by Owen Mullen
He drew himself to his task. Quasim would ask for the final figures tomorrow, better for him if he had them.
In the quiet, the noise seemed to dart past and disappear. Zamir looked out of the window to the semi-lit area beyond. Nothing moved. The floor was illuminated by safety lights, making mammoths of the towers of goods.
Zamir spent every day in the warehouse. It held no fear for him, even at night. The brother wasn’t unhappy to have a reason to break from work. He went out to the cavernous space. Which direction had the sound come from? His memory flirted with him before giving an answer. It had been hollow, a drum or a can struck by something; a foot maybe. That meant he wasn’t alone. If someone was snooping around they’d be in trouble. Zamir was in the mood for trouble.
Not far from the office, a pile of wooden shafts lay waiting to be attached to the metal that would change them into spades. Zamir considered lifting one and changed his mind; he wouldn’t need any help, he was sure of that. He walked a few steps and stopped where he could see down the long walkways between the shelving, not expecting to discover the intruder at once, but he did. At the bottom of the warehouse, a figure stood in the middle of the aisle looking back at him. Zamir’s face twisted in a smile. Arrogance prevented him questioning how easily he’d found the unwanted guest.
Thirty yards away, the trespasser returned his stare and disappeared to the left.
The stock-taker advanced past piping and sacks of seeds and broke into a run, determined not to lose the intruder. At the end of the row, Zamir’s smile became a grin. The felon was close to where he himself had been a moment before, standing legs apart, hands on hips, shoulders back. Taunting him?
Zamir retraced his steps. Halfway down, the figure slipped out of sight again.
‘So you want to play, do you? Fine. Zamir likes games.’
The middle brother guessed where his new friend had gone. Just as before, he stood at the bottom. Zamir was back where he started. A flicker of unease crossed his mind along with the memory of the rejected spade shaft.
‘How can we have fun if you always run from me?’ His question echoed in the store. ‘Don’t run, let’s play.’
He edged nearer, his confidence restored by the sound of his own voice. Zamir was tiring of the sport, blood pounding in his brain demanded action.
The figure walked towards him and the distance between them closed. He’d assumed it was a man but suddenly, he wasn’t so sure. A few more steps brought them almost face to face.
There was so much Zamir Dilawar Hussein didn’t understand. Now it was too late.
-------
In the morning air the smell hung on everything. Policemen keeping the small crowd of ghouls at bay outside the compound gate would return to their homes carrying it on their clothes, in their hair, even their skin. Yesterday the warehouse had risen above its neighbours on the industrial estate. Today all that remained was the twisted frame. Ribbons of black smoke wound their way to the sky. Around the perimeter, expensive machinery sat on melted rubber, their working lives over before they’d begun.
The heat had been unimaginable, fierce enough to weld rivets, pop screws, buckle and bend the corrugated panels that clothed the skeleton turning the warehouse into a deformed parody of what had been.
A car pulled up at the gate. The officer in charge spoke to one of the men inside and ordered his people to clear the crowd and let it through. The vehicle edged forward past curious spectators. Inside, the driver and his passenger kept their eyes fixed and ignored the gawking melee.
‘Keep going.’ Quasim’s lips hardly moved.
The crowd and the gates parted, the car drove into the compound and the brothers saw what was left of their livelihood. Firdos stared, open-mouthed. Quasim Dilawar Hussein gazed at the charred shell; all that remained of his inheritance. His eyes narrowed, assessing the damage, weighing the consequences. Where others saw wreckage he saw ruin – bank loans that wouldn’t be serviced, lines of credit that had become unpayable debt.
Detective Jan Asmet Rana had witnessed more than enough ugliness for one life, he was sick of violence and death. Scenes like this made him long to be done with it. Only a few months and he would be. His plans were made. He’d sit on his veranda with the books he’d been too busy to read, maybe once or twice a week take a trip, leave the city to bird-watch in the Punjab. Long days filled with nothing very much. And the world could go to hell – it was going there anyway in spite of his best efforts. He introduced himself and said, ‘Mr Dilawar Hussein, it’s your warehouse, I believe. I’m sorry to tell you it looks deliberate. Arson, almost certainly.’
