by Ruth Rendell
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 terrorize 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 galvanized 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 anesthetic 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 license 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 Wands worth 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 Manchuria Road, which abutted on to Wands worth 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 Clarke'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 Enid 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-honored 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 Asia 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 Asia's number. By this time they were crossing Wands worth Bridge so almost committed to going northwards. And Fatima Asia 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 honor 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 "commit",' 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, honor killings are against the law but they happen.'
'I know.'
Next day Hannah managed to see Fatima Asia again and this time she went alone. As had happened the day before, Mrs Asia refused to discuss Tamima and her questions met with silence. Not, of course, absolute silence, for Mrs Asia, once more offering tea or coffee or, with a half-amused glance, Dolorosa 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 t
he law, Mrs Asia,' said Hannah, 'these aren't his private affairs. I've reason to believe Tamima has antagonized 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 flat mate, 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.' Fatima Asia got up. 'I think you should go.'
Hannah had no choice about it and she went. But every word on the subject that Mrs Asia 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 Hanes' house that Hannah went as soon as she was back in the Kingsmarkham neighborhood.
At first, parking her car in the only vacant space she could find in Rectangle Road, Stowerton, Hannah wondered why there were so few people about. Cars, yes, pedestrians, no. She was halfway to the Hanes' house when a car pulled up alongside her and a woman put her head out of the driver's window.
'You don't want to be outside,' she said. 'The lion's been seen in Oval Road. I'd get inside somewhere if I were you.'
Hannah thanked her, resisted saying she wasn't her and walked up to the Hanes' front door. It was opened by Fata Hanif, her head bare. 'I saw you coming,' she said. 'I thought, maybe she's seen the lion. Come in quick. My husband just came home. He says it's been seen in the high street.'
'I've come to talk to you, Mrs Hanif. It's nothing to do with the lion.'
Akber Hanif was sitting in the living room, the baby on his lap, an older child on either side of him. He was a heavily bearded, rather fat man, wearing a loose white shirt over black trousers. He nodded to Hannah, looked at her warrant card with an amiable smile and asked her what the police were doing about the lion, an enquiry Hannah ignored.
'I hoped your son Rashid might be at home,' she said. 'Or isn't he back from college yet?'
'They are on half-term.'
This was a fact already known to Hannah. 'But he's not at home?'
Fata, a small girl now in her arms, said, 'No, he is not at home because he has gone away camping with his cousin. He works hard. He's entitled to a break sometimes. Now his great-auntie has died and left him some money, a little bit of money, so he is spending it on a tent and other equipment for camping. Is there something you don't like about that?'
'Fata,' said her husband, the intervention evidently intended as a reproof but uttered in a tone of gentle mildness.
'Where is he camping?'
'In somewhere called the Peak District if it's any business of yours.'
This time the reproach came in a sad shaking of Amber's head.
'When do you expect him back?' She addressed her question to Rashid's father.
'Wednesday or Thursday.' Fata spoke for her husband. 'I don't want him back here while that lion's about. I don't want any of my children out on the streets.'
Hannah was heartily sick of the lion. 'And this camping is just with his cousin?' What numbers of relatives these people had, Hannah found herself thinking, a reflection she caught up short, horrified at yet another example of racism in her uncontrolled thoughts. 'Just he and the cousin on their own?'
'Oh, no,' said Mrs Hanif. 'There are four or five of them, another cousin and two friends from college.' She gave Hannah a penetrating glance. 'But if you're trying to make out a girl is with them you are wrong. And now I think you should go,' thus making her the second woman to have addressed those words to Hannah in the space of four hours.
The street was empty. It was late afternoon and already growing dark. She drove back to Kingsmarkham where she encountered Lynn Fancourt in the police station car park.
'I'm really scared of this lion,' Lynn said, 'especially after dark. Cats are nocturnal, aren't they? I expect it only really starts prowling around, looking for something to eat, in the night-time.'
'It won't come into urban areas. It's probably more frightened of people than they are of it.'
'I hope you're right.'
Hannah went up to Wexford's office.
He was looking at his computer screen with Damon there to guide him through the Web. The glance he gave Hannah was less than pleasant.
'Well?'
Damon was going and Wexford said nothing to encourage him to stay.
'I've been in London, guv,' Hannah said, 'and since I got back I've had a talk with Rashid Hanif 's parents. I think Tamima Raman's gone off with Rashid, they're hiding out somewhere. I don't believe for a moment his parents' story that Rashid's gone camping with a bunch of friends and relations.'
'So she's somewhere, as you put it, with her boyfriend. She's over sixteen. I've yet to learn that fornication's against the law in this country.'
