Rooted in Dishonour

by Christina James

  He’d decided, and Juliet had agreed, that they wouldn’t disclose the discovery of the clothes just yet. To do so would be playing into the perpetrator’s hands and it would be giving far too much away if they were to announce that they thought Margie’s disappearance was linked to Ayesha’s. He didn’t want the Press to start voicing that idea just yet, even though they were bound to jump to that conclusion eventually and would probably question him about it at the press conference he’d agreed to later in the day.

  He ordered CCTV footage to be checked at the most likely stations: Peterborough, London King’s Cross, Nottingham, Leicester. A similar initiative had drawn a blank after the disappearance of Ayesha Verma, but it was important to show willing and there was always the chance they might strike lucky this time.

  Once all police forces had been alerted and Margie’s description and photograph circulated, he turned his attention to the evidence they had gathered already. Patti Gardner was summoned to carry out forensic tests on the clothes. Juliet and Nancy were told to type up the interviews that had taken place with Liz and Gerald Pocklington. He doubted that either would be of much use, but he was determined to do everything by the book this time.

  “What’s Katrin Yates doing today?” he demanded peremptorily of Juliet as she handed over a print copy of her report. “Is this one of her working days?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Juliet. “She’s been talking to a couple of victims of domestic abuse – women whose families would have almost certainly have killed them ‘for honour’ if they hadn’t managed to escape.”

  “That’s a bit of a waste of time, isn’t it? We don’t think it is an honour killing now, do we?”

  “No, sir,” said Juliet patiently. “But if you remember, you asked her to do some background work on honour killings, see if the profile fitted the Verma case.”

  “Did I? Well, it would have been more useful if she’d come to her conclusions before Yates left for India, wouldn’t it? Anyway, that can’t be helped. Call her now and tell her to waste no more time on it. I want her here, now. She can do some background checks on Gerald Pocklington and see if there’s anything we should know about him. And Liz Pocklington, for that matter. And call in Chakrabati and Tandy. I want them to make door-to-door enquiries in the High Bridge area: perhaps someone else saw your mystery man last night. Pity you didn’t apprehend him, wasn’t it?”

  Juliet’s heart sank. She’d been thinking the same thing herself.

  “Yes, sir. I thought he was just a fly-tipper. It seemed more important to interview Mrs Pocklington at the time. Besides, I’d have needed back-up and he’d have gone by the time they arrived.”

  “Yes, well, you weren’t able to interview the Pocklington woman until this morning anyway, were you?” the Superintendent retaliated tetchily, ignoring Juliet’s latter observation.

  “Steady on,” said Nancy. “She’s not a clairvoyant.”

  Juliet held her breath for a moment, but when she dared to look at Thornton she realised he seemed quite pleased by the rebuke.

  “That’s what we need, a bit of spirit around here,” he said sotto voce, almost to himself. “Now,” – in a louder voice, to Juliet – “what are the chances of picking up your friend the fly-tipper on CCTV? Is there any in that part of the town?”

  “Some of the shops are fitted with CCTV cameras, but I don’t know if any of them point towards the river. I’ll check.”

  “Good. And when you’ve done that and got Katrin Yates and Chakrabati and Tandy back at the station, perhaps you could take that scarf to show to Mrs Verma. Or do you think that Gardner will want to sprinkle her potions on it first?”

  “I doubt if she’s going to find much evidence on the clothes now they’ve been in the river all night, but it’s probably best to give her the chance to find out.”

  “Agreed. Well, you can wait for a bit, then, and brief Katrin when she gets here. You might like to get on with writing a press briefing for me.”

  Chapter 59

  Although Juliet doesn’t tell me much when she calls, I surmise from what she says that I shall be at the station for the rest of the day. I say goodbye to Janey and wish her a happy weekend before leaving to pick up my car at the station car park.

  “Thanks,” Janey says, her voice heavy with irony, “you, too.”

