Not Safe Page 3

  Perhaps she needed to reassess as well. He was no innocent abroad. If his story was true, he had faced far harder interrogations than this. “The police think you went with her to have sex, and something went wrong. They don’t think you meant to kill her, but you did, and the sooner you tell us what happened, the better.”

  He was shaking his head. “No. Ma’am, that’s not true.”

  “Then tell me what really happened. Amir, you asked to talk to me. I came here because you asked me to. Don’t treat me like a fool. Tell me the truth.”

  “I have told you…”

  “No, Amir, you haven’t. Stop playing games.”

  His gaze dropped to the table in front of him. She felt torn between the satisfaction of doing her job well, and guilt that she wasn’t helping him the way he had wanted. She suppressed the guilt. He’d been lying to her. What did he expect?

  “Ma’am, I can’t tell you any more. I didn’t kill her.”

  Half an hour later, Tina left the interview room with West. Amir had remained resolutely silent.

  “Look, once we get the lab work through, we’ll have him. We don’t need a confession here,” West consoled her.

  “I know.” The sound of Amir’s voice, lying to her, squatted in her head. He had trusted her, but she was just another official, and he had had enough of those.

  West stopped and looked down at her. “When are you coming back? You’re needed. You’re good at this. You know that.”

  She didn’t know how to respond, so she said nothing.

  * * *

  Tina spent the next two hours at her desk, trying to work on her report, but she couldn’t get the events of the morning out of her head. Amir’s story had been… pathetic. It had been pathetic. He was an intelligent man, a resourceful one. He wouldn’t have survived if he wasn’t, so why hadn’t he come up with a more convincing story?

  The answer was there in front of her: because he was guilty. Why couldn’t she accept that? Because she knew enough about Amir to know this was completely out of character? Or was there another reason, one that she couldn’t admit to, and couldn’t trust?

  “Got a problem?”

  Tina looked up. The CI in charge of the unit, Sara Hakim, was standing in front of her desk.

  “Oh. No, sorry, ma’am. Daydreaming.”

  Hakim looked friendly enough. “Did everything go OK this morning?”

  “Yes. Well, no, not really. Amir wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  Hakim nodded, unsurprised. “OK. You did what you could. How’s the report going?”

  “I’ll have it ready for next week.” The following week was her deadline.

  “Good. Then we need to talk about what you want to do next. Have you had any thoughts?”

  Tina didn’t want to discuss it, not yet. She had a question to ask. “I was wondering… A devout Muslim wouldn’t use a prostitute, right?”

  “Well, on paper. Same as devout Christians, Hindus, you name it. People don’t always do what they’re supposed to do.”

  “It seems out of character for Amir, that’s all.”

  “Maybe she propositioned him, and he saw a Muslim woman breaking the rules. Something like that could trigger a violent response.”

  Her problem was that she was thinking like a Westerner. She was a pragmatist, she had no religious beliefs and she wasn’t aware of anyone on Farnham’s team who had. Maybe some of them were church on Sundays sort of believers, but…

  Amir was devout. His faith was his life. He wouldn’t have had to escape from his country if he had been prepared to compromise on his beliefs.

  And his beliefs wouldn’t allow him to lie, not about something as important as this. Perhaps his story was so weak because he had told her the truth, but only part of it. It was what he hadn’t told her that would give Farnham’s team the information they needed, and for some reason Amir wasn’t talking.

  Ma’am, I can’t tell you any more. I didn’t kill her.

  I didn’t kill her. He wouldn’t have said that if it wasn’t true. He would have said nothing. She picked up her phone, then put it down again. It wasn’t her case. It wasn’t her investigation. It wasn’t her team. Her hunches were irrelevant.

  Except… Farnham wasn’t convinced by the case against Amir either.

  She saved what she’d written and closed the file. It was after one. Working here meant regular breaks, lunch, coffee, home at five. She still hadn’t got used to it so she rarely took the time, but today, she had something she wanted to do.

