Rooted in Dishonour

by Christina James

  I’m sure that Mrs Sims has noticed, but she’s too discreet to mention it directly.

  “She’ll have a lovely day, don’t you worry,” she says, patting my arm, “and four o’clock will come round in no time. Are you working today, or just taking a bit of time for yourself?”

  “I’m working for some of the day. Just going back to the office to get myself used to it again. There’s a project lined up for me, I think.”

  “I expect they’ll be glad to have you back. What is it that you do, exactly?”

  “I’m a police researcher.”

  “Lovely!” says Mrs Sims, in a tone of voice that indicates little understanding and no interest. “You take care, now. And don’t worry.”

  I nod and head for the door. I look back just once, to see Sophia still engrossed with the bricks. Margie has gone back to building her tower. Thomas is hovering nearby, his arm outstretched. As I leave, I hear the bricks come crashing down and Thomas’s peal of laughter.

  Chapter 8

  Juliet paused for a moment outside the house in Hannam Boulevard and had not unfastened the gate latch when the door was flung open. A small plump woman emerged. She was wearing a dark green sari with gold borders. A broad silver strip rippled through her otherwise jet black hair, which was swept back off her forehead and fastened in an elaborate chignon at the back of her neck. Juliet thought she was pretty in a sad sort of way. She had very fine skin, entirely uncreased by wrinkles. Her age was hard to guess. She might have been forty, perhaps a few years younger.

  The woman advanced down the short path to meet her.

  “Mrs Verma?” said Juliet. “I’m DC Armstrong. I phoned yesterday. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  The woman clasped her hands together as if in prayer.

  “I am so happy to meet you,” she said. “Please, come in.” Her voice was cultured, with just the faintest trace of inflection. Juliet opened the gate and held out her hand. Mrs Verma’s own hand was as soft and as plump as the rest of her. Juliet saw that she wore the vermilion dot on her forehead.

  Mrs Verma turned and led the way into the house, glancing once at her neighbour’s windows before entering. Juliet guessed that Ayesha Verma’s disappearance was the talk of the street. It was hard not to feel sympathy for the small woman she’d just met, though she knew it might well be misplaced. It was nevertheless difficult to envisage Mrs Verma involved in the act of murder.

  Inside, the house was immaculate.

  “Please, sit down,” said Mrs Verma. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Thank you. Yes.”

  It was an ordinary sitting room, containing a velour three-piece suite and several small tables. There were a few nice artefacts from India: a brass gong mounted on an elephant’s back, decorated in brilliant enamels, and some intricate wooden boxes – but apart from these and an abundance of cushions in jewelled colours, the room was in all probability furnished very similarly to its counterparts in the other houses in the street.

  Several silver-framed photographs stood on one of the tables. Juliet picked up the largest of them and was examining it when Mrs Verma returned, bearing a tray set out with two delicate porcelain cups containing milky tea. Two biscuits had been arranged in the saucers of each. She set the tray down carefully.

  “These are your daughters?”

  “Yes. Ayesha, Pia and Geya.”

  “Ayesha is much older than her sisters?”

  Mrs Verma looked down at the tea tray.

  “Yes. Unfortunately, we lost two boys. Miscarriages. Then Pia and Geya came quickly afterwards. They’re out with some friends today. I didn’t want them to be here when you came. Do you have anything to tell me?” Mrs Verma was apprehensive.

  “I’m afraid not. You’ll have seen the appeals for information on the local and national news. Her description has been sent to police forces throughout the country. I know DI Yates has asked you this already, but is there anywhere else you can think of where she could have gone? Friends or relatives in a big city, say?”

  “DI Yates did ask me and my husband that question and our answer was no. We have virtually no family here. Bahir, my husband, grew up in Birmingham. His parents are dead now. He has a brother, but he has returned to India. It was his son, Zayed, that Ayesha was to have married.”

  “And yourself, Mrs Verma? Do you have other relatives here?”

