by Parker Bilal
‘I’m not listening to this. All this self-pity. You know you don’t mean it.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘If you had cared about her, you would have done something back then, but you didn’t.’
‘I did what I could.’
‘Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you’ll actually believe it.’
In the front entrance she caught a glimpse of a shadow swinging through the plane trees beside the house, but when she turned to look up there was nothing there. She climbed onto the Triumph, kicked the side stand up and pressed the ignition. It felt like a waste of time coming here. She told herself she shouldn’t be too disappointed, she had expected something like this. The rear wheel spun on the gravel as she took off. There was something reassuring about being back on the motorcycle and moving, putting as much distance between herself and the madness behind her.
At the bottom of the track she skidded to a halt. She should have swung right onto the lane and headed downhill towards the main road. Ahead of her stood the open gate to the Foulkes estate. She hesitated for a moment and then aimed the bike straight through the gates and twisted the throttle, speeding up along the tree-lined drive.
36
In contrast to her father’s place across the valley, the Foulkes’ manor was well maintained. The house and grounds were clearly well cared for. The lawns around the main house were neatly trimmed and rollered, hemmed in by little islands of roses and fuchsias. Thick banks of green ivy fluttered up the walls around the front entrance.
Crane climbed off the Triumph and hung her helmet over the wing mirror before walking up the front steps. A big brass knocker shaped like a cherub’s face beckoned, but before she could lift it the gleaming black door opened to reveal Mrs Foulkes, bearing a pair of pruning shears and a basket over one arm.
‘Ah, what perfect timing!’
‘Mrs Foulkes.’
‘Oh,’ she squealed, waving the secateurs in the air. ‘Please, I insist call me Hilda. Mrs Foulkes makes me sound so old.’
She spoke over her shoulder as Crane followed her round the side of the house, where she set about pruning a large rose bush.
‘It’s good to see you. I’m glad you’re taking an interest in your father. He scares everyone off. They all arrive with good intentions and then he gets into one of his moods, ranting and raving. And all those animals.’
‘I was wondering about that.’
‘Somebody talked him into hiring out some land to an animal sanctuary. Something like that. He’s harmless of course, but people are more sensitive than they used to be, don’t you find?’
‘He’s rude and manipulative. He enjoys insulting people. You’d have to pay someone pretty well to ask them to endure that.’
‘Oh, come now. Underneath that scaly exterior there is a heart of gold.’ The corners of Hilda Foulkes’ mouth wrinkled in a thin smile. ‘I genuinely believe that.’
‘Well, then he’s lucky to have neighbours like yourself who take an interest in his welfare.’
‘It’s the least I can do. Our families have been neighbours for centuries, after all.’ As Crane met her gaze Mrs Foulkes turned away.
‘I actually came up here to ask you about Marco.’
‘Oh, dear, it’s all so worrying, this whole business of this young lady friend.’
‘You met her, Howeida?’
‘Yes, that was her name. I was trying to remember. Well, of course I only met her once or twice. She seemed nice, considering.’
‘Considering?’
‘Well, I mean, her background, the circumstances under which she was brought up. Imagine? It must have been horrific.’ Mrs Foulkes moved on, turning her attention to the next rose bush. She paused her pruning to survey the garden. ‘It’s going to be much better with the new greenhouse.’
‘New greenhouse?’
Mrs Foulkes pointed to a rectangular section that had been dug up at the far end of the lawn. Then went back to the subject of her son’s love interest.
‘She must have suffered, growing up over there. The way they treat women. I mean, it’s positively medieval.’
‘Did she ever talk about her uncle?’
‘No, not that I recall. It was Marco who told me her uncle was planning to take her back any way he could. It’s like that princess, you know, the one who was trying to escape on a yacht? I watched a documentary. Terrible. I mean, in this day and age. Apparently, it’s quite common. They never let their women go.’ She was shaking her head now, snapping at the stems in front of her with quick, angry snips so that Crane was actually worried about the plant. ‘If it had been up to me, I would have warned Marco against getting involved.’