  “Going for lunch?”one of the other women asked as she stood up from her desk. “I’ll join you.”

  “No. I’ve got to go to St Barnabas’s. I need some information.”

  It was starting to rain. The thought of spending half an hour over a sandwich reading a magazine in a local cafe was compelling, but instead she headed for her car.

  The night shelter was a fifteen minute drive from the city centre, but a long walk for people who had to get there without any access to transport. It was located in one of the poorer areas of the city, one that had been wealthy enough once, with streets of decaying Victorian houses where high trees cast their shadows across the roads.

  Tina parked down the road from the church, by a small green space enclosed behind metal railings, the grass overgrown, the branches of trees hanging heavily down. She could see the church steeple dominating the sky.

  The shelter was based further down the hill, a small, low building that had once been the church hall in the days when St Barnabas’s had an active congregation. She walked towards the church, her feet complaining about her new shoes.

  She should have called ahead. There was no guarantee that anyone would be here, but as it turned out, she was in luck. There was a light on inside and the heavy wooden door stood ajar. She went in.

  Her first breath took her back to her childhood, to Sundays standing next to her mother in the rows of pews, listening as the words of the service floated above her head. Tina had been a devout child, a trait that had followed her into her teenage years, and then dissipated with the heady discovery of sex.

  The central aisle lay in front of her, illuminated by a dim light that made its way through the screens protecting the windows. Between the pillars, the space vanished into the shadows. There were no pews, and her footsteps echoed. She walked slowly down the aisle towards a small table that was set out to face the congregation. Behind it, a traditional altar stood, swathed in drapes, dusty and unused. There was no transept, just a rail between the nave and the sanctuary.

  She looked up at the high roof, turning as she did so, and almost walked into a woman who had approached her silently from the back of the church. “Shit!” The expletive jumped out before she could stop it.

  The woman frowned as she looked at Tina. “Can I help you?”

  “Sorry. You made me jump.” Tina showed her ID card. “I’m DC Tina Barraclough. I’m with the SYP liaison unit. I wanted to talk to...” She racked her memory. “to the minister, Mr Radcliffe.” She was studying the woman, and realised she was under the same scrutiny herself.

  “I’m Karen Morgan. Is it important? Mr Radcliffe is very busy.” The woman’s mouth closed in a thin line. Her face looked tense, almost angry, with deep furrows between the brows.

  “I wanted to ask him about last night. You know a woman was killed near Rutland Road...”

  Her eyebrows rose in an exaggerated arc of surprise. “That’s hardly liaison unit business.”

  Tina wondered what had triggered this hostility. The expletive, presumably. She made her smile friendly. “But it involves the community. Things like this can have repercussions. We need to know what’s been happening.” She noticed that Karen Morgan was wearing a blue suit that was almost a uniform. She must have some formal role here. A deaconess?

  Morgan’s expression didn’t change. “The police have already been. I’m sure they’ll be happy to pass on any information you need. Now if you’ll excuse...”

&nb
sp; “Miss Morgan, I am the police and I need some more information. Is Mr Radcliffe here?”

  “He’s very busy. What do you want to know?” Her eyes took in Tina from the scarlet lipstick to the red shoes.

  “Were you at the shelter last night?”

  “Of course not. No women. You’re supposed to know that.”

  Tina stepped hard on her temper. “Then I need to speak to Mr Radcliffe.”

  “He wasn’t there when it happened. Not that it happened at the shelter.”

  “I wasn’t there when what...? Oh, I see. It’s OK, Karen. I can deal with this.”

  An expression of resentment flashed across Karen Morgan’s face. The man walking down the aisle towards them didn’t look much like the ministers Tina remembered from her childhood. He was young – about her age – and wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He was tall, with the solid, muscular build of a sportsman, a rugby player, maybe.

  “I’m sorry you’ve been disturbed,” Karen Morgan said to him. Her face had softened, suddenly looking much younger.

  “That’s OK, Karen. I’ve just about finished.” He looked at Tina. “I’m Jim Radcliffe. And you are...?”