Quasim eyed him with contempt; a fool could have come to that conclusion. Rana paused, there was more to say. ‘Have you had any threats made against you? Any warning something like this was planned?’
Quasim shook his head.
‘The machinery round the outside was set ablaze in a different attack. I apologise, but I have some questions.’
Dilawar Hussein dismissed the policeman. ‘Ask my brother.’
‘With respect, he isn’t the owner.’
‘He’ll answer your questions.’
Rana had given bad news to many people in his time and appreciated that reactions were unpredictable. He closed his coat against the morning chill and smoothed the pencil moustache above thin lips, a tactic he used the way others counted to ten. He wasn’t here to score points.
‘You’re the one who’s suffered the loss, so you’re the one I must speak to.’
Quasim turned to go.
‘Sir! This isn’t it all. Come with me, please, over here.’
The policeman forced civility into his voice and walked to a group standing apart from the smoldering warehouse. Quasim followed, Firdos behind just as the first ray of sunlight fell across a figure on the ground covered by a blanket.
‘I’m sorry to have to do this, Mr Dilawar Hussein.’
Someone removed the blanket and the brothers stared at Zamir. Firdos gasped.
‘Even out here the heat would’ve been tremendous but the fire didn’t kill him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was stabbed. The one through the heart caused his death.’
‘When?’
‘Around midnight we think.’
Rana spoke with authority, confident when dealing with facts and probabilities. He answered what hadn’t been asked. ‘Your brother was stabbed – as far as we can count without a complete medical examination – around thirty times. Thirty times is a frenzied attack.’
Quasim had had no love for Zamir, but still. Perhaps he’d been up to something, something that went wrong and brought this. He dismissed the notion. His brother was stupid. Zamir had no talent for duplicity. Or anything else.
‘Was he murdered here?’
‘We think inside then dragged out. The marks on the ground support that theory.’
Quasim exhaled, deep and heavy. ‘So, what now?’
‘We’ll take the body to the morgue. There will be a post-mortem examination. At some point, I’ll need to interview the family. I’ll also need a list of everyone Zamir was in contact with. You’ll have to come to the morgue, Mr Dilawar Hussein.’
‘Is that necessary?’
‘Sir, I’m afraid it is.’
‘Why?’
The policeman chose his words. Despite this man’s arrogance he had no desire to hurt him. ‘I haven’t told you all of it, and don’t want to do that here.’
Quasim glared, impatient. His life had been destroyed. Didn’t this idiot understand?
‘Otherwise I wouldn’t insist.’
-------
Ali didn’t bother to knock or ask if it was a convenient time to interrupt. He took a seat across from his boss. Jameel looked up, surprised to see him. ‘What’s wrong? Are you unwell?’
‘I’m fine, Jameel, I’ve had a call I think you should know about from Shakil.’
‘Who?’
‘Shakil – my policeman fri
end. Yesterday was a bad day in Lahore.’
‘The riot. What’s the latest?’
Ali stroked his chin, wondering how to tell his friend. ‘Fifty-three dead, seven of them police officers.’
‘Do they have any idea how it started?’
‘It was peaceful until a woman set herself on fire.’
Jameel screwed up his face. What a terrible death.
‘That panicked the crowd. Someone fired a gun and then it got out of hand. Shakil says the police returned gunfire. That’s when it became a stampede. Most of the dead were crushed or suffocated.’
‘Mmmm.’ Jameel was less than convinced. As usual in Pakistan, the establishment forces were never at fault. The police claimed to have returned gunfire. Of course they did. ‘Most of the dead, what about the rest?’
‘It’s world news. CNN and the BBC have cameras down there and are asking questions, speculating, making the city look bad. Shakil doesn’t know if he’ll have a job this time tomorrow.’
