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Psychologist VICKY NEWHAM grew up in West Sussex and taught in East London for many years, before moving to Whitstable in Kent. She studied for an MA in Creative Writing at Kingston University. Turn a Blind Eye is her debut novel. She is currently working on the next book in the series.
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Vicky Newham 2018
Vicky Newham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780008240684
Version: 2018-09-17
PRAISE FOR TURN A BLIND EYE
‘A remarkable portrayal of a crime investigation in modern, multi-cultural Britain’
Paul Finch, Sunday Times bestselling author of Ashes to Ashes
‘A clever, gripping debut with a courageous DI at its heart’
BA Paris, author of Behind Closed Doors
‘Maya is wonderfully complex and human’
James Oswald, Sunday Times bestselling author of the Inspector Mclean series
‘A sensational debut; a current, timely police procedural featuring a DI like none you’ve ever seen. I loved this book!’
Karen Dionne, author of Home
‘Perfectly recreates the melting pot cultural atmosphere of East London; punchy and twisty. A terrific start to an important new series’
Vaseem Khan, author of the Baby Ganesh Detective Agency series
‘Assured and beautifully crafted, with a tempting array of clues to keep crime lovers glued to the pages’
Amanda Jennings, author of In Her Wake
‘DI Maya Rahman is the heroine I’ve waited a lifetime for’
Alex Caan, author of the Riley and Harris series
‘A fresh and enthralling read which smacks of authenticity. A different take on the usual, tired detective story, too. I loved it’
Lisa Hall, author of Between You and Me
‘Slick, fresh and current’
Mel Sherratt, author of The Girls Next Door
‘Stands out from the crowd. Filled with cryptic clues, this will keep you entertained throughout’
Caroline Mitchell, author of Silent Victim
For my father, who believed in kindness.
‘You may choose to look the other way but you can never say again that you did not know.’
—WILLIAM WILBERFORCE (1791)
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Praise
Dedication
Epigraph
Wednesday, 3 January 2018 – Steve
Wednesday – Maya
Wednesday – Maya
Wednesday
Mile End High School, 1989 – Maya
Wednesday – Dan
Wednesday – Steve
Wednesday – Maya
Wednesday – Steve
Wednesday – Maya
Wednesday – Steve
Wednesday – Dan
Wednesday – Steve
Brick Lane, 1990 – Maya
Wednesday – Maya
Wednesday – Dan
Thursday – Maya
Thursday – Steve
Thursday – Maya
Thursday – Dan
Thursday – Maya
Thursday – Steve
Mile End High School, 1995 – Maya
Thursday – Maya
Thursday – Maya
Thursday – Maya
Thursday – Maya
Limehouse Police Station, 2005 – Maya
Thursday – Maya
Thursday – Maya
Thursday – Maya
Thursday – Dan
Thursday
Thursday – Maya
Thursday – Dan
Thursday – Maya
Mile End High School, 1991 – Maya
Friday – Maya
Friday – Steve
Friday – Steve
Friday – Maya
Friday – Maya
Friday – Steve
Friday – Maya
Friday – Maya
Friday – Steve
Friday – Maya
Friday – Steve
Saturday – Maya
Saturday – Dan
Saturday – Maya
Saturday – Maya
Sunday – Maya
Monday – Steve
Monday – Steve
Monday – Maya
Monday – Steve
Monday – Maya
Monday – Maya
Monday – Maya
Monday – Maya
Tuesday
Tuesday – Steve
Tuesday – Maya
Tuesday
Tuesday – Maya
Tuesday – Maya
Tuesday – Maya
Tuesday – Maya
Tuesday – Maya
Tuesday – Maya
Tuesday – Maya
Tuesday – Maya
Tuesday – Steve
Tuesday – Maya
Tuesday
Tuesday – Steve
Tuesday – Maya
Tuesday – Maya
Wednesday – Maya
Acknowledgements
Extract - Out of the Ashes
Q&A with Vicky Newham
About the Publisher
Wednesday, 3 January 2018 – Steve
Steve sat back in the plastic chair, squashed between two colleagues. Today was the start of the spring term at Mile End High School and he’d managed to turn up for the first day of his new job with a hangover.
‘Good morning, everyone. Welcome back.’ Linda Gibson, the petite head teacher, stood at the rostrum and surveyed the hall with an infectious grin. Her blue eyes danced with energy. ‘First of all, apologies for the lack of heating. I believe the engineers are fixing the boiler as I speak.’ She raised crossed fingers. ‘They’ve promised to perform miracles so we can all get warm and have lunch.’
Laughter ricocheted round the hall where the hundred-strong staff sat in coats and scarves, the room colder than the chilled aisles at the supermarket.