  “I was brought up in Stockholm. I was adopted. My adoptive family is still there, but I haven’t seen them for many years. The girls don’t know them.”

  “You don’t think Ayesha could have tried to find them?”

  “I have been in touch with my stepsister in Sweden, of course, but she doesn’t know anything. She was obviously upset to hear of Ayesha’s disappearance. I myself did not think she would be there. We still have her passport, you see.”

  “Yes, of course. Forgive me for asking this, but why are you and your husband living in Spalding? You both come from cities. It seems an odd place for you to have made your home in.”

  “We have been happy here. In Birmingham, Bahir worked for a housing association and he was offered a similar job here. Similar, but less hassle. We thought it would be a nice place to bring the girls up. And the housing is cheap.”

  “Did either of you go to university?”

  “No. Bahir has a management diploma. From college. And I have a certificate from the British Floristry Association. We both studied for A level.”

  “So you want your daughters to be well educated?”

  “Yes, within our traditions. Ayesha is clever. She has studied A levels. The results will come soon. I think she will have done well.”

  “Has she applied for university?”

  “No. The marriage was to come first. Afterwards her father and Zayed agreed that she could study if she still wanted to.”

  Juliet thought this sounded unpromising and wondered what Ayesha’s own view had been, but Mrs Verma was clearly on edge and quite defensive, so she decided not to push it. She replaced the photograph on the table and, sitting down, helped herself to one of the cups of tea. It was strong as well as milky, and very sweet. Juliet tried not to grimace.

  Mrs Verma had perched herself uncomfortably on a wooden chair at the very edge of the room.

  “Should I pass your tea?”

  She shook her head, then suddenly burst out vehemently.

  “I know you suspect Bahir and Zayed of hurting Ayesha, but you are quite wrong. Honour killing is not something we understand. Bahir loves his daughters; he would never do them harm. I don’t know Zayed well, but I trusted my husband’s judgment. So did Ayesha. And all the time you are following up this honour killing idea, you are wasting time not trying to find her.”

  Mrs Verma was wringing her hands. Tears were pouring down her cheeks.

  Juliet’s instinct was to believe her, though this didn’t mean that the woman’s menfolk were as upright as she was asserting.

  “I understand how you must be feeling, Mrs Verma. Please believe me when I say that the honour killing idea is only one line of enquiry that we’re pursuing. I realise it must seem unfair, but it’s something we have to do, mainly because of the circumstances of Ayesha’s disappearance. Arranged marriages are not against the law, but forced marriages are. We have to consider the possibility that your daughter refused her father’s chosen bridegroom and he punished her for it.”

  “No! Bahir is not that kind of man.”

  “What sort of mood was Ayesha in when you last saw her?”

  “She was . . . happy. Enjoying the summer. And looking forward to spending more time with her cousin.”

  “How long had Zayed been here when she went missing?”

  “About a week, I think.” Mrs Verma looked away evasively.

  “You don’t know exactly how long?”

  “No, I can’t
remember.”

  “I see.” Tim had already asked Air India for the dates of Zayed’s arrival at and departure from Heathrow and Juliet had verified them. There was always the chance that he hadn’t spent the whole of the intervening time with the Verma family. It was odd that Mrs Verma claimed not to remember, even so. “Did Ayesha and Zayed seem to get on well?” she continued.

  Mrs Verma hesitated.

  “I think she was a bit surprised at first.”

  “Oh. Why was that?”

  “Zayed is a bit older than she is.”

  “How old is he?”

  “He is almost fifty, I think. Bahir’s brother is a lot older than him. He’s a half-brother, really.”

  “Did Ayesha discuss Zayed’s age with you?”

  “Not exactly, no. I could see she was surprised. But then he was very nice and she seemed to like him.”

  “And you say she was in a happy mood the last time you saw her?”

