‘I’m not even going to dignify that with a response. But if you are bringing the laptop, you might as well bring me Lara …’ He gave her the full twinkle.
‘You sad bastard. Where will I find her?’
‘In my study. On the shelf that your left hand would reach if you stretched out from the chair.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘And now it’s time for you to go. I need to sleep and you’ve got a Major Incident Team to run.’
Carol stood up. ‘A Major Incident Team with no major incidents to run. Not that I’m complaining,’ she added hastily. ‘I don’t have a problem with a quiet day at the office.’ She patted his hand again. ‘I’ll pop back this evening. If there’s anything else you need, call me.’
She walked down the corridor, already pulling out her mobile phone so she could turn it back on as soon as she left the hospital building. As she passed the nurses’ station, the woman she’d spoken to earlier gave her a wink. ‘So much for feeding the cat.’
‘What do you mean?’ Carol asked, slowing.
‘According to his mum, he does a bit more than that for you.’ Her smile was arch, her eyes knowing.
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear. Does your mother know everything about you?’
The nurse shrugged. ‘Point taken.’
Carol juggled bag and phone and pulled out a card. ‘I’ll be back later. That’s my card. If there’s anything he needs, let me know and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘No problem. Good cat feeders are hard to find, after all.’
Yousef Aziz glanced at the dashboard clock. He was doing well. Nobody expected him to make it back from a nine o’clock meeting in Blackburn much before lunchtime. Everybody knew what Monday morning trans-Pennine traffic was like. But what they didn’t know was that he’d rearranged the meeting for eight. Sure, he’d had to leave Bradfield a bit earlier, but not the whole hour, because he would avoid the worst of the rush hour this way. To cover himself, all he’d had to say to his mother was that he wanted to be sure he wouldn’t be late for this important new client. He knew he should have felt uncomfortable when she’d used his supposed punctuality as a stick to beat his little brother with. But it was water off a duck’s back with Raj. Their mother had spoiled him, the youngest son, and now she was reaping what she’d sown.
The main thing was that Yousef had created a little window of opportunity for himself. It was something he’d grown accustomed to doing over the previous few months. He had become adept at squeezing unmissed hours from the working day without raising suspicion. Ever since … He shook his head as if to dislodge the thought. Too distracting. He had to try to compartmentalize the warring elements of his life, otherwise he would be bound to give something away.
Yousef had kept the Blackburn meeting as tight as he could without appearing rude to the new client, and now he had an hour and a half for himself. He followed the instructions of his satellite navigation system. Down the motorway and into the heart of Cheetham Hill. He knew North Manchester pretty well, but this particular section of the red-brick warren was unfamiliar. He turned into a narrow street where a battered terrace of weary houses faced on to a small industrial estate. Halfway down, he spotted the signage for his destination. PRO-TECH SUPPLIES, in scarlet against a white background inside a border of black exclamation marks.
He parked the van outside and turned off the engine. He leaned on the steering wheel, breathing deeply, feeling his stomach wind itself into knots. He’d hardly eaten anything that morning, using his urgency to get to his meeting to defuse his mother’s oppressive concern with his recent loss of appetite. Of course he’d lost his appetite, just as he’d lost the ability to sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time. What else could he expect? This was how it was when you embarked on something like this. But it was important not to arouse suspicion, so he tried to be away from the family table at mealtimes as much as he could.
Given how little he was eating and sleeping, he couldn’t quite believe how energized he felt. A bit light-headed sometimes, but he thought that was more to do with imagining the effect of their plan than the lack of food and rest. Now, he pushed back from the steering wheel and climbed out of the van. He walked through the door marked RETAIL SALES. It led into a room ten feet square partitioned off from the warehouse behind. Behind a zinc-topped counter that bisected the room, a skinny man hunched over a computer. Everything about him was grey – his hair, his skin, his overalls. He looked up from his computer screen as Yousef entered. His eyes were grey too.
He stood up and leaned on the counter. The movement stirred the air enough to send the bitter after-smell of cheap tobacco across the gap between them. ‘All right?’ Yousef said.
‘All right. What can I do you for?’
Yousef pulled out a list. ‘I need some heavy-duty gloves, a face shield and ear protectors.’
The man sighed and pulled a dog-eared catalogue along the counter. ‘Best have a look in here. That shows you what we do.’ He opened it, flicking through the creased pages till he reached the section on gloves. He pointed to a picture at random. ‘See, there’s a description. Gives you an idea of thickness and flexibility. Depends what you want them for, see?’ He pushed the catalogue towards Yousef. ‘You decide what you’re after.’
Yousef nodded. He began to pore over the catalogue, a bit taken aback by the range of choices on offer. As he read the descriptions of the items, he couldn’t help smiling. For some reason, Pro-Tech didn’t list his project among their recommended uses for their protective gear. Mr Grey behind the counter would shit himself if he knew the truth. But he never would know the truth. Yousef had been careful. His tracks were clean. A scientific and chemical supplies warehouse in Wakefield. A specialist paint manufacturer in Oldham. A motorbike accessories shop in Leeds. A laboratory equipment supplier in Cleckheaton. Never, never, never in Bradfield, where there was an outside chance of being spotted by someone who knew him. Every time, he’d dressed the part. Painter’s overalls. Biker’s leathers. Neatly pressed shirt and chinos with a line of pens in a pocket protector in the shirt. Paid in cash. The invisible man.
Now, he made his decision and pointed out what he wanted, adding a protective chest shield for good measure. The warehouseman entered the details into the computer and told Yousef his goods would be along in a minute. He seemed nonplussed when Yousef offered to pay in cash. ‘Have you not got a credit card?’ he asked, sounding incredulous.
‘Not a company one, no,’ Yousef lied. ‘Sorry, mate. Cash is all I’ve got.’ He counted out the notes.
The warehouseman shook his head. ‘That’ll have to do, then. Your lot like cash, don’t you?’
Yousef frowned. ‘My lot? What do you mean, my lot?’ He felt his fists clench in his pockets.
‘You Muslims. I read it some place. It’s against your religion. Paying interest and that.’ The man’s jaw took a stubborn set. ‘I’m not being racist, you know. Just stating a fact.’
Yousef breathed deeply. As these things went, the man’s attitude was pretty mild. He’d experienced much, much worse. But these days, he was hypersensitive to anything that had the faintest whiff of prejudice about it. It all served to reinforce his choice to stay on this road, to carry his plans through to the end. ‘If you say so,’ he said, not wanting to get into a ruck that would make him memorable, but equally reluctant to say nothing at all.
He was saved from further conversation by the arrival of his purchases. He picked them up and walked out without responding to the warehouseman’s ‘See ya.’
The motorway traffic was heavy and it took him the best part of an hour to make it back to Bradfield. He barely had enough time to take the protective gear to the bedsit, but he couldn’t leave it lying round in the van. If Raj or Sanjay or his father saw it, it would provoke all sorts of questions he definitely didn’t want to