by Anne Coates
They ate in the kitchen. “You still haven’t told me whatever it is that’s off the record.” Hannah was intrigued.
“We’ve found the ring. Amalia’s ring.”
“That’s brilliant! Have you told the family yet?” Hannah could imagine it would be difficult news for the Kumars.
“No, we’re hanging fire at the moment. The ring was sold in a pub, The Nags Head in Peckham.”
“How did you get it?”
“The young woman it was given to contacted us.”
“What took her so long?”
Claudia looked pensive. “She had an accident. Fell down the stairs and nearly lost her baby.”
“Oh heavens. It was an accident though?”
“Yes, she caught her heel in a worn stair carpet.”
“That’s a relief.”
If Claudia thought that was an odd comment she didn’t say so. “I was ready for that.” She had finished the curry and reached for her wine and sat back in her chair.
“So was I, thank you. Shall we take our wine through to the sitting room?”
Once there Hannah asked, “So what are you going to do about the ring?”
“I went to The Nags Head yesterday with Mike Benton. Apparently the guy who sold the ring is a regular and often sells things ‘off the back of a lorry’. So he’s unlikely to be our killer. But we have his name. He seems to move around a lot so the address we have may be out of date. But it’s only a matter of time before we find him and then maybe Amalia’s killers.”
“So you’re keeping quiet about the ring until you’ve seen this guy.”
“Exactly.” Claudia refilled their glasses.
“Claudia, I need to ask you something. Do you know who interviewed Paul Montague before you?”
Claudia looked genuinely perplexed. “I wasn’t aware that anyone else had. Why do you ask?”
“It’s complicated.” Hannah was unsure how much she should reveal. “I was told that Paul’s death was made to look like suicide but that he had been killed.”
“That’s not entirely implausible. I can make a few enquiries and see where that leads.” She topped up their glasses. “Also, I was wondering if you’d come up with anything about Asian girls going missing?”
Hannah decided she could play poker too. “Not much, I’m afraid. A few mentions in local papers that no one has followed up.”
And with that Claudia had to be satisfied. She left soon after.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Hannah was furious. The bins hadn’t been emptied – again – and the woman she had spoken to when she had rung the council was patronising at best. Hannah was careful with her waste. Anything to do with work, plus credit card and bank statements, were systematically shredded. She had been warned to do this.
She couldn’t help smiling at the memory of a man she caught going through her bin a few weeks ago. She would have loved to have seen his face when he discovered the number of used nappies facing him.
“Can I help you?” she’d asked as she arrived at her house, quite late at night. There were no lights visible from the house and she knew that Janet, babysitting, would be in the dining room, using the table to cut out the pattern of a dress she was making for her mother.
The man, not in the least embarrassed, straightened up and looked at her. “Shouldn’t think so, love. I threw something into your bin as I was passing and my watch fell off at the same time. I was fishing it out.” He held up his watch by the strap and smiled as he replaced the lid.
Hannah had to hand it to him, he carried it off brilliantly and just wandered off up the road. But she noticed he’d surreptitiously removed a latex glove as he was talking.
Rory had warned her that someone was snooping around and asking questions about her. He assumed it was another newspaper looking for a story but Hannah wasn’t so sure, especially since Judy had also warned her someone was trying to dig the dirt on her. She’d upset so many faceless people… people who had power and the means for retribution.
Thinking about the lack of waste collection she contemplated dumping a bag of nappies on the council office doorstep.
However she had bigger fish to fry and needed to go into The News office. As she was packing her briefcase, the telephone rang. Hannah grabbed the receiver just before the call went through to answerphone.
“Is that Ms Weybridge? Hannah Weybridge?” The voice was beautifully modulated with just a hint of an accent that suggested English wasn’t her mother tongue.
“Yes, it is.” Hannah waited.
“My name is Naaz Kaur, my cousin, Alesha, gave me your telephone number.”
Hannah silently thanked Alesha who had wasted no time. “Thank you for calling Ms Kaur. I expect Alesha told you something of our conversation?”
“Yes she did. I would very much like to meet up with you and discuss this.”
“So would I. When would be convenient for you?”
They arranged to meet when Naaz finished for the day in a coffee shop just off Chancery Lane where she worked as an articled clerk.
Although the prospect of meeting up with Naaz Kaur had improved Hannah’s mood somewhat she was still feeling out of sorts. Rory was doing his best to help.
“What you need, my girl, is to get out more.”
“Oh yes, Mr Agony Aunt, and what do you suggest?”
“We’ve had some comp tickets sent in for Arcadia at the Wyndham Theatre and they have your name on them. For tomorrow.”
“But…”
“No buts. Have an evening out. Do something normal – something that you used to love doing.”
Hannah didn’t ask how he knew what she used to love doing nor did she mention the fact that she wouldn’t know who to invite to go with her, especially at such short notice. It was embarrassing. And it brought back memories of all the times she and Liz went to see plays together. “Sorry I can’t go tomorrow. Perhaps one of the subs could use them?”
Rory looked exasperated. “Please yourself.”
