Dead Reckoning

by Patricia Hall

  “Are you threatening me?” Khan asked angrily.

  “Not at all,” Laura said reverting to her most reasonable smile. “I’m just suggesting that the people who are already worried about Saira may take their worries elsewhere if I don’t succeed in setting their minds at rest. To the police, perhaps, or to some newspapers very much nastier than the Gazette.”

  Khan banged his fist on the desk.

  “Is it too difficult for you to understand?” he asked. “The most precious thing a Muslim girl has is her honour. If any scandal damages that she has no future, she’ll not be able to marry — no man will have her. To suggest in public that she is missing is to suggest the worst. There is no half-way house, don’t you see?”

  “So she is missing?” Laura asked quietly.

  “I didn’t say that,” Khan came back quickly.

  “Talk to your father, Mr. Khan,” Laura said. “You know as well as I do that if a young woman is missing, whatever her race or her religion, she may be in danger. I know your community tries to find people who step out of line …”

  “No, nothing like that,” Khan said, his voice hoarse now.

  “One way or another she may be in danger,” Laura said. “You need the police to help you.”

  “No, not that either,” Khan said. “Please leave us alone, Miss Ackroyd. I assure you we can handle this ourselves. Saira will be home safely very soon, I promise you. Very soon.”

  The next stop on Laura’s roller-coaster ride of a day took her to the farther extreme of Bradfield opinion and one which she hoped Sayeed Khan might believe she disliked intensely. Ted Grant had evidently been surprised when she had volunteered promptly when he sought out a reporter to get a quote from Ricky Pickles about the rising tide of racist incidents which looked set to destabilise the town. She had already asked the police Press Office about the abortive inquiries into the British Patriotic Party which David Mendelson had mentioned and they had been more than usually dismissive. All incidents were taken seriously, she had been told with bland assurance, but there was no evidence of a concerted campaign in Bradfield or that things were getting worse. Laura did not believe a word of it but when she asked for statistics she was assured that they would take time to assemble and that the Press Office would get back to her. She would not hold her breath, she had thought as she hung up angrily.

  But by the time she had driven up to the BPP’s office and persuaded the heavyweight doorkeeper that she was from the Gazette and had an appointment she did not have high hopes of fighting her way any further through the blanket of cotton-wool which seemed to surround the subject.

  Pickles leaned back in his chair easily as he faced Laura with a complacent smile.

  “Our view is quite simple,” he said. “If you put two incompatible groups of people together, you’re bound to get trouble. That’s what I’ll be telling the electorate in May when we’ll be putting up ten candidates for the council. And I’m sure we’ll get massive support.”

  “We’re getting quite serious violence on the streets, Mr. Pickles,” Laura said carefully. “Some of it aimed at women and children. What’s your party’s view on that?”

  “We condemn violence on any side,” Pickles said easily. “It’s not one-sided, this violence, you know. There’s gangs of Paki youths giving as good as they get …”

  “Throwing acid at school-girls?” Laura snapped. “I don’t think so.”

  “A nasty business,” Pickles conceded, without warmth. “A pity resentment is running so high.”

  “And you’ve no idea who might be behind that sort of campaign? There’s no connection between your party and street attacks, graffiti at the synagogue, all the rest of it?”

  “As I say, we’re a legitimate political party …”

  “With many members with a history of violence,” Laura hazarded, knowing she was pushing her luck and going much further than Ted Grant wanted her to go.

  “Not to my knowledge,” Pickles said, an edge to his voice now. He glanced at his watch. “Now you’ll have to excuse me, I’ve an election campaign meeting to go to at the community centre on the Heights.” Where no doubt, Laura thought, he would do his best to fight fire with torrents of inflammatory abuse.

  But with that, as Pickles stood up and put on his jacket, she had to be content.

  Laura had fallen asleep on the sofa in front of the television by the time Michael Thackeray got home that night. She woke with a start when she heard his key in the lock and was surprised by his appearance as he came into the living room, pulling his coat off wearily.

