by Owen Mullen
Hafeez didn’t shake my hand.
-------
Through the thinnest smile the receptionist asked me to take a seat; she didn’t use my name, unlike my previous visit. That time was over. A clock said ten fifty-five. Minutes later Ali appeared. I followed him just as before.
‘Mr Buchanan.’ Jameel Hafeez didn’t get up. He’d been coerced into this meeting. He needn’t pretend to enjoy it. There were better things to do than answer more questions. Hafeez looked at his watch. ‘Twenty minutes, Mr Buchanan. Starting now.’
I was dealing with a very different animal. Hafeez could be warm and charming, but there was steel in him, too, he wasn’t successful by chance, although being the adopted son of Gulzar Hafeez had hardly been a handicap. I made a show of bringing out my notebook. The man across the desk was fine-featured, well-built – and poker-faced.
‘I apologise for intruding last night, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t spoil your evening.’
‘Nineteen minutes.’
I pretended to recap from my notes. ‘Mundhi village. “Things changed,” you said. What did you mean?’
‘I really don’t recall.’
‘Let me read what you told me, maybe it’ll help.’ I turned to the page. ‘“I thought it was the best place on earth. Things changed. I was young, I left. It was the right thing to do.”’
I closed the notebook. ‘Your words, Mr Hafeez. What changed, and why was it the right thing?’
a woman told me I was nothing in the world
‘Mmmm, I really don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘Were you in some sort of trouble? Did something go wrong back there? To come to Lahore hoping to find a relative you’d never met was a daring step, don’t you think? I mean, whatever drove you to leave must’ve been traumatic.’
Hafeez considered his reply. ‘I’m sure you’re right but I really can’t imagine what it might have been. I probably came to a fork in the road. It happens.’
I let it go. ‘Were you happy in that village?’
‘Yes.’
‘You weren’t unhappy yet you left to take your chances in an unknown place?’
‘I always had ambition, Mr Buchanan, perhaps that was it.’
‘Ambition to do what?’
His expression softened. ‘I wanted to be something in the world. Coming from England – ’
‘Scotland.’
‘Of course. Coming from Scotland you may not understand that quite as I did. It was important to make something of myself.’
‘Why?’
‘It just was.’
‘So you left the only home you’d ever known and, eight years later, can’t remember why, have I got that right? You left a peaceful village to come to Lahore, to strangers and noise and crime. A place where there’s no safety, even in our homes. Where lunatic killers walk the streets.’ My disbelief was unguarded. ‘I’m working on the Dilawar Hussein murders. Do you know the family? Quasim perhaps?’
Hafeez didn’t rise to it. He stared past me. ‘I can’t say that I do.’
‘Terrible business.’
I closed the notebook. ‘Well, thank you for your time if nothing else, Mr Hafeez’
‘Goodbye, Mr Buchanan.’
No offer to shake hands. I pointed to the desk. ‘Those wooden bangles you had here, they’re gone, I see.’
‘I’m having them cleaned.’
‘Really? They looked to be in excellent condition.’
‘I like them to stay that way.’
‘They belonged to your mother, I remember.’
The man reappeared at the door. ‘Please show Mr Buchanan out, Ali.’
‘You owe me eleven minutes,’ I said. Hafeez didn’t smile.
I held it together until I left the building. I wanted to shout for joy. They weren’t there, the bangles weren’t there. Where Hafeez kept them was anybody’s guess, but thanks to an early-morning call from Dan Meiklejohn, I was certain he’d left one under the mutilated body of Zamir Dilawar Hussein, dropped another in the younger brother’s blood in Heera Mandi, and last night, placed a third on bare floorboards beneath the kicking legs of their cousin, Bilal.
For all his outward show, Jameel Akhtar Hafeez was a killer.
-------
The curtains were drawn; it was difficult to see. Jameel closed the door, not wanting to disturb the figure in the bed. His father wasn’t asleep. These days that was rare even with strong medication. He lay with his eyes shut, the covers pulled up to his chin.