‘You didn’t approve?’
‘Of the girl?’ Mrs Foulkes suddenly seemed aware of a need to tread carefully, as though remembering who she was addressing. ‘I tried to warn Marco, but you know how it is. Love is blind, they say. You can never protect your children.’ Mrs Foulkes ran an eye over Crane, taking in her slim figure, along with the leather jacket and boots. ‘I suppose you don’t have any yourself. Children, I mean?’
‘Too busy, I’m afraid.’
‘Everybody is,’ said Hilda Foulkes. ‘He used to be very fond of you, you know, when you were children.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Well, feelings like that don’t change. Why else would he come to you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The investigation. I mean, you’re hardly likely to be impartial.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
Hilda Foulkes chose not to spell it out. Instead, she changed her tack. ‘Why are you here, when you should be looking for the uncle?’
‘That’s actually why I am here. I spoke to him and feel I need a fuller picture.’
‘You spoke to her uncle? How extraordinary!’ Hilda Foulkes seemed taken aback. ‘Did he tell you what he did with that poor girl?’
‘He assured me that he had nothing to do with it.’
‘And you believed him?’ She gave a derisive laugh. ‘What did you expect, a full confession?’ Mrs Foulkes lifted the secateurs as if she was thinking of throwing them at something. ‘I mean, they’re all like that.’
‘I’m not quite sure I follow.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake! I’ve never heard such nonsense. Why are you here?’
Crane pushed her hands into the pockets of her jacket. ‘To be honest, after speaking to Howeida’s uncle I began to wonder if there could be another explanation.’
‘Such as what?’ Mrs Foulkes turned to face Crane.
‘Well, if we assume for the sake of argument that Howeida’s uncle didn’t kidnap her with the intention of spiriting her back to the Gulf, then perhaps there’s something we’re not seeing.’
The hand holding the secateurs dropped to her side. ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’
‘I understand that Marco was advising my father on financial matters. Do you know if he was doing the same for Howeida?’
‘How would I know something like that?’ Mrs Foulkes’ face darkened. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m just doing my job, exploring all the avenues.’ Crane ventured a smile, which came out awkwardly. Mrs Foulkes wasn’t buying it.
‘You know, when Marco told me he was going to hire you, I assumed it was for sentimental reasons. I said to him that I had no idea you were trained as an investigator. Frankly, this is what I was afraid of.’
‘What is?’
‘Clearly, you don’t have the experience.’
‘Well, I appreciate your concern, Mrs Foulkes, but that doesn’t change my question.’
‘Marco trusted you. He thought you would be able to get to the bottom of it, because of, you know, your background.’
‘My background?’
‘Of course. I mean, why else would he come to you?’
Crane had no answer to that question. Certainly not the one Mrs Foulkes was expecting. She pulled off he
r gloves and dropped them into the basket, along with the secateurs.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got aphids.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Greenfly.’ Mrs Foulkes gestured at the plants. ‘They need to be sprayed.’ With that, she spun on her heels and headed off across the lawn.
Crane followed her over to a privet hedge that ran perpendicular to the main house. Behind it lay a garage. Mrs Foulkes led the way through a gap in the hedge to a side door that brought them inside. They were greeted by the barking of dogs. One side of the building was taken up with a large fenced-off cage in which half a dozen rather beautiful creatures jostled one another. They had bright, fluffy dark pelts. When Crane drew close to the wire they snarled and bared their teeth.
‘Don’t get too close,’ said Mrs Foulkes over her shoulder. ‘They have been known to take off the odd finger.’
‘Charming.’ Crane kept her distance. ‘Greenland Dogs?’
‘Siberian Huskies.’
‘What is that they are eating?’
In the middle of the cage was a bloody mass of flesh and bone. Mrs Foulkes chuckled.
‘The remains of a sheep. They’ll eat the whole thing, bones and all. Nothing left.’
