Rooted in Dishonour

by Christina James

  “I’m very grateful to you,” I say to Jenny, “but I wouldn’t want you to put yourself at risk for me.”

  “Jenny’s not from round here. She’s a long way from where her husband lives. And Jenny isn’t her real name. When she’s stronger, we’ll help her find a job.”

  “Does that mean you won’t be able to see your family again?” I say to Jenny.

  “I don’t want to,” she scowls. “They didn’t love me. They just sold me like a pet dog. I’d have been trapped if I’d had a baby.”

  “I almost had a baby,” says Rashida quietly. Although she seems more poised and confident than Jenny, this is the first time she’s spoken. I notice she has a soft Scots accent. “I was a student. My parents didn’t want me to go to university, but my teachers helped me to persuade them, on condition I lived at home and went straight home after lectures. Then I travelled to France for six months to do a project. They didn’t want me to go, but I kept it secret until the last moment so they couldn’t stop me. I met my husband while I was there: we got married in secret. He was a Muslim, too, and he understood that it would be hard to persuade my parents to give their permission. I didn’t mean to get pregnant, but it happened, and Philippe came back to England with me to explain to them. I knew my father would be furious but I didn’t expect the violence. He raged and lashed out as if he’d gone mad. He said he’d arranged for me to marry the son of someone he’d met when he was visiting relatives in Pakistan and now I’d dishonoured him. He punched me so hard in the stomach that I started haemorrhaging. My brother thrashed Philippe until I thought he’d kill him. One of the neighbours called the police and Philippe got away when they came. I was taken to hospital and I lost the baby. My mother came to see me and warned me not to say anything to the police that could help them to prosecute my father or brother. My sister managed to get a note to me, warning me that my brother would kill me when I left the hospital. I was too afraid to ask the police for help, so I discharged myself during the night and got as far away as I could. I made it to a refuge in Edinburgh and they sent me to England. They said I’d be safer here.”

  “What happened to Philippe?”

  “I suppose he went back to France. I haven’t seen him since. I tried writing to him while I was in Edinburgh, but the letter was returned. He’s probably too afraid to contact me. I suppose he’ll get a divorce.”

  “Don’t you think he’d like to see you again?”

  She smiles sadly.

  “I think he values his life more. We knew each other for less than a year. He probably regrets that he ever met me.”

  There is a painful silence. It is mercifully broken by Janey, who reappears bearing a tray laden with mugs of coffee.

  “Well,” says Fiona after everyone is clutching their coffee, “I’m grateful to you for talking so openly to Katrin. I know it isn’t easy for you. Katrin, perhaps you could tell us some details of the case you’re working on now, and ask Rashida and Jenny what they think.”

  I’m taken aback. I hadn’t expected her to suggest two-way sharing of information. I try to think rapidly. I mustn’t identify anyone in the Verma case, even if Rashida and Jenny haven’t heard of it. I’d be committing slander and probably jeopardising any chance of prosecution if a crime is proved to have been committed.

  I describe Ayesha Verma’s home life and the circumstances of her disappearance as accurately but anonymously as I can.

  “So you’re thinking her father might have gone after her because she wouldn’t marry the cousin?” says Jenny. “It’s what my Dad would do. But from what you say her Dad was proud of her. Mine just sees me as a meal ticket.”

  “My Dad was proud of me, too. He wanted me to be educated, just like hers. But he still turned nasty when I didn’t obey him. Her Dad could be like him. I’d say it depends on her mother. And her brothers. My mother agreed with my Dad completely, and my brother was spoiling for a fight. I don’t think my Dad would have done it on his own.”

  “This girl has no brothers, only sisters. Her father wanted her to go to university, but to get married first.”

  “Sounds iffy to me. What about her Mum? Under the thumb, is she?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But it’s good advice to find out more about her. Thank you. Can you think of anything else that might help?”

  “Are they upset? Her parents, I mean.”

  “I think so. I haven’t met them.”

