Love Like Blood Page 4

  ‘I don’t need an invitation.’ The Asian man was well spoken and his voice was calm and steady. ‘It’s a free country.’

  ‘Yeah, and some of us want to keep it that way, don’t we? Which means getting shot of the likes of you.’

  The train was slowing again.

  ‘I’m every bit as British as you.’

  ‘I seriously doubt that.’

  ‘Is it British to bully strangers?’

  ‘You cheeky fuck.’

  ‘To abuse them?’

  ‘You want a slap? Is that it?’

  Amaya was counting down the seconds as the train got closer to the next station, the darkened houses and gardens giving way to steep sidings and a sparsely lit car park; signs and posters passing in a blur and slowly becoming readable. The colour had risen to the bully’s face and she could see that he had clenched his fists. He turned his dead-eyed stare on her.

  ‘Don’t know which of you to start with.’

  They were almost at a standstill.

  ‘What about your pussy-arsed boyfriend?’

  She held his stare until the train juddered to a stop and then the man next to her said, ‘Go,’ and the three of them were out of their seats and away through the doors before they had fully opened.

  They ran along the platform, and just before they turned towards the stairs, Amaya looked back to see that the man in the green jacket was getting off the train behind them. He spotted them and began walking.

  The Asian man took her arm. Said, ‘Quickly.’

  They ran up the short flight of metal steps, Amaya digging into her bag for her Oyster card until Kamal nodded ahead and she almost shouted in relief when she saw that the barriers were open.

  They tore through them, and out.

  Looking behind them as they walked quickly down past the car park towards the road, Amaya could see no sign of the man from the train.

  ‘It’s OK,’ the Asian man said.

  Kamal was still turning to look back every few steps. ‘Shit… shit…’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be OK.’ Now it was their rescuer who was digging into his pocket, producing car keys and pressing the fob. Lights flashed fifty yards away and Amaya and Kamal hurried after him to the car.

  ‘I’ll run you home,’ the man said as they climbed in.

  Amaya closed the rear passenger door and slid in next to Kamal. ‘Thank you…’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’ Kamal grabbed Amaya’s hand. They were both breathing heavily.

  ‘No worries.’ He started the car. ‘So, where am I going?’

  ‘Between Whetstone and Barnet,’ Kamal said. ‘Not far.’ He looked at Amaya, squeezed her hand.

  They waited. Amaya shuffled forward, caught the man’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, but before she could speak the door had been yanked open and the man in the green jacket was squeezing in, forcing her and Kamal to move across.

  He said, ‘Hello again.’

  He didn’t sound drunk any more.

  There was a soft clunk as the central locking was activated, which was when Amaya began to cry.

  SIX

  It was just before six o’clock, three days after Thorne had met Nicola Tanner, when she called him. He was playing pool with Phil Hendricks in the Grafton Arms, a pub opposite his flat that had seen a good deal of their custom over the years.

  The landlord had made a good job of not looking too thrilled to see them back.

  Thorne had driven to Kentish Town straight from work, ostensibly in response to a complaint from his tenants that the boiler was acting up. Thorne knew about as much about faulty boilers as he did about astrophysics. He’d taken no more than a glance at it and said, ‘I’ll get a plumber over,’ then, after a cursory look around – a few more stains on the carpet, some Coldplay CDs which made him feel like raising the rent immediately – he’d walked across the road to meet Phil.

  To relax and talk about nothing important for a while, to maybe win a few quid.

  ‘We might have another one,’ Tanner said.

  Thorne said, ‘Right.’ Thinking: Another what? Then: We?

  Hendricks chalked his cue and mouthed, ‘Who’s that?’

  Thorne shook his head, listened.

  ‘A missing couple,’ Tanner said. ‘Bangladeshi. Families reported them missing two days ago.’

  ‘A couple?’

  ‘As far as honour crimes go, it’s not uncommon. A wife who runs away with another man. A girl who refuses to marry whoever her parents have promised her to and runs off with the boy she loves.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘They’re both eighteen.’

  ‘Well then, maybe it’s just that,’ Thorne said. ‘Love-struck teenagers getting away from their families.’

