by Owen Mullen
the same story as everybody else
The reporter reappeared, a lifetime of experience standing at my shoulder. I fished paper from a drawer and drew up a Q and A. All I could lay my hands on was a pencil that needed sharpening; it would do.
Question: What crimes had been committed?
Answer: Two members of the Dilawar Hussein family, Zamir and Firdos, had been brutally murdered and the warehouse destroyed.
Question: Why?
Answer: Not known.
Question: What was unusual about the crimes?
Answer: The violence. Thirty-three stab wounds and castration by acid, and a carved ebony bangle found beside each body.
Question: Why was so much rage involved, especially in the first murder?
Answer: Because the murders weren’t random slayings? They were personal? The motive was revenge?
Question: Revenge for what?
Answer: Not known.
Question: Why had the killer left a bangle at each crime scene?
Answer: A warning. They said you know who I am.
Question: What was the significance?
Answer: Afra had been married to the eldest son, Quasim, for seven years and had often worn the jewellery. The family would recognise it.
Question: And?
I paused. So far there was nothing to connect Simone to anything.
But?
The ‘buts’ were easy to find.
Question: What connection did Simone have with that family?
Answer: Afra told Simone about her life with them.
Question: So how did that involve Simone?
Answer: Maybe it didn’t, but she knew Afra’s story, and was the only one apart from her to have access to the bangles.
Question: So what?
Answer: She was disturbed by the scenes at the rally, talked wild talk about not being a spectator and wars needing soldiers. I had been unable to contact her in almost two weeks, during the time the murders were committed.
faith without works
If only I could speak to her, find out where she’d been and what she’d been doing. I’d made mistakes in my life but I’d called it right plenty of times. I ran through the Q and A again. Something was off. On the third read through I saw it right in front of me. So often the Q and A showed up a discrepancy in the evidence or the timeline or, in this case, an assumption.
And there it was, plain as day. The answer to number ten wasn’t correct. I read it again.
Question: So how did that involve Simone?
Answer: Maybe it didn’t, but she knew Afra’s story and was the only one apart from her to have access to the bangles.
Wrong! So wrong it made him gasp.
the only one apart from her
Two sets: Afra had one; the other was on the desk of the businessman of the year. Jameel Akhtar Hafeez.
-------
Detective Rana smoothed a hand through his thinning hair and scribbled on a sheet of paper. In his youth, he’d dreamed of becoming a lawyer, but years of studying when his family needed him to earn made the decision and he’d joined the police force. Until his wife died it hadn’t been a bad life, he’d had his share of success. Now and then he failed of course. All in all, he wasn’t unhappy with his humble contribution to make Lahore safer.
This case was probably his last and it was a strange one, violent and disturbing. It would be good to go out on a high.
The fire could have been started by the owner, though with the level of insurance it seemed unlikely. And why destroy a successful business? Perhaps it was the work of a rival, a jealous competitor or a dissatisfied creditor. That would make Quasim the target and Quasim Dilawar Hussein was an easy man to dislike. At the warehouse, with his brother dead on the ground, he’d shown a callous disregard he hadn’t bothered to disguise. So why attack anyone else? Why not come for him?
Zamir may have discovered the arsonist and paid with his life. His mutilated body ruled that out; the killer had been prepared. Bad enough if it had ended there. Events in Heera Mandi said otherwise. One brother detested enough to have his corpse defiled was possible; two murdered from the same tribe suggested a vendetta.
Then there were the bangles, the killer’s calling-card. Bangles meant a female. Or something the detective shuddered to contemplate: a madman rampaging through the city. He dismissed the thought. Instinct told him Quasim was lying about having no idea who was behind the crimes.
Rana spoke to his assistant. ‘Rafee, find out everything you can about the Dilawar Husseins. Who they are and what they do. I want to know what about them could inspire such hatred.’
‘But sir, they’re the victims, aren’t they?’
‘Maybe somebody doesn’t think so.’
