Free The Crime Tsar by Nichola McAuliffe

sending silver buttons rolling across the floor, an old, bearded man in calf-length shirt over baggy cotton trousers and wearing a brown knitted hat over the crown of his white hair pushed his way into the room. Behind him a second old man in white robes. His Modigliani face the dark, delicately featured oval of the Sudan. Their arrival seemed to inflame the crowd further.
    â€˜This isn’t your fight.’
    â€˜There’s no place for old men here.’
    â€˜Go home and watch the telly, Grandad.’
    But the voices were less sure, less strident.
    The old men approached Carter and Shackleton.
    â€˜Chief Constable …’
    Shackleton stood up. Carter followed.
    â€˜Ah and Mr Carter. How do you do.’
    The four men shook hands.
    Shackleton was solicitous.
    â€˜Mr Qureishi, how are you? And your family?’
    â€˜As you see,’ said the old man wryly. ‘My grandsons are here.’
    He lowered his thin body on to one of the chairs.
    Grandfather Joseph nodded but said nothing. He sat gracefully and exchanged a look with Mr Qureishi, who began to speak quietly but with some strength.
    â€˜You have heard the grievances of the young people. They believe the police are murderers. That the life of an Asian or an African is notso important as the life of a white or even a Caribbean child. You always know those blacks will kick up a stink, but we, no, we prefer a quiet life. We are peaceable, running our corner shops and sending our children to university. Well… these young people are different. You know that from Bradford. They don’t have our patience. You are their enemy.’
    Tom waited for the old man to finish, then said, just as quietly, just as reasonably, ‘I want to assure you, assure you all, that is not the case. As Mr Qureishi and Grandfather Joseph know, Mr Carter and I have worked hard since we came here to improve relations between the police and your two communities.’
    â€˜Didn’t fuckin’ work, did it?’ came a voice from the back.
    â€˜Obviously not,’ said Tom without a trace of irony. ‘And for that I apologise. I want you to know that I deeply regret the death of young Mohammed and if any of my officers were culpable I will not rest until they have been brought to justice.’
    He paused, taking in the effect of his words. The majority seemed to be listening but he had spotted a group on the edge of the room, spilling into the street, who would not be mollified. As he was speaking another part of his brain logged where they were and what they were wearing. He was sure they were outsiders.
    â€˜I have here the preliminary autopsy report on Mohammed. If you would like me to I will read it out.’
    There was a shuffling. An old middle-aged woman in a dull dun-coloured shalwar kameez came forward; over it she wore a polyester cardigan that had lost all shape, like the woman herself. Holding her arm was a Sudanese woman equally discoloured by life in Britain. The young men parted for them.
    Mr Qureishi said, ‘Mohammed’s mother. Sammi’s auntie.’
    The Pakistani woman was awkward and let go of the other woman reluctantly. Shackleton and Carter stood, gravely polite. The chief constables in their uniforms dwarfed the two sepia women. Carter, without touching Mohammed’s mother, guided her to his chair. She sat down reluctantly. Sammi’s aunt stood by Grandfather Joseph, her face an unlined version of his own. Shackleton took out the report and unfolded it. The incomers, seeing aggression slipping away, began to jeer.
    â€˜It’s a load of crap.’
    â€˜Don’t listen to him.’
    â€˜He’ll say anything.’
    But they were shushed down. Shackleton started to read:
    Some bruising to side of head and face consistent with the face and head coming into violent contact with a hard surface. Skull fractured above right ear with rounded indentation. Right cheekbone fractured. Cause of death: