‘Nobody hates him,’ Thorne said. ‘They’re just doing their jobs.’
Nadira turned away and stared out again at the empty playground. A group of uniformed officers was gathered in one corner near a climbing frame, and on the far side it was just possible to see a row of emergency vehicles parked up beyond the tree line: the ARVs, the squad cars, an ambulance.
‘Do you still see Rahim Jaffer?’ Thorne asked.
Something tightened, just momentarily, in Nadira’s face.
The boy who had been with Amin the night of the attack.
The boy he had been trying to defend when he had stabbed Lee Slater to death.
‘He came to Amin’s funeral, of course,’ Nadira said. ‘Lots of his friends came, some I had never even met before.’ She nodded, proud. ‘He had a great many friends.’
‘So what about seeing Rahim?’
‘Not since then, no.’
‘Any particular reason?’
Another small wave of the hand, as though what she were about to say was silly and unimportant. ‘We used to be friendly with his parents, but after what happened there was some… awkwardness. Perhaps they thought we would blame their son. Perhaps because he was free and ours was rotting in that place. So we have not seen them in a while. We sometimes hear about Rahim, but only because one of his cousins still comes into the shop now and again.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘He is studying hard, I think.’ Her hands were in her lap, one rubbing at the other as she spoke. ‘At the South Bank University. Accountancy or economics or what have you. He was a very clever boy, same as Amin.’
Thorne thanked her for her time, grateful too that she had not seemed keen to know how things had gone the day before at Barndale. Whether or not she secretly shared any of her husband’s concerns about what had happened to her son, it was obvious that she preferred to remember him simply as a popular and bright boy.
Not one who had died alone and unhappy in prison.
Thorne considered asking Nadira Akhtar there and then if she had known her son was gay. Perhaps she had known – would a mother not always know? – and kept the truth from her husband. He felt sure the time would come when he would have to tell both of them, but in the end he decided that it could wait. Thorne knew that where there was one secret though, there were usually others. That they bred easily. He guessed that Rahim Jaffer had shared the secret of Amin’s sexuality at the very least, so now Thorne had a place to start looking.
‘If you see Rahim,’ Nadira said, ‘please would you be sure to tell him that we never blamed him for anything?’ She had turned to the window again, her eyes closed against the sunlight that was suddenly streaming into the room.
Thorne said that he would, but carrying his chair back to the centre of the classroom, he was thinking about something Nadira had said a few minutes before. About the boy who so many had told him kept himself to himself.
Wondering where he had got all those friends from.
TWENTY-NINE
As Holland and Kitson reversed into a parking space a few doors down from the address they had been given in Hackney, they saw a young man step out on to the pavement and start walking towards them. Nineteen or twenty, with dark hair that seemed pasted to his scalp and tattoos clearly visible on the arm outstretched to yank a bull terrier puppy along behind him.
Holland checked the black and white headshot clipped to the folder in his lap. ‘That’ll be our boy, then.’
‘Bless him,’ Kitson said. She nodded down to the file. ‘Say anything in there about him being an animal lover?’
The file detailed the assorted crimes and misdemeanours that had resulted in Peter David Allen serving various sentences in three different Young Offenders Institutions since he was fourteen years old: actual bodily harm, burglary, threatening behaviour, sexual assault. Up until nine weeks previously, he had been a prisoner at Barndale, serving eight months out of thirteen after attacking a woman with a fence post when she had dared to try and stop him stealing her car.
Holland tossed the folder on to the back seat. ‘Pete seems to like animals rather more than people.’
They watched Allen haul his dog past the car, waited a minute or two, then got out and followed.
‘Just makes him typically British,’ Kitson said. They walked a hundred yards behind Allen on the opposite side of the road. ‘More money gets given to the RSPCA every year than the NSPCC, did you know that? Makes you proud, doesn’t it?’
‘Country’s going to the dogs,’ Holland said.
‘Funny… ’
At the end of the street, Allen turned left on to Dalston Lane. He ducked briefly into a grocer’s and came out chugging from a can of Red Bull and tearing the wrapping from a packet of Marlboro. A hundred yards further on, he stopped to tie the dog to a lamppost and disappeared into a bookmaker’s.
When he emerged a few minutes later clutching his betting slip, Kitson was leaning against the lamppost checking her phone. Holland was on his haunches making a fuss of the puppy, who was happily chewing at his sleeve.
‘Fuck you doing?’ Allen asked.
Holland looked up. ‘Nice dog,’ he said. ‘Course it almost certainly won’t be by the time you’ve finished with it.’ He gave the puppy’s belly one last rub then stood up. ‘It’s all about how you bring them up, isn’t it? Same as kids really, but I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’
‘You what?’
Allen’s stance was still aggressive, but he was clearly confused. His mouth opened then closed again, before his eyes flicked to the warrant card Kitson was waving at him and his shoulders slumped. Without a word he stepped across to untie his dog, then turned and walked back the way he’d come.
Holland and Kitson fell into step either side of him.
‘Got yourself a job then, Pete?’ Kitson asked.
‘What’s it got to do with you?’
‘Just making conversation. I mean either you have, or you’re just pissing your dole money away on the gee-gees.’
‘It’s my money.’
They paused as the dog stopped and squatted outside the same grocer’s Allen had been into a few minutes earlier. Allen dragged the puppy across the pavement, lit a cigarette and watched as the dog went about its business in the gutter.
‘You’d better hope you win,’ Holland said. ‘There’s a two-hundred-quid fine for that.’
Allen smirked. They carried on walking.
‘You been out what, a couple of months?’ Holland asked.
Allen shrugged. ‘Something like that.’
‘Back on your feet?’
‘Getting there.’
‘More than Amin Akhtar is, that’s for sure.’
Allen said, ‘Who?’
They turned into the street where Allen lived. A row of old artisans’ cottages ran for almost half its length, but at the far end the Victorian terraces had been knocked down and replaced by blocks of council-owned maisonettes. The small front gardens were nicely maintained for the most part, but there were bars on almost all the doors and windows. Allen had moved a few feet ahead of Kitson and Holland as he approached his front door. He reached for his key then turned to see them following him up the front path. He shook his head. ‘No chance.’
‘We only want a chat,’ Kitson said. ‘What are you so jumpy about?’
‘Not without a warrant. That’s harassment, whatever.’
‘Don’t need one if you invite us in.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Allen opened the door, but when he turned to close it he found Holland’s foot in the way.
‘That’s very kind of you, Pete.’ Holland pushed his way inside and Kitson followed. ‘But we can only stay a few minutes… ’
A small hallway-cum-porch led straight into a living room. Allen marched past Holland and Kitson and took the dog through into the kitchen. They watched as he opened a back door and let the puppy out on to a tiny, turd-covered patio at the back. Kitson opened another door on to a narrow corridor with what she presumed were a bedroom and bathroom running off it, while Holland walked across to examine the sleek black stereo and the rows of CDs and DVDs on the shelves above it.