  “Oh, yes. We’d been for a picnic on the banks of the Coronation cut. She was very happy. We walked back here afterwards, then Ayesha said she wanted to go into town to buy some things for her hair. Zayed said he would go with her, but she said she’d rather go on her own. He didn’t insist,” Mrs Verma concluded meaningfully, as if to illustrate what a reasonable man he was.

  “So she went out again on her own. This was last Wednesday? At about what time was it?”

  “Wednesday, yes. Mid-afternoon, I’d say. Quite some time before Bahir came home. He and Zayed went out to look for her later. But Bahir has told you this already.”

  “Yes, I know, Mrs Verma, but I wanted to hear your own account. In case you remember something that hasn’t been mentioned so far. When did you start to worry about her?”

  “I was worried by the time her father came home. I’d tried calling her mobile and found she had left it here.”

  “Yes, I noticed that in DI Yates’s report. Was that unlike her?”

  “Usually she took it everywhere. But she’d left it charging, so maybe she just forgot it. I don’t know.”

  “So what did she have with her?”

  “Just her handbag. And her purse.”

  “How much money did she have?”

  “I don’t know. Not very much. Thirty pounds, perhaps. And her banker’s card. But the account hasn’t been touched.”

  “So I understand. Did she have anything besides the debit card? A credit card? Or retailers’ cards of any kind?”

  “Not credit or other cards like that, no. We don’t approve of them. She had a young person’s railcard.”

  “Thank you,” said Juliet. “That’s very interesting. I don’t think your husband mentioned that to DI Yates.”

  “Bahir must have forgotten about it,” said Mrs Verma uncomfortably.

  “Yes, I suppose he did. Could we have something of Ayesha’s? So that we can get a DNA match?”

  “DI Yates already took her hairbrush. He asked Bahir for it.”

  Juliet frowned. Tim hadn’t included that in his report. And what had he done with the hairbrush? She’d have to ask him. Not like him not to have found out about the railcard, either. That could yield a very promising lead.

  “Of course. I’m sorry, I was forgetting. I think you’ve helped me as much as you can for the moment, Mrs Verma. I shall probably want to come again. I understand that you have a part-time job?”

  “Yes. It’s just at Hardy’s in Winsover Road. The flower shop. Usually I work on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays only. Sometimes on other days if we’re really busy. I mostly make up the flowers for weddings: bouquets and table settings.”

  “And your husband?”

  “He has a normal nine-to-five job.”

  “You’re not planning to go away any time soon?”

  “No. How could we, with Ayesha missing?” Mrs Verma’s eyes filled with tears. “Please find her.”

  Juliet resisted the impulse to place a comforting hand on the woman’s arm.

  “We’ll do our best,” she said.

  Chapter 9

  Tim had accompanied Derry Hacker to New Scotland Yard. All around him people were busy moving stuff, but he’d been allocated a temporary office which was relatively peaceful, and a detective constable, DC Nancy Chappell, to help him. He hadn’t hit it off with DC Chappell from the word go. She was the most alternative policewoman he’d ever met, and he found her ‘otherness’ disconcerting. Petite and wiry, she had jet black hair cut in a Goth style and sported a row of studs in each of her ears. In the lobes of one of them had been affixed an inch-long object resembling a paper clip. Her eyelids were dusted with some kind of plum-coloured powder and her lipstick was blackish. She was dressed completely in black; neatly enough, it was true, but her feet were shod in oxblood-coloured Doc Martens. Her fingernails were best described as talons, painted silver. She spoke with an ugly London drawl. Quite frankly, he was astonished that Derry rated her so highly.

  DC Chappell patently didn’t think much of Tim, either. She spoke to him abruptly and with scant respect. She made it quite clear that she had plenty of work to do without being side-tracked by the importunate training requirements of a copper up from the provinces.

  “DI Hacker’s downloaded all the files on to this computer,” she said to Tim. “There’s the four cases we’ve worked on, and a couple from the States and Canada that we asked for. Derry told you about them, did ’e?”