  “What happened?” she said. “You look as if you’ve been down a coal mine. You’re filthy.”

  Thackeray ran a hand across his face which merely smeared the dirt more effectively across his brow and into his untidy dark hair.

  “Just rummaging around the site of a fire,” he said. “A nasty bit of arson.”

  “Don’t you have minions to deal with that sort of thing?” Laura asked lightly. “You don’t actually have to go digging in the ashes yourself, do you?”

  “I do when the building belongs to the local trade union in Aysgarth Lane just at the moment they’re planning a strike at Earnshaws mill. Coincidence, d’you think, or what?”

  Laura sat up suddenly at that, her mind swinging sharply back into gear. She had come home bubbling with anger at the end of her frustrating day at work, and suddenly all her rage returned.

  “Oh shit,” she said. “That sounds as if it could set light to half the town.”

  “The Muslim half, which may be exactly what the arsonists intended,” Thackeray said grimly. “Fortunately the fire brigade was very prompt and the damage isn’t too bad. They managed to save most of the papers and files, which was a miracle considering the bastards had poured accelerant through the letter box. And thankfully, Mohamed Iqbal, the convenor at Earnshaws, keeps most of his paperwork locked in metal filing cabinets so it survived — just a bit smoky round the edges. But they’ve lost a computer and other equipment and they’re pretty angry.”

  Anger, Thackeray thought, was an under-estimate of the cold fury with which Iqbal had greeted him when he had arrived to meet the police at the smoke-blackened ruin of his office, where water flowed from the doorway into the gutter and firemen were still working to damp down whatever was still smouldering inside the dark interior.

  “I suppose it’s a stupid question to ask whether you have enemies, Mr. Iqbal,” Thackeray had said after he and the convenor had taken a cursory glance around the offices.

  “Where do you want me to start, Mr. Thackeray?” Iqbal had asked derisively. “You know as well as I do who’s creating mayhem around here. I’m just waiting for you to arrest them.” Behind him the crowd of young Muslim men who had gathered overheard his words and murmured their agreement.

  “I can’t arrest anyone without evidence,” Thackeray had said.

  “Well, perhaps we’ll get you your evidence,” Iqbal had promised in a lower voice. “If you can’t protect us maybe we’ll have to protect ourselves.” Thackeray had ignored this threat and changed tack.

  “Do you think this could have any connection with your dispute at Earnshaws?” he asked.

  “D‘you mean is Frank Earnshaw resorting to fire-bombing?” Iqbal had asked. “I doubt it. I think if he wants to get rough he’ll use the courts, not this sort of crude assault. But you never know. His father was always accusing us of getting ‘uppity’ — isn’t that the word they used to use about black slaves?”

  “So, what have we got? Some sort of race war?” Laura asked after listening to a summary of all this. “I’ve been up to my neck in it myself today, what with sexist Muslims and butter-wouldn’t melt neo-Nazis. You don’t really think Earnshaws could be getting up to dirty tricks themselves, do you? The last thing they want at the moment is a strike, that was very obvious when Frank Earnshaw came to talk to us at the Gazette. I think it would put a very large spoke into his plans.”

  “I wish I knew,�
� Thackeray said. “I know I’m in for a long session with Jack Longley in the morning to work out how to investigate all this on top of the murder of Simon Earnshaw. It’s going to be a bit like disarming a time-bomb in the middle of an ammunition dump.”

  “My father’s pretty annoyed about the strike threat too, though he’s hardly likely to be pouring petrol through letterboxes,” Laura said. “I had a quick drink with him at the Clarendon on the way home. I don’t think things are going his way. I know he was hoping to have wrapped up whatever it is he’s planning by now but he says he’s off to London tomorrow for meetings and then back here by the weekend. I’d dearly love to know what he’s plotting.”

  “Well, I may need to have a word with him when he comes back. I hope whatever he’s up to is something which will keep Earnshaws going,” Thackeray said. “If all those jobs go down the tubes it will just crank up the tension another notch. The hotheads on both sides are just itching for an excuse to let rip.”