‘I hope you all had a lovely holiday,’ she continued. ‘I’m delighted to share good news: Amir Hussain, the year ten boy who was stabbed on Christmas Eve, is out of intensive care and doing well. In the sixth form, offers of university places have begun to trickle in.’ She paused. ‘Two final updates. Kevin Hall sadly had a stroke on Boxing Day, and Talcott Lawrence will step in as chair of governors until the end of term. Lastly, OFSTED notification could arrive any day.’
Nervous chatter skittered round the room.
‘There’s no cause for concern.’ Linda quickly raised her hand to reassure. ‘The inspectors will quickly see what a brilliant school we are.’ She gestured to the awards that hung proudly on the walls of the school hall.
Linda’s words floated over Steve’s head. All he’d been able to think about since arriving at the school that morning was when he’d be able to get to a shop for some Nurofen – but, despite his befuddled mental state, optimism began to tickle at him for the first time in months. After his last school in sleepy Sussex, he’d longed to escape mud and meadows and return to the vibrancy of East London, where he’d grown up. Hearing Linda speak, he felt sure he’d made the right decision – even though his head was swimming with information and everyone’s names were a blur. What an idiot he’d been to start drinking last night. After the long flight home from New York, the plan had been to have an early night. Why the hell hadn’t he stuck to it? To add to his regrets this morning, he’d read through his drunken texts to Lucy while he waited for the bus and cringed. What a twat. Hadn’t he promised himself he wouldn’t plead?
Linda was still talking. ‘We were all devastated by the suicide of Haniya Patel last term, and her parents have asked me to convey their thanks for our support.’
Steve’s phone vibrated in his pocket. His heart leaped at the thought it might be Lucy replying – and then sank. That was never going to happen. He had to focus on getting through today without making a prat of himself. This job was the new start he needed.
‘It’s a tragedy we’re all still coming to terms with.’ Linda’s voice was solemn. ‘In your e-mail you’ll find details of her memorial ser—’
A loud click sounded and a cloak of darkness fell on the hall. Stunned, the room was silent for a second, followed by whispered questions and nervous speculation.
‘We seem to have hit another problem.’ Linda’s voice came from the front of the room. ‘Can I suggest we all reconvene to the staffroom? I’ll find the caretakers.’
*
An hour later, the staffroom resembled the late stages of a student party. Gaping pizza boxes lay empty on every horizontal surface, and the room honked of warm fat. The engineers had got the heating working again, and although the lights were back on, the power cut meant they’d had to order in pizzas for the whole staff.
Most people were still eating chocolate fudge cake when the assistant head, Shari Ahmed, stood up and tapped on her mug with a biro. ‘Sorry to disturb you, everyone. Could we have a volunteer to nip along and tell the head we’re waiting for her? She must’ve got held up with the caretakers.’
‘I’ll go.’ Steve’s hand shot up. Result. Senior managers delegated everything in schools, which usually pissed Steve off, but it was a chance to get some air. And hopefully a fag.
‘Thanks,’ said Shari.
From the main corridor, Steve made his way through the ante-room where the head’s secretary worked, and approached the door to Linda’s office. He knocked and stuck his ear to the opening. Couldn’t hear anything. He knocked again, pushed the door open and walked in. ‘Mrs Gibson? Are you there?’
The room was in complete darkness. After the brightly lit corridors, he couldn’t see a thing. Disorientated, he stumbled into the room, right hand groping ahead for the lights. The tips of his shoes, and his knee caps, butted against a hard vertical surface, propelling him forwards. Arms flailing, he fell, landing on his front on something soft and warm and—
His senses exploded.
Hair was in his mouth and on his tongue. In the black of the room, the smell of human skin filled his nostrils, and he could taste sweat and perfume and – ‘Christ.’ Adrenaline spiked into his system as he realised it was a person underneath him. His limbs struck out like someone having a seizure, wriggling and writhing. With a push from his legs, he raised his trunk but his arms struggled on the shifting mass beneath him. Soft skin brushed his cheek. Hair forced its way from his tongue into his throat. Instantly his bile-filled guts retched, and his pizza shot over whoever was beneath him. ‘Oh my God.’ It was a low moan. Propelled by revulsion, his hands scrabbled, finally gained a hold and he heaved his core weight upwards and back onto his feet. Straightened his knees and stood up. His head was spinning.
Whoever it was, they were still warm. And if they weren’t dead, every second was critical.
Eyes adapting to the darkness, he made out the door nearby and lurched over, drunk with alarm. One hand landed on the architrave while the other grappled for the lights. Nothing that side. Ah. He flicked the switch.
Squinting in the brightness, he absorbed the scene.
