The Aladdin Trial

by Abi Silver

  ‘Oh, before I forget. I was having trouble logging on this morning, so I used your log-in. Just to tidy some things up,’ she said.

  ‘What was wrong?’

  ‘Sometimes my laptop just doesn’t like the morning, I think. But it’s fine now.’

  ‘Sure, no problem. You must have been up early then? I can’t remember when you were last up so early on a Sunday.’

  ‘Well, Hani has asked me to produce the notes from the review meeting and Lucy was keen to see the first draft so I need to bash it out today.’

  David paused.

  ‘When he asked you to stay back, after the meeting, he didn’t try to…well…make you say something which didn’t happen, with Mrs Hennessy?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’ve told you, he’s always very encouraging.’

  ‘Well, who told Lucy that you took a call in theatre?’

  ‘Hani said Lucy checked the log. It’s not as if I went off to get my nails done. We’ve agreed to mention it in the notes.’

  David sat down next to her and sipped his coffee.

  ‘What else will go in the report?’

  ‘All the medication she was on, pre- and post-op, brief summary of the operation, like I said at our meeting, prescribed drugs, details of the physio visit. That’s all. There’s nothing there. Nothing to explain why she fell off the building hours later.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope that satisfies the police and Hani is happy I’ve done my bit. Do you think the man will ever retire?’

  ‘He’s not so old but he’s not so bad either. Let me get on with this now and, if I can finish without interruptions, we can go out for some lunch.’

  31

  Brian sat in a café opposite his office leafing through the Daily Mail. He allowed himself to glance down at the holdall tucked neatly beneath his chair and wound the toe of his right foot through the handle possessively as he checked his watch; it was 10:25. Usually he breakfasted at home on a lightly-boiled egg (three-and-a-half minutes precisely from the time the water began to steam) and a glass of orange juice, arrived at 9:30, took a short break to stretch his legs at lunchtime and finished up promptly at five, setting the phone to voicemail as he left.

  But today he had departed from routine. The will-reading session with Barbara’s children, and its consequences, were playing on his mind. Neither of them had been particularly appreciative of his role in assisting their mother over the years and advising her, wisely, to salt her money away. If it hadn’t been for him, one of those many man friends of hers, who appeared as often as the letter ‘d’ in the days of the week, would have taken it and blown it on a sports car or a long holiday. He was the one who had safeguarded their assets, and a fat lot of thanks he had received for it.

  And he had genuinely thought that the conditions in her will were sensible when he had proposed them, given Barbara’s expressed concerns about her offspring. Barbara had told him years ago, albeit after gentle persuasion, that she thought Tracy and Peter were ‘overstretching themselves’ and that it would end in tears, but Tracy wouldn’t listen to her and said she was jealous.

  Equally, Barbara had confided in him, after some insightful encouragement, her concern that Joseph would ‘come to no good’ but, rather than disinherit him, which had been her threat for some time, Brian had recommended that, as long as Joseph stayed out of trouble, he should receive his share too.

  Brian took a sip of his breakfast tea and checked his watch again. He reminded himself that there were valid reasons for being late this morning and foregoing his egg, and that he had no appointment till 11:30. First, he had felt compelled to instruct a ‘search and location’ agent, to dig around, quietly, into both of Barbara’s children, just to see what could be uncovered, and he had not wanted to risk making the call from the office. And second, very early, he had visited Barbara’s apartment; she had given him a key when she signed the will – ‘just in case,’ she’d said. Both these activities were born from his desire to conduct his executor duties thoroughly and responsibly, he told himself.

  It had been strange to wander around the flat without Barbara, and he had felt her presence everywhere; in the choice of the crimson oven splashback, the purple and orange scatter cushions, the black velvet lampshade. ‘Are there any colours you wouldn’t put together?’ he had asked her once. And she had laughed excessively and shaken her head wildly, too overcome by the hilarity of his suggestion for words.

  He had not entered her bedroom or the makeshift studio she maintained. He had never been in those rooms when she was alive, so it seemed wrong to sneak into them now she was gone. But in the kitchen he had found (and removed) the calendar to which Joe had directed him on their first meeting and, in the drawers next to the sink, he had found Barbara’s diaries. It was these books which were now sitting patiently awaiting his attention in the bag at his feet.

  Part of him balked at the thought of scrutinising such private memoirs but, having seen her children up close, Brian persuaded himself that he would gain more from them than either Tracy or Joe would, and also that he might receive some useful guidance on how to proceed. There was also a chance Barbara might have written something about her time in Spain in March, which would help if he chose, after further consideration, to challenge the date of Joe’s last visit. Of course, if the diaries he had borrowed were innocuous and boring, he could simply return them quickly to her apartment and no one would be any the wiser.

  His hands trembling suddenly, he fished for his wallet. Inside the flap he kept a colour snap taken with Barbara’s Instamatic, the one time they met up in Spain, their Sangria-fuelled tryst. Barbara had walked with him to the end of the drive. ‘It’s such a beautiful evening, it’s a shame to stay inside,’ she had said, and her gardener had been passing and had captured them beautifully in the evening light. Barbara was wearing a red, intricately-patterned dress, and it was the only time he had ever worn a polo shirt; she had complimented him on it in her casual way. And their heads were so close that they might have been lovers to anyone who had cared to notice.

