Rooted in Dishonour

by Christina James

Juliet is brisk.

  “It’s neither bad nor good news, Mr Verma. We’d just like you to take a look at this and tell us if you think it might be your daughter’s. I’m sorry that it’s wet, but the plastic should prevent it from dripping on your furniture. It was pulled from the river, with some other items that we know were not hers.”

  “From the river? My God!”

  “There’s no need to jump to conclusions. There are many possible explanations for that. Now, would you just look at it carefully and see if it could be the scarf that Ayesha was wearing? Don’t remove the plastic, please.”

  He takes the plastic package in both hands, holding it draped across them reverently as if it’s a religious artefact.

  “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I’m sure it’s hers. She loves the silver stripes. Many of her things have those stripes, with dark colours so that the stripes stand out more.” He captures Juliet’s gaze. I see her flinch from his silent stricken appeal.

  “You tell me not to jump to conclusions. What does this mean? What should I tell my wife?”

  Juliet struggles to give him an answer.

  “The scarf may have been thrown into the river deliberately. Because it was with other items, there is reason to believe that this might be the case. But we won’t make any assumptions until the river has been searched.”

  Bahir Verma tilts his head forward and weeps. He appears to shrink before our eyes. His shoulders shake as if in rhythm to his grief, but he makes no sound. His tears fall on to the plastic in which the scarf is sheathed; it’s still dangling over his arms.

  It may be naïve of me, but I can’t believe that this man has killed his daughter.

  Chapter 63

  As soon as he could after the interview with Zayed Verma, Tim extricated himself from the solicitous ministrations of Sanjay Banerjee and took a taxi to his hotel. After he’d checked in, he looked at his watch. It would be 6.30 p.m. at home. Katrin would be there with Sophia and probably hadn’t yet put her to bed. He debated whether to Skype her and decided against it. He told himself that he was too tired to have a proper conversation with them and, in any case, he needed to speak to Katrin when she was alone, but deep down he had to admit that he was shunning her out of cowardice. He’d have to tell her about the encounter with Patti, but he needed to be with her when he did it. If he tried to discuss it over the phone, she’d probably get upset and cut him off.

  Yet again he cursed his own stupidity at allowing such a ridiculous chain of events to happen while he was in London. Why had he decided to stay with Freya when a hotel in the city itself would have been more convenient? Why had he allowed Derry to persuade him to have dinner with Patti when he was feeling seedy? And above all, why had he ended up spending the night in Patti’s room? He could have asked at Patti’s hotel for a separate room, found one in a different hotel or paid for a cab back to Freya’s. He could have left Patti at the restaurant when they’d eaten and made it back to Waterloo before he began to feel ill. Why had he insisted on walking her back to St Giles? A persistent nagging voice told Tim that it was because he had been enjoying Patti’s company, that although he didn’t really want ‘anything to happen’ he had deliberately been tempting providence.

  He’d got what he deserved, then, and he would be lucky if there were no worse repercussions than he’d suffered already. He’d have to be philosophical about it now and try to get a decent night’s sleep. He intended to spend the weekend going over all the case notes. He’d also had to accept an invitation to dinner with Sanjay’s family on the following day.

  He was too tired to shower. He gave his face a cursory rinse before shedding his clothes on the floor and climbing into bed. He lay there for a long half hour, sweaty and uncomfortable, listening to the loud hum of the air conditioning, until at last he cooled down enough to feel drowsy and finally fell into a troubled slumber.

  He was rudely awakened by the trill of his mobile phone close to his ear. He’d plugged it into the socket next to his bedside table. He moved across the bed, as far away from it as possible, and burrowed down beneath the quilt. He listened to the phone as it worked through its scheduled twelve rings and then stopped. He heard it click to message and felt relieved, but no sooner had he crammed shut his eyes than it began to ring again.

  “For God’s sake!” he muttered. He flung himself back across the bed and seized the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “Ah, Yates. I hope I didn’t wake you up?”

  “What time is it there?” Tim countered. A quick glance at the phone’s display screen told him it was midnight in Delhi. It must be about 7.30 in the evening. “Good evening, sir,” he added belatedly.

  “Good evening, Yates. Yes, it is late here. I suspect we’ll be working all night. Katrin’s been helping us. She’s gone home now.”

  “What’s happened? And how is Katrin involved?”

  “You remember that she told you a local girl had gone missing? Margery Pocklington. She worked at your childminder’s, I believe. We’ve found her garments in the river, in a bag with a float.”

  “Christ. You’re sending divers into the river?”

  “Yes, of course we are, Yates. And hoping that we don’t find the worst, obviously. But there’s something else: along with Margery’s clothes, we found a scarf that belongs to Ayesha Verma.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Ayesha’s father has identified it. And it fits the description her mother gave of the scarf she was wearing when she disappeared.”

  “God. Let me get my head around this for a minute.” Tim put his hands in his chin, which was scratchy with stubble.

  “There is quite a lot to get your head around, isn’t there, Yates? For example, wouldn’t you say that this looks more like the handiwork of a serial killer – or at any rate a serial kidnapper – than an ‘honour killer’?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Nothing. Have you had a Press conference yet?”

