‘With respect, I’m not sure that it’s—’
‘How long have you been in the job, Millie?’ Mariner ploughed on.
‘Just over a year, sir.’
‘Something you might want to remember. If you want the police and media to sit up and take notice when you disappear, you’d better be female and from a “good” family. Don’t ever be male and from a broken home, with a dodgy dad, like Ricky Skeet because then the media aren’t interested and the police won’t give a fuck.’
‘Girls are more vulnerable,’ she pointed out.
‘Which doesn’t mean that boys aren’t,’ Mariner replied, with feeling.
‘No, sir. Who’s Ricky Skeet?’ Millie asked.
‘He’s another kid who disappeared yesterday. I know the family so his mum contacted me. I’ve just been pulled off it. Not a good use of an inspector’s time, as he’s probably just a runaway. No fanfare of trumpets or special resources for Ricky Skeet, but then he’s the wrong kind of MisPer.’
‘I’m sure the officer it goes to will give it his best shot.’
‘The officer it’s gone to doesn’t know the family and is up to his neck in other unsolveds.’
‘And you’re not? Sir?’
Said so innocently, Mariner couldn’t help but smile. ‘Let’s get a drink Millie. And then we’ll see who knows anything.’
* * *
Fresh-faced PC Robbie Thorne knew more than anyone, having been the uniformed constable who responded to the initial missing persons call for Yasmin Akram. Summoned to Mariner’s airless office, he sat down to form the third corner of a human triangle with Mariner and Millie, and read from his notebook.
‘Yasmin was last seen yesterday afternoon at around four thirty, when she left the girls’ school with a group of friends to go home,’ Thorne said. ‘She took her usual route: travelling three stops on the train to the university station where she gets off and walks several streets to her house. Her friends last saw her running for the train at Kingsmead.’
‘And no one’s heard from her since?’
Thorne shook his head. ‘She carries a mobile, which as far as we know is working, but she hasn’t used it. That’s partly why nobody was panicking at first. She wasn’t even reported missing until this morning.’
‘After she’d been gone all night?’ said Mariner.
‘The father is away and the mother thought she’d gone to stay with a friend. It wasn’t until the school called her this morning to say that Yasmin hadn’t turned up that she realised that wasn’t the case. That’s when she contacted us.’
‘Since when did schools start ringing up parents to ask where their kids are?’ Mariner asked, remembering that Ricky had been subject to the same checks.
Millie supplied the response. ‘Since the truancy rates went through the roof and school attendance became a government issue,’ she said.
‘Hm, back in the day if you wanted to bunk off, you just did it. The teachers were grateful to have fewer kids in the class.’
‘That was before results and league tables got to be so important.’
‘Shanila Akram, Yasmin’s mother, seemed worried about her husband’s reaction to involving the police, too,’ Thorne added, ‘though I couldn’t work out why.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Away on business, she said. He’s due back later this afternoon.’
‘Do we know if Yasmin’s ever done this kind of thing before?’ asked Millie.
‘Only the usual. Once when she was little, she threatened to run away to her auntie’s, but only got as far as the end of the street.’
‘This auntie has been contacted?’
‘Yes, sir. Mrs Akram has been in touch with all other family members she could think of.’ Thorne glanced at his meticulously taken notes. ‘And the only thing Yasmin had with her was her school bag. She didn’t even have dinner money.’ He glanced up. ‘The school operates some kind of credit card system so no cash is exchanged. All that we know she had on her was her travel card that covers West Midlands buses and trains.’
‘So theoretically she can’t have gone very far.’
‘Tell us about the family set up,’ said Millie.
‘The family is Pakistani Muslim. Yasmin’s the second of three children. There’s a sister in her twenties who now lives abroad, and a ten-year-old brother. Paternal grandmother also lives with them. The home language is a mix of Urdu and English but the mother speaks English fluently.’
‘How did she seem?’ asked Mariner.
‘About what you’d expect: anxious.’
