Enough Rope: A Hakim and Arnold Mystery (Hakim & Arnold Mystery)

by Barbara Nadel

  ‘How?’

  He sighed. Venus was obviously panicking, but he was still a copper. ‘By questioning the only people involved in this that I can identify,’ Lee said. ‘You and your missus.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘You both have to tell me everything. Or one of you does.’

  There was a pause. Lee imagined him on the other end of the phone, sweating. He knew what he meant. Every dirty little secret he and Tina had ever had.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  Lee passed the mosque and saw a throng of men talking outside.

  ‘Yes there is,’ Lee said.

  ‘These people are not blackmailing me, except by holding my son.’

  ‘I want to know anyway,’ Lee said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You are not thinking straight,’ Lee said. ‘You know why. Get your copper’s head on, for fuck’s sake. They want a quarter of a mil now. What will they want once they’ve got that? I don’t give a shit whether you’re lying to me or not about what they do and don’t know about you and your missus, but I have to know all your nasty little secrets if you want me to try and work out who they might be. Because at the moment, I know jack shit, and for someone to play with you like this they have to hate you. This is more than greed – in my professional opinion.’

  Again there was a silence and then Venus said, ‘Do you know the Princess Louise in Holborn?’

  ‘Of course I do, I’m a recovering alcoholic. There’s no boozer in London I don’t know.’

  ‘Not a modest man are you, Mr Arnold? Meet me there in an hour.’

  ‘See you there.’

  He ended the call, put his phone in his pocket and made his way towards Liverpool Street Station. He looked back just once at the drop site, but no one was there.

  *

  Shazia sat down beside her, but Mumtaz didn’t look up from her computer. In 1971, the year Alison Darrah-Duncan had been born, there had been a telephone box outside a Turnham Green pub called the Tabard. This was where baby Alison had been found early in the morning on the fourth of September, by Mother Emerita from the local Convent of the Sisters of Mary Immaculate of Siena in Chiswick Lane. In those days it had been a hostel . . .

  ‘Amma.’

  She looked up. ‘Shazia.’

  Her eyes were wet with tears.

  ‘What is it?’

  The girl put her head down. ‘I’ve been tough on you lately, about the Sheikhs,’ she said. ‘And I’m sorry.’

  Mumtaz didn’t say anything. What was there to say? They’d both been through pain because of the Sheikhs.

  ‘When Uncle Ali was talking at dinner on Sunday I realised what we’re up against,’ Shazia said. ‘I remembered the woman in the chemist.’

  ‘In Spitalfields?’

  ‘Yes. Do you remember, she was a Muslim but her boss was a Hindu? She didn’t cover, but a gang of boys told her boss that if he didn’t make her, they’d trash his business. He told her he’d support her whatever, but she felt so bad for him that she left her job.’

  Mumtaz did remember. It had made her furious. She nodded.

  ‘It suddenly got me that even if Lee or the police did support us, the Sheikhs wouldn’t leave us alone because they’re bullies who claim they have religion behind them. They don’t, but they can fool themselves that they do. They can fool themselves into anything. That Naz says the word “slut” under his breath when he sees me, but even you get called a slut, and you cover. I bet he has sex with girls he picks up in clubs. I bet he thinks he’s a good Muslim because he doesn’t drink. If he actually doesn’t. These men are just like Abba, and look what he did to us.’

  What she was saying was true, but Mumtaz was disturbed by Shazia’s pessimism. It took her back to the time when Ahmet had still been alive, when Shazia had been an unhappy, wounded child with no hope. Until Naz Sheikh had killed her father. Would she really fall apart if she knew about that? Would she hate Mumtaz for letting Ahmet die?

  Mumtaz put an arm around the girl’s shoulders. ‘Shazia,’ she said, ‘when you go to university all this will end.’

  ‘For me. But what about you? What will you do, Amma?’

  ‘What I can.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe go back to my parents.’

  ‘With nothing?’

  ‘When I have nothing, the Sheikhs will get bored. They are a powerful crime family with many business interests. The only reason they pursue us is because your father tried to cheat them. They do it to look hard and frightening.’

