Up in Flames

by Evans, Geraldine

  ‘No. With what has happened, I wouldn’t expect him. Normally, he’s always here on a Wednesday and Saturday, checking the stock and so on.’ Mrs Ghosh shook her head worriedly, ‘It still hasn’t been done from last Saturday. Mr Khan went rushing off at lunchtime that day and I haven’t seen him since.’

  Casey’s ears pricked up. ‘He went rushing off, you say? What time was this?’

  ‘About 1.30 p m it would have been. After he had the phone call. Poor man to get such distressing news and on Krishna’s birthday, too, a day that should bring only auspicious happenings, not tragedy.’

  Casey frowned. As far as he was aware no-one but Catt had rung the shop last Saturday, the day of Chandra’s death and Catt had only rung to check that Rathi Khan was there, not to break the bad news. So who had? Maybe Chandra’s next-door-neighbour had called him? But as Casey recalled that Angela Neerey had been unsure if the High Street shop was one of Mr Khan’s he realised it was unlikely. It was curious. So was the timing of the phone call. He questioned Mrs Ghosh further, but it turned out that she had only assumed the call and the fire were connected afterwards as Rathi Khan apparently hadn’t uttered a word of explanation before he left the shop.

  ‘How long was Mr Khan here, before he rushed off?’ Casey asked.

  ‘He’d only arrived five minutes before. Said he’d had trouble with his car. I teased him that it was time he bought a new one. Always he has the new cars, but I suppose with his parents over from home he hasn’t had time to arrange a new one.’

  By Casey’s estimation Mr Khan had had three years in which to make such a purchase. He could only presume that Govind Ghosh knew little about cars and less about her boss’s financial situation.

  It was interesting that Khan hadn’t arrived at the shop till around 1.25 p m. He could have been anywhere. It meant he was still under suspicion, especially after what ThomCatt had discovered.

  What the assistant said next stunned him, pointing as it did to Khan’s possible involvement in the deaths, however accidently.

  ‘Such a dreadful business. And so desperately sad that the fire happened on a day Chandra and the baby weren’t even suppose to be there.’

  Casey frowned, glanced at Shazia Singh and said, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Chandra was meant to be in London that day, her and the baby. Visiting cousins, I think. It was all arranged.’

  Casey’s frown deepened. ‘Are you saying that Mr Khan, too, assumed his daughter and grand-daughter would be in London that day?’

  ‘Well yes. Of course. He was the one who arranged the trip. He was worried about her and thought it would cheer her up. It was only later that he realised she hadn’t gone. But surely Mr Khan told you all this when you spoke to him?’

  ‘No. He must have forgotten in all the upset,’ was Casey’s oblique comment as Govind Ghosh looked doubtfully at him. Brought up by hippie parents in a loving but disorganised and permanently changing home as they kept one step ahead of bailiffs, Casey found it more difficult than the cynical TomCatt to believe Chandra’s father could have been responsible for her murder and that of her baby. Catt’s abandonment as a toddler had left him badly scarred emotionally under his cocky, protective shell. He couldn’t be expected to have much faith in parental love. Casey admitted he had little reason to have much faith in it either, but he thought most parents would draw the line at killing their offspring. Now he asked, ‘So when did he realise she hadn’t gone, was in fact still at the flat?’

  Mrs Ghosh hesitated, then, with a fatalistic shrug she ploughed on anyway, in the manner of one whose indiscretions have gone too far for backtracking. ‘It was the telephone call that made him realise they hadn’t gone to London. At least I can only assume it must have been that as I have never seen him so upset. I don’t know who the call was from, but immediately after, without a word to me, he rushed out. He didn’t even stop to get his jacket, which was most unlike him. Mr Khan is a very particular gentleman always. Never goes anywhere without his jacket and his tie all nicely done up, like so, never mind what the weather is doing. As I said, I’ve never seen him in such a state.’

  ‘And you say you have no idea who the phone call was from?’

  Mrs Ghosh shook her head again. ‘No. And Mr Khan didn’t say. Just pushed past me as if I wasn’t there. Most unlike him to be so rude. He was usually a very well-mannered, considerate gentleman.’