  “Yes,” said Tim. “Thank you.” He met her eye, tried to provoke a smile. She looked away quickly. Tim’s own smile sickened and died on his lips. He was beginning to feel queasy again.

  “You all right?” She scrutinised him suspiciously.

  “Yes, I think so. It’s a bit warm in here, isn’t it?”

  “’Aven’t noticed, myself, but I can turn up the air-con.” She rose and twiddled the switch on the wall. “Yer’ll ’ave to turn it dahn again when it’s cool enough. Otherwise you’ll freeze to death!”

  She was smiling now, evidently pleased by the thought of his stiffening corpse.

  “You need me for anyfing? If not, I’ll be getting on.”

  “I’d hoped you’d stay awhile, if you’ve got time. Talk me through some of these cases, tell me if you’ve seen any similarities between them.”

  “Well, there’s one obvious ‘similarity’, isn’t there? All done by blokes to young girls and all of the blokes ’eartless bastards.”

  “DI Hacker told me that sometimes the victims could be young men, and sometimes female perpetrators were also involved.”

  “Yes, well, he’s getting too PC for words, i’n’t he? Tell you what,” she said more brightly, “you have a read of these, write down any questions you ’ave, and I’ll go fru them with you later. ’ow does that sound? Better use of bofe our time, I fink.”

  “That sounds great,” said Tim, relieved that she’d suggested a solution to spare both from the passive hostility they’d already managed to create.

  “OK, I’ll come back in a couple of ahrs, then. There’s a water cooler by the door, if you ain’t feeling too good. And don’t forget about the air con. It’s vicious if you overdo it.”

  “Thanks,” said Tim, forcing another smile. He received a measured one in return, before DC Chappell exited as silently and lithely as a cat, despite her clumpy boots.

  Tim took her advice and poured himself a plastic cup of water. He was sipping it slowly as he clicked on the computer screen to open the first file. Suddenly the screen exploded into colour. Instead of opening the Word document that he’d selected, he was confronted with a nightmarish frame of reds, oranges and yellows all bleeding into each other. His eyes were transfixed by the small square window that now opened in the middle of the frame. At first the outline was fuzzy, almost nondescript, but second by second it grew clearer until he could be in no doubt about what the blackening shadow depicte
d: it was the outline of a woman swinging from a gibbet.

  Tim felt the bile rise in his throat. Just in time, he seized the waste paper bin and vomited into it copiously, his stomach heaving and retching for long minutes after it had emptied. He took a long draught from the cup of water and forced himself to look at the screen again. The Word document was sitting there, pristine in its dullness. Tim splashed some water on his face and smoothed his hair with his hands. He’d found the episodes he’d experienced yesterday unnerving. Now he was frankly scared.

  His mobile rang. Taking it out of its pouch, he saw that the caller was Juliet. He pressed the green button with alacrity.

  “Juliet! Am I glad to talk to you!”

  “Hello, Tim. Why do you say that?”

  Tim thought for a few seconds. How could he explain to her what he thought he’d just seen?

  “No reason. It’s just that things are a little strange here. Out of my comfort zone, I suppose. But they’re being very helpful. I think I’m making progress. What about you?”

  “I’ve just come back from interviewing Mrs Verma. She told me a couple of things I need to check with you. First of all, did you know that Ayesha Verma has a student railcard? It was probably in her purse when she disappeared.”

  “No. And when I asked her father if there was anything she could have with her that might help her to get away, he said only the cash, and he didn’t think she could have very much.”

  “That’s interesting. Mrs Verma also said that she didn’t have much money with her. I must admit that she was a bit shifty when she mentioned the railcard. Perhaps the father didn’t know about it.”

  “I think that’s highly likely, don’t you? Because if we can prove that she used the railcard, it doesn’t rule out the possibility that she’s been murdered, but it does make it less likely.”

  “That’s what I thought. I’m not sure how to raise it with Bahir Verma without making him annoyed with his wife, if she gave Ayesha the railcard without telling him.”