  “I’ve stumbled on another story that won’t help race relations either,” Laura said thoughtfully and told Thackeray about the missing student Saira Khan. “Whether the family’s shipped her off to Pakistan, which is what her friends believe, or whether she’s run off with an unsuitable boyfriend, which is what I suspect, people are going to get upset if I use Saira’s story. Her brother was absolutely furious that the Gazette was asking questions.”

  “I know Sayeed Khan,” Thackeray said. “He’s a popular defence lawyer in his community, always keen to find excuses for some of the less reputable Muslims who find themselves in court.”

  “Isn’t that his job if he’s defending them? Or are you turning into one of those coppers who believes if you charge someone they must be guilty?” Laura asked, tartly. “Anyway, it’s not only the disreputable ones he’s helping. He was advising the Malik family when I went to interview them the other day.”

  “Yes, he would be. He doesn’t let us get away with much, doesn’t Mr. Khan.”

  “As I say, it’s his job,” Laura said sweetly.

  “Just as yours is to poke around where you’re not wanted, I suppose,” Thackeray said, though without much heat. “I wish you’d be careful, Laura.”

  “Can you investigate Saira Khan’s disappearance if her friends lodge a complaint?” Laura asked.

  “Difficult if her family don’t report her missing,” Thackeray said. “It’s not illegal to drop out of your university course, is it? Her friends’ only worry seems to be that she’s not answering her phone.”

  “I’m not sure I believe her brother,” Laura said.

  “That’s as maybe, but we’re not exactly underwhelmed with investigations at the moment. We’re working flat out, Laura. I’d need a bit more to go on than feminine intuition, yours or Saira’s friends,” Thackeray said with a faint smile, knowing he would annoy her.

  “Oh, of course, Chief Inspector,” Laura mocked. “Don’t let’s have intuition getting in the way. Seriously though, I thought you had a Muslim DC on the strength now. Couldn’t he make some discreet inquiries about this girl?”

  Thackeray sighed, serious now and his weariness showing.

  “Laura, before you take over CID completely, can I just remind you that I have a murder inquiry on my hands, a vicious attack on a young girl, which incidentally has outraged the Muslim community, and now an arson attack which could be racially motivated as well. Don’t you think all my DCs are fully occupied?”

  “Sorry,” Laura said. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. It’s just that I got really bad vibes from Sayeed Khan. Nothing he said sounded quite right.”

  “And I’ve no doubt you’ll burrow around until you find out why,” Thackeray said, his expression a mixture of worry and amusement. “But I’m serious, Laura. Do be careful. There’s a lot of tension around and extremists on both sides just waiting their chance to whip up a riot or worse.”

  “It’s not the West Bank out there, you know,” Laura complained.

  “No, but there are times when I think it’s going that way. What’s all this about neo-Nazis?”

  “Oh, I just needed a quote from that bastard Ricky Pickles,” she said airily. “He behaved like a pussy cat, don’t worry. It’s just what he’s thinking that’s so alarming. He doesn’t succeed in hiding where he’s really coming from.”

  “Please be careful, Laura,” he said quietly. “I mean it.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Have a shower and I’ll sort you out something to eat. I’m sure your colleagues in uniform have the like of Pickles under control.”

  Later, when they had eaten and Laura had treated herself to a couple of glasses of wine, she luxuriated for a moment in domestic contentment as they sat watching the late night news, but she sensed that Thackeray was edgy and she wondered if it were just the pressures of work bothering him, or something else. In the end he turned and put his arm around her.

  “I went to see my father last night,” he said.

  “Ah,” she breathed. “I wondered why you were so silent when you came back yesterday. And how was he?”

  “As unforgiving as ever. It would be nice to think that after the hard life he’s had he could enjoy his retirement, but he’s eaten up with resentment. He never wanted to retire. I think he hoped he’d end his life out on the fells one day with his dogs and his sheep, not sitting like this, waiting for death to creep up on him while he could still be active and working if things had turned out differently.”