She carried on and Crane followed, the familiar smell of engine oil and damp earth reaching her nostrils and carrying her immediately home. Her love of machinery, cars, motorcycles, any kind of vehicle really, brought a sense of calm to her that she found difficult to explain. It was sensory memory, laid down early on in her childhood. When they were in Iran, one of her mother’s brothers, Uncle Bijan, ran a workshop. After her mother was taken away, Ray found herself being taken care of by her family. Her father had to travel a lot and she would often go straight from school to wait at her uncle’s workshop. Bijan was an exception. The rest of the family were academics. Poets, painters, they belonged to an old line of cultured intellectuals who were quite dismissive of someone like Bijan, who had chosen an entirely different line. Of course, Bijan was really the most political of all of them. He was a die-hard communist, who refused to write poetry but would always find time to speak fondly of Marx and Lenin. He had been imprisoned in the early years of the revolution, but had miraculously survived. Now, as she stood in the garage and inhaled the oil-soaked air, Ray remembered him.
While Mrs Foulkes rummaged around on a row of metal shelves along the wall, Crane turned her attention to the car that was parked over by the opposite wall. It was half covered with a tarpaulin and appeared to be abandoned. The rust-coloured tarp was slightly askew, affording a tantalising glimpse of metallic peacock blue panels. Crane tugged the cover off to reveal the shining Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow. Mrs Foulkes let out a sigh.
‘I don’t know why we keep it. Nobody has driven it since Harold died. Marco keeps promising to get rid of it, but he never does.’
‘Maybe he just can’t bring himself to do it.’
‘Boys will have their toys, eh?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Crane, examining the car. She leaned over to peer inside. ‘Looks nice.’
‘Well, it’s just taking up space. I must get Marco to get rid of it. The problem is, nowadays, everyone wants something that’s environmentally friendly, don’t they?’ She wore the same lopsided smile Crane had seen earlier.
37
The massage parlour on the Caledonian Road was being refurbished by the looks of things. A gang of overweight men were carrying furniture in and out of the building. Drake distanced himself from the action and took up a position in the next doorway, shielded by their van.
It was mid-morning before the front door opened across the street and Sonja, wearing the old sheepskin coat, appeared pulling a child’s stroller behind her. Two Bangladeshi women passed him and Drake fell in alongside them, walking at the same pace as they chattered away, clearly oblivious to his presence. He stayed with them until they reached the corner, where he saw Sonja turn away from him and disappear down the road to her right. Drake crossed the street at a fast pace and stayed close to the wall as he followed behind her at a comfortable distance.
At the end of the street he watched them disappear through the gates of Paradise Park. A few moments later he stepped through in time to see Sonja settling herself on a wooden bench while the little boy ran over to the adventure playground. Drake watched her light a cigarette and tilt her face back to allow the sun’s rays to play over her, closing her eyes to absorb the warmth.
‘Hello Sonja.’
She glanced up, saw him and swore, several times, some of it in English but most of it incomprehensible.
‘I’m here with my kid. You have no right.’
‘I’m sorry about the other day,’ he said, sitting down alongside her. ‘Walking in like that.’
She turned her face towards him so that he could see the swelling under her eye. ‘I can’t work like this. Who is going to pay the bills, you?’
‘Look, I just need to ask you a few questions.’
‘Questions?’ she frowned. ‘About what?’
‘About the old days, about Esma.’
‘Since when you care about her? That was nearly four years ago. My best friend. Fours years she is dead because of you.’
‘I came here because I want to find out who killed her.’
‘Who killed her?’ Sonja was incredulous. ‘What do you care who killed her? She gave you what you wanted, right?’ She tossed her head. ‘Typical! Like all men, you take and you leave. Well, you’ll get nothing from me.’
Perhaps sensing something was amiss, the little boy came running back from the playground to throw himself into his mother’s lap. He twisted sideways to look at Drake.
‘Who’s this, Mummy?’
