Love Like Blood Page 8

  ‘Racists’ wet dream, this,’ Tanner said. ‘Turning up here mob-handed, they’d have a field day.’

  Thorne hadn’t really considered it before. He had spotted a couple of patrol cars in adjacent streets and now he wondered if there might be other officers in unmarked vehicles on alert nearby. ‘Nice easy night for local burglars,’ he said.

  The possibility that the meeting itself might be a potential target for the likes of the English Defence League was clearly one that the organisers had considered. A small group of men loitered near the entrance to the school, and though Thorne couldn’t say for certain to which religion each one belonged, he was sure he wouldn’t want to fall out with any of them.

  He and Tanner were deemed worthy of a second glance as they walked in, but no more than that.

  ‘What if we were EDL in disguise?’ Thorne muttered.

  Tanner looked at him.

  ‘Good job no one can see my flag of St George underpants.’ Thorne could not resist the stupid joke, but knew Tanner was right and that the muscle outside the doors was probably necessary. These meetings were being held to debate the shocking increase in hate crimes, after all, and there was no doubt that racists of a particularly vicious stripe believed that the previous year’s Brexit vote had been a mandate to carry them out.

  Inside, at least a hundred chairs had been arranged at the front of a large stage, set with a table and a microphone on a low stand. What appeared to be enough food to feed a small army had been laid out on three separate trestle tables along one wall; groaning foil platters covered in cling film below colourful posters of India and pictures of assorted Hindu deities.

  Empty chairs were being taken quickly, so Tanner and Thorne grabbed seats near the back.

  Thorne looked around.

  Notionally, the meeting might have been arranged along interfaith lines, but positions in the audience seemed to have been taken strictly according to religion. Thorne might have struggled to tell some Sikhs and Hindus apart, were the two groups not largely separated by the Muslim contingent.

  Thorne was aware of Tanner shifting in the seat next to him. She was wearing a long skirt and dark jacket, and though he didn’t think she had dressed any differently from the way she might otherwise, he still wondered if she was feeling altogether comfortable. Tanner was not someone to be easily cowed, and nobody seemed very bothered that she was there, but as a white woman she was definitely in a minority of one. Thorne looked across at the only other women he had seen since they’d come in. Several groups of five or six, in hijabs or brightly coloured saris, were gathered by their respective tables of food, which he guessed they had prepared.

  He found himself smiling as he remembered what Helen had said to him the night before; her words about a woman’s right to shag any man she fancied, whenever she felt like it. He imagined her marching up on to the stage and making the same speech to this audience.

  He turned to Tanner. ‘OK?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  Audience chatter dwindled as three men walked slowly up a small set of wooden stairs to the stage and took their seats at the table. The man in the middle – a local imam – introduced himself. He spoke for ten minutes or so then passed the microphone to a Sikh community leader who said much the same things, but seemed a little more passionate about them. Thorne recognised the final speaker to be Arman Bannerjee, the face of the website Tanner had shown him the previous night. He was easily the most charismatic of the three and, watching him speak, it was not hard to see why he had become such a successful businessman.

  ‘What’s his business, anyway?’ Thorne whispered to Tanner.

  ‘Furniture.’

  ‘I could do with a new sofa for the flat.’

  All three speakers had talked about the urgent need for unity in the face of the attacks to which members of their faiths were being subjected. Whether it was Muslims being targeted, or Sikhs and Hindus being mistaken for Muslims, such violence was unacceptable, they said, and had to be opposed. They were all keen to stress that, whatever happened, they must not let the ignorance and hatred of others lead to an increase in tension between themselves.

  The applause for each speaker had been polite, but somewhat muted. Once the discussion was thrown open to the floor, things quickly began to get rather more heated.

  ‘Speeches are all very well,’ one man said, ‘but we need an effective response. We need to do something.’ The comment received widespread approval, and when someone proposed organising street patrols, someone else quickly suggested arming them. Another man got to his feet and began shouting about a Sikh temple that had been firebombed three weeks before in Harrow. It was time to fight back, he said, and if that meant meeting violence with violence, then so be it. This received the most enthusiastic reaction of the evening, and the man had to shout above the applause and the attempts at placation from the stage. ‘We wouldn’t have to do this ourselves,’ he said, ‘if the police cared a bit more.’

