Hard Rain, Cold Hearts, page 15
Campbell sighed and shook his head.
‘Well, I’ve been called worse, and I know you will have been. But it’s childish and pathetic. It’s their way of saying we’re not part of their crowd. As if we didn’t know, eh. Although, I’m going to wear the Odd Couple tag as a badge of honour. Cracking film, very funny, you should get it on DVD. Sooty and Sweep, now that’s a bit more sinister. Sooty is a yellow teddy bear and Sweep’s a grey and black dog.’
Asif interrupted.
‘And Sooty is a derogatory term used to describe black people, although it’s a new one on me. I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before.’
Campbell sighed.
‘Yeah, I’m afraid it is. You don’t hear it used much nowadays, but back in the 70’s when I was growing up it was commonly used as a racist slur. But I’ll guarantee you that if I hear it being said, I’ll do something about it.’
Asif smiled.
‘No please, let’s just let that lie for now. It was you that told me that to win the war you might have to lose a few battles. I reckon this might be one of those battles.’
Campbell nodded. Asif was learning fast, playing the long game was the right approach if they were going to succeed, now was not the time to show their hand, now was the time to keep their powder dry.
Chapter 12
Asif was at his desk updating his crime reports which now totalled fifteen. Another two, once again reported by Roisin Byrne, had come in yesterday when he and Campbell had been at the funeral of Chris Swift. It had been an interesting day, but the funeral had passed without incident, and he couldn’t help wondering if he’d have been better trying to pursue enquiries into his pile of crime reports that seemed to be getting larger by the day.
Asif jumped at the slam of the office door. Startled, he looked up to see a red-faced Jan marching towards him carrying a newspaper. She looked ready to punch somebody.
Jan slumped into a chair opposite Asif’s desk.
‘God, the man’s insufferable.’
Asif made a strange face and raised a mug.
‘Coffee? You look like you might need one. What’s happened now? It’s not like you to lose your cool.’
Jan nodded.
‘Yeah, please. And put an extra spoonful in it, I’m needing all the caffeine I can get.’
‘And I’ll have one as well thank you very much.’ said Campbell who’d just walked in the door. ‘And what’s got you so worked up?’ he asked noticing Jan’s flushed face.
‘If he was made of chocolate, I’d swear he’d eat himself. You should see him strutting about the incident room. He’s already got the bloody paper pinned on the wall, he’s like a kid in a sweet shop. It’s embarrassing.’
Neither Asif nor Campbell had a clue what Jan was on about. Asif handed out the mugs of coffee.
‘Haven’t seen the paper this morning, do I take it our illustrious DCI’s photo is in it?’ asked Campbell.
Jan opened out the paper and laid it on the desk.
‘There he is with Moley next to him. From where that photograph’s been taken it looks like he’s with that guy who’s just in front of him. That’s what’s got him so excited, apparently, he’s the Rangers manager.’
‘Ah, yes, that would explain it. Not sure what it is about football, but it seems to have some magical ability to make grown men behave like five-year-olds. It’s the strangest thing.’
Asif stared at the series of photographs, that formed a double page spread devoted to yesterday’s funeral.
‘You can see why they call it the Daily Ranger. When you said the press would cover it, I expected there might be a photo and a short article, I certainly didn’t think it would be given this much coverage. I missed the news on the tele last night, did they cover it?’
Jan put down her mug.
‘A short report. I only caught the Scottish news on the BBC at teatime. They showed some general crowd shots, fortunately I didn’t see any of our mob. The reporter explained the connection to the club and that the murder enquiry was ongoing and that was about it.’
Asif pointed at a photograph.
‘These aren’t all photos from the funeral. It says this one here is of the Glasgow University Athletics section at some awards ceremony. They’re all dressed in smart blazers and chinois, all very preppy. It looks like some promo shot for an Ivy league university.’
Asif scoffed loudly.
‘And there it is, the one with his father and uncle outside Ibrox, the Daily Ranger readers will be lapping that one up.’
Campbell reached across to pick up the paper.
‘I wonder if these photos were taken by John MacLeod, I didn’t see him yesterday, but he’s worked for the Record for years. He hails from Stornoway, he was a couple of years above me at school, I didn’t know him well, but my sister was friendly with his sister. I think he came to Glasgow to go to college and never went back. Much the same as myself then I suppose.’
Jan got up to help herself to a biscuit.
‘The photograph was just the icing on the cake. He was already like a cat with two tails when I arrived this morning. The report from the Lab was waiting for him on his desk and he punched the air when he read it. It’s confirmed that the strands of wool that Asif found on the barbed wire are green in colour. The DCI was euphoric, he’s more convinced than ever that the motive’s sectarian and one of the guys who tried to gate crash the party is the killer. All the actions that were given out from this morning’s meeting are concentrated on trying to trace their whereabouts.’
Campbell put his hands behind his head and lent back in his chair.
‘The confirmation that the strands are green isn’t really that surprising, given what we already know, and it’s a line of enquiry that must be bottomed out, there’s no question about that. But I would have thought that by now they would have been able to trace at least one of those boys from the pub. Didn’t you tell us before that there were four of them drinking in Finlay’s before they gatecrashed the party?’
