A Dying Breed, page 12
Karim stood extremely still, staring at his feet, trying to process what he’d been told. Something was nagging at him. ‘Three bodies? But there were four people killed at Passport Street, Mrs Raveed. Where’s the body of the tailor, Mr Savi?’
The woman shrugged. ‘I have no idea, but it didn’t come here.’
‘You are sure?’
The mortician smiled. ‘Are you suggesting that I’m in the habit of mislaying dead people? I must get on now. I think you’ve had more than your money’s worth, if you’ll excuse me.’
‘Of course. Thank you, Mrs Raveed. Thank you very much.’
Outside, on the street, Karim rested his back against the hospital wall, warm from the sun, going over in his mind the possible consequences of what he’d seen and what Mrs Raveed had just told him. Despite the general hustle and bustle of people entering and exiting the hospital, he became aware of a small-framed Afghan man with a well-kept moustache observing him from the other side of the road. A plain-clothes policeman, perhaps, although there was something about him that didn’t quite add up. Karim was about to get his notebook and pen out to make a list of the newly acquired information when the man crossed the road heading directly for him. Karim’s nerves were already ragged; he stepped away from the wall and stood up straight, tense. He was used to seeing policemen pretending to look like something else, but here was something different. Here was someone trying very deliberately to look like a policeman. The man walked up to Karim, smiling broadly and holding out his police ID. Karim was pretty sure it was fake. He had occasionally dealt in counterfeit ID and this one wasn’t even particularly convincing. Bought in a hurry, he thought. Karim gave no sign of doubting the man’s credentials and nodded a guarded greeting.
‘I’m from the National Directorate of Security. We need to talk to you, in private,’ the man said.
‘About what?’
‘I’ll tell you in the car, but it’s only routine, no need to worry. Please, follow me.’ The Moustache took hold of Karim’s elbow; he had a surprisingly firm grip for a small man.
The car in question was parked some fifty metres away from the hospital, which also seemed strange. Couldn’t a policeman park where he liked?
Karim knew he was in trouble when he realised the vehicle they were heading for was a black SUV that was so new it looked like it had just rolled off the assembly line. Unlike any Afghan police car Karim had ever seen. As he got closer he saw the shadows of two other men sitting inside, one in the front, one behind. They looked even less like Afghan police than the man escorting Karim; they looked like bandits. When Moustache opened the back door, Karim made his move. He brought his heel down hard on the man’s foot and slammed the car door shut, trapping the hand of the bandit who’d been reaching out to receive him. He heard a loud yell of pain from inside the car and felt Moustache grab at his jacket, but he was too quick. He broke free from the man’s grip and ran.
Karim tried to keep his head down and stay as close as possible to the shop fronts and offices along the main road; the street was not particularly busy at this time of day, but he thought there might be enough people around to make his assailants think twice before chasing after him. He was about to make his first turn, off the main street and up a side road, when he heard a distant cracking sound and immediately felt a powerful pain in his right side – a burning sensation, as though someone had brought a hot iron down hard on his right hip. The young Afghan slowed but didn’t stop. He made the turn. Looking down at his side, he saw a tear in his shirt at waist height and a spray of blood down one trouser leg. He had not been shot before. The sound of his heartbeat was loud in his ears and his breathing was shallow and too fast. He was terrified but at the same time he had never felt more alert; as though the cinema reel had slowed, giving him time to look at every part of the frame.
