Up in Flames

by Evans, Geraldine

‘Tell me again.’

  Briefly, Dan Khan’s eyes showed a hunted look. His expression wary, he said, ‘Nothing. Really. That she was undutiful, I suppose. Not a traditional Indian wife. Chandra had opinions and expressed them, that is all.’

  ‘They didn’t accuse her of taking up with an unsuitable man as your parents feared?’ Casey hadn’t expected an outright admission. Even so, in the circumstances, Dan Khan revealed more than was wise.

  ‘No. That is,’ he broke off. ‘Chandra was not as demure as her mother-in-law expected. I suppose she could be quite flirtatious, but that was all. If I or my father had thought she was more than that we would naturally remonstrate with her.’

  Dan Khan wasn’t quite as modern and English in his attitudes as his adopted name and sharp suit indicated. Casey knew that most Asian men, if they caught one of their womenfolk compromising their ‘honour’ would do rather more than remonstrate.

  Was Dan Khan’s question as to whether his sister might have killed herself sincere or merely designed to throw them off-track? In any case, he had few consoling words to offer him. And after Dan Khan had turned disconsolately away and walked back to the house with his child, Casey climbed in the car and directed Catt to return to the flat in Ainsley Terrace.

  Casey didn’t mention the expression he had caught on Rani Khan’s face. As, no doubt, Superintendent Brown-Smith would in due course point out, Thomas Catt had a tendency to be woefully politically-incorrect in his suspicions. But even if he hadn’t imagined it Casey was aware that it probably indicated nothing more than the spiteful satisfaction of the plain woman when the more beautiful, loved, one is no longer there, no longer taking the love that was rightfully hers.

  After Catt had turned the car and headed back to the scene, he remarked, ‘A parent’s loss of a child is said to be the most painful loss of all. Personally, I’ve always thought the opposite was true— that a child’s loss of his parents is far worse. Particularly if they were loving sort of parents.’

  Surprised, Casey glanced at Catt. He said nothing. It was rare for Catt to mention something so close to the bone. Catt had told him he didn’t remember his parents; how could he, when they had abandoned him as a small child? Was he implying that Chandra had somehow lost her parents? Lost their love because of some action of her own? Casey asked him.

  Catt nodded. ‘Her father said she was wilful and too westernised. He insisted the younger girl stayed away from her. Maybe, if her in-laws’ accusations were more than just their grief talking...?’

  Casey wondered if Catt had been reading psychology books, but immediately rejected the idea. Catt was not a fan of such things, not since being labelled by a psychologist in his childhood. ThomCatt didn’t do labels or overly-simplistic conclusions about complex human emotions. He would be the last person to label a girl he had never met.

  Thoughtfully, Casey half-turned in his seat to question Shazia Singh. ‘Did you catch any of the family’s Hindi conversation?’

  She nodded. ‘The son, Devdan, said much the same as he said in English. The old lady was upset. She wanted to know how Chandra and the baby had died. Her son wouldn’t tell her, of course. Maybe he couldn’t see that it might have comforted her to know that Chandra had died in such a traditional way, burning in a fire, so soon after her husband’s death.’

  Casey couldn’t imagine how anyone might find comfort in such a death, but he assumed Shazia Singh knew what she was talking about. And now he changed the subject. ‘We’ve heard what Hindu widows can expect. What about Hindu widowers?’ he asked her. ‘Are they allowed to remarry?’

  Pretty, bold-eyed Shazia gave him a smile that had a touch of Catt’s cynicism. ‘It’s a man’s world, Inspector, which is something Chandra’s brother seems to have forgotten. Naturally they can remarry. But for a Hindu woman, her husband is her career. Her obligation is to serve her husband and his family and provide him with children, especially sons.’

  ‘Like something out of The Stepford Wives,’ commented Catt.

  ‘But with much more emotion felt, obviously,’ was Shazia’s tart rejoinder. ‘The sole joy of the Hindu wife is meant to be to please her husband and to perform whatever services he demands. Even after his death, she is attached to him, bonded to him. A widow is expected to wear white, the colour of death, purity and grief and mourn her husband for the rest of her days. She must give up all forms of personal adornment, such as the wearing of jewellery or make-up. She is forbidden from attending social events, even the weddings of her own children.’

