Dishonour Read online

  ‘Ryan,’ her voice is all wobbly.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why is there blood in the bathroom?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s loads of blood and tissues all over the bathroom,’ says Aasha.

  They stare at each other, neither of them moving.

  ‘Ryan?’ she murmurs.

  He shoves Aasha out of the way. There are splashes of blood all over the sink and bath.

  ‘No, no, no.’ His head is spinning. He races to his mum’s bedroom. Aasha is running after him but he doesn’t look at her.

  The bedroom is in darkness but he can smell it. He bangs on the light switch with his fist and hears Aasha’s scream behind him. His mum is curled, face down, on the bed, naked. The sheets under her are covered in blood.

  ‘Mum,’ he howls, and drags her onto her back.

  There are cuts across her stomach, at least five of them.

  ‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ Aasha says.

  ‘No.’ Ryan puts up his hand. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Ryan?’ says Aasha. ‘She needs a doctor.’

  Ryan shakes his head. ‘This happens all the time.’

  Then he gets to work.

  An hour later, Ryan’s cleaned up his mum, dressed the cuts and put her to bed.

  He shoves the sodden sheets in the washing machine and slams the door. He daren’t look at Aasha.

  ‘How long has this been going on?’ she asks.

  He still doesn’t look at her; can’t look at her.

  ‘Ryan?’ She takes his hand.

  ‘I dunno,’ he shrugs. ‘Since my dad left.’

  She still has his hand in hers. It feels surprisingly firm.

  ‘You look after her?’ Aasha asks incredulously.

  ‘There ain’t no one else.’

  ‘Why did you never tell anyone?’ she says. ‘Ask for some help?’

  He flashes her an angry look. ‘From who?’

  ‘School, social services, anyone.’

  He snatches back his hand. ‘They’d say she’s not fit to look after me, stick me in care.’

  ‘You could have told me.’ Aasha takes a step towards him.

  Ryan bites his lip, afraid he might cry.

  She takes another step nearer and he can smell her lotion, like a Bounty or something. Then she puts her arms around his waist and pulls him against her. He breathes her in, leaning into her, resting his head on her shoulder.

  ‘I’m just so tired of it,’ he says.

  ‘Shush,’ she whispers into his hair. ‘I’m here now.’

  Lilly and Taslima navigated the High Street in Bury Park and pulled over outside Paradise Halal Butchers.

  Orange nets of onions were piled high beside the doorway, together with cardboard boxes filled with knobbly roots of ginger and wicked-looking green chillies.

  They followed a delivery man inside, his tray of chicken breasts quivering like pink jellyfish.

  Mohamed Aziz wiped his hands down his stiff white apron and rattled a gunfire of orders in Urdu. The delivery man tried to respond but Mohamed let off another volley.

  Mohamed Aziz was every bit as unpleasant as Lilly remembered.

  As they waited for him to finish Lilly tried not to breathe in the flesh stench of row upon row of dead carcasses. Instead she distracted herself with the packets of spices lined upon a shelf. The rust red of paprika and the sulphur yellow of turmeric screamed for attention among the burnt-brown cumin seeds.

  ‘Miss Valentine,’ Mohamed greeted her at last, ‘what can I do for you?’

  ‘We’d like to speak to you about your relationship with Yasmeen,’ she said.

  ‘Relationship?’ Mohamed spoke quickly. Too quickly. ‘What are you implying?’

  Lilly opened her palms. ‘Only that between uncle and niece.’

  Mohamed appraised Lilly openly, taking in every inch of her.

  ‘Follow me,’ he muttered, and disappeared into the back of the shop.

  Taslima leaned in to Lilly and whispered, ‘A regular happy camper.’

  They followed Mohamed into a room at the rear. He closed the door behind them, sealing in the smell of raw meat that clung to his skin and clothes.

  ‘What is it you want to know?’

  ‘I just wondered how close you were to Yasmeen,’ Lilly smiled.

  Mohamed didn’t smile back. ‘She was a member of my family.’

  Lilly nodded and kept her body language relaxed. ‘And what exactly is your relationship with the Khans? Are you Mrs Khan’s brother?’

  Something flitted across Mohamed’s eyes. Anger? Suspicion?

  ‘As I’m sure your colleague will tell you,’ he gestured to Taslima, ‘Asian families include extended members.’

  ‘So you’re not actually their uncle?’ Lilly asked.

  Mohamed narrowed his eyes. ‘I was a close friend of their late father.’

  ‘So no relation at all, then?’

  ‘Does this have anything at all to do with Raffique’s defence?’ Mohamed snapped.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Lilly replied.

  Their eyes locked together and Lilly tried to read everything she could. She had been close enough to touch murderers before, to taste their depravity. She could sense Mohamed’s distaste for her, his fury at her questions, but did that make him a killer?

  ‘One last thing,’ Lilly said. ‘Did you speak to Yasmeen on the day she died?’