Karim knew a couple of people in this neighbourhood. But did he know any of them well enough to entrust his life to them? There was a local shopkeeper he could get to who would let him hide on his premises, he was sure. But he suspected the man would just as quickly give him up, if threatened or bribed. He decided his best hope was to get back to his own car. He figured he knew these streets as well as anyone. He was halfway up the alley now and still running, not so quickly and with some pain, but still faster than most could manage, and he knew where he was going. From the main street, this side road looked like a dead end. Only once you reached the wall could you see that what looked like a shadow was in fact a narrow passageway to the road that ran parallel to the street he’d parked on. He looked down to see how much blood he was leaking and whether it was leaving any kind of trail. He could see nothing on the floor, although his shirt tail was red now and he could feel a trickle of blood running down his right leg. He jogged down the passageway, past several breezeblock houses and an open sewer, until he reached the road. He took a left and after a couple more dusty shortcuts ended up at a point where he could see his parked car. He waited and watched for a while but there was no sign of the black SUV or the men who’d tried to take him. He wondered what this meant. If they didn’t know which car was his or how he’d got there, maybe they’d only become interested in him after he left the morgue. His head was spinning; there was too much to think about. He needed to find somewhere safe, make some proper notes and most importantly get a message to William Carver. William would know what to do. Karim took another good long look up and down the road before quickly walking to his Honda and climbing in. He put the key in the ignition and it started first time. Sitting low in the driver’s seat, he put a clean foot to the clutch, his blood-filled shoe to the accelerator, and drove off slowly in the direction of the BBC house.
10 A Fortuitous Killing
DATELINE: Stockwell Road, London, SW9, June 30th
William dropped his suitcase on the floor and felt around for the light switch. He flicked it on. Nothing happened. He flicked it again: still nothing. They had cut off his electricity.
‘Bollocks. Not again.’
He swept a pile of mail out of the way with his foot and started digging about in his luggage. At the bottom of the case, wrapped in a woollen jumper, he found what he was looking for. Carver slipped the night vision goggles over his head and turned them on. A strange grey-green version of his flat flickered into focus.
William walked through to the kitchen and checked the hob: thankfully the gas still worked. He made some tea, lit candles and boiled enough water for a tepid bath.
He had spent nearly an hour at the party, trying to grab Rob to tell him where to stick his supposed new producer, but Mariscal kept fobbing him off, introducing him to various members of the great and the good, few of whom William could even identify. Eventually he had tired of the game and left. He would go ahead and book his flight back to Kabul, and if Mariscal wanted to send another pointless producer chasing after him, then that was his call.
After an unsatisfactory attempt at a bath, William filled two hot water bottles and got into bed with as many blankets as he could find. England felt incredibly cold after Kabul. He’d just taken the second of two sleeping pills when his mobile phone buzzed into life and made a little circular dance around the bedside table. Two missed calls and two new messages. He dialled 901. The first was from Mariscal.
‘Mate, it’s Rob here. Look, sorry I couldn’t chat at the party, I didn’t want a big scene in front of all those punters. I’m sorry about pushing this producer thing on you but I don’t have a choice. Patrick’s a decent kid, came up through local papers like someone else I used to know, and I think you might like him if you give him a chance. But the bottom line is: whether you like him or not, he’s going with you. This isn’t a request, it’s an order. I know you’ll probably try and head off without him, but do yourself a favour and don’t bother. You won’t be able to. Anyway. Hope you’re okay. Maybe we could get a beer sometime? Chat about the good times? There were some of those, if you remember. How about you give me a call in the morning?’
William listened to Rob hang up and then pressed 3 for delete. The second message kicked straight in. He heard static and then a soft Afghan voice: Karim. He sat up in bed and pressed the phone hard to his ear. His translator sounded nervous, unsure whether he should even be making the call.
‘William, it is your friend. I have found something new, something I need to tell you about. I know I must not say anything important on the telephone so I will not speak now, but it would be very good if you could be here again soon so we can talk. I am not in the usual place but I will find you. And I must say another thing, which is to be careful. I was not careful enough. I am fine, do not worry, but you should know that others are interested in the same thing we are. Okay. Goodbye.’
William listened to the message twice and then saved it. He could feel the sleeping pills taking effect and he was pretty sure there was nothing he could do for Karim tonight. He changed the phone’s setting to outdoor, in the hope that a louder ring tone would wake him if Karim had reason to call again.