He was dying. But he wasn’t afraid. During his life, Gulzar nurtured a philosophy that sustained him now. Ceasing to exist held no terror for him. People resisted change, few embraced it without reservation and there was no bigger change than no longer taking part in life, yet everyone came to it, there was no way of avoiding it. Dying was the difficult part, the actual process; the pain, the suffering. And after? Well, he’d know soon enough.
In the half-light, he was an island in a sea of white. Gulzar heard the door and opened his eyes. Jameel was beside him at the bed smiling an optimistic smile. What he got in return was smaller, less hopeful and more genuine. Jameel whispered. ‘Father, I’m here. How are you today?’
Gulzar lied. ‘Better. Much better.’
‘Good, good.’
They had the same conversation every time, both men playing their parts. Gulzar raised himself in the bed with what strength he had left. ‘Move these pillows, Jameel. Help me sit up.’
His son built the starched rectangles against the headboard and Gulzar leaned back. ‘That’s better, now we can talk.’
Even such little exertion came at a cost, his breathing laboured, he spoke through shallow breaths. ‘So what’s new in the world? What am I missing?’
‘Nothing. Day to day, not much changes. Business is good. I’m all right, apart from worrying about you. Mohamed Abdul Quadir sends his regards. He wants to come and see you.’
‘Why would you worry about me? I made peace with myself the day we met. I’m fine.’
This man had been the single guiding light of Jameel’s adult life. Soon he’d be gone. Emotion engulfed the son. His father might be at peace; he was not.
‘Sit, sit.’ Gulzar pointed to the edge of the bed. ‘Tell me what’s wrong, and tell me the truth.’
‘Two things are causing me more unhappiness than I’ve known since I arrived in Lahore. When I see you here it breaks my heart. If I could, I’d take your pain and bear it myself. The other is harder to explain.’
Gulzar listened; maybe there was one last service he could do this boy, this man he loved so well. Jameel said, ‘You remember I told you about the girl from Mundhi, the one I wanted to marry?’
‘Yes. Her mother rejected you and she married someone else.’
‘Well, I think she’s in the city.’
‘The marriage is over?’
‘I believe so.’
Jameel stopped short of telling him about the murders and the jewellery. It sounded ridiculous, even to him. Gulzar had lost weight: the skin on his face hung loose, his watery eyes stayed on his son. ‘You want to find this woman. And then what?’
‘Save her, Father. She needs my help. First I need to find her.’
‘Helping another human being is always admirable. Taking action when action is required is the right thing. However, planning results is a mistake.’
He stopped, wracked by coughing. ‘We become attached to them, Jameel, do you see?’ Jameel didn’t see. ‘The solution to both your problems is the same. Detach yourself from the outcomes. Everything will be fine.’
‘How can you say that? I see you lying here. We both know how sick you are, yet you tell me everything will be fine.’ Tears rose at the edges of his eyes, his voice choked. ‘So, I should do nothing?’
Gulzar spoke softly, knowing this was difficult. ‘Only when there’s nothing to do. You must do whatever you feel, but distance yourself from the result. Look for this woman. Day and night if you have to. Just don’t de
mand it turn out any particular way. You’ll hope it does, of course. Let it be whatever it is.’
Another coughing spasm took over. Too involved, Jameel hadn’t understood a word. Gulzar waved a bony hand for a cloth to wipe his mouth and Jameel was reminded of his mother.
‘Pain, Jameel. We cause ourselves such pain. Why? Because we must have the world the way we wish it. And when we find it isn’t, we’re disappointed – afraid, like you are now.’
This was not what Jameel wanted to hear. ‘Then I must learn to care about nothing. Not you. Not Afra. Is that it?’
‘You must learn not to care over much.’
Gulzar adjusted himself against the pillows, his face tightening with the effort. ‘It’s quite simple, really. What has become of the girl you knew, what you see here with me, these things aren’t happening to you. They won’t be made better by adopting their hurt.’
Jameel was unconvinced.
‘I’m the one who’s dying, not you. You’ll have your turn, depend on it. We’ve had our time together. That cannot be changed. And this girl, a woman now –’
‘Afra.’