  Mohamed didn’t miss a beat. ‘No.’

  He led them back to the shop floor and picked up a meat cleaver, which he wielded over a leg of lamb. Clearly Lilly and Taslima were to show themselves out.

  When they got to the door, Lilly spun on her heel.

  ‘Are you sure Yasmeen didn’t call you on the day she died?’

  The cleaver hovered inches from Mohamed’s face. Lilly watched the blade glint.

  ‘I’m sure the telephone records show that she did,’ she added.

  Mohamed brought the cleaver down with a violent, yet precise stroke, which cut through the flesh and the bone cleanly.

  ‘I remember now,’ he said. ‘She wanted to know if I had any work for her in the shop.’

  Once outside, Lilly gratefully took a gulp of fresh air.

  There was something very wrong about Mohamed Aziz.

  Jack kicked the leg of his desk and scanned his inbox once more. He was restless and couldn’t settle to anything. He checked his mobile, gave a theatrical huff and sauntered over to the kettle.

  A PC with more forehead than face poured boiling water over a Pot Noodle. The air filled with the salt breeze of dried pork.

  ‘That stuff will kill you,’ said Jack.

  The PC ripped the plastic packet of sauce with his teeth and stirred it through until every noodle was coated with MSG.

  ‘We’ve all got to die sometime,’ he said.

  Jack popped a teabag into his mug. Green tea with lemon peel. Packed with antioxidants.

  The PC wagged his fork. ‘Now that really will kill you.’

  Jack ignored him and sipped his tea.

  A sergeant poked his head around the door. ‘Who’s free?’ he asked.

  The PC wiped his greasy lips. ‘I’m having my lunch, Serg.’

  ‘Tough. There’s a family here, saying their daughter’s done a runner.’

  The PC groaned. ‘Have they checked with her mates?’

  ‘No one’s seen her,’ said the sergeant. ‘They think she might be with some scrote called Ryan Sanders.’

  Jack spat out his tea.

  ‘I told you that stuff was lethal,’ said the PC.

  Jack patted him on the back. ‘Enjoy your gourmet meal for one. I’ll deal with this.’

  Mrs Hassan handed Jack a plate of carrot halwa, so sticky just the sight of it made his teeth ache. He smiled politely and put it down.

  Her eyes flitted to the window and back again. Her husband’s foot tapped restlessly, his face etched with worry. In contrast, their tee
naged sons slumped on the sofa, their legs hanging over the ends.

  ‘You say Aasha’s never done anything like this before?’ asked Jack.

  Mrs Hassan rubbed her nose with a tissue and shook her head.

  ‘She’s a very good girl,’ said Mr Hassan.

  The older of the two boys kissed his teeth.

  Mr Hassan frowned at him. ‘She goes to school and comes home.’

  Jack nodded, wondering what sort of fifteen-year-old girl didn’t hang out with friends.

  ‘The report mentioned something about Ryan Sanders,’ said Jack.

  Mr Hassan threw up his hands. ‘We’ve never even heard of him.’

  ‘So what makes you think Aasha might be with him?’ asked Jack.

  ‘My sons checked her laptop,’ Mr Hassan’s voice dropped, ‘and it seems she has been in regular contact with him.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’ asked Jack.

  Mr Hassan narrowed his eyes. ‘Aasha is not allowed boyfriends.’

  The older boy gave a low grunt. Clearly there were differences of opinion in the Hassan household.

  Jack imagined the sweet, beautiful girl smiling out at him from the school photograph they had given him with one of the nastiest little toerags he had met in a long time. The girl was obviously very sheltered, easily taken in by someone with street smarts like Ryan. It made Jack’s blood boil.

  ‘You must go to this Ryan Sanders and bring her home,’ said Mr Hassan.

  ‘It’s not that straightforward,’ said Jack.

  ‘Surely you can go to your police data base and find out where he lives.’

  Jack gave a tight-lipped smile.

  ‘I told them that you wouldn’t do anything,’ the older boy sneered at Jack from the sofa. ‘I said we should sort this ourselves.’

  Jack’s back straightened. ‘I wouldn’t recommend that.’

  The boys looked at one another.

  ‘Taking the law into your own hands will only result in trouble,’ said Jack.

  Mrs Hassan let out a low moan and buried her face in her tissue.

  ‘No-one is taking the law into their hands,’ Mr Hassan spoke as much to his sons as to Jack.

  They stared at their father, the challenge dancing in their eyes.

  ‘Am I the head of this household?’ he asked.

  Time seemed to stretch until the elder nodded and the younger returned to swinging his leg.

  Mr Hassan turned to Jack. ‘Just bring my daughter back.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Jack.

  ‘Why are these young men so angry?’ Lilly asked Taslima as they drove back to her office.

  They had been to Arlington on another legal visit and though Raffy managed to rein in his rudeness to Lilly, he was hardly co-operative.

