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  ‘Why wouldn’t he let me go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘This is all about you, right?’ He looked up and glared at her. ‘Because you’re a copper and he knows they’ll take it more seriously.’ He spoke quickly, hissing out the words. ‘So why the hell do I have to be here? What’s the point of both of us going through this?’

  ‘You need to shut up and stay calm,’ Helen said. Mitchell looked away. Helen could see that he felt bad about what he had said, but that he was also terrified. ‘Listen, it’s OK. You’re not the only one who’s scared to death.’

  Mitchell nodded slowly. They could hear Akhtar moving about in the shop.

  ‘Will they tell my wife?’ Mitchell asked.

  ‘Course they will.’

  ‘She’ll be in bits.’ He tried to smile. ‘She’s even less brave than I am.’

  ‘They’ll look after her,’ Helen said.

  Mitchell let out a long slow breath and straightened his legs.

  ‘What do you do, Stephen?’

  ‘I work in a bank,’ he said. ‘On Tottenham Court Road. I was up for a promotion today.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You think that something like this might happen in a bank, you know? Some nutter with a gun. Or a post office, maybe. Not a bloody newsagent’s.’

  ‘Wrong place, wrong time,’ Helen said. She knew better than most that this was what actually lay behind the majority of violent crime. You walked into the wrong pub, turned the wrong corner, strolled blithely through an estate in the wrong postcode. It was understandable, being scared of boys with knives or men with bombs, but what people really needed to be frightened about was simply being unlucky.

  ‘There’ll be armed police outside by now, won’t there?’ Mitchell looked towards the back door. ‘Snipers or whatever. I’ve seen this kind of thing on the news.’

  Helen said that she thought there would be a Firearms Unit on standby, that they would probably be sealing off the shop. She told him that whoever was running things outside would know what they were doing.

  ‘So what are they likely to do?’ Mitchell lowered his voice still further. ‘What’s normally the plan with things like this?’

  ‘There isn’t one,’ Helen said.

  ‘Oh … OK.’

  ‘It’s always different and there isn’t any set … protocol. They’ll wait and see what happens.’

  Mitchell seemed to take this on board, the idea that, in all probability, nothing would happen quickly. But Helen could see that he was far from reassured and she could hardly blame him. Aside from Akhtar unlocking their handcuffs, opening the shutters and letting them walk out of there, anything that happened was likely to be dangerous for all concerned.

  She sat back and listened. Akhtar had stopped moving around, but then she heard the tell-tale sound of pages being turned.

  ‘He’s reading the paper,’ Mitchell whispered. ‘Looking through the paper like nothing’s happening.’

  Helen was still trying to decide how Akhtar himself was handling things, how he was coping. She knew it was important. Could this man who held a gun as though it were a poisonous snake really be that calm? Or was he making as much effort as possible to appear that way?

  Whatever the truth was, and whatever Tom Thorne was up to on the outside, they needed Javed Akhtar to remain calm if they were going to stay safe. She and the man from the bank would need to do everything they could to keep him relaxed.

  They stiffened when the newsagent appeared suddenly in the doorway. He raised a hand, as though apologising for worrying them. Then he calmly laid the gun down on the desk and asked if they wanted tea.

  Thorne was in the playground, on the phone.

  He had already called Brigstocke to bring him up to speed and to ensure that all the paperwork pertaining to the suicide at Barndale be sent across to his office at Becke House. He had also requested that a copy of the post-mortem be faxed to Phil Hendricks as soon as possible. Finally, Thorne had told Brigstocke to make contact with whoever had led the original inquiry into Amin Akhtar’s death and ask the officer to call him immediately.

  To his credit, DI Martin Dawes had called back within ten minutes.

  ‘Did you not think it might be a good idea to let us know what had happened to Amin Akhtar?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘It wasn’t connected with your manslaughter case.’

  ‘Just as a courtesy, then.’

  Dawes was clearly not the type to give ground. ‘So you always need to know what’s happened to everyone you’ve put away, do you?’

