by Ruth Rendell
‘Kingsmarkham Crime Management. This is Detective Sergeant Goldsmith. Can you tell me if you’re employing a Tamima Rahman at any of your branches? R-A-H-MA-N.’
‘I’ll check.’
In the days when such information was kept in files she would have had to call Hannah back. As it was she didn’t even have to ask her to hold the line. She knew within thirty seconds. ‘No, we don’t employ anyone of that name.’
Hannah was always thorough. ‘Would you check again, please?’
The second check afforded no different data. Hannah’s next call was to Mrs Qasi. Her tone was waspish. ‘Don’t ask me. I haven’t seen Tamima since she left here. I’ve told you. She’s living with Jacqueline and Clare in Wandsworth.’
As soon as the words were out Faduma Qasi realised she had inadvertently let out Tamima’s place of residence. Using a wheedling tone usually foreign to her, Hannah asked if Mrs Qasi could, please, be more specific.
Tamima’s aunt hesitated – or had she put the receiver down?
‘Are you there, Mrs Qasi?’
‘Oh, well, I suppose it won’t do any harm. Mancunia Road, Wandsworth, SW18. It’s number 46.’
‘Thank you very much.’
While she had been checking on supermarkets, Damon Coleman had also been round the shops. When Wexford was young, engaged to Alison, Kingsmarkham’s men had only one shop in which to buy their clothes, an old-fashioned (even then) outfitters in the centre of the high street. This was Prior’s, where women also bought skirts and suits and their children’s school uniform. Now there were six, one of them in the rundown Kingsbrook Centre, one (very trendy) in York Street, the rest in the high street where Prior’s still held a pre-eminent place but under its new name, minus the apostrophe, of Priors Prime of Life. Damon went there first and met with no success. The smart place in York Street was no help and nor was Young Adult three shops along from Priors. The last shop he visited was called Heyday, its window full of jeans, sweaters, baseball caps, heavy metal-studded belts and Wild West ten-gallon hats.
No, Mr Targo hadn’t bought anything there on the afternoon in question but they knew him. He wasn’t what you’d call a regular customer but he had bought a couple of pairs of jeans there, one pair two or three weeks before.
‘You’re a snappy dresser, Damon,’ Wexford said. ‘Is that expression still used?’
‘Not so far as I know, sir.’
‘You’d know. Let’s say you care how you look. Would you leave the country with only the clothes you stood up in?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. But then I wouldn’t be fleeing from justice, would I?’
‘Fleeing’ was hardly the word. Shilly-shallying, loitering, hanging about, would be more appropriate. Targo hadn’t even been shopping. Surely if you embarked on a flight without a suitcase full of clothes, Wexford thought, you would only do so because you’d find clothes at your destination. Not necessarily in the shops of some foreign city but because you kept them there in a friend’s home. He phoned Mavis Targo.
‘My daughter? Lois? He wouldn’t go to her. The only time they met they didn’t get on. It was here and she’s allergic to dogs. She only stayed one night but I had to lock the dogs up and you can imagine the sort of fuss Eric made.’
‘Just the same, I’d like her phone number, please.’
‘What time is it? 2 p.m.? Well, it’s only seven where she lives. I’ll give you the number but you’ll have to wait till a more civilised hour.’
Wexford didn’t bother with civilised hours but called Mrs Lois Lidgett in Colorado Springs five minutes later. Her ‘I wouldn’t have him in the house’ had a familiar ring. He remembered that Adele Thompson had said she wouldn’t be in the same room with Targo and Mrs Rahman wouldn’t allow his dog to cross the threshold.
People had been telling him over the years that a good way to think clearly was to go for a walk. If you sat down in a chair and tried to think the chances were you’d go to sleep. First put the monster in the box, he thought. Throw the box away – but he couldn’t do that, it was the monster he had to think about. He had always considered walking as therapeutic in that if you did enough of it it would use up some of the calories you put in by means of red wine, cashew nuts, Chinese food, fruit pies and snacks. Might it also be beneficial in a psychological way? That is, affect the mind so that it concentrated on the problem in hand?