  ‘In which case they might be in danger.’

  ‘So, now you’re investigating crimes before they happen?’

  ‘They might not be missing at all,’ Tanner said. There was a pause, for effect. ‘They have to be reported missing, to avoid suspicion.’

  Thorne said nothing, watched Hendricks lining up his next shot.

  ‘Nobody’s taking it very seriously, that’s the thing, so I think we’ve got a good chance to look into this without putting too many backs up.’

  Except mine, Thorne thought.

  ‘Look, if you’re not interested —’

  ‘I never said that.’ Thorne looked across at Hendricks and rolled his eyes. ‘I’m just assuming they’re not taking it seriously because it’s two adults, that’s all. There’s nothing to indicate anything sinister going on, is there?’

  ‘Not at the moment. Nothing obvious.’

  ‘Or anything to connect this to the Meena Athwal murder?’

  There was silence for a few seconds. Thorne could hear Tanner’s frustration, anger even, crackling down the line.

  ‘It would be a lot easier if we talked about this in person,’ she said.

  Thorne had the feeling he sometimes got arguing the toss with a senior officer. Though fighting losing battles was something of a speciality, on this occasion he simply couldn’t be arsed.

  And Meena Athwal had been missing before she’d been found dead.

  He sighed out a ‘Fine’.

  ‘Any chance you could come over later?’

  ‘Tomorrow no good?’

  ‘Sooner the better.’

  ‘It’ll be late.’ Thorne looked at his watch. There was plenty of pool to be played yet. ‘What time do you go to bed?’

  ‘I’ll be up,’ Tanner said.

  When he’d taken down the address and hung up, Thorne told Hendricks about the call and his meeting with Nicola Tanner in the Viaduct; her ideas about a team of hitmen carrying out honour killings to order. It took him about as long as it took Hendricks to polish off his remaining balls and casually pocket the black into the corner.

  ‘You’ve been practising,’ Thorne said.

  Hendricks walked across and picked up his pint. He shook his head. ‘I still can’t get over Tanner being gay.’

  ‘She just keeps it a bit quieter than you,’ Thorne said. ‘Then again, so does Elton John.’

  Hendricks had known Tanner a while and had been the pathologist responsible for the post-mortem on Heather Finlay. They had always enjoyed something of a spiky relationship at work, and back then he had actually told Thorne he thought Tanner was homophobic.

  Thorne began gathering the balls from the pockets, rolling them down the table. ‘Must just be you she doesn’t like.’

  ‘It all seems slightly… tenuous,’ Hendricks said. ‘This missing persons business. Sounds like she might be a bit obsessed.’

  ‘She’s got every reason to be,’ Thorne said.

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Pain can do that to people.’

  Hendricks began racking the balls, arranging the spots and stripes in their correct position within the triangle. ‘How’s Helen?’

  Thorne looked at him, but he understood immediately why his friend had
made the connection between one kind of grief and another. Hendricks had been with them in Polesford. He was close to Helen and, Thorne suspected, someone she was more likely to confide in.

  ‘Yeah, she’s doing OK, I think.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Got her hands full with Alfie, but otherwise… you know.’ Thorne made a mental note to call Helen on his way to Tanner’s, to let her know he’d be late.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Hendricks said. ‘She’s a scrapper.’ He smiled at what was coming, seemingly happy to move the conversation on to ground a little less heavy. ‘Well, she’d have to be, living with you.’

  ‘Don’t you bloody start. The two of you been comparing notes?’

  ‘On the rocks, is it?’

  ‘Are you going to break or not?’

  Hendricks picked up the white ball. ‘I can’t help feeling sorry for her, though. I mean, not exactly a match made in heaven for her, is it?’

  ‘Like you’re such a bloody catch,’ Thorne said. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t turned Liam straight.’ It was ironic, considering the horrors of Polesford, that it had been where Hendricks had met Dr Liam Southworth, his current partner.

  Hendricks just smiled and tossed the cue ball in the air; clearly still fully loved-up. He smacked the ball down on the table. ‘And this isn’t much of a match either, mate. Three-one now, is it?’