Mariner looked over at Millie. ‘So, let’s go and see for ourselves.’
* * *
Yasmin may have disappeared on their patch, but both the family home and her parents’ school were some distance away. The city’s foundation grammar school system meant that hundreds of kids travelled such journeys every day.
The drive over to the inner-city suburb of Sparkhill was about as uncomfortable as it could have been. In the mid-afternoon sun Birmingham smouldered, heat shimmering up from the roads, melting and splitting the tarmac and condensing the air to a stinking, exhaust-laden smog. In the last few weeks the city had become noisy and overcrowded, too small and cramped for its one million inhabitants causing more than the usual friction and conflict. There had been an increase in the number of domestic and common assaults, and road-rage incidents this month had risen by a quarter.
Even the trees looked as if they’d had enough, their leaves limp and lacklustre. Traffic on the outer-circle route this afternoon had virtually ground to a halt, leaving drivers to stew impatiently in their vehicles. Despite the full-on air conditioning, Mariner could feel his shoulders beginning to prickle and itch. He glanced up in despair at the cloudless blue sky. After five weeks the heat was showing no sign of abating. News reports were full of dire warnings about hosepipe bans and forest fires. Ironic given that spring had been one of the wettest on record, submerging whole areas of the country beneath flood water for days at a time. Impossible to imagine now.
‘What does it mean, Allah T’ala?’ Mariner asked Millie, as they idled at yet another congested junction.
‘Literally it means “god most high.”’
‘So this is the school of god most high?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What do you think of segregated schools?’
Millie’s response was measured. ‘Lots of parents, white and black choose to send their children to private schools for many different reasons.’
‘But these are primarily religious reasons. What kind of precedent are we setting for these kids? Already in this city we have Catholic schools, Jewish schools and Muslim schools, all telling children that their religion makes them special and different from others. Then they go out into the world and we expect them to forget all that and take their place in a multicultural society.’
‘The good schools also teach tolerance and respect for the religious beliefs and customs of others, whatever they may be,’ said Millie, reasonably. ‘I don’t think you’ll find bigotry on the curriculum at many.’
As if to illustrate this crossover, the Allah T’ala turned out be housed in an imposing ironstone building with twin white spires and a high arched window — a former Anglican parish church that dominated a meandering street of Edwardian townhouses. As they drove up, a man scrubbed at an illegible slogan that had been sprayed in red paint along one wall. Approaching from the same direction, but on foot, were two women in full burkha, the black robes leaving only their eyes exposed. A less common sight in the southern suburbs, Mariner was well aware of the connection made by some between the mode of dress and the perceived oppression of women and was surprised to find himself mildly unsettled by the sight. As the women neared the door marked ‘entrance,’ it swung open as if by magic, just wide enough to admit them, and they were gone.
Mariner hoped that as a man he wouldn’t have a problem gaining access. As much as he was prepared to trust
Millie he wanted to be there himself to talk to the Akrams. And the school was co-educational, which presumably meant that male teachers worked here. Cars on the forecourt outside the school were of mixed vintage and power.
Despite finding a patch of shade cast by an ancient spreading beech, they stepped out of the car into what felt like a fan assisted oven set to ‘high’ and it was with reluctance that Mariner retrieved his jacket from the hook behind the driver’s seat, slipping it on as they walked the few yards to the school. Millie rapped the door-knocker, simultaneously holding her warrant card up to the peep-hole below. Again, the door opened marginally, sucking them into a dim reception room before closing softly behind them.
Once Mariner’s eyes had adjusted from the brightness outside, he could see that this was the main administration office, crowded with phones, computers and filing cabinets. The walls were decorated with childlike powder-paint creations annotated with quotations, most probably from the Koran. A small brown-eyed child fidgeted on a chair beneath the proclamation that: ‘In the remembrance of God do hearts find satisfaction.’