  It was now 10:28 and a two-minute walk to his office. Brian drained his tea. One hour should be sufficient to make a good inroad into Barbara’s diaries. But as he closed the newspaper and folded it neatly on the table, he became aware, for the first time, of the leading article on the front page. Reading it from beginning to end, his jaw clenched tight and his heart pounded fast in his chest. He would add one further task to the list for the agent he had instructed that morning; finding the Syrian cleaner couldn’t be all that difficult.

  32

  Ahmad was sitting by the window when Constance and Judith entered. Constance had asked Dawson specially if they would bring him above ground for the interview. She hoped that seeing a little of the outside world would cheer him up. He had been so despondent since his arrival, she worried for his health. And he would not allow his wife or daughter to visit; he was adamant about that.

  ‘Mr Qabbani? I’m Judith Burton, your barrister.’ Judith remained standing, and waited for an acknowledgement. After a while it came with a turn of the head in her direction. She sat down and edged her chair towards him.

  ‘Am I going home yet?’ he asked quietly. Judith and Constance exchanged glances.

  ‘Not yet, no.’

  Ahmad stared out of the window again.

  ‘Constance has done a pretty good job of filling me in on all the things you’ve discussed,’ Judith began. ‘There are probably other things we should be talking about.’

  Ahmad blinked. Perhaps he had expected something more from Judith.

  ‘Mr Qabbani, I won’t pretend to you. This is not an easy case for us to defend. It’s a paradox. The very fact that there’s so little evidence against you makes it harder. I will do my utmost to have the case thrown out, because the evidence is so tenuous, but people have gone to jail for less. I need you to tell us about yo
ur family, your friends, even your hobbies. It may help people connect with you more.’

  ‘People connect with me?’ Ahmad spat the words back at Judith.

  ‘I know. It sounds strange but the story is all over the newspapers and they’re not saying good things about you. We need something from you that will help redress the balance. Something to show that you and your wife are good solid members of British society.’

  Ahmad replied slowly and deliberately. ‘So, you mean, if I can tell you some stories about having afternoon tea with my neighbours or playing cricket, that will help me? I don’t think so, Miss Burton. And I don’t have those stories.’

  ‘Oh come on, Ahmad. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. We need you to give us something. If you don’t want to talk about now, and I understand that – you want to shield your family from all this – then talk to us about what you did in Syria, your journey here, the people you left behind. Something positive. Anything.’

  ‘I told Miss Lamb. I won’t talk about Syria. And it won’t help, really it won’t. It will only make things worse. You need to know that. And whatever happens, you have to keep my family out of this.’

  Judith stood up and paced the room, arms folded, speaking as she moved.

  ‘OK, we’ll start with the evidence; a very good place to start. I’ll recap on what I know and you correct me if I get anything wrong. You clean at St Mark’s Hospital. You cleaned Mrs Hennessy’s room on the Tuesday, the day she arrived, and on the Thursday, the day she died. Correct so far?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you talked to her on those occasions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you talk to her about?’

  Ahmad shrugged.

  ‘I was just friendly, that’s all. Usual things.’

  ‘Did you talk to her about the weather?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘About her family?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think so.’

  ‘About art?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How about the book she was reading?’

  Ahmad opened his mouth and then closed it. Judith stopped walking and sat down again.

  ‘Mrs Hennessy was reading The Arabian Nights?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she talk to you about her book?’

  ‘Yes. No. Well…’

  ‘She was using the receipt as a bookmark. It shows it was bought around the corner from the hospital, on the Tuesday afternoon. She couldn’t have bought it herself. I suppose one of those lady friends of hers who visited might have brought it, or her daughter. What do you think?’

  Ahmad was silent.

  ‘But the police will check with each of them and the shopkeeper.’

  ‘She asked me,’ he said. Constance stopped typing on her laptop and looked up at Ahmad.

  ‘Can you explain what you mean?’ Judith continued.

  ‘Mrs Hennessy asked me to buy the book for her.’

  ‘Really? How many other patients at the hospital have you given books to?’

  ‘Just Mrs Hennessy. And I didn’t give it to her.’

  ‘So, you went in to clean her room and she asked you for a recommendation on what she should be reading. Your summer reading top ten?’ Constance flashed Judith an annoyed glance which Judith studiously ignored.

  ‘No. It’s hard to remember now.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘She asked me what I was reading. I think I didn’t answer. I don’t have time for reading you see, except for the newspapers, to make my English better. Then she asked if I knew the story of Aladdin.’

  ‘Aladdin?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t understand the name so well when she said it the first time. We pronounce it like this: “Al-a-ddin.” But, of course I know this story. So I told her “yes” and I read it to my daughter. And I said it’s one of the Alaef Leila wa Leila, the thousand and one nights.’

  ‘And what did Mrs Hennessy say?’

  ‘She said she wanted to read it, not the children’s one but all the stories. She called it “The Arabian Nights”, like you said.’

