The Balance of Guilt (11 page)

So, it was decided. He was better off out of that realm of smoke and shadows. Dan wondered why he had ever found it so fascinating.

He picked up the whisky bottle and went to pour a sizable goodnight measure when his mobile rang.

He recognised the number, but could hardly make out the words on the line. They were too stifled by the sobs and gulps and whimpers.

Dan waited. Discerned a word or two. Then a few more.

It was Alison Tanton. And she seemed to be saying that her son was dead.

T
HE INTERVIEW ROOM WAS
too comfortable. It was the antithesis of his favourite; Number Two in his home police station, Charles Cross in Plymouth – a low ceiling, a tiny, grimy and barred window, and dimly lit and permanently cold, even in the summer months. It was nigh guaranteed to make a suspect talk with the unspoken promise of escaping its oppressive presence. That was how an interview room should be.

This model had doubtless been designed by someone with the qualification PC after their name. The irritating influence of political correctness was shamelessly evident. It was new and modern, a clean and tiled floor, smart white walls, and even the chairs were annoyingly padded and comfortable. The windows were large, bright and clean, the early morning sunshine streaming in cheerfully.

The only thing missing was some nice floral prints on the wall. Perhaps one day it would come, Adam reflected, but hopefully not before he had been blessed with retirement. He turned the thermostat on the radiator up to maximum, stalked out of the room and returned carrying an old and battered wooden chair, a portable heater and bearing an expression of satisfaction.

Adam exchanged the comfortable chair on the opposite side of the table for the wooden version, closed the blinds, plugged in the heater and turned it too up to maximum.

Detective Sergeant Claire Reynolds raised an eyebrow.

‘It’s similar to your “Zero Option Protocol”, Adam explained. ‘What did you get that doctor to sign, by the way?’

‘One of those fascinating and indispensable Home Office
Sexual Orientation and Racial Origins when subject to Stop and Search
surveys. I folded it so he could only see the dotted line – told him the rest was national security stuff, too sensitive for him to see. So, what’s this interior decoration thing about?’

‘The spooks will be here in a minute with Ahmed. If they’re setting the rules of the game now, we might as well have some influence over the battleground.’

‘And what are the rules now, sir?’

‘We get to do the questioning, they sit back, observe, and chip in if they feel they need to.’

‘Politics?’

‘The best compromise we could manage. This is still a Greater Wessex police inquiry, on the face of it at least. Just carry on as you would normally.’

‘Interrogation by committee?’

‘No. They observe. We interrogate. When I bring up our little surprise I’ll hammer away at him for a bit, then you take over. But first, have a look at this.’

The sheet of paper was headed simply, “Ahmed Nazri,” and contained a briefing. He was in his late twenties, parents from Pakistan, but Ahmed himself was born and grew up in Birmingham. He went to a state school before going to university in London to read computer science. He’d graduated with an upper second class degree, had taken a job as a computer engineer back in Birmingham and lived a life of no interest whatsoever to the police until a couple of years ago.

Ahmed had disappeared; the only clue to his whereabouts was that immigration records showed he had taken a flight to Pakistan. The briefing suggested Ahmed may have studied at a madrassah, one of the more fundamentalist religious schools where he could have been indoctrinated in Islamic extremism.

He reappeared in Britain just under a year ago, in Plymouth, where he carried out consultant computer work. He had been tagged by Special Branch as mixing with a group of young Muslim men suspected of having radical views. They had been put under surveillance, but nothing was found to justify any arrests.

The men seemed content to rage about oppression, and discuss vague notions of making a statement against Britain and her western allies, but there was, the briefing said, “No substance to their talk”. They had been dismissed as classic angry young men, more hot air than action, and the attention of the security services had turned to the alarmingly large number of others deemed a sharper and more immediate threat.

‘All clear?’ Adam asked.

‘Yes, sir. Just one further question.’

‘Yes?’

Claire paused. ‘Is – err …’ she hesitated, before adding quickly, ‘Is Dan coming to join the questioning?’

‘No. The spooks don’t want him involved.’

Adam pushed the door closed. ‘Claire, it’s none of my business I know, but what’s happened between you? You both seemed so happy only a few months ago. And now …’

‘Has he said anything to you?’

The emotion in her voice made Adam hesitate. ‘No. It’s only that – when he came in to the station earlier he seemed more concerned about whether you’d be here than anything else.’

Claire swallowed hard. ‘I’d rather not talk about it, sir, if you don’t mind.’

