‘We’ll talk to Akhtar,’ Donnelly said. ‘You tell him you’ve done what he asked. You tell him you’ve got the individual responsible for his son’s death in custody and he walks out of there.’
‘Never going to happen,’ Thorne said. ‘He doesn’t trust us enough. He doesn’t trust
me
enough.’ He heaved Prosser away from the car and marched him towards the newsagent’s. Just before he dropped the phone into his pocket, he heard Donnelly shout, ‘Stay where you bloody well are.’
Thorne pushed Prosser back against the shutters, then began hammering at them, his fist smashing against the dirty metal, no more than a few inches from Prosser’s face. He shouted, ‘Javed, it’s Tom Thorne. I’m out here with the man you asked me to find.’ He banged again, Prosser flinching at every blow. ‘Javed … ’
He waited for a few seconds. He pressed his ear to the metal.
Looking up at the sound of footsteps to his left, he saw Chivers and five CO19 officers emerge at speed from the entrance to a small alleyway three shops down. They slowed when they caught sight of him and, after grabbing a ballistic shield from one of them, Chivers waved his team back behind the line of vehicles where they stood, looking somewhat bemused, waiting for orders. None the wiser himself, Chivers stayed where he was, in the middle of the road, thirty feet or so away from Thorne and Prosser.
Behind the shutters, Javed Akhtar said, ‘I’m here.’
Chivers and Thorne both turned at the sound of more footsteps and watched as Donnelly, Pascoe and half a dozen others came running from the direction of the school towards the main road. All except Donnelly stopped at the line of arc lamps. He carried on that little bit further forward into the road, before stopping just a few feet away from Chivers.
A few feet behind him.
‘Mr Thorne?’
‘I’ve got him with me right now, Javed.’ Thorne leaned close to the shutters. ‘If I bring him in there, you have to promise me that once you have heard exactly what happened to Amin, you will give yourself up. No questions asked, OK?’
‘I can’t allow you to take a civilian in there, Thorne.’ Donnelly was still struggling to get his breath back as he shouted. ‘Not while Akhtar still has a loaded weapon. What are you thinking?’
‘Not up for discussion,’ Chivers said. ‘Simple as that.’
The civilian in question, who up until now had remained relatively passive, suddenly became animated and began shouting. ‘My name is Jeffrey Prosser, QC, and if you’re the officer in charge you need to put a stop to this
now
.’ Thorne pushed him back against the shutters and told him to shut up. Prosser struggled and shouted his name out again.
‘Is this man under arrest?’ Donnelly asked.
‘No, I am not,’ Prosser shouted. ‘I have not been arrested, I have not been cautioned. This is kidnapping, plain and simple.’
The rain was heavier suddenly, hissing against the lamps.
From behind the shutters, Javed Akhtar said, ‘The judge? My God, is it the
judge
?’
‘Give the gun to Helen,’ Thorne said. ‘Give it to Helen and I can bring him in.’
‘Wait,’ Akhtar said.
The blue light was still flashing on top of the Passat and Thorne felt it move across his face every few seconds. He watched it dance across the windows of the cars opposite and the automatic weapons of the men crouched between them.
From further back inside the shop, Thorne heard the voice of Helen Weeks. ‘I’ve got the gun.’ There was a pause and then she shouted it a second time.
Thorne turned to look at Donnelly and Chivers. ‘Did you get that?’
‘Changes nothing,’ Chivers said.
Donnelly said, ‘Hang on.’
‘I want Nadira,’ Akhtar shouted. ‘I want my wife to hear this too.’
‘No chance,’ Chivers said.
Thorne turned back to Donnelly. ‘Helen has the gun, Mike. What’s the problem?’
Donnelly considered it for a few seconds, then brought a radio to his mouth and gave the order. Within a minute, a panda car was screaming down from the school gates and, when it had stopped near the line of emergency vehicles, a WPC helped a shaken-looking Nadira Akhtar from the passenger seat. She wore a headscarf embroidered with something that caught the light, and was all but lost inside a Met Police-issue quilted anorak.
Thorne called out to her.
When she looked over at him, Thorne waved and beckoned her across the road, nodding his encouragement as she took the first tentative steps towards him. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Nadira … it’s going to be all right. We’re going to go inside together and bring Javed out.’ The woman smiled nervously as she drew nearer to the shop, then Thorne saw the slow wash of recognition across her face. The confusion that quickly became alarm when she got to within a few feet of the man Thorne still had pinned to the shutters.