  “Find out if they’re upset or just faking. You’ll know if they’re faking it: they’ll be more interested in getting her back to punish her than in worrying about what’s happening to her. You’ll be able to tell by their attitude. And talk to her sisters. They’re more likely to tell the truth.”

  “They’re only little kids.”

  “Even better.”

  They finish their coffee.

  “Do you fancy a look round Spalding while we’re here?” Fiona says.

  “Yeah, all right,” says Rashida; but Jenny hangs back. Her face is even whiter and more pinched than before, if that’s possible.

  “I don’t think I’ll come. I’m not that keen on going out,” she says. “And I’ve no money to spend, in any case. You go if you like; I’ll wait here, or in the car.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” says Fiona, “I just thought we’d make a bit of a trip out of it, that’s all. It’ll do another time.”

  “I’d like to thank you both very much,” I say.

  They nod and stand up. As they prepare to leave, I see that Jenny’s shoulders are hunched. She’d been quite animated when she was speaking earlier, but now she looks defeated.

  Fiona pauses at the door and turns to Janey.“Are you doing all right?” she asks.

  “Fine, thanks, couldn’t be better,” Janey replies briskly. I hear a slight catch in her voice and I know that Fiona Vickers has noted it, too.

  “Good,” she says, her eyes still fixed on Janey. “Keep in touch. And let me know if I can do anything to help you.”

  “Thank you very much for bringing Jenny and Rashida,” I say to her.

  “That’s ok. I hope it was useful.”

  “Very useful. I’m grateful.”

  “So was it?” asks Janey penetratingly, after we’ve heard Fiona’s car start.

  “Was it what?”

  “Useful. Did you really find what those girls told you helpful?”

  I have to think about this. At the time I’d found the conversation disappointing. I thought Jenny’s and Rashida’s accounts of the abuse they’d suffered cliché-ridden and too pat, as if they’d both told their stories many times before in more or less the same words. But the fear they’d shown, and the lengths to which they’d gone to avoid their families, had made a deep impression on me.

  “It was useful, though not how I’d expected. I don’t think I understood that kind of fear before.”

  “No, you live in a bit of a cosy domestic bubble most of the time, don’t you?”

  I know there’s something horrible eating away at Janey and I don’t retaliate. I’m bursting to ask her how she knows Fiona Vickers, but understand that now isn’t the time.

  “One thing they’re right about: we need to know more about the whole family and how it interacts. I’m sure Juliet will have done some work on this, but she probably hasn’t interviewed the children. I’ll talk to her about it.”

  “You have to be careful with child interviews. You may need to find a specialist.”

  Chapter 55

  Evening was falling in Delhi. Tim Yates emerged from the cool but by now increasingly smelly cabin of his plane into a haze of heat. It was like standing under a hair-dryer: a blast so intense that it was hard to believe it wouldn’t be switched off in a few seconds. Oppressed by their seat-weary muscles, he and the other passengers lumbered stiffly down the steps of the aircraft and hauled themselves on to the wai
ting shuttle bus. Its driver sped across a tarmac criss-crossed with other crazily-moving vehicles as if on a suicide mission. Tim shut his eyes and waited for the terminal or oblivion.

  He arrived at the former and as if on auto-pilot pushed himself through Immigration and picked up his bag from the carousel, exerting the minimum possible expenditure of energy. He found himself in a thronging concourse, at the start of which twenty or so soberly-dressed men were waiting, intent on watching the door through which he had just emerged, each one holding up a piece of card bearing someone’s name. Almost immediately he spotted the placard on which the word ‘Yates’ was spelt out and couldn’t believe his luck. He’d had chequered experiences of meeting limousine drivers in the past and had sometimes failed to find them at all.

  The driver shook his hand and took the case, leading the way rapidly through the airport to the car park. Tim was impressed by the immaculate shiny black saloon in which he shortly found himself installed. They set off immediately for the police HQ, alternately accelerating and crawling through fantastically congested streets; Tim barely took in the scenes around him as he sipped from the bottle of water with which he had been provided.

