Rip Tide

‘That’s right,’ said Fane approvingly. Again, she felt as if she were being patted on the head. ‘It was leased by a charity called UCSO. Quite coincidentally, I had a call from the charity’s director, a chap named Blakey. Used to be one of us – Head of Station in Hong Kong for a good while. He’s based here in London, though UCSO also have an office in Athens.’

Liz’s antennae were vibrating now. ‘Did he say anything about the hijack attempt?’

‘He mentioned it,’ said Fane airily. Something in the tone of his voice struck her as suspicious. She knew he was holding something back. Then he said, ‘Tell you what: let me have another word with him. It could be that the hijack attempt and the fact the ship was an UCSO one are connected. If they are, we’ll need to liaise closely.’ He looked at her and smiled. ‘You’ll enjoy that, Elizabeth. We work well together.’

Chapter 13

There was no need for introductions. Liz could recognise a Special Branch officer in the dark. DI Fontana clearly felt the same about MI5 officers; he strode up to her as she walked towards the end of the platform at Birmingham New Street station and greeted her with a handshake. ‘Liz Carlyle,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

He was tall, lean, athletic-looking – and disconcertingly blond, thought Liz, given his Italian surname. They walked towards his car, which was parked on a double yellow line outside the station.

‘You sound as if you’ve lived here all your life.’

‘I’m third-generation Brummie. My grandfather came over from Italy in the thirties; he couldn’t be doing with Mussolini. He made his living selling ice cream from a van – a real Eyetie,’ the DI said with a grin. ‘Then he married an English woman.’ He raked a hand through his blond hair. ‘That’s how I got this.’

‘Tell me about the Khans.’

‘I started as a beat policeman, and for a few years I was stationed in Sparkhill. That’s when I got to know them. I used to stop in at one of their shops sometimes – you know, for a chat and a quick cup of tea. Shopkeepers like to keep in touch with the local bobby and they always seem to know what’s going on in their neighbourhood. It’s a two-way process. Not that I’d say I know them well… not nowadays anyway.’

‘Do they have other children?’

‘Lots. Amir must have six or seven brothers and sisters. I could never keep track of them all, though I do remember him as a little boy. He’s the youngest – unless his mum’s had any more since then, but she’s getting a bit long in the tooth now. She doted on Amir. Mr Khan was very strict with all the kids; too strict, I’d say.’

Not a good combination, thought Liz. It would have made the boy keen to cut his mother’s apron strings as well as want to rebel against his father.

Fontana went on, ‘When I first knew them the family had two corner shops; now they must own a dozen. One of them’s a small supermarket.’

‘So Mr Khan’s done well.’

‘The whole family has,’ Fontana said. ‘It’s a team effort. The kids are put to work in the shops pretty much when they start school. God knows how many child labour laws their father’s broken. Still, he’s a classic Asian success story. It’s a pity it hasn’t rubbed off on the next generation.’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘With Amir?’ said Fontana, glancing over at her as he stopped at traffic lights. They’d reached the Stratford Road, an urban High Street with residential streets running off it like spokes.

The lights changed. Fontana pointed ahead towards a park on their right: acres of grass ringed by tall weeping birches, only now fully leafing. ‘That’s Springfield Park,’ he said, and Liz wondered why he wasn’t answering her question. ‘In a way, it’s a symbol of what’s happened to parts of the Asian community here. One of the Royals is supposed to come at the end of the summer to dedicate a new playground. Yet the older generation – Mr Khan, for example – never set foot in the place. They’re too busy running and expanding their businesses, completely focused on financial success.

‘They want success for their kids too, but they want them to become professionals. They drive them hard to do well at school; they’ve got to be top of the class, go to uni, become doctors or lawyers. But at home the likes of Mr Khan still cling to the more traditional Pakistani way of life: his wife stays in the house; he arranges marriages for his daughters; socially they only mix within the Pakistani community. It’s not surprising that some of the next generation rebel. They meet people at school who have a very different way of life, and they want some of it too. So they conform at home, but when they get the chance they’ll be hanging out in the park, smoking and drinking, and going to watch American films.’

‘So how does someone like Amir end up in Somalia?’