Death Row - Mark Pearson [84]
‘I’ll ask you again. Where were you last Friday night just before midnight?’
The young man grinned arrogantly. ‘And I’ll answer you again: no comment.’
Bennett slid a photograph of Jamil Azeez across the table. ‘Do you know this man?’
Henson hardly flicked his eyes downward and kept his arms crossed.
‘Never seen him before in my life.’
‘Really?
‘What I said.’
Bennett slid the still photo from the CCTV footage of Henson arguing with Jamil Azeez on Camden High Street across to him.
‘How come you’re seen here getting in his face on Friday night, then?’
Henson didn’t even look at the photo. ‘It’s not me.’
Bennett nodded. ‘You have been doing some community work, I’m led to believe?’
Henson glared back at him. ‘So?’
‘So you’ve been doing it at the university where the young man here is a student. Just a coincidence, is it?’
‘Must be.’
‘And someone else who looks just like you also has a tattoo with the B-negative blood-group sign tattooed on the back of his head as well, I suppose?’
Henson shrugged.
Bennett opened the file next to him and made a show of flicking through some papers. ‘Only I see from your records that B-negative isn’t your blood group, is it?’
Henson shrugged again.
‘When did you get the tattoo done?’
‘It was a birthday present from my dad.’
‘Nice.’
Henson didn’t reply.
‘You sure you don’t want a lawyer here?
‘You charging me with anything?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Don’t need a lawyer, then, do I?’
Bennett smiled patiently. ‘Do you know what the significance of the tattoo on the back of your head is?’
Henson shrugged again.
‘The SS used to have them. B-negative was thought to be the best blood group for the Aryan super-race. Only they got it wrong. The Saxons, the Nordics, type A – that’s the Holy Grail when it comes to blood types. Himmler got that wrong, apparently. Type A – just like you, Matt.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Your dad reckons you have Scandinavian heritage.’
Henson shook his head, puzzled. ‘Are you going to make a point here or what?’
‘The little armoury in the shrine to Hitler you’ve got back in your house.’
‘What about it?’
‘That sword looks like it could do a bit of damage. Oh, I know it’s a dress sword, but it works, doesn’t it?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘And there’s a little depression where a knife used to sit. Isn’t there? Where’s the knife, Matt?’
‘I have no idea. Dad bought that case off another collector. That’s how it was when he bought it and it has nothing to do with me.’
‘He was just a filthy immigrant, wasn’t he, Matt – no loss to anyone?’
Henson shrugged again. Folding his arms tighter and leaning back in his chair.
‘I mean, he comes over here, ponces around the university. Maybe shagging the Dean while he’s at it. While you get to clear up leaves and pick up litter after him. Is that what it was, Matt? Did you see him with the Dean? Did you get jealous? I mean, she’s got a soft spot for you, hasn’t she?’
Matt uncrossed his arms and put his hands flat on the table. He was angry now.
‘You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!’
‘That’s it, isn’t it? The filthy Paki immigrant comes over here and cops onto a woman you’ve got your eye on, the filthy bastard. Is that what you called him?’
Henson smiled contemptuously. ‘I thought you said he was an Iranian.’
‘I didn’t say that at all, did I, constable?’ Bennett turned with a small smile himself to the uniform, who shook her head.
‘Yeah, well, Jamil is an Arab name, smartarse, I know that much.’
Bennett leaned in. ‘I didn’t tell you his name, either.’
Henson’s surly smile disappeared. He sat back and folded his arms again. ‘I want a lawyer, he said.
*
Stella Trent sat at the small table in the corner of her lounge. She ran slender fingers through her gloriously copper-coloured hair and smiled. It wasn’t so long ago that her hair had been lank, her skin pale, not the porcelain-cream it was today but sallow, waxy. Her green eyes had been lifeless, those same