Rooted in Dishonour

by Christina James

“A fitting bride for you?”

  “Yes, a fitting bride for me, certainly a woman I could be proud to stand beside. But only if she wanted it.”

  “And did she?”

  “She said she did. Her mother had some bizarre ideas about chaperoning her and I’d already chosen not to stay at Bahir’s house, so we only had a limited time on our own. I managed to take her for several walks. I told her that she didn’t have to marry me, that I wanted what was best for her. I said she could attend university as she’d planned, though it would have to be an Indian university and she wouldn’t be able to enrol until next year. I’m not ‘progressive’ enough to want my wife to live apart from me for three years.”

  “So you intended her to come to India with you?”

  “Of course. What else might I have intended?”

  “Has she ever visited India?”

  “I believe so, when she was a small child. I talked to her about it, briefly. She said she didn’t remember.”

  “Did she say what she thought about living here now?”

  “She seemed easy about it. She didn’t say much about it; didn’t ask me many questions.”

  “Didn’t you find that odd?”

  “Yes, Mr Yates, I did. Ayesha was always perfectly polite to me and never said anything to make me think she wanted to reject me. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought her perpetual brightness – almost as if she’d been programmed – combined with her failure to discuss with me anything at all about the sort of life we might be going to lead together was proof that she was just acting on her father’s wishes. I was going to confront her with this on the day she disappeared, say that although I would be very happy to marry her, I doubted that she felt the same way about me.”

  “But you didn’t have this conversation?”

  “No.”

  “Did her parents know what you intended?”

  “I don’t know. It didn’t happen and if it had it would have been between me and her. I saw no reason to complicate matters by telling them. Besides, it would have been a betrayal of trust and there was still a chance that I was wrong and she wanted to accept me after all.”

  “Even after she disappeared?”

  Mr Verma paused. For the first time, Tim sensed that he’d exposed a weakness in the man’s story. Mr Verma swallowed and looked Tim in the eye very intently, a little too intently, perhaps.

  “I don’t see what bearing a conversation that never happened could have had on her disappearance.”

  “Did she seem afraid of her father?”

  “I don’t think so. I think she respected . . . respects both her parents very deeply. That is quite admirable and becoming more unusual in the young, even in this country.”

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

  “Quite giggly, actually. During most of the time that I spent with her she was very serious; I suppose demure is the correct word. I don’t know if she thought that was how she should behave with me, or whether her mother had coached her. But on that day her mood was lighter, more frivolous. I was pleased to see it. She said she needed to buy some things for her hair. I offered to walk with her, but she said she’d go alone. I didn’t argue with her and neither did her mother.”

  “Was there any tension between her and either of her parents?”

  “Not that I could detect. Certainly not on that day. We’d just had a family picnic. It was a happy occasion.”

  “And you didn’t see her again?”

  Again Tim thought he detected some infinitesimally small hesitation before he received a reply.

  “No.”

  “You left the UK very quickly afterwards.”

  “That had always been my plan. I’ve had important work to do for my charity, preparations to make before I go to Uttar Pradesh. And although I feel hugely sorry for my cousin and his wife, there was nothing I could do to help them. To be honest, I thought they’d be able to cope better without the added burden of having to look after me.”

  “Did you leave the day after Ayesha disappeared?”

  “No, the day after that.”

  “How was her father behaving?”

  “He was distraught. The whole family was. By then they realised she hadn’t just gone to stay with a friend on a whim – which would have been entirely out of character – but that she really was missing. They were frustrated by the time it took for you and your colleagues to become worried about Ayesha. I think you only really began to look for her that same day that I left.”

  “You’re probably right about the timing. You have to understand that many people are reported missing every day. They usually turn up again quite safely; sometimes we find them and they don’t want their families to know where they are. We have to take a balanced view on what type of action to take.”

  “Even when a young girl is involved?”

  “Ayesha is nearly eighteen; almost an adult.”

  “The delay is perhaps forgivable. Suspecting her family of killing her for the sake of their honour is not. My cousin would never do such a thing.”

  “How do you know that is a possible line of enquiry?”

  “Anni told me. She said it was making Bahir’s life unbearable, that coping with being a suspect as well as his grief would have driven him insane if he hadn’t returned to work. And still Ayesha is missing. You must have realised by now that such ideas are leading nowhere. In the meantime, she might be in terrible danger, or worse.”

  Tim noticed that Sanjay Banerjee had begun to twitch again. He realised that this time the police chief’s discomfort was caused by the perceived discourtesy to Tim himself. Tim was more impressed by the vehemence with which Mr Verma had expressed opinion than his actual words. Did he believe his criticism of the police in Spalding was just, or was he perhaps protesting too much? Tim realised that he would get no further with this interview, but neither was he satisfied that he’d got to the bottom of Verma’s relationship with Ayesha. He would need to interview the businessman at least once more.

  “Mr Verma, how long do you plan to stay in Uttar Pradesh?”

  “Until next Tuesday. Then I have business back here in Delhi.”