‘Afra, yes. Perhaps you can help her, perhaps not. First help yourself. Don’t let your happiness depend on some future event. You have a life to live and a business to run, so live in this day and trust. Things will be as they are meant to be.’
Talking was too much. Gulzar closed his eyes and fell silent.
Chapter 31
Chandra came downstairs to the dining-room where not so long ago they’d eaten breakfast together. It seemed like a dream now, everything was so different. The room was empty. Daliya appeared with plates of food and bread and laid them on the table. Chandra didn’t acknowledge her. Quasim arrived red-eyed and haggard. Once her brother might have been considered attractive, handsome even, but the strain of the last few months had aged him beyond belief. She – on the other hand – was untouched. The fire, the murder of her brothers, and now her cousin Bilal, weren’t real for her. In spite of Quasim’s rules about curfews and his ranting at the guards, she didn’t feel any sense of personal danger. Because she had harmed no one.
Chandra broke off a piece of bread.
‘You can’t go out today,’ Quasim said.
His sister didn’t lift her head. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You must stay here until this maniac is stopped.’
‘But my work?’
‘I’ve already spoken to them. They understand.’
‘You’ve talked to my employers? I don’t believe it.’
‘They agree.’
‘No. No, Quasim, I won’t be a prisoner in this house. It’s bad enough to spend every night here, but during the day?’
They shared the same genes, the same arrogance and contempt, and the same capacity for anger. ‘There’s nothing to discuss, it’s decided.’
‘Not by me.’ Chandra stormed out, almost knocking over Daliya bringing breakfast to Quasim. Her brother made no move to stop her. The Quasim of before would have quelled any revolt against his actions with a look: his authority was depleted. Unable to save his business or his brothers and so afraid, he hardly registered his sister’s outburst. Chandra could do as she pleased, he didn’t care anymore.
Quasim wasn’t hungry. He went to check on the guards; six men working twelve-hour shifts in teams of three, providing round-the-clock protection. But Quasim Dilawar Hussein didn’t feel protected.
Chandra spoke to one of the security men at the gate; her brother watched them argue. The guard produced a key and let her through. Chandra strode into the world. Of course, the guard had been no match for his sister. He hadn’t met a man who was – one of the reasons he hadn’t insisted she marry. Chandra could be a fearsome creature. A real Dilawar Hussein. He went out to chastise the guard. He’d need to fare better against the real threat if it came, especially if it was woman.
-------
I replaced the receiver in its cradle. I’d had my chance and blown it. The room was tidy, a symptom of my growing recovery and I no longer stayed out half the night or slept the day away. Earlier, I’d called my editor. That had taken courage.
‘My, my, I don’t believe it,’ Andrew McArthur said. ‘We thought you’d died. I was just about ready to contact HR to cancel your cheque and calculate an in-service payment, but you’re still with us.’
‘Andrew. Thank you for your patience.’
‘Patience. Patience ran out a year ago, Ralph. What you’ve been getting is the sympathy vote. When was the last time you copied anything we could use, eh?’
I let it wash over me. I deserved it. McArthur had cut me more breaks than I deserved, he was allowed to chew me out. ‘That’s why I’m calling, Andrew.’
‘Mr McArthur to you. Only productive employees call me Andrew.’
I ignored that one, he didn’t mean it. McArthur was pissed at me. We’d worked together for more than a decade. The fiasco in Germany hadn’t been the end of my fuck-ups. In the months following Lonnie Harper’s death, my drinking had really taken off. Most days I spent in a pub until I was well-oiled and spoiling for a fight. On one memorable afternoon I returned to the office. A big mistake. I actually started to cry. My stunned colleagues stood helpless, watching their award-winning star unravel.
Embarrassing for them. Worse was to follow.
After an hour of raving self-pity and breast-beating, my mood changed. I was too good for them. I was a giant, they were pygmies. What had any of them achieved? Parasites clinging to my back. On and on it went. A crowd gathered to listen to my drunken ramblings and groundless accusations. Someone called security to escort me from the building, a call that was long overdue. Two uniformed guys struggled to move me to the door. I broke free, climbed on a desk and surveyed my friends and workmates as the guards closed in. No-More-Mr-Nice-Guys. Seconds before they got to me, I offered the entire staff a last critique.