  His mood was uncharacteristically morose. He had fallen into a loop of obsessive mental replay of certain events and conversations from the past few days, in each case castigating himself for his own bad behaviour. It was a practice in which he’d indulged only infrequently since his adolescence. He knew that agonising over his shortcomings was futile and sternly told himself to snap out of it. At Zayed Verma’s own request, he was going to interview the ‘fiancé’ immediately and it was vital that he made himself concentrate.

  He felt as grubby as everyone does after a long haul flight and mildly sick – a residue, perhaps, of whatever had been afflicting him earlier in the week, but more probably because the highly-spiced airline food and reheated rice had disagreed with him. Towards the end of the flight, he’d managed to change his shirt, but this lent only the bare veneer of cleanness to his appearance. He hoped that his no doubt dapper Indian colleagues wouldn’t be too judgmental.

  He was welcomed by Sanjay Banerjee, the detective whom he’d already talked to several times on Skype. Whatever his opinion of how Tim looked, Sanjay had greeted him with the utmost politeness and overwhelmed him with hospitality. There were certainly plenty of people to provide the latter: Tim had never seen so many ancillary employees working in a police building. The HQ seemed to be staffed with a host of men and women: not only clerks and secretaries, but people whose jobs consisted exclusively of opening doors, making tea, running errands or fetching refreshments. There was a bewildering number of faces for Tim to get used to; Sanjay Banerjee seemed to know them all.

  “Isn’t it very expensive, employing all these people?” Tim asked him conversationally.

  “Not very expensive, no. And everyone is very proud to work.” Tim recognised that this was as close to a rebuff as Indian courtesy would allow and changed the subject.

  “I’m very grateful to you for negotiating this interview with Mr Verma.”

  Sanjay bowed. “It is an honour to help you. I hope it will help him, too.”

  “What is your impression of him?”

  “To me he seems like a gentleman. The family is a very good one.”

  Evidently Tim wouldn’t get very far with that line of questioning, either. Circumspectly, he concentrated on the tea which had just been brought to him. After a minute or so, he became aware that Sanjay was hovering uneasily.

  “DI Yates, when you are ready, Mr Verma is here.”

  His anxious tone made Tim feel ashamed. He genuinely hadn’t known that Verma had already arrived, but at home he’d have had no compunction about making a witness wait to be interviewed. He leapt to his feet.

  “Oh, I’m sorry; I won’t keep him waiting.”

  “No hurry, no hurry. Please, be seated again. Unless you would like to take your tea with you?”

  “Yes, yes, of course I’ll do that. And could Mr Verma have some tea, too?”

  “That is already taken care of.”

  It would be, Tim thought. Superintendent Thornton would be in clover here: an endless supply of tea, made no doubt exactly to his taste, without having to press unwilling colleagues into producing it. Still, he might blench at the size of the payroll, however reasonable the cost of labour. Headcount was likely to perturb Thornton almost as much as the financial totals. Tim smiled to himself. Sanjay immediately smiled back at him, though evidently puzzled by the joke.

  “Would you like to sit in on the interview?” asked Tim.

  “Only if I can be of use.”

  Tim took that as a ‘yes’.

  “Thank you. I shall feel happier if you’re there. Could you take me to Mr Verma now? I’ll bring the tea.”

  “Of course. And no need, no need.” Sanjay made a very slight gesture. The man who had served the tea appeared with a tray as if from nowhere. Tim was uncomfortable about being waited on like this but decided it would be unwise to protest. He walked beside Sanjay through serried rows of desks, the servant, a stocky man in his forties, close behind.

  The interview room was one of a suite of apparently identical rooms, each one square and functional like the ones at the station in Spalding, but rather better furnished.

