Dead Reckoning

by Patricia Hall

  “And if Saira was having a relationship with Simon Earnshaw would she be likely to tell you, or her sister?” Kevin Mower broke in sharply. “Do us a favour, Sayeed.”

  Imran Khan began to speak to his son quickly in Punjabi, but then with a glance at Sharif, who had begun to pay attention now, he switched to English.

  “I have given my daughters a great deal of freedom and encouragement to pursue their education,” he said. “But I know my daughter would not have a relationship with a man who is not a Muslim. She would not have a relationship with anyone who was not known to me and my family and who met my approval. Saira is a good Muslim and an obedient daughter. Whoever is suggesting otherwise is slandering her name and dishonouring my family.”

  Thackeray sighed and sat down beside Mower at the table.

  “Then when we speak to her she will be able to confirm all this,” he said.

  “Who is making these allegations about Saira, Chief Inspector?” Sayeed Khan asked quickly.

  “You know I can’t discuss that,” Thackeray said. “Let’s just say that whoever it may be is in a position to know. He’s sufficiently reliable for us to feel the need to speak to Saira urgently. So if you will just tell us where she is …?”

  “Not the gossip of girlfriends then?”

  “Not the gossip of girlfriends,” Thackeray said. “But it was her girlfriends at the university who alerted us to Saira’s unexplained absence. They were worried about her and I believe someone in your family told them that she was safe and that they didn’t need to be concerned.”

  “I’m not aware of that,” Sayeed Khan said, glancing at his father again.

  “Is Saira in Pakistan, Mr. Khan?” Thackeray asked, not disguising his anger. “This is what her friends seem to think. Have you sent her abroad for some reason? Any reason.”

  The Khans, father and son, seemed disinclined to answer this direct challenge, and Thackeray’s face hardened perceptibly.

  “Mr. Khan,” he snapped, addressing himself to the younger man. “You’re a practising solicitor and I’m engaged in investigating a murder case in which your sister appears to be involved in some way with the victim. I want to know where Saira is. If she’s in this country I need to see her, and if she is out of the country I need to speak to her on the phone. I can arrange to interview her wherever she is — in Pakistan if necessary.”

  Khan senior spoke rapidly to his son again in Punjabi and Thackeray turned quickly to Sharif.

  “Translate, please.” Sharif looked uncomfortable but did as he was asked.

  “Mr. Khan says how strange it is that English men only become very interested in women’s rights when they can use it against Muslims.” An image of Laura flashed briefly in front of Thackeray’s eyes and he allowed himself a half smile.

  “If that’s a convoluted way of calling me a racist, Mr. Khan, I assure you it’s unjustified,” Thackeray said. “I’m not accusing you of harming Saira in any way. But there is a possibility which I am surprised hasn’t struck you. It’s what suggests to me that you really do know exactly where Saira is and that she is probably quite safe. From where I’m sitting, it’s conceivable that Saira herself could also be a victim of whoever killed Simon Earnshaw.”

  Saira’s father and brother both drew sharp breaths at that but still neither of them spoke. Thackeray’s face darkened again.

  “Mr. Khan, there is an offence of perverting the course of justice, as I am sure you’re very aware, and if you refuse to help us find Saira I think it could be argued that you are coming dangerously close to committing it. I doubt very much if the Law Society, as your professional body, would be much impressed with that.”

  Sayeed Khan turned to his father and said something in Punjabi. Thackeray swung round to DC Sharif again.

  “Mr. Sayeed Khan said to his father that he has no choice but to answer our questions,” Sharif mumbled.

  “That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard since I came into this room,” Thackeray said. “Is Saira in Pakistan, Mr. Khan?”

  “No, she’s not,” Sayeed Khan said. “We didn’t know about this alleged relationship. As my father said, we believed Saira to be a devout young woman, like her sister.”

  “It is a slander,” the older Khan said bitterly. “Saira would not be seduced by your western so-called morality.” Thackeray was checked for a second by that. This man could be his own father in shalwar kameez, he thought. So much for cultural differences. But he knew he had to press on now he had started this interrogation.

  “So where is she?” he persisted.

  Sayeed Khan shrugged wearily.

  “We don’t know,” he said. “We haven’t seen her since last Saturday, more than a week ago now. We’ve been worried sick.”

  “So why the hell didn’t you report her missing?” Kevin Mower asked explosively.

  “We preferred to make our own inquiries first,” Khan said. “As my father said, there is great shame in admitting that a young woman has run away, particularly for the older generation. My father didn’t want it widely known. He preferred to make inquiries within the community first …”

  “So that’s what you thought, is it?” Thackeray’s voice was full of scepticism. “Isn’t that just a little contradictory? You say you knew nothing about the relationship with Earnshaw, but when Saira fails to come home you assume she’s run away, presumably with a man.”

  “What else could we assume?” Khan said.

  “Well, most families might be afraid she had come to some harm, had an accident, been attacked or worse. Most families might have contacted not only the police, but hospitals, her university, anyone who might know anything. Is this shame you talk about so profound that you can’t make the most obvious efforts to find a daughter who goes missing?”

