DCI Lane’s team had all assembled in the station Incident Room by six o’clock on Sunday morning. While they were making plans to raid Mehmet’s home, an undercover officer on the team, who was keeping the house under surveillance, radioed in to say that Mehmet had just left. He had been carrying a suitcase when he got into his large Mercedes.
‘Tail him!’ Lane barked into the radio. ‘Don’t let him out of your sight. He mustn’t escape!’
Alan was listening closely.
Two additional patrol cars were despatched to assist him. Then Alan had a thought. Maybe Mehmet wasn’t trying to escape. He wasn’t a mind-reader: how could he possibly know what had happened? This was real life, not a drama. And anyhow, a suitcase isn’t what a multimillionaire takes with him to the airport.
Richard Lane was on the telephone when Alan came up to him. He hung up.
Alan said quietly, ‘Don’t pull him in, yet, Richard. Let’s see where he’s heading. I think this could be interesting.’
Lane looked at him doubtfully.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, quite sure.’
A short time later a report came in that he’d pulled up outside a large brick building in Albert Road and had gone inside, carrying his case.
‘Albert Road?’
‘That’s down by the canal, isn’t it?’ Alan suggested.
Lane was looking pensive.
‘Yes, I know it. An old leather works converted by the County Council with a Lottery grant. Usual old bollocks: cheap studios for so-called community artists, who couldn’t cut it in the real world.’
The radio crackled into life again:
‘There’s a big sign. Says “Waterside Studios”. The subject has gone inside.’
‘Report back immediately, if he comes out.’
‘He won’t do that,’ Alan said quietly. Lane shot a glance towards him.
‘Why not?’
‘He’ll be there for at least a couple of hours. Maybe more. Any time before then, and he’s ours for the taking.’
‘You certain about that?’ Lane asked.
‘Yes. Quite certain.’
Lane stood up quickly, taking his coat from a row of pegs by the door. In a loud voice he announced to the room.
‘We’ll do this one mob-handed. Call everyone in.’
In a few minutes fifteen men and two WPCs had assembled; Lane briefed four officers who hurried on ahead. Then he turned to the rest of the room:
‘OK, everyone, let’s go.’
Then, almost as an afterthought he gestured to Alan.
‘You too, Alan.’
‘What on earth can I do?’
‘I’ve no idea. But if you think that after last night’s excursion, I’m letting you out of my sight until this is all over, then you can think again.’
Waterside Studios opened to the public every weekend. There were two coffee shops on the ground floor and a gallery on the first. This was a big open-plan space, occupying the entire footprint of the building. Above it were two further storeys, which contained the artists’ studios. These could only be visited by appointment. Alan glanced at the list of names: two painters, a sculptor, three photographers, a silversmith, two commercial artists and a ‘textile artisan’ – whatever that was.
Richard Lane’s brow furrowed as he read the list. Alan smiled.
‘The vain bastard,’ he said, ‘I know where he’s heading. Follow me.’
Alan headed toward the emergency stairs. Meanwhile Lane had rapidly positioned men at all the downstairs exits. He produced his warrant card and ordered the main admission doors to be locked shut. The two early customers in the coffee shop looked on with open mouths. One held a cup to her lips.
‘Drink up, it’ll get cold,’ a cheeky constable advised as he hurried past their table. Lane gave him a dirty look.
A couple of minutes later, Alan, Lane and three constables gathered silently outside the sculptor’s studio. Lane turned the latch, but it was locked. They were meant to use the intercom by the door, but this might alert the people they’d come to see. So two of the constables, built like rugby forwards, hit the double door with their shoulders and burst in.
For a second or two Alan felt as if he had stumbled into a Victorian still life. The room was in semi-darkness, illuminated by a single sepia spotlight. Mehmet was standing on a stout wooden plinth, one arm raised as if delivering a papal benediction. On his head was a laurel wreath, which was meant to look noble, but failed miserably. His portly body was bedecked with the sculptor’s attempt at a Roman toga, complete with purple edging. He was bare-footed, presumably because the two sandals that lay on the floor had been too tight a fit for his podgy feet. The sculptor was taking photographs, his head beneath a black cloth.