Millie greeted the young girl behind the desk, whose face was now exposed to them, with a salaam. ‘I’m Liaison Officer Millie Khatoon and this is Detective Inspector Tom Mariner,’ she said. ‘We have come to speak to Mr and Mrs Akram.’
The girl flashed a brief sympathetic smile. ‘Of course. I’ll tell Mrs Akram you’re here.’ Picking up the phone she spoke briefly in what Mariner surmised to be Urdu, before rising from her chair. ‘Please come with me.’
* * *
She led them through into a small lobby then up two narrow flights of stairs, gliding with the kind of feminine grace that her flowing robes seemed to induce. Behind closed doors they could hear the insistent chatter of children’s voices. Shanila Akram greeted them as they reached the door of another, tidier office — lighter too, thanks to the broad window that overlooked the street. As they entered she got to her feet and came towards them extending a hand. Mariner took it. It was delicate and as cool as marble. Small and slight, she was also dressed all in black, her hijab wrapped about her face like a nun’s wimple. In ordinary circumstances she would be stunningly beautiful, with flawless olive skin, mahogany eyes and a full mouth, but today those features were clouded with tension and Mariner wondered how she was managing to carry on working.
‘Our school must continue for the children,’ she explained apologetically when introductions had been made, as if she was party to his thoughts. ‘And I felt it better to keep busy.’ Outwardly in command, she was struggling to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds. The girl from reception had brought in chairs behind them and Shanila Akram invited them to sit. ‘Would you like tea?’ she asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Mariner had expected this from past experience. He was no great fan of the traditional sweet Masala tea, but he knew better than to decline. Accepting the hospitality would make the atmosphere more conducive to open communication and trust. However when refreshment came, it was served western style, for which he was grateful.
‘My husband should be back very soon,’ Shanila Akram told them. ‘I haven’t yet been able to contact him.’
Good, thought Mariner, we may be here when the news is broken. We’ll be able to judge the reaction. ‘Meanwhile perhaps you could start by telling us about yesterday evening,’ he said.
‘Of course.’ Shanila Akram cleared her throat. ‘I arrived home at a little after seven. It’s a busy time of year. There is such a lot to do here at the school, with all the preparations for the end of term. The children’s amma, my husband’s mother, is at home all day so is there to welcome Yasmin and her brother. Sanjit was at home at the usual time. I had allowed Yasmin to go and stay with her friend—’ She broke off uncertainly, as if she was going to say more of that but then changed her mind.
‘And the friend’s name?’ Mariner prompted.
‘Suzanne. Suzanne Perry. The arrangement was that Yasmin would phone from Suzanne’s house to let us know that she was safe, but when I got home she hadn’t yet phoned.’
‘Didn’t that concern you?’
Almost immediately Mariner regretted the insinuation. Shanila Akram’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Not unduly. I thought that perhaps Yasmin had forgotten, that she was having a good time . . . I didn’t want to crowd her, so I thought I would phone Suzanne’s parents, but that’s when I discovered that their number isn’t listed. By this time it was getting late and I just thought . . . Of course I know now that I should have persisted, but at the time I had no reason to think that anything was wrong.’ With effort of will she looked Mariner in the eye. ‘It was a mistake. Of course I realise that now. I was ready to scold Yasmin for not keeping in touch, but I was shocked when the school contacted me this morning to say that she had not arrived and that her friends had not seen her since yesterday afternoon.’
‘So she didn’t go to stay with Suzanne?’
‘No. At the last minute she changed her mind and told her friends that she was coming home instead.’
‘But she didn’t do that either.’
‘No.’ The woman’s voice had dropped to a whisper. Through the open window they heard a car pulling onto the forecourt below. Shanila Akram got up and went to look out. ‘My husband,’ she said. But her expression was far from relieved.
They heard voices below and moments later Mohammed Akram burst into the room, his face a mixture of anxiety and bewilderment. In his mid- to late forties he was unexpectedly dressed in a dark business suit with a crisp white shirt and striped tie.
