Babel bak-6

by Barry Maitland

  ‘At school I was good at maths, and at first dad was pleased, ’cos I could help him doing the books in the shop. I got good O levels, and I told him I wanted to become an accountant, or something like that in business. Maybe, if I was good enough at the maths, even an actuary. He didn’t like that. He told me that just wasn’t possible. I was a woman, so my future was to be someone’s wife. That above everything else. Meanwhile I was sixteen, and I wanted the same as all the other girls at school, a boyfriend and clothes and some fun. I was friends with one of the Ali girls from Chandler’s Yard, even though my dad said they were Shia rubbish, which I thought was stupid. Through her I met Qasim and their family, who I liked because they were Muslim but relaxed about it, and then George and Fran, who were at the university, and then Abu.

  ‘Abu and I became friends because of his computers and my maths. He helped me with my homework, and told me about what he did. He was very gentle and shy and I liked him a lot, although I knew he was too old for me-he was twenty-five then. Despite that, we fell in love. I was very innocent and knew nothing about sex really, and my ideas of love were very romantic and unrealistic.’

  Brock guessed she was repeating a phrase her father had used.

  ‘On my seventeenth birthday my dad told me he had something important to tell me. He said that someone had asked for my hand in marriage. I was surprised, but also thrilled. I thought Abu must have spoken to my father, and although the age difference might worry him, Abu was a devout Muslim boy, and I began to prepare what I would say to persuade him, like how we would wait until I was a bit older or something.

  ‘Only it wasn’t that at all. Apparently my dad was talking about one of my cousins in Mirpur, who I’d never heard of. He said that he was sending me and mum over there for a few months to meet our family there, and to prepare for my wedding. I tried to argue with him, but he wouldn’t listen. I asked him at least to delay the trip until I’d done my A levels, but he got angry then and told me I wouldn’t be doing any more exams, because there wasn’t any point.’

  Nargis paused to take a sip of tea. Although the youngest, it now seemed to Kathy that in some ways she appeared to be the most composed and perhaps the strongest of the three women. Briony had stopped toasting the bread slices in front of the hissing gas fire, their appetites gone as Nargis told her story.

  ‘So mum and I went to Kashmir. It was like going to the moon, honestly. After two months I was told to prepare myself for my wedding. I was given a present from my future husband, who I’d still not seen. This was a shalwar khameez and scarf embroidered with gold. It was very beautiful, but heavy and it scraped my skin. The wedding ceremony lasted all day, and throughout I had to keep my eyes on the floor and wasn’t allowed to look at my husband who sat beside me, and the heavy veil and jewellery stopped me when I tried. In the evening I was taken to my husband’s house, and when the last of the guests left the other women led me into the bedroom, where I put on pyjamas and sat and waited. Eventually this man came into the room. He had grey hair…’ she glanced apologetically at Brock, ‘… and was quite fat and old. He told me that he was my husband. When I said that I didn’t want to sleep with him he beat me up and forced himself on me.’

  Briony had folded her arms tight round her chest and sat forward, hunched, frowning angrily. Fran was expressionless.

  ‘Later, I told my mother, and she said that it was for a husband and wife to work out how they would live. She said that dad would often take his hand to her, and she accepted his punishment as just.

  ‘My husband now began to make preparations for us to return to the UK, which for him and my father was the main point of our marriage, and about three months after the wedding we travelled to Islamabad for him to get papers and travel documents. There we discovered a problem with my British passport, which had expired, and me and mum had to fly home immediately, before my husband had got clearance. He saw us off at the airport like a devoted husband, promising me a wonderful married life in London with no more beatings. He emphasised that it was essential that my father immediately take charge of the documents that he gave my mother, so that dad could finalise my husband’s British passport application. On the flight home, when my mother fell asleep, I stole the documents from the envelope he had entrusted to her and replaced them with the in-flight magazine. I was sorry to do this, because I knew my father would be very angry with her. He met us at Heathrow with a great welcome and drove us back to Shadwell Road, and that night I escaped from the house and ran down to Chandler’s Lane and begged Qasim and George and their family to take me in. They gave me a room next to Fran and George’s flat and I’ve been hiding there ever since.’