The sight was too much, even for the hardened police officers as they crashed into the room. They were still laughing when they grabbed Mehmet. By this stage the toga which had only been draped for effect, now lay on the floor and Mehmet was wearing nothing but a capacious pair of boxer shorts. Alan was about to show the sculptor how a toga ought to have been folded, but decided not to.
Back at the City Centre Police Station the officers in charge of the two parties sent to arrest Abdul, either at his house or at the AK Plant Hire depot, reported back to Lane. Alan was sitting in the corner of the room.
‘We arrived at the Plant Hire shop and found it packed. Loads of customers getting stuff for the weekend.’
‘Yes, that’s why we thought he’d be there,’ Lane replied, ‘it’s a busy time.’
‘Well he wasn’t. No sign of him anywhere.’
Alan cleared his throat. The three policemen looked towards him.
‘I know he had a meeting yesterday evening. I think it was scheduled to go on till late.’
To his relief, nobody asked why he knew so much about Abdul’s movements.
‘So you found him at home?’ Lane asked the second Inspector.
‘Yes, as I reported in, sir, we arrived at the house and the suspect’s wife opened the door. A WPC asked for immediate admittance.’
‘So no problems getting in?’
‘None. It was a complete surprise. I had two of the lads standing by to thump the front door, but they weren’t needed. We entered and found the suspect standing at the top of the stairs in his pyjamas. He’d been having breakfast in bed.’
‘So you read him his rights and arrested him?’ Lane asked.
‘Yes, sir. He’s in the cells now. But not next to the other Mr Kabul, as you requested.’
Lane seemed satisfied at this.
‘Very good. They mustn’t talk to each other at all. Understood?’ They nodded. ‘I want them to stew in their own juice. That’ll be far more effective than any amount of questioning.’
‘The younger man is demanding to see his lawyer, sir.’
‘Tell the desk sergeant down there to turn a deaf ear.’
‘I already have, sir.’
‘Good man.’
Listening to this exchange, Alan found he was growing increasingly irritated. What about Paul? Surely he too had attended the previous evening’s meeting? And if so, why wasn’t he around? To the police, on the other hand, Paul was a minor figure. For Lane, the Leicester force and probably even the Yard, the real out-and-out villains were still the Kabuls.
But Alan was determined that Paul should be held to account. He had, at best, turned a blind eye to events. And must have played a part in arranging the financial agreement that bound PFC and the Kabuls so tightly together. At worst, Paul had disposed of the body for them. And then what? There was still the question of the modern bones to deal with. A question that seemed to have slipped Lane’s mind entirely.
The two officers left the room.
When the door had closed Alan approached Lane.
‘Did the people you sent over to Priory Farm find anything?’
‘They reported the house was locked up. Deserted.’
‘What about the hangar?’
‘The main double doors were locked shut; so they cut the padlock, and opened up. The entire place was in darkness. No light at all.’
‘Sounds like they were spooked…’
‘Yes,’ Lane replied, ‘I think they were. Anyhow, they had a look around and were convinced it was empty.’
‘So what are you planning now?’
‘At Priory Farm? Frankly it’s slipped down my agenda. Don’t forget, if that body is indeed young Sofia…’
‘And I’m in no doubt at all that it is.’
‘And you’re probably correct. If it is her, then the Flax Hole honour killing will have raised its ugly head again…’
‘The press will go mad,’ Alan added helpfully.
‘You don’t say. But yes, the shit will hit the fan. The tabloids will go ape. And I’ll be the person who has to deal with it all. So if you don’t mind, Alan, I’d better start making practical arrangements. I’ll need to sort out a press centre, speak to the Chief Constable and God knows what else.’
‘So Priory Farm must wait?’
‘I’ve no alternative, at least till Monday morning. But I’ve had a word with Lincolnshire Police. They’ve detailed a local patrol to check the place every three hours. That should be enough.’