  “Yes,” Imran Khan said explosively. His son put a restraining hand on his arm.

  “We have been looking for Saira,” he said. “In our own way, in our own community.”

  “Making use of the young men who allegedly seek out errant daughters?” Thackeray asked, stony faced. “Who will allegedly kill rather than allow a family’s honour to be blemished?” He heard Sharif draw a sharp breath behind him and the two Khans flushed darkly but this was a gauntlet he was determined to run to the end.

  “I know of no such young men,” Sayeed Khan said, his voice thick with emotion.

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” Thackeray said. “Because as a lawyer you know as well as I do that what such young men do is illegal in this country, that we do not hound and harass young adults who choose to marry or live together, regardless of their religion or their ethnic background.”

  “If Saira was having such a relationship, and I don’t believe it, we knew nothing of it,” Sayeed Khan said, his face set and his eyes angry.

  “Which leaves us with the evident fact that she is missing and I need to speak to her on the assumption she may have been deceiving you,” Thackeray said flatly. “So I’ll tell you what will happen next. We will report her missing and put out a national call for her to be traced urgently. We’ll also need to carry out a search at your home. Our forensic people will no doubt be able to obtain DNA samples from Saira’s room which may match samples found at Simon Earnshaw’s flat. That should prove pretty definitively whether there was a relationship between the two of them or not.”

  “Not publicity in the newspapers,” Sayeed Khan objected. “Her photograph, all that?” Beside him, his father groaned.

  “It may well be necessary,” Thackeray said. “I think you’re still not quite appreciating the seriousness of my interest in your sister, Mr. Khan. She’s a possible suspect in a murder inquiry. And if she had nothing to do with Simon Earnshaw’s death herself it seems at least possible that she has been killed as well. Do I need to make myself any clearer than that?”

  Laura had been surprised that morning when she got to the office to find an urgent message from Radio Bradfield asking her to find time to go in to see the station mana
ger some time that day. She called Kelly Sullivan but she was not available, so Laura arranged to walk across town to the station during her lunch hour, wondering just what might have gone wrong with the plans for her to fill in for Kelly while she was away. She was kept waiting ten minutes in the reception area, surrounded by potted plants, copies of what’s-on leaflets and a feed of the local lunchtime radio news, before she was allowed through the security doors and shown into the station manager’s office. It was immediately obvious from the slightly cool handshake Steve Denham offered across his desk that this would not be as cosy a chat as they had had last time she had been there. Kelly Sullivan, who was one of two other people waiting for her in the office, half-smiled as she came in and Denham introduced the man sitting next to her as his “legal adviser” Colin Makin.

  “Thanks for coming, Laura,” Denham said. “I just wanted another chat before you go ahead with these interviews you’re planning for when Kelly’s away. To be perfectly honest, and on reflection, with what’s going on in the town at the moment, we’re beginning to have second thoughts about the wisdom of such controversial subject matter just now.”

  “Controversial?” Laura said, feeling stupid because for a second or two she simply did not understand what Denham meant. “I didn’t think I was doing anything particularly controversial.” Denham raised an eyebrow at that.

  “With the state of race relations at the moment, with the attack on the young Malik girl, I think you have to admit that raising the issue of women’s rights in the Muslim community could be construed as — how shall we put it — a tad provocative.”

  “On the contrary,” Laura said angrily. “If the Muslims are closing ranks and being defensive about their women and girls, I think that’s just the moment to raise the issues I want to talk about. That’s certainly what some of the Asian women I’ve been talking to think. As they put it, they’re worried about being set back a generation by what’s happening.”

  “It’s a subject we ought to explore — with some sensitivity,” Denham conceded. “But I think not now. It’s too inflammatory.”

  “You obviously haven’t heard the latest news here at Radio Bradfield,” Laura said waspishly. “It’ll be in the first edition of the Gazette, of course. The police are looking for a young Asian woman who seems to have run away because she was having a relationship with Simon Earnshaw.”

  This was clearly news to Denham and Kelly Sullivan worked hard to stifle a smile at her boss’s discomfiture.

  “Of course that raises even more issues worth discussing,” Laura went on. “Why did she feel it necessary to conceal her relationship? Will she be pursued by her family? Or has she already been bundled off to Pakistan to get her out of the way? Or, worst of all, has she been killed as well?”

  Radio Bradfield’s lawyer flinched visibly at that list of questions and made to object but Steve Denham raised a hand impatiently.

  “I’m sure Laura is experienced enough to know the risks of defamation,” he said.

  “All to be discussed in general terms,” Laura said innocently. “Obviously we can’t comment on a police investigation.” Me less than most, she thought to herself wryly.

  “But most urgent of all perhaps, as a topic,” she went on, “is the fact that there are young Muslim men who will try to hunt down girls and young women who step out of line. That’s illegal, and if no one talks about it they’ll continue to get away with it.”

  “The same young men who’ll be ready with their petrol bombs if tension rises any higher,” the lawyer, Colin Makin, got in quickly this time with a sour look in Laura’s direction. “I wouldn’t recommend that sort of debate at any time, but especially not now.”