  An elderly man sitting in front of Thorne turned round and nodded at him, grim-faced. Thorne smiled and the man turned away.

  Was it that obvious?

  When the meeting itself had finished, chairs were pushed back so that smaller groups could gather to talk about what they’d heard, while many of the others made straight for the food. Walking past the platters of samosas and cutlets, kebabs and salads, Thorne started to feel hungry, but he and Tanner kept on walking until they reached the foot of the stage, where the three speakers were talking in whispers.

  They stood and waited. Bannerjee caught Tanner’s eye and gave a barely perceptible nod to acknowledge that he had seen her. He did not look overly pleased, or perhaps it was just surprise.

  After another minute or so, he waved them across. He introduced Tanner to the other men and Thorne introduced himself. The Sikh, whose name was Jagtar Dhillon, reached over to shake hands with them both. The imam, Shahid Mansoor, shook hands with Thorne and nodded respectfully at Tanner.

  Tanner nodded back.

  ‘It is good to see you here,’ Dhillon said. ‘You heard what our friend in the audience said about the police not caring.’

  Bannerjee’s smile was as thin as it was brief. ‘I don’t think the two detectives have come tonight because they’re concerned for anyone’s safety.’ He looked at Tanner. ‘Though I’m sure they are. It’s a rather more… contentious issue.’

  ‘A serious issue,’ Thorne said.

  Bannerjee looked at him. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘How can we help you?’ Mansoor asked.

  By now, two other men had arrived and were listening from a few feet away. They were both in their early twenties, dressed in jeans, shirts and sweaters. They were eyeballing Tanner and making no attempt to disguise it.

  Thorne did exactly the same to them.

  ‘I have been working with a unit tackling honour-based violence,’ Tanner said. ‘And my investigations have led me to believe that a number of killings have been carried out…’ she paused as the imam began shaking his head, ‘within the Muslim, Sikh and Hindu communities, probably arranged by the same person and carried out by the same two men.’

  ‘What men?’ Dhillon asked.

  Tanner reached into her bag and produced a printout of the freeze-frame from the YouTube video. She held it up. ‘These two men. They are paid to carry out these murders on behalf of the families.’

  Mansoor peered at the picture. ‘I don’t know what you expect me to say.’

  Thorne looked at him. ‘Yeah, it’s a tricky one. How about “that’s terrible” or “that’s awful”?’

  ‘Why should I need to say something that would be obvious to anybody?’

  Tanner nodded as though in agreement. ‘“To kill one human being is to kill all of humanity.” Doesn’t it say that in the Quran?’

  The imam looked at her. ‘The Holy Book says all sorts of things.’

  ‘Can you prove any of this, though?’ Dhillon asked. ‘“Led me to believe”,
you said. “Probably,” you said also.’

  ‘I will prove it,’ Tanner said. ‘And I would do so a lot quicker if I could count on your help.’

  ‘What can we do?’ The imam’s words sounded more like a dismissal than an offer.

  ‘Whoever is behind this is spreading the word through organisations like yours.’

  ‘It’s the perfect way to reach out to all three religions at once,’ Thorne said.

  ‘These men are being hired by someone who has the necessary contacts.’

  Thorne wasn’t sure if it was done for effect, but he saw Tanner’s eyes drift away towards the crowd that was gathered around the food tables; the smaller groups still debating in the hall. He watched the two younger men look at each other and he saw Dhillon’s expression darken.

  ‘Are you suggesting it’s someone here, in this room?’

  Tanner held up the photo again. ‘There will be people in this room who don’t believe that what these men are doing is “terrible” or “awful”. A few who actually believe it is the right thing to do. You must accept that, surely?’

  Dhillon looked away. Mansoor sighed and shifted from one foot to the other.

