Lander warmed to that a little, allowed himself a small crisp smile.
Bannerman interrupted, ‘Are you still involved with the TA?’
‘No.’
‘Can you tell me when you left the TA?’
‘I can: in April 1993.’
‘Quite a while ago then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you still know people in the TA?’
Morrow could tell where he was heading with it, the military connection, the guns and gear the gunmen had could have indicated a TA connection, but the gunmen weren’t trained, they made mistakes so fundamental no one with any army training would have made.
‘No. I know people who were in the TA at the same time as me but I am not in contact with them on a regular basis.’
‘How about an irregular basis? Who has seen you in the shop?’
He thought hard. ‘No one.’
‘Not one single person from the TA has ever come into the shop?’
‘Why would they? Sure, most of them live in Stirling. If you don’t believe me you could contact the HQ and ask for addresses. I’ll give you the number.’
He was very exact, his military mindset letting him answer without questioning their authority. Most interviewees struggled to understand the reasoning behind a train of questioning, attempted to connect with their questioner. It was refreshing.
She took over. ‘Do you get arms training in the TA?’ Bannerman’s eyes widened in warning, as if she was giving too much away. When she looked back Johnny Lander’s back was straighter than before.
‘Of course. There wouldn’t be much point in having an army if they can’t use arms.’
The damage was done now so she went for it. ‘Hand guns?’
‘Certainly. But if you’re thinking I had anything to do with Mr Anwar’s kidnap you are very wrong indeed. He is a good personal friend of mine and I most certainly would never do anything to harm him in any way.’
He was panting a little at the end, looked upset and she reached over to him, touching the air above his knee. ‘There’s no suggestion of that at all, Mr Lander, but the men used guns and we have to explore every possible connection with Mr Anwar.’
‘I see.’ He still looked nervous.
‘It’s our job to get him back and we are trying our hardest.’
‘Good.’ He pursed his lips tight. ‘Good. He’s… a good man. If there’s anything I can do…’ He thought they were going and leaned forward to stand up but Morrow stayed him with a hand.
‘The TA. What sort does it attract?’
He sat back down. ‘Ex military, who can’t quite give it up.’ He twitched his mouth, touched his chest indicating himself. ‘Poor men with families, in it for the money. Others…’ He shrugged and wondered about it, ‘seen too many action movies. They don’t last.’
‘How come?’
‘They want to be heroes. Not what the job is. Discipline. Can’t take it. Not about being popular. Not about being nice.’ He smiled knowingly at Morrow.
‘What happens to them, then?’ asked Bannerman.
‘Leave or get put out. It’s hard to do things right.’ He nodded at Morrow and dropped his voice. ‘You were doing something hard there, before, weren’t ye? Noising me up, trying to shake a monkey out of the tree?’
She smiled and he leaned forward, his face close to hers. ‘When you get old,’ he whispered, ‘it’s very hard to find people you can stand the sight of.’
Morrow whispered back, ‘I have that trouble now.’
He smiled and sat back. ‘D’you think you’ll find him alive?’ he said, his voice cracking a little.
She gave an honest shrug. ‘The gunmen came in asking for someone called Bob,’ She watched him for a reaction.
‘There ye are then,’ Johnny Lander said certainly. ‘It was the wrong address.’
He led them out to the hall, opened the door and saw them out formally, shook their hands in turn and gave all the formal pleasantries a gentleman would, nice to meet you, anything I can do. He watched them take the stairs, looking over the banister again, lifting a hand to wave when they looked up to see if he was still there.
Morrow found herself leaving the neat world of Mr Lander reluctantly, dragging her feet as she tripped after Bannerman down to the bubbling damp and noisy street. He was a soldier, had that capacity to form ferocious, blind attachments, lived in a world of moral absolutes. She envied it. He probably never had to call into question the army; it must have served him well. Her own experience of joining the force was her father and the rest of the family turning from her, thinking themselves betrayed. It was twelve years ago and she still wondered if the desire to shed them was the reason she joined. She saw herself as an old woman in a personality-free house, sitting in a desolate silence as a bus rumbled past the window.
Outside the close the day had descended into cold drizzle.
‘You shouldn’t have said that about the guns.’ Bannerman squinted out into the road.
Morrow pulled her coat closed. ‘Those guys last night, they aren’t firearms trained.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Omar did that, didn’t he?’ She threw her hand to the side, the way Omar had during questioning the night before, at a low ninety degree angle. ‘I was watching on the remote.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Doesn’t that look like recoil put it there?’
Bannerman looked at her hand, reluctant to admit she was right.
‘And he said he thought the guy had a long face under the balaclava. He said that, “a long face”, until he shut his mouth.’ She dropped her jaw in shock and shut it again. ‘Just after he fired the shot.’
Bannerman shrugged. ‘It’s an idea.’
‘Plus, think about the order of things: the girl was shot at an irrelevant point in the negotiations. It wasn’t a ploy to up the ante, wasn’t to move the threat forward. It was just a stupid mistake.’
Bannerman wouldn’t look at her.
‘Well, it’s a theory anyway.’ She shrugged. ’Don’t like being wrong, do you?’ She dropped from the step into the street. Buses passed noisily in front of her. Cars edged impatiently around them and drew back at the stream of traffic coming the other way.
Bannerman was at her side. ‘No, but, it’s… that’s much worse, isn’t it? If they aren’t used to firearms. They could shoot anyone at any time.’
The traffic in front of them came to a standstill as a bus let its passengers off and the lights changed on the other side.
‘On the upside,’ she stepped out between the back of a bus and a car, ‘they might shoot each other.’
The shop door was sticky and needed a shove. It chimed as Bannerman opened it and stepped in. It was a small room, smelled of dust and stale body odour. On the right the wall was lined with newspapers and magazine racks, with the porn high up and children’s comics. Near the back sat a rack of glass bottles of fizzy juice, laid out on their sides like wine, with an upright crate of empty returns next to them. A central stand displayed household absolute essentials: shampoo next to tea bags and washing powder and nappies. Expensive items like peanut butter were arranged to face the shopkeeper, close enough to lean over and slap any shoplifters who tried their arm. The counter ran half the length of the shop, which wasn’t much. Behind it cigarettes and cheap drink and coffee were kept beyond grabbing distance.
Twenty years of small change had eroded the white plastic counter through to the brown chipboard beneath. Behind it sat two high stools, still angled into one another, as if duettists had just left the stage. On one of the low shelves she saw a little silver short wave radio. It would be a comfy perch to watch the world from.
The shop was being manned by a man who was too young for his beard and old-fashioned manners, as if he was acting a part. He looked at her expectantly but didn’t speak.
‘Hello, are you Mr Anwar’s cousin?’
‘Yes,’ he said, heavily accented, nodding his head passively.