If You Were Me (7 page)

ALIYA

 

 

 

W
PC Rennell was back at the hotel by seven next morning. This time she wore pink lipstick, a tight red jumper, blue denim jeans and boots with high heels, but she still looked like a police-woman. She tried to be friendly. She even brought drawing paper, crayons and a big wooden jigsaw for Mina to play with, and magazines and DVDs for me and Mor. She asked us to call her Tracy and kept saying she was there to protect us from journalists and troublemakers. This was only half of the truth. She was watching us. Or rather, watching me. She thought I knew something about Behrouz. I could see it in her darting blue eyes and sense it in the way she spoke to me.

I hurried away to get dressed. When I came back to my
mother's room, Tracy was clearing the little plastic table so we could sit down together and eat the limp white toast and boiled eggs the kitchens had sent up on a tray. I edged my chair towards the window, worried that the boy would come and go away again before I could make an excuse to go outside. Tracy caught me looking and jumped up to peer over my shoulder. ‘Don't tell me the press are out there.'

‘No. I was looking to see if it was raining.' That was a lie. ‘I'd like to find a library. I don't want to get behind with my school work.' That was true. But studying wasn't on my list of things to do that day. Our eyes locked. I waited for her to tell me I wasn't allowed to go out. But she smiled a fake toothy smile and said, ‘Why not? You're not under arrest. You can go anywhere you like, except Meadowview, of course. That's still out of bounds. But, well . . .' The smile slipped. Underneath it was something that looked like real concern.

‘Yes?' I said.

‘Be careful, Aliya. London's a big city and the people in it aren't always what they seem. There's some you can trust and some you can't.'

I left the table and went to fetch my headscarf. The boy. Would he come? If he did, was he one of the people I could trust?

DAN

 

 

 

F
or the second night running I couldn't sleep. Instead I printed out all of Behrouz's photos and sat there looking at them while my mind threw out questions I couldn't answer. Who was Cement Face? Why did he want Behrouz dead? How long had Dad been lying to Mum about going straight? And if Behrouz really wasn't a bomb-maker, why would that Al Shaab terror group say he was? I felt like I was drowning in lies: little white ones, big black ones and the grubby grey ones that grow out of all the things you haven't got the guts to say or do. Just before dawn I had a panicky, guilt-soaked moment when telling Dad what I knew and forcing him to go with me to the police seemed like the only option. As soon as light started filtering through my blinds, I knew I couldn't do it.

I didn't know which was worse. The thought of that girl, Aliya, calling me up, going on about her brother being innocent and hassling me for his phone, or the thought of bumping into Dad and having to act normal, when nothing was ever going to be normal again. There was only one thing to do – pull the covers over my head and stay in bed.

I was lying there, staring at the ceiling, when the front doorbell rang. I heard Dad thumping down the stairs muttering, ‘All right, all right.' I strained to hear what was happening, picked up men's voices, strangers, at least two of them, then Dad telling them to come in and closing the door. I froze rigid when he called up the stairs, ‘Danny, get yourself down here.'

‘Who is it?'

‘Police. They want a word.'

Police? My insides shrivelled up. I heard Mum calling, ‘What's wrong, Ron? What's happened?' Then her footsteps as she ran down to the kitchen.

I rubbed my knuckles against my forehead, trying to stop the pounding, hoping they'd come about the phones I'd been ‘recycling' for Bernie Watts. For a first offence what would I get – a slap on the wrists? A few hours' community service? It'd break Mum's heart, but not so badly it wouldn't mend. But if they'd come for Dad . . .

I shoved Behrouz's phone and the printouts under my pillow, stumbled to the bathroom and splashed my face with cold water, telling myself that all I'd got to do was
just walk down there and say nothing. But I was terrified that as soon as I saw the police I'd either screw up or throw up.

I don't know what I expected – Dad in handcuffs, sniffer dogs, armed men searching the house? When I got to the kitchen, there were two uniformed PCs sitting at the table, Dad was stirring the teapot and Mum was reaching down mugs from the cupboard. I hung around in the doorway, not trusting myself to go in. The older cop, hard-faced and weary, was opening his notebook. ‘Is that Abbott with two Ts?'

Dad put the lid on the pot. ‘And two Bs.' He caught me staring. ‘Don't look so worried, Dan. Come in and sit down. This is PC Trent and PC Collins. They want to ask us a couple of questions.'

Trent gave me a friendly nod. He was late-twenties, tawny hair, thick, fair lashes, freckly face and dark circles under his eyes like he'd been up all night. I nodded back. Collins, the older one, didn't bother looking up, just went on staring at his notebook and tapping his pencil on the table. ‘I was just explaining to your Dad. We're here about the terrorist who got blown up by his own bomb. He lived at Meadowview. His mother told us you were in their flat the day before yesterday mending a leak.' He laid a photo of Behrouz Sahar on the table, the grainy one I'd seen on TV. ‘This is him. Did you see him at any time when you were in or around the building?'

