All at once in the middle of the afternoon, things started happening.
By now DS Voss had a gallery of shots of the man Daoud, taken on various cameras located in different parts of Dimmock in the twenty-four hours before Joe Loomis met his un-maker. He made a timeline of them. He wasn't sure what it would tell him. But he needed something to tell him something soon.
And as he stared at the screen, it started to. He reached slowly for the phone and called Deacon. âI've got nineteen shots here, of Daoud in and around town on the eleventh and twelfth. Nothing after that. But ten of them are in and around Romney Road, in spite of the fact that we've only got two cameras up there.'
âTimes?' grunted Deacon.
Voss read them out. âThat's a lot of coming and going for a visitor. Either he had business in the area or he was staying nearby.'
âThe business he had with Joe Loomis was in Rye Lane,' said Deacon.
âAnd we've got him going into The Rose and coming out. But if someone's planning to blow something up,
it wasn't Joe,' said Voss. âI'd believe you were a suicide bomber before I'd believe Loomis was.'
Deacon thought the same. âAnd yet they had business together. Well, Loomis handled large quantities of drugs. Maybe Daoud used the same pipeline to get explosives in. It would make it a lot safer for him to travel around. Then, once he'd got his hands on them, he needed to shut up the guy who knew.'
It made sense. Except ⦠âSo why would he visit him, leave him alive, then kill him later?' asked Voss. âAnd on the whole, suicide bombers don't use ready-made explosives. They cook up a brew out of locally available ingredients. Flour and bleach and stuff. They don't need to smuggle anything in.'
Deacon hated it when Voss knew something he didn't. He himself had learnt the job when a good general education was considered an obstacle to effective policing. Though he was neither stupid nor unlettered, his default position was that criminal detection was about people, not science. âWhat's the last shot you have of him in the evening and the first the next morning?'
Voss checked the screen. âEleven-twenty-two p.m., and six-fifty-five on Tuesday the twelfth.'
âHe was staying in the area,' said Deacon with conviction.
âI'll try the hotels and guest houses.'
âHe wouldn't need a hotel room. There'd be people waiting for him who'd put him up. Safer for all concerned.'
âI still don't see how Loomis got involved,' said Voss,
puzzled. âThis is so not his scene.'
âMaybe he wasn't involved,' said Deacon. âSalmon says the first time he came across Daoud he was muling drugs. Maybe that's how Loomis knew him. Daoud realised he'd been spotted and couldn't risk Loomis blowing his cover. Maybe that's what happened.'
It made more sense than Joe Loomis as a sudden convert to Islamic radicalism. He hadn't died because he was an up-and-coming crime lord. He died because he was inconvenient.
âSo Salmon's right. We really have got a terror cell in this town. If we don't find them, lots of people are going to die.' Deacon rolled his eyes â a gesture lost on the man at the other end of the phone. âWho are we looking for? Young Moslem men who take adventure holidays in Pakistan? And live within a couple of streets of Romney Road.'
Voss winced. Every fibre of his liberal soul rebelled at categorising people according to the shape of steeple they worshipped under. He believed that people were people, and bad things were done by bad people and good things were done by good people, and the colour of their skin and where or whether they prayed had very little to do with it. He was engaged to a Chinese girl, for heaven's sake! Racism was anathema to him.
âYes â¦' he said slowly. âBut a lot of young Moslem men will live within walking distance of their mosque. On it's own that's not suspicious behaviour. We have to be careful â¦'
Deacon was getting angry. âRight now, Charlie Voss,
political correctness is a luxury we can't afford. We're looking for a bunch of fanatics who think it's not enough to live for their religion, they have to die for it as well. And take as many people with them as they can. They may have been born here, they may be immigrants, they may be visitors. They may be black, brown or white. But we can be pretty sure they're Moslems. Salmon knows that, and he's one of them. It's not tactful to avoid saying the words, it's just downright stupid.'
Voss knew he was right. But knowing didn't make him feel any better. âI don't think I'm going to get any more out of these tapes. Shall I join you down there?'
Deacon was tempted. It would up the task force by fifty per cent. But the critical factor was not how many houses they could doorstep in an hour, it was how many hours they had before either the secret got out or Division took over, whichever came first. âBetter not. We need someone to field any calls that come in about this. If they go to the Squad Room we can forget about managed disclosure.'
Voss was accustomed to Deacon shouting, to Deacon being snide, even to Deacon being pleasant which made his toes curl. He couldn't remember hearing that particular tone in his superintendent's voice before. Deacon probably thought it was irony, but to Voss it sounded like despair.
Â
The second thing that happened was that Pervez Tarar phoned Deacon. âI have spoken to a number of people â discreetly, Superintendent, do not be concerned. None of them mentioned a stranger at the mosque or anywhere else. Nevertheless, I have some information. I cannot judge
how helpful it may be. Two cousins who live in Balfour Terrace, halfway up Romney Road, have recently altered their usual shopping patterns.'
Deacon's heart skipped a beat. âFlour? Bleach?'
Mr Tarar sounded puzzled. âNo. Chillis, chick peas, garam masala and tamarind paste. Mrs Aziz says they were making
khatee channe
. Which is not in itself a criminal offence, unless you overdo the chillis, but the Dhazi cousins are not known for their culinary expertise. Usually they buy ready-meals. Mrs Aziz thinks they had visitors from home.'
âWhat kind of visitors?' Deacon didn't want to hit the house with three Armed Response teams only to surprise someone's auntie.
âNo one saw them,' said Tarar. âWhich is strange in itself. If I have visitors from home, I show them around and introduce them to my friends here. I would be considered a very poor host to do anything less. So visitors whom no one has seen are not common.'