Alan said nothing, but he didn’t share his friend’s optimism. The more he thought about it, the more he felt Priory Farm was relentlessly moving up the agenda. For Alan, Flax Hole and the Kabuls was yesterday’s news. A sideshow.
Nobody had said a word to Mehmet or Abdul that the police had found Sofia’s remains. Lane reckoned they should be left to stew in solitary, until the Scene-of-Crime Team and the forensic archaeologist from Norfolk had exposed her body fully. Then her identity could be confirmed from dental records. They needed maximum impact. Maximum shock. Somehow they had to smash through the two Kabuls’ confident complacency.
Later in the afternoon, Alan returned to Flax Hole and looked down at Ruth. She was a large woman, but she wielded a white plastic spatula with speed and extraordinary dexterity. She was carefully exposing Sofia’s leg bones. He hadn’t come across her work before, and he was keen to see if she was any good. They both wore masks and disposable white forensic overalls. Alan found it hard to look down at the girl’s body without feeling sick. It wasn’t that she had been cut up or abused in any way, but no effort had been made to give her any dignity in death. Her body lay twisted and tumbled, as if shoved out of a wheelbarrow.
Any normal person – any family member – would have made some concessions to her humanity: maybe they’d have straightened her legs, or crossed her arms; they wouldn’t have left her sprawled out in that fashion. She looked less like a young woman than a rejected doll, tossed into a landfill site. This had to be Paul’s work.
Alan felt his anger rising. He’d once been on an excavation of plague victims in the East End of London. Although the dead had been buried in a long mass cemetery, the bodies had been properly laid-out, with arms at their sides; all were carefully aligned east–west, as in a churchyard. Even though doing this might have cost the gravediggers their own lives, they couldn’t treat their fellow citizens like garbage.
But Paul hadn’t bothered with such refinement. And why? Alan wondered. It was just part of his character. It wasn’t deliberate. He wasn’t attempting to smear her reputation. No, he was just self-centred and thoughtless. He couldn’t empathise in the smallest way with her, or with anyone else who might have the misfortune to stumble across her body. As Harriet had observed: he couldn’t connect. For him, the burial of Sofia’s body for Mehmet and Abdul was just a process of disposal. A business transaction. Another contract. There was nothing human, or humane, about it.
‘Oh,’ Alan said softly, as he looked down at Ruth’s meticulous handiwork, ‘that’s horrible. Beautifully excavated, don’t get me wrong, but bloody horrible. She’s been dumped there, like a piece of meat.’
Then his eye was caught by a patch of damaged bone at the side of her skull. He pointed at it. ‘Is that where I caught her with my road-spike last night?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, looking up at him, ‘I’ve seen worse. At least you didn’t hit her a second time. Or with a mattock.’
‘It was pitch black and I was working more by feel than anything else. I sensed the bone go crunch and recognised what it was. The trouble is, we couldn’t pussyfoot around. I knew we had to get our evidence by the end of the night. But I’m still very sorry about that damage…’
He meant it. He paused and leant forward, looking more closely.
‘You’ve done a fabulous job on her, Ruth. Bloody brilliant. Thanks for that.’
She sat up and straightened her back, shaking her shoulders to relieve the tension.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘there was something I was meaning to ask you, Alan. The pit filling’s incredibly corrosive. Were you doing anything unusual with the wet sieves?’
‘Back in 2002?’
‘Yes.’
For a moment he couldn’t think what she meant. Then he remembered.
‘That’s right. We used hydrogen peroxide to help break down the clay. We knew it wouldn’t damage the flax fibres. We bought it in bulk from an industrial chemist just up the road. Horrid stuff, but it seemed to work. You don’t see it used much nowadays, do you?’
‘No,’ she replied, resuming her work. ‘Same old story: Health and Safety. But it explains the slow decomposition of the flesh. It acts as a general biocide.’
