The Trawlerman, стр. 16

‘Good, actually. It’s useful to talk. You don’t think it’s all mumbo-jumbo then?’

‘Not in the slightest. I’ve done a ton of it. Counsellors tend to be a bit sniffy about what we biochemists say, but if it works, it works . . . even if they don’t always understand why.’

‘What sort of people were the Younises?’

‘Good people,’ he said. ‘Mary was sweet. Quite shy. Very smart in a bookish kind of way. I was closer to Ayman. He was the archetypal Englishman.’ He laughed sadly. ‘Immigrant grandparents. All he wanted was to be part of all this.’ He waved his hand at the land around him. ‘Have a nice house. A nice family. Dogs. Golf club. More English than you and me, really. Every time he beat me at golf he apologised, for God’s sake.’ He smiled thinly, as if grateful for the chance to talk about his friend. ‘His father had an electronics engineering business. Ayman sold it about twenty years ago so he could be here with his wife and his son . . .’ He paused, took a breath. Alex saw his eyes begin to shine with tears again.

She left it a moment before asking, ‘Can I just ask, had Ayman Younis ever been threatened by anyone?’

‘Your colleague asked the same. The young woman.’

‘The better-looking one?’

‘Younger. Not better-looking.’

‘Liar.’

He smiled.

Jill had interviewed him. She was already putting what pieces there might be together. ‘Was there ever a threat to his life?’

‘No. Like I said to her, he was liked. Respected.’

The three ladies had not waited for their fourth partner. They were already on the second green.

‘You don’t mind talking like this, do you?’

‘God, no. To be honest, I was heading to the clubhouse, but it’s like a church in there right now after the news. Everyone’s talking in whispers. People are afraid to talk about this kind of thing.’ He tucked the tissue into a trouser pocket. He stood. ‘Do you mind going there with me?’

She stood too, and the two walked slowly to the nearby clubhouse. ‘What were the things Ayman cared about?’

‘Mary, obviously. And Callum.’

‘Callum?’

‘His son. He is devoted to him. Was devoted to him. Callum is disabled. Cerebral palsy and other complications. He was born very prematurely. It’s no life at all, is it?’

Alex thought for a while. ‘Who looked after him?’

‘Well, Ayman did. Financially, obviously. He was too much for them to look after on their own. He has spastic quadriplegia and cerebral visual impairment. He’s functionally blind. They tried for a while but he needs specialist care around the clock.’

He held the door open, and led her through to a bar, where the curtains were William Morris fabric, the chairs were upholstered in leather, and silver cups sat in rows behind mahogany and glass. ‘It was what drove Ayman, I think. He had to earn enough money to keep Callum in the best conditions he could. It’s why he befriended me, in some ways. He wanted to talk about it. He always hoped that science would be able to help in some way.’

‘Did you ever meet Callum?’

‘Just the once. We went up to the nursing home in Tunbridge Wells for his twenty-first. Ayman and Mary held a party for him at Loftingswood Grange not so long ago.’ Alex must have looked puzzled, because he added, ‘The nursing home. It’s why they moved to Kent, so they could be close to him. They kind of organised their life around him. Ayman was one of those people who just wanted everything to be right, do you know what I mean? Excuse me. I’ve just got to change my shoes,’ he said. ‘You OK for a minute?’

The bar was quiet. The man who had tried to pick her up in his Qashqai outside the Younises’ house put his head round the door, spotted her, frowned in puzzlement. Alex smiled and gave him a little wave. He retreated in embarrassment. After that, she sat on a chair and flicked through a copy of a magazine that promised three quick ways to sharpen her short game, feeling a little out of place, until Terry returned. He had replaced his golf shoes for a pair of trainers and had washed his face so that it was not so obvious he had been crying.

There was a small oak table by the door full of leaflets. He paused at it, lifted out his wallet and put a ten-pound note into a yellow collection box marked Action CP, then turned towards her, and she noticed that the tears were back.

Alex realised that the initials CP would stand for Cerebral Palsy and realised that Ayman Younis had probably put the box there.

Terry sat down opposite her and gave a small smile, then apologised and wiped his face again with the back of his hand. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘Was Ayman Younis bitter about what happened to his son? Did he blame anyone for his condition?’

‘What does this have to do with the murders?’

At the bar, a man cleaning glasses turned his head towards them. ‘Nothing, probably,’ said Alex.

‘It’s a nutcase, isn’t it? That’s what they’re saying.’

‘An odd thing for an academic to say.’

‘I don’t mind calling whoever killed Ayman a nutcase. I keep thinking, what must it have been like to have a madman in your house, to know you were probably going to die? It’s awful, isn’t it? I wish I had been able to talk to Ayman before he died. Just to . . . I don’t know.’ He tailed off. ‘You will find him, won’t you?’

‘I should tell you, I’m not part of the investigation team,’ she said. ‘I was just here.’

‘Oh. So why are you talking to me?’ he asked, puzzled.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have. I should go. I’m just in the area. I was curious. I had no right to be.’

He looked at her for a minute, then said, ‘I don’t mind. I really don’t. When something like this happens, you just want someone to