Blunt Force

by La Plante, Lynda

  Jane sat back. Michael was listening intently but showed no reaction. Spencer opened his file and sorted through the various photos and documents before bringing out the picture of Yasmin. He pushed it across the table.

  ‘Have you seen this girl before?’

  Michael looked at the photograph, but made no answer. Eventually, after a lengthy pause, he bowed his head.

  ‘I think that’s Farook’s daughter. I didn’t lie to you before, because I have never met her, but he used to talk about her a lot. He said she was the jewel in his crown as she was stunningly beautiful. He told me that she had hair that shone like jet and felt like silk when he brushed it for her. You remember I told you about the amber beads hanging on the mirror and he told me they had been given to him by his daughter? I think I said to you that some months later they were no longer hanging and I told you that Miss Pilkington had asked him to remove them. That was a lie.’ He chewed his lip.

  ‘Please go on, Michael,’ Jane said.

  ‘He told me that his daughter had disrespected the family and had to leave. Farook never spoke of her again.’

  ‘All right, Michael, I understand that you were trying to protect Farook—’

  ‘There’s more . . .’ Michael took a deep breath. ‘On that Monday, Farook collected me earlier than the usual five p.m., and I know what time I was returned home because Coronation Street started not long after.’

  Jane and Spencer looked at each other as the adrenaline kicked in. That gave Farook two hours unaccounted for.

  ‘Farook asked me not to say anything,’ Michael continued. ‘He was worried he’d lose his job. As I’ve said, Mandy was a stickler for time-keeping, but Farook told me he’d just move the clock back; Mandy would never know because her last client was suffering from dementia and didn’t know what time of day it was.’

  Spencer pushed his chair back. ‘We’ll need you to write a witness statement detailing what you’ve just told us, but there will be no charges at present. We’ll arrange for you to be taken back to the care home, but you must not contact Farook.’

  Jane quickly left the room as Spencer started going through the statement with Michael. She was almost running when she entered the incident room, and there was a buzz of excitement when she informed everyone the entire timeline had changed.

  *

  Spencer was out of breath, having legged it up the stairs two at a time. When he burst into the incident room he could feel there was a new energy. Tyler had confirmation from the surveillance officers that Farook was at Mandy Pilkington’s residence in plain sight, polishing the front windows of the house. He wanted the arrest to happen as soon as possible. Two unmarked cars were being sent, and the surveillance team would be moved on with a search warrant for Farook’s premises.

  Tyler grinned at Spencer. ‘It bloody well took you long enough. He better be our man.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Spencer was in the first car with a plain-clothes officer, and DCI Tyler followed in a car behind with two more in uniform. Knowing that Farook had a history of GBH, and that he was suspected of an extremely violent offence, they were taking no chances.

  As soon as Farook saw Tyler and Spencer walking up the pathway, he gave them a polite nod.

  ‘Ahmed Farook, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Charles Foxley.’ As Tyler continued giving him his rights, Farook dropped the sponge he was using to wash the windows into the bucket.

  ‘Do you understand what I have just told you?’ Tyler asked.

  ‘I understand, sir. Is it permissible for me to wash my hands and put on my jacket?’

  Tyler and Spencer entered the house with Farook and watched as he went into a small cloakroom, washed his hands, took off his overalls and took his black driver’s jacket down from a peg. Spencer had already been briefed by Tyler on the need to keep Farook calm and was only planning to handcuff him if necessary. Eventually, Farook had combed his hair and buttoned his jacket, folding the towel he had used to dry his hands.

  As they walked down the hall, the plain-clothes officer took Tyler’s place as he went to Mandy Pilkington’s room. Tyler tapped on her door, watching as the two uniformed officers led Farook to their waiting car.

  ‘What do you want?’ Mandy shouted.

  ‘It is Detective Chief Inspector Tyler; I need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘You are going to have to do it through the door as I’m washing meself down.’

