been fruitful, but the response was depressing. Nobody had seen or heard anything. Doors had been slammed in officers’ faces, if they were ever opened at all. One of the constables observed that while nobody was interested in talking about Mohammad Asaf, they were downright hostile when asked about the cousin, Saleem. Rick Houghton, as Doncaster’s drug squad lead, stood up to give a brief account of Mohammad’s known connections.

‘He was a small time supplier before his arrest last year. We’re working on the theory that this particular supply line is controlled from Sheffield, but we haven’t successfully traced it back to any group or individuals. Mohammad Asaf has kept his hands clean since he got out, which is very nice for Her Majesty’s Prison Service and their resettlement targets, but bugger all use to us. We’d given up watching him because he was being such a good boy.’

Lizzie spoke next, presenting the forensic analysis of Saleem’s possessions, taken from his bedside locker. She looked great, Sean thought, in slim black trousers and a cropped jacket. She was thinner than when he’d first known her, or maybe just more toned. He imagined her at the gym, wondering if she’d joined a local one since moving back. Wouldn’t it be great if it were the same gym he went to? She caught his eye for a second and he snapped back to the moment and tried to look as if he’d been listening.

‘It’s Saleem’s own blood on his clothes and no one else’s. We’re checking a fingerprint from his sleeve, which looks as if someone made a grab for him. The shoes are still waiting
to go to the lab. I’m sorry but we’re having trouble keeping up with the workload as it is, so I’ll have to get back to you on this in a day or so.’

Lizzie sat down, catching Sean’s eye with a strained smile, as she slipped back into the row behind him.

‘Thank you,’ Khan said. ‘Saleem’s injury wasn’t lifethreatening, and my guess is, that was quite deliberate. It’s possible someone wants him to keep quiet, perhaps he’s the missing link in the drug supply line.’

‘It’s possible,’ Rick grunted.

After a few questions from the floor, Khan announced that Doncaster and Sheffield CID homicide and drug squad officers would remain active, but all uniformed officers were being pulled off the estate to let things settle. There was a commotion of voices questioning the decision.

‘That’s all for now, folks. I think we have to accept that we’re not going to get anything out of these people by asking straightforward questions. We’re going to have to try something different. Right, on your way, people.’

‘Whose idea is this?’ A male voice called from the middle of the room.

Sean thought he recognised it as the one who’d called him a Paki lover. He turned to try to match a face to the voice, but people were standing up, blocking his view. He felt a tap on his shoulder; it was Khan.

‘Meet me in the CID office in ten minutes.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Oh and Denton?’

‘Sir?’

‘Get me an Americano from the canteen, small splash of milk.’

The long corridor which led from the ops room to the CID office was lined with rooms belonging to senior staff (opaque glass above the door, knock before entering) and larger offices which housed uniformed teams and civilians (clear glass, doors left open to air the overcrowded hot boxes). A wolf whistle came from the PCSO base as he passed. He suspected it was Carly. The door ahead of him at the end of the corridor had clear glass, over which someone had stuck a home-made poster:

Sean turned the loose metal handle and the glass rattled in its frame. The room was packed with furniture. Desks, pushed back-to-back, lined the wall under the window and a central table was laden with box files. Tucked behind the door another long table was piled with a nest of cables, one leading to a grubby computer monitor, others trailing off between mismatched chairs before snaking across the floor.

‘Can I help you?’ A head was appearing from under a desk in the far corner of the room. The head was partly
covered by DI Rick Houghton’s thinning hair. ‘Sean, mate. Didn’t recognise your feet in trainers.’

‘Khan asked me to come in dressed down. Is he around?’

‘He’ll be back in a minute.’ Rick stood up and dusted off his trousers. ‘I was trying to reconnect my telephone line. We’re sharing with the Sheffield crew.’

‘What? They unplugged your phone? Cheeky buggers.’

‘That’s one word for them. That coffee going spare?’

‘No.’ Sean hoped he could remember which was his cappuccino and which was Khan’s Americano. ‘Although it is probably going cold.’

‘Shame. I’m gasping.’

Sean nudged some box files aside on the central table to make space to put the cups. Rick picked one up and peeled back the lid. The froth had stuck to the plastic.

‘What do you call this? Looks like a frigging milkshake.’

‘Get your mitts off. That’s mine.’

‘What’s the other one?’

‘Americano, but that’s for DCI Khan.’

‘Are you his personal servant now?’ Rick grinned at him. ‘Scared you’ll be back in uniform if you give him the wrong brew?’

‘I don’t have a clue what he thinks I am, to be honest.’

‘Yeah? Well be careful around him. He’s got a reputation.’ Rick licked off the froth from the inside of the cappuccino’s lid.

‘So people keep saying.’

Sean heard a door close further along the corridor. He turned to see Khan heading towards the CID office.

‘Ah, coffee, excellent and you got one for DI Houghton.
Good work, Sean. Right, we need to talk through a plan. Shut the door. I’ve had an idea, but this is strictly between the three of us.’