  ‘I’m hustling you.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ Hendricks said. He leaned down and broke, sending the balls scattering. A stripe dropped softly into one of the side pockets.

  ‘Jesus.’ Thorne picked up their glasses. ‘I’ll get them in, shall I?’

  ‘Maybe you should help Tanner out with this.’

  Thorne waited.

  ‘She might be on to something.’

  ‘Or she might just be obsessed, like you said.’

  ‘Well then, just do it because it’s something different. A bit of a break or whatever.’

  ‘Honour killings, right. Like a week in Barbados.’

  Hendricks was eyeing up his next shot. ‘OK, then, how about doing it because she’s asked you for a favour and you’re being nice.’ He leaned down. ‘Nice.’ He sank a second ball in the corner and grinned. ‘Look it up.’

  SEVEN

  It wasn’t a big house, two storeys in the middle of a modest Victorian terrace in Hammersmith, but Thorne reckoned that, in line with the madness of London house prices, it was probably worth well over a million. He rang the bell and waited, wondering if Nicola Tanner would be able to stay, now that there weren’t two salaries coming in. Did teachers get a pension? Had Susan had life insurance or mortgage protection? Thorne certainly didn’t and it suddenly struck him, standing there, that he didn’t know a lot about Helen’s arrangements either.

  Did she have a will?

  Had she thought about who would take care of Alfie if anything happened to her?

  If anyone was likely to have made provision for all eventualities it would be Nicola Tanner, Thorne decided. Though he guessed there would be plenty of grieving to do yet, before confronting such practicalities.

  Tanner opened the door wearing baggy black jeans and a thick sweater and said, ‘Right, I’ve got some coffee on.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Thorne said. ‘I was only half an hour away.’

  She stepped aside to let him in, and, as he walked past her, she said, ‘You’ve been drinking.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  She waved his barely concealed irritation away as though it were unimportant. ‘Just… Susan drank. I mean, well we all drink… I drink… but Susan drank a lot, is what I’m trying to say. Too much. She’d been getting more of a handle on it lately; well, a bit… but it wasn’t easy. I tried to help, obviously, but it’s got to be up to the person with the problem in the end, hasn’t it? Sorry, I really didn’t mean to sound judgemental just then. I tend to notice it, that’s all.’

  She turned her head as a cat darted from a doorway, ran halfway up the stairs, then turned to look at them.

  ‘Mrs Slocombe,’ Tanner said.

  Thorne nodded his understanding; of the joke and of the bizarre, gabbled speech that Tanner had just delivered. She had spoken as if she were nervous or excited; leaning towards him, a hand pressed to her face, her arm, her chest. Thorne smiled and waited, and tried hard to ignore the smell of the new carpet.

  She led the way to a small living room and told him to make himself comfortable while she went to fetch the coffee.

  Thorne sat down and reminded himself that he was doing this for Meena Athwal. That slim possibility. He thought about what Hendricks had said; it was definitely not because he was being nice.

  The room was neatly laid out, and immaculate. Bleached floorboards, a pair of identical grey sofas with blankets folded across the arms, a small TV set on a polished pine trunk. There were shelves lined with books in one alcove next to the fireplace, their spines arranged by colour: orange, then green, then black. Thorne turned to look at the four framed prints in a square on the wall behind him. Simple pencil sketches: fruit and flowers; a matching pair of nudes; an old woman’s face with a delicate criss-cross of lines beneath her eyes.

  He sat back, and then – though it was clearly too late already – he leaned forward again to check that the soles of his shoes were clean.

  Tanner came back in carrying the coffee things on a tray and told Thorne to help himself. ‘I’ve already had too many.’ She took a pair of glasses from a handbag by the side of the sofa and put them on. ‘I won’t sleep.’

  He poured, stirred in milk and sugar. ‘Look, before anything else, I just wanted to say again how sorry I am about Susan.’ He tried to set the spoon down quietly. ‘I read about it.’

  Tanner had already picked up a sheaf of papers that had been laid out on the coffee table when Thorne came in. She nodded, head down as she turned over a page. Susan’s murder had made the newspapers, the story running for a day or two until something even more brutal had happened somewhere else, but Tanner understood that Thorne was talking about the material contained on a police computer; that he had gone to the trouble of looking and now knew every terrible detail.

