Carlyle shook his head sadly. On a waste bin standing on the pavement outside the shop, he could make out an advert for the council’s truancy hotline. For a moment, he thought about making a call and shopping the girl. However, the idea faded from his brain almost as soon as it had emerged. Even by the subterranean standards of local government, social services were uniquely useless. If he dialled the number, chances were no one would answer the call. If he did manage to talk to someone, would the girl get picked up? At best, there would be lots of hanging around and lots of form filling for little if any end result. Upon reflection, the inspector quickly decided that he didn’t have the time to chase up a lone schoolgirl playing hooky.
A banging door alerted him to the fact that someone had finally arrived behind the counter.
‘You wan’ somethin’?’ The boy was wearing some sad approximation of a fast food operative’s uniform, a blue and yellow striped polo shirt, complete with a fine selection of stains, complemented by a matching baseball cap. From under the brim, a pair of brown eyes viewed Carlyle suspiciously. If anything, the boy looked even younger than the girl in the back. The down on his upper lip suggested that his efforts to grow a moustache were destined to be a struggle.
‘No, thanks.’
The kid frowned. ‘Drink?’
‘No. I’m looking for Calvin Safi.’
The frown dissolved into the kind of blank look that the inspector had seen a million times before.
‘Calvin Safi,’ Carlyle repeated, ‘the owner of this place. Where is he?’
The shop door opened and there was the sound of laughter – hostile, male laughter. Carlyle stiffened slightly, but kept his gaze on the lad behind the counter. At his shoulder, two hoodies appeared. One was white, the other Asian. Both of them were taller than the policeman and, he estimated, the best part of forty years younger.
‘Hey, man,’ the Asian guy shouted at the boy behind the counter in a West London accent that covered all the neighbourhoods this side of Heathrow. Unzipping his jacket, he flicked off the hood to reveal an impressive mane of jet-black hair which reached down to his shoulders. ‘Get us two doners and two large Cokes.’ Producing a rubber band from his pocket, he pulled his hair back into a ponytail, checking his reflection in a glass cabinet, before heading into the back of the shop with his mate in tow. ‘And make it quick,’ he shouted over his shoulder, ‘we’re hungry.’ Dancing round the remains of the chip on the floor, he slid into the booth next to the girl.
Nodding, the boy pulled out a tray and set about filling their order. Grimacing, Carlyle stepped closer to the counter. The food smells were beginning to give him a headache. ‘Calvin Safi.’ The boy didn’t look up. His lips were moving but no sounds were coming out. You’re really beginning to piss me off, the inspector thought. He waved a hand in front of the kid’s face to remind him that he was still here. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey yourself, man.’ The Asian guy slipped back out of the booth and wandered back over until he was about five feet from where Carlyle was standing. ‘What do you want with Calvin?’
Standing his ground, the inspector took a moment to read the legend – ‘WHAT U SAYIN’? – on the left breast of the guy’s black hoodie. ‘Who are you?’
‘Never you mind,’ the guy scowled, edging forward, ‘Who the fuck are you? Comin’ here and askin’ questions.’
‘Aqib, siddown.’ A burly guy appeared from round the end of the counter, wiping his hands on a souvenir London 2012 tea towel that was draped over his right shoulder. Waiting for the youth to slink back to the booth, he eyed the policeman suspiciously.
‘Calvin Safi?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Yeah.’ The kebab shop owner couldn’t have looked any less pleased if Carlyle had dropped his trousers and shat on the floor of his kebab shop. He was in his mid-to-late thirties, roughly the same height as the policeman but about twice as wide. Giving up on the tea towel, he wiped his hands on his grubby blue and white T-shirt bearing the hopelessly out of date legend: Chelsea – Champions of Europe.
‘I’m-’
Safi cut the inspector short with a wave of the hand. ‘Not here.’ Turning on his heel, he headed back towards the food preparation area. ‘Come with me.’
TWENTY
The kitchen led to a small paved courtyard at the back of the building about ten feet by twelve, with a gate in the far wall for deliveries. Each side of the gate were stacked piles of cardboard boxes full of takeaway containers. Scattered across the concrete was an impressive collection of cigarette butts, along with the odd chocolate-bar wrapper. Standing in the middle of the yard, Calvin Safi eyed the inspector, hands on hips, waiting for him to explain himself.
Carlyle pulled out his ID and held it up for Safi to inspect. ‘I’m from Charing Cross police station.’
Safi waved the warrant card away as if he couldn’t care less if it was real or fake. ‘Another policeman,’ he grunted. ‘What a surprise.’ Under the manufactured annoyance, however, Carlyle could detect more than a little tension in the man’s demeanour. ‘Are you here for a freebie, or to ask some more questions?’
‘Huh?’
Safi’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m in charge of the Joseph Belsky investigation.’
Pouting, Safi stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘Who?’
Are you for real? Carlyle wondered. ‘Joseph Belsky is the guy who Taimur attacked.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Letting his hands fall to his sides, Safi seemed to relax a little.
A thought popped into the inspector’s head. ‘By the way, Taimur’s surname . . .’
Safi glanced up at the heavens. ‘He changed it by deed poll. I was amazed he managed to get the forms filled in properly, but there you go. He said he didn’t want to have the same name as me or his mum. Rage – hah. He thought he was making some kind of statement.’
‘About his view of society?’
‘What are you, some kind of social worker?’ Safi shook his head in disgust. ‘Taimur couldn’t even spell “society”, never mind tell you what it means. He was pissed off at me and his mum for being such crap parents.’
‘But he lived with you?’
‘More or less,’ Safi sighed. ‘More than he did with his mother, anyway. Taimur’s not quite right in the head, or haven’t you worked that out yet?’
‘That’s not my call,’ Carlyle said primly.
‘Suit yourself.’
‘While he’s in Belmarsh, he’ll have a number of evaluations.’
‘Ah,’ Safi grinned, ‘he’s gone there, has he? Maybe that’ll finally knock some sense into the silly bugger.’
‘You didn’t know?’
Safi shrugged.
‘No one told you?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘Have you not spoken to his lawyer?’
‘Mich-el-ang-elo?’ Safi hopped from foot to foot as he sang the name. ‘Do you think I can afford a guy like that? He works for Taimur’s mother, not me.’
‘Can I go and see Taimur’s room?’
‘Sure,’ Safi said wearily. ‘There’s not a lot to see, though. You’re a bit late. Everything that wasn’t nailed down, including his computer, was carted off yesterday.’
‘By whom?’
Safi gave him a quizzical look. ‘Shouldn’t you know that?’
Yes, thought Carlyle, I suppose I should. He turned to head back inside just as the Asian guy who had tried to face him down appeared in the open doorway.
‘Calvin. Steve’s here.’
A look of boundless exasperation crossed the kebab shop owner’s face. ‘Tell him to come back later.’
‘But he’s brought a mate.’
‘Tell them to come back later.’