Good as Dead by Mark Billingham

pleasantly surprised to see them hurrying away as he got closer. Then, hearing footsteps behind him, he turned, and saw that he was not the one they were keen to avoid.
    There were a dozen or so boys, sixteen and upwards, in step and walking close together. They were black, white, Asian. They all wore regulation blue T-shirts and cargos, but each also wore a simple grey skullcap. As they drew closer, Thorne saw that there was a middle-aged Asian man in the middle of the group, wearing a plain white robe and embroidered velvet kufi . The boys flanking him moved aside when the group was within a few feet of Thorne, allowing the man to move ahead.
    He placed one hand over his heart and extended the other one towards Thorne. ‘I am Imam Mir Hamid Shakir,’ he said. ‘I am the visiting imam here at Barndale.’
    Thorne shook the man’s hand, nodded over his shoulder. ‘Got your own bodyguards, I see.’
    The boys standing behind Shakir gave no more of a reaction than the imam himself did.
    ‘I hear you are asking questions about Amin Akhtar.’
    Thorne said that he was.
    ‘Then we need to talk.’

THIRTEEN
    The address that Holland and Kitson had been given for Scott Clarkson – one of the other two boys alleged to have attacked Amin Akhtar on the night of Lee Slater’s death – turned out to be a fifthfloor flat in a block behind Highbury and Islington station. The lift was predictably out of action and, after the climb up five flights of stone stairs that apparently doubled as a communal toilet and rubbish dump, there was no reply when Holland and Kitson knocked.
    ‘We should get some cards printed up,’ Holland said. ‘“We called while you were out. To ask if you, or any other waste of DNA you know, had anything to do with a death that may or may not have been a suicide. Please contact us on the number below if you can help.” That kind of thing.’
    ‘Or we could just move on to the next one,’ Kitson said.
    ‘Can we grab some lunch first? I’m bloody starving.’
    Kitson turned and began walking back towards the stairs. ‘We’ll get a sandwich or something on the way.’ She peered over the wall and was pleased to see the car was where she’d left it. That it still had the requisite number of wheels. ‘I don’t think taking the full hour would go down too well under the circumstances, do you?’
    ‘Probably not.’
    Holland followed, stayed a few steps behind her as they trudged back down the stairs. ‘Where’s Armstrong live?’
    ‘Luckily we’ve got a work address for this one, so I suggest we try that first.’ Kitson dug into her bag for a piece of paper. ‘Might be hopelessly optimistic of course.’
    ‘Theme for the day,’ Holland said, quietly.
    Kitson looked at her notes and smiled. ‘Well that’s a bit of luck. He works in a takeaway on Essex Road, so we can kill two birds with one stone and pick you up a burger or something at the same time.’
    ‘Not unless I want extra spit in it,’ Holland said. ‘Or worse.’
    ‘Well if you’re going to get picky.’
    Holland caught her up on the next flight. ‘Seriously though, Yvonne—’
    ‘I know, but let’s just get on with it, shall we?’ Kitson’s tone was suddenly a little less matey. A simple reminder that she was a rank above him. ‘Yes, we’ll almost certainly turn up jack shit, but it’s not like Thorne’s got a lot of choice, and it’s the least we can do for that poor cow with the gun at her head, don’t you reckon?’
    Holland appeared to have got the message, said he supposed it was.
    ‘Besides, it’s nice to have a day away from the office,’ Kitson said. They emerged from the stairwell on to the scrubby patch of grass in front of the block. There were two newly painted benches, and an old bike leaning against a yellowing fridge-freezer. ‘Get out and about, see a few of the sights.’
    They both turned at the noise of a car backfiring and saw two figures fifty yards away to their left, huddled in the