  I drive the short distance to the station and am just getting out of the car when I see Patti Gardner getting out of her white van. Awkward as a schoolgirl, I begin to tremble and wonder if I can avoid her by sitting here until she’s safely inside. But it’s obvious that I’m bound to bump into her inside and in any case I haven’t done her any wrong: rather the opposite. Slowly I climb out of the car and see that she’s standing motionless beside the van. I approach her at a snail’s pace, but I can see she’s determined to wait for me.

  “Patti!” I say as breezily as I can. “What brings you here?” I realise how foolish the question is as soon as I’ve said it.

  “I work here,” she says crisply. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten. Sometimes I’d like to forget it myself. How are you? I don’t think I’ve seen you since the baby was born.”

  “Of course I haven’t forgotten. It was a really silly question. I’m fine,” I gush. Patti’s like Freya - she brings out the worst in me. Something to do with how close they’ve both been to Tim, I suppose.

  “You’re back at work?”

  “Yes. This week.”

  “Great. Tim said . . .”

  She pauses. She’s suddenly confused.

  “What did Tim say, Patti? Do tell me. And when did you last get the chance to talk to him? I’ve barely seen him myself for the last couple of months.”

  Patti looks down at the ground. She’s frowning and her mouth is working. I make no attempt to help her.

  “Look, Katrin,” she says at length, trying to fix me with her guileless blue eyes, “I don’t know what Tim’s told you, but I hate concealing the truth, especially as it’s nothing like you think it is. But this isn’t the time and place . . .”

  “Oh, I think it is.”

  “I’ve got an emergency job to do. Juliet thinks they’ve found something belonging to Ayesha Verma in the river.”

  The news electrifies me, but I won’t be put off.

  “Fine,” I say. “We can go in together. You can tell me as we walk.”

  “But we’ll be inside in a couple of minutes. Someone might overhear . . .”

  “Overhear what?”

  “All right, Katrin, you win. I’ll tell you the details later if you want to hear them, but basically Tim spent the night before last in my hotel room because he was too ill to get back to his sister’s. He wasn’t drunk, either: it was something to do with the medication he’d been taking. Nothing happened, nor did either of us have any intention that it should. He was passed out on the floor until he woke up and left in the early hours.”

  It’s my turn to be speechless.

  “Satisfied?” Patti says. “You should know Tim better than to think he would cheat on you. He’s one of the most principled men I know.”

  She turns her back on me quickly and stalks off towards the station doors. As she takes out her swipe card, I see her brush the back of her hand across her face. I’m miserable, but in no mood for tears.

  Chapter 60

  Margie survived the day second by second, convulsed with terror. Her fear took a physical form, as if someone were clutching at her throat. There was no release from it; it incapacitated her, making it hard for her to concentrate on the sordid little acts she was ordered to perform. The rituals that she was forced to play out were tedious and demeaning. Moura came back at intervals and barked commands, making her change into yet more outlandish outfits. Moura brought these with her and took them away again: Margie wasn’t allowed to keep them. Margie was banned from using the dressing-gown for modesty when she was taking he
r clothes off: Moura threatened to take it away if she tried. It sickened her that she was stripping naked for her unknown watcher. She knew he was ogling her from the other side of the door, and the indelible image that insinuated itself of a vile old man sitting there, depraved and gloating, made her flesh creep.

  Progressively, the outfits became scantier and more bizarre. Some consisted only of feathers held together with strips of lace. The colours were garish: purple, orange, lime green and gaudy yellow in hideous combinations, a madman’s designs. Ridiculous in one of these concoctions, Margie was made to parade around the small room and instructed to adopt obscene or provocative postures, often for half hours together, until suddenly Moura would tell her to stop and take off the clothes. Moura would seize them and disappear for a while, but when she came back the whole charade started up again. Sometimes Margie thought she heard voices when Moura opened the door, but when it closed again she was trapped in a weird silence, a soundlessness made eerier because she knew she was not alone.

