‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, suppose he knew the boyfriend’s name, but nothing else. Then Bren and I turn up at the mosque looking for someone of that name and with a picture as well, and one of the other men there says they think that man goes to the mosque in Chandler’s Yard… What would Manzoor do?’
‘Tell the skinheads?’ Kathy asked softly. ‘Deliberately get Abu killed? Is that possible?’
‘It felt as if we were set up,’ Brock furrowed his brow, thinking back. ‘As soon as we stepped out of the alleyway. The crowd waiting for us, the skinheads in the pub doorway falling into step behind, the flying wedge from the front, the sneak attack from the back. Yes, it did feel like we’d been set up, but I put that down to my paranoia at having failed to bring Abu in alive.’
He reached for the phone again, flicking through the pages of his notebook until he found a number that he dialled. ‘Superintendent Russell, please,’ he said. ‘This is DCI Brock, in connection with the Springer/Khadra inquiry.’
He waited, both of them tense. Kathy began pacing the couple of yards from one side of the kitchen to the other, chewing her lip.
‘Cyril!’ Brock said at last, crouching forward over the instrument as if he could focus himself down the line.
‘Evening, Brock. Saw you at the service this morning.’
‘Yes. I went to the Khadra interment this afternoon, too.’
‘So I understand. I gave clearance. You must have been about the only one there, weren’t you? We kept it very quiet. Unfortunately our crew was called away on another matter just beforehand. Everything go off all right?’
‘I’m afraid not, Cyril. Some outsiders followed the mourners to the cemetery and caused a bit of bother.’
Russell swore softly, then listened as Brock told him what had happened. Despite the silence from the other end of the line, Brock could imagine quite clearly what was going through the other man’s head. He was within a year of retirement, Brock knew, after a highly distinguished career. The Springer/Khadra case was a potential minefield and his rapid closure treatment of it may have been precipitate, wishful thinking. They had gone to pains to keep the arrangements for Abu’s burial confined to the few people involved, but the absence of a police escort had been, in retrospect, a serious lapse, and uncharacteristic of Russell, normally a punctilious manager.
‘I hope I don’t presume too much, Cyril,’ Brock said, having painted the bleak picture, ‘when I say that I regarded ourselves as being your representatives, even though technically both DS Kolla and I were on leave at the time. We felt our earlier involvement made it appropriate for us to play such a role, in the absence of other police presence.’
Silence, then, ‘I see.’
Brock knew that Russell was perfectly well aware that if he was being offered, not a life raft perhaps, but at least a life jacket, then there was a price tag attached.
‘We’ve been going over a few ideas about Manzoor and his role in all this, Cyril, and we’ve got some thoughts we’d like to share with you, which might even impact on your report. If you thought that would be proper.’
Russell cleared his throat, then said, ‘I think it would be essential, Brock, if they have a bearing on my inquiry. What sort of thoughts?’
‘I wonder if you could tell me if any of your skinhead suspects mentioned anything about being helped, or even encouraged, by the Asians.’
‘One of them, a little thug by the name of Wilson, said he talked to some of the Asians in the crowd and they told him about Abu and what he was being arrested for. He said he passed this on to his friends in the pub, but of course denies having anything to do with what followed.’
‘Nothing more specific than that? About a particular Asian, perhaps, egging them on?’
‘I don’t recall anything specific, but I can check the transcripts of his interviews. You think Manzoor played a more active role?’
‘It’s a possibility. However, I’m constrained by the fact that we had to call for back-up from the local force, with whom Manzoor has now laid this complaint against my DS, and being myself a witness to what happened, I can’t be seen to be hounding the man.’
‘Ah.’ Russell was beginning to get the picture. ‘Well, let me say, Brock, that although I can’t interfere in any way with what CIB may do, I will certainly lend every support to my people on the ground, including, on this occasion, you and your sergeant. And if either of you have further information…’
‘Not information, Cyril. What I’m suggesting is that it may be necessary for me to participate with you in having a closer look at Manzoor’s involvement in all this. Not Sergeant Kolla, of course. She can’t possibly be involved while there’s an outstanding complaint against her.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, if you’re fit for duty, Brock, I can’t see any obstacle to that proposal. None at all. Sounds very reasonable.’
Brock replaced the phone as tenderly as if it were made of fragile porcelain. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good. Now let’s get these people off our hands and get down to work.’
‘Brock,’ Kathy said cautiously. ‘Suzanne was expecting me to get you back to Battle in time for dinner tonight. Do you think you should phone her?’
‘Oh, Lord. Yes, yes, of course. What the hell do I say?’
‘Why don’t you tell her I beat up a suspect and now you’ve got to save me from the CIB.’
Brock winced and turned back to the phone. Kathy tactfully left him alone and returned to the living room to check on the women. They seemed remarkably comfortable, even Nargis, who was sipping at a weak whisky and water, presumably prescribed by Briony. Both she and Fran had pulled their scarves back, letting their hair fall free, and in the glow of the fire the three of them looked like students comparing notes on boys or movies rather than women grieving the dead.
From time to time Kathy went to the door and picked up phrases from Brock’s conversation, ‘Knocked him flying with her baton… Not a scratch… Now that’s unfair, Suzanne, Bren and I were surrounded by dozens… She may well be fitter than me, but… Anyway, I’ve got to get her out of this mess… But you know I can’t drive with this leg…’
Kathy returned to her armchair before Brock appeared at the door, looking more drained than after his conversation with Superintendent Russell. ‘Well, now, ladies,’ he said wearily. ‘Let’s get you sorted, shall we?’
After they dropped Nargis and Briony at the refuge, Kathy drove on towards Shadwell Road with Fran who was anxious to get back to her husband George. She directed them to approach the area through the neighbouring back streets, parking the car at the end of a short lane that connected with the far end of Chandler’s Yard. By this way they were able to arrive at the illuminated front of the Horria Cafe without going into Shadwell Road itself. As Kathy kept pace with Brock’s limping steps, Fran ran ahead into the cafe. From the darkness of the yard they watched her joyful reunion with her husband inside. There was a crowd this evening in the Horria, and they saw Qasim enthroned in the centre, a bandage round his head like a turbaned potentate.
Brock pulled the door open, was hit by warm smells of cooking and a hubbub of noise, and hobbled in. Immediately the noise died away and he found himself standing there facing a wall of implacable faces. For a moment he felt like the clown who opened the wrong door and found himself inside the cage of man-eating tigers. Then someone shouted something and pointed, and the faces immediately lit up and a great roar of approval echoed round the cafe walls. Only they weren’t looking at him. He turned and saw Kathy at his shoulder, grinning at them, and then they were clapping, the claps falling into a chanting rhythm, and Qasim hoisted himself off his seat and lumbered forward and grabbed her hand and led her into their midst.