‘I’m only surprised they allowed the protest in the first place. All those people, agitated and angry. It was an accident waiting to happen.’
He turned his attention to the papers he’d been working through. ‘And that’s what you came to tell me, is it?’
‘No. I came to tell you what you won’t see on TV or read in your newspaper.’
Jameel put the pen down. Ali was a level-headed man who left cheap dramatics to others. He was calm, dependable. He’d played a big part in the success the business had enjoyed. Jameel listened to him, ‘What would that be?’
‘Shakil didn’t call to tell me about the riot, he wanted to give me news about something else. Considering the trouble he was in this morning, he was the very last person I expected to hear from. There was a fire last night. A warehouse north of the city. Completely destroyed. Definitely arson.’
‘Connected to the rally? A reprisal?’
‘Perhaps. That’s not why Shakil thought I should know. The warehouse was owned by Quasim Dilawar Hussein.’
Jameel rested his elbows on the desk, his palms pressing against his forehead. Dilawar Hussein. Even the name brought a reaction from him. ‘Why did your friend think you should know about this?’
‘Because I asked about the owner. Now that man has lost everything. He may never recover. Shakil doesn’t know about insurance, the chances are he’s ruined.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Interesting it may be, though not as interesting as the circumstances that go with it. One of his brothers was killed. Not in the blaze.’
‘Which brother?’
‘The middle one, Zamir. The one we know nothing about.’
‘Killed how?’
‘Murdered. The body was dragged from the warehouse into the open. Shakil tells me – all off the record, of course – it looks like the work of a madman. He was knifed again and again. A preliminary examination revealed thirty entry wounds, which suggests a couple of things.’
‘What?’
‘The violence of the attack probably means the victim was known to the assailant. Could be the motive was revenge.’
‘You said a couple, what else?’
‘Well, revenge is one possibility. A business dispute would explain the arson. Maybe the brother was the random victim of a crazy person.’ Ali paused. ‘Or a woman. Shakil says they’ve ruled that in. Women prefer to poison or stab their victims. Poison is the favourite. The violence might be pointing to someone who snapped, someone out of control. The thinking is that maybe they should to be looking for a woman.’
‘A madman or a rival seems likely. I’d need more before I started looking in that direction.’
‘They have more. The body was mutilated.’
‘How?’
‘Zamir Dilawar Hussein’s clothing had been removed. Acid was thrown over his genitalia.’
They sat in silence, Jameel imagining the horror of what he’d been told, Ali searching for words to tell the rest.
‘Sound like a woman to you?’
Jameel didn’t answer. His throat was dry.
‘One more thing – and nobody knows this yet – they’re keeping it quiet. The killer left a clue. Under the body they found a wooden bangle. Very unusual, Shakil says.’
Jameel blanched.
Ali looked at the desk seeing everything he would expect to see. Everything except what had sat there since the day Jameel hired him. He wondered where they’d gone, and if the six were still together.
Chapter 24
The sound pulled me towards it.
‘Ralph! Ralph!’ Boom! Boom! Boom!
Against my will I dragged myself to the surface where the noise was louder.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
‘Ralph! Ralph!’
I opened my eyes and regretted it. Light stabbed them closed again.
‘Ralph!’ Boom! Boom! ‘Ralph!’
I groaned, rolled off the couch and staggered to the door. It was locked.
‘A minute. Just a minute.’
The key was on the floor for some reason. I picked it up, stuck it in the keyhole and turned. The door opened and Simone glared at me. Her eyes assessed my ruined clothes, the same ones I’d worn to the rally. She wore jeans and a jacket over an orange shirt. Her hair was scraped back by a bandana the same colour as the shirt. She looked stunning, and angry. She strode past and opened the window as far as it would go. I closed the door and faced her. ‘Do you know how long I’ve been pounding on that door?’
‘I’m sorry.’
She looked round. ‘How can you live like this?’
My head hurt. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know where we stood. You left in a hurry yesterday. I assumed you wanted to be on your own.’