  All this time, Kathy thought, just fifty yards away from her father. Nargis lapsed into silence, head bowed. Eventually Brock prompted, ‘How long ago was it that you returned to London?’

  Kathy had been wanting to ask the same question, calculating the time when she must have become pregnant.

  ‘Last September,’ she said.

  ‘And your father has been searching for you ever since?’

  She nodded. ‘He was very angry of course. I had disgraced him in the eyes of the world and his family, and he felt humiliated. He searched for me everywhere, him and my uncles, and he went to the police. He even offered a reward for anyone who would betray me to him. Two thousand quid.’

  ‘And your husband,’ Brock asked, ‘is he over here now?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I think things went wrong for him because I had the papers he needed. But I think he’ll get a second chance. I’ve heard that my father has announced that he is engaged to my sister Yasmin, who is fourteen.’

  ‘Do they know about your baby?’

  Nargis shook her head, folding her arms across her tummy. ‘You want to know about Abu?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It wasn’t long before I met him again in Chandler’s Yard. He would often come to the Horria to eat, and he was almost like part of their family. At first it felt very awkward seeing him again after what had happened, and me being pregnant, but he didn’t seem to mind. After I’d been there a little while I decided to try to finish my A levels and he encouraged me. I started a correspondence course, and he became sort of my tutor.’

  Kathy remembered the unlived-in atmosphere of Abu’s spartan room at the university, and her feeling that he had really lived somewhere else.

  Brock said, ‘I understand that your father told the police that you had been abducted by a man.’

  ‘Yes. He had to say that so the magistrate would issue a warrant.’

  ‘But did he believe it himself?’

  ‘Yes, he did. People told him that I had had a boyfriend before I went to Mirpur, an older man, and he became convinced that this man must have helped me to run away and stay hidden. He and my uncle asked questions everywhere about this man, but nobody outside of Chandler’s Yard knew about me and Abu.’

  ‘Then how did he know to come to Abu’s funeral today?’

  Nargis shook her head in despair. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘I just don’t know.’

  ‘Someone must have told him,’ Brock insisted. ‘Someone must have decided that they’d collect the two thousand.’

  Nargis bowed her head and began to weep. Brock looked in turn at the other women, but each seemed lost in her own thoughts. He glanced at Kathy, then got to his feet with a grunt and limped over to the long bench that ran along one wall of the room and reached to a row of reference books on a shelf above. Kathy gathered the plates onto the tray and carried it out to the kitchen.

  After a few minutes she heard someone pad in behind her. Fran had brought in the jar of honey and packet of sliced bread. She was the enigmatic one, Kathy thought, and was pleased that it was her.

  ‘Thanks.’ Kathy wiped off some plates in the sink. ‘Poor Nargis. She’s very lucky to have friends like you. It makes all the difference.’

  ‘They’re not all like her dad,’ Fran said defensively. ‘Muslims
I mean.’

  ‘No, of course not…’

  ‘He’s just very traditional, from a place where life is hard. He can’t help it.’

  ‘So you married a Muslim too, Fran?’

  She didn’t reply and Kathy thought she’d been too direct. Then the woman said, ‘Yeah. I suppose I’ve done the opposite of Nargis, and we’ve both ended up in the same place. Funny, init?’

  Fran got a drying cloth and began to take the plates Kathy was stacking on the draining board. Leaving home and coming to UCLE had been traumatic for her, she explained. An eldest daughter, like Nargis, she had helped her mother, a single parent, raise her three brothers. At university she couldn’t identify with the other girls who just wanted to party and have a good time with boys, and the boys who were only interested in getting pissed and screwing the girls. She became friends with a Muslim girl from the East End and their family, and began to go to classes in the Qur’an. Before the end of her first year she went home and told her mother that she wanted to convert to Islam. Her mum was horrified, and threw her out when she insisted on wearing the chador to go out to the shops. When she returned to London her Muslim girlfriend said that her family would like Fran to meet her cousin George. She realised that they were arranging a marriage, but she didn’t mind. George turned out to be a very nice young man, very hard working and serious. Fran felt very secure in her marriage, because she knew George was devout and wouldn’t drink alcohol or gamble or look at another woman.