  “I see. I’d thought you were going to be away for longer.”

  “No, but I understood the urgency of seeing you before I went. Even though I doubt that I can offer any information that will help you, of course I want to do everything in my power to give Ayesha back to her family.”

  To give Ayesha back to her family, Tim repeated to himself silently. It was a strange way of putting it.

  “I’d like to see you one more time, next Tuesday, when you return. My colleagues may have found out more by then.”

  “Very well. As I’ve said, I’m very happy to help.”

  When Tim stood up the other two men followed suit with alacrity. Verma held out his hand again. Tim noted that although the room was air-conditioned and the man’s palm had been cool and dry when they’d first greeted each other, it was now clammy with sweat. Despite or maybe because of Verma’s upright and somewhat admonishing stance, Tim wasn’t convinced of his innocence.

  “What did you make of that?” he asked Sanjay, after Verma had been escorted to the door.

  Sanjay seemed startled by the question.

  “It was as I expected,” he said. “Mr Verma is a very honourable man. Highly respected. I thought that came across. He was a little discourteous to you, but that is understandable in the circumstances. He is grieved by the loss of his cousin’s daughter, who might have become his wife.”

  “I expect you’re right,” said Tim. “Nevertheless, I’d be grateful if you could do some background checks on him. I’d like to know more about both his business and the charity. And anything you can find out about his dead wife and son might be useful, too.”

  “Of course,�
� said Sanjay.

  Tim couldn’t tell whether his Indian colleague thought the request was sensible or outrageous. He registered no surprise and his expression was one of inscrutable professionalism.

  Chapter 56

  PC Verity Tandy had had only a few hours’ sleep and was still feeling a bit dazed as she walked from her flat in High Street towards the town centre. Giash had arranged to meet her in the Cattle Market so they could begin their shift together. She didn’t know what the day would bring. She thought Juliet might ask them to go back to the house in Chestnut Avenue to see if everything was secure.

  She looked at her watch and quickened her pace, realising she was late. A couple of bleeps from her phone told her she’d received a text message. It was Giash, probably demanding to know where she was, but when she looked she saw instead a more apologetic message. ‘Am taking Gerald Pocklington to pick up his car. Will be ten minutes late. Sorry!’ ‘No worries’, she texted back. She was level with the bridge and as she now had more time decided to cross the road to stare into the depths of the Welland. Since she’d moved from Boston to Spalding, she’d been fascinated by the deep and narrow river which had had such a profound influence on the town’s history and livelihood. It always looked murky, though that was because it was so deep; it was a favourite with anglers, so fish must thrive in it, despite the fact that it was used as a persistent dumping-ground for rubbish. South Lincs Police had tried to tighten up on the fly-tippers recently, but with only limited success.

  As she peered into the blackish depths, Verity caught sight of something in the lapping waters at the side of the bank. It looked like a floating cotton carrier bag. Verity thought this was strange: she’d have expected the sodden fabric to sink, particularly as the bag appeared to be stuffed with something. She leaned over the side of the bridge to get a better look and saw that a white trainer had become detached from the other contents of the bag and was wedged in the reeds at the side of the bank.

  She walked round to the fence designed to stop people straying on to the bank so close to the bridge and climbed over it. The bank was particularly steep here, but she scrambled down it. She lifted out the trainer easily. The bag presented more of a problem. It was further out, and sluggishly moving away from her. Verity looked around and discovered a half-rotten cane lying in the grass. After sustaining a wet foot and some nettle stings, she managed to hook the good end of the cane around the bag’s handle and pull it towards her. Triumphantly she lifted it out of the water. It was a green Harrods carrier bag.

  It contained the other trainer and a full set of women’s clothing, as well as a large piece of polystyrene. Verity had been given the description Juliet had obtained from Mrs Sims of what Margie Pocklington had last been seen wearing. She separated out the items and spread them on the bank, then brought Mrs Sims’ statement up on her phone. Black clothes were common, of course, but Verity saw the contents of the bag matched the list of items on her phone exactly. She was especially convinced by the unusually small size 3 trainers included in the list, each one decorated with a silver star, just like the trainers she’d retrieved. Verity called Giash.

  He answered immediately. “I’m nearly with you,” he said. “Sorry, I had to make sure that Pocklington didn’t try to get back into the hospital to pester his ex-wife.”

  “I’m not calling to check up on you. Do you have any plastic evidence bags on you? Large ones?”

  “I’m not sure. There’s probably a roll of bin liners in the boot. If not, I can stop and buy some. Why?”

  “Bin liners would be great. I’m on High Bridge – or rather, almost under it at the moment. Can you meet me here? With the bin liners?”

  “Sure, but . . .” Verity cut off his question.

  “I think I’ve found Margie Pocklington’s clothes.”

  “Oh God! Do you think she’s in the river?”

  “It’s possible, but the clothes had been crammed together in a Harrod’s bag and there’s a big bit of polystyrene with them. They were floating.”

  “You mean someone wanted us to find them?”