  “I thought this was a news station,” Laura said sweetly.

  “Laura,” Kelly Sullivan broke in. “I think all Steve is suggesting is that we postpone this particular set of interviews for now. I’d certainly like to follow the idea up myself, when things are a bit calmer.” She flashed a glance at her boss. “But perhaps you could come up with something a bit less, well, difficult this time?”

  Less difficult and more boring, Laura thought but this time she kept her temper in check.

  “Don’t you think that half the problems in this town could be resolved if we didn’t keep on dodging the difficult questions?” she asked, far more calmly than she felt. “You know what they say? The communities are living parallel lives? But on the fringes there are people who want to get closer together, young women in particular, who want to integrate, become more Westernised if you like, leave behind some Muslim traditions which they find oppressive, and isn’t that their right if they’ve been born and brought up here? In a free country it’s their choice. And in a free country their voices should be heard. What you’re saying is that we close off a debate about that so we can all have a quiet life and don’t get accused of racism by the men at the mosque.”

  “This is all a bit heavy for me at this time in the morning,” Steve Denham said, with an attempt at lightness. “Let’s call this a postponement of the issue, shall we? I wouldn’t want the research you’ve already done to go to waste, Laura, so you and Kelly can certainly come back to it in calmer times. But for now I want you to come up with something less inflammatory. OK?”

  “OK,” Kelly said, glancing at Laura, who sighed and nodded ungraciously. She knew she could not defy the station manager and as an outside contributor she was in an uniquely weak position. If she wanted to maintain any sort of toehold at the station, which she did, she would have to acquiesce, however unwillingly.

  “Thanks for coming in, Laura,” Denham said. “I was sure we could work something out. Talk to Kelly about a different topic and I’ll look forward to your interviews. You’ve got a good voice for radio. You never know. There might be a good career move in this direction some day.”

  Laura did not believe him for a moment. Her chances here were almost certainly blown.

  Sergeant Kevin Mower sat in the same cramped space he had occupied last time he had visited Dr. Stephen McKenna and the scientist gazed back at him across the equally cluttered desk with the same mournful expression.

  “So how come you’re now sure Simon Earnshaw was having a relationship with Saira Khan when the last time we spoke you were adamant you didn’t know who the girl was?” Mower asked. DC “Omar” Sharif perched against the cluttered windowsill watching the proceedings with dark, unreadable eyes.

  “I told you I thought the girl was Asian. Simon was being so cagey that it had to be something like that. Obviously she wouldn’t want her family to know.” McKenna glanced at Sharif, who scowled at him. “I’m not being racist,” McKenna said fiercely. “You must know how it is. We have lots of Asian women students here. The families are thankfully becoming really ambitious for their children now. But some of the young women are brought here every day by minibus and picked up again in the evening. The traditions about what women can do run very deep, as you must know very well.”

  “So?” Mower pressed. “How did Saira’s name crop up. Was she one who came in the minibus, or what?”

  “No, I don’t think so. You need to talk to her tutor as well to find out more. That’s Olive Makepiece in the pharmacy department. She was the one who told me one of her Asian students had not come back this term and she was wondering if she’d gone off to Pakistan or something.” Another glance at Sharif. “It happens sometimes. Anyway, I began to wonder, put two and two together and maybe make five or six, but I thought I’d check it out. Simon was a good man, a good friend, and I want his killer found, and it seemed to me not impossible that his love life had something to do with what happened. I couldn’t think of any other reason why he should be killed.”

  Stephen McKenna shuffled the papers in front of him on his desk for a moment, evidently needing time before he felt able to continue.

  “Anyway, I waylaid some of the students coming out of their pharmacy lectures yesterday,” he said. “Eventually I pinned down a girl called Fatima
Achmed who everyone said was Saira Khan’s best friend and it all came out. She was frightened to death for Saira. She hasn’t seen her for more than a week, her family has told her to mind her own business and she suspects — well, I think she knows really, but she says she only suspects — that Saira was in a relationship with an older student that she didn’t dare tell her family about. It has to be Simon, doesn’t it?”

  McKenna hesitated again for a moment and Mower waited patiently. It was obvious that there was more to come.

  “What puzzled me is why he never told me about Saira,” he said slowly. “He knew very well I wouldn’t mind who his girlfriend was. But he said something odd once. We were talking about the city, and regeneration and all that, and he said the problem with Bradfield and the immigrant community was that neither side wanted to know the other, both communities wanted to keep themselves to themselves. I got the feeling he was talking personally somehow, that he wouldn’t have wanted his own family to know he was going out with an Asian girl any more than she would want it known by her parents. It was just an impression, you understand, but it might be relevant.”

  By the end of the afternoon Mower and Sharif had questioned Saira Khan’s tutor and more than a dozen of her friends and acquaintances on her course, but without being offered anything more than vague speculation about her private life and her likely whereabouts since she had last been seen by Fatima Achmed on a cinema trip just before the start of the university term. As the two officers joined the stream of young people flooding out of the university buildings at the end of the day and made their way the short distance down the hill to the town centre and the main police station, Mower glanced at his companion, who had said little all afternoon.