‘Two things. First – I did need time, so thank you for your consideration. And second – the rally was two days ago, not yesterday. You’ve lost a day. A whole precious day of your life.’ She aimed contempt at the state of the flat. ‘Easily done.’
The news drained me. I felt sick, physically, emotionally, and something beyond even that. I felt alone. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘How about a man I can depend on? Got one of those?’
I pushed the crumpled shirt into the waistband of my crumpled trousers. I needed a drink but was wise enough to settle for bottled water. When I came out of the kitchen, she hadn’t moved. I sat on the edge of the couch – my bed for the last thirty-odd hours. The glass shook in my hand. ‘When you got out of the car, where did you go?’
‘I walked. I had to think.’
‘We were lucky.’
She neither agreed nor disagreed and sighed. Resignation or defeat, I couldn’t tell. ‘I had decisions to make. Decisions I wanted to share with you. That was a mistake. My mistake.’
‘No, no. No it wasn’t. Tell me, I want to know.’
She looked away.
‘Tell me. Please. I want to know.’
I was standing on the edge and knew it. One false step, one wrong word and she would be lost to me forever.
‘I’ve left the hospital, I won’t be going back.’
She had my attention; the nausea and the ache in my head would wait.
‘I have money so that’s not a problem.’
‘What do you intend to do?’
Possibilities flashed through my mind. The mayhem at the rally had persuaded her to return to France. She was about to tell me her love affair with the sub-continent was over and she was leaving. She’d seen enough.
‘Work, here, in the city. If a woman finds the strength to break away from the oppression she lives under there’s almost nowhere for her to run. Even her own family would send her back.’
She laughed. ‘It’s about honour. Her husband’s honour, her family’s honour, society’s idea of honour. Everybody’s honour but hers. They can quarrel and fight and maim and kill ’til their twisted notions are satisfied, but if the woman stands up for herself, she’s an outcast. A few places exist, without government support, of co
urse. I can help. That’s one decision.’
She took my hand in hers. ‘Ralph, in just a day the stories I’ve heard, the things I’ve seen, are scarcely to be believed, yet they’re true. What goes on here is beyond reason. It’s Afra – a million Afras – desperate, looking for someone to stand up for them and say what needs to be said. Shout it.’
She let go, her fingers tracing mine, gently severing her connection with me. I knew what she was doing. ‘These women have no one. I don’t know if I can be that one, but what’s going on must stop. Someone must stop it. I’d hoped that you and I, that we….that’ll never be.’
‘Simone.’ I tried to interrupt. She put a finger to my lips.
‘Where I’m going, you can’t follow. If you were stronger, maybe you could find a way. But I must. No more spectating. Faith without works, Ralph.’
The quotation was left unfinished. I watched her go, powerless to offer a word of protest or a promise of hope. Most of my words I’d sold for money, the rest had been squandered on excuses.
-------
‘Why does Quasim want to see me? What would I know about anything?’
Bilal’s questions showed more than curiosity. The call from his cousin Firdos to tell him Quasim wanted to meet wasn’t good news. The head of the Dilawar Hussein family never spoke to him, never recognised his existence. All of a sudden he’d been summoned – for that’s what it was – and he didn’t know why. They’d sent Firdos to collect him to make sure he turned up.
An uncomfortable thought came into his head. Firdos would have to drive him back, unless, of course, he wasn’t coming back. A crazy idea. He’d be back at his own place in an hour or two. Quasim wanted to discuss some work with him that was all. From time to time, Bilal performed small services for the family, usually something they didn’t want to do themselves, like frighten a supplier into reviewing his prices, or discourage a competitor. Strong-arm stuff. This would be one of those.
‘But why does he want to see me?’
Firdos didn’t answer. He knew better. His brother Quasim wanted to speak to Bilal, his job was to take him. And his cousin was right to feel afraid. Bilal’s fingers pulled at the tahmat wrapped round his waist and legs. The driver wasn’t unhappy to see his cousin’s agitation; he didn’t like him much and offered no reassurance.
