Babel

by Barry Maitland

  After they’d wiped their plates clean, and Qasim relaxed with a contented grunt and lit up, Brock said, ‘The room that Nargis lives in upstairs, who owns it?’

  ‘Grandpa Qasim owns the whole building.’

  ‘And did Nargis pay rent?’

  ‘No. She hadn’t a bean. She came with nothing.’

  ‘That was good of you.’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I want to have a look in the room, with Sergeant Kolla. You can come along too, if you want.’

  ‘You want to search Nargis’ room?’

  ‘Yes. I’m entitled to do that if I believe that Abu occupied the room too, and may have left something there. I’d like your cooperation. Would you ask Grandpa Qasim for me?’

  Qasim tilted his weight back dangerously in his chair and drew on his cigarette, pondering. ‘You still ’aven’t got the gun, ’ave you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of you poking around in their room.’

  ‘No, neither do I, but I’m afraid it’s necessary. Fran could be a witness too if you like.’

  ‘Blimey.’ Qasim blew a puff at the ceiling fan. ‘It’s not that big a room.’ He leaned forward and spoke to Grandpa Qasim for a moment, then turned and nodded to Brock and got up to lead the way.

  They climbed the stairs at the back of the café which led up to the lobby of the little mosque where Brock had found Abu’s shoes and coat, then continued up another, narrower dog-leg flight to the attic floor. There was no lock on the door of Nargis’ room, and Fran and Qasim looked on with disapproval as Brock and Kathy put on latex gloves and went inside.

  It was a small space, once perhaps a maid’s room, largely filled by an old iron-framed bed, and the belongings it contained were pathetically few. As they studied it, their backs to the others at the door, Kathy murmured to Brock, ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’

  He gave her a sidelong look, then nodded. ‘You’re right. Go back outside with the others. I’ll take care of it.’

  She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘Come on. Let’s do it quickly.’

  The clothes that Nargis had brought or been donated were hung behind a curtain in an alcove in one corner, and Kathy started there. Brock turned to a backpack in another corner, which held some of Abu’s things, his motorbike helmet, some socks and underwear and sweaters, a folder of documents.

  They both finished at the same moment and turned together to the bed, approaching it from opposite sides, and began feeling swiftly under pillows, blankets, mattress as the witnesses watched them dolefully from the doorway. Beneath the pillow they found a folder of documents that appeared to belong to Nargis, her passport, birth certificate and medical papers, as well as a number of documents in foreign script that they assumed related to her period in Kashmir. They put these back and continued working down towards the foot of the bed where they raised the tail of the mattress and found a plastic bag.

  Brock lifted it up, immediately disappointed that it didn’t seem heavy or hard enough. More documents, he guessed, and confirmed it by pulling out Abu’s passport and a number of documents in Arabic. Wrapped inside them was a plastic pouch, sealed with a strip of tape. He carefully pulled it away and looked inside, and as he did so his face lost all expression. He handed the pouch across to Kathy, who felt inside and slid something out of one of its pockets. They all recognised immediately what it was, a wad of money.

  Kathy examined it and said softly, ‘Hundred pound notes. A pack of fifty.’ She laid it on the bed and slid five more identical wads out of the pouch.

  ‘Thirty thousand quid,’ Qasim breathed.

  Brock took the pouch back from Kathy and held it up to the light of the lampshade hanging from the centre of the ceiling. ‘BCCD,’ he read. ‘What’s that?’ Then he squinted more closely at some small print. ‘Bank of Credit and Commerce Dubai.’

  He replaced the money in the pouch and the pouch in the plastic bag and they continued with their search, under the carpet, behind the mirror, beneath the little table and chair, until they were satisfied that there was nothing more.