  ‘I need to know, Ms Pilkington, if you gave a plastic bag containing dirty used towels for a dog shelter.’

  ‘I’ve already been asked this. I often gave them to my driver; I can’t remember what date or when.’

  Tyler tapped on the door again. ‘Ms Pilkington, I also need to inform you that we have just arrested your driver, Ahmed Farook. My officers will need the keys for your car to do an on-site examination and get it taken to the lab for full forensic checks.’

  Mandy bellowed again. ‘For Christ’s sake, the keys are hanging up on a hook in the kitchen.’

  Tyler turned to one of the officers, gesturing to him to go and collect the keys.

  Mandy was in her bedroom, finishing applying a thick coat of make-up and removing rollers from her bleached hair. She heaved her body up and pulled on a massive floating kaftan with frilled neck and cuffs. She slipped her tiny feet into satin mules and tottered to her bedroom door, pushing it open.

  ‘I think this is fucking harassment. I mean, I can’t remember when I gave Farook used towels for the dogs’ home. Let me talk to Farook. He’ll have a better idea.’

  ‘Ms Pilkington, I told you a moment ago, we have arrested your driver.’

  ‘Well, that’s bloody good for me, isn’t it? How am I supposed to get about? What has he done?’

  ‘Mr Farook has been arrested on suspicion of murder. Please come to the station for further questioning with regards to your driver.’

  ‘What? How do you expect me to get to the fucking station when you just arrested my chauffeur? Do you think I can fucking get myself into a taxi?’

  Tyler had to step away from her to control his mounting anger.

  ‘I will organise transport for you, Ms Pilkington.’ He backed away from her again as she jabbed at him with one of her painted fingernails.

  ‘You are fucking destroying my business and if you think that man has done anything, you’ve got it all wrong. He’s worked for me for years as a faithful employee. I’m going to get him a good lawyer because I don’t trust you, or any copper, further than I can throw you.’

  Tyler didn’t reply.

  *

  Jane had been driven to the Winstanley Estate with the search warrant, and the two surveillance officers had radioed in to say they were waiting at the main entrance. When Jane joined them she asked if they knew how the arrest had gone and was interested to hear that Farook seemed to have been waiting for them. He had remained calm, and just asked to wash his hands and get his jacket.

  The three of them went up in the lift to the fourth floor. The building was dilapidated and a number of flats were boarded up and empty, suggesting that it was soon going to be demolished. The lift smelt of urine and was covered in graffiti. Reaching the fourth floor, they stepped out onto a worn and stained carpet, and before they reached Farook’s flat they passed two front doors that had been boarded up, with No Entry written on them. The front door of number 418 had been painted a deep blue. A note attached to the letterbox warned against circulars or newspapers. The mat in front of the door looked remarkably fresh and the area by the front door was also clean. The two officers stood beside Jane as she rang the doorbell. It was some time before the door was inched open, with a chain lock still attached. A woman wearing a full niqab peered through the gap, her face hidden. One of the officers held up the warrant.

  ‘We have permission to enter your flat. This is an authorised search warrant from the Magistrates Court. Please allow us entry.’

  The door was closed. Jane rang again a
nd kept her finger on the bell. This time another woman eased it open, wearing a hijab. In faltering English, she asked what they wanted. The officer explained again and showed her the search warrant. She held her hand to take it but the officer told her that she had to allow them entry first. She looked hesitant. For a moment they thought she would shut the door, until Jane moved closer.

  ‘Are you Aiyla Farook?’

  The woman shook her head.

  ‘I think you should know that we have every right to enter your premises. We can do it politely and respectfully, but if you refuse entry we will have to call uniformed police and break down the door.’

  Again the woman hesitated, then slowly eased off the chain. Jane and the two officers entered the small hallway, and the woman stood in front of them with her hand out to check the search warrant. Behind her was the woman in the niqab.

  ‘Are you Farah Fareedi?’ Jane asked.

