The next day was Saturday and at last the sun had reappeared from behind the clouds that had made Friday so miserable. Alan was anxious. He was excited about whatever Lane was about to tell him and he knew, too, it was going to be important. But he was a realist and was also aware that as things now stood, that meant added complexity – which he didn’t need. More could go wrong, maybe even horribly wrong. And what made it ten times worse, was that now he wasn’t just worried about himself.
Harriet had left earlier to do some library research in Cambridge, so he did something he had never done before: he washed the Land Rover. Perhaps he was seeking some sort of anonymity, but he found the task oddly satisfying. Soothing, even. He also hoped he wouldn’t get quite so many disapproving stares when he drove along the manicured roads around Richard Lane’s house. He set off about two in the afternoon and drove steadily west, arriving at Uppingham Close two hours later. Mary opened the front door to him.
‘He’s in the lounge, deep in his notes,’ she said, quietly. ‘I didn’t like to disturb him…’
She escorted Alan across the small front hall, to the lounge.
‘Tell him I’ll be back in a few minutes with tea.’
She withdrew to the kitchen.
Richard Lane was sitting at his desk. He rose to his feet, and shook Alan’s hand. Alan wasn’t entirely at ease with his friend’s quiet formality. Lane walked round to the two comfy chairs, carrying a file of notes. They sat down.
Lane pulled out that picture of the family, all together at Mehmet’s café. All smiling at the camera, with Sofia flanked by her brothers.
‘So,’ said Lane. ‘Let’s begin at the beginning. What do you know about Ali’s parents?’
Alan shrugged. He felt slightly ashamed, the question had never occurred to him. He had simply accepted that Ali and all his siblings were being raised by their grandfather. Of course, the moment Lane mentioned it he realised it was a bit odd.
‘Can’t help you there, I’m sorry.’
‘Well, from what we gathered, the mother died in 1990. Four years after Sofia was born. Breast cancer, it says on the death certificate.’
‘And the father?’
‘Deserted the family soon after the mother was diagnosed. No known contact with his children since.’
Alan felt a chill creep over his skin. Ali essentially orphaned at, what, six years old? Suddenly an image of his own father came to mind: standing on the tractor’s step, with a young teenage Alan, teaching him how to steer the machine precisely along the drill rows, while towing a set of Cambridge rolls.
‘That’s dreadful,’ was all that Alan could say.
‘Yes, and it was bound to have a big effect on Ali’s character. On all of them.’
Alan nodded in agreement. Lane was right, but only up to a point – it didn’t necessarily make Ali a killer.
‘So, the children were brought up by their paternal grandfather, Mehmet.’
As if to confirm, Alan pointed to him on the photograph. The kindly-looking older man, smiling proudly, surrounded by his loving family.
For a moment they both looked at the picture.
Then Lane asked, ‘What did you learn about him while you were taking his company’s money at Flax Hole?’
Was that barbed, or humorous? Alan couldn’t decide. His reply was deadpan.
‘Can’t say I got to know him much, even though he was the client. My business partner Paul Flynn dealt with him exclusively. Paul liked that sort of thing. Bit of a control freak.’
Lane was listening intently. He looked away, frowning, when Alan finished. There was a long pause while Lane read through his notes again.
Then he asked, ‘We’re interested in the grandfather. Mehmet.’
Alan’s ears pricked up at the mention of ‘we’. It sounded encouraging: more involved, less hands-off than before. But best not to mention it now.
Instead Alan asked, ‘Is he still alive?’
‘Very much so.’
‘And still importing food and spices from Turkey?’
‘So far as we know, yes.’
‘So what does he actually do for a living, now? I’d sort of assumed he’d retired. He was always rather a shady character…’
‘What, shifty?’ Lane cut in.
‘No, shady, as in shade. A background figure. In the shadows. Enigmatic, but influential, I’d say.’
Lane looked up.
‘Yes, that’s what interests us.’ Again he glanced down at the notes. ‘According to our records he’s still in the wholesale food trade. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes, plenty. Back in 2002 most of his wholesale customers were Turks and Asians. Ran restaurants, food shops, that sort of thing. There was a spice counter in that café he ran. I remember buying huge bulbs of garlic there. Very cheap.’
