The Balance of Guilt (6 page)

He thought about ordering another, but decided against it. Tomorrow would be filled with reporting a follow-up to the bombing and promised to be just as busy as today. He might even be able to get an exclusive interview with Alison Tanton.

Or then again, maybe another little dram wouldn’t be so bad. He deserved it, after that day.

The porter must have misheard the order. He brought a double by mistake. Ah well, it would be churlish to complain.

Funnily enough, the same happened with the next measure Dan called for. Perhaps it was the hotel’s way, to make sure the guests were comfortable.

It too vanished quickly. It must be the heat of the room, making the liquid evaporate.

Dan debated having one more for the road, or for the bed, but he was already feeling light-headed. He plumped up the luxurious softness of the pillow and was about to turn off his mobile when it rang. Adam.

‘Just a quick call to let you know about tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I take it you’re staying in Exeter?’

‘Yep.’

‘Me too. Can you come to Heavitree Road Police Station at nine for a briefing?’

‘Yep. Any news on the investigation?’

‘Yeah. Some good and bad.’

‘In what way?’

‘The spooks are here. FX5, that lot. They’ve been here all afternoon, in fact.’

‘That was quick.’

‘A couple of their officers were at some liaison meeting near Bristol. They came straight down.’

‘They’ll be a help, surely?’

Adam sounded far from convinced. ‘Maybe.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I’ve had dealings with them before. In any terrorist case it’s supposed to be handled by the local force, with them in an “advisory” role.’

‘But?’

‘But, I’ve never known spooks manage to limit themselves to advice in their shady little lives. They’re not exactly good at taking a back seat.’

‘Turf wars?’

‘Oh yes. And they’re already well underway.’

‘What about the rest of the case?’

‘We tried to question Ahmed, but he wants a specialist solicitor and we can’t get one until the morning. That’s OK. We’re sure now there are no more bombers out there. I’ve found him the coldest, most uncomfortable cell I can. He is a strange one.’

‘In what way?’

‘Terrorist suspects almost always stay silent. It’s drilled into them by their handlers that it’s the best way to frustrate interrogation. But not Ahmed. He’s already been railing against the police. “A despicable tool of a disgusting state”, he called me. And when he saw Claire …’

The world stopped. Claire.

She was part of the case. Of course she was. She always worked with Adam. And Greater Wessex Police needed all the detectives it had on this one. But still, somehow the news was an ambush of emotion.

Claire.

He hadn’t seen her for five months. Since that last, vitriolic night.

Flaming words in the darkness.

When he’d finally found the resolution to call her, and their midnight meeting.

And the things they’d said. And then shouted, and screamed. The toxic, searing words.

And now he was about to see her again. In the midst of a high-profile and intense investigation.

Claire
.

Dan was vaguely aware that Adam was still speaking. ‘Well, Ahmed certainly didn’t like Claire. He practically hissed at her, called her a harlot, a slut, and a whore, just for having the cheek to be wearing a short-sleeved shirt. So, that’s the sort of thing we’re up against. See you in the morning.’

It took a few seconds before Dan realised his friend had hung up. He turned off the phone and lay back on the bed. Tomorrow, for the first time in months he would see Claire, and he would be working closely with her in the days ahead.

Claire
.

And he would be facing an extremist suspected of radicalising a schoolboy and turning him into a terrorist, one who attempted mass murder by bombing a sacred building. It was the biggest case he had ever worked on, not to mention a huge story.

Dan closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But he knew there was little chance of that. He was too aware of a sense of the extraordinary events to come.

L
YING AWAKE, KNOWING YOU’RE
tired, but being unable to sleep is one of the meanest sufferings life can inflict. The harder you try to reach the elusive paradise of blissful unconsciousness, the more determined it seems to be to evade you.

Dan found himself tracing the dark patterns of the wallpaper, and studying the details of the plasterwork on the ceiling. Several times he got up, sipped at some water, shifted the thick drape of the curtain and stared out at the Minster, lit only now by a slice of the moon. A solitary policeman paced a bored guard beside the shattered window.

