CHAPTER 30
It was raining heavily, and the worn wipers of the tiny Fiat screeched across the windscreen as Kevin and Roger sat discussing their next steps. Kevin, though, was distracted by the wet strands of hair that clung to Roger’s scalp like a threadbare carpet. “Where’s your hat?”
“You really want to discuss my hat, Kevin? Right now? As it happens, I left it at your mum’s, but it’s irrelevant right now, Kevin. We’re here to discuss strategy. And I’m still waiting to know what you discovered during your internet research on the history of Park Road.”
“Yeh. Sorry. I forgot. I didn’t get to bed till three o’clock,” Kevin said. “I met Walid. He bought a passport from Khan. Khan then stole it back. Gordon’s trying to sort it.”
Roger looked at him. “What is it about passports and Mr. Khan, Kevin? And you’ve not yet introduced me to either Walid or Gordon.”
“No time, Roger. Neither have I told you anything about Kurt. Kurt’s in Thailand. Walid suggested I call Winston to borrow his laptop. I’ve not told you about Winston either. Winston’s got good Wi-Fi because they’ve got a smart TV downstairs. I called at Winston’s and didn’t get away till 3:00 a.m. because I was doing the research like you told me.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Just old news stories. The street demonstration was three years ago. There was a story about two guys from Park Road called Imran Hussein and Akram Khan who were arrested on suspicion of terrorism. I vaguely remember it.”
“What happened?”
“The case was dropped. They then sued the police for compensation.”
“What else?”
“Lots of comments and speeches by Councillor Mohamed Basra attacking the police for intimidation, supporting the appeal for compensation, and saying that letters in the local press objecting to wearing hijab and niqab were racist and discriminatory.”
“Anything else?”
“An article from a woman day tripper saying how wonderful it was to see ethnic diversity in an inner-city area working so well and admiring the choice of small shops.”
“Pity she didn’t call at Faisal World Travel and book a ticket to Turkey. Anything else?”
“Not much. It’s all on a memory stick, but it’s why I didn’t do any ablutes.”
“Ablutions, Kevin. On a morning you perform ritual ablutions. Never mind. You’re excused for once, but who are Kurt and Winston and so on?”
“Mates, Roger. Kurt, Cass, Winston, and I were at school. Walid joined later after he got back from Syria, where his mum was killed. Kurt lives in London.”
“Tell me again sometime. My brain can’t handle it right now because we’re off to see Mr. Greg. Tell me everything you know about Greg.”
“An old white man with glasses.”
“I’ve already logged that. Do you ever talk to him?”
“I collect or give him packages then go.”
“Why do I picture you running away, Kevin?”
“I walk. I catch the number 27 bus on the corner. One comes along every thirty minutes.”
“That figures. It fits perfectly. You’re one of those who wait patiently for public transport while your life ticks away, aren’t you, Kevin? If one bus fails to turn up, you wait patiently for the next, even though it’s quicker and healthier to walk. Today, though, you will travel in a private car, an Italian one at that. It’s one with a clockwork engine, wipers that spread water around rather than clearing it, and seats with metal frames in place of padding. When we arrive in Lansdowne Road, could you perhaps try engaging Greg in conversation for the first time? Some old man’s gossip starting with epic chat-up lines, such as ‘It’s a nice day for ducks, Mr. Greg.’”
“I could try.”
“What about asking about his health? ‘How are you today, Mr. Greg?’ Try some general conversation by describing how it feels to be a long-distance driver who can’t read a map. If that doesn’t work, try making him feel sorry for you. Appear sad and lonely. Tell him you’ve not eaten for days because you’ve been in Scotland collecting his parcel. Try bringing so many tears to his eyes that he invites you in for tea and crumpets. Smile and look at him through your long eyelashes. Convince him that you’re a nice young man and know nothing of the contents of the many packages you deliver.”
“I haven’t got a package today.”
“Then improvise, Kevin. Tell him you thought he had one for collection and apologise for your error.”
“What if he’s gay?”
“Are there many around here?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, Kevin, having spent an entire night with you recently.” Roger punched him on the shoulder. “Let’s go, Starsky.”
“Starsky?”
“I’ll be Hutch. This tin box can be our striped tomato. I know it’s powder blue, not cherry red, so use your imagination.”
“What are you talking about, Roger?”
They parked out of sight under a dripping tree on the junction with Lansdowne Road. “Well, off you go, Kevin. If you return in less than five minutes, I might just head down to Yeovil and forget I ever met you.”
“You wouldn’t, would you?”
“Just go, Kevin. Come back with an opinion of some sort. Is he, for instance, the godfather—the top boss that Khan reports to? What does he do with those darned passports you deliver? Guilty until proven innocent. Go.”