  The woman continued to read every line of the search warrant. She then turned to the woman behind her and spoke in a foreign language, calling the woman Aiyla. She tapped the search warrant then passed it back to Jane.

  ‘Is your husband, Ameer Fareedi, here?’ Jane asked.

  ‘No, my husband is at work.’

  ‘We will need you both to sit with this officer while we search the flat. Anything we deem as evidence we will ask your permission to be removed.’

  She repeated what Jane had just said to the woman they now realised was Aiyla Farook, their suspect’s wife.

  The two women went into the small but immaculate kitchen and sat on wooden stools as Jane and one of the officers began to look around the flat, while the other stood guard by the door. It was exceptionally clean, with only the bare necessities and very little in the way of furnishings. The floors had been painted white and only two rooms were carpeted. The first room they checked was a bedroom with two small single beds with iron bed frames, which looked as if they had possibly come from a hospital. Both had white linen, with the beds made up in army fashion. There was a small chest of drawers and a fitted wardrobe full of black gowns, suits and men’s white shirts. The polished shoes were lined up beneath the garments. The contents of the drawers were equally neatly lined up with underwear, socks and white cotton night dresses. One drawer also contained men’s silk pyjamas.

  A bookcase displayed numerous books of prayers and beads, with two silver-framed photographs of Farah and Ameer Fareedi. Neither of them were smiling; instead, both had a rather haunting blank expression. The black and white photographs looked old. A second bookcase contained a variety of university-level English, maths and history books bound in plastic to protect their spines and covers. Jane opened one of the books, and on the front page was the name Farah Fareedi in neat handwriting. Jane presumed she was home-educating herself.

  They found nothing suspicious so went into the second bedroom. As Jane and the officer passed into the hallway, the dark eyes of the women stared out at them from the kitchen. This bedroom was larger, with a double bed, but with the same precise tight white sheets tucked under the mattress. Laid across it was a beautiful red embroidered rug and another similar-coloured one was on the floor. This room had a larger dressing table with a mirror, and in a glass bowl were a few items of jewellery, beads and earrings. Inside each drawer were immaculately folded underwear, night shirts and extra bed linen.

  The officer looking through the wardrobe could see by the size of the suits that they belonged to Farook. Most were well-worn, and the wardrobe had a musty odour. As in the other bedroom, they saw the lines of highly polished shoes as well as a number of small-sized black plimsolls. Jane knew that this had to be the bedroom of Ahmed and Aiyla Farook. There was a bookcase full of school books, with many stacked on top of each other, the majority on the subject of English history. The photographs in this bedroom, again, had clearly been taken some time ago and both Jane and the surveillance officer recognised in some of them the portly figure of Farook. They walked slowly across the floorboards, to test if any were loose, but found nothing.

  They went into the main sitting room opposite, which was clearly also used as a dining area. There was a four-bar electric fire with fake coals and a large shaggy rug placed over a worn green fitted carpet. There were two large three-seater sofas taking up most of the space in the room, and a small television set. There was a china cupboard containing a cutlery section and a glass section, with everything neatly arranged. But the overall feeling in the room was of decay and mould. A folding table was placed beneath the window with four dining chairs lined up against the wall. There was also another bookcase.

  Jane was finding the total lack of warmth inside this bare flat disconcerting. There were very few pictures on the walls and no bric-a-brac whatsoever.

  ‘You know, it feels as if this whole place has been stripped. I mean, we are looking at the bare necessities in every room. Maybe they know this place is due for demolition and they have another place they are hoping to move to?’

  The surveillance officer grinned. ‘Well, it will just be the three of them now. He ain’t gonna be back for a while.’

  Jane was on her knees, checking the bottom drawer of a dresser containing a starched white tablecloth, white napkins, clean dish cloths and, in the drawer beside it, neatly folded pristine white towels. There were no photographs in this room, either, and when they lifted the carpet and the rug they found nothing beneath it. Jane felt as if these people were living in a prison, and she questioned whether they might have the wrong Yasmin. Could a young teenage girl live in these austere surroundings? They had found nothing that gave any indication that Aiyla and Ahmed Farook’s daughter had been living with them.