  Sanjeev Manzoor bustled in looking belligerent and aggrieved. He was dressed in a smart dark suit as usual, against which the white triangle of the sling supporting his right arm looked particularly conspicuous, like a banner signifying ‘victim’. His solicitor was an older Asian with greying hair and a look of permanent scepticism on his face, as if he’d seen everything and heard every possible explanation for it. He carried a bulging, battered leather briefcase that seemed to require all his strength to hoist onto the table. They waved aside the offer of tea or coffee, and nodded curtly as Superintendent Russell introduced himself and Brock. They were in the scruffy setting of the interview room of the Shadwell Road police station, where Brock had found a fax awaiting him when he finally arrived after leaving Chandler’s Yard. The fax had comprised a cover sheet from Russell together with a copy of a single page from an interview with the skinhead Wilson.

  A (NO AUDIBLE REPLY)

  Q 37 Well, why would they want to help you?

  A . . . . be surprised, wouldn’t you?

  Q 38 No but—

  A Like there was this one, a little Paki in a flash suit, what was fucking wetting himself. He said the Arab the coppers had gone to fetch had topped a white man. He said there was only two coppers.

  Q 39 You thought he wanted to help you?

  A He only tried to give me some fucking scissors, didn’t he?

  Q 40 What? Say that again.

  A A pair of fucking great scissors. Said if he was younger he’d use them himself.

  Q 41 What did you think he meant by that?

  A He wanted me to stick them in the Arab, didn’t he?

  Q 42 Why?

  A Well, they all hate each other, don’t they, Arabs and wogs and stuff.

  Q 43 What did you do?

  A I told him to fuck off.

  Q 44 What did he look like, apart from the suit?

  A They all look the same, don’t they? Middle-aged, my height, dotted tie.

  Q 45 Dotted?

  A Yes. White dots.

  Brock set his chair slightly behind and to one side of Russell’s, so that there would be no doubt as to who was in charge. He eased himself down, hooked his stick on the seat and gazed benignly at Manzoor who, he was delighted to see, was sporting the same silk polka dot tie he had been wearing at mosque that night.

  Russell cleared his throat and began, pressing the start buttons on the recording machines and identifying those present and time and date. He thanked Manzoor for his cooperation and emphasised that he was not under arrest and was under no obligation to answer questions, but cautioned him nonetheless.

  ‘One moment, Superintendent,’ Manzoor’s solicitor, by the name of Versi, interjected, wrestling a fat file out of his briefcase. ‘My client has asked me to make it plain that he will refuse to answer any questions unless and until he has an explanation of why the police have not yet taken steps to return his daughter to him under the terms of the magistrate’s warrant dated the sixteenth of October last, of which this is a certified copy . . .’ He plucked a sheet of paper from the file and slid it across to Russell. ‘His cooperation is also conditional upon the arrest of the officer, Sergeant Kolla, who obstructed him in speaking to his missing daughter and who caused the serious injuries to my client this afternoon.’

  Russell studied the paper for a moment, then said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you with either of those matters, Mr Versi. Since Mr Manzoor has lodged a formal complaint against Sergeant Kolla, that matter will be taken up by the department that specialises in such cases. But I can assure you that they are taken very seriously indeed. As for the matter of your daughter, I believe that is in the hands of the local division. We are here purely in connection with investigations into the arrest and death of one Abu Khadra, about which we believe you may have information that can be of assistance to us. This is a very serious matter, Mr Vers
i, a murder investigation, and we cannot accept conditions upon your client’s cooperation.’

  Versi and Manzoor put their heads together for a moment, then Versi straightened and said, ‘My client is a very prominent and public-spirited citizen, Superintendent, and will be glad to provide whatever assistance he can. He only wishes to draw your attention to the extreme emotional and physical stress these other two matters are placing him under.’

  ‘That is understood.’ Russell nodded and turned to Brock. ‘Chief Inspector? Anything you’d like to add?’

  Brock gave a mild little cough and said, ‘No, no . . .’

  Russell turned back to address Manzoor.

  ‘. . . except . . .’ Brock smiled apologetically, ‘well, since Mr Manzoor mentions those other two matters together, there is one curious feature, although as you say, Superintendent, it has nothing to do with our case . . . May I?’ He reached over and picked up the photocopy of the warrant. ‘Ah, yes. Issued under Section nineteen of the Sexual Offences Act 1956, relating to the abduction of girls, on the basis of a statement on oath provided by the father.’