Kevin opened the gate of number 18, Lansdowne Road, closed it behind him, and walked up the sloping concrete path to the front door. In order not to look too menacing, he pulled back the hood of his anorak and rang the bell as rain dripped off the overhead guttering. He looked around. The front garden was a square of grass and four borders containing what might once have been roses. The grass itself was long and lay flattened by the rain. The path from the gate followed the house around to the side where it joined the concrete driveway, the garage, and Greg’s big old Peugeot. As Kevin stood back, waiting and looking around as Roger had instructed, he saw, for the first time, a side door with a ramp leading up to it, like shops had for disabled access. Thinking perhaps Mr. Greg had not heard, Kevin rang the bell again, but then the door opened suddenly.
Greg was holding a pure white folded handkerchief in his hands and was wearing a white shirt and dark tie beneath a grey V-necked jumper. His grey flannel trousers, Kevin noticed, had a dark blue stain across the knee. “Good morning, Mr. Greg,” Kevin said. “I have come to pick up a parcel.”
Greg said nothing but removed his glasses, unfolded the handkerchief, and used it to blow his nose. “I have no parcel today.”
“Oh, sorry, Mr. Greg. Maybe it’s a mistake. I’ve been in Scotland. Edinburgh. You know it? It was very bad weather. I got stuck in snow.”
Kevin looked at Mr. Greg, realising this was the first time he’d ever actually looked at his face with any real interest. Mr. Greg had a ring of soft grey hair, similar in colour and texture to Roger’s. His forehead had a worried look, and his thick-lensed glasses made his grey eyes look big and anxious. He stuffed the folded handkerchief back in his trouser pocket and wiped his face with a veiny hand that bore a plain wedding ring on one finger and traces of faint blue stain.
“Nice weather for ducks,” Kevin said, looking up at the dripping sky.
Roger’s suggested dialogue seemed to have little effect on Mr. Greg. “Edinburgh?” he said.
“Seven hundred miles there and back, Mr. Greg. Very bad weather.”
“Edinburgh, you say?”
“Mr. Wazir, you know him?”
“Wazir?”
“Mr. Wazir Khan.”
Greg shook his head, and Kevin, thinking he’d completely blown it, started to retreat. “Well, thanks, Mr. Greg. Very sorry for—”
“Who do you work for?”
“Myself, Mr. Greg. I’m a courier.”
“Where’s your van?”
“I use my car, or the bus. I work for Mr. Khan from Faisal World Travel. You know him?”
Greg looked puzzled. His head moved, but Kevin wasn’t sure if it was a nod or a shake. He looked at Kevin through his thick lenses, retrieved his handkerchief, wiped his nose again, and stuffed it back in his pocket. Kevin lingered, thinking that he might say something else, but he didn’t. He merely nodded, stepped backwards, closed the door, and slid a lock. Kevin walked back down the path, shut the gate, and returned to the car.
“Well?” Roger asked.
“He didn’t know about Edinburgh, and he didn’t know about Wazir.”
“That’s it?”
“I needed a better chat-up line. The ducks didn’t work.”
“You’re blaming me?”
“But I smelled something.”
“A rat?”
“It smells like Abdul’s printing shop on Midland Road. And he had blue stains on his trousers and hands.”
“What are you saying, Kevin?”
“I think he’s a printer.”
Roger studied Kevin’s serious face. “What was in that bacon sandwich I bought you this morning, Kevin? It’s as if your brain’s been turbocharged.”
Kevin chuckled.
They sat in the car for a while as Roger tried to imagine the picture Kevin was drawing of Greg—a quiet, nervous, and strangely old-fashioned man who said very little. Today had been the first time Kevin had heard him speak.
“That’s his car,” Kevin said, suddenly ducking down out of sight as the old box-like Peugeot emerged from Lansdowne Road, turned right, and crept past them. It was one of the earlier people carriers, like a small grey bus with sliding side doors. The driver sat low on his seat, with glasses on, hands at ten to two and far too close to the wheel for comfort. At the back was another person sitting higher up.
“Get up, Kevin. Don’t be ridiculous. You sure that’s Greg?”
“It’s Greg’s car.”
“That’s not a car. It’s a prototype military tank dating from when the French were learning how to make aesthetically pleasing forms of transport. And there was someone at the back. Is Greg married?”
“He had a wedding ring.”
Roger paused. “Are you working today, Kevin? Will there be any ritual slaughter in the halal section of Bashir’s?”
“I told Bash I was doing jobs for Mr. Khan today. And the meat arrives already dead.”
“That’s so good to hear, Kevin. To think I slept next to a gay butcher is too much. Let’s follow him.”
The Peugeot was driven slowly and purposefully through the city, through the main gate of Gloucester General Hospital and around the grounds to a separate building marked simply Dalgleish House. It stopped in a disabled area. Roger and Kevin watched as Greg climbed out, opened the car’s sliding door, and fixed a ramp onto the ground. He disappeared inside and a wheelchair came slowly down the ramp. In it was a grey-haired old lady wrapped in a tartan blanket.
“His wife?” Roger asked, not expecting a reply. “Listen, Kevin, we can’t park here. Go and park this thing somewhere lawful and come back.”
Roger got out. It was still raining.
