‘Here. Meredith House. I mean, I’ve been here since I left prison, except when I go to work, which is at Halsworth Grange, near Halsworth Main, South Yorkshire.’ The truth is easy and clear, she hopes they can see that.
‘Can anyone confirm that?’
Her memory blanks out for a moment, she almost panics, then it comes back.
‘I was at the IT class that evening. There’s a trainer. She’s from the council. Kath. She’s called Kath. I did the IT class, then I went to bed.’
‘Thank you, we just needed to be sure.’
‘Ask Darren, ask … well, the other girl’s off sick, but she’d know. She was on duty that night.’
‘And what’s her name?’
‘Taheera. Taheera Ahmed.’
Chloe chews her lip. She mustn’t say any more. What she’s told them is real, so far. If she adds to it, she may get it wrong. All she understands is that this visit has got something to do with Taheera and the boyfriend. Suddenly an image flashes into her mind of the young man on the tower of York Minster and Chloe is pushing him; he’s flying through the air, turning and falling. But that’s wrong. She didn’t go up there. She stayed on the ground. There was a nest with bird skeletons. He wasn’t the one falling in space. She gave the nest to a little boy. That was last week. She needs to focus on the truth. Tuesday evening. The class, her bed, Taheera crying on the phone. The bus. Work. That’s it. It’s all in place. She needs to keep it there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Doncaster
Sean woke up with his hip squashed under him and his arm tingling with pins and needles. The slope of the settee had prevented him from turning over in his sleep. He adjusted the hood of the sleeping bag where it had slipped down. He stretched out on his back, his feet up on the arm. He felt his spine click straight again. The morning light filtered through the dirty nets, picking out dust in the air. Yesterday he’d cleaned and swept and scrubbed until every muscle ached. The kitchen cupboards were spotless and he’d managed to replace the fuse in the water heater.
The sitting room was getting warmer and a rank smell was rising from the carpet. He thought about hiring one of those steam cleaners. They weren’t pricey. His legs itched inside the sleeping bag and he longed for a shower, so he extricated himself carefully and put his feet in his shoes. The bathroom was looking better than when he’d started. The black mildew was gone from around each tile, but the bath itself was still scratched and stained. It looked like the inside of an old teapot. There was no shower as such, just a rubber attachment shoved on the taps. He didn’t like the look of it so he ran water into the sink, filled his hands and drenched his face. He dried it on his T-shirt and decided he needed some air. His nan would be up by now, she was an early riser. A proper shower and a decent breakfast were calling.
The estate was quiet apart from a car changing gear, coming down the hill towards The Groves. He caught a glimpse of the driver, a woman in a green uniform tabard, an agency carer he supposed, or a cleaner, up and out early.
Particularly observant with an eye for detail was the final comment on his police training report. Not observant enough to keep his bloody mouth shut and stay away from Terry Starkey when a camera crew turned up, and now he was facing a disciplinary, and he wouldn’t get off as lightly this time. He kicked a stone so hard it ricocheted off the base of a lamp post with a surprising clang.
He was so focused on wishing he could turn back the clock that his eyes and ears nearly let him down, and he would have missed it, if the sound of a car door hadn’t caught his attention. In front of the shops, a woman had got out of a taxi. It was like an action replay of the scene he’d witnessed a couple of days ago. Only this time the young woman’s hijab was askew and her face was grey with tiredness. She held out her hand to help someone struggling to get out of the car, beseeching them to hurry up so they could get inside, but the figure who emerged did so slowly, holding his waist with one hand and gripping the roof of the car to pull himself to standing.
As Saleem Asaf turned to slam the car door shut, he looked up and his eyes locked on to Sean’s. He was as thin as a whippet, apart for a thick band around his middle, pushing against a rusty brown mark on his tight T-shirt. Sean could make out the contours of a newly-applied dressing.
As Ghazala and Saleem approached the front of the shop, a police officer waved them away. They stood for a moment and Sean saw how lost they were, like two refugees in a scene from the ten o’clock news. He told himself not to be so soft. Saleem Asaf deserved to be in the nick, not constantly slipping through their fingers, but as Ghazala adjusted her hijab and straightened her drooping shoulders, he found himself approaching them.
‘Anything I can do to help?’
‘You can tell that bastard that we need to get into our flat,’ Saleem began, but was cut short by Ghazala slapping him round the side of the head.
‘Why don’t you just shut up for once? Eh?’
Saleem looked at his feet.
‘Yes, please,’ Ghazala turned to Sean. ‘You’re police, right? We need to get upstairs to the flat. I need to find the insurance documents.’
Sean was going to tell her that he wasn’t working, but at that moment the officer by the shop recognised him and beckoned him over.
‘All right, mate? It’s PC Denton, isn’t it?’
‘Aye, that’s me,’ Sean said.
He couldn’t remember the other man’s name. He worked the day shift in a different unit. There was nothing in his open smile that suggested he knew anything about Sean’s suspension.
‘Look, technically I’m off duty,’ Sean said, ‘but would it be OK if I accompanied the young lady into the flat? I think we can get around the back without disturbing the crime scene.’
‘I don’t see why not, if you’re quick.’
Ghazala followed him and Saleem tagged along behind her.
‘No, son,’ Sean said, ‘you stay right here, where my colleague can see you.’
‘What you saying? I can’t go in my own home? You saying you don’t trust me?’
‘That’s right, Saleem, that’s exactly what I’m saying.’
Saleem gave an exaggerated shrug, sucked his teeth at Sean and flounced off to sit on the low wall in front of the library. A flicker of annoyance passed across Ghazala’s face but she shut it out. She and Sean walked quickly up the alley beside the library to the back of the shop. He was impressed by the way she was handling this situation; the more businesslike the better, as far as Sean was concerned. Any moment now, the officer at the front of the shop might catch on and call in to the station, then he’d find out that Sean had no right to be here.
Ghazala opened two padlocks on the security shutter and pulled it up. She unlocked the back door and Sean followed her. They were in a hallway with a flight of stairs ahead of them and an internal door to their right. The air smelt of burnt plastic and the paintwork was clouded with smoke stains. Ghazala pulled her scarf across her mouth and nose as she climbed the stairs to the inner door of the flat.
Inside the living room, the smell was overpowering.
‘Please touch as little as possible,’ Sean said. ‘Just find the papers and then we need to leave.’
She stood still and looked around.
‘Everything’s ruined,’ her voice cracked as she swallowed back tears. ‘My dad doesn’t know yet, he …’
Sean stood helplessly, wanting to comfort her, but knowing he shouldn’t touch her.
‘Saleem said your father was in Pakistan with your uncle.’
She nodded, her eyes coming to rest on a bookcase with an inbuilt sliding cupboard at eye level. She took a tissue out of her pocket and made sure she didn’t touch the wood as she slid the cupboard open. The tissue was grey with soot as she let it fall to the carpet.
‘Are they on their way back?’ Sean said. ‘I imagine your uncle, at least, would want to bury his son, and now this fire. It’s not fair to leave you to deal with everything.’