Beautiful the botanical gardens were no longer. Or perhaps it was only the time of year, the untidiest time when lawns are brown with scattered leaves and a few dying roses linger on straggly bushes. The tropical house had become a coffee bar, the pinetum had been vandalised by those such as the Molloy gang and the rare trees enclosure turned into a (seldom used) children’s playground with swings and see-saws. The grass was too wet to walk on so he kept first to the main drive, then turned off along a path between lawns shaded by great cedars and beeches shedding copper-coloured leaves.
A woman was coming towards him and because he was always aware of women’s fear when encountering a lone man in a lonely place, he took a few steps off the path on to the wet turf. He smelt her scent, then heard her say, ‘Keep off the grass, Reg. Do you remember saying that to me before these gardens were here?’
He had no idea who she was, a tall thin woman, very upright, white hair piled on her head in a chignon. Unrecognisable – yet she had recognised him.
‘Why did I say that?’
‘Most of those words weren’t needed, you said. Cut out “keep” first and you get “off the grass,” then “the” which isn’t necessary, finally “grass” because what else? You’ve just got “off” left and that says it all. I’ve never forgotten it. You don’t know who I am, do you?’
He did now. ‘Yes, Alison, of course I do. How are you? Tell me you don’t live here and I couldn’t have seen you all these years.’
She laughed. ‘I live in France. I lost my first husband and married a Frenchman. I’m here because my mother died. She was immensely old but it’s still awful, it’s still a shock.’
‘Let’s walk,’ he said.
They went back the way he had come. So much for thinking and concentrating on his problem. He was telling her about his life, his children, his grandchildren, when she took his arm and, looking down at her right hand resting on his sleeve, he saw the ring she wore on her third finger. It was the engagement ring he had given her when he was twenty-one and she had kept when he offered it. He looked at it and she saw him look but neither of them said anything.
At the gates she said, ‘I’m staying at the Olive. Where else? Back to France tomorrow on the Eurostar.’
‘Goodbye, my dear,’ he said and he took her in his arms and kissed her. She walked away, waving once.
Back to the police station and back to earth. DS Goldsmith, he was told, had gone to London in pursuit of Tamima Rahman but was expected back shortly. He felt vaguely annoyed. He had told her to have one more go at finding Tamima’s whereabouts. Perhaps it was that word ‘shortly’ which irritated him. What was wrong with ‘soon’? He was trying to do the thinking which the fortuitous meeting with Alison had put an end to, when Burden walked in frowning, the corners of his mouth turned down. He seldom swore but he did now.
‘That bloody lion’s escaped.’
‘What?’
‘King or whatever it’s called, it’s escaped. Mavis Targo’s been on. She went to feed it and it got out.’
‘For God’s sake, Mike. When did this happen?’
‘Early this morning. She was scared to tell us, thought it might come back of its own accord. She phoned the RSPCA first and then something called the Feline Foundation, then us. We were a poor third. The media haven’t got it yet but they will without help from us. I’ve been on to Myringham Zoo and they’ve got someone coming over, their Big Cats expert apparently.’
‘How did it get out?’
‘Well, normally, she says, she wouldn’t go into its enclosure. Targo does and apparently he strokes the thing. She throws half
a side of lamb or whatever over the wire – he hangs it on that hook thing – only she missed and it caught on the top. She unlocked the gate, went in and tried to reach it but failed. The lion was in its cave. She fetched a pair of steps to climb up, forgetting that the gate was unlocked. When she came back the gate was open and she saw the lion out in the meadow where the muntjac deer are. She was so frightened she ran back to the house, locked herself in and drank some brandy. I don’t know what she hoped for, some miracle, some waking up from a nightmare maybe, but it wasn’t till half an hour ago that she phoned us.’
Wexford’s phone was ringing. He picked it up.
‘Kingsmarkham Courier here. Lionel Smith speaking. What can you tell us about this escaped lion?’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The widespread publicity was welcomed by Wexford. If anything could bring Targo back, this might. The news that his wife was missing or one of his children would very likely leave him indifferent, but the loss of one of his precious pets would be a major disaster in his life.