  “She says she’s from the SYP liaison.” Karen Morgan looked angry again. Suddenly, Tina understood what the problem was. No attractive woman was going to be a welcome visitor for Radcliffe, in Morgan’s eyes. She’d staked her claim. Keep off, sister.

  Karen Morgan’s hostility tempted her to flirt with Radcliffe who looked as if he might enjoy such an exchange. Professional, she reminded herself. “DC Barraclough.” She showed him her identification.

  His glance seemed cursory, but she got the impression he’d taken in enough to ensure she was the genuine article. He looked at her with interest. “The liaison unit? I’m surprised we haven’t met before.”

  “I’ve been working with Nadifa’s House.”

  His face lit up. “I know them well. How can I help you?”

  Karen Morgan’s lips thinned. Tina included them both in her response. “I’m here because of Amir Hamade.”

  “The liaison team are investigating the murder?”

  “No. But I wanted to know what happened at the shelter last night – I want to be as informed as possible. There’ll be bad feeling, Amir being arrested.” It sounded thin to her. Behind Radcliffe, Karen Morgan raised her eyebrows in silent comment.

  “You’d better come into the office, DC Barraclough.” Without waiting to see if she was following, he led the way down the aisle to a small door to the right of the altar, behind the lectern. Karen hurried after him

  Through the door, the church architecture became 60’s dingy. She followed them along a corridor past doors marked ‘store’ and ‘basement’ to a small office. He looked round the room distractedly, running a hand through his hair. Two upholstered chairs faced each other in a corner. His face brightened and he gestured her into one of them, then waited until Karen, after a brief hesitation, sat down in the other.

  The room was in need of a coat of paint. Papers were scattered across the desk, and typed sheets were pinned up on the wall above it. Tina scanned them: Night Shelter Dates, Rota, Volunteers’ Contact Details.

  An umbrella stand containing a couple of rather battered umbrellas and, incongruously, a cricket bat, had been pulled against the door to keep it open. Radcliffe saw her glance at it and smiled. “I used to play. Souvenirs of a past life. Do you want coffee?” There was a kettle on the floor and some mugs and a bottle of milk on the windowsill.

  “Please.”

  Radcliffe glanced at Karen, who gave her head an angry shake, then he switched on the kettle and spooned coffee powder into two mugs. “Sugar?”

  “No thanks. I’ll have mine black,” she added as she saw him sniff the milk with a dubious expression on his face.

  “Wise choice.” He grinned as he passed her a mug full of hot black liquid. He leaned against the edge of the desk. “OK, go ahead. I’ll tell you what I know.” He frowned. “Amir? Do you really think…?”

  “I’m not on the case. I don’t know. You were here last night?”

  He nodded. “I’d like to be here every night, but it isn’t possible. We have a good team of volunteers.”

  “But you weren’t here until after 11,” Karen said. “Were you?” She looked at Tina, not quite meeting her eyes. “I know because I dropped him off. He wasn’t here when Amir Hamade came.”

  “My car’s out of action,” he said. “But I was here after that.”

  “You’ve already.... Oh, never mind.” Karen hunched herself crossly in her chair.

  “Who else was on duty?

  “Andre Mutombo. He’s a refugee from DRC. He does a lot of work for Nadifa’s House.”

  Tina glanced at the rota on the wall. The name of Andre Mutombo was there, along with his address and phone number. “He was here all night?”

  “He opened the place up. Then I took over. By then, there were...” He counted on his fingers. “...twelve visitors.”

  “All men?”

  “We don’t offer accommodation to women.” Before Tina could ask, he said, “We can’t offer segregated accommodation, and there’s almost nothing else available for the men.”

  “How well did you know Farah Jafari?”

  He was frowning slightly as he answered. “She came to the advice centre. We always keep an eye on the young ones. DC Barraclough, I thought you weren’t investigating...”

  “We’ve already answered all these questions. This is a waste of your time.” Karen Morgan spoke to Radcliffe, ignoring Tina.