'It's against sharpie law. Asian people have killed a daughter for less. They may have killed her or be planning to do that. May I tell you what I've found out?'
'You'd better sit down,' said Wexford rather sourly.
Hannah told him about Clare Cooper, her two visits to Mrs Asia and the reaction of the Hanes to her questioning. 'You can see why I'm anxious, guv. No one's seen the girl for days, weeks maybe. Everyone's got excuses for her not being where she's supposed to be. But Clare Cooper did mention her being involved with a boy and as Rashid Hanif 's gone off somewhere too, surely it's obvious they're together. Or they've been together until –'
'All right, I see all that. But none of it leads me to your conclusion, that she's a victim of an honor killing. You've absolutely no evidence for thinking that way. It's pure assumption.'
'Would you OK it if I went to see the Rahmans tomorrow and put it to them. Asked them, I mean, if Tamima's away because she's with Rashid.'
Wexford was silent for a moment. Then he said, 'Let me tell you what I should really like, Hannah. Firstly, never again to hear the name Tamima Rahman coupled with the term 'forced marriage' or 'honor killing'. Then, if you go to talk to the Rahmans, I'd like you to find Tamima there, alive and well and in the bosom of her family. But preferably not to tell me about it.'
'All right, guv. I get the message.' In the doorway, Hannah turned. 'D'you know, guv, you're the only person I've talked to since I've been back here who hasn't mentioned that lion?'
Perhaps he hadn't mentioned it because he had heard little else all day. When Hannah came in he had been looking at lion pictures on the Internet, a video that claimed – surely erroneously – to be of King ranging the open space outside its cave in the days of its captivity. He phoned Mavis Targo. No, she had heard nothing from her husband. She would have told him if she had. At present she was afraid to go outside and did so only to reach the white van in which she went shopping. This meant a walk of maybe three yards. She described to Wexford the agonies she went through each time she made that short journey, waiting for King to spring at her from out of the bushes.
'And one of the mantas has gone.'
Wexford had to think what a manta was. A sort of small deer? 'You mean one of yours?'
'Excuse me. One of Eric's. He had three and now there's only two. I watched them through binoculars. I was scared to go out there.'
He would be with her next morning, he told her. It was now nearly two weeks since her husband had departed.
Chapter 19
The lion was still at liberty. In this countryside, Wexford thought, there was very little reason why it shouldn't retain its freedom for weeks, months even, provided it found enough small animals to feed on. The area abounded in wildlife, badgers, foxes, hares and rabbits, pheasants and partridges. On his way to Stringfield, he found himself noticing all the road kill,
squashed bloody pelts and bundles of black and brown feathers. Would a lion eat carrion? Probably, if it was hungry.
While Donaldson stopped at a red light at the Local Traffic exit, Wexford made a phone call to the Rahmans. It was Yasmin who answered and once again her magisterial tone and economy of speech impressed him.
'Hallo? Who is speaking?'
Wexford said he wanted to talk to her and her husband, her son Ahmed too if that was possible.
'My husband will be here,' she said. 'My son Ahmed also.' The faintest hint of humor came into her voice. 'And my son Oman too if you want the whole family.'
'That must include Tamima, of course.'
She was annoyed. 'How many times do we have to tell you? Tamima is in London with her cousin.'
'No, she isn't, Mrs Rahman. But we can talk about that later.'
It was a fine sunny day, the grounds of Wymondham Lodge and the downs beyond looking at their autumn best. English woods have few trees in them which turn red in November. That display is confined to North America where forests have a preponderance of maples. Here, in Sussex, the fields were green and the woods dark green and yellow and brown, the gold coming from the birches and the tawny colour from beech and oak. A little breeze ruffled the treetops, making the different shades mingle and shiver. On some distant slopes sheep grazed and there were black-and-white cattle in the meadows by the Brim. But nearer home was more exotic fauna, the llamas enjoying the sunshine, the two remaining mantas running for the cover of the hedge at the sound of Wexford's car. No lion, of course, to greet him with a roar.
The front door wasn't opened immediately. Mavis Targo called out, 'Who is it?' Wexford couldn't help smiling as he answered. Did she imagine the lion would reply with 'It's me, King!'
She was very much dressed up for his visit. Or dressed up for her own satisfaction. A tight black suit and green blouse set off her heavy gold jeweler, several necklaces, earrings as large as coat buttons. Her thick fingers were stiff with gold and diamond rings. Wexford imagined her, forced by her fear to stay at home, diverting herself by trying on various outfits and hanging jeweler on to some designer creation, experimenting with colours and shapes in front of the mirror, like a little girl playing with mother's clothes.