Naaz Kaur stood up as Hannah entered the café. She was tall and slim; her sleek ebony hair was loose and seemed to caress her shoulders. Her dark eyes were lined with kohl and she looked as exotic as anyone could, wearing a dark grey business suit and a white shirt. She held out her hand.
“Hannah, I’m very pleased to meet you. My cousin has told me a lot about you and, of course, I know you by repute.”
Her handshake was firm, her hand warm. Hannah returned her smile.
“It’s very good of you to meet with me.”
“Well, we have a common aim, I believe. Coffee?”
“Please.” Naaz ordered two coffees and then produced a file from her briefcase.
“As you know I am training to be a solicitor.” Hannah nodded. “And I also volunteer for a charity which works with mainly young Asian women – girls – who find themselves pressured into marriage, often to a much older man they have never met before.” Naaz paused to sip her coffee, which had just arrived.
“So what does your charity do exactly?”
“For extreme cases we have a refuge. This is especially for girls who’ve run away from home. For many we act as advocates. We also mediate for families who are put under immense pressure to marry off their daughters when they don’t want to.”
“Have you had contact with Alesha’s other cousin? The one who’s missing?”
“I can’t discuss individual cases…”
Hannah stared at her for a moment. “I wonder why Alesha didn’t ask you about her rather than contact me.”
“She did. That’s all I can say.”
Hannah let that drop for the moment. “I really would appreciate your help. I’ve been researching how some Asian girls are kept off school to look after siblings as well as their younger cousins.” Hannah watched her face. “Alesha’s teacher is a friend of mine and she was worried about a particular girl.”
Naaz said nothing.
“This is a long shot, but I’ve also been asked
to look into the circumstances surrounding an Asian girl who drowned near where I live. At first everyone thought it was suicide but it looks as though it could be murder. Although there seems to be no reason or motive for either.”
Naaz nodded. She wrote something on a piece of paper and passed it to Hannah. “My telephone number.” What she had actually written was: We can’t talk about that here. Perhaps I could visit you?
Hannah handed Naaz her business card. “All my details are here.”
Hannah stood up. The other woman pushed the folder towards her. “Don’t forget your file.”
“Thanks.” Hannah tucked it into her own briefcase. “I’ll be in touch. I’m getting a cab; can I give you a lift anywhere?”
“No thank you, I’m meeting someone for dinner.”
“Enjoy your evening.” And with that Hannah left the café and hailed a passing taxi. She wanted to get home before Elizabeth went to bed. And she also wanted to examine the file Naaz had given her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Naaz had included some anonymous quotes from young women who had been abused, with a note that said that Hannah was welcome to use them. She began reading a long, well written account by one of the women who’d ended up in a refuge:
“I didn’t see the slap coming. The sound of it echoed in the silence between us. My cheek was stinging and felt red hot. I was sure there’d be a mark, my mother-in-law’s disapproval branding me. My sin? I had asked to visit my own mother the next day. It was her birthday and everyone would expect me to be there.
“‘You can go next week,’ she said and nothing I could say would change her mind. ‘I am your mother now and you will follow my wishes. And my wish is for you to prepare the house and food for when my daughters visit tomorrow.’
“The irony of the situation was obviously lost on my husband’s mother. The violence of the slap guaranteed my silence. I lowered my head so that she’d think she’d won and would not be able to see how much I despised her.
“I vowed I would get away from this evil woman as soon as I could. Nothing had prepared me for this marriage. And I can’t understand why no one had helped me. Why my parents had allowed this to happen.
“I had to hand over all my wages to my husband who gave me a small allowance. So every other day I went without lunch at work so I could save the money. If I could, I’d sneak some food out of the fridge to take with me. If she noticed she probably thought it was her sons eating the chapatis or naan that went missing.
“Fatima Khan rules that household. Her husband rarely says a word. Her two sons, Rahim and my husband Dewli rarely speak against their mother. If they do there is all hell to pay. Both usually opt for the easy life. I don’t know how she manages to control the whole family in such a despotic way. She assumes her own right to rule – as a woman – but treats her two daughters-in-law as unpaid servants. On the other hand, her own two daughters are treated like royalty when they visit. It makes no sense.
“My mother-in-law stroked the cheek she had just struck so violently and I couldn’t help wincing. It still hurt. ‘If you work well, I will allow you to telephone your mother tomorrow.’ She smiled. ‘You see how generous I am.’
“‘Yes Mama, thank you,’ I replied. The telephone was on the side table in the hall. Locked as it always was. Only Fatima had the key – even the males of the household had to ask to make a call. I had tried to explain this to my parents, so my mother had attempted to solve the problem by ringing me. Numerous times I heard Fatima say ‘Rana is not at home.’
“Well Rana wouldn’t be at home for much longer.”
Hannah paused in her reading of Rana’s account of what had happened just before she managed to escape her husband’s home and take refuge in one of the charity’s safe houses. It was just one of many accounts Naaz had included. The next one sent a chill through Hannah.