‘I don’t understand.’ She pointed. ‘Why is that man here?’
‘He’s going to tell Javed how Amin died,’ Thorne said. He tightened his grip on Prosser’s collar. ‘He’s going to tell both of you.’
Nadira shook her head slowly and continued to stare, and from behind the shutters, Akhtar called his wife’s name.
‘I’m here, Javee,’ she said.
‘OK, Javed … when I say so, you need to unlock the door to the shop and open it. Then you’re going to raise the shutters.’ Thorne became aware of Chivers and Donnelly whispering behind him and he could guess what was being suggested and by whom. If Akhtar no longer had the gun, then there was nothing to stop them rethinking their action plan on the spot. No reason not to … improvise a little. If the shutters were going to be raised, it would be relatively easy for Chivers to get in there and overpower Akhtar single-handed. One CS canister or an 8-Bang chucked in as soon as those shutters started to go up … job done.
‘Just a few feet, all right, Javed?’
Behind him, the hissed exchange was becoming more heated.
‘No need to open them any more than that. Then move back into the shop. Have you got that?’
Thorne turned and was relieved to see Donnelly raising his hands and Chivers shaking his head in frustration. He pulled Prosser away from the shutters, keeping one eye on the officers behind him.
‘All right, Javed, off you go.’ Thorne heard the key in the lock, then the sound of the bell as the door was opened behind the shutters. ‘Right, open them up … ’
The mechanised growl was painfully loud up close, but it took only a few seconds until the gap was big enough. Thorne banged and shouted, ‘That’s enough,’ and the shutters juddered to a halt. He turned and nodded once to Donnelly then carefully helped Nadira to bend underneath. Once she was inside, he pushed Prosser down and followed him. Ducking quickly under the shutters, he heard Donnelly shout, ‘Five minutes, that’s all. If you’re not out of there, we go back to the original plan.’ Chivers shouted something after that, as Thorne stood up and his eyes began to adjust to the semi-darkness of Javed Akhtar’s shop, but it was drowned out by the grind of the shutters coming down again and clanging shut behind him.
It was the smell that hit everybody first.
Thorne moved across to Nadira who was leaning against the wall, moaning gently, a hand clamped tight across her mouth. He rubbed her back, shushed her like a baby. Then he walked across to Prosser. The judge had dropped to his knees the second he was clear of the shutters and stayed that way. He coughed and retched, his arms braced against the shop window and a string of drool running from his chin to his chest.
Thorne leaned back against the door.
‘You’ll never forget that smell,’ he said. ‘Never. And other people will smell it on you, long after you’ve left this shop, long after you think you’ve washed it off even. Because you’ll actually absorb it … particularly through your hair and fingernails apparently. Believe me, for the next few days, you’ll belch it and fart it and
breathe
it.’ He leaned down. ‘And I think that’s only right and proper, considering. Don’t you?’
He lifted Prosser to his feet, spun him around and pushed him towards the rear of the shop. Ahead, Thorne could see the figure of Javed Akhtar, waiting, in semi-silhouette behind the counter. Nadira was a few steps behind as they walked towards her husband.
The shop had been torn apart.
They moved cautiously, negotiating a mess of scattered magazines, sweets and crisps, the debris of tinned food and broken bottles. They stepped over the fridge which was lying on its side and were careful to avoid slipping on the small puddles of melted ice cream and sodden newspapers underfoot. The body of Stephen Mitchell lay close to the counter. The tattered black bin-bags in which it had been wrapped were submerged in shadow and only the face was clearly visible where the thin plastic had been torn open to reveal it.
‘In here,’ Akhtar said.
He nodded towards the room behind him. He held out an arm as if welcoming them to a drinks party or inviting a select group of friends into a well-appointed sitting room.
Thorne shoved Prosser through the doorway and followed. It took him no more than a few seconds to take in the tiny room. To his left, a desk and chair, assorted boxes, a sink and a small fridge, a kettle, a television. Ahead, the back door with a filing cabinet pushed against it, a small toilet.
He looked to his right, and nodded down to Helen Weeks.
A stupid thought:
her hair’s different
.
He saw the blood on the floor and guessed that this was where Stephen Mitchell had died, the brown streak on the linoleum where the body had been hauled from the room.