  ‘Amma, you have almost nothing now.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ She couldn’t tell her that the main ‘thing’ she had was Shazia herself. ‘They’re not bored with me yet,’ she said. ‘We will get through this, Shazia, I promise.’

  Shazia hugged her. It was the first time Mumtaz had felt affection from her stepdaughter in months. She closed her eyes.

  ‘When I become a lawyer I’m going to show the world what it means to be a strong, independent Muslim woman,’ Shazia said. ‘Islam isn’t just for men. That’s where they’re wrong. Everything these men do who put women down is wrong. And I’m afraid that I don’t agree with Uncle Ali about how all the boys are bored and don’t have opportunities.’

  ‘Some don’t.’

  ‘Some, but not all, and that’s still not an excuse to call girls bad names.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Amma, we have to live with the Sheikhs in our lives, so I want you to tell me everything from now on,’ Shazia said.

  Mumtaz frowned. What did she mean?

  ‘Like, if we need some more money or something,’ Shazia said. ‘I can get a job and—’

  ‘Not if it interferes with your studies you won’t!’

  ‘Oh, Amma, loads of people at college do bits of work. It’s okay.’ And then she laughed. ‘Honestly, you know some of my friends think I’m a right spoilt princess because I don’t work. And it’s the holidays now, I’ll be bored out of my mind by September. I want to work.’

  Mumtaz kissed her cheek. ‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘But I do appreciate what you’ve said, Shazia. Really. And yes, we will talk in the future.’

  Just not about quite everything.

  Shazia left to go and get online. Nearly all her friends were either working or away for the summer in places like Bangladesh, Pakistan or India with their families. The only way she could stay in touch was via the internet.

  A happier Mumtaz went back to her computer and Chiswick in the seventies. She hadn’t realised that the convent where Alison had been taken as a baby had been a hostel exclusively for young girls.

  *

  The Princess Louise in Holborn wouldn’t have been Lee Arnold’s first choice for a quiet chat. On weekday evenings it was full to bursting with business types talking about things like ‘hedge funds’ and ‘futures’, whatever they were. But then maybe Venus knew something he didn’t, because one of the small snug bars arranged around the ornate Victorian interior was all but empty. Just a couple of old theatrical types – a man and a woman – talking about musicals.

  Venus already had the Diet Pepsi lined up when Lee arrived. He was on the whisky and was what Lee would have described as ‘mildly plastered’ already. Lee sat down.

  ‘Do you know when and where the drop will be this time?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet. They’ll let me know.’ He downed one shot of whisky and began sipping a second. ‘Mobile number was dead when I called back.’

  ‘Nicked.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Mr Venus, do you have a quarter of a million quid in the bank?’

  ‘No.’ He finished his second whisky. ‘Equity in the flat. Tina’s got it in cash, but it’s all she’s got. I asked her.’

  ‘Are you certain you don’t know anyone called Mr Shaw?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Old lags from your past?’

  ‘No!’

  The male theatrical laughed and said, ‘Never even heard of Judy Garland!’

&
nbsp; The female screamed. ‘Oh, no!’

  Venus reached for his wallet to go and get another drink, but Lee shook his head. ‘No more booze until you come clean,’ he said. ‘I know that all you want is to get Harry back, but I think it’s possible you’re being played, Mr Venus. There was no need to demand such a small amount of money and then go in for a larger one unless they were either just testing the water or there was an element of psychological torture going on here. Because every minute these people have your son, they are in danger of discovery, whether the police are involved or not. A neighbour could see your boy through a window and wonder who he is, a passer-by – anything. Think about it.’

  Venus looked down at the floor.

  ‘Are you buying anything else, apart from Harry, with your quarter of a mil, Mr Venus? Like silence?’

  ‘No.’ He looked up. ‘I know that DI Collins thinks I’m up to all sorts, but that is just her fantasy,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t like me for the same reason she doesn’t like anyone who came into the police via graduate entry. She’s an inverted snob. Ditto her DS, Bracci. Dinosaurs, both of them. I am “in” with no one in the crime world, Mr Arnold.’

