‘But I haven’t done anything!’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘Look, this guy, Starkey, he’s stirring it up for some reason. Maybe he wants another bloody riot, I don’t know.’
He’d said nothing to Rick about his dad or the CUC meeting. It wouldn’t help his case, especially as he needed to convince them that Starkey was nothing to do with him.
‘It’s a shame you’re suspended, Sean. I was hoping to show you some mugshots of the lads we’ve had in our sights for drug dealing on your manor.’
‘Is it connected to our case? Sorry, Khan’s case. Not mine any more. I don’t have a fucking case and I’m not going to have a job soon, thanks to that bloody Nazi.’
‘Calm down, man! Anyone hears you calling Khan a Nazi and you’ll definitely never work again.’
Sean realised the canteen had gone quiet.
‘I’m not talking about DCI Sam Nasir Khan.’ He was speaking to Rick but he made sure everyone else could hear. If they were so keen to listen to his conversation, they might as well get the truth. ‘I’m not the racist here. I’m talking about the guy on the telly. Terry Starkey. A man with a “Made in England” tattoo on his neck.’
‘You want to know his story?’ Rick lowered his voice. ‘That shouldn’t be difficult, especially with a tattoo like that. I didn’t see the news myself. Sounds like I missed a treat though.’
‘Check it out on iPlayer. But the tattoo’s on the other side. He knew which way to turn from the camera.’ Sean pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘By all means look into it, Rick, as a mate. But beyond that, forget it. Don’t do me any favours that are going to get you into trouble.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it. But it might help the investigation, two investigations actually. Look, you get off home, enjoy your extra bit of paid holiday and call me if anything comes up.’
Sean had never had a dog of his own, but he’d seen plenty, and right now he felt like one who’d been kicked very hard and had its nose rubbed in its own shit. He walked out of the station and across town, eyes on the pavement in front of him, counting the fag butts and pressed circles of gum. He stopped at the edge of the market and watched the stallholders and shoppers, busy like ants. He wondered if Lizzie Morrison had found the other half of the ant corpse from the shoe prints. He’d probably never find out. The Red Lion on the corner had a pie and a pint special offer in its window and there was no reason not to go in.
‘We’re not serving food until eleven-thirty, love,’ the woman behind the bar said.
He looked at his watch and realised it was only quarter past ten.
‘I’ll just have a pint then.’
After another two pints, he was ready for pie and chips, not to mention the peas and gravy that came with it. He found himself thinking he should bring his dad in here some time, get some decent food in him. It was cheap and the landlady was doing her best to make it cheerful. Then he remembered the AA meetings and the liver problem. Perhaps a pub wasn’t the best idea.
It was warm and Sean was full of food. His eyes were closing, as if lead weights were pressing on his eyelids. He shuddered awake, checking to see if anyone had noticed, but the pub was the same as before. He rubbed his face but it was no good, his head nodded forward until his forehead rested on his arms on the table in front of him. He drifted into a dream of blood on concrete, soaking into his shoes, and Rick Houghton calling his name.
‘Sean, mate?’
He jerked upright and realised Rick was standing on the other side of the table. He could only have been asleep for a few minutes. The beer was pressing on his bladder.
‘Hang on,’ he said, ‘I’ll be right back.’
It was cooler in the gents’ toilet and he felt more awake. He had what must have been the longest piss in the world, washed his hands and splashed his face with water.
There were two cups of coffee on the table when he got back and Rick was laying out photographs on top of a brown envelope.
‘Stills from the CCTV at Winston Grove shops,’ Rick said.
Sean peered at the grainy images, each of which included Terry Starkey.
‘That’s him, right?’ Rick asked. ‘What about the others, the ones you saw painting the wall?’
‘This guy,’ Sean pointed. ‘He’s called Gary. Right little fascist, he is.’
‘We’ve got footage of him being quite the model citizen, helping the fire brigade and keeping the youth out of the way. He’s not known on our patch, but I’ll send his face around the other forces.’
‘What about that face recognition thing they’re using in the Met?’
‘No budget for it up here, mate. And to be honest, it’s not that great. You’re sure he’s not local?’
‘Not as far as I know. Sounds Mancunian, or some place like that. Starkey gave the impression he’d got these guys in to help. Maybe he met them inside.’
‘Well he had plenty of time to make friends at Her Majesty’s pleasure. He served a long stretch for armed robbery, so your hunch was spot on. Put a ring round any of the others you think are part of Starkey’s crew, then we can have their prints ready for comparison with anything at the scene.’
Sean found the other two faces easily.
‘They’ll have kept their hands clean,’ he said, ‘but you could get them on incitement to racial hatred.’
It was a mistake not to have told Khan he’d been at the meeting, but Sean wasn’t sure how he was going to get away with suddenly remembering something he couldn’t possibly have forgotten. Then it came to him. Maureen.
‘Give my nan a ring. She might be able to tell you what was said at the Clean Up Chasebridge meeting.’
‘Nice one.’ Rick drained his coffee and put the photos back in the envelope.
‘And, Rick, she might mention I was there too. I just sort of forgot to tell DCI Khan.’
Rick hesitated.
‘You know the oath in court, Sean?’
Sean nodded.
‘The reason it’s “the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth” is because anything else will tie you in knots. A white lie here and there, and before you know it, you’re up to your neck in shit. Why didn’t you tell him?’
Sean shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I thought it would come out wrong. I went to the meeting with my dad, to bond with him or something stupid. I felt sort of dirty just hearing that stuff and you know what? I didn’t want to offend Khan. That’s pathetic, isn’t it?’
‘No. It’s naïve.’ Rick sighed and leant heavily against the back of the seat.
When they’d finished talking, and Rick had paid for another two coffees, they said goodbye and went in opposite directions. Sean left the moped parked in the yard at the police station – he didn’t need to add a drink-driving conviction to his problems – and set off to the bus stop. As he passed the estate agents’ shop, he paused for a moment, pushed the door open and went in.
The well-appointed studio apartment had already been let. He wasn’t entirely surprised. But there was something else, if he was interested. He found himself agreeing to a viewing there and then. The estate agent drove him to a pretty Georgian square only five minutes’ walk from the police station. At least the agent said it was Georgian. Sean just thought it looked old, seriously old but very smart. He was already shaking his head and trying to form the words ‘out of my price range’ but the agent kept on talking. Gavin Wentworth had told him about attending a burglary on this square and the money people had here was eye-watering. Never mind a studio, it would have to be a broom cupboard before he could afford it.
They stopped in front of a tall, brick building, maybe not as old as some of the others, but certainly dating back to the time when the Chasebridge estate was fields, covered in deer or bears or something. Sean was beginning to regret the three pints. In spite of the coffee, his mind was all over the place, and he was dying for another piss. The house had an imposing flight of stone steps up to the front door and at least ten doorbells to choose from.