  “I don’t know. But that’s what it looks like to me.”

  “I’ll pick you up and we’ll take the stuff you’ve found back to the station. DC Armstrong’s already on her way there.”

  Chapter 57

  Mrs Sims picked through the sodden garments that had been spread out on a table in the interview room.

  “These look like Margie’s,” she said. “And I’m pretty certain the trainers are hers, with those silver stars. She’s got such small feet; there can’t be many pairs of trainers like that in Spalding. And she always wore white underwear. I asked her about it once, when her bra straps were showing: it seemed odd in a girl who nearly always dressed in black. She said she thought black underwear was tarty.” She met Juliet’s eye, her lip trembling slightly. “Does this mean she’s drowned?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Juliet. “I can’t pretend it’s looking good – there has to be a reason why these clothes have been dumped – but it could be because someone wants us to think she’s drowned.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know. If someone’s holding her, perhaps to throw us off the trail, so that we think she’s killed herself.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense to me,” said Mrs Sims. “I’m going to have to go back to the nursery. My friend can only help out for an hour. But you’ll let me know if anything happens?”

  “Yes, of course I will.”

  “What’s that?” said Nancy Chappell suddenly, moving forward from the other side of the table.

  Juliet followed her gaze. One of the items from the bag had slipped from the table and was hooked up on a chair, dripping pungent water on to the ground. Juliet retrieved it and laid it on the table, smoothing it out as much as possible.

  “It looks like a long scarf,” she said. “It’s black as well, or dark blue. There’s a fine metallic thread woven through it. Have you seen Margie wearing this?”

  “No, never. I don’t think it’s hers. She isn’t the floaty scarf type. She’s always very neat and quite – I suppose conservative’s the word. She dresses plainly. I don’t think that’s her type of thing.”

  “It could be hers, though?”

  “I suppose so,” said Mrs Sims doubtfully. “But I don’t think so. I do need to get back now. You’ll let me know if you make any progress?”

  “Of course.”

  “I need to check what Ayesha Verma was wearing when she went missing,” said Juliet after Mrs Sims had gone and they’d moved back to the office area. She started to boot up her computer. “I’m pretty certain her mother said there was a scarf.”

  “If you’re right, it looks as if we can scrap the idea of an honour killing.”

  “If I’m right, we’re looking for someone who is kidnapping young girls. It may be a serial killer. We’ll have to tell Superintendent Thornton straight away.”

  “Check the mother’s statement first.”

  “I’m going to . . .here it is. Ayesha was wearing a blue and white top and dark blue trousers. And a scarf. A dark blue scarf with a silver thread.”

  Nancy whistled.

  “We’ll still need to show the scarf to Mrs Verma, ask her to identify it.”

  “You’re right. But I don’t fink there can be much doubt about it, do you?”

  “No. And I’ve just remembered something else.”

  “Go on.”

  “Last night, when I was driving to the hospital to try to talk to Liz Pocklington, I saw a man behaving strangely on the river bank. He was on the other side of the bridge from where Verity found the clothes. He definitely threw something into the water. I’d say that I saw the person who dumped them.”

  “So you fink it’s a local crime? That the girls haven’t travelled anywhere, but are being ’eld somewhere r
ound ’ere?”

  “It’s possible, but I’m not convinced. Whoever dumped those clothes wanted someone to find them. Otherwise, why put them in the bag to keep them all together and why the polystyrene? They may be being held round here, but it’s just as possible they’re somewhere else altogether and the clothes are meant to put us off looking further away. There’s something else bothering me, too. Somehow the man looked familiar – there was something about him that made me think I’d seen him before, although it was too dark to make out much more than his shape. He was limping slightly. And his arm movement, when he threw whatever it was, was awkward, as if the arm had been injured.”

  “Keep on finking about it. Do you want me to take the scarf to show Mrs Verma?”

  “Thanks, but I’d better do it myself. She’s going to be very upset. And we ought to see Superintendent Thornton first. He won’t want to waste any time getting out a description of Margie Pocklington now.”

  Chapter 58

  Superintendent Thornton was in a strange mood as he set in train a nationwide search for Margie Pocklington. He’d agreed with Juliet that, given the circumstances in which the clothes were discovered, it was too risky to assume that Margie (or her body, but he wasn’t going to be the first to suggest that) was being held locally. He was recognising belatedly the wisdom of not jumping to conclusions: it was going to be tricky to extricate himself from the predicament he’d landed himself in by assuming too precipitately that Ayesha Verma had been the victim of an honour killing, and, worse, giving Tim Yates permission to go gallivanting off to India even after the Superintendent himself had begun to harbour serious doubts about that particular line of enquiry. Yates could have interviewed the Verma fiancé by video link, for God’s sake. As it was, they’d probably wasted valuable time and equally valuable public money by barking up the wrong tree. He hoped that Yates and Armstrong hadn’t been too specific when voicing their suspicions to the Vermas. The last thing he wanted to be landed with was some kind of racial prejudice enquiry.