  There were a few – the ones who had genuinely scared him – that Thorne would always keep a close eye on, but Dawes had a fair point. Besides, Thorne did not have time for a pissing contest.

  ‘Can you run me through it?’

  Dawes told Thorne that Amin Akhtar had killed himself with a drug overdose two months earlier, that he was found dead in Barndale’s hospital wing. His body had been discovered first thing in the morning and he had been pronounced dead at the scene by the YOI doctor.

  ‘What was he doing in the hospital wing?’

  ‘He’d been assaulted four days before by another boy. Had his face sliced open, basically.’

  ‘Enough reason to suddenly top himself?’ Thorne asked. ‘I mean he’d already been in there, what, seven months?’

  ‘He’d also been raped,’ Dawes said.

  ‘In the hospital wing?’

  ‘Could have been. The pathologist couldn’t be sure exactly when the rape had taken place, but the CCTV camera that should have been covering the area the kid’s room was in had been moved the week before, so anything’s possible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why was he raped? How the hell should I know?’

  ‘I meant why was the camera moved?’

  Dawes laughed. ‘Sorry … apparently there’d been a lot of stuff going missing from the dispensary, heavy-duty painkillers or what have you, so they stuck the camera on that instead. Akhtar probably knew where the camera was. Knew nobody would be watching when he started popping his pills.’

  Thorne thought about that. ‘No other cameras?’

  ‘One on the entrance to the wing and one inside another of the private rooms. Bugger all on any of them.’

  Looking across the playground, Thorne could see Holland talking to Sue Pascoe by the main doors into the school. Holland said something and Pascoe laughed.

  ‘What’s the big drama anyway?’ Dawes asked. ‘Your DCI was a bit vague.’

  Thorne guessed that Brigstocke had simply been in a hurry, but saw no reason to keep Dawes in the dark about what was happening. He gave him the highlights.

  ‘I’d love to say I was surprised,’ Dawes said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The father always looked to me like he was close to the edge. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

  ‘Well, for a kick-off he went a bit mental after the inquest, shouting and screaming at the coroner. At anybody who would listen, basically. Going on about a cover-up, telling us we’d got it wrong, all that.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A couple of weeks ago. Yeah, he was definitely cracking up, I reckon.’

  Pressed for time as he was, Thorne was not about to let this one go. ‘Again, you didn’t think it might be worth picking up the phone and letting us know?’

  ‘Letting you know what exactly? That some newsagent was losing the plot? You’re being stupid.’

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ Thorne said. Dawes started to protest, but Thorne hung up, and went to meet Donnelly who was coming towards him across the playground.

  ‘The wife’s arrived,’ Donnelly said. The superintendent nodded towards the main gates and Thorne turned to watch a WPC helping a middle-aged Indian woman out of a squad car. ‘Nadira.’

  Thorne remembered her. The woman looked every bit as dazed, as lost, as she had the last time he’d seen her. The day her son had been sent to priso
n. ‘I could really do with talking to her,’ Thorne said. He looked at his watch. It was more than half an hour since he had spoken to Helen Weeks and she had relayed Akhtar’s instructions. ‘Why don’t I do it on the way to Barndale?’

  Donnelly thought about it. ‘What if we need her here? Sue Pascoe thinks she might be able to use her. Get her to talk to her husband.’

  ‘So send a car to follow me and bring her back afterwards,’ Thorne said. ‘I only need ten minutes.’

  They both looked up at the sound of a helicopter overhead. Thorne was impressed at the scale of the police operation until he saw the Sky logo on the aircraft’s side. He looked at Donnelly.

  ‘It was only a matter of time,’ Donnelly said.

  A few seconds later, Chivers came marching through the gates and across the playground. He was pointing angrily at the circling helicopter. ‘You need to get them out of here now,’ he said.

  Donnelly muttered something about the freedom of the press, but Chivers was having none of it.