  ‘Yes?’ Versi looked at him curiously. ‘So?’

  ‘And witnessed by yourself, I see, Mr Versi.’

  ‘Certainly. What is your point please?’

  ‘Well, you’re the lawyer, so correct me if I’m wrong, but I understood Section nineteen of the Act related to the abduction of unmarried girls under the age of eighteen.’

  Brock was aware of Manzoor giving a little start.

  ‘That’s right.’ Versi nodded.

  ‘Well . . .’ Brock beamed, ‘of course, Mr Manzoor, of all people, will know the marital state of his daughter Nargis. It’s only that the very same Sergeant Kolla whom he refers to happened to mention to me only today something about getting a translation for a wedding certificate issued to a girl called Nargis in Kashmir. And if that were the case, of course, the issue of a fraudulent warrant on the basis of a perjured oath would be an extremely serious matter. But probably I’m getting confused with another Nargis, eh? Just a curious coincidence?’

  Manzoor was rigid in his seat, staring at Brock. Versi turned to him, puzzled.

  ‘Anyway,’ Brock went on cheerfully, ‘this is all completely irrelevant to what we’re here for. Those investigating the complaint against Sergeant Kolla will no doubt be interested in clearing up the confusion, if there is one, but we are not.’ He turned to Russell with an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, I’m wasting time.’

  Russell frowned, ‘Yes, I think we’d better stick to the point here, Brock.’

  ‘Em . . .’ Versi was glancing back and forward between Manzoor and Brock with a look of perplexity. ‘I wonder if I might have a moment with my client?’

  But Manzoor roused himself abruptly and said, ‘No, no. Let’s get this other thing out of the way and then we can be gone. I don’t feel well.’

  Versi said, ‘Mr Manzoor was given pills at the hospital.’

  ‘Of course,’ Russell conceded. ‘I have only a few simple questions to ask Mr Manzoor. It shouldn’t take long. Firstly, how long have you known the man Abu Khadra?’

  ‘I have never met him. The first time I heard of him was when he—’

  ‘You’re indicating Chief Inspector Brock?’

  ‘Yes, when he came to the mosque and asked for our help in finding this man.’

  ‘That was the Twaqulia Mosque in Shadwell Road on the evening of the twenty-fifth of January?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’d never heard Khadra’s name or seen him before then?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then why did you go to his funeral today, Mr Manzoor?’

  ‘Out of curiosity, that’s all.’

  ‘How did you find the way? The burial was deliberately kept confidential.’

  ‘I . . . I saw the others leaving Chandler’s Yard. I followed them.’

  ‘You saw some people leaving Chandler’s Yard and you thought, “Ah, they’re going to a funeral, I’ll just tag along”, eh?’

  Manzoor said nothing.

  ‘At the funeral you attempted to confront one of the mourners, your own daughter, as you have yourself just said. How did you know she would be there?’

  Versi said, ‘Superintendent, you have just said that Mr Manzoor’s daughter is another matter.’

  ‘But in this point she is relevant to my inquiries. I put it to you, Mr Manzoor, that you followed the funeral party because you knew that your daughter had been friends with Abu Khadra, and you expected her to go to the interment. Is that true?’

  Manzoor shook his head and said nothing.

  ‘You refuse to answer? Then let me also put another obvious conclusion to you, and that is that if you knew of Abu Khadra this afternoon, the second of February, then you also knew of him on the twenty-fifth of January, when DCI Brock came to the mosque.’

  ‘No!’ Manzoor snapped.

  ‘Oh, I think you did. You believed him to be her lover, didn’t you?’

  Versi had no idea where the policeman’s questions were leading, but it was clear to him that his client should say nothing until they did know, and he interrupted to say as much. But Russell could see that Manzoor was boiling with fury and frustration, so he merely nodded and said, ‘Yes, yes. I can imagine how difficult it must be for you, Mr Manzoor, with a runaway daughter and all that. I dare say you thought you were doing the right thing . . .’