  ‘Good.’ She held up the sheets of paper. ‘So you know what kind of people we’re dealing with.’

  Thorne nodded. He knew enough to think that Tanner should probably be rather more concerned than she appeared to be.

  ‘Amaya Shah and Kamal Azim.’ Tanner read her notes. ‘Both eighteen. Kamal lives in Whetstone and Amaya’s a bit further north, up towards Barnet, which is where she goes to college. The Wood Street campus.’ She leaned forward to pick up another sheaf of papers and handed it to Thorne. ‘I made a second set for you.’

  Thorne glanced down at the top sheet. The names and addresses were underlined, other details laid out in bold where necessary. He would not have been surprised if the sheets had been laminated. ‘How did you even find out about this? A missing persons thing. I mean, you’re on leave from a murder investigation team.’

  ‘I put a flag on the computer system,’ Tanner said, as though the answer were obvious. ‘Anything in this… area. A colleague of mine is keeping an eye on it and he let me know when this one came in.’

  ‘You’re obviously good at getting people to do favours for you.’

  ‘Right now, people are sorry for me.’ Tanner shrugged. ‘I’m not above taking advantage of that.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Thorne wondered if he would be sitting there himself had the woman on the sofa opposite not been so recently bereaved.

  Tanner smiled, as though she knew exactly what Thorne was thinking. A tacit admission that she had taken advantage of him, too. ‘Dipak Chall’s a good DS, but he’s not exactly a close friend,’ she said. ‘No… he might not have done this normally.’

  Thorne looked up at Tanner’s mention of her colleague’s name, its implications. ‘He knows what this is about, does he? What you’re ac
tually up to?’

  ‘Of course. And he’s a hundred per cent supportive, I can promise you that.’

  Thorne went back to the notes, turning the pages as Tanner continued.

  ‘They went missing three nights ago. Amaya had told her parents she was studying with a girl she knew at college. Kamal said he was going to a friend’s. They used their Oyster cards at King’s Cross just after eleven thirty, but we can’t say for certain which line they were taking.’

  ‘Going home?’

  ‘Probably. So, Northern line towards High Barnet, but they never used their Oysters to touch out, which means we don’t know where they ended up. They disappeared from the train.’

  ‘If they were running away together, they could have gone anywhere from King’s Cross. Piccadilly line to Heathrow. Victoria line to the coach station —’

  ‘I don’t believe they were running away,’ Tanner said.

  ‘CCTV?’

  ‘Like you say, it’s a lot of lines to check. Over a hundred stations and that’s just if they were heading north. Hopefully, the missing persons team will get round to looking at the Northern line first. Like I said on the phone, it’s not high priority.’

  Thorne put the papers down and picked up his coffee. He watched as the cat he’d seen earlier crept around the door, slunk across to the sofa and jumped up. As it settled down on the seat next to Tanner, he said, ‘What makes you so sure they aren’t running away or that this has got anything at all to do with those other cases?’ He sat back. ‘Seriously. Why is this an honour crime waiting to happen?’

  ‘Or one that’s already happened.’

  ‘So…?’

  ‘I saw the transcripts of the parents’ emergency calls,’ Tanner said. ‘Dipak got hold of them for me. There’s something a bit hysterical about them.’

  ‘For God’s sake, their kids are missing.’

  ‘OK, wrong word, but like you said yourself, these are eighteen-year-olds. Something a bit… predictable, then. Both sets of parents called within half an hour, that first night, and there’s nothing to indicate they know one another. As if it was co-ordinated, somehow. Both fathers went marching into their local stations the next morning, demanding to know what was being done, both saying more or less the same thing. Word for word, actually. “My daughter’s a good Muslim girl.”’ She looked down at her notes, turned a page to check. ‘“He’s a good Muslim boy. He would not just disappear without a good reason.” Exactly how you’d expect them to act if they had nothing to do with it.’ She stopped, pointed at Thorne. ‘I know what you’re going to say. “Because they didn’t have anything to do with it.”’