  ‘I suppose,’ she added, still defensive, ‘you’d say I was just reacting to the way I was brought up, with a new “uncle” in the house every six months, and Mum getting pissed and slapped around.’

  Kathy thought about that, then said, ‘It sounds to me as if George and his family are good people, Fran. I think it sounds as if both you and Nargis have been lucky to find them.’

  Fran nodded. ‘Yeah. And I reckon it would have worked out for Nargis and Abu too, even with the baby, if people had left them alone. I still can’t believe that Abu hurt anybody. He just wasn’t like that. Qasim used to say he was too gentle for his own good. If he really did do it, then someone else must have made him.’

  ‘How could they do that? And who would want to?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he was conned. Maybe they told him the gun was loaded with blanks.’

  In the living room, Brock was thumbing through an old, well-used copy of Butterworth’s Police Law when Briony sidled up alongside, scanning his reference shelf.

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ he muttered, ‘but without offence to our Muslim friends, I always took it to be an absolute tradition to have at least one stiff drink after a funeral, and today I’ve been to two. Where do you stand on that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a drink,’ she said.

  ‘Fine.’ He reached under the bench, producing a couple of glasses and a bottle of whisky. ‘I noticed that Professor Springer favoured Scotch. With water?’

  ‘He drank it neat, but I like mine with water.’

  ‘I’ll get some.’

  He heard Kathy deep in conversation with Fran in the kitchen and went instead to the bathroom, returning with a small jug of water that he splashed into each glass. ‘Cheers.’

  She gulped, giving no reply, then pointed at one of the books on the shelf. It was one of Springer’s books that Kathy had got for him.

  ‘You’re reading Max?’

  ‘Trying to. Haven’t got to that one yet. I’m afraid I’m finding them tough going.’

  ‘Try it,’ she said peremptorily, jutting her chin at the book.

  ‘ A Man in Dark Times,’ Brock read the title. ‘That one’s easier, is it?’

  ‘Probably. It’s his autobiography, written just after his wife died, so it’s a bit gloomy in parts. But moving too. His experiences in the camps for instance.’

  Brock frowned, puzzled. ‘I thought it was his parents who were in the camps…’

  ‘Not in Germany-in Lebanon. He understood, you see? He experienced it. It gave him the right to talk about it.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the struggle between truth and freedom.’

  Brock sipped his drink, none the wiser. ‘You haven’t told us how you fit into all this, Briony. How come you know these people?’

  ‘I met George at uni, and through him I met Fran and Nargis and Abu.’

  ‘That puts you in a rather special position, doesn’t it? You must be one of the few people who knew both Max and his killer.’

  She flinched at the word and glared at him. ‘I still don’t accept that Abu did it,’ she hissed fiercely, keeping her voice low so that Nargis wouldn’t hear.

  ‘I’m afraid the forensic evidence is pretty overwhelming. Both his gloves and his coat were impregnated with the same gunshot residue that was on Max’s clothes.’

  She stared at him in disbelief, as if genuinely unable to reconcile this with something else in her mind.

  ‘Why do you doubt it so strongly?’ Brock pressed her.

  ‘Because… because I knew Abu. He wasn’t a mad fanatic. And he didn’t hate Max.’

  ‘How do you know that? Did he know Max?’

  Her eyes shifted away. She sipped her drink. ‘We discussed Max, as my tutor, and because he’d attacked Abu’s boss, Haygill. Abu thought it was rather silly, that’s all. I couldn’t even get him to have a decent argument about it, you know, the ethics of what they’re trying to do and all that.’