  “I must admit...” he began.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to get a picture of what happened last night.”

  “Well, according to Andre Mutombo, Amir arrived, asked if he could leave his bag and went back to look for someone. He said he was coming back.”

  “With Farah Jafari? He said that?”

  “I don’t think so. As I said, we have no accommodation for women. And before you ask, yes, I follow the rules to the letter. If we want the shelter to continue, we have to stick to our agreement.”

  “Do you know why Farah went to Nadifa’s House that day?”

  He shook his head. “She asked to speak to an advisor, but she left before anyone was free.”

  “I’m trying to work out why she was on the street.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t understand it. She had somewhere to live. She had a reasonable case. I didn’t know there was a problem until we got the news. I understand now she hadn’t been at her accommodation for a couple of weeks.”

  “Maybe something scared her?”

  Karen Morgan spoke up suddenly. “She was scared of being put in detention. The police thought she was soliciting.”

  “Soliciting?” Radcliffe looked shocked. “Where did you hear that?”

  “From the police. When they interviewed me. Did I know Farah Jafari was a prostitute? I told them I knew no such thing.”

  Radcliffe looked from Karen to Tina. “Is that true?”

  “She was seen on the street around Shalesmoor. It’s possible. They tried to talk to her, but she ran away.”

  Radcliffe’s expression hardened. “She was a child. Her papers said she was nineteen, but I doubt she was more than seventeen. She needed protection, not hassle.”

  There was nothing Tina could say. The Vice Squad had their job to do. She had no control of that. “There’s just...”

  “Look, DC Barraclough, I’ve given you as much time as I can. If police action drove Farah away from her home, it left a vulnerable young woman on the street. And now she’s been murdered. If you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.”

  We’re not social workers, Tina wanted to say, but he knew that. “Thank you for your time.”

  Karen Morgan saw her off the premises. She didn’t speak. Routed, Tina returned to the car. She wondered how much truth there was in Radcliffe’s accusation. Farah Jafari had run away from the police when they’d tried to pick her up. It wa
s true that if she’d been charged, she might well have ended up in detention. The asylum seekers were terrified of the detention centres with their casual racism and their abuse.

  She’d found out one thing that Amir hadn’t told her. He’d spoken to a volunteer, Andre Mutombo, that night. As she’d left the office, she’d memorised Mutombo’s contact details from the notice on the wall.

  She wasn’t sure what to do now. Mutombo was the only person who had seen Amir at the crucial time. She wanted to hear what he had to say, but talking to him was outside anything she could legitimately pretend was part of her current project.

  She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, thinking. Her report had to be finished by the end of the week. Whatever plans she had when this assignment was over, she couldn’t afford to fuck up again. Leave it, Tina. she advised herself. Forget it.

  But she had never been good at taking advice.

  * * *

  Andre Mutombo lived in an old 60’s development near the city centre. Dual carriageways ran past two sides, and uneven pathways led into the maze of the estate. Concrete blocks rose vertically around Tina as she picked her way along the path that was strewn with fast food cartons, drinks cans, sweet wrappers, the detritus of the people who passed through.

  The estate was a labyrinth. She looked round, trying to get her bearings. Stairways seemed to run into the blocks at random. She could see groups of teenagers on the walkways, looking down at her, a white intruder into territory that wasn’t hers.

  She went under an arch between two apartment blocks and found herself in an open space where a group of children were kicking a ball around in the fading light. Andre Mutombo lived at number 38. She found the flat more by luck than judgement, then knocked on the door.

  Footsteps approached. She waited a moment, then knocked again. “Mr Mutombo? It’s Detective Constable Barraclough from South Yorkshire Police. Could I talk to you for a minute?”

  The door opened. The man on the other side seemed to fill the entrance. His head was shaven, but he had a heavy beard. “I am Andre Mutombo. How may I help you?” The words were carefully polite, but she could see another emotion underlying them – hostility? Suspicion? She wasn’t sure. She was suddenly aware that she’d come here with scant authority, and no backup.