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conversation with Pascoe as he went. When Holland had caught him up, Thorne told him to get back to the office as quickly as he could. ‘Get Yvonne Kitson on this. While I’m at Barndale, I want the two of you looking at anyone who might have wanted Amin killed. You might as well start with Lee Slater’s family, they’ve got a decent enough motive, then talk to the other two kids who were with Slater the night Amin was attacked. We’ll stay in touch by phone, OK?’
    Holland ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said.
    ‘Get what?’
    ‘Why we’re doing this.’ Holland stopped walking. ‘The kid killed himself. I mean it’s a shame and all that, and I can see why his old man’s upset, but we’re not going to change anything by charging about looking for non-existent murderers.’
    ‘You heard what he said.’ Thorne took a few steps back towards Holland, put a heavy hand between his shoulder blades and pointed him towards the shuttered-up shop. ‘What he wants and what he’s threatening to do if he doesn’t get it.’
    ‘I heard, but we can’t create a murder when there wasn’t one.’
    ‘What if he’s right though?’
    ‘What are the chances of that? He’s a nutcase, you know he is.’
    Thorne was starting to lose his temper, but did not raise his voice. ‘So what, you think we should do nothing?’
    ‘He doesn’t know what we’re doing, does he? Why can’t we just tell him we’ve looked into it and that we couldn’t find anything.’
    ‘That might almost be a half-decent plan, Dave … if Helen Weeks wasn’t sitting in there with a gun pointed at her.’
    Holland shook his head, still unconvinced.
    ‘Just get on with it, Sergeant .’
    Having signalled to the WPC who was looking after Nadira Akhtar, Thorne walked quickly out of the playground and down the street to his car. When the newsagent’s wife had settled, somewhat nervously, into the passenger seat, Thorne nodded a hello then pulled away; driving slowly and saying nothing until he was through the cordon.
    Then he put his foot down.
    ‘Tell me about your son,’ he said.

SEVEN
    ‘Tell me about your son … ’
    Akhtar was perched awkwardly on the edge of the small chair. He looked down at Helen. He picked up his mug of tea from the desk, then put it down again. He straightened out some papers that were scattered around.
    ‘Tell me what he was like, Javed.’
    Akhtar started to speak, cleared his throat then started again. ‘He was always good,’ he said. ‘You know?’
    ‘Yes, I remember,’ Helen said. She was not actually sure which of Akhtar’s sons she remembered being served by on several occasions, but as things stood it did not really matter. ‘Whenever he was in the shop he was always very polite. Very helpful.’
    ‘He always tried to do the right thing,’ Akhtar said. ‘We all did. Now look where it’s got us.’
    ‘Why was he in prison?’
    Akhtar shook his head as though it were a long story, or else one he could still not quite believe. ‘He was trying to protect a friend, that’s all. They were doing nothing wrong and they were set upon. It was all a mess, a big mess … ’
    Helen nodded, happy to let him continue. Next to her, Mitchell was still and silent. He had not drunk the tea Akhtar had made for him, not said a word since the newsagent had come back into the room. He sat staring at the floor, his chin on his chest, breathing deeply.
    ‘We were told that he would be OK,’ Akhtar said. ‘They promised us, the police officers and the bloody lawyers. They said he would be OK and that they would be lenient. Liars, all of them. Lying bastards.’ There was anger in his voice, but it was controlled. ‘He was just a boy, for heaven’s sake, and we trusted them because we were trying to do the right thing. You understand?’
    ‘Of course I do,’ Helen said.
    He nodded. He seemed pleased, but he was studying her.
    It was good that they were talking, Helen knew that. She needed to