  “Joyce finds it hard too,” Laura said. “Her mind is still sharp but her body won’t let her do what she wants to do any more. It’s very frustrating.”

  “And then I go blundering in, reopening old wounds,” Thackeray said.

  “You told him what we’re planning?”

  “He has a right to know, though I’m sure he didn’t want to. Frank Rafferty was there and he was more sympathetic than my father was.”

  “I met him once,” Laura said. “He seemed a reasonable man, for a Catholic priest. Perhaps they’re getting more tolerant of human frailty at last.”

  “The Church may be, but not my father.”

  “You must do what you think is right,” Laura said, tentative now. “I can live with it.”

  “I think it’s right to make an honest woman of you,” Thackeray said firmly, tightening his grip on Laura. “I’ve got a lot of things wrong in my life, but I’ll not get this wrong. My father can go to hell, though I’m sure he thinks that’s the last place he’ll end up. He’s got a place there reserved for me.”

  Laura turned her face up to kiss Thackeray and was infuriated when his mobile phone rang. He pulled away and listened to the call impatiently, but as Laura watched him his expression became grim.

  “Right, thanks for calling, even if somewhat late in the day,” he said at last. “I’ll get one of my officers to come to see you in the morning to take a statement.”

  “Bad news?” Laura asked.

  “That was Simon Earnshaw’s tutor. Calls himself his friend, though in the circumstances I have my doubts. This is strictly off the record as far as the Gazette is concerned, of course, but he says that he’s discovered who Earnshaw’s girlfriend is — by putting two and two together he claims, but I wonder if he knew all along. She’s Muslim, her name is Saira and she’s a student at the university.”

  “And she’s gone missing?” Laura breathed.

  “She’s not been seen at the university, apparently, since Simon was killed.”

  “Of course she hasn’t,” Laura said, her stomach tightening with fear. “But the question’s not just where she is, Michael, is it, but what she is? Is she your murderer or is she another victim? I think she’s probably dead.”

  Chapter Eleven

  DCI Thackeray could feel the tension in the cramped interview room as soon as he walked in. Sayeed Khan, smartly dressed in a dark suit and silk tie sat behind his father, who wore a dark jacket over white shalwar kameez, and was puffing heavily on a cheroot which had filled the stuffy room with acrid
smoke. Sergeant Kevin Mower, who was sitting across the table from the older Khan, glanced up as the senior officer came in and shrugged almost imperceptibly. The fourth man in the room, DC “Omar” Sharif, was leaning against the wall opposite the door and continued to stare down at his shoes, evidently happier to allow events to proceed without his direct participation.

  “Mr. Khan asked if he could talk to you personally, sir,” Mower said, not making much effort to disguise his displeasure with this turn of events. “I told him you were extremely busy …”

  “Not too busy, surely, given the delicate nature of this inquiry, Chief Inspector,” Sayeed Khan said smoothly, directing his remark exclusively to Thackeray. “I don’t think you’ve met my father, Chief Inspector. There’s never been any reason why you should. My father, Imran, like the cricketer, though sadly not so famous. Merely a businessman in this country although in Pakistan his family is distantly related to the other Imran.”

  Thackeray nodded in the direction of the older man without enthusiasm. In spite of his credentials as a Yorkshireman, cricket was not his game and he was aware he was being humoured and not very skilfully at that.

  “I see nothing particularly delicate in trying to trace someone who seems very likely to be a material witness in a murder inquiry, Mr. Khan,” he said. “And my officers are entirely competent to talk to you and your father and, I would hope, as an officer of the court, you are entirely ready to help us with our inquiries.”

  “Of course,” Sayeed Khan said, with only the briefest of glances at his father who remained grim-faced. “But I think what my father and I need to discuss is your basic premise. As a family we have no evidence at all that Saira knew Simon Earnshaw. She has never mentioned his name at home to any of us, not even to her sister, Amina, who is her closest friend. As I understand it, Mr. Earnshaw was a post-graduate student in another department at the university. We have no reason to suppose that they’ve ever even met.”