Good as Dead by Mark Billingham Page A

shadows of a concrete overhang. They watched something change hands that almost certainly wasn’t a set of Pokémon cards, before one of the figures looked in their direction, suddenly aware that they were being observed. Each shoved their hands into their pockets, but neither showed any inclination to move away.
    ‘Such a shame we’re in a hurry,’ Kitson said, then turned and began walking quickly towards the car. ‘See, Dave?’ she said. ‘If we weren’t so up against it, and we actually gave a monkey’s, we might have had that nonsense to deal with. So, every cloud … ’
    They both knew very well that, busy or not, the chances of them choosing to intervene in a petty drug deal were slim to non-existent. But Holland was happy to play along for the sake of the joke.
    ‘I didn’t see a thing,’ he said, a step or two behind.
    Thorne followed Mir Hamid Shakir and his friends in a slow, ten-minute procession to the other end of the wing. At each set of heavy metal gates they waited patiently for a prison officer to let them through, until eventually, after descending to the ground floor, they turned into a narrow corridor and arrived at a plain wooden door.
    A sign outside said Faith Suite .
    The imam unlocked the door and invited Thorne across the threshold, leaving his followers to wait outside. The room was the largest Thorne had been in since he’d arrived, white and windowless. There were half a dozen wooden benches against the walls, a wide-screen TV on a stand and a scattering of plastic chairs across a thin blue carpet. At the far end, a simple altar draped in purple sat beneath a large metal cross.
    Shakir sat on one of the benches and Thorne took a chair a few feet away.
    ‘Yes, it is rather strange,’ Shakir said, watching Thorne take in his surroundings. ‘At the moment this is the only place of worship we have, so we are forced to share it.’ The imam was somewhere in his mid-fifties with a wispy grey beard. He was slight, birdlike, and the eyes that shone behind rimless glasses were almost as bright as the perfect teeth that flashed when he smiled. ‘There is rather more work for us than for my fellow priests as we have a little more … paraphernalia than they do to remove when it is our turn.’ He fluttered a hand towards the altar. ‘We need nothing but our prayer mats.’
    ‘Nice and easy,’ Thorne said.
    ‘And of course, we pray rather more often.’ He smiled at Thorne. ‘I am hoping that we will have our own place of worship very soon. It would be more convenient for everyone.’
    ‘You wanted to talk about Amin Akhtar.’
    Shakir nodded and lowered his head. Muttered, ‘Yes, yes … ’
    Thorne waited a few seconds. ‘Is there something you can tell me about his death?’
    Shakir looked up. ‘Why he did it, perhaps?’
    ‘That would certainly be helpful.’
    Another fifteen seconds passed. Thorne glanced at his watch, hoping that the imam might catch it.
    ‘Most of the young men who come to this place are looking for something,’ Shakir said. ‘The fact that they have not found it might explain why they have turned to violence or drugs to fill the holes in their lives. In here, those options are of course denied them, so they search for something else. There are gangs of course, even inside these walls, but those who wish to change their lives will seek out something they can belong to that nourishes them and shows them a different path. I believe passionately that Islam offers them that. I have no idea if you are a man of faith at all, it does not matter, but does what I’m saying make sense to you?’
    Up to a point, Thorne thought. He just nodded.
    ‘You only have to look at the numbers. In an hour’s time I will have twenty or more boys in this room. Black, white, whatever, all praying and reading from the Qu’ran. I can assure you that is many more than the Catholic priest might expect. Or the … vicar .’ He enunciated the word very precisely, smiling as though