Leon himself appeared shortly after. ‘Kathy, can I have a word?’
‘I’m very busy, Leon,’ she said, although embarrassingly she suddenly found herself with nothing particular to do.
‘Yes, but why?’ He was pressing too close to her, trying to keep his voice low as people passed by in the narrow corridor.
‘Why what?’
‘Why are you involved in this? You’re supposed to be on stress leave. Did Brock make you come back?’
She turned on him then. ‘It’s none of your bloody business, Leon. Just bugger off and leave me alone.’
‘Kathy, I’m concerned!’ He choked off whatever he’d been going to add as two men newly arrived from the Divisional Intelligence Unit called out a greeting to a small black woman from the Race Hate Unit at Rotherhithe.
‘You were told to take time off. And you shouldn’t be involved in this,’ he hissed under his breath. ‘This Special Branch stuff, it’s not even your area. I’m going to speak to Brock.’
‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Her yell startled the others, who turned to see what was going on.
‘Let’s talk about it, then.’ He was pleading now, and she hated it more than his high-handedness.
‘Leave-me-alone,’ she said, slowly and deliberately. ‘I don’t want your advice. Do you understand?’
He stared at her, and she saw his dark eyes filled with hurt, and understood finally what was going on. This Special Branch stuff… She thought, some undercover man Wayne O’Brien turned out to be. I should start my own ‘Kathy’s love-life’ website, just in case some distant outpost of the Met isn’t quite up to date.
Brock padded up the stairs, Bren at his shoulder, wondering if anyone had actually made an arrest before in their stockinged feet. No doubt they had, and in frogmen’s suits and tails and long johns too, but there was something peculiarly subversive about being made shoeless, as if the whole ominous dignity of the occasion might be punctured by a pin dropped on the carpet. His hope was that the place would be as quiet as the last time he’d come here, but his optimism began to fade as he picked up sounds filtering down from the upstairs hall, and died altogether when they reached the top and opened the doors. There were maybe two dozen men on their knees in prayer, another dozen in small huddles squatting on the carpet, and one larger group, like an adult class-nearly fifty men in all, enough to start a riot or a massacre.
He scanned their faces, aware of a number of them looking suspiciously at the two of them in their coats and socks. He couldn’t spot anyone resembling Abu, but he did recognise Imam Hashimi, who appeared to be leading the adult education group. The imam caught sight of him at the same instant, and a look of alarm appeared on his face. He gave some kind of instruction to his group, jumped to his feet and hurried over.
‘What do you want here?’ he demanded, voice low.
‘Your help, Imam Hashimi,’ Brock said.
‘No!’ the man said, agitated. ‘Please go at once. You are not welcome here.’
At the same time another man came sidling over, trying to hear what was being said. He must have caught the tone of anger in the imam’s voice, for he said, ‘Is everything all right? Are you in need of assistance, Imam?’
‘No, no. Everything is fine.’
Several more men approached, and Brock recognised Manzoor, the owner of the clothes shop next to the police station, looking particularly dapper in dark business suit and silk polka dot tie. Manzoor recognised Brock too and hurried forward eagerly. ‘This is the police, Imam! This is Scotland Yard!’
‘It’s all right, Sanjeev!’ Imam Hashimi anxiously flapped both hands at him in an attempt at a calming gesture. ‘They want my assistance. I will have to talk to them.’
But Manzoor wasn’t ready to be put off. ‘Is it about the Sharif boy, Superintendent? Have you arrested him? Did he murder the professor?’
A small crowd was gathering now, and the men who had been at prayer were beginning to sit up, looking round in bewilderment.
‘No, Mr Manzoor,’ Brock said firmly. ‘We haven’t charged anyone in connection with that case. I want to speak to the Imam about a private matter. There’s no need for concern.’
Manzoor looked disappointed and the imam took advantage of his hesitation to guide the two policemen away to the door to his office, which he shut firmly behind them.
‘You see? You see how troubled they all are? You shouldn’t have just walked in here. You should have phoned.’ He spoke in a kind of strangled whisper for fear of ears at the door, but his extreme agitation needed an outlet and he paced back and forward in the small space, gesturing with his hands. ‘You should have made an appointment!’
‘I’m sorry, but there hasn’t been time for that. This is a very urgent matter we need your help with.’
‘No! No, no, no! I helped you once and what happened? Three of our young people are in your hands for over twenty-four hours now, and you say you haven’t charged them with any offence? How is this possible? Their families come and ask my advice, and what can I say to them? That I was the one who delivered them up to you?’
‘Everything is being done according to the law, Imam Hashimi. Tell them to get legal advice.’
‘Do you think I don’t do that? But what happens when they find out that I supplied the addresses?’
‘I haven’t told anyone that, and I have no intention of doing so.’
‘All the same, you were seen here, before the boys were arrested. ..’
‘Look, I’m sorry, but time is very short. We came here to try to prevent a death, Imam. One of your parishioners has disappeared and we fear the worst. He left us a message. I think you will understand my concern when I tell you what it was.’
The imam stopped pacing and faced Brock. ‘Yes?’
‘A verse from the Qur’an, Chapter Three.’
‘The Imrans? Yes?’
‘Verse one hundred and seventy.’
He frowned in thought, and then his eyes widened and he whispered, ‘“Do not account those who are slain in the cause of Allah, as dead”. .. Who is this person?’
‘A young man by the name of Abu Khadra, a Lebanese, who works at the university. He worships here with you.’
The imam shook his head slowly, frowning, ‘No, I don’t know the name.’
Brock handed him a copy of the photo from Haygill’s files, but still Hashimi shook his head, then went to the record book on his desk and searched for some minutes before looking up. ‘No, he is not one of our people.’
‘Perhaps he just comes unannounced, without introducing himself, or under another name. He is devout, I believe, and he has been seen in Shadwell Road. We think he may have a room in the area, and friends.’
‘What has he done?’
Brock hesitated. ‘We’re not sure. But we think he can clarify whether your three young men are innocent or not.’
‘You mean he may have led them astray?’
‘That’s a possibility. I wonder, if you were to ask some of your most faithful and regular worshippers, they might tell you if they have seen him here?’
Imam Hashimi thought about that, then nodded agreement and went to the door. He returned ushering in half a dozen of the more senior men and a couple of younger ones. Manzoor was among them, shouldering his way to the front. The imam explained in English Brock’s request for information about the man whose picture he passed round and whose name he told them. Someone then asked a question in another language, and some discussion followed in what Brock took to be Urdu. From time to time the men would glance at him, as if his appearance might clarify some point. Finally Manzoor spoke up. He seemed agitated, striking the air with his fist to emphasise what he said, and giving Brock a look of veiled cunning. The others seemed to agree, and the imam then returned to English to announce to Brock that no one had ever seen this Abu Khadra in the mosque, although some thought they may have seen him in the Shadwell Road in the past. As they filed out of the office, Brock reflected that it had taken an awful lot of discussion to arrive at this conclusion, and wished that he’d been able to understand Urdu. Imam Hashimi patted the last departing man on the back and closed the door again.