  The information that Rathi Khan had expected his daughter and grand-daughter to be away from the flat on the day of the fire certainly strengthened their suspicions that he might have had something to do with it, or at least arranged for a couple of thugs to torch the place for the insurance in their presumed absence. If so, what must he be feeling now?

  When Casey got back to the station, he told Catt what he’d learned. ‘It’s got to be connected to the fire,’ he added. ‘Time-wise, it’s too much of a coincidence to be anything else.’

  Catt nodded. ‘Perhaps one of Chandra’s neighbours phoned him?’

  ‘Possibly, though unlikely. She’d only been there a couple of weeks, remember. But get the house-to-house team to check it out. Get on to British Telecom, too. I want to know who made the call. Then I think we’ll go and have a word with Mr Khan and see what he can add.’

  None of Chandra’s neighbours admitted ringing her father. But as Chandra had only lived at the flat for a few weeks it was unlikely, as Casey had said, that most of them would even know her by sight, never mind have reached the stage of intimacy to induce the exchange of contact numbers. So who had made the telephone call? It was a bit of a mystery and one that Casey wanted cleared up as soon as possible. All that British Telecom had been able to tell them was that it had been made from a public phone box a few streets away from both the Khan and Bansi homes. Their only hope of an answer lay in asking the call’s recipient. Even if he chose to lie to them about it, for whatever reason, such an evasion would be almost as revealing as the truth.

  Chapter Twelve

  There was no answer at Rathi Khan’s home, though Casey could have sworn he caught a brief glimpse of a face at the front window. But further knocking produced no response. They had just got back into the car when Mr Khan’s Rover pulled into the drive.

  They got out of the car again and approached as he locked his car door. He seemed to be making a bit of a production over it.

  He turned slowly to face them. ‘Inspector.’ He nodded at Catt. He looked tense, expectant, as if he was gearing himself up for more bad news. ‘Has anything happened?’ he asked quickly. ‘Have you found-’

  ‘Nothing yet,’ Casey told him. ‘There are just one or two things that we’d like to clear up. Perhaps we can come in?’

  ‘Of course. Of course. Kshama- sorry my wife didn’t let you in,’ he threw over his shoulder, ‘but since Chandra’s tragedy I have forbidden her to open the door unless me or my son are in the house.’

  ‘Very sensible.’ Was that an indication that Rathi Khan believed the loan-sharks might have been responsible for the arson attack? Casey wondered. Or was it simply to plant the possibility in Casey’s mind if he had already found out about Mr Khan’s debts?

  As before, Rathi Khan led them into the double aspect living room. It was empty today.

  ‘Please to sit down.’ Rathi Khan gestured to one of the large yellow settees. ‘Would you like some tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you. This should be just a brief visit.’ Was it his imagination or had a fleeting look of relief crossed Rathi Khan’s face?

  ‘How can I help you?’ Like a guest uncertain of his welcome, Mr Khan perched on the edge of one of his armchairs and gazed anxiously at them. He had lost weight since the tragedy. And although still dressed ‘just so’ as Mrs Ghosh had described, his suit hung on him. He looked ill.

  ‘It’s really just routine stuff.’ Casey’s tone was reassuring. ‘Just a matter of getting things out of the way so we can concentrate on more important aspects of the crime. All we wanted to do was check
with yourself and your family who was where and at what times on the day your daughter and her baby died. We-’

  ‘You ask us? Her family?’ Although Rathi Khan sounded shocked to be asked such a question, a look of wariness clouded his eyes. He stared at them, his expression tense. ‘But what can you possibly want to know that for?’ He gazed anxiously from Casey to the silent Catt and back again. ‘This I do not understand.’

  Casey sat back and forced himself to relax. His body language needed to be as convincing as his arguments if he was to persuade Rathi Khan that it really was just routine. Otherwise, he might be on the phone to the station and Superintendent Brown-Smith was prone to come down hard and heavy on those whose names featured in an official complaint from one of the ethnic minorities.