The curtains were shut. An upturned chair. The desk surface was clear and objects littered the carpet. And on her back, on a deep sofa near the door, lay Linda. Her wrists were bound with cloth, and were resting on her belly. Hair – the tangle he’d had in his mouth – lay like a bird’s nest over her forehead. Steve’s vomit speckled the cream skin of her face and gathered at the nape of her neck. Hold on. Were those marks round her chin or was it the light?
And her eyes . . .
What the hell should he do? He knew nothing about first aid. And schools were sticklers for procedures. He’d have to get Shari.
Steve stumbled through the door into the office and corridor, aware every second counted. He traced his steps back to the staffroom, careering round corners. Relief swept over him when he saw the room was just as he’d left it: pizza boxes and people.
Shari frowned when she saw Steve arrive back alone. She scuttled over to meet him at the door, adjusting the hijab round her flushed face as she moved. ‘Is everything . . .? Where’s Mrs Gibson?’
‘Could I have a word?’ Steve’s stomach was churning. He slid to the floor. No. I can’t throw up here. Not in front of everyone.
Slow breaths.
‘Yes. Of course.’ The older woman’s eyes narrowed with concern. She stood over Steve. Waiting.
‘It’s Mrs Gibson . . . I think she’s dead.’
Wednesday – Maya
The sound wrenched me awake. Trilling. Vibrating. Sylhet dreamscape was still swirling, and I had no idea where the noise was coming from. Fumbling for the alarm clock on the bedside table, my clumsy fingers sent objects crashing to the floor.
It was my mobile, not the clock. Why the hell hadn’t I switched it off?
‘Rahman.’ I cleared my throat. My body clock was still adjusting after Sabbir’s funeral and a day spent travelling.
A woman’s voice came through. ‘This is Suzie James from the Stepney Gazette. There’s been a suspicious death at Mile End High School and —’
‘A what?’ Suzie’s name was all too familiar. ‘How did you get my number?’
‘A suspicious death. It’s your old secondary school so I was hoping for a quote for the paper.’
The groan was out before I could catch it. ‘Who’s dead?’ I was wide awake now, synapses firing. I groped for the light on the bedside table.
‘It’s the head, Linda Gibson. Would you like to comment?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. This is the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘The thing is, I’ve got parents asking questions and —’
‘Okay, okay.’ I flung the duvet back and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. A whoosh of cold air hit my skin. Suzie James would always write something, regardless of how much she knew, so it was better to give her the facts. ‘Give me twenty minutes. I’ll meet you at the school and find out what’s going on.’
‘Ta.’ The line went down.
I threw the phone down on my bed and moved across the room to open the blinds. From the window of my flat, the canal was serene and green in the afternoon light and ducks weaved through the shimmering water. A jogger shuffled along the tow path from Johnson’s Lock. In the distance, the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf loomed against a thundery backdrop. I rested my forehead against the glass. What was I doing? I was on compassionate leave until tomorrow. Then I remembered the poem I’d read at Sabbir’s funeral; how much my brother had suffered. Wasn’t this why I did my job – to bring justice to people who should never have become victims? Nostalgia flooded through me as I recalled my first day at the school in year seven, and how the place quickly became my lifeline. Just as it would be now for other kids like me. There was no way I was going to let the school’s reputation nosedive. I had to find out what was going on.
Wednesday – Maya
On the main road, a few minutes later, the traffic was solid in both directions towards Bow. In front of me, a lorry, laden with scaffolding, clattered along behind a dirty red bus, while a shiny black cab sniffed its bumper. Ahead, at Mile End tube station, the carriageway snaked under the Green Bridge, from which school pupil Haniya Patel had hanged herself in the small hours four weeks earlier. Driving under it, I held my breath.
Soon I was off the main drag, and the grey fell away. Yellow brick houses lined the streets in elegant terraces, holly wreaths on their ornate door knockers. In the afternoon light, Christmas fairy lights twinkled in bay windows. They were so pretty. I’d left for Sabbir’s funeral in such a hurry I’d not put my own lights up, and it was pointless when I got back. Outside the Morgan Arms, the beautiful red brick pub, smokers and vapers huddled beside the window boxes of purple pansies, sharing the chilly air. Up ahead, flashing blue lights cut through the slate grey sky.
When I pulled up, uniformed officers were struggling to contain members of the public within the outer cordon. Family members scurried about, indiscriminately seeking information and reassurance from anyone who could give it; others stood in huddles, no less anguished, simply shell-shocked and immobilised. The outer cordon covered an enormous area, far bigger than I remembered the school being. Round me, engines droned and vehicle doors slammed.
I’d clocked Suzie as I was parking and told her to wait for me. I headed over to a uniformed officer who was standing at the main entrance to the school. I’d met PC Li several times.
‘Hi, Shen. Who’s the SIO?’