‘Moshi, this is Inspector Mariner and Constable Khatoon. They are from the police.’
Akram shook their hands, ‘Fakhra told me you were here. What’s happened now? Have there been more letters?’ As he spoke Akram pulled up a seat beside his wife.
‘It’s Yasmin.’
‘What about her?’
‘She has disappeared.’
‘What?’
Something subtly changed in the atmosphere. Something Mariner couldn’t identify. Shanila Akram’s fragile confidence had deserted her and she seemed to shrink away from her husband, as if he might be angry with her. Perhaps he would. She had been left in charge of the family, after all.
‘It appears your daughter changed her mind about going to stay with her friend yesterday evening, but she didn’t return home either,’ Mariner said. Now Akram seemed confused.
‘Yasmin was to go and stay with Suzanne last night—’ his wife reminded him.
‘She what—?’ Akram’s confusion turned to anger.
‘They had to finish their project,’ Shanila cut in. ‘The presentation they were doing together. Yasmin was desperate to go. But she must have decided against it after all.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The school telephoned me this morning to say that Yasmin hadn’t arrived there this morning. That’s when I called the police.’
Akram’s full attention was on his wife, Mariner noticed. He seemed to have forgotten that they were there. ‘Why didn’t you wait—? Never mind.’ Mohammed Akram’s eyes narrowed as he tried to make sense of what his wife had told him, and Mariner tried to read the emotion. Shanila Akram’s demeanour had completely transformed. No mistaking who was the dominant person in this partnership. Only, it seemed, when he had swallowed his anger did Akram think to ask: ‘Where has she gone? Have you spoken to her friends, to the rest of the family?’ He reeled off a list of names.
His wife shook her head. ‘I’ve tried them all. No one knows where she is.’
‘It seems the last people to see her were her friends yesterday afternoon,’ said Mariner.
‘So I’m to understand that she’s been out all night? How has this happened?’ The demand was made of Shanila, who visibly flinched. There was something else going on here that Mariner didn’t yet fully grasp.
‘I understand your concern, Mr Akram,’ he intervened, in an attempt to defuse the tension. ‘But the fact rema
ins that it has happened, so we need to ask you some questions, so that we can find Yasmin as quickly as possible.’
At that, Akram seemed to get a grip. ‘Yes. Yes of course,’ he shook his head slowly. ‘It’s just so hard to take in. I can’t believe it. What is it that you need to know?’
‘We were just talking to your wife about the events of yesterday evening.’
‘Well, as I’m sure she has told you, I have been away on business since yesterday afternoon.’
‘May I ask where you’ve been, sir?’
‘We are opening a school in Bradford. I went to meet with some of our staff up there for a planning meeting.’
‘And you left Birmingham at what time?’
Akram thought for a moment. ‘It was around four thirty in the afternoon. I had an appointment with the printer and went on from there.’
‘This friend, Suzanne. Has Yasmin stayed with her before?’ Mariner addressed the question to both parents, but it was Mohammed Akram who answered sharply.
‘No.’ The look he shot his wife was clearly one of disapproval and a frisson of conflict thickened the air again. They’d need to return to that.
‘She has been to Suzanne’s house for tea sometimes, but always comes home later in the evening,’ Shanila said, softly.
‘And what did Yasmin take with her?’ asked Mariner.
‘As far as I know the usual things: a change of underclothes, toiletries. Other than that it’s hard to tell.’
‘And you have no idea where Yasmin may have gone. Are there any friends or relatives she might have gone to stay with instead?’
‘I’ve contacted everyone I can think of,’ Shanila told him. ‘We have family in London and Bradford.’
‘What about your cousin Ameenah?’ Mohammed Akram asked of his wife.
‘No, I’ve called them.’
‘I understand Yasmin’s sister lives abroad.’
‘In Lahore,’ said Shanila Akram.
‘Is there any chance that Yasmin would try to go there?’
Innocent Lies (Reissue) Page 3