‘You’re all cunts!’
Two days later, I crashed my car into a neighbour’s garage when I was drunk. Nobody was injured but my licence was history. A week after that, McArthur told me the score. The final humiliation.
Pakistan.
That was then, now I said, ‘Andrew, listen a minute, I’m sending a couple of pieces.’
‘A couple?’
‘A killer is loose over here. Three victims so far. It’s a long story. I’m pretty sure a prominent figure in the business community is the murderer. Haven’t got all the proof but I’m close. If it’s who I think it is, I’ve interviewed him twice.’
Thousands of miles away, McArthur stopped taking his revenge.
‘And I’m writing a series of articles called Behind the Veil. I expect to shock you, one way or another.’
‘I’m already shocked just to hear from you. You sound different, Ralph.’
‘I am different, Andrew. Tell you all about it next time we meet.’
‘A killer? Behind the Veil? Sounds like the old Ralph Buchanan’s back.’
I laughed. ‘Not so, Andrew. Everybody can relax on that one.’
-------
Detective Rana listened to the verbal assault. It was understandable; the man was terrified. Veins in his neck stood like cords, flecks of saliva gathered at the edges of his mouth. He didn’t speak, he bellowed. ‘Where are you? Where’re any of you when my family’s being murdered?’ Quasim didn’t wait for answers. Rana hadn’t any.
‘I assure you, Mr Dilawar Hussein, we’re doing everything possible…’
‘You assure me. You assure me. Better you assure my two dead brothers and my cousin. Perhaps you could call my creditors and assure them.’
The policeman didn’t respond. Standing beside his boss, Rafee was angry. Asmet Rana was as good as any policeman in Pakistan and this crazy man was abusing him. He wanted to speak out. Instead, he followed his superior’s example.
In two months, Quasim Dilawar Hussein had lost his business and three relatives, and they were no closer to catching the killer than they’d ever
been. The senior officer took the full blast of this man’s anger; it was part of the job. It wasn’t personal.
Detective Jan Asmet Rana was on duty the night it began. It was his case and he wished it wasn’t. Pressure from above piled higher every day. Unsolved killings reflected on the department and the city. There was a rumour the prime minister was following progress. Or, in this case, lack of it.
‘The world is watching,’ his boss kept telling him, as if that would speed an arrest.
‘What did the chief say?’
Rana was philosophical. ‘Apparently, the world is watching us, Rafee.’
Dilawar Hussein said, ‘I’ve men guarding the house night and day, otherwise I might not be here to have this conversation with you.’
Quasim spat his contempt, his fingers playing with the tahmat wrapped round his waist. ‘If there are no results soon, if you don’t catch this madman…if you can’t protect me in my own home, then I’ve no choice but to speak with your superiors. Do you understand?’
Detective Rana understood all right. More pressure. He saw his reputation evaporating before his eyes because he hadn’t solved a case no one else would be able to solve. Everyone in the household had been interviewed and everyone in contact with the family. And no one recognised the bangles, or if they had, they hid it well.
‘One final question Mr Dilawar Hussein, one I’ve asked already. Can you recall ever seeing the wooden jewellery before?’
‘I told you the last time you asked. Never.’
-------
I disliked Quasim Dilawar Hussein immediately and would’ve felt the same even if Simone hadn’t told me the story Afra had begged her to write.
‘I don’t know why I’m talking to you,’ he said. ‘How can it possibly help?’
I didn’t share his confusion. I wanted to meet this man, observe his reaction when Afra’s name was mentioned, and find out if he knew Jameel Hafeez.
‘I told you on the telephone, Mr Dilawar Hussein, I’m writing an article about the crimes. You’re the head of the family targeted by the murderer. I hope highlighting your case might persuade an informant to come forward. Someone out there must know something, don’t you agree? Have you any idea why this might be happening to you?’