Of course the story figured mostly in the British media but Damon Coleman found, via the World Wide Web, references to it in French, German and Spanish newspapers. Bulls might stampede through the streets, wandering bears terrorise the unwary or animals resembling a lynx be spotted on the moors, but this was a lion, a man-eater, truly the king of the beasts. British newspapers loved it. The Sun’s front page was all lion, a magnificent full-page photograph under the single word headline ESCAPED! Whether this was a picture of King hardly mattered. One lion is very much like another and this one had the recognised leonine attributes, a noble head, a flowing mane and a powerful muscular torso. The Guardian scooped with a photograph of Targo inside his lion’s cage, the animal standing six feet away from him. Mavis must have dug that out of her archives, Wexford thought. He liked the Daily Mail’s version best, its headline A DOUBLE FLIT with a picture of Targo jogging in shorts, T-shirt and scarf and another of some unnamed lion crouching and poised to spring.
Kingsmarkham filled with reporters and photographers, all hoping, Wexford said, for King to emerge from his hiding place to attack and devour some unsuspecting citizen, preferably in public, preferably a woman and preferably a blonde.
Burden laughed. ‘I don’t know about “unsuspecting”. The whole place is galvanised with terror. Down the high street half the shops aren’t opening. Their staff haven’t come in to work. There’s no one about on foot but the traffic’s heavier than usual. Everyone who’s got a car is out in it.’
‘He’ll come back, won’t he, Mike? He won’t be afraid of the wretched beast not being found. He’ll be afraid of it being seen and shot.’
‘What good would his coming back do? He’ll no more know where his lion is than we do.’
‘Maybe not. But you say that because you can’t imagine being as attached to any animal the way Targo is to that lion. And to his dogs, come to that. If you were abroad and one of your children was missing you’d come home, wouldn’t you?’
‘Well, of course,’ said Burden. ‘But that’s different. They’re my children and they’re human beings.’
‘It’s not different for Targo. He’s got children too but his animals are more important to him. Always have been. Once, long ago, I saw him smile fondly at his son Alan. Not because he felt tenderly towards the boy but because the boy was being specially nice to his spaniel. I think he’ll come back.’
‘The Big Cats bloke’s told me he’ll shoot it with an anaesthetic dart if he gets the chance. The trouble is he knows how it’s done but he’s had no experience of actually doing it. The chap from the Feline Foundation’s got a twelve-bore and a licence for it. That was the first thing I asked. He doesn’t want to have to use it but he will if it’s a matter of saving human lives. I hope they don’t have to kill the poor thing.’
‘So do I,’ said Wexford.
At the last minute Hannah had decided to take Jenny Burden with her to Wandsworth if Jenny would come. She would and the two women set off for London in Hannah’s car, threading their way through late-afternoon traffic but finding Mancunia Road, which abutted on to Wandsworth Common, without difficulty.
The flat was the top one in a Victorian terraced house. The nameplate under the bell said Clare Cooper and Jacquie Clarke.
‘I expected to take longer getting here,’ Hannah said. ‘We may be in for a long wait.’
She had parked rather nervously on a space where a ticket from a machine on the pavement was required. Or that was how it seemed. Things were very different from what prevailed in Kingsmarkham. The horrors of possibly having her car clamped had occurred to Hannah even before she got here. But she put her coins into the machine and a ticket emerged, entitling her to park for two hours. She and Jenny went up the steps to the front door of number 46 and rang Clare Cooper and Jacquie CIarke’s bell. Rather to their surprise a voice answered, said it was Clare Cooper and would open the door. Hannah felt sure their luck wouldn’t hold and she was right.
A tall fair-haired young woman admitted them to the light and airy flat. She looked for rather a long time and with great interest at Hannah’s warrant card. ‘Tamima’s not here,’ she said. ‘She left – oh, a week ago at least.’
‘What, just left?’ Hannah said. ‘On her own? Where did she go?’
‘Home to her parents, I suppose. I didn’t ask. She’s Jacquie’s cousin. I never met her before she came here. She tried to get a job in a supermarket, I do know that, but she didn’t get it. That was when she started going out every evening with some boy. I think Jacquie saw him but I don’t really know. Anyway, she said she was leaving and she packed her cases and went.’