  ‘Listen, we’ve not got a clue about what our target is up to behind those shutters, right? But if he’s got a TV in there, thanks to those idiots he’s going to know exactly what we’re doing. Do I make my point?’

  Donnelly nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘So, what about the wife then?’ Thorne asked.

  Donnelly looked flustered. It was clear that Chivers hadn’t finished with him yet. ‘Ten minutes,’ he said.

  Thorne walked towards his car, beckoning Holland away from his conversation with Pascoe as he went. When Holland had caught him up, Thorne told him to get back to the office as quickly as he could. ‘Get Yvonne Kitson on this. While I’m at Barndale, I want the two of you looking at anyone who might have wanted Amin killed. You might as well start with Lee Slater’s family, they’ve got a decent enough motive, then talk to the other two kids who were with Slater the night Amin was attacked. We’ll stay in touch by phone, OK?’

  Holland ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said.

  ‘Get what?’

  ‘Why we’re doing this.’ Holland stopped walking. ‘The kid killed himself. I mean it’s a shame and all that, and I can see why his old man’s upset, but we’re not going to change anything by charging about looking for non-existent murderers.’

  ‘You heard what he said.’ Thorne took a few steps back towards Holland, put a heavy hand between his shoulder blades and pointed him towards the shuttered-up shop. ‘What he wants and what he’s threatening to do if he doesn’t get it.’

  ‘I heard, but we can’t create a murder when there wasn’t one.’

  ‘What if he’s right though?’

  ‘What are the chances of that? He’s a nutcase, you know he is.’

  Thorne was starting to lose his temper, but did not raise his voice. ‘So what, you think we should do nothing?’

  ‘He doesn’t know what we’re doing, does he? Why can’t we just tell him we’ve looked into it and that we couldn’t find anything.’

  ‘That might almost be a half-decent plan, Dave … if Helen Weeks wasn’t sitting in there with a gun pointed at her.’

  Holland shook his head, still unconvinced.

  ‘Just get on with it, Sergeant.’

  Having signalled to the WPC who was looking after Nadira Akhtar, Thorne walked quickly out of the playground and down the street to his car. When the newsagent’s wife had settled, somewhat nervously, into the passenger seat, Thorne nodded a hello then pulled away; driving slowly and saying nothing until he was through the cordon.

  Then he put his foot down.

  ‘Tell me about your son,’ he said.

  SEVEN

  ‘Tell me about your son … ’

  Akhtar was perched awkwardly on the edge of the small chair. He looked down at Helen. He picked up his mug of tea from the desk, then put it down again. He straightened out some papers that were scattered around.

  ‘Tell me what he was like, Javed.’

  Akhtar started to speak, cleared his throat then started again. ‘He was always good,’ he said. ‘You know?’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ Helen said. She was not actually sure which of Akhtar’s sons she remembered being served by on several occasions, but as things stood it did not really matter. ‘Whenever he was in the shop he was always very polite. Very helpful.’

  ‘He always tried to do the right thing,’ Akhtar said. ‘We all did. Now look where it’s got us.’

  ‘Why was he in prison?’

  Akhtar shook his head as though it were a long story, or else one he could still not quite believe. ‘He was trying to protect a friend, that’s all. They were doing nothing wrong and they were set upon. It was all a mess, a big mess … ’

  Helen nodded, happy to let him continue. Next to her, Mitchell was still and silent. He had not drunk the tea Akhtar had made for him, not said a word since the newsagent had come back into the room. He sat staring at the floor, his chin on his chest, breathing deeply.

  ‘We were told that he would be OK,’ Akhtar said. ‘They promised us, the police officers and the bloody lawyers. They said he would be OK and that they would be lenient. Liars, all of them. Lying bastards.’ There was anger in his voice, but it was controlled. ‘He was just a boy, for heaven’s sake, and we trusted them because we were trying to do the right thing. You understand?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Helen said.

  He nodded. He seemed pleased, but he was studying her.

  It was good that they were talking, Helen knew that. She needed to convince him that she did understand, and more, that she sympathised. She needed him to believe that she was on his side and that they would sort everything out together.