Karim did not call. But he would not have woken William even if he had.
Patrick was hung over. He hadn’t left the party until well after one, and thinking back over what he’d drunk he realised he must have had his own and several other people’s share of the good champagne as well as quite a bit of the cheap white wine, when cheap white was all that was left. Rebecca’s red dress was hanging provocatively over the bedroom door when he got in, but she was fast asleep and he realised now that that was probably just as well. She’d left for work at her usual time and he hadn’t heard a thing. He was off shift, at least, so he could nurse himself back to health and then work out where he stood with Carver once his head had cleared. Rob had assured him that when William left the country, Patrick would too, but as far as he knew, that wasn’t imminent. He lay in bed until half nine when greed got the better of sloth and he slipped a pair of jeans on over his pyjamas and made for the corner shop, in search of bacon.
Carver was sitting on a park bench directly opposite Patrick’s flat, plastic bag at his feet. He was looking at the ice cream van that had just rolled up, ready to serve the mums and toddlers at a nearby play park. When he turned back towards the flat and saw Patrick coming down the steps, he waved.
‘You’re a late riser,’ he called out. ‘I’ve been here bloody hours.’
Patrick was momentarily speechless.
‘How do you know where I live?’ was all he could think of to say.
‘All your details are in the system. Zero one zero eight eighty-seven, two nine seven five four two, nine six two five five eight …’
Patrick realised that the sequence of numbers Carver was reeling off were his date of birth, staff and passport numbers. ‘Flat four, 128, Highbury Hill, N5 2LA. It’s all in there.’
‘Including my phone number; why didn’t you just ring?’
‘I prefer the personal touch. By the way, who was that blonde who came out earlier? Is she your sister?’
Patrick sat down next to Carver. ‘What? No, she’s my girlfriend.’
‘Really? She was carrying some sort of satchel. Is she still at school or something?’
‘She’s a teacher.’
‘A teacher. Really? I would’ve done a hell of a lot better at school if the teachers looked like that.’ William eyed Patrick up and down. ‘How does a bloke like you get a girlfriend like that?’ He seemed genuinely interested.
Patrick shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Charm, I guess.’
Carver stifled a laugh. ‘Charm. That’s a good one.’ He looked up at the tall terraced houses that ran the length of Highbury Fields. ‘I used to work around here, did Mariscal tell you that?’
Patrick shook his head.
‘That was another reason for coming up; I haven’t seen the place in a while.’
Patrick gave an encouraging nod.
‘It’s changed a bit, I guess.’
‘Just a bit. Look at all the cars outside those houses.’ He pointed at the resident parking bays. ‘Audi, Audi, Porsche, Mercedes …’
‘Gentrification.’
‘Yeah, gentrification. Shame, gentrification kills journalism, anything that’s good news for estate agents is bad news for journalists. Holloway and Highbury used to be my beat, junior crime reporter. Time was, I could fill six pages just with what went on in this little patch.’ William was warming to his theme. ‘Your place for instance …’ He waved a hand in the direction of Patrick’s flat. ‘There was a double murder and suicide down on the ground floor of your place, back in the seventies. Gory, it was.’
Patrick stared at Carver, who was smiling. ‘You want to know the details?’
‘I guess.’
‘I bet you do. It was this young guy. Your age. He was still living at home – not very happily, it turned out. He killed his mum and dad, poisoned them both with rat poison, and then put his head inside a black plastic sack and cut his own throat.’
‘Why the black plastic sack?’
‘Good question. He was being nice – didn’t want to make a lot of mess for his sister to clear up.’
‘Considerate.’
‘He was. His sister was very grateful too.’
‘You spoke to her?’
‘’Course, that was my job. I always did the death knock.’
Patrick gave Carver a blank look.
‘The death knock; you don’t know about the death knock? When something awful’s happened to a family, a death or disaster, some poor bastard has to go knock on the door and try and get a quote … a quote and photo. I did that.’
