On the dining-room table, K had put a small pile of photographs; there was also a new notebook in the sitting room, and a bottle of mineral water and three glasses stood on the coffee table. ‘Boatman will only take water,’ he said, seeing Liz looking at his preparations. ‘He doesn’t drink tea or coffee.’
Liz spent some time looking through the photographs in the dining room before going to join Kanaan in the sitting room. He was sitting on one of the flowery sofas, scanning the Guardian. She sat down opposite him on the other sofa and they made desultory conversation. But as the time for the meeting drew nearer, they fell silent. Even after years doing this sort of work, Liz still felt a tension in her stomach, a quickened beating of the heart, as she waited for the phone to ring. Kanaan must be much more nervous, she thought, though to do him credit he didn’t show any sign of it.
The phone rang, breaking the silence; one ring and then nothing. Kanaan went to the front door and looked through the peephole; then, just as Boatman walked up the path, he opened the door and closed it again as soon as the young man was inside.
Liz heard them in the hall exchanging greetings. ‘ Salaam alaikum,’ Boatman said to Kanaan.
‘ Wa Alaikum as-Salaam,’ Kanaan replied. ‘I have brought someone to meet you like I told you,’ he said, as they walked into the sitting room. ‘This is Jane. I work with her. She can be trusted.’
Boatman peered at Liz, then nodded. She smiled and nodded in reply. The young Asian was wearing a white embroidered skullcap and the traditional white shalwar kameez; his feet were in sandals. His face was young but his expression very serious. He looked, Liz thought, as though he had considered the follies most young men opt for and rejected them. If the weight of the world was not yet on his shoulders, his expression seemed to say, it was only a matter of time. Liz was used to agents being scared, even sometimes cracking jokes to allay their nerves. But Boatman seemed entirely composed and serious – almost forbiddingly so. There was a rather chilly air of religious probity about him.
Kanaan said brightly, ‘How is married life treating you?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ Boatman answered gravely, like a potentate accepting a subject’s best wishes.
‘How long have you been married?’ Liz asked, though she knew from her briefing that his wedding was four months ago.
‘Not long,’ he said, then his voice brightened. ‘But I find I like my wife more and more each day. She is very kind, and more intelligent than I expected.’
Liz was startled, then realised that it would have been an arranged marriage. It was not a practice she approved of, but at least Boatman seemed pleased to have discovered unexpected virtues in his bride.
‘How are things at the mosque?’ asked Kanaan, getting down to business.
Boatman shrugged. ‘They have stopped pressing me to go to Pakistan – they accept that with a new bride, I don’t wish to go away. Especially…’ he said, and Liz understood at once – especially since he might then never see his wife again.
Boatman went on, ‘The others are going. We still meet together once a week, but there are meetings to which I am not invited.’
‘At the mosque?’ asked Liz.
‘Yes, but elsewhere also. Malik says they have been to London.’
‘Did he say where?’ asked Kanaan.
‘Only that it was in North London. They went for a briefing about what they should expect when they arrive in Pakistan.’
‘And what was that?’ asked Liz.
‘He didn’t say, and I didn’t feel I could press him.’
‘No, that’s quite right. Let him tell you what he wants to. You mustn’t push him too hard for information.’
‘He did say something about the meeting though. He said they were addressed at one point by a Westerner. Not an Asian.’
Kanaan interjected, sounding excited. ‘Wasn’t Malik surprised?’
Boatmen put a hand on his chin contemplatively, stroking his wispy beard. ‘I didn’t get the feeling he disapproved. I think if anything he was proud that a convert to Islam was helping him and the others.’
‘Did he describe this Westerner?’ asked Liz.
Boatman shook his head. ‘No. But I am seeing Malik tomorrow.’
‘Ask him then,’ said Kanaan.
‘Steady on,’ said Liz a little sharply. ‘Go carefully.’ She looked at Boatman, but was dismayed to see that all his attention was focused on Kanaan. He clearly saw the male figure as naturally in charge, and looked to his handler to tell him what he should do. It wasn’t surprising, and Kanaan was his controller, but she was alarmed that her youthful colleague’s enthusiasm was getting the better of his judgement. She said to Boatman firmly, ‘Find out what you can, but don’t press Malik too hard. If he wants to talk, encourage him. But I don’t want you to give out any signal that you’re any more than casually curious – particularly about this Westerner.’
She couldn’t tell if Boatman was listening to her, as he was still looking at Kanaan, but short of grabbing him by the ears and shouting, there wasn’t much more she could say. And the last thing she wanted to do was to undermine Kanaan in front of his agent.
Kanaan stood up. ‘I’ve got some photographs for you to look at, Salim. They’re in the other room. I’ll just get them.’
In the brief time they were alone together Boatman did not look at Liz. He poured himself a glass of water and drank it slowly, without asking her if she would like one too.
Kanaan came back and put the pile of photographs on the coffee table. ‘Would you have a look through these to see if you recognise anyone?’
For the next few minutes Boatman leafed through the pictures. They were mainly of young Asian men in a variety of Western and traditional clothes, with a few older men and even fewer young women. He took the task seriously, examining each photograph with care, only to shake his head. In the middle of the pile he paused and looked hard at a photograph of a young man in traditional costume. ‘I have seen this man before. I don’t know his name but he used to go to the mosque. I have not seen him for a long time, though, and he certainly doesn’t go to the mosque now.’
He pushed the photograph across the table and Liz picked it up. No, he certainly doesn’t, she thought. It was a picture of Amir Khan, at present in the Santé prison. ‘Can you remember when you last saw him?’ she asked.
Boatman screwed up his eyes in thought. ‘It must be well over a year ago. I have been going to this mosque for just over two years now and I saw him only at the beginning.’
‘Do you know anything about his friends?’
‘No. I never knew him. I don’t even know his name. I just recognise his face.’
He went on looking through the photographs. Then, as he neared the bottom of the stack, he suddenly did a double take. ‘That is Malik.’
He pushed the photo across the table, and Liz reached out and turned it around. It had been taken from across a street and showed a young man coming out of a newsagent’s. He wore jeans and a T-shirt and was short and stocky, with a stolid slab-like face.
Boatman pursed his lips, and for the first time seemed agitated. ‘He is not a bad fellow, I believe, not deep in his heart. I would say he is simply misguided. He has never advocated violence to me.’
‘Oh, really?’ asked Liz mildly, and if there was scepticism in her voice, Boatman didn’t seem to notice. But she remembered the stubby hand which had gripped her wrist so hard, twisting her arm behind her back. It had belonged to the man pictured in the photograph. So one of her attackers had been Malik.
Chapter 26
In another Birmingham suburb Peggy Kinsolving parked her car outside a very different kind of house. A black wrought-iron gate opened on to a neat front garden; a York stone path led through low shrubs to a solid oak front door with two stained glass panels.