  ‘The right thing!’ Manzoor exploded, banging a fist on the table. ‘Don’t you patronise me, sir! Don’t you talk about my daughter to me! You’re just trying to protect your own kind! I am attacked and humiliated in front of my brothers and my daughter by a racist policewoman and you do nothing but try to spin webs to protect her.’

  Russell snapped back hard, ‘But suppose you were wrong about Khadra, Mr Manzoor? Suppose he was nothing but a good friend to your daughter, and you got yourself worked up over nothing?’

  Manzoor’s eyes bulged with outrage at this sidestep. ‘No! He was her seducer! He corrupted and debauched her, my daughter, my beautiful Nargis.’

  ‘You’ve got no proof of that,’ Russell said dismissively.

  For a moment it seemed that Manzoor was tearing at his clothes, pulling off his jacket prior to a fight, but then he jerked a leather wallet out of an inside pocket and plucked out of it a colour photograph which he waved at the two policemen. ‘Proof?’ he yelled. ‘I have proof!’

  It was taken in a public swimming pool, Brock guessed, the background all black heads bobbing against blue water. In the foreground, leaning on the tiled edge, were Nargis and Abu, both dripping wet and grinning widely at the camera. She was wearing a bikini, and he had his brown arm round her shoulders, holding her close. They both looked very young and very happy.

  Russell and Brock examined it carefully while Versi argued in an agitated whisper with his client, trying to get on top of all this.

  ‘When was it taken?’ Russell asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Before . . .’

  ‘Before she was sent to Kashmir,’ Brock nodded, recognising the differences between the girl in the picture, softer, plumper, and the one who had drunk tea in his living room that afternoon.

  ‘Is that why you sent her away?’

  ‘No, no. I didn’t know then about this man.’

  ‘So how did you get this picture?’

  The rage had gone from Sanjeev Manzoor. He lowered his head and began to weep bitterly. ‘It came in the post.’

  ‘When was this?’

  He pulled a crisp white cotton handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes and nose. ‘The day he came to the mosque.’

  ‘You are indicating DCI Brock? So that would be Tuesday, the twenty-fifth of January. Do you know who sent it?’

  ‘No. There was nothing else, no letter, nothing.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘It was the first sign I had had of Nargis in three months. It broke my heart.’

  ‘And you felt very angry towards the man in the p
hotograph, Abu Khadra?’

  ‘I didn’t know his name, only that picture. Of course I was angry. I wanted to kill him.’

  ‘And that evening, after DCI Brock came to the mosque and showed you a picture of the same man and told you his name, you had the opportunity to do that, by telling the skinheads what to do. You stage-managed it didn’t you, Mr Manzoor? You directed the murder of the man you thought had corrupted your daughter.’

  16

  Kathy felt a new energy as she drove back to the women’s refuge that night, as if the discovery of the money under Nargis’ mattress had awakened some instinct for the hunt that had been missing until then. Perhaps it was the amount of the cash, thirty thousand as in thirty pieces of silver, that seemed so telling, but for the first time she felt a sense of reality about the crime and their dead suspect, as strong as if they had found the gun rather than money in the pouch. In fact more so, because the gun would have simply sealed Abu’s guilt and finished the story, whereas the money opened new questions and trails. About Nargis, for example, the beautiful, innocent Juliet mourning her killer Romeo. Even if she hadn’t pried into Abu’s belongings when he was alive, he had been dead now for ten days and it seemed inconceivable she hadn’t known that she was sleeping on all that cash. Kathy just hoped she could find out before the CIB caught up with her.

  Nargis and Briony were washing up some plates in the kitchen when Kathy arrived. She told them that she had to ask Nargis a few additional questions, and explained that she would have to do it in the formal setting of the local police station, where a proper record of their interview could be made. Briony began to object that her friend had gone through enough that day, but Nargis said it was OK. She seemed quite calm and answered Kathy’s questions about the refuge in her soft little voice as they drove.

  Since Nargis was still a juvenile, Kathy had arranged for a social worker to be present for the interview, and when the three of them were seated in the small interview room, Kathy cautioned the girl and explained her rights, then began to ask her about her relationship with Abu.

  ‘You first met him how long ago, Nargis?’