  ‘And women?’

  ‘Women are my business,’ he said. ‘Contrary, again, to rumour and supposition, I do not have affairs with my female officers. If I am occasionally caught looking appreciatively at a young PC then all I can do is own up. I am only human.’

  ‘What about your wife? She told me she used to work in a club in the seventies. What sort of club?’

  ‘Oh, she sang a bit,’ he said. ‘Nothing sleazy. Tina did a few topless shots for magazines, but that was long before I met her. And if you think we’d risk Harry’s life for those antiques . . .’

  ‘You’re sure? I mean actresses can have a bit of a rep . . .’

  ‘Not Tina, for all her bloody faults. Now I’m going to get a drink.’

  He got up and walked over to the bar. Lee drank his Pepsi. Venus had a point. Maybe he had been influenced by Vi and Tony when it came to his opinions and beliefs about the superintendent? But this stringing out of the ransom did seem like a game. A simple opportunist would have asked for a hundred grand, given the boy back and then buggered off before he got caught. Greed could come into it, and yet Lee still felt that an amateur wouldn’t take the risk. A true pro, with access to expertise and truly safe ‘safe’ houses, would have asked for a million – which Venus and his wife could raise by selling property – right from the start. He couldn’t help feeling that this was someone who had an agenda. But what was it about? And where, if anywhere, did Brick Lane Asians come into the mix? Because the drop had been on their manor, and if Kev Thorpe’s old cockney racist mum was to be believed, Asians used that address to communicate illicitly. When Venus came back, he told him.

  ‘So make contact with the locals.’

  ‘Just march up to one and ask him?’ Lee shook his head. ‘I’m not local, Mr Venus, and so I’m automatically suspicious. Why would a white bloke want to know about a dodgy Asian mailing address? I wouldn’t. But I could ask my assistant, Mrs Hakim, to check it out.’

  ‘You mustn’t tell her why.’

  ‘I won’t. But her family live off Brick Lane, so they might know.’

  Venus downed his whisky. He was getting arse’oled. ‘OK. But remember . . .’

  ‘I won’t say a word. I’ve more respect for Harry’s life,’ Lee said.

  Some businessmen came in to the bar, laughing. The after-work drinking sessions were starting in earnest now. One ordered a ‘bottle of your best Pinot, barman!’ Knob. Lee desperately wanted the comfort of his flat, Chronus, tea and a fag. Knowing he had to get home by tube and then the overground didn’t fill him with joy.

  ‘I’ll get online and see what else I can dig up about the drop site and that part of Brick Lane,’ he said. ‘I suggest you get a taxi home and have some kip.’

  ‘Sleep?’ he shook his head. ‘How do I do that?’

  His voice had risen and people were starting to look. Lee stood and pulled Venus up with him.

  ‘What . . .?’

  ‘Time to go home, Paul,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ve got a load more booze at your flat, but now it’s taxi time.’

  Venus resisted a little, but not vocally, and once Lee had managed to ease him through the crowds that now choked the Princess Louise, he hailed a cab and sat him in it.

  The cabbie, a little bit dubious about the drunk in the back of his motor, said, ‘Where to?’

  ‘Islington,’ Lee Arnold said. ‘Highbury Place.’

  It was amazing what unintentionally revealing photographs people took of their homes and put on their Facebook pages, even superintendents of police. Lee called up Tina Wilton’s number on his phone.

  *

  ‘I can see you on Wednesday. Do you know where we are?’

  Mumtaz looked at the convent’s website.

  ‘Chiswick Lane.’

  ‘Turnham Green is our nearest station. Turn left when you arrive and walk down Turnham Green Terrace, then turn left again onto Chiswick High Road. Chiswick Lane is two hundred metres or so on the opposite side of the road. We are at the top on the right.’

  The nun, Mother Katerina, had a slight accent, which given the name of the order, the Sisters of Mary Immaculate of Siena, Mumtaz assumed was Italian. She sounded young and businesslike and said that she was happy to tell Mumtaz everything she knew about the late Mother Emerita and baby Alison.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll see you then.’

