Anonymous Sources

by Mary Louise Kelly

  “Can you be more specific about what his research here focused on?”

  Now she looked at me suspiciously. “I’m sorry, tell me again what exactly this is regarding?” I had told her my name and that I needed to speak to Siddiqui on a professional matter.

  “I’m with an American company and I’m doing research.” Which was true, if not exactly the entire truth.

  “Well, I’m not sure I can help any further. I didn’t know him well, to be honest. He kept to himself and he wasn’t here for long. Although sometimes we chatted a bit in German. He speaks German beautifully, did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Then I pressed her: “I know you gave me his address here, and thank you for that. But his landlady says he’s moved out and she doesn’t have a way to contact him. Would you have any other information? Perhaps an e-mail address?”

  “I can’t give that out. But I tell you what. I’ll get you the number for the coordinator who helped arrange the exchange. Okay? And if he wants to put you in touch, he can.”

  She turned and started to walk toward a set of double doors. I followed her.

  “No. Just wait here, please.”

  A few minutes went by and then the phone on the receptionist’s desk rang. The receptionist answered and scribbled down a message. She tore the paper off her pad and waved it at me. “Dr. Juette said to give you this. I’m afraid she’s going to be tied up for the rest of the day.”

  Smart woman. I looked at the paper. It had a name and a number starting with 00 92. An international dialing code. Pakistan, presumably.

  AT MY NEXT STOP I got a much warmer reception.

  Mrs. George Forsyth laid out tea and cakes, insisted on making fresh cucumber-and-butter sandwiches, and generally fussed about as if she’d been expecting me for weeks.

  “How kind of you to call,” she said, beaming at me. “Nadeem is such a nice boy. Very polite. He’s a Muslim, you know, but one mustn’t judge.”

  I tried not to choke on my tea. “Right. Yes. Mrs. Forsyth, how long did he live here with you?”

  “Let’s see. He must have come in March. Yes. So just a short while. Since Mr. Forsyth passed away—God rest his soul—I’ve let out the two top rooms. It brings in a bit of pocket money, and it’s nice to have the company. I try to pick quiet ones, but sometimes it’s hard to tell what they’ll be like. Do you know Nadeem well?”

  I decided to risk the truth. “No. I’ve never met him, actually. I’m a reporter and I want to interview him for a story.”

  “That’s nice, dear.” She didn’t seem fazed. “Is it a fitness story?”

  “A—a fitness story? Um, no. Not precisely. Why do you ask that?”

  “Just that he was so sporty. Dearie me, always getting up early to go exercise. Weight-lifting nonsense.” She raised a plump arm and pretended to make a muscle. “And then of course all that fruit he liked to eat. I baked this cake with the last of his bananas.” She pointed enthusiastically at my plate.

  “Oh.” I looked down. It was excellent banana bread.

  “Mind you, I’ve baked enough banana cakes to last a lifetime,” she chattered on. “I’ll have gained two stone before they’re all gone. And the freezer’s still stuffed with them.”

  I tried to steer the conversation back to Siddiqui. “You said he liked to get up early. Did he have friends he exercised with? Anyone you remember coming round?”

  “No, no, I told you. No one ever visited when he actually lived here.” She giggled. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to see his room, too?”

  I followed her up the stairs. It was an ordinary room. Single bed, a desk and chair, a small sink in the corner. No books on the shelves. Everything wiped clean. I sighed. This had been a dead end too.

  Mrs. Forsyth was staring out the window. “I do wish they would hurry up and collect that crate,” she tutted. “It’s been there nearly two weeks this time.”

  I followed her gaze. Near the back of the forlorn-looking garden sat a huge wooden packing crate. It was nearly the size of a car.

  “Furniture delivery?”

  “No, bless him, that’s the bananas.”

  “The bananas?”

  “The delivery crate for the bananas. He got them every few weeks. I told you. I don’t know how he ate as many as he did.”

  “But—you don’t mean—that entire crate was full of bananas?” I stared. “But that must hold hundreds of them. Thousands, even. Where were they from?”