  ‘As I said, it’s simply routine. It has to be done, but it’s just for the books, really. I should have asked you before of course, but after such a tragedy I couldn’t quite find the words. But once we get such straightforward matters out of the way we can concentrate on more important aspects.’

  Was Mr Khan taken in by his Judas words, he wondered? Probably not. He was an intelligent man. Intelligent enough, Casey hoped, to understand that he would keep probing till he got some answers. He must realise that the victims’ family would be on their list of suspects. So many murders were domestics of one sort or another that even Superintendent Brown-Smith had to accept that possibility here. Rathi Khan, too appeared to recognise this, as his protestations seemed more perfunctory than genuine.

  Casey made a show of consulting his notes. ‘For instance, we know you were in your High Street shop on Saturday, 31 August and arrived there about 1.25 p m. But then you received a phone call and rushed out again. Perhaps you could tell us who called you and where you went?’

  They had arrived at the shop shortly after two and he had been there then. So where had he gone and what had he done in the previous half hour that was so pressing?

  Rathi Khan appeared puzzled. ‘Phone call? What phone call is this that you speak of? I remember no phone call.’

  ‘Perhaps I can refresh your memory? Your assistant, Mrs Ghosh, was quite clear. She told us you rushed off without your jacket - not your normal habit, I gather? It must have been something urgent. She told us the call had visibly upset you.’

  An expression of concentrated thought furrowed Mr Khan’s high forehead, then his expression cleared. ‘Of course. How foolish of me. But with all this tragic business I had clean forgotten. My son rang me to tell me my wife had had an accident in the kitchen. She burned her hands when a pan of hot ghee went up. Really, he made it sound quite horrific. Naturally, I was upset.’

  ‘I see.’ Strange then, thought Casey, that with a phone in the house and a mobile in his pocket, Dan Khan had found it necessary to leave the family home and make the call from a public phone-box.

  Casey decided not to question Mr Khan about it for the time being. ‘Tread warily, with kid gloves’ had been Superintendent Brown-Smith’s injunction. And as far as he could, Casey intended to continue to abide by it and the restrictions it imposed.

  ‘Yet, obviously your wife’s injuries weren’t as serious as you feared.’ Casey certainly hadn’t noticed any burns on Mrs Khan‘s hands or face on the day of the arson; certainly no marks that would have warranted calling her husband from his work.

  ‘It was a big fuss over nothing. Which is why I returned to work almost straight away. Women, they are the most dreadful drama queens.’

  ‘My mother always says it is the male of the species who are the drama queens. She insists that women are far more stoical. On the whole I have found she’s right. Your wife, son, daughter-in-law and parents were at home when you got here?’ Mr Khan nodded, then corrected himself. ‘No. I forgot. My daughter-in-law was out with my daughter and granddaughter.’

  Although he had corrected himself, Rathi Khan hadn’t corrected the lie. Because if Dan Khan had made that phone call as his father claimed, he had certainly not made it from here. So where had he been? And, more to the point, what had he been doing?

  ‘It was a normal day, would you say? Until the fire?’

  Rathi Khan looked curiously at him as if he couldn’t see the point of such a question. He shrugged. ‘Yes. My wife rose first to take the tea in bed to my parents, while my daughter-in-law prepared breakfast and got the children up. She took the children out around mid-day according to my wife, after the household chores were completed. My granddaughter is to start at the local infant school this month and she had to get the child’s uniform. My daughter, Kamala, went with them.’

  ‘And before that? Were they all at home all morning?’

  ‘Yes. My wife, of course, has her duties here. She looks after my parents while they are here. She is a good wife and takes her duties seriously. She doesn’t work outside the home. As my parents rarely go out, she must remain with them. It would not be the done thing, you understand, to leave them on their own when they are under my roof. My wife and my parents rarely go out unless it is with me or my son in our cars. I’m afraid my parents find England a strange place. I hoped they would settle, but now - after- Now I think they want to go home, back to India. My father says they are too old to adapt to new customs. Perhaps he is right.’