‘That place interests me: what exactly was it like?’
‘I remember “Mehmet’s” as very pleasant. The old man was nearly always there himself, sitting in a large chair behind a combination table-desk thing. It was where he seemed to do most of his work. Out in full view of the public…’ He paused. ‘Maybe that’s how they do things in Turkey? I don’t know.’
‘Did you go there often?’
‘Yes we did, but mostly at weekends if they were on our shift. I don’t think I ever paid for a coffee. Not once. And Sofia worked there, which was something of a draw for the lads.’
Suddenly, Alan was hit by a strong, but short, flash of memory. Sofia, bringing him over a cup of tea: milk and two sugars, then ignoring his attempt to pay. Smiling. Alive.
‘Have you been back since?’
‘No. You know what it’s like. You dig. You move on.’
Alan saw a small flash of frustration pass across Lane’s face, but he pressed on.
‘Anyhow, why’s the café so important all of a sudden?
Lane leant back in his chair and studied Alan, clearly weighing up the situation.
Alan found himself getting impatient. He tried to keep his tone even and controlled.
‘Look, Richard. You’ve asked me to come here and report back to you. How can I do that properly if I don’t know what you’re looking for?’
Lane held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded.
‘OK, I’ll be quite straight with you. I’ve discovered that the Yard and the Drugs Squad are keeping tabs on Mehmet Kabul – and have been doing so ever since the murder came to light, but so far without success. Not even a sniff. No, it may seem odd, but both he and Abdul…’
‘So he’s still in the family firm?’
‘Oh, yes. Very much so,’ Lane replied, consulting his notes, ‘And running the plant hire side of their business. But they all appear to be clean. The Drugs boys have even done a couple of undercover raids, but found nothing. Having said that, they certainly haven’t closed the case, either. Far from it. Our friend Mehmet will be under close observation for a good few years yet.’
At this point Mary Lane entered the room, with a tray of tea things, which she set down quietly and then returned to the kitchen. Alan could see she had been in similar situations before. Lane then handed Alan a steaming cup and continued.
‘So my boss has been in touch with the Met and the Drugs Squad and I’m to liaise directly with them on this case, which is still at the intelligence-gathering stage.’
‘So they’ve actually put a case together?’ Alan asked.
Lane had laid the old ones aside and was now referring to a different set of notes.
‘Yes,’ he gave an involuntary sigh, as he thumbed through the papers. ‘They’ve done a lot of work. I’ve got loads to read through over the weekend, God help me…’
‘So, what’s their angle?’
‘They’re suspicious of Kabul’s whole set-up. It’s very successful and seems to be making loads of money. Of course we’ve also known for some time that Turkey is a major route for narcotics from western Asia – mainly Afghanistan – reaching Europe. And the Kabul family firm have been involved in the food import business since just after the last war. We know for a fact that Mehmet’s contacts in Turkey are very close.’
‘But does that necessarily make him a drug baron?’ Alan asked.
The evidence seemed to him too obvious, but also too circumstantial.
‘No it doesn’t, but until we can work out why he is making so much money, we’ve got to be suspicious. And you can’t deny his cover is superb.’
‘If indeed it is cover.’ Alan still wasn’t at all convinced. ‘And presumably, whenever Kabul lorries have been stopped at the border and searched, they’ve been clean?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘D’you think that could be due to corruption – tip-offs – at the Turkish frontier from their customs, or police?’ Alan asked.
‘Oh, almost certainly, but having said that, we’ve also done searches in Leicester and at the British border. But again, nothing.’
‘That’s odd,’ mused Alan. ‘Unless of course they’re being clever. Having delivery lorries moving in and out of Turkey is almost too obvious, isn’t it?’
‘Which brings me to the other brother.’
Lane pointed to Abdul’s image on the photograph.
‘Did you have any contact with him?’
‘Not really, that was all Paul’s department again. Abdul had started running a small plant hire business about five years previously. And was making a go of it, so far as I could tell. We used his machines for the dig, and his drivers were first-rate. Very steady. I gather PFC has been using them ever since.’
