He tried to concentrate on what was happening in front of him. He was sure the person who’d run away must have got into the back of the Health Centre. He kept it in his sights and backed down the alley, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he didn’t back into the wall, or anyone else who might be skulking in the dark. When he got to the corner, he stopped. He had a feeling he was being watched. He called Khan’s number. It rang and rang; the noise of the fire must have been drowning it out.
Khan finally picked up.
‘Sir, I’m behind the shops. I’ve got a potential suspect who I think has got into the back of the Health Centre.’
‘Description?’
‘Male, about 5’5, 5’6, I think.’
‘IC?’
‘I wouldn’t like to say, sir.’
‘Don’t worry. You won’t offend me.’
‘I’m not. Worried, I mean. But I didn’t get much of a look. It’s dark back here. I think he’s young from the way he moved. Fifteen, sixteen?’
‘Saleem?’
‘Could be.’
He could hear footsteps in the side alley before he’d even put his phone back in his pocket. A female uniformed officer and DCI Khan were coming towards him. He ran ahead to make sure nothing had changed around the Health Centre window.
‘Did you look inside?’ Khan said as they reached him.
Sean shook his head. The female officer had her torch out and was shining it at the window frame.
‘There’s blood here,’ she said, ‘but the glass is intact.’
‘Good work, Denton. Now, make yourself useful and see if you can find a number for a keyholder for this place. They’re bound to have a security contract with someone.’
Sean scanned the back of the building for a sign or a plaque. There was a CCTV camera but it was too high up to read the writing.
‘I’ll have a look round the front. Back in a minute.’
He looked towards the dead end of the service road, but it was surrounded by the same brick walls, topped with razor wire. He’d have to go the long way round, past the burning shop front and the audience of onlookers.
On the street, the riot police had arrived. They were parked beyond the second fire engine, crouched inside their van like bees waiting to swarm and sting. They hadn’t been stirred up to attack yet; their presence was a warning to a section of the crowd who looked like they might fancy a fight.
‘All right, mate.’
Someone jostled Sean’s arm. It was Terry Starkey. The moving crowd pushed them closer together until Terry put his arm round Sean’s shoulder. Sean felt his grip and looked in vain towards the Health Centre. There were over a hundred people between him and the information he needed to get a keyholder. He could see that the front of the building was completely shuttered up, so the suspect must still be inside. Maybe Khan and the officer had given up waiting and kicked the window in by now.
‘Here, look, it’s the TV,’ Terry shouted and swung round with Sean still in his grip, right into the path of a cameraman. ‘This’ll make you famous.’
At that moment, a woman in a red coat pushed a microphone in front of them.
When Sean got to his nan’s house, a PCSO jacket was hanging over a chair in the kitchen. Carly was in the living room, a smut of soot still smeared across her cheek, sharing the settee with Maureen.
‘All right, Nan,’ Sean said. ‘See you’ve made yourself at home, Carly.’
‘Sorry, mate, have I pinched your spot?’ She made no effort to move.
‘No, but you’ve pinched one of my beers.’
‘No fighting. They’re my beers to hand out as I please and Carly was kind enough to see me home.’ Maureen looked up from the television. ‘There’s one left in the fridge, love.’
‘Be quick though, Sean,’ Carly said, ‘the news is coming on. You might see me in a starring role.’
Sean helped himself to a beer. He wouldn’t mind skipping the news. He had a nagging feeling that he’d be the one in the starring role. They sat through a long piece about a slump in UK manufacturing.
‘Nothing new there, it’s been slumped round here since the Three-Day Week,’ Maureen said. She settled the cat on her lap and lit up a cigarette.
When the local news came on, they could see the fire crew pouring water into the broken window of AK News. Sean spotted Carly’s back on the far right of the screen, arms wide like a one-woman human cordon.
‘A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do,’ she said.
Sean didn’t need Look North’s help in reliving the evening. By the time he’d got the number of the security firm, from a plaque above the front window of the Health Centre, Khan was on the phone to say they’d got a couple of lads from the riot van to batter in the back door. Inside a locked toilet they’d found a very miserable looking Saleem Asaf. Sean was told to stand down, but he was to report to Khan, back at the station, first thing in the morning.
The programme cut to Winston Grove. A familiar figure was standing next to the Look North woman, leaning towards the microphone as if he was about to burst into song. Terry Starkey. He had his arm round the shoulder of someone off-screen. Sean sipped his beer but he couldn’t swallow it.
‘It’s people from outside, coming onto our estate,’ Terry Starkey told the camera. ‘Dealing drugs, bringing trouble in, that’s what the police are telling us. They can have dozens of coppers down here for one dead Paki, but on an everyday basis? We don’t see no one.’
Then the camera pulled back and there was Sean, smiling. Fucking smiling. What the hell had come over him?
‘Who the …?’ Carly spluttered and sat bolt upright, sloshing beer onto Maureen’s carpet.
‘Is that you, love?’ Maureen turned to look at him, taking in the same T-shirt, the same haircut, as if he could possibly have a double out there who’d stolen his clothes. By the time she looked back at the screen, the image had changed back to the burning shop. They sat silently, staring, but he didn’t reappear. Carly took out a tissue and mopped at the beer on the carpet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Doncaster
‘Who was that man and what did you say to him?’ Khan was clicking the end of his ballpoint pen.
‘Terry Starkey. I saw him earlier in the day, painting over a slogan. I did speak to him, but I didn’t … I don’t know …’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I didn’t say anything about Mohammad Asaf.’
‘So you never told this gentleman about, and I quote, “one dead Paki”?’
‘No,’ Sean’s mouth was so dry his tongue was sticking to the inside of his cheeks. ‘He doesn’t know I’m a police officer and I never said “Paki”, I mean, I would have used the word “Asian”.’
‘You mean you said, for the point of argument, “dead Asian” instead of “dead Paki” because that’s better in some way, is it? And which part of “media silence” did you not understand? The press office has been bombarded with calls since last night.’
The ballpoint pen cracked in Khan’s fist. Sean was glad there was a desk between them, and the door was on his side of it. Always check your exit is clear if there’s a risk of attack. Personal safety. Unit 1.
‘You’re suspended, Denton. Hand your badge in. Speak to your union rep and get out.’
‘Excuse me?’ There was no air in his lungs. He felt his mouth open and close like a fish landed on a bank. ‘But …’
‘You heard.’ Khan spun his chair away and fixed his stare out of the window.
Sean found Rick Houghton in the canteen.
‘He’ll have to follow formal procedure,’ Rick said. ‘You’ll be suspended on full pay until it’s sorted. I expect you’ll have to have another meeting with the lovely Wendy Gore from Professional Standards.’