  ‘But surely, all those taboos wouldn’t apply here and now?’ Casey questioned. ‘We’re in the second millennium, after all.’

  Shazia shrugged. ‘Religious teaching takes little notice of the time or the place, Inspector. Doesn’t the Catholic Church still hold medieval views on homosexuality? On sin? On carnality? Sex, not for pleasure, but for the procreation of children?’

  ‘Thank God I’m with the C of E,’ Catt put in irreverently. ‘My lot don’t even seem to believe in God, never mind sin.’

  ‘Anyway, go on,’ Casey encouraged Shazia. ‘What other experiences await a Hindu widow?’

  ‘In India they are often hounded from their home villages and lose all their possessions. Much of their mistreatment comes down to money and inheritance.’

  ‘Don’t most things, in the end?’ Catt muttered as a spasm of pain crossed his face.

  As well as being irresponsible, Catt’s parents had been feckless and poor. Catt had confided one evening after downing too many lagers that they had abandoned him with a badly-spelt note pinned to his clothing, saying, “He costs too much. We can’t afford to keep him.”

  But maybe ThomCatt had a point. Casey, with all the other aspects, had yet to look at every possible angle. Had Chandra inherited anything? Had her husband anything for her to inherit? It was essential to discover what the situation was, yet to ask her family or in-laws who were the obvious ones to supply the answer was unlikely to earn him any awards for diplomacy. Besides, how could he know what they told him was the truth?

  It was something else to be checked out. If her late husband hadn’t made a will Chandra would still have inherited a lot under the Intestacy Laws. The late Magan Bansi’s father was a businessman; had his son owned part of that business? Perhaps as a marriage gift? He made a mental note to check it out before he asked Shazia Singh to continue.

  ‘Widows are regarded as inauspicious. In fact, to quote an early Hindu text, the Skand A Purana, “The widow is more inauspicious than all other inauspicious things.” It goes on, “At the sight of a widow, no success can be had in any undertaking, excepting one’s mother, all widows are void of auspiciousness. A wise man should avoid even her blessings like the poison of a snake.” ‘

  She broke into the shocked silence that greeted this, to add, ‘To escape the life of outcasts in their villages many Hindu widows congregate in a place call Vrindavan, a holy city, Krishna’s birthplace, in central India or Varanasi, the ‘City of Lights’, as Mr Dan Khan mentioned. There, if they are lucky, they might earn a few rupees for hours of chanting a day in one of the many temples.

  ‘The Hindu ban on the remarriage of widows was removed by a British law in the late 1800s, but the taboo on remarriage is still strong. For a widow to remarry brings dishonour on her family. It is believed, and not just by the poor and uneducated, that a woman’s husband dies because she has bad karma. And if she has bad karma, what is the point of marrying again? She is likely only to bring the same ill-luck to a second husband. It is her fault her first husband died, you see.’

  ‘Even if a man’s own stupidity caused his death?’ Casey asked.

  Shazia nodded. ‘She loses all her status and begins a new life — one where she waits for death, fated to mourn the death of her husband till the end of her days. Widows are traditionally regarded as witches and despised by everyone. People still believe that widows are cursed or diseased and that even by simply speaking to them one will be contaminated. You can
see why even an older man in India would require a substantial dowry to take on such a wife, even a beautiful one, like Chandra Bansi.’

  Casey had learned more than he had bargained for. But it seemed that Shazia Singh wasn’t finished yet. ‘Of course,’ she went on. ‘It used to be the custom that widows committed sati — immolated themselves on their husband’s funeral pyre. A Hindu widow is one of the “living dead”, you see, so it was better for all concerned that she should be dead. Cheaper, too, as far as any inheritance goes. Apart from that, a widow’s immolation on her husband’s funeral pyre freed his family from the cycle of birth and rebirth. Her sacrifice guaranteed that a woman, her husband and seven generations of the family after her will have a direct passport to heaven.’ Shazia paused. ‘You can see how a woman would find it difficult to resist doing her ‘duty’. But when the British outlawed sati, instead of a quick death and glorification they gave widows a long lingering one and vilification. Many Indian widows don’t think it was a fair exchange.’ She gave a sad little smile. It held all the tragedy of India. ‘It is their karma, you see. Something to be accepted with stoicism. And so they do accept it, praying only for death and an end to their earthbound misery.’