  She heard no more sounds from beyond the connecting door. She inspected it several times when Moura was out of the room, once moving close to the spy-hole so that he could see her fear. She hoped perhaps that he would take pity on her, see how young and inexperienced she was, or, if that was too much to expect, see how hopelessly unsuitable she was for whatever he wanted to do next. She could not imagine what that might be.

  She sat on the floor with her back to the door for a while, thinking that he couldn’t see her there, but when she lifted her head from her knees she spotted a camera set high in the wall opposite her. It moved at intervals. The whole room was under surveillance. Terrified that he might suddenly burst through the door and grab her, Margie lay down on the bed and hoped that Moura would reappear.

  Chapter 61

  Shaking after my spat with Patti, I climb the stairs to the open plan office area. I can’t decide how I feel about Patti’s explanation. Do I believe her? I don’t know her well enough to be able to tell whether she’s a good liar. She seems genuine, but she was very keen to give information I didn’t ask for, and if she’s telling the truth why couldn’t Tim tell me the story himself instead of being so evasive? And why did he pay all of that outrageous restaurant bill, if it was just for a dinner shared between friends? Patti didn’t mention the dinner: I should have asked her if Derry was there. I’m too much of a coward to try now. And I’m still furious with Tim.

  Juliet and Nancy are sitting together, both staring at a computer screen. I’m not surprised at Juliet’s professionalism in co-operating with Nancy, but I don’t detect the tension between them I would have expected.

  Juliet turns round.

  “Hello, Katrin. Goodness, you look annoyed.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frown. I was just thinking about something.”

  “We need your help. Verity Tandy found some clothes in the river and they’ve been identified as Margie Pocklington’s.”

  “Oh, God. Does that mean she’s drowned?”

  “We’re sending divers down, but there’s no proof that she jumped in. The clothes were packed into a bag with a floating device, as if someone wanted us to find them. And there was a scarf with them that almost certainly belongs to Ayesha Verma.”

  “So the two cases are linked?”

  “It appears so.”

  “But that means . . .”

  “Yes, I know. We can’t completely discount the honour killing theory, but it makes it much less likely. Did the women that Fiona Vickers brought to see you give you any more clues?”

  “Not directly. They showed me what it’s like to live in perpetual fear, and they suggested that we should talk to Ayesha Verma’s sisters. They said if we did that we’d know then if Ayesha was being coerced. But what about Margie?”

  “Superintendent Thornton’s started a nationwide search for her. He wants you to help with it – I’ll explain in a minute. It’s not a bad idea to talk to the Verma daughters, although they’re very young and the mother’s protective. You’ll probably be better at getting her to let me talk to them than I will. I’m going to take the scarf to Mrs Verma for identification when Patti Gardner’s finished with it. Will you come with me?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think we can talk to the daughters until we’ve got a child interview specialist with us. We’ll get into trouble if there isn’t an expert there and something goes wrong. You can still show Mrs Verma the scarf today.”

  “I’ve worked wiv a good a child interviewer in London,” Nancy says. I realise I’ve not spoken to her since I arrived and try to smile at her. I wonder if Juliet has introduced her to Patti. “I could go and brief ’er. She doesn’t normally work at weekends, but I know how to get ’old of ’er.”

  “But doesn’t Juliet need you here? You’re welcome to stay with me for the weekend,” I say, guilty again.

  “Fanks, but I don’t fink you do need me ’ere at the moment. Margie’s your priority, before the trail goes cold. You don’t need my ’elp wiv ‘honour killing’ just now. And I fink Juliet’s ’unch is right: Margie’s probably not in the river or anywhere near ’ere at all. Best thing I can do to ’elp is wiv the CCTV footage.”

  “You mean for King’s Cross?” says Juliet.

  “Yes. If she ran away, she could ’ave planted those clothes ’erself. And fink about it, if you was running away from ’ere, where would you go? London’s the obvious answer and King’s Cross would be the station you’d arrive at.”