  Ahmad frowned.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. Something which happened later but it’s not important.’

  ‘What happened later?’

  What had happened? It was the next day or even the one after, when Mrs Hennessy’s door had been open and she had two friends with her. They were laughing and joking and Ahmad had heard her say ‘Yes, my Syrian friend recommended this. Bit heavy going. But always good to get something from the natives; that’s what Miles used to say.’

  ‘I heard her with her friends and I think she didn’t like the book,’ Ahmad told Judith.

  Judith paused and regarded Ahmad carefully.

  ‘Well, she asked you to buy it, so you’re not to blame if she didn’t enjoy it.’

  ‘I don’t understand why the book is important,’ Ahmad added quickly.

  ‘Neither do I. But the prosecution has expressly mentioned it and that means they will make something of it. I need to be able to rebut what they say. Constance, have you read The Arabian Nights?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I suggest you purchase two copies straight away, one for each of us and we get reading. We need to be ready for whatever they throw at us. How did you have time to get the book?’

  ‘She asked me in the morning. I bought it in my lunch hour. The lady didn’t think they had it. She had to look in the store room.’

  Ahmad closed his eyes. It had been a beautiful day, the sun had warmed his back as he walked. He hadn’t returned immediately to the hospital but had strolled up to the first of the nearby ponds, the book in one hand and his packed lunch in the other. But once he had finished his food, he made the mistake of staring out over the water. That’s when the shaking had started and the cold, the snarling, biting, won’t-ever-leave-you-alone cold had returned.

  He had tried the breathing exercises but only half-heartedly. Somehow, deep down, he wanted it to happen. He wanted the cold to envelop him. And so he allowed it to seep and crawl right up to his waist. That was the highest he had ever permitted it to go.

  Then, while his teeth chattered in his head, he saw the book next to him, one corner of its glossy cover peeking out of the top of the paper bag, and he thought about his daughter, Shaza, and how she had laughed with delight when Aladdin had rubbed the magic lamp and the djinn had appeared to grant his wishes.

  And he fought the cold with all his might, the focus on his breathing all-encompassing, ignoring the stares of passers-by, till he felt his fingers again, and eventually his legs. Before his feet were under control he felt a tremendous lurch in his chest. He knew he would not reach the bushes and was only able to turn his head over the back of the bench before throwing up the contents of his stomach into the long grass below. After, once it was over, he grasped the book and held it tightly to his chest, like the life-saver it was.

  ‘I bought the book. I gave it to her. That’s all,’ he said to Judith.

  Judith studied his face closely.

  ‘Did she pay you for it?’

  ‘Yes. She gave me £10. It was £12.99. She gave me the extra money when she saw the price.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So let’s move on then. Your fingerprints, in the staff room?’

  ‘I have my locker there. I eat my lunch there. So do all the nurses.’

  ‘But your prints were on the door, going out onto the balcony.’

  ‘Sometimes I go out there.’

  ‘Do you smoke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does anyone go out with you?’

  ‘No. I just…well… Sometimes I just want to see the light, breathe the air, that’s all.’

  ‘Did you go
out there the day Mrs Hennessy died?’

  ‘I am not sure.’ Ahmad shifted listlessly in his seat.

  ‘Do you mean you don’t remember?’ Judith barked at him.

  ‘OK. Sometimes I tip the water out. I must take it down to the ground floor, but if I finish on the eleventh floor I tip my water out.’

  ‘And on Thursday night you finished up on the eleventh floor?’

  ‘No. Well I had already cleaned upstairs before but I got confused, ’cos I came up to talk to Mrs Hennessy. So, in the end I had my water left.’

  ‘I think that answer was “yes”. Thankfully you’re not on trial for the standard of your cleaning…’

  ‘I’m a good cleaner…’

  ‘Or complying with hospital hygiene rules… Let’s talk about the other DNA evidence – your hair on Mrs Hennessy’s nightdress.’

  ‘I clean in her room.’

  ‘All right. But so did another cleaner on the Wednesday, and the nurses come in to treat Mrs Hennessy, as do the doctors. But no one else’s hair was tangled up in her nightgown; just yours. Any idea how that might have happened? Were you, for example, teaching her the tango?’

  ‘I helped her out of bed, to go to the bathroom.’ Ahmad opened his arms wide and then allowed them to drop to his knees.

  ‘You didn’t say that before.’ Constance suppressed a shiver.

  Ahmad sighed again. ‘I’m not supposed to.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to help her to walk. In case she falls. Because I am the cleaner. But she said she really needed the bathroom.’ He remembered Barbara’s expression now. Don’t let me humiliate myself. Help me keep my dignity. ‘She held onto me when she stood up. That’s all.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell the Inspector that, when we were at the police station?’ Constance asked.

  ‘I told you. It’s against the rules.’

  ‘Ahmad. This is a murder investigation. If there are other things you haven’t told me or the police I suggest you do so now.’

  Ahmad bit his lip and Constance made another note on her laptop.

  ‘All right. Next problem area,’ Judith announced, ‘Mrs Hennessy’s rings?’