-------
The woman made no sound.
Her grey ghagra hung on her underfed body as she moved towards the man seated at the end of the table. In the candle’s half-light she saw the fleshy jowls and the hooked nose; a face very different from hers.
Once she’d been beautiful, now her own mother wouldn’t recognise her. Her hair, long and lustrous, was dull and patchy. Beneath its tangled confusion, the sharp contours of a face poked through skin stretched taut around sad eyes.
Daliya had stopped caring about such things, the constant grind of life in the house and months of malnourishment had taken her beyond vanity. There was no grace period for her, no Chandra pretending to be a friend, the family had done with that. From the beginning, her station had been well-defined. She’d slept in Quasim’s bed just twice, the rest of the time she dragged herself to the cupboard room high in the house at the end of every weary day.
Quasim massaged his temple and opened his eyes. ‘Go away.’
Only ten months and already he was tired of her. She’d produced no son. She was unnecessary. Just like the other one.
He clenched and unclenched his fists when he thought of Afra and Bilal’s claim to have finished her on a lonely road somewhere. His cousin was a fool who’d say anything to keep trouble away from his door. The last weeks told a different story. His brothers were dead. His business was destroyed. He was ruined, and the insurance wouldn’t cover half of what was lost.
Quasim Dilawar Hussein blamed others for any misfortune. His opinion of himself left little room for negative conclusions. Still, under-insuring the warehouse and the stock had been his decision. He’d judged the premiums excessive, seen the risk as low. A bad call.
He wanted to speak to Bilal again. Make the coward change his story. Then at least he’d know the truth. It had been a mistake to trust anything important to that idiot. Zamir’s choice. And he’d paid for it with his life. Quasim recalled the atrocities done to his brother, by comparison Firdos met an easy death. When he allowed himself to be persuaded about the woman and the dishonour she’d brought him, he’d known what his brothers would do, and didn’t care. The error was in trusting Bilal to dispose of her. Now, a year later, Zamir’s miscalculation had caught up with him, with Firdos, and more important, the business. Quasim would have to start again.
That was one thing. Except it wasn’t the only problem. The killer was still out there; the police had nothing. When they’d asked about the bangles found beside his brothers, he’d told them they meant nothing to him.
Not the truth.
Why would they be next to the bodies?
The answer was clear.
Bilal had lied. The woman was alive, and, unbelievable as it was, she was here in Lahore. Quasim found the idea of the cringing waif who’d once warmed his bed returning to attack anyone difficult to believe. The evidence was the bangles.
The candle guttered, its light growing thin. Quasim got up. For a second he thought of Daliya, of her body, then brushed the want away. He’d decide what to do with her later. A deranged killer was stalking him and his family. Quasim hadn’t told his mother the details of how her sons had met their end. She grieved of course, she was a mother. He cared little about his brothers
. Quasim hadn’t loved them in life and didn’t miss them in death. He was more upset about his business. If the woman came for him, he’d do what the others had failed to do. There would be no wooden ornaments found next to Quasim Dilawar Hussein. He’d end her life as easily as he blew the candle out.
The jewellery was part of a plan to scare him. An image of the woman he’d taken from a village in the Punjab rose behind his hooded eyes. He smiled in the dark: let her come.
How little she knew him.
Chapter 28
Ali said, ‘I have to ask something. Please know your answer alters nothing between us.’
Jameel knew his question.
‘Shakil tells me there’s been another murder, a brother from the same family. Stabbed in Heera Mandi two nights ago. He says the murderer left his fingerprints at the scene.’
‘Fingerprints?’ Jameel was certain he’d removed every trace of himself.
‘His words not mine. He meant the killer left another bangle with the body. It’s the same as the first. A match.’