‘Nobody, baby. He was just leaving.’
The boy didn’t look convinced. He stood and stared. Drake tried smiling at him, but the look of suspicion did not go away. Finally, he turned and ran back to play.
‘Nice kid.’
‘Don’t!’ She jabbed a finger at him. ‘He doesn’t exist for you, okay?’
Drake raised both hands in defence. ‘Hey, I’m not here to hurt you.’
‘I don’t know what you came here for, you got her killed.’
‘I only want to do what’s right by her.’
Sonja gave a bitter laugh. ‘I told her not to talk to you, but she wouldn’t listen. Esma trusted you.’ She took the cigarette from her mouth with a sigh. ‘She thought you would save her.’
‘It didn’t work out that way.’
‘No, you don’t hear what I am saying. She was smart, you understand? She was careful.’
Rather than placating her, Drake seemed only to stir her animosity. There was anger in the tone of her voice that hadn’t been there a few moments ago.
‘She would never have put her trust in anyone. But in you, she did. Why is that?’
Drake said nothing. He had the feeling his part in this conversation was to be silent and listen.
‘You men are so stupid sometimes.’ Sonja was shaking her head in disbelief at her own words. ‘She was in love with you. It’s as simple as that. And you led her on.’ She held up a hand to stay any objections. ‘Just let me finish.’ She dropped the cigarette and ground it into the dirt with the toe of her boot. ‘Esma never knew happiness. No man had ever made her happy. They fucked her, they beat her, they used her. But love, this was not something she ever expected from a man.’
Drake stared into the distance. ‘I never touched her.’
Sonja shook her head. ‘She didn’t want that from you. She believed in you. She saw you as a kind of saint, someone who could get her out of the mess she was in.’ She fell silent.
‘Is it true she had a child?’
Sonja stared grimly into the distance. ‘She was raped when she was fourteen, by her uncle. Her parents were gone by then. When her aunt discovered she was pregnant she blamed Esma. She ran away after she gave birth.’
‘What happened to the child?’
‘
She had to leave it behind.’ Sonja looked down at the ground. ‘The way she told it she had some kind of depression. The boy was something dirty that came from inside her. She didn’t want it.’
‘What happened then?’
‘She wandered for a while, moved to the city, fell in with the wrong crowd. She took drugs and then did what she had to do to pay for them.’ There was a lost feeling in her gaze that told him this was a familiar story. She knew a thousand like it. She knew it as she knew her own story. It was all part and parcel of the same cruel tale. ‘She was young and pretty, so there were opportunities, and men. Always there were men. Eventually she found Goran, or he found her.’
‘This was in Serbia?’
‘In Belgrade. He used her, for a time, like he used all women, and then he moved on to someone else, someone younger.’
‘He took care of her?’
A nod.
‘So if he found out that she was about to betray him.’
Her eyes found his. ‘He would have cut her to pieces.’
‘Tell me about the club.’
‘What’s to tell?’ She lifted her shoulders.
‘Now. The people who run it now.’
‘It changes,’ she shrugged. ‘Always it changes.’
‘The man I saw this afternoon. Khan.’
‘He’s a bad man.’ Her fingers trembled as she reached for a cigarette. ‘A bad man.’
‘Are they part of the Karachi mob?’
‘I don’t know what they are. They’re Pakis.’ Another shrug. ‘Men. They’re all the same.’
‘The ones who hurt you, who do they work for?’
‘What difference does it make?’ She blew smoke. ‘Nobody uses their real name. Never. No.’ She sighed. ‘They are not important.’
‘Was he around in the old days, Khan?’
‘You don’t give up, do you?’ Sonja stared at him. ‘That was a long time ago. It’s all changed since then.’
‘Khan works for Hamid Balushi, right? Or he used to. Was he running that racket in those days?’
‘I don’t know. I hate all of them. I just want to die. If it wasn’t for him …’ She nodded towards the boy standing at the top of the slide. ‘I would just end it now.’