  “Pakistan, of course. He said bananas in the shops here don’t taste the same. He likes the Pakistani ones he grew up with. And they won’t ship just a few bunches at a time.” She smiled fondly, as if recalling a wayward child. “They are really splendid bananas, I must say. I just wish he’d chucked out that box before he went.”

  On my way out I peeked over the garden wall at the crate. It must have been five feet high and eight feet long. On the top it was stamped KARACHI, PAKISTAN. On the side was this logo:

  Habibi Farms—Pakistan’s Finest Produce. No one can beat the taste of our fruits!

  20

  There are two ways to make Hyde Rawlins happy, so far as I can tell.

  The first is a very good, very cold bottle of sauvignon blanc. The second is a very good, very well-reported story that he can run on the front page of his newspaper.

  Unfortunately I was not in a position to produce either today.

  By four o’clock I forced myself to stop procrastinating and call him.

  “Hyde Rawlins,” he answered.

  “Hi, Hyde.”

  “Ms. James. Is that you? How are you? Where are you? Except . . . that can’t possibly be you. Because you’re on a plane right now flying back here to Boston. Aren’t you?”

  “Actually, I couldn’t make that flight. I had to go see Petronella this morning, and then I got some leads to chase here.”

  “You had to go see Petronella?”

  “You remember, Thom’s girlfriend. Except I’m not sure we can really call her that. Since she dumped him, or so she says. But she’s flying over for the funeral anyway.”

  “Is she now? What a novel idea. Flying over for the funeral, I mean. I seem to remember giving someone a direct order to do exactly that. A reporter, as I recall. Does that ring any bells?”

  “Yes. And I’m sorry. But couldn’t someone on the national desk do it? I mean, is anyone there actually likely to say much? We won’t be able to get close to the family. And I wanted to chase down these leads over here.”

  Hyde sighed long-sufferingly. I could picture him removing his reading glasses, running his fingers through his silver hair. “I see,” he said finally. “Tell me about these wonderful leads.”

  “Well. I’m trying to find out about a man named Nadeem Siddiqui. He was at the party Thom hosted last Monday night. He seems to be an unusual character. I met his landlady. He ordered enormous—I mean really, really huge—crates of bananas delivered from Pakistan. Someplace called Habibi Farms.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “He’s a nuclear physicist. Also, and I’m not sure if this is relevant, but Petronella ran into him in Thom’s room yesterday. He wasn’t supposed to be in there. Somehow he’d gotten in without a key and was nosing around.”

  I carried on for several more minutes, trying to explain.

  Eventually Hyde interrupted, “So, let’s summarize. You have discovered a Pakistani scientist with a prodigious appetite for fruit who may or may not have any connection whatsoever to the death of Thomas Carlyle?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .”

  “And meanwhile the wretched Miss Black has bumped into our Pakistani friend, which is newsworthy . . . Why was it again?”

  “The room was locked, Hyde,” I said sullenly.

  “Alex.”

  I winced. My first name. Bad sign.

  “Allow me to follow up,” he said. “What does the fruit company—what was it? Hamdaani Fruit? Husseini Foods?”

  “Habibi Farms.”

  “Right
. What do they say about the deliveries? Can they give you a number for Siddiqui?”

  “I haven’t checked them out yet.”

  “And this ‘exchange coordinator’ for the scientists, would he give you Siddiqui’s number?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to call him yet.”

  “What about the porters at Emmanuel? Did they say they’d let anyone into Carlyle’s room or lent out a key?”

  “I need to go over there and ask.”

  “Alex!” exploded Hyde. “If you’re going to go on a wild-goose chase, at least chase the goddamn goose!”

  I let this hang there for a minute. Then I repeated slowly: “Chase . . . the goddamn goose?”

  “Chase the goddamn bastard goose, Alex. Don’t feed me these half-baked conspiracies about a Pakistani banana fiend and an airhead ex-girlfriend—”

  “Petronella’s not an airhead. A bitch, maybe, but not an airhead.”