‘Really?’
Lane seemed surprised, and almost a bit excited.
‘Nothing unusual in that. You find good men, you stick with them. Cowboys can ruin a site in minutes – you know that.’
‘And presumably your boss would have done a thorough check on their credentials?’
‘Absolutely. That’s Paul all over. Thorough. Or at least, that’s the polite word for it.’
Lane didn’t share his grin. He was absolutely focused on the notes.
‘Well that fits with our findings. The Drugs boys reckon he must be using other, less conspicuous – more devious – routes.’
‘Such as?’
Alan was finding the entire discussion unnerving. So much speculation seemed to be based on nothing solid – unless, of course, they were keeping things from him.
‘So far as we’re aware, I don’t think we know that…’
This again struck Alan as odd.
‘How d’you mean, “so far as we’re aware?” You’re the police, aren’t you?’
‘True, but many of these intelligence-led operations have to keep some things private. Even from other officers, like me. Anything to do with the safety of informers or undercover agents, for example. You see, one of the problems we still have is access to the Kabul family and the organisation they control. They’re a very tight-knit bunch, and almost impossible to infiltrate – and frankly, that’s going to be the only way we’ll crack this one.’
Lane was looking at Alan as he said this.
‘Ah, I get it. So you – or rather they, the Yard – want me to use my contact with Ali, as a way of getting inside his family. Is that it?’
‘Precisely,’ Lane replied. ‘I’ve already spoken to the Governor, who tells me he will make practical arrangements for more private meetings.’
‘I’d already requested that,’ Alan added, rather lamely.
‘I know, but now he’ll be going to special lengths to oblige you. I think you’ll be impressed at your next session there – which is when, incidentally?’
‘Three weeks’ time.’
‘Good. Liaise with me afterwards. I’ll be sure to be there.’
‘And I hope it’s not just to pick up the pieces.’
‘I’m sure it won’t come to that, Alan.’ Alan could tell that Lane was trying to make his reply sound reassuring. ‘And besides, Ali’s in Blackfen Prison, and his family are here in Leicester. Rest assured, we’ll have stepped in, long, long before you come under any sort of threat.’
‘But haven’t I already? In the small matter of my bungalow being torched?’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Lane replied. ‘I got back to that fireman, Clark’s assistant, and he said he’d had a second look and a further discussion with Clark and was now inclined to think that the evidence for the deliberate use of accelerant was actually the result of residual oil from the building’s scrap days, combined with high temperatures and air movement in that part of the kitchen. The blocking of an old stove flue through the flat roof had burnt out…’
‘That’s right, there was a mark in the plaster on the ceiling there,’ Alan broke in.
‘Well, it was a botch-up. They’d jammed some old plastic bags up the flue and then slapped on some cheap wood filler. It burnt in seconds and then fed the fire below with a strong draught.’
‘So it wasn’t arson? You can prove that?’
‘I can’t prove it, no. But even if it had been arson, the timing suggests that whoever did it wanted to scare you, not kill you.’
‘That’s exactly what Ali said.’
‘But it makes sense. Your Land Rover was gone, they would have known you were out. If indeed there was a “they”…’
Alan was unconvinced. And more than a little unsettled. Lane, an experienced police detective, was choosing to disregard an attempted arson attack? It was obvious why. Lane needed him. He needed his contact with Ali. Hadn’t Mary told him when they last met that Lane was under political pressure at work? A big ‘win’ like cracking the Kabul drugs cartel would surely help establish his status. But would Lane really do that: risk Alan’s safety to suit his own ends? He sighed deeply: no, that was ridiculous. Or was it? Alan was beginning to doubt whether he really knew what anyone around him was actually capable of doing. Or worse, why.
And then he realised. He’d come to that stage which he’d arrived at before, both in life and in archaeology. It was when you knew deep down what you must do, but only you could do it. You were on your own.
Time to go. He rose to his feet.
‘Thanks for the tea, Richard. I must be off.’
Lane was observing him anxiously.
‘Are you sure you’re OK, Alan?’
Alan looked him in the eye.
‘Oh yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I’m fine. Absolutely fine.’