  “That doesn’t explain the scarf.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But it’s the best I can do. We ’aven’t got any answers and we ’ave to start somewhere. I’ve got a feeling about King’s Cross and I can tell you that footage won’t get prioritised unless someone makes it ’appen. We get dozens of runaways every week.”

  “I’ll have to okay it with Superintendent Thornton,” Juliet says. “But if that’s what you want to do, as you say, it may help.”

  I try to read Juliet’s expression. If she’s relieved at getting rid of Nancy so easily, she isn’t showing it.

  The animated look on Nancy’s face freezes at the same time as Juliet smiles politely. I turn to see Patti standing at my elbow.

  “I’ve done all I can with the clothes now,” she says. “You can take the scarf wrapped in a plastic bag for identification purposes, but I’d like you to bring it back as soon as you can. I’m not hopeful, but there’s an outside chance there’s DNA on it.”

  “Have you found anything on the other stuff?”

  “Nothing on the fabrics. I didn’t really expect it: they’d been submerged for several hours. As I’ve said, DNA’s still a possibility, though I doubt it. But there is a partial fingerprint on one of the trainers. One of them wasn’t as wet as the other.”

  “That’s right. Verity said one was lodged in the side of the river bank. Is the fingerprint good enough for a match?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think so. I’ll get it checked out straight away. The weekend’s coming, but presumably Superintendent Thornton won’t mind paying extra for a quick result?”

  “I’m sure he won’t,” said Juliet. “He’s talking to the Press at the moment, but don’t hang around until he comes back. I’ll authorise it myself.”

  Juliet gives me a quick look. I know what she’s thinking; but even Superintendent Thornton couldn’t be comfortable with putting his budget before finding Margie.

  “Right, I’m on my way, then,” says Patti. “I’m going to take the other things to the lab. Do you want me to sign for them?”

  “I’ll get you a chitty. What shall we do with the scarf when we’ve finished with it?”

  “Bring it back here. I’ll send someone to pick it up. It’s on the desk through there. Remember, don’t take it out of the plastic. I’ve spread it out so the fabric can be examined.”

  Patti is speaking only to Juliet. She ignores Nan
cy and me. She signs the paper slip that Juliet gives to her and walks away.

  Chapter 62

  I accompany Juliet to the Vermas’ house, even though we’ve agreed I can’t talk to the children. Juliet wants me to be with her and, after all the work I’ve done on honour killings, I’m curious about the Verma household. I wonder if I’ll pick up on any bad vibes there.

  Bahir Verma opens the door.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Verma,” says Juliet. “May we come in? I’d like to speak to your wife.”

  He’s a short, almost gaunt, man with haunted bloodshot eyes and greying, wiry hair.

  “Anni’s upstairs,” he says. “She’s not well. That’s why I’m home early. She won’t be able to see you. Is it about Ayesha?”

  Juliet has told me she’d found him courteous, if reserved, precise and dapper when they’d met previously. To me he seems unkempt and broken, as if he’s losing life’s struggle. His shirt is grubby at the collar and his tie has been loosened so that it hangs askew.

  “This is Katrin Yates. She’s a police research officer. I asked her to come with me.” He looks at me as if he doesn’t understand what she is saying. “Yes, it is about Ayesha. Perhaps you can help us instead of your wife. May we come in?” Juliet repeats.

  He hesitates and then collects himself. He opens the door wider and motions us into his sitting-room.

  The room is not untidy, but it has a neglected look. The bright sofa cushions have been piled in an untidy heap. The petals of the roses in a vase of flowers on the table have turned brown at the edges.

  “Please, sit,” he says. “She’s been ill since you were here the other day. She’s much worse today. She coped so well at first but now she can’t take the strain.”

  He sinks on to the sofa himself and sits on the edge of it, his hands clasped. His bloodshot eyes wander around the room, lingering on Juliet as they take us both in. “Please tell me you don’t have bad news.”