Greg, meanwhile, was bent over the wheelchair, tidying the blanket, holding an umbrella, and talking to the woman. Her head rolled and then fell forward, and Greg tucked something beneath her chin. He stroked her hair then pushed the chair towards the entrance. The wide door opened automatically, and he disappeared inside. Roger followed, wiping his boots on an already sodden mat.
Inside, it was crowded with mostly old people sitting in rows of chairs and staring into space. Greg pushed the wheelchair to the reception desk and spoke to a nurse. Then he pushed it to the end of a row of chairs and knelt to talk to what Roger was now certain was his wife.
She was clearly sick. She had thin grey hair, a pale complexion, eyes that did not focus, and a head that wobbled on a frail neck. Her bony and veiny hands shook slightly as they lay over the blanket. Greg certainly didn’t have the look of a man engaged in forgery or an Islamic terrorist group.
Roger, missing his beanie that was, at the best of times, useless in the rain, wiped his dripping skull, tried flattening the threads of grey hair, and watched from the entrance. A name was called, and two seats next to where Greg was kneeling became vacant, so Roger moved inside and sat down. Greg squinted at him through thick-lensed glasses. Kevin’s description of him was accurate right down to the grey trousers with the blue stain at the knee.
“I’m sorry. Would you like to sit here?” Roger said, moving to the next chair.
Greg nodded and sat down, keeping a hand on the arm of the wheelchair. There was a mumbling sound, and Greg stood again. He bent over the woman, adjusted the towel that was supporting her chin, and quietly said, “It won’t be long, my flower.” Then he perched once more on the edge of the seat next to Roger.
Roger decided to say something. “What time is your appointment?”
Greg turned. The big grey eyes behind the glasses were flickering. “At eleven thirty.”
It was 11:10 a.m. Even if the appointment was on time, he had a good twenty minutes to engage in conversation. “How is your wife?”
“Much the same,” Greg said quietly. “Nothing changes.” He looked away, and Roger did the same except that he was thinking about Kevin mentioning a smell of printing chemicals at Greg’s house. Suddenly, a flicker of memory suddenly lit Roger’s mind. He touched Greg’s elbow. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m sure we’ve met somewhere before.”
Greg turned. “I don’t think so.”
“Mill Lane. The old industrial site. I used to make deliveries to a printing company. I remember backing my truck up the very narrow lane.”
Greg produced a white handkerchief from his pocket. “Yes,” he said, blinking behind the glasses. He wiped his nose. “Bywater Design & Printing.”
“That’s it,” Roger said. “That was a few years ago.”
“It’s closed.”
“Has it, indeed? Is that where I met you?”
“I was made redundant.”
“I’m sorry.”
“They wouldn’t invest.”
Roger shook his head in commiseration. “Have you retired now?”
Greg paused, as if unsure. “I look after my wife.”
“What’s wrong?” Roger asked. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry, but—”
“Parkinson’s disease. Dementia.”
“I’m sorry. How long?”
“Ten years. It started with the Parkinson’s.”
For a moment, Greg’s sad, empty eyes behind his glasses looked directly at Roger, and Roger detected a desperate need to talk, to offload. For a man who, according to Kevin, never spoke, it seemed a breakthrough.” It must be very hard on you?” Roger asked.
“Yes.”
“How often do you bring your wife here?” Roger asked, speaking quietly, as if in church.
“Every two weeks,” Greg replied in a similar whisper.
“My name’s Roger by the way. Roger Smith.” He held out his hand, and Greg, however reluctantly, took it. It was a cold, soft, rather unwilling hand but a hand nevertheless.
“I’m Grzegorz Samoszewski,” Greg said.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Samoszewski.”
Greg nodded and looked at Roger. “You pronounce it well.”
“Is it Polish?”
Greg nodded.
“I have been to Poland many times over the years,” Roger said. “What is your wife’s name?”
“My wife—she is Dalia. We have been married for forty-five years. “
And Roger then detected something else. It was Greg’s accent that reminded him of a Polish customer, Jack Hassenfeld, whose company had also ceased trading. Jack had been Jewish. ‘My wife—she is Dalia.’ That was exactly how Jack would have said it.
“Forty-five years is a long time, Mr. Samoszewski.”
“Yes,” Greg said, caressing the wheelchair handle. He stood and adjusted the damp towel beneath his wife’s chin. When he sat down again, he looked at Roger. “I call her Herach.”
And that was another giveaway. Herach pronounced with the guttural “ch” at the end was Hebrew for flower. Dalia was Greg’s flower. And how did Roger just happen to know that? Because Jack had once given him a bunch of dried flowers tied in pink ribbon to take home to Madge, Roger’s wife.
But why was a Polish Jew involved with Khan’s Islamic games? Roger pondered for a moment as Greg glanced at an ancient-looking wind-up watch. Its face yellowed with time, as if it might be an heirloom.
The time, according to the clock above reception, showed 11:36 a.m. when a nurse appeared, reading from a card. “Mrs. Samma . . . Samma . . . Dalia?” Greg stood up but turned to Roger. “That’s us.” And then he disappeared, pushing Dalia in the wheelchair.