“Then just accept it.”

“It’s simple,” said Carver. “It’s pragmatic, a matter of simple practicalities. Let me explain. Your average whites don’t make too much of a fuss if you hassle them. The Muslim community pulls together and makes a noise about it. No matter that they’re mostly third-generation Pakistanis in Wytherton—their grandparents came over in the fifties—and that they often embrace Western culture and seem just as English as you and me. Maybe their grandparents brought the old religion with them, but it started to fade with their children. These days, they’re either westernized or . . . well, you know, attracted by the other extreme. Luckily that doesn’t happen too much around Wytherton. Either way, they feel themselves to be different, singled out, as easily demonized, especially when it suits them, and they make a noise about it. And when they do, guess who has to deal with it.” He pointed his thumb at his own chest. “Wytherton is a split community. We’ve got the Muslims mostly to the south of the Strip in Lower Wytherton, though they’re spreading slowly into the north, and Wytherton Heights is mostly white. There are also areas where whites and British Pakistanis live side by side and have done for years. The boundaries are constantly changing. If we went in and came down hard on the Muslim community for no good reason, we’d have pitched battles on Town Street. Is that what you want to see, DI Cabbot?”