The men stared at each other, realising they’d come to a point only the strongest friendship could hope to survive. Whatever Ali said, Jameel doubted he could travel where he must go. If Afra was the murderer she had to be ill, unbalanced. His duty was clear – find her and save her from herself. Take her somewhere safe. Love her and protect her, just as he’d intended in Mundhi. As for the awful crimes, there had to be a reason, some explanation. Jameel resolved to discover what that reason was. If there was any chance to save the girl he’d lost his heart to he’d seize it and hold on.
In Heera Mandi, he almost caught her. Firdos Dilawar Hussein was dead less than a minute when he stumbled over him and found the bangle. Afra was close that night; he felt her presence on the air. For an hour he prowled the dark alleys, softly calling her name. Women for sale smiled his way; Jameel didn’t notice. At one point, a figure dressed in black coming towards him down a narrow passage, suddenly turned and hurried away. He followed, quickening his step, whispering ‘Afra? Afra is that you? It’s Jameel.’ The female broke into a run, ducked into a gap between two ancient stone buildings and disappeared.
It had been her, he was sure of it. And she’d recognised him, yet she’d fled. Sadness like he’d never felt washed through him. Poor Afra, ashamed of what she’d become, afraid, even of him. Didn’t she remember how much he cared for her? That hadn’t changed and never would. He’d die for her. But would he lie for her? Would he let her crimes go unpunished? Absolutely. No question. For Afra, anything.
‘Shakil says they’re beginning to piece together a motive, that they’ll find this lunatic and bring them to justice.’
‘Shakil has a lot to say. Ask your question, Ali.’
‘Jameel, we’ve known each other since you arrived in Lahore. I can still see the awestruck boy following me through the crowds. Since then we’ve been friends, you and Gulzar have – ’
‘Ask me, Ali.’
‘Are you involved in these crimes? You have reason to hate Dilawar Hussein, and we haven’t found Afra.’
‘Involved? Yes I am. Until Afra is beyond harm or beyond doing harm I’m involved.’
‘That doesn’t answer me.’
‘Am I a murderer?’ Jameel paused. ‘No Ali, I’ve killed no one.’
Ali studied him. ‘I look at your desk, my friend, and something is missing.’
‘There were six and you suspect only four remain, am I right?’
‘No, I see they no longer sit where they did, that’s all.’
‘Your powers of observation are remarkable, one of your many gifts. But I’m no murderer.’
Ali nodded. ‘I believe you, Jameel.’
-------
It was late when she got back to her flat. She kicked off her shoes, pulled off her clothes and stepped into a hot shower. Twenty minutes later she made coffee, lit a cigarette and pressed the button on her phone. Two messages – both from Ralph. He sounded different, agitated, but in charge.
‘Simone, it’s Ralph. I’m worried about you, please call.’
‘Simone, where are you? Are you alright? Something’s happened. I want to talk to you. Please, Simone, please call.’
Call him? She’d have to think about that. Coffee was fine – a drink would be better. There was a half-finished bottle of wine in the fridge, Simone poured a glass and sipped it on her way to the main room. It was cold, tasteless. Still, it would do.
Her clothes lay where they’d fallen. She collected them, repelled by the dull colours and coarse fabric. Looking at them depressed her. She was young, French for God’s sake, what was she doing wearing this? She knew the answer. She’d made a choice, a difficult choice. The clothes were a means to an end, nothing more. They didn’t define her – that wasn’t correct – they did. The dark tent coat with the hood defined her perfectly.
Simone sat in the chair and picked the coffee up. He wasn’t making it easy. She wanted to see him, wanted him to know and longed for his approval, although he’d never give it.
How could he? He hadn’t seen what she’d seen. It was unrealistic to expect him to feel the way she felt. Simone had been moving towards this since the night in the Punjab: the rally finished her. Ralph was a man – how could he understand? That was unfair. Ralph Buchanan had championed more than one lost cause.
Not in Pakistan.
She opened a window, finished the coffee and quickly fell asleep until the recording of the Imam woke her, one of many booming out across the city. It reminded her of the country her father had believed in, the one in his dreams, and hers.