  “Of course. The trail may have gone cold on Ayesha Verma, but we need to pull the stops out for Margery Pocklington now. You know as well as I do, Yates, that if we haven’t found her by the end of the weekend at the latest, she’s not likely to be found alive.”

  “Did you tell the Press that we think the two cases are linked?”

  “No. I didn’t tell them about the clothes at all. I thought it best to keep the perpetrator guessing. We simply issued a statement about Margery Pocklington’s disappearance, what she was wearing when last seen, that kind of thing.”

  “I think you should put out another statement about the clothes. It’ll let whoever it is know that we haven’t been fooled into thinking that Ayesha was the victim of her family.”

  “Ah, yes, the honour killing theory. It’s looking a little tawdry now, isn’t it?”

  “With respect, you were as convinced about it as I was, sir.”

  “At first, maybe. Not latterly. You’ll agree that it was a mistake for you to go to India? Did you get any joy at all out of the fiancé, by the way?”

  “Not much. There were one or two things I didn’t like about him, but he seems to be a pillar of society here. I must admit there was little about him that persuaded me he’d killed Ayesha. I had planned to interview him again on Tuesday, when he returns from his business trip, to see what kind of second impression I’d get.”

  “But you won’t be doing that now, will you, Yates? You’ll be coming back here as soon as you can get on a plane.”

  “Yes, of course, it’s my case and I must be there now the main line of enquiry’s shifted back to the UK. There may be a plane I can catch in the middle of the night here, if I can get a seat booked. But, even if there is, that still means I won’t be home until your tomorrow evening. You’ll have had another Press conference by then.”

  “I’m glad that you mentioned it’s your c
ase, but you’re referring presumably to Ayesha Verma. Margery Pocklington is Armstrong’s case. She’s taken all the initiatives so far. I suggest you share leading officer status with her now that we think the two cases are linked. Let’s see how Armstrong shapes up, shall we?” The Superintendent paused. Tim didn’t reply, but he got Thornton’s drift. “So you think I should give the Press information about the clothes and make it clear they belonged to both girls, do you? Give me your reasons.”

  “I’ve hardly had time to think this through, but in my book there are two possibilities: either they’ve been kidnapped by an out-and-out nutter, in which case we’re fucked - they were probably killed very shortly after they were last seen and the bodies have been dumped somewhere. Alternatively, they were taken for a purpose. Probably something nasty, but if that’s the case, they may very well still be alive. And the fact that you say those clothes were packed into a bag with a float, as if someone intended them to be found, suggests to me that we’re still in with a chance of finding them before it’s too late.”

  “All right, Yates. The argument’s a bit subtle for me, though I think I understand something of what you’re driving at. And as you say, it’s your case, your decision: I’ll follow your advice. You’d better get on, now. Let me know when you’re on the plane.”

  “Christ,” said Tim again when he’d terminated the call. So much for professional solidarity. It was abundantly clear from the call that Thornton would a) play no official part in justifying Tim’s trip to Delhi and b) pass the buck to the ‘officer leading the case’ if revealing the information about the clothes proved to be a mistake.

  No point in dwelling on any of that now. He had a flight and a taxi to organise, a hotel bill to pay, and somehow in the next half hour he was going to have to fit in taking a shower.

  Chapter 64

  Margie was sickened by the knowledge that she had spent the whole day in the company of her unseen spy. He made her feel filthy, diseased. The flesh in every part of her body was crawling, as if vile insects were creeping across her skin. It took all of her self-control not to hammer on the door, demand to be let out, shout obscenities at him, anything to change the situation, release her from this torture. It crossed her mind that perhaps he wanted her to lose it completely. She could try faking that, see what happened next, but, if she’d been trapped in some kind of kinky gratification ritual, moving on to the next stage could be more terrifying. Was he going to come out of his hiding place? What plans did he have for her then? She had no idea how she might be punished if she misinterpreted his intentions and she was scared of Moura. She knew that Moura would have no compunction about beating her up if she got it wrong.

  True to her word, Moura had brought no drink or food until Margie had asked for it. She’d tried drinking the water from the washbasin tap, but it tasted disgusting: salty and heavily chlorinated, it had made her thirstier and nauseated. She was desperate enough to plead with Moura on her third or fourth visit. The woman pulled a bottle of water from her pocket but didn’t hand it over.

  “You will drink all of this?”

  “I . . . yes, I’ll drink it all.”

  “No hissy fits? You won’t try anything?”

  “No, I’ll just drink the water.”

  “There it is then.” Moura placed the bottle on the table. “If you work hard you’ll get supper this evening.”

  “Isn’t it evening yet?” Moura looked at her steadily without replying.

  “What do I have to do? How will I know if I’m working hard?”

  “You’ll know. When you’ve drunk the water I want you to take a shower.”

  “I’ve had a shower today.”

  “Well, I want you to take another one. Is that a problem?”

  “No. No, of course not.”

  “Good. And when you’ve had the shower I want you to put this on.”

  Moura produced a silky, sleeveless nightdress from the bag she was carrying. It was pure white. It had a lace bodice and tiny straps.