“I went to the police. I told them that they were planning to kill my sister-in-law. They didn’t take me seriously. But my mother-in-law listened. She knew. She locked me in a room and refused to let me out. I was there for four weeks. When she let me out to go back to work, my sister-in-law was gone. I never went back.”
Naaz had given her facts and figures, which included the number of young married women who had fled the marital home where they had been abused and treated like servants – usually by a physically abusive mother-in-law. Hannah wondered about this. After all they, at one time, had been the new daughter-in-law who had presumably lived in fear and trepidation.
Obviously all families were not like this as Naaz had noted. She couldn’t give percentages but it was enough that her charity ran safe houses. Hannah also saw that some of their clients went missing.
How was the charity funded? Hannah couldn’t find anything on the Internet and so emailed a request to the cuttings library at The News to see if that brought up anything. They would presumably have to be registered somewhere. Then she saw that Naaz had indeed included a pamphlet on the charity that she’d overlooked. The trustees were listed. Surprisingly various religious groups supported their work including high profile Imams and Sikh leaders which Hannah found reassuring, as she’d heard that some leaders were deaf to the plight of these young women. And then it hit her. There listed among the trustees was Sunita Kumar. Now that was an interesting connection.
Would The News publish the story she felt brewing inside her, waiting to be written? This was so much more than schoolgirls missing lessons. How much had Linda known when she broached her about the subject? Not as much as she may have thought, Hannah guessed.
She stretched her legs on the sofa and pulled her dressing gown around her a little more tightly. She’d been reading for so long that the heating and gone off but she didn’t want to move and risk disturbing the thoughts that were assembling in her mind. She scribbled some more in her notebook and as she paused she inhaled the fragrance of freesia.
There it was again. Freesia. Her favourite flower. It felt like a benediction. She smiled at that word. Was she being blessed?
Having read the experiences of these young women she had nothing but gratitude for her own life. How would she have fared with all these cards stacked against her? Inevitably Caroline came to mind and the Somali girls – none of whom she met, of course. It felt like a one-woman crusade. But of course it wasn’t. There were always other people supporting her. Other journalists would also be waiting to take up the baton. And other newspapers had continued to expose the plight of the Somali girls trafficked to the UK.
However that did nothing to dispel her fears. Sometimes she felt so alone. Lonely, a small voice said. The house was quiet; Elizabeth sleeping soundly upstairs. But there was no one to share a simple evening at home with.
Hannah metaphorically shook herself and gathered up the papers and file she had been reading and took them to her study. Her computer was still on, so she dialled up the Internet to see if there were any emails for her.
There was one from Simon Ryan inviting her to the interment of Patrick’s ashes at Southwark Cathedral. “It would mean very much to me if you are able to be there, Hannah. I appreciate it may resurrect unpleasant memories …”
Unpleasant memories. That was an understatement. All her memories of Patrick were tainted with what had happened to Liz and then his own murder. Not to mention the horrors inflicted upon her and her family. But maybe it would help. Who knew? She sent a reply to say she’d be there and looked forward to seeing Simon again.
Hannah took her notebook with her to bed. She found that reading through notes before sleep often produced a good opening sentence in the morning – if not during the night. Her insomnia hadn’t improved. Just something she lived with now. But the scent of freesia had relaxed her and she fell asleep quickly.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Hannah decided her best way forward as far as the newspaper was concerned was to write a series of articles starting with the education aspect and the problem of Asian girls’ absenteeism. She was goin
g to use Linda’s comments, which had started all this, anonymously. Her ‘interviews’ with Joe couldn’t be used unless she contacted the people concerned. The main one – or rather the one she wanted to quote – was the head teacher at Claymore School for Girls.
Taking a deep breath she rang the school and asked to speak to Jacqueline Bishop, expecting to be told to call back; but she was put through straight away.
She had decided that honesty was the best policy so introduced herself and continued, “You may remember I accompanied Joe Rawlington on a visit to your school.”
“Yes indeed. I thought I knew you from somewhere.” That surprised Hannah. She hadn’t given her name then and she couldn’t remember ever meeting Mrs Bishop. “I saw you at the launch of The Elizabeth Rayman Trust. I happen to know Lady Rayman through our work with another charity. It’s a small world. But no matter. Everything I said that day I stand by, and it can be used for public consumption. I would appreciate seeing any quotes before you go to press. But it’s a subject close to my heart so any publicity …”
“Thank you very much. Could I have your email address to send you the copy?”
Hannah was surprised to be let off so lightly. She thought the head would have said something about gaining information under false pretences. Good for her. She’d forgive the woman her weird fashion sense and thought she was someone she’d want on her side when the chips were down. She smiled to herself at the positive reach of The Elizabeth Rayman Trust.
The article had shaped up nicely but she wondered how her colleagues – and more importantly the editor – would regard it. She had only hinted at girls going missing. That would be the next article. And she managed to get a good word in for Joe and his campaign. Jacqueline Bishop had okayed the copy.
The phone rang. Rory sounded strange. “Hannah, you know the new MP for Streatham West, Joe Rawlington, don’t you?”
“Yes, we were at university together. Why?”