  He was again surprised when Sanjay knocked on the door before entering. A tall, formally-dressed man who had been examining a poster stuck on the wall turned to face them as they went in. He held out his hand to Tim. Tim stepped forward quickly and shook it. Mr Verma had a firm grip. Tim took a step back and looked at the man as he motioned him to take a chair. He was about six feet tall and slim, but muscular, as if he worked out. He was wearing a beautifully-cut pale grey business suit and a dazzling white shirt. There was a chunky signet ring on his little finger. Tim’s first impression was one of opulence, rather than ostentation. Mr Verma had rather fine features and thick jet black hair that had been clipped short but had not thinned. He looked much younger than his years: Tim would have put him at thirty-five, maybe, not much older than he was himself. Still too old for a teenage bride, but he and Ayesha wouldn’t have seemed incongruous as a couple.

  “Mr Verma, thank you for agreeing to see me,” said Tim, as they took opposite seats at the square table. “I’ve asked Police Chief Banerjee to sit in on the interview, unless you have objections?”

  “If he wishes to stay, of course he may.” The voice was grave and cultured. Mr Verma sounded like a man who was used to being obeyed. Sanjay joined them at the table and sat down next to Tim.

  “I understand you’re planning to leave the country very shortly?”

  Mr Verma gave him an amused smile.

  “Not leaving the country. I’m travelling to a remote area of Uttar Pradesh. I assumed that you wouldn’t want to meet me there.”

  Sanjay was fidgeting nervously.

  “Mr Verma is a benefactor,” he said. “He has a foundation that helps people in poor rural areas.”

  “Is that how you make a living?”

  The smile broadened.

  “Of course not. I’m a chemist by profession. I own a chemical company. I’m trying to ‘put something back’. Isn’t that how you usually put it?”

  “Yes,” said Tim. Privately he was wondering why Bahir Verma was living in the UK, and in modest circumstances, if he had such a wealthy relative in India. Quickly he revised his hunch that Ayesha Verma’s ‘cousin’ had wanted to marry her so that he could obtain work in England.

  “But you’re not here to quiz me about my business,” said Mr Verma, his tone suddenly steely. “You want to ask me about Ayesha.”

  “Yes,” said Tim. “I understand that her parents had arranged for you to marry her?”

  “They thought it would be a good idea.”

  “What about you, Mr Verma? What made you agree to it?”


  “I lost my wife some years ago. It hadn’t been my intention to remarry – I had a young son – but tragically my son died last year. Bahir came to the funeral and he saw how desolate I was. He said the pain would pass if I had more children and suggested that Ayesha would make a good bride. I wasn’t entirely convinced, but I agreed to it.”

  “Why do you say you weren’t convinced?”

  “My first marriage was arranged. It’s a system that Bahir and I grew up with, that we both accepted. And I loved my wife and I think Bahir loves his. But I’ve come to realise the danger that arranged marriages place young girls in; it’s easy for an arranged marriage to be a forced marriage. My charity is trying to help lift young women out of poverty, make them more independent. You could say that an arranged marriage, even if the bride agrees to it, doesn’t fit very well with my beliefs.”

  “But you still wanted to marry Ayesha?”

  “Her family wanted me to marry her. I accepted that Bahir was right when he said I needed a wife, and, to be honest, I was indifferent about who she was as long as she was presentable and intelligent. I knew I’d be able to help Ayesha and her family a great deal if she accepted me. But I stressed to Bahir that it was she who had to make the decision.”

  “So you went to the UK to meet her?”

  “Yes. Only just over two weeks ago. It seems a long way away already. I’ve been keeping in touch with Bahir, of course. They are all suffering terribly.”

  “How did Ayesha seem when you met her? What was her first reaction when you were introduced?”

  “We first met at an airport. I find that all airport meetings are odd – they’re forced, artificial – and the whole family was there. She seemed pleased enough to see me, but I couldn’t really tell what she was thinking.”

  “What did you think of her?”

  “I found her beautiful and charming. Intelligent, obviously. And mature beyond her years.”