Rooted in Dishonour

by Christina James

  “Back to yours, to have a shower, if that’s ok. I’m not needed at work until later.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you this evening. I’ll be back at around seven. I’ll cook. Don’t be late.”

  Freya sprang back into the moving throng. She gave Tim a single backward glance as she disappeared. He responded with a half-salute that was intended to be apologetic. She’d turned her head before he could see her reaction.

  Tim carried on walking. It took him ten minutes to reach Freya’s house; by the time he arrived he was feeling knackered. He slumped down on one of her pristine sofas and immediately fell asleep.

  He was startled awake by the bleeping of his mobile. He fished it from his pocket and answered it blearily.

  “Hello?”

  “Tim, old son, it’s Derry. I just wondered if you were all right. I was expecting you to be here first thing again this morning. I wasn’t particularly worried when you didn’t show up, but I had to go out again and while I was away your sister rang the office. She left a message to say that you hadn’t got back last night and weren’t answering calls. I thought I’d have a go at calling you myself before I rang her back. I’m glad I’ve got you now. Where have you been?”

  Derry sounded genuinely worried, but Tim was sceptical. He knew that when Derry had had time to think about it the teasing and innuendo would kick in. That was the least of his worries, however. If Freya had tried to contact Derry, she’d almost certainly also called Katrin again. He should have thought to ask her. That was the trouble with Freya, she ambushed you with her logic so that you couldn’t think straight.

  “There’s no need to worry about Freya. I’ve already seen her. I’m sorry she bothered you: it’s unlike her to over-react. It’s a bit of a complicated story. I’ll tell you about it when I get there.”

  “You are coming in today, then?”

  “Yes. I just need to have a shower first, freshen up a bit.”

  “I see.” There was a long pause. Wait for it, thought Tim. But when Derry spoke again he was clearly preoccupied with something other than the previous evening’s dinner or finding out where Tim had spent the night.

  “Good,” he said. “Because I’m working on something you might be interested in.”

  “What’s that?” Tim knew that he sounded wary. He had plenty on his plate with the honour killing enquiry and the mess he appeared to be making of his personal life, without getting embroiled in one of Derry’s unorthodox investigations.

  “It’s connected with the incident I was called to last night. We haven’t caught anyone yet, but I’m pretty sure the Khans were responsible for it. They run a string of businesses in the Mile End Road, some of them more or less legal, most of them emphatically not, though it’s difficult for us to get a handle on what they do because no-one will shop them. We’re pretty sure that they operate some kind of protection racket, but we need a lot more evidence than we’ve been able to scrape together to charge them. They certainly own a hotel with a casino attached, but the financial accounts of both are clean. We suspect all kinds of goings-on there, but again there’s no proof. They’re flash joints, attract quite an affluent clientele.”

  “That’s all fascinating, but I’m not sure why you think it would be particularly interesting to me. What was the crime last night, anyway?”

  “Give me chance, I’m getting to that. Last night’s incident took place in a bar that’s well known to us. It’s one of the places we think the Khans are ‘protecting’.”

  “Was it a fight?”

  “Not exactly. An old guy went in there, apparently in a bit of a state. He’d come in off the street and seemed to be running away from someone. The landlord wouldn’t say much, but some of the punters said he seemed frightened. With good cause, it turned out, because three guys came into the bar shortly afterwards and removed him. Forcibly. They dragged him through the back of the bar and out of the kitchen entrance into a side street. When they were out of sight some shots were heard.”

  “So they shot him?”

  “We don’t know. At least one of the shots was fired into the ceiling of the kitchen corridor, so possibly not. We’ve found a bullet which has been sent for analysis. But if they didn’t shoot him, they probably did him over.”

  “Sounds like a gangland brawl to me, but you know more about them than I do.”

  “It was hardly a brawl: the old guy didn’t put up any resistance. He seems to have been frozen with terror. Besides, ‘brawl’ implies a spontaneous fight, and the Khans don’t go in for that. If it was them, they’d have had a reason for roughing him up.”

  “I still don’t see that it has anything to do with me.”

  “It may not have. I can’t tell you for sure, because we don’t know who the old guy was. But several witnesses described him, and when I was going over their statements it struck me that he sounds like the spitting image of that geezer you told me about. The one you thought you saw at King’s Cross.”

  “You mean Peter Prance?”

  “Yes. The only thing was, the witnesses were agreed that he looked a bit down and out, as if he’d fallen on hard times. From what you’ve said, your guy usually lands on his feet.”

  “Usually, but not always. It depends on how successful he is at finding someone gullible enough to sponge off.”

  “He might have discovered that’s a bit more difficult in the East End.”

  “You’re right. And if it is him, and he gets away from his attackers, he won’t report it, because he’s still wanted for questioning about blackmail in the murder case in Spalding I told you about.”

  “See, I have grabbed your attention now, haven’t I? You’re sounding a lot less jaded than you did five minutes ago. Bit of a heavy night last night, was it?”

  Tim sighed.

  Chapter 29

  After Fiona Vickers has left, it occurs to me that Tim doesn’t know I’m working today. I turn on my mobile. Immediately, three missed calls flash up on the screen. I’m about to check them when the phone rings again.