‘DCI Briscall, but he’s not here. DS Maguire’s over there.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s new. That’s him.’ She pointed at a man with ginger hair and urgent movements.
‘Okay, thanks.’ I surveyed the area outside the cordon. ‘Could you get me a list of everyone here, and their connection to the school?’
‘Sure.’ Shen took out her notepad.
I approached the man she’d gestured to. ‘DS Maguire?’
He whirled round and I was struck by his milky white skin, all the more pronounced by a crew cut.
‘I’m DI Rahman. I was expecting DCI Briscall…’
‘He’s at a meeting with the Deputy Assistant Commissioner. He’s sent me.’ His vowels had a twang, and his sentences rose at the end.
I was trying to think of a polite way of asking how he’d got on the team. ‘I don’t think we’ve met?’
‘I’m a fast-track officer.’
‘Ah.’
‘Don’t worry. I know we aren’t popular. I’m all up to speed.’ He waved his warrant. ‘Done a three-month intensive in West Yorkshire, a sergeant rotation, and passed my exams.’ He stopped there. ‘Aren’t you meant to be on leave?’
‘Until tomorrow, but never mind about that.’ This was a shock, but now wasn’t the time to debate the merits of the Met’s fast-track programme. ‘I’ve just had a call from a local reporter. She said the head’s dead.’ I used my eyes to indicate Suzie, who was holding court with a bunch of parents and locals. ‘If she doesn’t get some facts soon, she’ll make them up. If Briscall’s not coming, you’d better fill me in.’
*
Twenty minutes later, I’d dealt with Suzie James and was in the school canteen with the Murder Investigation Team. With its swimming pool acoustics and tortoise-slow broadband, it wasn’t ideal as a temporary incident room but it was a vast space with plenty of tables and chairs. Twenty-four hours ago I was on a long-haul flight home, and now I was perching at one of the tables by the serving hatch. The surface was sticky and I longed for a decent chair to sit on, rather than the plastic kiddie seats that were bolted to the floor. Round me, the investigation team was gearing up. Colleagues were installing our technology, setting up the HOLMES connection and erecting partition boards. DC Alexej Hayek stood, muscled arms folded and legs apart, bellowing instructions and gesturing, as though he was directing traffic. His clipped Czech accent lent authority to what he thought should go where. With DS Barnes suspended, and Briscall more interested in hob-nobbing with his seniors than covering my post, I wasn’t surprised when he accepted my offer to curtail my leave and appointed me SIO. If any of my colleagues wondered why I was back early from compassionate leave, they knew better than to ask.
I’d been mapping out our main lines of enquiry in my notepad. We were in the golden hour of the investigation, so these were organised round evidence gathering, witness interviews and suspect identification. Our quickest evidence source was going to be social media ring-fencing: once we found out from Facebook and Instagram who was in the school area between 12 noon and 1 p.m., we could target-interview those individuals.
As I surveyed the room, I remembered standing in line at that exact serving hatch, as a nervous eleven-year-old. The room seemed so much bigger then. Now, I imagined the cohorts of hopeful kids who, like I had, came here to learn, their lives ahead of them, their dreams in their hands. They’d be anticipating the first day of school now. For many, that would mean end-of-holiday blues. But not for everyone. I remembered how desperately I’d longed for the gates to open again after the lonely stretch of the holidays. Had any of today’s students come from the same part of Bangladesh as us?
On my laptop, I was watching Linda on the school video. I’d met her at a number of community events, and found her warm and engaging.
‘At Mile End High School we’ve achieved something unique.’ Linda’s eyes shone with pride, and passion radiated in the muscles of her face. ‘Since the school opened in 1949, we’ve made it our mission to welcome all pupils from our continually changing community. We value all ethnicities and creeds equally, so you can be confident that your sons and daughters will learn and thrive in an atmosphere of wellbeing and safety.’
‘I suspect that’s going to come back to haunt her.’ The Australian accent yanked me back into the present.
I jumped. ‘Jeez . . . Do you always creep up on people?’ I paused the video.
Dan Maguire stood in front of me, holding out a packet of chewing gum. ‘Are you always this jumpy?’
Touché.
His pale skin and ginger hair were unusual. When he’d joked earlier about not fitting the bronzed Australian stereotype, he wasn’t wrong. Irish heritage, he’d said. Hated water and had a sunlight allergy.
I waved the gum away. Recalibrated. ‘Sorry. It’s this place. Weird being back here after all this time.’
‘I’ve been reading up on Haniya Patel. Doesn’t seem she felt safe either.’
I heaved in a breath. ‘No. Her death was a tragedy but nothing suspicious.’ I shivered and pulled my woolly scarf round my neck. ‘I don’t remember this place being so draughty. Don’t they have the heating on?’