  Casey might have remarked that he, too, found England a strange place, an alien place, even, from the country he had known as a boy. But, of course, he kept such thoughts to himself. He checked that Devdan, the son, was also at home all that morning. Dan Khan worked for his father, but had apparently had a day off and had spent part of it with his family; apparently, he didn’t neglect his plain wife all the time.

  Casey paused, then asked, ‘Tell me, Mr Khan. Was your daughter’s marriage happy?’

  A spasm of pure anguish crossed Rathi Mr Khan’s aquiline features at the question. But then he rallied. Casey could almost trace the thought processes that led there. Because should he begin to question whether the early marriage he had arranged for his daughter might have led to her untimely and agonising death he wouldn’t be able to bear it. And the best way to avoid such painful self-questionings lay in strenuous denial. ‘Of course it was happy. My Chandra was adored by her husband.’

  This was delicate ground. Casey could almost feel Superintendent Brown-Smith perched on his shoulder, anxiously censoring further questions along such lines. But as this was a murder enquiry, Casey felt the weight of the two young victims on his other shoulder and he shrugged the super off, stiffened his spine and continued, ‘But I understood theirs was an arranged marriage. That precludes any ‘of course’ as regards personal love or happiness, surely? How long had they known one another?’

  ‘For many years. Since they were children. Always our families have socialised together. Ever since Mr and Mrs Bansi and my wife and I settled here. Mr Bansi is a man of business, like myself. We meet often for that reason and at the temple, of course. Both our families saw a lot of each other. Chandra was perfectly happy to accept Magan Bansi as her husband.’

  That wasn’t quite how Chandra’s neighbour had told it. And adoration to one person could so easily seem like jealousy and control for the person on the receiving end. Casey had witnessed such behaviour all too often when called out to domestics in his uniformed days. Asian families weren’t immune from such domestics. Casey, only too aware that not everything about the East was mystical or wonderful, was determined not to be made to feel apologetic for stating the obvious truth. Asians could be quick to criticise western marriages with their admittedly appalling divorce statistics, while vigorously protesting any criticism, however mild, of their own marital customs, which, he knew only too well, concealed much misery behind the walls of the marital home. He suspected that if the Asian womenfolk weren’t kept so subjugated, they too, would be clamouring for divorce. Of course one wasn’t supposed to say this.

  ‘And they had both been agreeable to the marriage from the first?’

  Mr Khan was halfway through a second ‘Of course,�
� when he presumably thought better of it, and bit the words off. His natural desire to convince Casey - and perhaps himself - how wonderful had been the match he had made for his daughter was superseded by the need for explanations. ‘It was a very good match for Chandra. She knew that, which is why after taking time to consider it she sensibly agreed. Perhaps our two cultures have different ideas about happiness, Inspector. For us, marriage is a social contract, joining two people and their families. It is the couple’s duty to make the marriage work. Happiness comes from doing one’s dharma or duty willingly and well, so as to provide a stable background in which to nurture children. The belief in romantic love as practised in the west is an illusion as we learn too well from the divorce statistics. Better to start with simple liking and friendship. The rest can grow.’

  It was a valid point. But Casey hadn’t been challenging the idea of arranged marriages as such, merely the suggestion that such marriages were better or happier than the idealised western love match. However, he didn’t pursue the point.

  ‘Why are you asking about her marriage, anyway? Rathi Khan now asked. ‘What has this to do with Chandra’s death? What can it possibly have to do with it?’

  Casey had been expecting such questions. It had been revealing that his probing hadn’t immediately been challenged. ‘Probably nothing,’ he soothed. Possibly everything, he added silently to himself. ‘But every piece of information is of value in finding the truth. The trouble is, at the beginning of an investigation, it’s often impossible to recognise what is vital and what is dross. We have no way of knowing at this stage which is which so we just carry on with the questions, asking anything we can think of.’ And in view of Chandra’s friendship with Mark Farrell - if that was all it was - and the blame Chandra’s in-laws attached to her for their son’s death, such questions might turn out to be all too relevant. But he was careful to play this down. It would do no good showing his hand. All it would gain him was another of Superintendent Brown-Smith’s interminable lectures.