  “Katrin? Thank God. Where have you been? I’ve been calling home as well as your mobile and not getting an answer from either.”

  “I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking that question,” I say, as drily as I can manage. “I’m working today, as it happens. It wasn’t planned, Juliet asked me to because something has come up. Pardon me for asking, Tim, but where the hell were you last night? Freya called late to tell me you hadn’t made it back to Surbiton. One of her insufferably gloating calls, but I think she was worried about you.”

  “Trust Freya to create a drama out of nothing. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t think it was quite ‘out of nothing’, was it? Especially after what she described as your odd behaviour on Monday. And you haven’t answered my question. Where were you? And where are you now?”

  “I’m back at Derry’s office. Where’s Sophia? Is she with Mrs Sims?”

  “Yes. Mrs Sims has a couple of vacancies at the moment, so was able to take her at short notice, despite the fact that one of her helpers – a young girl called Margie – didn’t turn up for work this morning. I was going to tell you about it. The parents are estranged and the girl lives with her mother, who apparently’s an alcoholic. Mrs Sims was worried about Margie, said it was out of character to let her down. I spoke to her again an hour or so ago and she was all for calling the police. I told her to wait until this evening for that, but I suggested that she try to contact the mother and she hasn’t called me back. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think you should leave it as long as that. If you can’t raise the mother, I’d do something about it now. Call Juliet, ask her to investigate.”

  “All right, I will.”

  “Do it now,” said Tim. I recognise his tone of voice immediately. Earnest Tim, pillar of society, trying to deflect the person he’s talking to from
raising an uncomfortable issue.

  “I will do it now, Tim,” I say. “In about thirty seconds, at any rate. Just tell me first where you were last night.”

  “What? Oh, I was at Derry’s.” I know immediately that he is lying. “It’s too long a story to tell you now. I’ll call you this evening and explain.”

  “I shall look forward to it. I can’t wait to find out how much explanation it takes to convince me that you had a good reason for not sleeping in the right bed.”

  “Katrin, I . . .”

  “Goodbye, Tim. Call me this evening. After 7.30, when I can be sure that Sophia’s in bed.”

  I push the red button.

  Chapter 30

  Shit, thought Tim, as Katrin ended the call, that’s three women who all want to have a serious talk with me: Patti, Freya and Katrin. What have I done to deserve this? He didn’t dwell on the question for too long: he knew it wouldn’t bear too much scrutiny. But still he felt sorry for himself. He hated conversations about emotions, especially when his own integrity was being called into question. Freya would be the easiest to deal with in that respect, he reflected: at least he hadn’t been ‘in a relationship’ with her. He frowned as soon as the phrase entered his mind. Of course he’d never been romantically entangled with her, but his relationship with Freya was certainly the oldest and most probably the most complicated of the three. And talking to Freya was never easy if she thought she had the upper hand.

  He was sitting alone in his borrowed office, drinking yet another cup of coffee, his third or fourth of the day. He’d yet to meet Derry and didn’t relish the prospect. A light rapping at the window set in the door made him jump. He thought perhaps this was Derry, returning from one of his mysterious errands, but the silhouette in the frosted glass was at once much shorter and chunkier than Derry’s. With a sinking heart he recognised the outline of Nancy Chappell. She opened the door.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Yes, of course. No need to knock.”

  “You feeling any better today? You looked quite rough yesterday.”

  “Much better, thanks.”

  There was a prolonged silence. Looking up at her, Tim thought she’d made more of an effort with her appearance than on the previous day. She was dressed in a plain purple tunic-like dress with short sleeves over thick black tights. She was still shod in the Doc Martens. When she met his eye, he thought her expression more amenable, almost conciliatory.

  “Right. Well, I said I’d come back today to see if you wanted anything. You read those reports yet?”

  “Most of them. There’s a lot I don’t understand, but I’m not sure whether anyone can explain it.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s partly the idea of ‘honour killing’, which seems a nonsense to me. DI Hacker’s told me to ignore it. He says it only hinders murder investigations if people think there’s some kind of acceptable motive attached to them. He’s right, but where did it come from in the first place?”

  She regarded him steadily.

  “What ’as DI ’acker told you about me?”

  Tim looked back at her. He could see that trying to fudge the issue with this woman could only earn him contempt.

  “He said that you’ve been a victim of it yourself. And that you’ve successfully rebuilt your life.”

  She smiled grimly.

  “I don’t like being thought of as a victim. Victims are passive. I fought and clawed my way out of my family, though that didn’t mean my life wasn’t in danger. Still would be, if I ’adn’t ’ad help wiv changing my identity completely. I ’ad to ’ave ferapy when I got away from my Dad and bruvvers. Some of it was about trying to understand them, get inside their ’eads, not so’s I could sympafise wiv them, but so I could ‘move on’, as psychiatrists like to say. I read a lot about so-called honour killings.” She almost spat the words. “They go back a long way, back into ancient ’ist’ry. We’re supposed to be more civilised now. But the fact that ‘honour’s’ been called on frough the ages to justify striking blind terror into people, mostly women, and killing them is just a scam. It’s a cowardly bully’s pretence at justifying oppression, coercion, and sometimes depravity. That’s all there is to it. Can I sit down?” Her cheeks were burning red; she was breathless with emotion.