It was dark. Her head felt thick and her joints ached. If she’d met Ralph in another time they could have saved each other. With him it was alcohol. With her it was…. What? How would she describe what she’d been doing? Righting wrongs? Questing after justice? She wouldn’t call him although she wanted to, not while the fire raged in her. Questing for justice. A fancy phrase, nice-sounding words, but obsession just the same.
-------
Bilal wasn’t surprised to see the two men standing at the gates. He’d expected Quasim to tighten security and would have done the same himself. He slowed the car. One of the guards checked the licence number and talked into a two-way radio. The gates opened, the vehicle passed through.
As he began making his report to Quasim he noticed the strain on his cousin’s face. The guards had been the first indication. Quasim had never showed fear. Now his eyes blinked, his fingers trembled and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. The man was fighting to stay in control and losing.
Bilal sensed the other’s weakness. It gave him strength.
‘She’s not in the village. The family’s gone. Somewhere further south.’
Quasim heard the news in silence. He bit his lip. ‘Then she must be in the city. She must be here in Lahore. But where, Bilal?’
Quasim never asked Bilal’s opinion on anything. The last time they met he’d been his usual self; superior and intimidating, afraid of nothing. This was not the Quasim he’d known: this man was on the edge. The vulture in Bilal soared and circled, pleased and emboldened. Throughout his life, he’d been despised. From today all that was ended. He’d help, of course. First, he’d have a little fun.
‘She’s dead, Quasim. She left this world a year ago. The killer isn’t her.’
‘Then who?’
‘Someone close. Close enough to slit your brother’s throat. Close enough to mutilate Zamir. Too close.’
He watched Quasim blanch. ‘What can we do?’
Bilal wanted to laugh out loud. We do? What can we do? When had he become part of it? Whatever this family had done, they were paying for it. It was nothing to him. They left him to his poverty while they lived in their big house. Only asking him to do things no one else would do. Even with the woman, Afra, they’d forgotten how little they’d paid him to dispose of her. Bilal hadn’t forgotten. It hadn’t been enough, not nearly enough.
‘First of all, be s
trong. Remember you are Quasim Dilawar Hussein, and depend on me. Whoever is responsible is insane. They’ll push too far and we’ll have them. For now, we stay calm. Your guards will keep everyone away. I’ll stay with you. You’ll be safe, I’ll see to it. When it’s over, we’ll rebuild the business, you and I, as cousins and partners.’
A flicker of hope lit Quasim’s face. ‘Yes, cousin, yes.’
‘I’ll come every night until the danger has passed. During the day I’ll search the city for this dervish. Meanwhile, tell the guards to look to me for their instructions. Your security will be my responsibility, Quasim. We’ll catch this mad dog and put it out of its misery. No one need know, not the police, not anyone.’
A week earlier Quasim would have laughed.
‘We’ll keep it to ourselves. Family business, eh, Quasim?’
‘Family, yes, family, Bilal. Family business.’
Outside, Bilal waited for the guards to part the gates before letting his impatience show. From now on, these men would answer to him. That thought made him smile. He eased the car out on to the road.
Family business. He liked the sound of it.
-------
Ali said, ‘She’s not there, hasn’t been since she left to be married according to the old woman I spoke to.’
He looked tired. He’d driven all the way to Mundhi and back; his eyes were bloodshot and he needed a shave. No one asked him, it was his own idea. Jameel should have thought of it himself. Any awkwardness between them from their last conversation had disappeared, their friendship equal to the test. Jameel nodded and waited for the rest of it. ‘The woman remembered her all right, remembered you too.’
‘Okay. So, who is there?’
‘No one. At least, no one from that family.’
‘Where are they?’
‘The mother died the woman says, and the children moved away. South she thinks, to stay with a relative – a cousin, an uncle, she wasn’t sure. None of them live there now and haven’t done in a while. She showed me the house, it was empty.’