  Casey studied her thoughtfully for a moment before he nodded and turned back in his seat. Unaware of the streets they passed, he sat mute. Shazia Singh had certainly provided them with a few motives for murder. She had even made plain that suicide could indeed be a strong possibility.

  Was it possible that Chandra had chosen the old custom? He frowned and stared unseeingly ahead. Then, before him, hovered the remembered image of Chandra’s photograph. He took the picture from his pocket and studied it again. And as her bold gaze, with its hint of challenge met his, he shook his head. Even lately, sad as her life had become, he felt a quiet certainty that given a choice, the girl in the photograph would choose life — however grim — over death. Hadn’t Angela Neerey claimed that Chandra had been trying to plan her future? Besides, the vacuum flask with its petrol dregs which had been discarded in the alley behind her flat didn’t point to self-immolation. But neither, given that the husband’s funeral pyre would have been the clinical procedure at the local crematorium, did it indicate that she had been persuaded to do her traditional wifely ‘duty’.

  It was, anyway, possible that the flask with its petrol dregs was nothing more than a coincidence or simply placed near the scene as a cruel joke. But even if the flask was dismissed Andy Simmonds’ remark and the lack of a logical reason for the fire starting where it had still pointed to arson. Confirmation or otherwise of that would have to wait for the forensic team. He hoped they would come up with some firm answers quickly.

  Beside him, TomCatt, ever the cynic, was still keen to push his own suspicions. As he pulled up at the traffic lights, he glanced at Casey and said, ‘I still think we ought to check out the father’s finances. Discreetly, of course. Maybe they’re not as healthy as that expensive house would indicate. You noticed his car’s several years old?’ Casey nodded. ‘Maybe he couldn’t afford to find another dowry for Chandra and was merely going through the motions to stop his wife nagging him. Could be he decided the old ways with widows were the best for all concerned, himself, his daughter and the bank balance. And then there’s the insurance on the flat. He could have decided to have the place torched to free up some money, believing his daughter and the baby would be out.’

  Embarrassed that Catt should be so insensitive in front of Shazia Singh, he asked quietly, ‘And did you see anything in the family garage to indicate such a possibility?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ Catt admitted as the lights changed and he drove off. ‘But there were what appeared to be petrol stains on the floor. And there were some empty cans stacked in the corner.’

  ‘Hardly conclusive. Maybe he had just stockpiled some cans in case there was another petrol shortage. I did the same. It’s a messy business decanting petrol into a car’s tank without a funnel. My garage floor’s stained, too.’

  Strangely — for ThomCatt hadn’t gained the feline shortening of his given name by lacking a cat’s sharpness — he had nothing to say regarding the intriguing comment made by Chandra’s sister. What has Chandra done now? she had asked. Casey wondered what Chandra could possibly have done before to warrant such a question. However, for the moment he didn’t invite Catt or Shazia to share his speculation. Anyway, it seemed likely that her in-laws would be keen to dish any dirt going. Unless, of course, they did have something to do with Chandra’s death, in which case, he supposed he could expect them to backtrack on any accusations they had made about their daughter-in-law.

  Catt had voiced no further argument by the time they arrived back in Ainsley Terrace. As he got out, Casey told him to drive WPC Singh back to the station and, in a quiet undertone, he agreed that Catt could begin to check out the father’s finances and any inheritance that Chandra might have been left by her husband. While he was at it, he could arrange for them to see Chandra’s in-laws, the Bansis.

  After giving his instructions, Casey headed back to the flat to have another word with the team. He hoped they would have made some progress. He needed some speedy answers on this case or it wouldn’t be long before there were others besides Catt raising ugly suspicions on little or no evidence. He was already starting to do so himself.

