Page 27

27

Tuesday morning

Despite the painkillers, Charlie’s leg ached, and his chest hurt. He was already too damn hot, and all he was doing was — nothing. Watching the SOCOs poke around among the rubble, listening to the grumblings from the gate and waiting for Kent to call him back. In the meantime, no one was co-ordinating anything. They were just reacting, and it wasn’t working. Charlie’s head was awash with things he should be checking up on, scheduling, writing down … he wanted his whiteboard and to get off his feet. None of the promised reinforcements had arrived, so he called Tom. There would be a fuss, but needs must.

“Could you do me a favour,” Charlie asked, “and not get angry?”

Which was probably entirely the wrong thing to say, because it put Tom on instant alert. But then, he was going to ask Tom to drive him a distance that he could have easily walked in fifteen minutes.

“Could you meet me by the entrance of the Llanfair Trading Estate and drive me to the police station? And could you bring me a clean set of work clothes?”

“Ten minutes,” was all Tom said and ended the call.

Charlie made his way slowly and painfully to the gate. The reporters jumped to attention when they saw him, yelling questions and getting as close as they could with their cameras. He supposed his obvious injuries were the most interesting thing to happen since the departure of the mortuary van. The Mo’s Autoparts workers were now sitting on the grass verge, staring at their phones. They looked up hopefully. Charlie rested his bottom on the nearest wall. The uniformed officer came over and asked if Charlie was OK.

“No. But there’s nothing else I can do here. I’m getting a lift to the station. I’ve asked for reinforcements, and they should arrive soon. I hope.”

The uniform leaned closer, so the journalists couldn’t overhear. “Any word on the boss?”

“The DI? Awake and talking, according to the Chief Super,” Charlie said.

“I’ve been driving her about for a few years now,” the uniform said. “Funny woman, but damn good at the job.”

“I like her, too,” Charlie said. “Do you know which of the autoparts crew is in charge?”

The uniform shook his head. “That woman with the tight T-shirt had the keys, because the manager had the day off. I’m pretty sure they’ve called him though. Someone called Mitchell. Surprised he wasn’t here last night when it all went up.”

Charlie was surprised, too. In his experience, a fire alarm would automatically call the manager to the site. Something else to add to his list.

Tom’s car drew up, alerting the journalists again.

“Don’t say anything ,” Charlie said. Something in his tone must have been convincing. Either that or Tom caught sight of the cameras. Neither of them had any love for the boys and girls of the fourth estate. He got into the car with some difficulty, throwing the crutches in before him, and Tom drove away from the gate, his mouth set in a grim line. “I’m OK,” Charlie said.

“You’re obviously not. You look like death warmed up. On crutches.”

Death warmed up was entirely the wrong phrase, but Charlie wasn’t going to share the image of the burned man with Tom. They didn’t both need to have nightmares. “Well, not completely OK, but mostly,” he said.

“I’m taking you home,” Tom said. “Don’t argue.”

“I have to go to work,” Charlie said. “Really, no choice. Sorry.”

Tom turned his head and looked Charlie in the eye. “You can go to work after you’ve had a meal and a drink and a wash. You’re an adult. I’m not going to argue about it.” He wanted to, though, Charlie could tell.

Charlie remembered just in time not to take a deep breath before he spoke.

“I got blown up,” he said. “I’ve got a burn on my leg under this bandage, and I think I’ve cracked a rib or two. It all hurts like hell, but I would love five minutes with you, and something to eat before I get back to it. I’m going round in circles, and I need to stop.”

In a very tightly controlled voice, Tom asked how and when Charlie had been blown up.

“It was a gas explosion at Hassan’s takeaway. Almost certainly not an accident. Mr Hassan called us because he’d seen a person moving about inside just before it all went to custard.”

“Someone’s got it in for the Muslims, then?”

Now it was Charlie’s turn to stare at his husband. “Muslims?”

“Hassan’s Takeaway and Mo’s Autoparts. I’m assuming Hassan is also a Muslim.”

“Jesus,” Charlie breathed.

Tom grinned. “Definitely not him. But since you ask, yes, Mo is short for Mohamed. It’s a national firm. One of the biggest in the UK.”

“Those are probably the only two Muslim-run businesses in this area of Wales,” Charlie said.

Could it be a coincidence that they were both targeted on the same night? Was this all the work of their fake fireman, along with the graffiti and the bogus social media posts? If it was, how did Unwin’s murder fit? Could that have been Patsy after all, in a fit of jealousy? No, he wouldn’t believe that.

“I need to check who owns the trading estate site,” he said, wanting a few minutes with Tom, but wishing for his whiteboard, or even a piece of paper, so he could get his thoughts in order. Maybe saying things aloud would stop him forgetting.

“I can answer that,” Tom said. “It’s the Art College, though we don’t have anything to do with the businesses there. We rent the land out, and it’s managed by an agent.”

“Here in Llanfair?”

Tom shrugged. “No idea. But that’s how I know that Mo is Mohamed, though I can’t remember his surname. I have to sign off the accounts each year, and they are on the list of tenants, showing the business name and the owners. I can find out if you like.”

Tom parked outside their house, and jogged round to the passenger door to help Charlie out, along with his crutches.

“I suppose I’d be wasting my breath if I suggested a trip to the nearest hospital?” he asked.

“I’ll go as soon as I can,” Charlie said. If he meant, so that he could talk to Freya Ravensbourne, rather than have the doctors poking and prodding him, that was something Tom didn’t need to know. “And yes, I’d be interested to see anything you’ve got about the trading estate.” Charlie was embarrassed by how much of Tom’s help he needed to get into the house, and very glad to sink into his favourite armchair, blessedly free of teen-girl clutter. Tom had gone into the kitchen when Charlie’s phone rang.

Will Wayward

“Hi Will,” Charlie said.

“That address I gave you for your camper van? No use. No one with a camper van lives there. So, I got on to the DVLA with the name, and I’ve got a driving license address for the same guy, here in Wrexham. Thought you might want to visit yourself. Or I could go.”

Charlie couldn’t help his groan. “I can’t. I’ve burned my leg and I’m on crutches. Not sure I can drive to be honest.”

“No problem,” Will said, sounding surprisingly chirpy. Was this the same Will who liked to spend his days in darkened rooms staring at computer screens? Apparently it was. “Everyone keeps telling me how nice it is outside. Maybe it’s time I went to have a look.”