Footsteps echoed along the corridor. Adam held her look, then leaned back against the wall. The door swung open and Oscar pushed Ahmed over to the wooden chair. He looked around and sat down. Sierra walked quickly in, shut the door, joined Oscar at the back of the room and nodded to Adam.

Ahmed glared at Claire. ‘I’m not talking to that whore again.’

‘Shut your mouth,’ Adam snapped. ‘We decide who interrogates you. If I want it done by a stripper it will be. Got that?’

‘Fuck you.’

A pointed cough cracked from the back of the room. Adam ignored it, said. ‘Right, now we’ve all got to know each other, let’s get down to talking about what happened in the Minster.’

Ahmed’s face warmed into a mocking grin. ‘The bombing? Nice one, eh?’

‘The killing of innocent people?’

‘They weren’t innocent. They pay their taxes for your government to spend on its little crusades.’

‘Is that what this is about? Revenge for Iraq and Afghanistan?’

Ahmed sat back on the chair, crossed his legs and ran a finger over a white trainer. ‘Dunno, mate. I was nothing to do with it. You’d have to ask whoever was. But that’d be my guess.’

‘You were nothing to do with it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You know John Tanton.’

‘I know a lot of people.’

‘His mum said you were good friends.’

‘He was one of my mates.’

‘You went round to his house.’

‘I go round a lot of people’s houses.’

‘You spent time on his computer. Surfing the internet with him.’

Ahmed folded his arms. ‘Welcome to the 21st century, mate. It ain’t exactly radical to surf the net.’

‘What sites were you looking at?’

‘I dunno. It’s a while ago. Games. Bit of social networking. That kind of stuff.’

‘Jihadist websites? Holy war?’

‘Not that I can remember.’

‘We’ve checked John’s computer. He was looking at sites dedicated to Islamic extremism; bombing, terrorism and war on western society.’

‘Not with me. We just looked at fun things.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

There was a silence. Then Adam said quietly, ‘Do you know he’s dead?’

‘Who’s dead?’

‘Who do you think? Adolf Hitler? John Tanton.’

Ahmed shrugged. ‘Hardly surprising, is it? If you carry a bomb on your back and set it off it don’t tend to do you the world of good.’

‘Don’t you care?’

The man chewed at his lip and considered the question. ‘I’m a bit sad, I suppose.’

‘He was supposed to be your friend.’

‘We weren’t that matey. He was a good lad, but a bit of a kid. I didn’t mind hanging around with him sometimes, but that was it.’

‘There was quite an age gap between you.’

‘He was interested in Islam. I helped him find out about it.’

‘Indoctrinated him?’

Ahmed rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, you would see it that way. I just taught him, that was all, answered his questions.’

‘His mum said he looked up to you. He started talking like you. Echoing your opinions.’

‘Yeah? Well, they’re pretty good opinions.’

‘What – on murder? Holy war?’

‘We’ve already done that bit, haven’t we? If we’re gonna keep going over the same thing this is gonna take a long time.’

‘I’m in no rush. 28 days the law gives me. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the inside of a cell for a month.’

Ahmed shrugged, shifted his slight figure on the wooden chair, unzipped his top and adjusted its hood. The room was growing uncomfortably warm.

Claire took off her jacket, leaned forwards and said gently, ‘What are your views, Ahmed? About British society for example?’

He gave her a glare which overflowed with loathing. ‘I don’t wanna talk to you.’ He pointed distastefully to Claire’s chest. ‘You make me feel dirty with your tarty clothes and your disgusting flesh everywhere. Cover yourself up, woman.’

Adam slapped a hand on the table. There was another pointed cough from the back of the room.

‘Answer her questions,’ the detective said.

Ahmed grinned. ‘You her boyfriend then?’

‘Just answer the questions.’

‘Well, since you ask, I’m no fan of not very great Britain. The place is decadent, immoral and full of shit – if you want my view.’

‘In what way?’

His face contorted into a sneer. ‘Are you blind, mate? Haven’t you looked around you? Like at a Saturday night in Plymouth? Gangs of women going out almost naked. Throwing drink down their throats. Staggering around, being sick everywhere. Men getting drunk senseless and fighting in bars. People having sex in the streets. You call that a society, do you?’

‘Then why,’ said Adam forcefully, ‘do you live in such a disgusting place? Why not go somewhere else?’

‘I might. Someday. But for now I’m trying to do me best to change it.’