The stairs creaked with the night sounds of the porter, or the occasional late or restless guest. The odd footfall passed by outside, but otherwise all was quiet.

The thick pile of the carpet reminded Dan of the options to help him rest, and he finally opted for some swan-feather pillows. But despite their comfort, and the softness of the hotel bed, the warmth of the room and the mellowness of the décor, Dan only managed to secure a few hours sleep before dawn.

He finally did so by concentrating on how many laps of the hotel pool he would swim come the morning, and what a pyramid of a plate he would pile up from the breakfast buffet as a reward.

But both delights were to be denied Dan. It clearly wasn’t his week.

He was woken just after half past six by the phone ringing. It was the early producer. There had been a violent assault overnight on an innocent Muslim in Plymouth, and a graffiti attack on the city’s biggest mosque. The police believed both were connected to yesterday’s bombing of the Minster. Lizzie required him to cover the stories, along with any other follow-ups that might surface during the day.

Dan would have argued, but knew there was no point. Disputing with Lizzie was like trying to take on a frigate in a rowing boat. He would have to miss Adam’s briefing, but with luck he could get back to Exeter later to join the investigation. Being in Plymouth would also give him a chance to get in touch with Alison Tanton.

There was another advantage in that seeing Claire again would be delayed. She had stalked almost all his sleepless night-time thoughts.

He’d even got up at one point and debated whether his feelings meant it would be possible for him to join the investigation. All his instincts were to do so; it was only the fear of seeing Claire which held him back. Dan found a piece of paper on the bedside table, divided it roughly in half and made a list of pros and cons.

The positives filled the left side of the sheet.

You love helping the police, it’s been a new life for you, you think of yourself as an amateur detective, you’re good at it, you’ve helped to solve cases before, Adam wants – perhaps even needs – you, you could do some real good, help to find the people who radicalised a young man
– led him to kill – bring them to justice, get great insights and exclusives for your reports,
and finally
– IT’S THE RIGHT THING TO DO, STUPID!

On the cons side was simply,
Claire
.

How one small word could carry such weight. Dan sighed to himself and got back into bed.

The early morning did bring one gift of luck. He’d missed it last night, but on the window was a small schooner of sherry, a present to welcome guests to the room. That was four-star treatment, all right. Dan poured it out into a glass. It would do nicely in lieu of breakfast. It was a one-off, a little tipple to fortify himself for the day, that was all.

The phone rang again. The producer had forgotten to mention Lizzie’s explicit command that he wasn’t to wait around in Exeter and enjoy a leisurely breakfast, but was to head straight back to Plymouth. A wash was acceptable, but that was the limit of the luxuries in which Dan was permitted to indulge himself.

He interlaced some forthright comments into a long yawn, got up and knocked on Nigel’s and Loud’s doors. The awakening engineer looked even more disconcerting than usual, with his hair and beard so dishevelled they resembled an aura. He was holding his jaw and still muttering about the malevolent tooth. Nigel was already up and reading a newspaper. Being a father of two young lads made a lie-in bed a long forgotten pleasure, he explained.

The paper’s headline was “The Sickest Outrage”, a picture of the shattered window of the Minster underneath it.

It wasn’t the most eloquent piece of graffiti, but the writer had obviously been dedicated to making the point. And for emphasis that point had been made repeatedly, perhaps even obsessively.

Dan was reminded of one of Adam’s favourite little musings. Ignorance isn’t as common amongst criminals as most people think, the detective would often say, particularly when they were confronted by an investigation where the felon had selfishly left little in the way of clues.