Patrick was aware of the practice but had never had to do it. ‘That’s a shitty job.’
Carver shrugged. ‘I guess, but I didn’t mind. I was good at it. People seemed to like talking to me and I liked listening. Being young helped, I think, young and green.’ He examined Patrick. ‘Mariscal said you came up through local papers?’
Patrick nodded enthusiastically. ‘That’s right, South London Press.’
Carver raised an eyebrow. ‘Good paper, the South London Press. Still in Streatham?’
‘Yeah, just off the High Street.’
‘They should’ve got you doing the death knock.’
‘I was very junior.’
‘I told you already, the younger the better. Maybe they missed a trick. Anyway, I was about to get an ice cream. You want one?’
‘Er, not really.’
‘Suit yourself.’ William walked the few yards to the ice cream van, taking his bag with him.
Patrick watched him wait his turn, order and then start to fumble around in his pockets. He turned round and hurried back. ‘I’ve got no English money on me. Lend us a fiver.’ Patrick found a five-pound note in the pocket of his jeans and handed it over.
Clouds moved fast across a bright blue sky and the occasional ray of sunshine shone through the leaves of the London plane trees, casting blurred green shadows on the pavement. The air felt fresh. William returned with a cider ice lolly for himself and a ninety-nine with a chocolate flake for Patrick.
‘Here you go.’
‘Oh, okay, thanks.’ Patrick waited for Carver to speak. He was determined not to repeat the previous evening’s humiliation. He wondered, fleetingly, if the reporter had come to apologise.
‘Okay, so I called up BBC travel first thing this morning to book my flight back to Kabul and my travel privileges have been removed. They say they can’t take a booking from me unless you’re booked on the same plane, train, boat, whatever. Mariscal’s orders. Did you know about this?’
‘No—not exactly.’
‘Not exactly. Well, it’s a pain in the arse. A big bloody pain, but I don’t see any way round it. It looks like it’s working with you or not working at all, and right now, I need to work. Have you any idea what this is all about? Has Rob told you what he’s playing at?’
Patrick had already considered how a conversation like this might go, and had resolved to be as honest as possible. ‘He told me a few things. He’s not happy; he says you aren’t on air enough, that he doesn’t know what you’re up to most of the time and you upset everyone you work with. So I think partly he’s just pissed off. But also, I think he’s worried about you.’
Carver looked up from his ice lolly. ‘Worried about me?’ He repeated the words as though trying to hear for himself whether the idea was credible. ‘I don’t buy it. But I don’t suppose it matters whether I buy it or not. So Patrick Reid, here’s how it’s going to go. First, you’re going to have to do exactly what I tell you when I tell you, got that?’
‘Sure, I’m your producer.’
‘Fine, call yourself whatever you want. Second, whenever Mariscal asks you how we’re getting on, you say everything is hunky-dory. But you tell him the absolute minimum. If you can get away with telling him nothing, tell him nothing. Yes?’
This was more difficult. Patrick wondered how he was supposed to square the two men’s differing expectations, their contradictory demands. ‘But Mariscal’s—’
‘No buts. That’s it. That’s the deal. We’re agreed, then?’ Carver’s question invited no answer. He stood and finished his lolly in three bites, shivering as he did so. He stared at Patrick’s almost untouched ice cream. ‘Do you want that chocolate flake?’
‘What? Er, yes.’
‘Fine. It’s just sometimes people don’t like the chocolate flake.’ Carver picked up his plastic bag. ‘So you go ahead and book us on the first available flight back to Kabul, via Delhi or wherever. Get us on something tomorrow if there is something, day after if not. No later than that, right?’
Patrick nodded.
‘I’m meeting a contact later tonight.’
‘Do you want me to come?’
William looked at Patrick with disbelief. ‘No, I don’t want you to come. He’s my contact.’
‘Is it Berry?’