  “Yes. Sorry, I should have asked you to before.”

  She hadn’t said anything that hadn’t occurred to Tim already, but he was shaken by the strength of her passion. She sat silently for a couple of minutes until her chest stopped heaving.

  “It wasn’t my Mum’s fault,” she added, talking to herself now. “They’d already broken her. She was too afraid.”

  Tim thought she was going to cry, but with a supreme effort she managed to regain her composure. She attempted a wan smile.

  “What else do you want to know?”

  “How many girls succeed in getting away, like you did?”

  “Who knows? Some do, obviously. It’s ’ard for them unless they change their identity, like me, and you need ’elp wiv that. The real question is ’ow many escape but have someone in their family – more often than not a bruvver - go after them. If they’ve run away with a man, they’re certain to be killed, sometimes the man, too. If they’ve only defied their parents’ choice of ’usband, they might – just – be allowed to live if the ’usband will still marry them. Otherwise, they’ll be killed, too. What nobody knows is ’ow many ‘disappear’ wivout anyone noticing, or at any rate reporting it. If a girl’s left school and not been allowed to take a job, not many people are going to know if she vanishes. Or care, in some communities.”

  “Do you think that Ayesha Verma has been murdered?”

  “I don’t know enough about the case to ’ave an opinion. You want to tell me a bit more about it?”

  “She’d just left school when she disappeared. Wanted to go to university, which her parents agreed with, but said she should be married first, so she deferred taking up her place until next year. The parents wanted her to marry a cousin from India. He came to visit – with a view to marrying her quite quickly, I think – and she disappeared about a week later. He went back to India. The parents are adamant that she wanted to marry him, but he’s more than twice her age.”

  “Sounds unlikely to me. What sort of family does she come from?”

  “Her parents are reasonably well-educated. The father works for the local authority. Mother’s a florist. The father came from India originally. The mother was born in Sweden.”

  “Does she have bruvvers?”

  “No, just two younger sisters. The father reported her missing.”

  “’ard for me to say whether I think she’s been murdered. From what you say, the family isn’t typical of the ones I’ve worked with. What sort of standing do they ’ave in the local community – the local Asian community, I mean?”

  “There isn’t really a local Asian community. Only a few people of Indian heritage live around Spalding and they’re not all together in the same area.”

  “What’s ’er mother like? Does she seem afraid of her ’usband?”

  “Not afraid, but deferential, I’d say.”

  “And the florist’s? Is it a family business? More or less part of the ’ome?”

  “No. Mrs Verma doesn’t own the shop. It’s some way from where they live, in the main shopping centre.”

  “So the main cause for concern, apart from the girl’s disappearance, obviously, is the arranged marriage, especially taken together wiv the fact that she wanted to go to university and the fiancé’s age. But there are no bruvvers, no neighbours pressuring them to punish ’er and she ’as a father who’s enlightened enough to let ’is wife work away from ’ome and allow ’is daughter to go to university once she’s married, though if I was ’er I’d be sceptical about my chances. I fink she’s a runaway. If she didn’t want to marry the cousin and
felt confident that ’er father wouldn’t punish ’er if she scarpered and was recaptured, it’d be the logical thing to do.”

  “But surely, equally logically, she could have been murdered. You’ve made a lot of assumptions based on what we understand of the family’s circumstances, but we know almost nothing about their characters. And if she is a runaway, she’s succeeded in covering her tracks amazingly well. She hasn’t used her bank account or her rail card since she disappeared and, according to the mother, couldn’t have had more than thirty pounds on her.”

  “I’m not suggesting she may not ’ave come to ’arm. Runaway girls often get into the wrong clutches, as you know. Or someone might be ’elping ’er.”

  “Do you think I’m wasting my time going to India to talk to the cousin?”

  “Not wasting your time – ’e’s an obvious line of enquiry. But I fink you should keep an open mind. I fink it’s odds on she’s either gone to ground or someone is ’olding ’er against ’er will. Or she’s been murdered, but not necessarily by someone she knows. There’s a lot about this that doesn’t strike me as,” she sneered, “an ‘honour killing’.”

  “I think I will go to India, then,” said Tim. “But you’re right. We should keep an open mind on this.” He hesitated. “Would you like to interview the Vermas for me?”

  “Don’t you have a person on the ground who’s been talking to them?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do: DC Juliet Armstrong. She’s very capable, but I thought someone with your . . . perspective . . . might help. Juliet doesn’t have your experience, either personal or professional, for this type of crime.”

  Nancy Chappell shrugged, but she looked pleased. “DI ’acker’s my boss. You’d have to ask ’im.”

  The door burst open at that moment and Derry Hacker bustled noisily in.

  “And my name’s never out of your conversation, isn’t it? What do you want to ask me?” He winked at Nancy. To Tim’s surprise, Nancy didn’t seem to be affronted by this laddish gesture. Her indebtedness to Derry must run deep.