  When she’d finished the call, Mumtaz put the phone down beside her on the sofa and looked back at her computer. The Siena Sisters building had opened as a girls’ hostel in 1951. As far as she could tell, any girl could go there provided she could pay, but the place was favoured by Italian girls resident in the UK as students.

  Her phone rang. She looked at the screen. Not Naz, but Lee. She picked it up. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Wotcha. Not interrupting Londoners am I?’

  He knew she didn’t watch any soaps.

  ‘I’d rather have flu,’ she said. ‘Are you OK?’

  He didn’t usually phone her in the evening unless it was something important.

  ‘Fine. Just wondering if you’ve got time to get me a bit of intel on an address on Brick Lane,’ he said.

  ‘If I can. What is it?’

  ‘It’s next to an electrical shop run by a Mr Bhatti. Near the old Brewery on the right going up Brick Lane.’

  ‘Mmm. Aren’t there some empty properties there?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s one of them,’ he said.

  ‘What do you want to know about it?’

  ‘There’s whispers it might be used as a contact address, possibly for Asian ladies and men who don’t want the world to know they’re communicating.’

  ‘Ah.’

  She’d heard of such things. In spite of the internet, illicit lovers still made assignations by letter, in the old-fashioned way. It was far more secure than computer or a mobile phone, which a suspicious husband could investigate. Letters could be burnt.

  ‘I know such things happen, but haven’t heard that address mentioned,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to try and find out?’

  ‘Discreetly.’

  ‘Of course. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Can’t tell you.’

  This wasn’t the first time she’d been locked out. ‘OK.’

  ‘But I need anything you can get yesterday,’ he told her.

  ‘Then something bad is afoot.’

  ‘Something that can’t wait.’

  ‘I’ll give it my best shot,’ she said. Then she added, ‘Oh, how was your weekend away?’

  ‘Very nice.’ His tone forcedly casual. ‘Out in the countryside, bit of fresh air. Can’t beat it.’

  ‘Good.’

  She put the phone down. Lee hated the countryside. Why was he lying? Had he, as Shazia had reckoned, been off with a woman somewhere? Not that it was any of her business.

 
She had to decide whom to talk to about that address on Brick Lane. Her mother wouldn’t know about anything so gossipy and trivial, and even if she did she would never own up to it. Her father might well know, but the thought of talking to him about it made Mumtaz cringe with embarrassment.

  Why did Lee want to know? Was he planning to use the address to contact some woman?

  No.

  Could she ask her brothers? They both worked on the Lane, but Arif did his best to live his life as far away from home as possible. He had a western girlfriend and spent most of his time in Clapham with her. Ali was involved in the Lane and talked to everyone, but he had become more judgemental and austere in his religious practice in the last year, which made him hard to talk to. If he didn’t know about the ‘secret’ address and she told him, he was likely to tell community leaders and get people into trouble. Mumtaz hated to think what the hostile street boys who called girls ‘sluts’ would say and do, about something like that. She frowned, wondering whether she was going to be able to help Lee this time.

  And then she remembered Rajiv.

  6

  ‘Getting my son back has got nothing to do with Cyd!’ Tina said.

  She could tell that her husband was either very tired or hung-over.

  ‘So he’s your son?’

  ‘Oh, fuck you!’ she snapped. ‘Arnold phoned asking questions about any little secrets I might have, so I thought of Cyd.’

  ‘He asked me the same questions last night.’

  ‘Oh did he? Why didn’t you warn me?’

  ‘Because I told him we have nothing to hide. Which we don’t.’

  ‘Oh really? Were you in the pub when you told him?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘So I told him about Cyd. What did you tell him?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I can hear the booze in your voice, Paul. Do the keep-fit bollocks for everyone else, you’ve got a drink problem, that’s one little secret you could’ve told him. Then there are your other . . . We’ve both had help up the ladder, haven’t we?’

  ‘In the past you and I have benefited from our connections,’ he said. ‘But it’s over. Irrelevant. I told you, Tina, that I checked that out before I did anything. Whoever has taken Harry is completely unknown to anyone you and I have contact with.’