  That when this was all over, they would walk out of the shop as friends.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  Akhtar grunted. ‘Well, there is what happened and what they say happened and they are two very different things.’

  ‘What do they say happened?’

  ‘He was attacked, again. He was attacked and later on he took his own life, but I know my son, believe me. It is not true.’

  ‘Had he been all right, up to then? When you visited him?’

  ‘He was not happy, of course he wasn’t. We talked about the appeal and all that and we tried to stay in good spirits, but it was clear enough in his face. He would not have been able to stand it in that place for so long.’ He raised a hand, eager to make a point. ‘But that did not mean he would ever do harm to himself, not at all.’

  ‘Did he have friends in there?’

  ‘There was one boy he spoke about, but I think he tried to keep to himself as much as possible. He was always quiet, you understand? Always studying, studying, studying.’

  ‘Sounds like a bright lad,’ Helen said.

  ‘Yes, yes, very bright, but in my opinion that only makes it worse. It is more frustrating for someone like my son in one of those places. He did not belong there.’

  ‘When did you see him last?’

  Akhtar blinked slowly, remembering. ‘One week before he died. He was cheerful and we talked about his sister’s birthday and what I could buy for her. To give her as a gift from him, you know? He missed her and his elder brother very much … very much, and this is another reason I know that he was not responsible for his own death.’ He shook his head, waved the flat of his hand in front of him, the certainty bringing a half-smile to his face. ‘He could never have chosen not to see them again.’

  ‘Why do you think they say that he did?’ Helen was careful to sound as incredulous as possible. She shook her head, as though the very notion were preposterous.

  ‘You ask them.’ Akhtar spat the words out. ‘Because they are liars like the police officers and the lawyers from the bloody CPS. Maybe because it is easier and will cause less trouble. Nobody wants to admit that anyone could be killed in a place like that. That such things are allowed to happen.’ He leaned towards her, the anger building again. ‘But they are allo
wed to happen. They were allowed and now Amin will never see his sister get married, will never have the life he was working so hard for.’

  He shook his head and bit back whatever was coming next. He reached across to the desktop and moved the gun a few inches closer to him. He leaned back in his chair. ‘Now it is up to your friend Tom Thorne to find out the truth.’

  Helen barely knew Thorne, though she had formed a good opinion about him based on how he had behaved during the investigation into Paul’s death the year before. Now, she realised, she was counting on him every bit as much as Akhtar was. Tom Thorne had suddenly become the best friend she had.

  ‘I know he’ll do his best,’ she said.

  *

  ‘My son is dead,’ Nadira Akhtar said. She spoke quietly and without colour. ‘That’s all, it’s finished.’ She turned her head away and stared out at the concrete blur of the A40 moving past the window.

  Thorne accelerated to overtake a white van, gave the driver a good hard look. ‘Javed doesn’t think it’s finished.’

  She turned to look at him. ‘My husband is … ’ She waved the thought away and went back to her view.

  ‘Stupid? Stubborn?’

  ‘He is not stupid. Never that.’

  ‘What he’s doing is stupid,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s beyond stupid.’ He waited for a response, but none was forthcoming. ‘You know what’s going on in the shop?’

  She nodded. ‘They told me.’

  ‘Did you have any idea he was going to do something like this?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You knew he was angry though, right?’

  ‘Javed has been angry for a long time.’

  Barndale was a medium-sized Young Offenders Institution thirty-five miles north-west of London; its location in an area of lush Buckinghamshire countryside a constant source of irritation to the well-heeled residents in the nearby towns of Chorleywood and Amersham. From Javed Akhtar’s shop, Thorne had driven north and crossed the river at Chelsea Bridge. The blue light cleared a path through the traffic into Earls Court and Kensington until he picked up the Westway at White City. Even without the flashing light, it was only ten minutes in the outside lane from there to the M40, then a couple of junctions on the M25 and they would be there. No more than forty minutes all told.