  “You can drink the water after you’ve had the shower. I’ll wait for you.”

  Moura plumped herself down on the edge of the bed. She smoothed out the nightdress and laid it beside her.

  “Get on with it,” she said to Margie. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

  Margie had already forgotten to feel humiliated when Moura watched her undress. The woman wasn’t remotely interested in her except as a performing doll. But she hesitated because she knew he would be ogling her through the spy-hole.

  “Get on with it!” Moura repeated in a harsher voice. “What are you waiting for?” She began to lever herself off the bed. Afraid she’d strike her again, Margie slid out of the bizarre bikini she was wearing and plunged quickly into the shower.

  She was allowed to drink the water only after she’d smothered herself with body lotion once more and donned the nightdress.

  “Drink it all,” Moura instructed her. “It’ll be gone when you come back.”

  “Come back? Am I going somewhere?”

  “You’ll see. Drink the water now.”

  Margie unscrewed the cap and put the bottle to her lips. The first few gulps tasted wonderful: cold and slightly effervescent, it soothed her parched lips and furred tongue; but when the worst of her thirst had been slaked, she thought she detected some impurity, a kind of bitter undertow in the liquid. She held up the bottle. She’d drunk barely half of it.

  “Drink it all. As you promised,” said Moura.

  “Why? Why do you want me to drink all of it? What difference does it make to you if I pour the rest away?”

  Moura’s broad hand came swinging round the back of her head. There was a sharp crack as the woman’s ring clipped at her skull.

  Tears of pain sprang into Margie’s eyes. She put the bottle to her lips again and upended it, swallowing rapidly until it was drained.

  “Good,” said Moura. “It would have been easier if you’d done that straight off, wouldn’t it?”

  Now that Margie had got herself ready, Moura didn’t seem in any hurry to leave the room. She patted the bed next to her and told Margie to sit down. Obediently Margie perched on the edge of the bed. After some minutes she began to feel strange: spaced out, as if she wasn’t really present, and, although she knew it was absurd, drowsily happy.

  “Are you Ok?” asked Moura.

  “I think I’m a bit dizzy.”

  “Nonsense, you’re fine. It’s time to go now.”

  Margie hoped against hope that she was going to be taken out of the room the way she’d come in, back into the long corridor and out to where Pedro had been left behind. She wasn’t too addled to make a run for it if she got the slightest opportunity. She was disappointed when Moura stood up and tapped softly on the internal door. It swung open. Moura pushed Margie through it and followed her.

  The room they entered was dimly lit. The lack of clear light increased Margie’s feeling of dissociation. Her head was swimming. Underlying her bogus euphoria was the nagging conviction that her molester would soon emerge from the shadows and pounce on her. Swaying, she tried to take in every part of the room. Gradually it became apparent that she and Moura were there alone.

  The room itself was a miracle of baroque ostentation. It was decorated in the same cream and gold as the one she had been occupying, with similar overblown ormolu decoration, but there the similarity ended. ‘Her’ room was luxurious enough, but this one, which was three times the size, could have been plucked from a dictator’s palace. A massive bed occupied its centre. It resembled a four-poster, except that instead of being obscured by heavy curtains hanging from a supporting frame it was partially swathed in gossamer-light drapes that fell from a kind of inverted dais set in the ceiling. Huge mirrors had been fastened on each of the walls. The pile of the cream-coloured carpet was so deep that it half-buried her bare toes. A black and gold lacquered c
abinet stood against the far wall. She could make out the gilded handles of dozens of small drawers. There was a door beyond that which she guessed led to a bathroom.

  A smooth mechanical whisper coming from behind told her that the connecting door to ‘her’ room was closing. She turned round to see it snap shut and noticed an exuberantly upholstered red velvet chair standing close beside it. She shuddered. That must be where he sat when he was watching her during her long hours of pretend solitude.

  “Are you Ok?” Moura asked again, this time wheedlingly. Margie knew she had no interest in getting a reply. “Perhaps you should lie down for a while.”

  “Not in that bed,” said Margie, aware that she was slurring the words.

  “Yes, in that bed.” Moura’s tone was threatening again. “Get into it.”

  She felt headachey, drunk. The pseudo-happiness had evaporated. She was terrified of what would happen to her if she got into the bed, but she was powerless to resist.

  Moura turned back the coverlet. There was no quilt beneath it, just a silk sheet. She gave Margie a push. Margie fell across the bed.

  “Draw up your knees and get under the sheet.”

  Again she was forced to obey. Moura pulled the sheet and the coverlet across her and walked away. After some seconds, although she had heard no door open or close, Margie knew she had been left alone again.

  She tried to sit up, but the room was spinning now and she had to collapse back against the pillows, telling herself it was just to catch her breath, to get back a bit of strength, but she could feel herself slipping into unconsciousness. The walls were closing in on her. Suddenly there was a sharp acrid smell, male sweat, the stench of an unwashed body. As she lost the fight to remain awake, the smell grew stronger. The mattress moved: someone had climbed into the bed beside her. She tried to turn away, but was overcome by the paralysis of an involuntary desire to sleep. As she was on the point of drifting away, she thought she heard a terrified scream echoing through the stillness.