It’s certainly the case that many people who commit crimes are amongst the more intellectually challenged, their acts often opportunist or just simply thuggish. The courts are filled daily with their wretched procession. But, the man Dan had come to think of – quietly – as the philosopher detective, would say, take the example of the much-vaunted chip and pin technology, which was supposed to put an end to credit- and debit-card fraud. Nothing like it. It merely opened a new field of criminality. The system, which the great ranks of the gullible public was assured was nigh on foolproof, was cracked by thieves almost as soon as it was unveiled.

And so it has been with cashpoints and internet banking and just about any innovation, the security standards of which were promised to be mighty and impassable. Criminals apparently see them as challenges, and ones to which they never fail to rise.

The pickings in the shadowlands are too lucrative. Crime doesn’t pay is a comforting mantra for the law-abiding majority. But it is lamentably far from the truth.

There is though one area of lawlessness where ignorance always prevails, Adam’s argument ran, and that is with hate crime. Be it homophobic, racist or vented against people with disabilities or religious faith, it is invariably the product of not just misunderstanding, but having no desire whatsoever to even try to understand.

These thoughts slid across Dan’s mind as he stood behind Nigel, watching his friend’s back as he filmed the graffiti on the mosque. The message was straightforward, and gave the police an obvious clue that on this occasion they weren’t looking for a master criminal.

BASTERD TERORISTS

The words had been sprayed in red, in letters several feet high, and had been repeated on as many spaces of wall as the vandal could find. The final attempt had either been interrupted, or the offender had run short of paint.

BASTERD TERORI

It was the sort of attack which would usually have been ignored by the media. But after yesterday’s bombing, and the assault on a Muslim last night, it encapsulated a fear that the police, local authorities and minority communities themselves had all felt, but none voiced, in case it precipitated that which they had now witnessed. An upsurge in hate crime.

It was just after nine o’clock on another fine September day. The morning light was shining from the red brick of the Islamic Centre. It was a long, squat building, looked like a standard 1960s masterpiece, which had been converted as a focal point for Plymouth’s growing Muslim community.

As they parked outside, Dan called Adam to apologise for being unable to make the briefing. He’d received a strange response.

‘That might be a blessing. I’ll talk to you later.’

Dan couldn’t stop himself asking the question. ‘Is it about Claire? Doesn’t she want me there? Is that it?’

‘No. It’s nothing to do with Claire. It’s far more murky. I can’t talk to you now. I’ll call you later.’

‘Any news on the case?’

‘I think we’ve found the vital clue. It’s just a question of making it stick to our suspect.’

‘What clue?’

‘I reckon our radicaliser was in Exeter at the time of the bombing.’

‘Ahmed, you mean? But you know he was there. You arrested him.’

‘Possibly it was Ahmed, but we’ve got a problem with that theory. We could be looking for someone else. Someone who couldn’t resist coming along to see their little protégé carrying out his deadly work.’

‘Like who?’

‘Well, it would have to be someone who knew John Tanton – and knew him well.’

‘Who? Adam, what are you talking about?’

‘Later! I’ve got to go.’

Dan was left staring at his phone and wondering what was going on. He’d have to get back to Exeter later. The investigation was moving fast.

A caretaker emerged from the doors of the mosque. He was carrying a bucket and brush and began scrubbing at the graffiti. Nigel swung the camera and started filming. A few photographers were also taking snaps, Dirty El amongst them. His chubby and freckled face was usually set in a sleazy grin, particularly at the scent of a big story and the prospect of good money to be made, but today El was looking oddly glum.

‘What’s up with you?’ Dan asked. ‘I’d have thought you’d be wallowing in this one.’

El nodded over his shoulder in a furtive manner, lumbered along the road, and Dan followed. It was only when they were well away from the other media the photographer said, ‘That attack on the Minster. It …’

‘Yes?’

‘It, well …’

‘Yes?’

El looked genuinely at a loss, a state which was almost a story in itself. ‘Well, it’s got to me.’

‘Got to you?’

‘Yeah.’

Dan couldn’t keep the bafflement from his voice. ‘You mean, as in you’re suffering an emotion?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Even – an empathy? For the people who suffered, and the damage to the Minster?’