  Bannerjee laid a hand on the imam’s arm, nodding in sympathy, though for what, it was unclear. He turned to Tanner. ‘I had hoped this might have all gone away.’

  ‘Two teenagers have gone missing since the last time we spoke,’ Tanner said. ‘This is a problem that is getting worse.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I can only tell you what I told you last time,’ Bannerjee said. ‘And the time before that —’

  ‘You can’t think this is right? You can’t have any… tolerance for this?’

  Bannerjee shook his head, impatient. ‘Of course I don’t, but I am not going to stand here and debate the so-called honour system with you. I am just going to remind you that by spreading this kind of… scare story… all you are actually doing is perpetuating the idea that we are all somehow the same. That this is the kind of thing we do. We don’t eat this or that, we wear funny clothes, we go around killing our wives and daughters. In some ways you are no different from the people we have come here tonight to organise against.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘We’re talking about murder.’

  ‘I have said I will help her.’ Bannerjee jabbed a finger in Tanner’s direction. ‘I have said I will keep an ear to the ground or whatever. But then a week later or two weeks later she’s back and it is starting to feel not as though she wants our help at all, but that we’re being accused of something.’

  Tanner put the photo back in her bag. She said, ‘I’m sorry you feel like that, but the fact is, I’m going to keep coming back.’ She turned to include Dhillon and Mansoor. ‘So you’ll all have to get used to it.’

  Bannerjee nodded, expressionless. He stepped towards Dhillon, and Mansoor, the imam. ‘We’ll expect to see you again soon, then,’ he said. ‘But now we are all very hungry, so please excuse us.’

  The three moved away together, talking in whispers, nodding, followed a few seconds later by the two younger men who had been watching and listening.

  ‘Never hurts to rattle a few bars,’ Thorne said.

  Tanner was still watching Bannerjee and the others. ‘We’ll see.’

  A few people had already left and others were drifting towards the doors at the back of the hall. Thorne and Tanner did the same. Thorne leaned in past Bannerjee and helped himself to a couple of samosas on their way out.

  Walking towards the school gates, Tanner said, ‘More than a few.’ She looked at Thorne. ‘More than a few back there who believe in this rubbish.’ It felt colder than it had when they’d arrived. Tanner took a scarf from her bag and Thorne fastened his leather jacket to the neck. ‘A recent survey claimed that two thirds of young British Asians believe that families should live according to the concept of honour. Seventy per cent of Sikhs and Muslims. Three per cent said that they sanctioned honour killings. They were actually happy to say that.’

  ‘How’s it working?’ Thorne asked. ‘This particular set-up.’

  ‘Hard to be sure.’

  ‘Best guess.’

  ‘Well, whoever wants something like this done asks around, maybe talks to someone they think might be sympathetic at their local mosque or temple or gurdwara. That person mentions it to somebody else and it goes down a line until it reaches our broker and he makes the arrangements. Money probably changes hands half a dozen times.’

  They were almost at the gates when Thorne turned at the noise of footsteps behind them. One of the young men who had been loitering by the stage was hurrying to catch them up.

  ‘Hello, Ravi,’ Tanner said.

  Thorne looked at her.

  ‘Mr Bannerjee’s son.’

  ‘Dr Bannerjee,’ the young man said. ‘He has an honorary degree. He has two, actually.’

  Thorne nodded, like he was impressed. ‘How can we help you?’

  ‘Easy.’ Ravi stared at Tanner. ‘Stop hassling my father.’

  ‘You think that’s what I’m doing?’

  ‘I know it is.’

  Thorne looked at him. Jeans and trainers; a black, military-style jacket. He didn’t know if Bannerjee’s son was a student, whether he had a job, but to Thorne he seemed no different from any other nineteen- or twenty-year-old. ‘Does this stuff not bother you? I know you’re a Hindu… I don’t know how orthodox you are. Is that the word?’

  ‘Devout.’

  ‘OK, then.’