  “Whatever. This all sounds like total rubbish to me. But if you think there’s something there, report it out. Make the calls. Ask your questions. Do your homework. And then write me a goddamn story.”

  “Okay. Thank you. I’m on it.”

  “Good.” Hyde let out a deep breath. “And, Alex, contrary to your apparent impression, my patience is not infinite. You’ve got one day.”

  BACK AT THE CROWNE PLAZA hotel, the front-desk attendant gave me a knowing wink. I took it to mean Lucien Sly’s presence this morning had not gone unnoticed.

  I ignored him and checked back in. The new room was bigger and brighter. I called room service and ordered myself two gin and tonics. I asked for extra lemon and extra ice. Perhaps that would encourage them to cough up a lone sliver of citrus.

  Then I opened my laptop and got to work. The website for Habibi Farms Foods Company greeted me with a slogan similar to the one I’d seen on the packing crate: Pakistan’s Finest Produce. We don’t make compromise on QUALITY. They specialized in bananas, mangos, oranges, cucumber, guava, and something called chikoos. I clicked on the banana order page. Delivery time was four working days. Minimum order was a hundred dozen. Jesus. Nadeem had been ordering twelve hundred bananas a month? That meant eating forty a day. Even at the rate his landlady appeared to be freezing the overflow and converting them to banana bread, it seemed a tad excessive.

  Under the CONTACT US tab I found an address in Karachi and a phone number.

  I didn’t expect anyone to answer. It must be past business hours in Pakistan. But I dialed anyway.

  The phone rang a few times and then, sounding far away, a woman’s voice answered, “Habibi Farms, how may I help you?” I recognized the singsongy, vaguely irritating accent of the subcontinent.

  “Oh. Hello. I was calling to check on an order. A banana order. Placed by Mr. Nadeem Siddiqui.”

  “Yes, of course. To whom am I speaking?”

  “This is . . . his secretary.”

  I could hear her tapping away at a keyboard. After a moment she said, “I’m sorry, what was the name on the order again?”

  I spelled the name for her and she started tapping again.

  “No, I’m sorry. There is no order record for that name.”

  “Well . . . I’m quite sure the deliveries have been arriving from you. There would have been one in the last month. Is it possible to search by destination? They would have been sent to Cambridge, England.”

  “Certainly, madam. One moment. I’ll see if our shipping supervisor is still available.” She put me on hold.

  I couldn’t imagine that Habibi Farms was shipping many crates of Pakistani bananas to Cambridge, England. Surely it wouldn’t be too difficult to locate Nadeem’s order.

  After a good five minutes the woman returned. Her voice sounded completely different. Nervous. “What did you say your name was?”

  I hesitated. Well, why not? “Alexandra James.”

  “And how did you get this telephone number?”

  “What? Off your website,” I said, confused. What an odd question.

  “I’m afraid I have no information about an order for Cambridge, England.” Before I could respond, she hung up.

  I DIDN’T GET LUCKY UNTIL later that night.

  I had tried the number Gitta Juette gave me for the research exchange coordinator. It rang and rang.

  Next I did the obvious thing, which was to google Nadeem Siddiqui. A real estate agent in Detroit popped up, along with an obstetrician in New Delhi. Apparently it was a common name. Finally I found what looked like a match. A brief trade-journal item from three years ago mentioned that a Nadeem Siddiqui had taken up the position of assistant research director at Khan Research Laboratories (KRL) in Kahuta, Pakistan. Siddiqui had degrees from the University of Karachi and the Technical University of Hamburg-Harburg in Germany. His age was given as twenty-eight, which would make him thirty-one now.

  That was it. There was no other information, no photo. No mention anywhere of his teaching stint here in Cambridge.

  I sipped my gin and tonic. Tried to think if I’d missed any angle. Then it came to me. Mrs. Forsyth had said Siddiqui was into weight lifting.

