Roscoe gave Naseema a wan smile, which she ignored. Roscoe settled down into her seat as Seymour turned the car into Shoreside. She was wondering how the family would take the news of Mo’s death. Unless they already knew, of course. That was a distinct possibility. Her eyes scanned the wet pavements which glistened under the halogen lighting of the few street lamps which were still intact and working. She peered down dark alleyways into the black shadows between houses, but she was not really concentrating on what she was looking at — her mind still stuck on Henry Christie — until she spotted the first unusual movement.
‘Stop, Dave,’ she said quickly, using a chopping motion of the hand to reinforce the order. Seymour pulled in.
‘Back up a few feet. I want to get a look up that alley we just passed. Thought I saw something.’
Saeed raised his head, his cheeks were smeared with tears. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Don’t know yet. We won’t be a second, then we’ll get you home.’
Seymour coaxed the unwilling gear lever into reverse and backed up to the entrance to the alley, one of numerous rat-runs which criss-crossed the estate. They were often used by kids to rob other kids of their Reeboks, or grannies of their purses, and to then evade the cops when pursued. Roscoe’s eyes probed through the rain, shaded by her hands cupped over her brow.
There was a quick flash of torchlight. Some movement. Several people were up there. Doing what?
Then they were gone.
‘Kids.’ Seymour spat — just another spectrum of society he despised.
‘Mm,’ Roscoe agreed without certainty, a funny feeling in her bones. ‘C’mon, let’s get these people home.’
A couple of minutes later the car drew up outside the general store. It was a large, low-roofed, purpose-built shop, with living accommodation at the rear. It was part of a row of other smaller shop units, one of which was a fish and chip shop, the others were boarded up. Mo Khan’s shop had once been part of the Spar chain until he took it over to join the growing number of his shops scattered throughout Lancashire. They all opened from six until midnight. Tonight, even though there was a family crisis, the shop was open and trading.
Roscoe got out of the car and opened Naseema’s door, scanning the area. Opposite the shop was a small grassed area with a children’s playground. The swings had all been dismantled and only the frames remained, rather like the skeletons of dinosaurs. Beyond that was a curve of houses, quasi-semis, all council owned. A few were occupied, most were boarded up, others just burnt-out shells. Shoreside was not an estate people clamoured to live on; it was one of the poorest and most deprived in the region, if not the country. Unemployment was sky high, crime rife.
Roscoe felt uneasy. She knew the place was tense because of the Khan/Costain confrontation. Standing outside the shop she could almost taste the atmosphere. It was quiet — too quiet. She didn’t like it, her instincts nagged at her.
Naseema got out followed by Saeed. Seymour opened his door, but Roscoe held the top of it, preventing him from moving. ‘Stay with the car, Dave, I won’t be long.’
‘Why?’
‘Humour me, OK? There’s something buzzing round here and I don’t want to come back to a damaged motor. And don’t fall asleep.’
Seymour looked round, puzzled, wondering what he had missed, but saw nothing. He resettled his broad posterior on the driver’s seat, actually relieved he did not have to go into the Khans’ home. He hated being surrounded by coloured people. He prayed he would not be given the job of family liaison officer.
Roscoe followed Naseema and Saeed inside the shop.
The family already knew and Roscoe found herself at the centre of a bereaved family at its most emotionally charged.
Mo Khan’s widow was sobbing and wailing hysterically on the sofa, wringing her hands and beating her fists into cushions. Naseema immediately went to comfort her, while maintaining her own cool, cold, facade. Two of her sons were incandescent with rage. They paced the living room like Bengal tigers, muttering angrily, punching the air. A third son, the eldest, sat quietly on an armchair, watching the others while smoking a pungent cigarette. Then there was Saeed, the youngest, thrown into this vortex, a live wire, bursting with tension, vowing revenge.
All in all, a volatile mixture.
Much of what Roscoe heard was in Urdu. Some English was spoken obviously for her benefit. The talk was of retribution. Justice. Racism. Bloodshed. Death.
Roscoe knew she had to exercise some authority but it was difficult to know where to begin. She had to lay down the law, tell them to keep it cool, keep a lid on it, let the police do their job, make promises, reassure them. . for what good it would do. She picked on the brother seated in the armchair. He was the oldest and appeared to be most in control of himself.
The rain had stopped, but the car was still misted up on the inside. Bloody crappy police cars, Seymour thought and turned the fan heater up a couple of notches. The windscreen started to clear very slowly.
He leaned back. His right hand dropped to the side of the seat and fumbled with the recline knob. He turned it and the seat angled back a few degrees. Might as well be as comfortable as possible, he thought shuffling his bulk. He switched on the car radio and found a nice, jazzy station, pumping up the volume so he could hear it over the clatter of the de-mister.
He was pretty whacked. The long day and the recently devoured kebab was having a somnolent effect on him. His eyelids drooped heavily. He drifted into a light sleep and his chin sagged heavily onto his chest. A loud snore jarred him awake for a brief moment before his eyes clicked shut again. This time his chin fell gently. He was gone. A grunting sound came from somewhere in his nose as his breathing became heavy.
So he did not see them coming. He had no chance.
Mo Khan’s eldest son was called Rafiq, almost thirty, now the head of the family and its various businesses. Roscoe managed to manoeuvre him away from his relatives, into the back of the shop behind the counter where she could speak to him alone.
The shop was quiet, only a couple of customers browsing. A young Asian girl was working the till and reading a magazine.
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Rafiq said before Jane Roscoe had a chance to begin. ‘Don’t take the law into your own hands. Let the police sort it out. I know, I know.’ He dismissed her with a contemptuous wave. ‘I also know that you are institutionally racist and do not care one bit about us.’
‘That’s not true,’ Roscoe said defensively. ‘I care and I will do my very best for you. I won’t labour the point about the other things you said. You know full well there is a suspect for your father’s murder. We’re going to arrest him. So leave the justice to us, Rafiq. It’s our job, not yours or your family’s.’
‘I hear what you say, Mrs Copper, but I don’t know if I can hold my brothers back — or even if I want to. They are very angry. The Costains have been at our throats ever since we came here and you have done nothing to protect us — and now this has happened. You cannot be too critical if we do take the law into our own hands, can you, lady?’
From the research Roscoe had done very recently into the Khan/Costain situation, Rafiq’s version of the conflict between the two families was not entirely accurate. However, she didn’t want to argue the toss now.
‘We would be critical of anyone who takes the law into their own hands, under whatever circumstance, under whatever provocation. I’m asking you to give us enough time to sort this matter out. I don’t want to have to come and arrest you or any of your family at a time of grief. Understand?’