  ‘Sometimes people are very good at not showing what they really think, Briony. Especially if they’ve had painful experiences in the past. Did you know he was detained by the Israelis for a time when he was a teenager? Did he ever talk about that?’

  Briony shook her head, the same frown of bafflement on her face.

  ‘And Max was Jewish, wasn’t he?’

  ‘But not practising. He didn’t even support a lot of what the Israelis have done. That’s what I’m saying. You should read the book.’

  Brock said, ‘OK,’ and reached up for Springer’s book. ‘And how’s your work going now?’

  ‘Nowhere.’ She turned away. ‘It’s impossible without him.’

  ‘But wouldn’t he want you to finish it? Surely that would be the best thing you could do to honour his memory?’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that. It has no meaning now, like empty labour. I just feel sick when I think about it. Each day I go in there and sit at the table and hope that he’ll tell me what I should do.’ She pushed the glass aside and walked away.

  15

  B rock made some phone calls, getting the address of a refuge in East London where he could take Nargis. He also spoke to the duty inspector at Tooting police station, and was advised that Mr Manzoor and his companions had been interviewed under caution, then released pending further inquiries. They had claimed to be mourners who had become involved in a minor scuffle when Mr Manzoor had attempted to make contact with his runaway daughter whom he had recognised at the scene. The so-called clubs they were carrying were in fact traditional Kashmir walking sticks. Manzoor demanded that the police execute the warrant issued by the magistrate for the return of his daughter and prosecute anyone who attempted to obstruct it. In particular he wished to make a complaint against a woman police officer at the scene who had made a racist attack on him, injuring his right arm.

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ Brock said. ‘I was a witness to the whole thing.’

  ‘That may be so, sir,’ the inspector said, ‘but I’ve had to follow procedure and notify CIB.’

  Brock’s heart sank. The Complaints Investigation Bureau would follow up any accusation of racial abuse against an officer with vigour. ‘Where is Manzoor now?’ he asked.

  ‘He was given a medical examination here, sir, then taken to hospital for X-rays and further treatment. He had quite a bit of swelling and bruising, and he’d worked himself up into a fair old state. You say you were a witness, sir? Maybe you could come over and give a statement.’

  ‘Yes, y
es,’ Brock shook his head impatiently, wishing now that he’d used some other way to shake off the purple car.

  ‘And what about the daughter, sir? Any information on where we can find her?’

  ‘I think you’ll find that the warrant he referred to covered the East London area,’ Brock said vaguely. ‘You might speak to Shadwell Road. They have the details.’

  ‘Very well…’ Brock could hear the caution in the inspector’s voice as he tried to pick his way through what was becoming a minefield-a race complaint against an officer, a DCI from Serious Crime, a warrant for an abducted girl… ‘You won’t be approaching Mr Manzoor yourself, will you, sir? Only, if you’re a witness it might be…’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector,’ Brock said tersely and rang off. All the same, he knew the man was right.

  While the three women sat huddled together around the gas fire, discussing what they should do, Brock took Kathy into the kitchen and told her what he’d learned. She went pale when he mentioned CIB.

  ‘Now, look, you’ve got plenty of witnesses, Kathy. You used minimum force to prevent a serious assault.’

  ‘I don’t know for sure he was going to assault her,’ she said, feeling her heart thumping, adrenalin flushing through her as surely as if the assault on her was a physical one. ‘I didn’t know it was him, or his daughter.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And I can’t remember if I identified myself before I hit him.’

  ‘There was no time. It all happened too quickly. I saw it very clearly, Kathy. You acted quickly and properly.’

  She looked at him directly. ‘But then, you would say that, wouldn’t you? You’re my DCI. That’s what CIB3 will say.’

  There were three complaints departments. CIB1 was administrative and advisory, while CIB2 investigated serious allegations. The third department, CIB3, was different. Its task was to search for police corruption and racism in an undercover, proactive way, even without complaints. The case against Kathy might be investigated by CIB2, but Brock and the others might be tainted by it and become a target for