‘When will Jacquie be home?’ Jenny asked.
‘Not till Monday. She’s gone away for the weekend.’
They hadn’t come near to using up the allotted two hours’ car parking. They sat inside the car, at a loss for what to do next.
‘She’s definitely not at home with her parents,’ Hannah said. ‘I spoke to Mohammed Rahman this morning. He was a bit cold with me but there’s no doubt she wasn’t there. He said she’d be home for Eid ul-Adha, whenever that is.’ She caught herself up and blushed. She had done the unforgivable thing, the counter-PC thing and spoken in a disparaging tone, if not in disparaging words, of a time-honoured Islamic tradition. ‘I mean, she’ll home for a holy festival.’
‘Then where is she now?’
‘I don’t know. Do you think we should go over to Kingsbury and see if Mrs Qasi can tell us anything?’
‘It’s miles,’ said Jenny rather dismally. ‘It’s not so much the distance as going right through central London in the rush hour. But it’s not for me to say. You’re the one that’s driving.’
Hannah never let a little difficulty like driving through London at five in the afternoon on a Friday put her off. ‘That’s OK. Let’s go.’
It took a very long time. Hannah would no more have talked on her mobile while at the wheel than she would have parked on a double yellow line. She gave the phone to Jenny and told her Mrs Qasi’s number. By this time they were crossing Wandsworth Bridge so almost committed to going northwards. And Faduma Qasi was at home. Her tone sounded amused when she told Jenny that of course they could come. She would be delighted to see them and would get tea ready.
‘I thought she was going to start laughing,’ Jenny said. ‘It was really very odd. ‘I could almost think there was a conspiracy going on between all these people to keep Tamima hidden somewhere.’
‘Not “almost”. I expect there is. What did that Clare woman mean by “out with some boy”? Tell me if what I’m saying is too far-fetched but it’s not a forced marriage I’m thinking of now. It’s an honour killing.’
Jenny was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘There was a story in the paper yesterday about some Indian widow who’d committed sati and thrown herself on her husband’s funeral pyre with all the relatives standing round.’
‘It’s “become” sati, not “com
mit”,’ Hannah corrected her, ‘and it’s Hindus who do that, not Muslims. It’s been against the law for about two hundred years.’
‘Come to that, honour killings are against the law but they happen.’
‘I know.’
Next day Hannah managed to see Faduma Qasi again and this time she went alone. As had happened the day before, Mrs Qasi refused to discuss Tamima and her questions met with silence. Not, of course, absolute silence, for Mrs Qasi, once more offering tea or coffee or, with a half-amused glance, Oloroso sherry, was happy to talk about the weather, a small earthquake in Pakistan and the long hours of fasting she and her family observed at Ramadan. But when Hannah took the conversation on to the subject of Tamima, she said she really couldn’t discuss family matters.
‘You seemed quite willing to talk about her the first time I came.’
‘Yes. Perhaps that was a mistake on my part. I’ve reason to believe my brother objects very strongly to his private affairs being discussed.’
‘If it’s a matter of breaking the law, Mrs Qasi,’ said Hannah, ‘these aren’t his private affairs. I’ve reason to believe Tamima has antagonised her family by meeting a young man her father and mother can’t accept and that they may take steps to stop it.’
‘I really can’t say.’
‘Perhaps you can say where she is now. Clare Cooper, your other niece’s flatmate, told me she was no longer living with them. She hasn’t succeeded in getting a job. She isn’t at home in Kingsmarkham. Clare mentioned some involvement with a boy. Tamima is only sixteen years old.’
‘I know nothing about this.’ Faduma Qasi got up. ‘I think you should go.’
Hannah had no choice about it and she went. But every word on the subject that Mrs Qasi had uttered increased her anxieties. The picture that formed before her eyes was as yet only of Tamima imprisoned, Tamima in the home of some relative unknown to Hannah, not restrained to the point of being tied up like an animal, but possibly locked in a bedroom belonging to this jailer until she ‘came to her senses’. The boy she was involved with must surely be Rashid Hanif and it was to the Hanifs’ house that Hannah went as soon as she was back in the Kingsmarkham neighbourhood.