  I turned back to my laptop and quickly found half a dozen gyms with free weights around Cambridge. It was well into evening by now, but they might still be open to accommodate the after-work crowd. I started with the swankier-sounding gyms. L.A. Fitness Club and the Leys Sports Complex had no membership record for a Nadeem Siddiqui. Neither did the Kelsey Kerridge gym, where I vaguely remembered attending a ladies’ Pilates class when I had studied here.

  Then I tried Fenner’s. That’s the official university gym.

  A man answered, “Fenner’s, Dave here.”

  “Hi, I’m calling for a friend who’s been using the weight-lifting room—”

  “You mean the power-lifting room?”

  “Um . . . that’s where the weights and dumbbells and things are?” I was speaking a foreign language. I’ve never lifted a weight in my life.

  “Yup. But I don’t think you’ll get in tonight. We close at ten and there’s already a wait list.”

  “Right. No, no, that’s fine. I meant I’m calling for a friend who’s used the weight—the power-lifting room, rather—and he’s had to leave town suddenly. And he wanted to make sure you had his forwarding address.”

  “I’m . . . not sure we would need any forwarding address, miss. But what’s the name?”

  “Nadeem Siddiqui.” I spelled it.

  “Hold on.”

  And that’s when I got lucky.

  “Glad you rang, actually,” Dave said when he came back on the line. “Your friend owes a tenner in locker fines.”

  “Locker fines? He has a locker there?”

  “He’s overdue for this month. You say he’s moved? We’ll have to put his things in lost and found.”

  “No, no, I’m sure he’d want me to collect them,” I lied. “I can pay the fine. I’ll come right over.”

  Fenner’s smelled of chlorine and sweat. Dave turned out to be a skinny, pimply guy in baggy shorts. He was lounging behind the reception desk eating a sports energy bar. He made me sign a piece of paper and pay him the ten pounds before he trotted off to the men’s changing room with the master key.

  He returned a few minutes later with a plastic bag.

  I took it outside and sat down on the steps.

  It contained a rank-smelling towel and a black T-shirt. Also an empty water bottle and a balled-up pair of socks. I was wadding them back up when I realized I’d gotten very lucky indeed. At the bottom of the bag was a cell phone.

  21

  It was a cheap-looking phone. Black plastic, the kind that flips open.

  I switched it on. The little gray screen lit up. It showed an empty address book. There was no record of any text messages, nor of any incoming calls. But the call log showed two outgoing calls. Both were made one week ago. Both numbers looked to be in Pakistan.

  I copied them into my reporters’ notebook. Pakistan was four or five hours ahead
of the UK. It would be past midnight there now. Still, if one of these was Siddiqui’s number, and I could reach him and clear things up tonight . . .

  I got my notebook and a pen ready and hit the redial button for the first number.

  It rang six times.

  Then a voice answered, “Malik?”

  I froze. A moment passed.

  “Malik?” Then several words in a language I did not understand. The voice—a male voice—waited for an answer.

  “Hello?” I said finally. Then, sounding idiotic: “Nadeem Siddiqui?”

  Silence. The man hung up.

  I copied the word Malik into my notebook. Underlined it. Was it a greeting? A name? I stared at the phone. I wasn’t even sure this phone was Nadeem Siddiqui’s, and I definitely wasn’t sure what any of this had to do with Thom Carlyle. All I knew was I’d just managed to piss off someone in the middle of the night in Pakistan.

  But then I studied the second number. It looked familiar. I paged through my notebook, until I found the number for Habibi Farms. I compared them. They were almost identical. Just the last two digits were different, as though they belonged to different extensions at the same business.

  So this must be Siddiqui’s phone. There couldn’t be two people with lockers at Fenner’s university gym who were making calls to Pakistani fruit exporters. He had called just last week. Why? To give them a change of address? To cancel all further orders? The only way to find out was to call. But given my earlier, odd conversation with the woman who answered the main number, I wasn’t confident I’d get anything out of them. I had no idea how big a company it was, and if the same woman answered, she would recognize my voice.