  ‘Look, maybe I’m not as devout as my father, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything. He’s still my father, and you need to leave him alone. I’m not sure what he believes and what he doesn’t, but he hasn’t done anything.’

  Tanner nodded. ‘It was you that made the complaints, wasn’t it?’

  Ravi looked embarrassed. ‘Well, I encouraged him to say something, yeah. He’s my dad and he deserves a bit more respect than you’re giving him. That’s all.’

  Before she could respond, Tanner’s phone rang, and when she looked at the screen she stepped away. ‘I need to take this.’

  Thorne watched her walk towards the road, then turned back to Bannerjee’s son. ‘Sometimes, there’s only so much respect to go around, you know what I mean? Right now, ours is all being used up on the memory of some dead kids. Respect for them and for the loved ones, the innocent loved ones, of two missing kids.’ He saw Tanner waving him across and walked over to her as Ravi jogged away in the opposite direction.

  ‘That was Dipak,’ Tanner said. ‘The murder investigation team called the missing persons unit and they called him.’

  Thorne knew what was coming. Suddenly, it felt even colder.

  ‘They found Amaya’s body.’

  FOURTEEN

  Thorne waited until he got to Colindale and had pulled into the car park at Becke House before he called Hendricks. It took a good deal of willpower, but, despite weekly reminders from Helen, he had yet to install a hands-free system and the last thing he needed was to get stopped for using his mobile at the wheel. Nothing a ‘lid’ liked more than nicking a ‘suit’, and a gung-ho traffic officer – a black rat – would be drinking free for a week or more if he managed to get penalty points slapped on a DI’s licence.

  ‘Favour,’ Thorne said.

  ‘As per bloody usual.’ Hendricks yawned. ‘Up comes your name on my phone, complete with a very fetching headshot I should add, and for a few precious moments I think you might be calling just to see how I am. Just for a natter, you know? I’m a fool to myself.’

  ‘How are you, Phil?’

  ‘I’m ticking along, mate, thanks for caring.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it. Now, there’s a body I need you to look at.’

  ‘Well course there is,’ Hendricks said. ‘I’m not that stupid.’

  Amaya Shah’s body had been discovered the previous afternoon by a dog walker, in thick woodland between South Herts g
olf club and the stadium that had once been home to Barnet FC. If there was a glimmer of good news to be found in such a grim discovery, it was the fact that this area of north London was Thorne’s territory, even if it had been a different team that had been on call and caught the case.

  It made sense, Thorne thought, that the killers had chosen to dispose of the body close to where Amaya had last been seen alive. They would have been well aware that CCTV would provide the final sighting of their victim, so the subsequent discovery of the body close by would lend credence to the theory that she had been attacked and murdered by a stranger shortly afterwards.

  All part of the fiction they were being paid to construct.

  Over the course of several phone calls the night before, Thorne had managed to ascertain that the body had been found in a shallow grave beneath leaves and branches with the victim’s handbag discovered under a bush nearby. Credit cards and a driving licence had provided the Homicide Assessment Team with a provisional ID. Signs on the body indicated that she had been strangled and the fact that she had been discovered naked certainly suggested that she had been sexually assaulted. Whether this was the case and, if so, had taken place before or after she had died would be down to the pathologist.

  ‘Would probably have come in overnight,’ Thorne said. He stared up through the windscreen at the building he was unlucky enough to work in. Three storeys of shit-coloured cement and peeling olive woodwork. ‘Or last thing yesterday. Amaya Shah…’

  ‘Right.’ There was a pause while Hendricks checked paperwork, humming to himself. Thorne could hear a radio playing in the background. He recognised the voice of Neil Diamond and an ident told him it was Magic FM, but Thorne decided that now was not the time to take the mickey.

  ‘Got it,’ Hendricks said. ‘Her father formally identified the body first thing this morning. PM’s down for this afternoon.’

  Sitting in his car, Thorne pictured the man he had spoken to in that overheated room above a shop in Barnet, his face as the sheet was drawn back. Had the tears still come, staring down at the lifeless body of the daughter he had, in all probability, paid to have killed?