‘I don’t understand what’s happening,’ Helen said.
‘This’ll only take a minute,’ Thorne said.
Helen was holding the gun in her right hand. She lifted her left and rattled the cuff against the radiator pipe. ‘The key’s on the desk,’ she said.
Thorne half turned to look for it, but his attention was seized by a loud
crack
from the doorway just behind him. He wheeled round to see Nadira Akhtar slap her husband again, the noise even louder this time, crying out with the effort of it. There was a fine spray of spittle as Akhtar’s head snapped to the side. He righted it slowly and closed his eyes, then began to mutter something soft in Hindi as his wife stepped weeping into his outstretched arms and he eased her into the room with him.
The storeroom was crowded suddenly and though close proximity to the others in the room was unavoidable, people quickly did whatever they could to find themselves another few inches of space. Helen pulled her knees up to her chest, while Akhtar pushed the camp bed to one side so that he and his wife could stand against the rack of metal shelves at the far end of the room. Prosser had pressed himself against the back door, but Thorne dragged him away and stood him in the middle of the room, facing the Akhtars.
‘Centre stage,’ he said.
‘This is stupid,’ Prosser said. There was a laugh in his voice, but it was nervous, and he had not once looked at Javed or Nadira Akhtar.
‘Wait,’ Thorne said.
He took the key from the desk, knelt to unlock the handcuffs, then slowly helped Helen to her feet. She rubbed at her wrist, nodded that she was all right and leaned back against the wall above the radiator.
Thorne stepped up close to Jeffrey Prosser.
‘Why is he here?’ Nadira asked. The tears seemed to have stopped, but every third or fourth breath was catching. ‘What’s he got to do with what happened to Amin?’
Thorne dug an elbow into Prosser’s ribs. Said, ‘I’ll kick things off, shall I, your honour? And you can chip in whenever you feel like it.’ He looked at Akhtar. ‘You need to know that your son was gay, Javed.’
‘No.’ Akhtar was shaking his head before Thorne had finished speaking, as though he had guessed at least something of what was coming. He wagged a finger. ‘That is not true.’
‘Yes, Javee, it is,’ Nadira said. She took hold of her husband’s hand and began to rub the back of it. ‘Amin was how he was and it was fine. So you have to be quiet now, my love, OK? You have to shut up and listen to the rest of it.’
Akhtar blinked quickly and picked at a button on his shirt. He looked a lot thinner than the man Thorne had last seen on the steps of the Old Bailey eight months before. He was red-eyed and unshaven, his face almost grey.
‘That was why he and Rahim were attacked,’ Thorne said. ‘They were coming from a gay bar. And sometimes they would go to parties, where older men would pay them. Pay to be with them.’
Akhtar moaned, low in his throat. Nadira gripped her husband’s hand a little tighter.
‘I’m sorry, but I said this would be difficult,’ Thorne said. ‘I warned you.’
‘It’s fine,’ Akhtar said. He nodded, drew back his shoulders. ‘Go on.’
Thorne nodded towards Prosser. ‘Men like him.’
‘He knew Amin?’
‘Yes, he knew him.’
Akhtar looked at Prosser. ‘You knew my son?
Before?
’
Prosser said nothing.
‘He recognised him at the trial,’ Thorne said. ‘And he thought, wrongly as it turned out, that Amin had recognised him too. So, he conspired with the man responsible for deciding where Amin would serve his sentence, and the doctor at Barndale, and when he discovered that Amin was going to leave, he decided it would be safer to have him killed. They came up with a plan to make it look as though your son had killed himself.’
Akhtar’s mouth opened slowly and hung there, as though the muscle that controlled it was no longer working.
‘So,’ Thorne said.
Nadira sighed and nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘This …
man
.’ Akhtar took half a step towards Prosser, and Thorne could clearly see the pulse ticking at his neck. He could see the tremor that had taken hold suddenly in the man’s hands and legs, as though a switch had been thrown and a current had begun to pass through him. ‘This man who I put my faith in. This man who was the
law
.’ He moved closer still to the judge and yanked his hand free from his wife’s. ‘My son was murdered in prison, because this man had been to a party … given him money.’
‘The other two men are already in custody,’ Thorne said. ‘And all three of them will go to prison for a long time.’ He could see that Akhtar was not really listening, that his eyes had not moved from Prosser’s face. ‘Javed … ’