At around seven in the evening, Lane called Alan to see him. Ruth had phoned to say that the body and grave were now in a fit state to be viewed. It had been a long and meticulous excavation and she was exhausted. Meanwhile, Mehmet and Abdul were being driven to Flax Hole in separate cars. Lane had been at the mobile incident room all afternoon, fending off questions from the dozens of press and television crews that now surrounded the crime scene. Although he had tried at first, it had soon become impossible to keep the forensic excavation a secret. The simple fact that a police team was back at Flax Hole was more than enough for the local hacks, who had immediately put two and two together. By lunchtime the story had gone national and two large satellite dishes had already been erected on the top level of a multi-storey car park nearby.
Although becoming used to the ways of the media from his work with History Hunters, Alan had never witnessed anything on this scale before. It was bedlam. A feeding-frenzy and some journalists would stop at nothing. They were everywhere, like hungry rats. It got even worse when the two Kabuls arrived. The two men were bundled out of their cars, their heads draped in blankets, and were guided behind the tall screens, that now shielded the temporary shelter over Ruth’s excavation.
Once past the screens, an officer was about to lift Mehmet’s blanket, when Lane intervened.
‘Keep the blanket on till I give the order! I want this image to stick in their minds for the rest of their bloody lives.’
The group had gone very quiet. They weren’t used to seeing their boss this angry.
‘OK,’ he continued in a more normal voice, ‘take them in and get the lighting set up. But don’t lift the blankets till I say so.’
The two Kabuls, grandfather and grandson, were positioned on either side of the grave, each one handcuffed to two police officers. Lane looked across to Ruth.
‘Everything ready?’
She nodded.
‘Well,’ he announced, ‘I hope you two feel proud of this. Lift their blankets.’
Abdul passed out cold and was caught by the officers restraining him. Mehmet started as if to bluster, but Sofia’s body was so grotesque that he fell to his knees, sobbing.
Ruth handed Lane a finds tray, in which were arranged strands of hair and silk from her blouse and headscarf.
‘Do you recognise any of this?’ Lane’s voice was icy.
Mehmet nodded his head.
‘Speak up, sir. I can’t hear you. I repeat, do you recognise it?’
Inside the shelter there was complete silence, while outside the background noise was, if anything, louder. Then Mehmet whispered. It sounded like the voice of a young child:
‘Yes. It’s Sofia… My little Sofia…’
The press had a field day. Anyone wearing a police uniform in the area was fair game and would be pounced on by reporters. Realising the story was growing bigger by the minute, the Leicestershire police had brought in a frame tent, which they erected in the depot lorry park. This was where they were to launch a major press conference. The press release was short and to the point:
For immediate release, dateline Sunday, June 13th. Sofia Kabul’s body has been identified by her brother and grandfather at the Flax Hole Depot, Leicester. She is known to have been murdered in a so-called ‘honour killing’, in February, 2002. Two men have been detained and are currently helping police with their enquiries. The police confidently expect that charges will be laid within 48 hours.
Mehmet and Abdul had identified Sofia’s corpse shortly before eight in the evening, and the press conference was scheduled for an hour later. Walking back to the new incident room with Lane, Alan had hoped to discuss what he planned to do next, but it was impossible. The news media and police PR people had taken Lane over completely. He was on his radio and mobile phone continuously. It would appear that everyone, from the Home Secretary downwards, needed to speak to him urgently.
They were climbing the steps into the incident room. Alan had at last managed to catch Lane’s attention and was about to speak to him, when the policeman’s phone rang again. It was the Chair of the Community Inter-Action Forum, known to the police as the CIA. She was a notorious political motormouth with a high opinion of herself and views on everyone and everything. Lane closed his eyes in exasperation, as the torrent of jargon began. He gave Alan a resigned look and shrugged his shoulders. Then he sat down heavily on a wooden bench just inside the door and sighed, as the shrill voice jabbered in his ear.
At that, Alan shook his shoulder and signalled goodbye. Lane acknowledged and Alan stood up. No sooner was he down the steps, than he melted silently into the crowd. He knew that staying in Leicester would achieve nothing. And he was needed elsewhere.