Khan was asking if the house-to-house inquiries had been fruitful, but the response was depressing. Nobody had seen or heard anything. Doors had been slammed in officers’ faces, if they were ever opened at all. One of the constables observed that while nobody was interested in talking about Mohammad Asaf, they were downright hostile when asked about the cousin, Saleem. Rick Houghton, as Doncaster’s drug squad lead, stood up to give a brief account of Mohammad’s known connections.
‘He was a small time supplier before his arrest last year. We’re working on the theory that this particular supply line is controlled from Sheffield, but we haven’t successfully traced it back to any group or individuals. Mohammad Asaf has kept his hands clean since he got out, which is very nice for Her Majesty’s Prison Service and their resettlement targets, but bugger all use to us. We’d given up watching him because he was being such a good boy.’
Lizzie spoke next, presenting the forensic analysis of Saleem’s possessions, taken from his bedside locker. She looked great, Sean thought, in slim black trousers and a cropped jacket. She was thinner than when he’d first known her, or maybe just more toned. He imagined her at the gym, wondering if she’d joined a local one since moving back. Wouldn’t it be great if it were the same gym he went to? She caught his eye for a second and he snapped back to the moment and tried to look as if he’d been listening.
‘It’s Saleem’s own blood on his clothes and no one else’s. We’re checking a fingerprint from his sleeve, which looks as if someone made a grab for him. The shoes are still waiting to go to the lab. I’m sorry but we’re having trouble keeping up with the workload as it is, so I’ll have to get back to you on this in a day or so.’
Lizzie sat down, catching Sean’s eye with a strained smile, as she slipped back into the row behind him.
‘Thank you,’ Khan said. ‘Saleem’s injury wasn’t lifethreatening, and my guess is, that was quite deliberate. It’s possible someone wants him to keep quiet, perhaps he’s the missing link in the drug supply line.’
‘It’s possible,’ Rick grunted.
After a few questions from the floor, Khan announced that Doncaster and Sheffield CID homicide and drug squad officers would remain active, but all uniformed officers were being pulled off the estate to let things settle. There was a commotion of voices questioning the decision.
‘That’s all for now, folks. I think we have to accept that we’re not going to get anything out of these people by asking straightforward questions. We’re going to have to try something different. Right, on your way, people.’
‘Whose idea is this?’ A male voice called from the middle of the room.
Sean thought he recognised it as the one who’d called him a Paki lover. He turned to try to match a face to the voice, but people were standing up, blocking his view. He felt a tap on his shoulder; it was Khan.
‘Meet me in the CID office in ten minutes.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Oh and Denton?’
‘Sir?’
‘Get me an Americano from the canteen, small splash of milk.’
The long corridor which led from the ops room to the CID office was lined with rooms belonging to senior staff (opaque glass above the door, knock before entering) and larger offices which housed uniformed teams and civilians (clear glass, doors left open to air the overcrowded hot boxes). A wolf whistle came from the PCSO base as he passed. He suspected it was Carly. The door ahead of him at the end of the corridor had clear glass, over which someone had stuck a home-made poster:
Rules of the CID Office
1. Forgive your enemy but remember the bastard’s name.
2. Many people are only alive because it’s illegal to shoot them.
3. Alcohol never solved anything but then again, neither did tea.
Sean turned the loose metal handle and the glass rattled in its frame. The room was packed with furniture. Desks, pushed back-to-back, lined the wall under the window and a central table was laden with box files. Tucked behind the door another long table was piled with a nest of cables, one leading to a grubby computer monitor, others trailing off between mismatched chairs before snaking across the floor.
‘Can I help you?’ A head was appearing from under a desk in the far corner of the room. The head was partly covered by DI Rick Houghton’s thinning hair. ‘Sean, mate. Didn’t recognise your feet in trainers.’
‘Khan asked me to come in dressed down. Is he around?’
‘He’ll be back in a minute.’ Rick stood up and dusted off his trousers. ‘I was trying to reconnect my telephone line. We’re sharing with the Sheffield crew.’
‘What? They unplugged your phone? Cheeky buggers.’
‘That’s one word for them. That coffee going spare?’
‘No.’ Sean hoped he could remember which was his cappuccino and which was Khan’s Americano. ‘Although it is probably going cold.’
‘Shame. I’m gasping.’
Sean nudged some box files aside on the central table to make space to put the cups. Rick picked one up and peeled back the lid. The froth had stuck to the plastic.
‘What do you call this? Looks like a frigging milkshake.’
‘Get your mitts off. That’s mine.’
‘What’s the other one?’
‘Americano, but that’s for DCI Khan.’
‘Are you his personal servant now?’ Rick grinned at him. ‘Scared you’ll be back in uniform if you give him the wrong brew?’
‘I don’t have a clue what he thinks I am, to be honest.’
‘Yeah? Well be careful around him. He’s got a reputation.’ Rick licked off the froth from the inside of the cappuccino’s lid.
‘So people keep saying.’
Sean heard a door close further along the corridor. He turned to see Khan heading towards the CID office.
‘Ah, coffee, excellent and you got one for DI Houghton. Good work, Sean. Right, we need to talk through a plan. Shut the door. I’ve had an idea, but this is strictly between the three of us.’
Rick picked up the cappuccino and licked his lips behind Khan’s back, before taking a slurp of Sean’s coffee.
‘Right, Denton. As you know, I’ve pulled the house-to-house team off for now, but I want you to go back on the estate.’
‘Sir?’
‘I don’t want you to do anything, just be there. Hang out, and relax,’ Khan said. ‘Spend some time at your dad’s place.’
Sean nearly choked. ‘I don’t think he’ll want me, especially if I’m on the job.’
‘Not a big fan of the force is he?’ Khan said.
‘That’s an understatement, sir.’
‘Why’s that then?’
‘My dad was a miner,’ Sean said, suddenly noticing a mark on the knee of his jeans. He licked his thumb to rub it off. When he looked up, Khan was waiting for more. ‘Uh, well. This was before I was born. He got his hand broken on a picket line by a member of the South Yorkshire Force, as it happens. It never healed properly and he couldn’t go back to work, and then there was no work to go back to. He’s a drinker, has been for years. End of.’
‘Did he try to stop you joining the force?’
‘He didn’t know for a long time. I haven’t had much to do with him, to be honest.’
‘I think you should stay with him for a few days. Would that be possible?’
Sean looked at Khan in horror. ‘You’re kidding? Shit. You’re not kidding.’
‘I want you to be right there, where you can overhear conversations in stairwells, or hang out in the pub, picking up gossip.’
‘Not much chance of that, sir, the pub was burnt down last year and it’s not going to be rebuilt.’
Khan took a sip of coffee. ‘Tell him you’ve changed careers. Taken up money lending.’
Sean said nothing.
‘Another thing, Denton.’
‘Sir?’
‘What have you done to upset DS Simkins? She says you didn’t turn up at Mrs Armley’s and she was somewhat inconvenienced yesterday.’
‘She was early. The old lady wouldn’t let her in. I don’t know why she didn’t wait for me.’