It could mean nothing at all, and Deacon knew it. It could have been the kind of duty visit that was an embarrassment to both parties â âYour mother told my mother I had to look you up while I was here so hello, thanks for the
khatee channe
and goodbye.' But it was a disturbance in the normal pattern of someone's life that was sufficient for someone else to notice, so the detectives got back in Deacon's car and drove down Romney Road, away from the mosque and towards Balfour Terrace.
Dave Salmon knocked on the front door at 4.15 p.m. There was no response. But someone threw a shadow on
an upstairs window, and someone's feet made the bare stairs creak, and a keen ear at the letterbox heard a key turn in the back door lock. âQuick, round the back,' yelled Salmon.
Deacon could still do quick if he had to, but he couldn't keep it up as long as younger, leaner men. He let Salmon pass him then got back in his car and headed the other way, stopping round the corner where the back entry emerged. Rafiq Dhazi hit the car full tilt and sprawled across the bonnet.
Deacon had him handcuffed before Dave Salmon came panting down the entry. He pushed his big, craggy face into the young man's with such force that Dhazi flinched. âNow then, Mr Dhazi,' he rumbled, âexplain to me why a law-abiding citizen would run like the clappers rather than answer a knock at his front door.'
âWe will have the money next week,' wailed Rafiq Dhazi. âI promise.'
âWill you indeed? And what money's this? And why do you think I care?'
A little of the terror in Dhazi's eyes moved over to make way for uncertainty. âYou are not from Mr Loomis?'
âI am not even slightly from Mr Loomis,' agreed Deacon. âI am a police officer. And Mr Loomis is dead. Mr Loomis carelessly walked sideways into a sharp instrument.'
English was not Rafiq Dhazi's first language. Nonetheless, he was fluent enough for all normal purposes. A conversation with Jack Deacon didn't come into that category. âI beg your pardon?'
There was this about dealing with foreign miscreants,
thought Deacon: they were more polite than home-grown ones. âSomebody stabbed him.'
âOh yes, I know.' In the young man's eyes the fear flared again. âIt was not me!'
âNo?' Deacon sounded distinctly sceptical. âTell you what. You come down to my nick and convince me. While you're at it, you can tell me about this money you owed Mr Loomis and would probably have had to pay him if he hadn't conveniently died.'
Dave Salmon had caught just enough breath to speak. âOr,' he suggested, âyou could tell us about Daoud.'
Rafiq Dhazi was twenty-two, and slender enough to look younger. His eyes dipped. âIt was not good. We needed the money.
âWhat wasn't good?' frowned Deacon.
âMy cousin and I, we have a large family. At home. We came here to make money for them. People here earn good money. But it also costs much money to live here. There was not enough. And someone suggested â¦' His voice petered out.
âWhat?' demanded Deacon. âBlowing up the bank? What?'
âOh no!' He seemed genuinely startled. âIt was never our intention to blow anything up. But there is a demand here for substances which may be acquired quite cheaply at home. We know it is not legal. But we have a large family.'
âHeroin,' said Salmon. His gaze on the other man's face was needle-sharp.
âYes.' The boy looked puzzled. âYou are police officers â is
this not what you wish to talk about?'
âWe want to talk about Daoud,' repeated Salmon.
âYes. He was travelling from Multan. Mr Loomis gave us money to pay him a deposit on the â¦supplies. But there was a problem. His luggage went astray. A foolishness on the part of the airline. So Mr Loomis wanted his money back. But Mr Daoud also wanted his money. He had paid for the supplies, and he said his suitcase would arrive at our house within a few days and we could pass it on to Mr Loomis then. Only â¦'
âOnly?'
âThe suitcase did not arrive. And Mr Loomis was stabbed. And people think it was because of us!'
âFunny,' said DI Salmon, âthat's what I think too. I don't think there are any â¦supplies. I think you took Loomis's money all right, but not to spend on drugs. I think when Loomis guessed what you were up to, Daoud went round to shut him up. Because it takes forty-eight hours to produce a useful quantity of HMTD, and you couldn't afford to have anyone rocking the boat while you were making it.'
Rafiq Dhazi was doing puzzled again. âPlease â what is a chemtidee?'
Salmon slapped his face. âDon't piss me around, sunshine.' He indicated Deacon with a jerk of the head. âYou're scared of him? He's big, he looks mean? You've no reason to be scared of him. He's a nice English policeman and he goes by the book. I'm not, and I don't. Don't you dare tell me a young Pakistani doesn't know what HMTD is.'
âI don't know how to make it!'
âI didn't ask if you knew how to make it. But while we're on the subject, let's see if you're lying about that too.'
Deacon felt like the man in the 3-D cinema who's dropped his special specs. There was a lot going on around him and he wasn't sure he was getting it all. âYou want me to call Forensics?'
But Salmon shook his head. âI know what to look for.'
They returned to the house the back way, to avoid attracting attention. Salmon pushed Dhazi ahead of him into every room. Deacon saw him looking at the windows and wondered why. He opened every door, every cupboard, but then he shook his head. âNobody's been cooking up explosives here.'
Deacon's brow lowered. âYou're sure?'
âPositive. The fumes are so toxic they bleach your eyebrows â you have to work with all the windows open, and then they'll kill your garden plants. Can you smell anything like that? And half the windows don't even open â they're painted up. He' â he gave Dhazi a contemptuous shove â âmay know about HMTD but he hasn't been making it. No one's been making it here.'
Deacon felt as if someone had burst his balloon. They'd seemed to be onto something. Now they were back to square one. âSo â what? They have a factory somewhere else? Or were we wrong about this?'
âI wasn't wrong about Daoud,' swore Salmon. âAnd Mrs Farrell didn't imagine Joe Loomis bleeding to death on her carpet. Yes, I imagine there's a factory somewhere else. Maybe Mr Dhazi here knows. If he does, I bet I can get him to tell me.'