El’s glumness intensified. ‘Don’t take the mick. That’s exactly what I mean.’

He fiddled distractedly with his camera and lowered his voice to the most confidential of whispers. ‘Did I ever tell you I was religious as a kid? Me parents sent me to Sunday school and all that. I grew out of it, but I’ve always had this thing for the church. I reckon that’s what’s done me in. That, or I’m losing me edge. It’s got me well worried.’

Dan was too surprised to reply. The revelation that the infamous Dirty El, acknowledged master of sleaze and low tricks, might have some small and shrivelled corner of his mind which nonetheless hosted the shrunken remains of what was once a conscience was almost too much to take in.

He was about to try to find some words of reassurance when the wooden doors opened again and a tall, heavily built man wearing a black suit stepped outside.

‘The Imam will see you,’ he announced.

Dan and Nigel took off their shoes and were led up a staircase to a large office. The Imam was working at a desk. He was wearing a stark white robe. The man in black stood beside him and folded his arms, but didn’t speak.

He’d obviously chosen the suit to emphasise his physique, which was impressive to the point of being over-inflated. The jacket was struggling hard to contain his muscles. As for other issues of fashion, his taste in colour was noticeably limited. To match the black suit, he wore a black shirt and black tie. His shoes were also black. On the walk up the stairs, Dan had noted that even his socks were black.

He was tempted to ask if the man also wore black Y-fronts, but suspected the joke wouldn’t be appreciated.

They waited. The Imam’s pen scratched at some paper. The occasional deep breath emerged from the block of humanity as the air completed its long and wearying passage around his lungs. Still they waited, static and silent. It was almost comical. Finally, the man at the desk looked up and gave them a warm smile.

‘Imam Tahir Aziz,’ announced the man in black loudly. He stood up and they shook hands. He was small and slight, his white robe giving him a ghostlike presence.

‘And my assistant is Abdul Omah,’ the Imam replied, in a gentle voice. There was another round of hand-shaking, the man’s grip making Dan wince.

‘It is not our way to speak out,’ the Imam began. ‘We try to live a quiet and modest life. But given the events of yesterday, I believe we have no choice. I am prepared to go on your television station and answer the questions you wish to put to me.’

Nigel began setting up the camera, watched carefully by Abdul.

‘Thank you,’ Dan replied, taking out his notebook. ‘What is it you wanted to say?’

‘I need to tell you that Islam is a peaceful religion. We utterly denounce terrorism. Those who choose that path, and claim the backing of our faith for it, are entirely incorrect and utterly misguided. The Koran preaches the greatest respect for life.’

‘And yet some do choose that path?’

Dan was aware the man in black had taken a step towards him and was now uncomfortably close. He shifted on his chair.

The Imam’s smile didn’t falter. ‘What is your religion?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t have one.’

‘Then were you born into a faith?’

‘Catholicism.’

‘And you would say it’s a peaceful religion?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yet it was responsible for dreadful persecutions in the Inquisition.’

‘Which was hundreds of years ago.’

‘And not so long ago, did not many in Northern Ireland claim the faith as the basis for their terrorism?’

‘I think there was a little more to it than that.’

The Imam spread his arms. ‘My point precisely. There is always more to it. Any person may take any belief, twist it in their minds and use it as justification for their actions. It is the nature of the weakness of man. But it does not change the fact that Islam is a religion of peace and tolerance. We may have different ways to many in the western world, but we can disagree, yet still live side by side.’

The large man in black emitted a low grunt. The Imam gave him a fond look. ‘Abdul is a little less accommodating than me. He finds many western habits difficult to take. But he is still a man of peace too.’

Another grunt from the dark rectangle.

The sunlight was beaming through the windows, straight into Dan’s face. He blinked hard and shifted on his chair again. Abdul moved too, so that he remained just a little too close. He had a dense presence like the air before a storm.