Jan nodded.
‘That’s correct, but I’ve re-read all the statements, nobody in the pub seems to know anything about them. They certainly don’t appear to be local. The CCTV isn’t helping, it’s very grainy, you can’t make out their features.’
‘What about the people at the party? Wasn’t there an altercation at the side door when they tried to get in.’ asked Asif.
‘Yeah, there was. That’s when the one wearing the green and white scarf recognised Chris Swift and started shouting abuse about his uncle.’
‘And wasn’t there some suggestion from what was said that they knew each other from school or played football against each other. I’m sure it was something like that.’
‘That’s about the gist of it. But they’ve hit a brick wall. Everyone who was at the 21st knows Chris Swift from University. The party was for a boy who’s in the Athletics section with him. No one who was there knows anything about his school days or who he used to play football for. So, none of their statements is of any use in trying to identify who those boys were. Well, they can give the briefest of descriptions but that’s it. As I said, they’re at a dead end with this one.’
Campbell rubbed his chin.
‘So, I take it that the actions the DCI has given out are now trying to trace old school friends and people who played football with him years ago, or even better someone he played against who might have a grudge against him.’
Jan took a sip of her coffee.
‘That’s pretty much it I’m afraid.’
‘Jeezo, that’s a bit of a long shot. That’s no more than a fishing expedition, it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. Fairbairn may be in a good mood this morning, but that won’t last, from what you’ve told us it doesn’t sound like his investigation is any nearer to getting a result. You keep your head down, that would be my advice, when they find they’re not getting anywhere, things will start to get rough.’
Jan drained the last of her coffee.
‘Well, thanks a million, that’s cheered me up no end. Right, tin helmet and body armour on and right back into the bear pit!’
Asif started to chuckle.
‘I see what you did there, Jan, ‘bear pit’, very funny.’
Campbell grinned.
‘Yep, she’s smarter than the average bear!’
‘Is that a Teddy Bear?’ quipped Asif.
‘Right enough you two, I’m out of here, before things get really silly.’
‘Me too.’ said Campbell gathering up is folder and putting on his coat.
‘I’m due at court, it’s a Sheriff and Jury so I might be a while. What are you going to be up to?’
Asif looked up.
‘I got a phone call from Roisin Byrne earlier; she says she’s got some information for me, so I thought I’d call in and see her. But first I’m going to St Anthony’s to try and get a word with someone at the clothing bank. I’ve been meaning to do it for days, but I’ve been distracted by other things, and not got round to it. Time to put that right. That’ll be my morning taken care of.’
‘Sounds good. I’ll catch up with you when I get back from court.’
*
The clothing bank at St Anthony’s operated out of the church hall next to the main chapel building. A weather-beaten old sign indicating the clothing bank was open was attached with string to the metal railing outside the hall. Asif peered through the leaded glass front window. Inside the large wooden panelled hall, were several regimented rows of clothes rails, each groaning under the sheer volume of garments. There was clearly an efficient system in place as attached to each rail was a laminated sign, indicating if the clothes were for men, women, or children. The rails were further divided by size and the type of clothes. Shirts, jumpers, and light tops were on one rail, while heavier items like jackets and coats were on another. In the far corner of the hall were tables piled high with shoes and boots of various descriptions. The whole place gave the impression that it was a well-organised operation.
Asif pushed open the double doors and went into the hall. Several people, quite possible Roma judging by their appearance, were busy perusing the rails of clothes. Over to his left, two young women and an elderly gent were standing behind a table drinking coffee out of polystyrene cups. An urn, milk and sugar and a plate of assorted biscuits sat on the table in front of them.
Noticing Asif, one of the young women put down her cup and approached him. Asif fumbled in his trouser pocket for his warrant card.
‘Hello, welcome to St Anthony’s clothing bank, my name’s Maeve, I’m one of the volunteers here, how can I help you?’
Asif smiled and held out his hand.
‘Detective Constable Asif Butt, Aikenhead Road CID, pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’ said Maeve shaking Asif’s hand.
‘And would I be right in thinking you’re Maeve Healy, a friend of Roisin Byrne?’
Maeve grinned.
‘Well, that might depend on what she’s said about me, but yes that’s me, I’m Maeve Healy.’
Asif looked sheepish.
‘Oh, no worries on that score, but Roisin said you might be able to help me. I’m investigating several crimes that have occurred recently, where members of the local Roma community have been victims, I’m just looking for some background information.’
Maeve looked taken aback.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Run that past me again I’ve heard everything now. Seriously, did I hear you correctly? You said you’re investigating crimes committed against the Roma, not crimes committed by the Roma. I have got that right?’
Asif looked confused.
‘Yep, that’s what I said, I’ve been liaising with Roisin about them, she’s reported most of the crimes and now they’ve been allocated to me for investigation.’
A beaming smile broke out across Maeve’s face.