‘Yes,' Dad said, frowning. ‘He was coming down the
stairs as we were going up.'

Mum gazed at him, gobsmacked. ‘You never said.'

Dad shrugged. ‘I didn't see the news last night, never realized it was him.'

‘Have you got an exact time for this sighting?' Collins said.

Dad looked at me. ‘What time do you think we left Brody's – nine-fifteen, nine twenty-five?'

‘Probably gone half past.' My voice came out strangled. I pulled out a chair and perched on the edge. Lighten up, Danny. I tried to smile. My mouth wouldn't let me.

‘How did he seem?'

‘Scared,' Dad said. ‘Petrified, I'd say.'

‘Any idea why?'

‘Not a clue.'

I stared at him.
Really, Dad?

Collins wagged his pencil at me. ‘Danny?'

Yeah, officer, it's because a load of armed thugs were trying to kill him
. ‘No,' I muttered. ‘Me neither.'

Collins turned his pencil back to Dad. ‘Could he have thought you were from the police, Mr Abbott?'

That was a laugh.

‘Not a chance. I was wearing my work overalls. Danny too.' Dad pulled a clean pair out of the ironing basket, flipping them round so they could see the bright-orange logo front and back.

‘Oh, right, you're that Abbott,' Collins said. ‘I've seen your partner around a few times.'

Dad laughed. ‘More than likely. Jez spends a lot of time down that estate. He's even been known to drink in the Trafalgar Arms.'

Trent grinned. ‘It's got a bad reputation but they do a good pint. So, was Sahar carrying anything, Mr Abbott?'

‘Not that I noticed.'

‘Danny?'

I shook my head.

‘Can either of you tell me what he was wearing?' Collins asked.

Dad looked surprised. ‘What does that matter?'

‘These guys are clever, they keep changing their clothes to fox the CCTV.'

‘Oh, I see. Well, as far as I remember it was jeans . . . dark T-shirt, some kind of jacket – brown, I think. With a zip.'

‘Shoes?'

‘Trainers.'

‘Did you happen to notice the make?'

Dad smiled at me. ‘That's more Danny's department.'

I shrugged. ‘No idea.'

‘How long did you stay in the Sahars' flat?'

‘Two, maybe two and a half hours,' Dad said. ‘We had to replace a mains pipe.'

‘Who was there?'

‘Just the mother and a little girl at first. An older daughter turned up a few minutes later. I think she'd been shopping.'

‘How did they appear to you?'

‘The mum was in a bad way, totally out of it, the little one was very quiet, and the older girl, well, she was a nice kid, serious, made us tea. She seemed to be the one holding things together, clearing up, cooking.'

‘Any other visitors while you were there?'

‘No.'

‘Any of them mention the son?'

‘No.'

Collins raised his eyebrows at me. I shook my head again and reached for the mug of tea Mum was handing me.

‘Did either of you see anything suspicious in the flat?' Trent said.

I stared into the mug.

‘Like what?' Dad said.

‘Anything incriminating they might have disposed of before we searched the place, like money, flash drives, phones, computers, weapons?'

A blast of heat burnt through my body. What if they searched our house? What if they found Behrouz's phone in my room? Dad was shaking his head. ‘No, nothing like that. Course, we didn't go in the bedrooms, but from what I could see, the flat was pretty empty. Pathetic, really, how little they had.'

Collins nodded. ‘We've been up all night helping search the building but we drew a total blank.'

Was I imagining a muscle twitching in Dad's cheek?

Trent handed him a card. ‘You've been really helpful, Mr Abbott. If you think of anything else, just give me a shout on my mobile – there's all sorts of departments sticking their oar in and we wouldn't want your call getting lost.' He drained his tea, leant back in his chair and sighed. Dad raised the teapot. Trent nodded and held out his mug. ‘Go on, then, just a drop. It's going to be a long day.'

‘This your speciality, then?' Dad said. ‘Terrorists?'

He had a nerve, dragging this out, topping up their tea, asking them questions. Though you had to hand it to him, his concerned-citizen act was good.

‘No, we got roped in because Sahar's local,' Collins was saying.

Trent grunted. ‘I was supposed to be heading back to Newcastle for my cousin's wedding but Meadowview's on my patch so when they asked for extra hands, I couldn't say no. My mum's not best pleased, neither's my girlfriend, but what can you do?'

‘I bet you see all sorts round those tower blocks,' Mum said.

‘Tell me about it. But that's the side of community policing I like, getting the families to trust me, doing what I can to stop a bad situation getting worse. You can't do that unless you put in the hours and get to know who's who.'