  Chapter Six

  It was now nearly 7 pm. Dr Merriman had long since departed, but the forensic boys were still hard at work. When Casey returned to Chandra’s flat they had the floorboards up and were carefully packing what they found — charred wood, carpet, paper.— that had fallen through the cracks.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Casey asked Andy Simmonds. ‘Found anything else yet to indicate arson?’

  ‘Not yet. Trouble is, when accelerants like petrol or kerosene evaporate they produce hydrocarbons. And hydrocarbons have a low molecular weight.’

  ‘And that’s bad?’

  Andy nodded. ‘Hydrocarbons are very volatile, you see, which means evidence of accelerant use is hard to find.’

  ‘So you have no conclusive proof that this was arson?’

  Simmonds shook his head. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘So what now? Is there any hope that you’ll find something?’

  ‘There’s always hope, Inspector.’ Andy nodded towards the raised floorboards and told him, ‘It just means we have to try harder. That’s why we’re looking under floorboards and rugs, in corners and so on, in the hope that not all the accelerant has evaporated and that some, at least, of the liquid, hasn’t burned off. With luck, it may have soaked into surfaces which can then be treated in the lab.’ He hefted one of the containers he had been using. ‘Here’s where we’ll find any evidence of the use of an accelerant, like petrol. These little beauties prevent vaporisation so we can get fibres back to the lab for testing. Then we get the gas chromatograph to work on them and it’ll separate out the individual traces on these fibres. All we need is an infinitesimal amount of accelerant and we’ll have confirmation that this was arson. Then we might nail whoever did this.’

  Casey could only hope he was right. It was late, but the day still held another duty before he could go home. Superintendent Brown-Smith had stayed behind specially and awaited Casey’s return and his report.

  And as he knocked and entered Brown-Smith’s office, he braced himself.

  Casey had been too busy all day to see a newspaper, so when Superintendent Brown-Smith thumped a copy of the local evening rag on his desk, Casey was shocked to see the headline ‘Suttee in Suburbia?’ glare out at him from the front page.

  He sighed quietly. Their local newspaper was owned and edited by Gwyn Owen, an independently wealthy hothead, who was, if possible, even less politically-correct than Thomas Catt. With such a headline on the first day of the case he knew what to expect from the super. His usual mixed metaphors when upset would go into overdrive.

  ‘I’ll have him for this,’ the super threatened. ‘I’ve already spoken to Anthony Lorn
about it.’

  Tony Lorn was their local Labour MP, one of the super’s many PC acquaintances. Casey thought it unlikely that even a red-hot PC barrister like Lorn would find a charge on the Statute Book that would hold water. He doubted Superintendent Brown-Smith believed it and was just venting his spleen. Besides, the editor was merely putting forward a possibility — one which Casey was also considering.

  Still, it was unfortunate timing. Obviously the case would be picked up in the next day’s nationals, but Casey was confident that Superintendent Brown-Smith would have made sure they wouldn’t repeat the local editor’s speculation. Casey would have talked to the editor, tried to reason with him so that he refrained from further conjecture along similar lines, but from the thunderous expression opposite he suspected such an intervention would not only be pointless but come too late as Brown-Smith’s next words confirmed.

  ‘Do you know what Owen had the cheek to tell me when I spoke to him?’

  Casey shook his head.

  ‘That I was the racist — only I was racially prejudiced against my own people. Can you believe it?’

  Wisely, Casey kept silent. Not that the super really expected an answer, certainly not one that agreed with the editor’s opinion. But it was a view ThomCatt certainly shared and had frequently expressed. There was more than an element of truth in it, too. Unfortunately, ThomCatt had a way of speaking his mind without thought for who might be listening. He would have to speak to him about it and about his ‘attitude’ before someone else did.

  ‘After seeing that - that rag,’ the super didn’t trouble to name the offending local organ as he went on, ‘You’ll understand me when I say I want you to tread very warily on this investigation. The last thing we want is a repeat of the Stephen Lawrence fiasco and its subsequent media witch-hunt. I want the media to have not one single aspect of this case to criticise. Tread softly when speaking to the ethnic community. Kid gloves are what’s needed here. Do I make myself clear?’