‘Well then, you’re very welcome, that’s terrific news, I’m sorry if I seemed surprised, I’m just not used to hearing that something positive is being done, usually the Roma get blamed and demonised for everything that goes wrong around here. It’s good to hear you say that; it’s about time someone from the authorities took an interest in the Roma community, they’ve suffered quite enough. So, what do you need to know, I’ll help in any way I can?’
Over a coffee Maeve started to explain how the clothing bank had started and how it now operated. The need had been apparent from the very beginning. The first Roma arrived in Govanhill with only the clothes they were wearing. They literally had nothing and with no money to speak of they had no way of providing for themselves. St Anthony’s had always been a proactive congregation, committed to helping people in need, both locally and overseas, so when someone suggested they should start a clothing bank it seemed like a simple way that they could offer practical help.
Donations of clothes flooded in. Church members and other people from the local area arrived with bin bags full of clothes and shoes. When other churches heard of the initiative they started collecting on their behalf and a local manufacturer, based in Castlemilk, who made children’s clothes, generously supplied dozens of polo shirts, skirts, and trousers so the kids would have something to wear to school.
The first few weeks were chaotic as they tried to find their feet. There was no real system in place to monitor who was getting what and being truthful it became a bit of a free for all. People came from all over the city and simply helped themselves. Dealers and unscrupulous individuals grabbed the better more expensive items and started selling them on eBay and other platforms. Being honest, it was all a bit of a nightmare and to cap it all, the Roma, the very people the clothing bank was designed to support were the ones losing out. Things had to change. That’s when Maeve and a few of her friends got involved. They identified that a system was needed to ensure that the clothes were distributed fairly.
The first step was to start recording what was given out and who was receiving it. They also made it a condition that you had to have a Govanhill postcode, that immediately stopped people travelling from all over the city. People’s names and address, together with what items they received were recorded in folders. To prove their identity the Roma used their passports and their letting agreements provided proof of an address. The system worked well and now, apart from the odd theft, the clothing bank ran smoothly and was a vital resource providing much needed assistance.
Maeve showed Asif one of the folders they used to record the details of who had received clothing from the bank.
Asif’s scanned the folder carefully. His attention was drawn to an entry from a couple of weeks ago.
21.11.2002. Istvan Aadeel Lakatos. Flat 2/3, 25 Westmoreland St, Govanhill, G42 7JU. Gents Green Parka, Black jeans, Brown Hi-Tec boots.
He tapped his finger on the entry.
‘Istvan Lakatos’s middle name is Aadeel, that’s a Muslim name. Translated it means just, or of good character. I know because I have a cousin named Aadeel.’
Maeve grinned and nodded.
‘Yep, you’re absolutely correct. I happen to be doing my master’s at Glasgow Uni in Islamic studies, so I know a bit about it. It’s unusual for the Roma to have an Islamic name, but it’s far from unique, although I think to my knowledge Istvan is the only example we have here. Did you know that hundreds of years ago, in fact it was probably thousands of years ago, the Roma people originally came from the Northern Punjab and the borders of Pakistan?’
Asif frowned and puffed his cheeks out.
‘Really? Well, I never knew that.’
‘Yeah, from there they spread south and west, through Turkey and into Bulgaria, Romania and Eastern Europe. Istvan is a really nice guy, speaks better English than most. He arrived in Glasgow a couple of months ago. I suspected he had Muslim heritage before I even knew his name.’
‘Oh, how did you know that?’ asked Asif curious to find out more.
Maeve smiled.
‘It was the ring he was wearing. He had a very old gold Shahada ring; it was inscribed in Arabic, but the lettering was very faint, and I couldn’t make it out. Anyway, I remarked on it, and he seemed impressed that I knew that it referred to one of the five pillars of Islam.’
‘He was impressed! He’s not the only one. I’m impressed you knew what it was.’
Asif waved his hand in the air.
‘And did it look something like this?’
Maeve giggled.
‘Yes, just like that. And like you, he knew to wear it on his left-hand pinkie finger. He told me it had been given to him by his grandfather, but it looked like it was generations older than that.’
‘If he was wearing a Shahada ring, I’d say it’s likely that he’s a practising Muslim?’
Maeve looked a little unsure.
‘He certainly knew he had Muslim ancestry, he told me that his grandfather and father both had Aadeel as their middle names. He said he had begun to read the Koran which suggested to me that he was just starting to explore Islam. He did ask where the local Mosque was. There are several near here as I’m sure you’re aware. The closest one’s in Butterbiggins road and, of course, the Central Mosque is just down the road in the Gorbals.’
Asif jotted down some notes in his folder.
‘I’ve never been to the Butterbiggins mosque, although I know about it. I play cricket with a guy whose brother is one of the Imams. Of course, I’ve been to the Central Mosque several times, but I still go to the Al-Furqan Mosque in Woodlands near my parents’ flat. Old habits die hard.’
Asif turned his attention back to the clothing bank folder. He flipped through a couple more pages. An entry near the top of the page drew his attention. It was for Jozef Rybar. Dated the 4.10.2002, it said he had received a blue gent’s winter jacket, corduroy jeans, and a sweatshirt.
Asif started to scribble more notes in his folder.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Fire away.’ replied Maeve.