Mum folded her arms. ‘Someone should do something about those warehouses by the canal. I've heard there's
kids in there all hours of the day and night, drinking, smoking and Lord knows what else. Can't they put in some CCTV or a few street lights?'

Collins rubbed his thumb and finger together. ‘Same old story, Mrs Abbott. No money.'

Trent put his mug down and stood up. ‘Thanks for the tea, Mr Abbott. Anything else you think of, just give us a call. Some idiot back at the nick's already been leaking stuff to the press – so, as I said, it's best to get me on my mobile. Here you go, Danny.' He snapped a second card down on the table in front of me.

Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, ‘Behrouz Sahar. Are you sure he's guilty?'

Trent nodded. ‘Hundred per cent. Al Shaab have already admitted he was one of theirs, and his fingerprints were all over everything in that lock-up. But take it from me, going by the amount of explosive he had in there, they were planning something big. Our focus is on finding the rest of them. He wasn't in this alone, that's for sure.'

They got up and followed Dad into the hall. I ran upstairs and took Behrouz's phone from under my pillow. My fingers hovered for barely a second before I deleted all the shots of Jez Deakin and Dad's van from the memory. Aliya was right. If she was going to stand any chance of proving her brother was innocent, she'd have to start with what was on this phone. But no way could I let her see anything that would connect Behrouz Sahar to
my dad. To make myself feel better, I printed her out a set of the other photos, the ones of Cement Face in his green overalls and white rubber boots. It didn't help. Every time I tried to breathe it still felt like a giant claw was squeezing my lungs.

An hour later I was sitting on the little wall outside the Holly Lodge Hotel, flicking through the photos of Cement Face and trying not to look as shifty as I felt. Shutters rumbled and milk bottles clinked as the cafe across the road opened up. A woman hurried in, came out with a steaming mug and sat down at one of the little tables, battling with the wind as she leafed through the paper. She didn't even go inside when it started to rain.

I pulled up my hood and walked up and down. Just a few paces one way and a few paces back, trying to ignore the voice in my head telling me I shouldn't even be there, I should be down the police station telling Trent everything I knew about Behrouz Sahar getting kidnapped. I tried to block it out but the voice went on nag, nag, nagging, driving me nuts.
Shut up! I've brought her the phone, haven't I?

The front door swung open and when I saw her coming down the steps, the voice gave a sort of groan before it started going on at me again. She was wearing the same baggy grey dress and trousers she'd had on before but she looked smaller, as if the wind might blow her away, and she had dark smudges under her eyes. She
didn't smile. Didn't say hello, in fact she didn't even look at me. For a minute I thought she was going to walk straight past me but she slowed down as she got nearer, pulled her scarf over her mouth and murmured, ‘Please. Meet me at the back of the hotel.'

I gave it a couple of minutes, then wandered back the way I'd come. Half my brain was telling me to keep on going and forget I'd ever met her. The other half kept seeing her thin, frightened face and telling me I had to stay. Feeling ripped in two, I slipped down the next side road and counted along the buildings until I came to a gate in a high wooden fence. I pushed it open and stepped into a cramped back yard full of dustbins, crates of empty bottles and soggy cardboard boxes. She was waiting under the roof of an old lean-to and every couple of seconds she glanced up at the back of the hotel.

‘What's going on?' I said.

‘There is a policewoman upstairs with my mother. I don't want her to see us. Did you bring the phone?'

‘Yeah. I charged it too and put a bit of credit on it for you.'

She took the phone and looked at me warily. ‘Why are you helping me?'

I shrugged. ‘Like you said, I had to wipe my prints off the gun. So getting the phone was no big deal.' Unnerved by the way she went on staring at me, I scuffed the loose gravel with my trainer. ‘And I saw your brother.'

‘When?' Her eyes brightened, hungry for information
that might help Behrouz.

I felt sick that I couldn't just open my mouth and tell her what I'd seen in the loading bay. ‘That morning at Meadowview. He was coming down the stairs. He looked petrified.'

She took a couple of seconds to choke back her disappointment. ‘I think he knew someone wanted to kill him.'

‘You think that's why he had a gun?'

She lowered her head and nodded. ‘I will find out who has done this to him and I will prove that he is innocent.'

‘What if you can't?'

‘They will put him in prison and they will send us back to Afghanistan and then – ' she screwed up her face and the words came out in a whisper – ‘they will kill us.'

‘Who will?'

‘The Taliban.'

‘Who?'

‘The fighters who say they are men of God but they are not. They are devils.'

I stared at her. Afghanistan and Taliban were words I'd only ever heard on the news, usually over pictures of wild-eyed men in dusty turbans waving rocket launchers around. ‘Why'd the Taliban want to kill you?' I said.