  Jane stood up and took a good look around the room. Once again, as they passed into the hallway, the two women watched them closely.

  The bathroom was similar to the kitchen. It was old-fashioned with green tiles and a chipped bath and wash basin. There were two mirrored cabinets, one containing shaving equipment, toothbrushes, and a plentiful supply of men’s eau de cologne and men’s deodorant. In the second cabinet were female moisturisers, bath salts and bath oils, but no make-up. Yet again, nothing giving any indication that a young girl had been living there.

  Jane paused in the hall and went over to her briefcase, which she had left on the chair beside her handbag. She took out a copy of the photograph taken from the model agency. The two women continued to follow Jane with their eyes.

  Jane asked Aiyla Farook if she had a daughter. Aiyla pressed her lips together and looked at the ground.

  Jane turned to Farah Fareedi. ‘Do you have a daughter?’

  ‘Yes, I do. My daughter is with a relative.’

  ‘What is her name?’ Jane asked, stepping closer.

  ‘Midilah.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘She is nineteen and studying at South Thames College. She is a very clever girl.’

  ‘Does your sister have a daughter?’ She watched as Farah turned and spoke quietly to her sister. Jane took the picture of the girl they knew as Yasmin from the envelope.

  ‘Is this your daughter?’

  The total lack of expression from both of the women was almost disturbing. Jane repeated the question. ‘Is this your daughter, Mrs Farook?’

  ‘My niece left to return home many months ago.’

  ‘What is her name?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Yasmin.’

  ‘Is this Yasmin?’ Jane asked, showing the women the photograph. Again, neither showed any expression, and it was Farah who answered.

  ‘Yes, that is Yasmin.’

  Jane returned to her briefcase and put the photograph back in the envelope. They had one more room to go, a box room at the end of the corridor. Jane felt a faint trepidation as she opened the door, but was then disappointed. This room had a small wood-framed single bed, with a bare mattress and two pillows without covers. There was a cheap chest of drawers, but each drawer was empty. When she went to open the door of the small, cheap wa
rdrobe, there were wire coat hangers but no items of clothing. She was about to shut the wardrobe door when she leant further in and moved the hangers aside. She could smell a light perfume. Somehow she knew that when Yasmin had been living here, this had been her room.

  She turned and beckoned the officer to come and stand beside her. ‘This is perfume, isn’t it? Can you smell it?’

  He sniffed. ‘Yeah, I think so, but I couldn’t tell you what it is.’

  At the bottom of the wardrobe, just as Jane was closing the door, she saw the edge of a piece of white paper. She got on her knees and gently tried to ease the piece of paper out. Using a pen from her handbag, she eventually managed to prise open one of the boards on the bottom of the wardrobe and pulled out a folded piece of lined notepaper. She stood up, straightening the paper out. Written in neat, cursive Biro were several lines.

  Women have ird propriety, men have Sharaf honour. On another line was: If a woman loses her propriety, it is gone forever. She turned the page over and there was more writing. Jordanian penal code. Then, underlined: Victim of rape stoned to death.

  Jane knew she had found something important, even though she didn’t yet understand what it was, so she placed the note into a plastic bag.

  Jane asked both women to leave the kitchen so the officer could search it. The women seemed ill at ease with Jane and the other officer in the sitting room. Jane was certain that Aiyla understood more than she let on and that Farah Fareedi was home-tutoring herself. She explained that Aiyla’s husband had been taken into custody and that if they wished to contact the station or required someone to help them understand the process, they could call the number she gave them. Farah looked at the note and said she would speak with her husband Ameer and he would find out if her brother-in-law required a lawyer. Jane said he could come to the station and might be questioned.