‘By murdering people?’

Ahmed gave Adam a pitying look. ‘I told you all that. I ain’t nothing to do with any bombing. I’ve got me views, but I air them peacefully and that ain’t against the law, is it?’

‘What were you doing in Exeter on Monday?’

‘I was shopping. Looking for some new clothes.’

Adam leaned forwards. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Bit of a coincidence you happened to be here when your mate’s letting a bomb off, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe. But it happened. It’s a bit of a coincidence you’re ugly as well as stupid, ain’t it?’

Adam didn’t respond, instead let the silence run. The second hand of the clock turned. Then he said quietly, ‘We have found it, you know.’

Now there was a reaction. It was only slight, just a widening of the man’s eyes, but it was definitely there. ‘Found what?’

‘Your mobile. The one you tried to hide.’

‘You’re bluffing me. Trying it on.’

‘No. We found it.’

‘You’re bullshitting. Trying to get me to talk.’

‘No. I knew you were trying to hide something with your little disappearing act. So I had the arcade searched. And we found it.’

Ahmed was leaning forwards, his arms folded tight across his chest. ‘Bollocks.’

‘No, we’ve got it.’

‘Bollocks! You’re trying it on, you bastards.’

‘No. We found it, right where you tried to hide it, in that drain.’

Ahmed sat back on his seat. ‘So? So you’ve found the phone. So what?’

Claire said quickly, ‘Why have two mobile phones, Ahmed?’

‘Dunno. I think I just forgot to cancel one when I got a new one.’

‘And two different sets of numbers on them?’

‘I couldn’t be bothered to transfer them all over together.’

‘So why try to hide that second phone in the arcade?’

‘Dunno. Suppose I just didn’t want any trouble for my mates. It’s got some of their numbers on. I knew you’d go through it and hassle them.’

Adam snorted. ‘But if it’s all innocent, why worry?’

‘’coz I know what you’re like. Anyone with a different-coloured skin, anyone who believes in Islam – they’re all terrorists to you.’

‘And your mates, the numbers on the phone – a hairdresser in Bath, a businessman in Hull amongst others, none of whom have even heard of you, and lots more numbers which don’t belong to anyone? Which aren’t even in use? Care to explain that?’

‘Guess my friends must have changed their numbers then.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘Am I?’

‘I think so. I think you radicalised John Tanton, set him off to bomb the Minster and came to Exeter to watch the show. I think you’re a coward. You wanted to hit out at Britain, but you didn’t have the guts to do it yourself. So instead you found a patsy.’

Ahmed grinned and smoothed his jeans with a calm hand.

‘Nice fantasy,’ he said, then nodded towards Claire. ‘Are you getting all uptight with me ’coz you’re not getting any from her?’

Adam ignored the jibe. ‘There’s something hidden in that phone of yours, isn’t there? Some number, some code, something which will give you away.’

The smile grew. ‘If you say so, mate. Good luck in finding it then.’ Again he nodded to Claire. ‘And with Miss Frosty there.’

Adam stared at him. Ahmed’s expression was easy, his face glowing with smugness in the closeness of the room. The detective reached out and slapped the young man’s hands from behind his head.

A body was by his side in a second, a firm grip on his shoulder. Oscar.

‘Naughty naughty,’ Ahmed clucked as he was led grinning from the interview room.

The Bomb Room was almost empty, just a couple of detectives making calls and another tapping away at a computer. It was pleasantly cool after the heat of the interview room. A woman was making coffees and teas from a kettle at the far end. She brought over a tray and they helped themselves.

Sierra positioned herself beside Adam and said quietly, ‘No more of that. However much we might think they deserve it we don’t do things that way. It’s also counterproductive. It just makes them more sure of their righteousness and helps them recruit. I understand your feelings, but please control them.’

Adam didn’t reply. They formed a semi-circle around one of the boards. It was dominated by a series of numbers and names, in three groups.

07987 122311 Jim
07109 570285 Achmel
07463 098261 Stan
07310 645367 Erin

‘Those four are the numbers which are actually in use,’ Sierra said. ‘I’ve had background checks done on their owners, and there is absolutely nothing suspicious about any of them. As for the names, they do not in any way correspond to the owners.’

She pointed to the next list.

07104 772097 Libby
07263 585712 Steve
07991 340654 Susan
07711 439071 Prit
07232 401301 Ed
07809 317563 Jazzy
07074 119463 Leanne