  When she’d told him the plan to try to pin Yasmeen’s murder on someone else he had snorted in derision.

  ‘It’s a cut-and-dried case as far as the police are concerned.’

  ‘Lucky for you I don’t work for the police,’ said Lilly.

  He’d shaken his head as if she didn’t understand, could never hope to understand.

  ‘We think whoever did kill your sister must have been very close to her,’ Lilly ventured. ‘Maybe her boyfriend.’

  Raffy visibly cringed at the mere mention of his existence.

  ‘Or a family member,’ she added.

  Raffy became motionless, listening intently.

  ‘Someone could have found out about her relationship,’ she said.

  Raffy remained still, appearing not even to breathe. What was he thinking? That she might be right?

  ‘So we wondered if your uncle Mohamed could have had anything to do with it.’

  Lilly watched her client intensely. He blinked slowly, as if turning the idea over in his mind.

  ‘Could he have had anything to do with the PTF?’ asked Lilly.

  Raffy roared with laughter. ‘Uncle Mo?’ he spluttered. ‘A hard-line radical?’

  ‘He strikes me as very traditional,’ said Lilly.

  Raffy stopped laughing as quickly as he started and anger re-established itself.

  ‘He’s a pussy.’

  She had been about to argue that during her own discussions with him, the old man had been anything but a pussy, when the skinhead boy from the previous visit sauntered into the room. His body language was loose, shoulders relaxed, head bobbing, and he whistled as he searched for his solicitor. Raffy bristled.

  When the skinhead was about to take his seat he grinned at Raffy.

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Lilly.

  Raffy nodded but didn’t take his eyes off the other boy.

  Lilly pressed her hand on his. ‘He’s not worth the aggravation.’

  The skinhead lifted his arm to wave at them but at the last second straightened and turned it into a Sieg Heil.

  Raffy jumped to his feet, his chair clattering behind him.

  ‘You’re a dead man,’ he screamed. ‘You understand me?’

  The skinhead laughed at him.

  After that Raffy had been unable to concentrate on anything other than his rage. Lilly had ended the visit early.

  ‘I just don’t understand,’ she said to Taslima, ‘where all the hatred comes from?’

  ‘People can only be tolerant of being called a Paki for so long,’ Taslima answered. ‘You get to a point when you need to fight back.’

  ‘Do you feel that way?’ asked Lilly.

  ‘Sometimes.’ Taslima shrugged. ‘I get tired of justifying myself. When people stare at my hijab I want to ask them if they’d rather see me in a cropped top and a belly ring.’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Lilly, ‘I haven’t put my belly on public display since I was ten.’

  Taslima laughed and nodded at Lilly’s bump. ‘I can see more than enough, thank you.’

  Lilly was about to feign a wounded expression when her mobile rang.

  ‘Mrs Valentine?’

  ‘Miss,’ said Lilly.

  The caller was a man, his accent clipped. ‘That’s right, you don’t use your married name.’

  ‘That’s because I’m not married,’ said Lilly. ‘Look, who is this please?’

  ‘Mr Latimer,’ he said. ‘I believe you wanted to speak to me urgently.’

  Realisation dawned. It was Sam’s head teacher.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I’m worried about my son.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Yes, he seems tense,’ she said. ‘I understand there has been some bullying at school.’

  ‘I’m not fond of that word,’ said Mr Latimer, ‘but there have been some recent problems.’

  ‘And Sam’s involved?’

  ‘It would appear so.’

  Lilly’s heart thumped. Sam was being picked on by older boys. What were they doing? Pushing him around, stealing his lunch? Calling him vile names? Whatever it was it was enough to put Sam off going in at all.

  ‘What do you plan to do?’ she asked.

  ‘I think you should come in to see me,’ said Mr Latimer.

  Taslima pulled up outside the office. ‘What on earth is he up to?’ She pointed at a man peering in the office window, taking photographs with a small camera.

  Lilly frowned. ‘I have to go, Mr Latimer. I’ll call in tomorrow.’

  She wound down her window. ‘Can I ask what you’re doing?’ she called to the potential intruder.

  The man turned to the Mini and slid his camera into the breast pocket of his jacket. Lilly could see his cuffs were grubby and worn.

  ‘Do I need to call the police?’ she asked.

  The man smiled at her, revealing the brown, uneven teeth of a heavy smoker. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ he wheezed.

  ‘Then answer my first question,’ said Lilly. ‘What are you doing?’

  He leered at Lilly. ‘The estate agents sent me to take a few pictures.’

  ‘What estate agent?’ Lilly narrowed her eyes.

  The man waved vaguely down the road. ‘On the
High Street.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it,’ said Lilly.

  ‘I can see that,’ the man chuckled. ‘Truth be told, I thought I might have the wrong place when I saw it was all locked up.’

  Lilly stared at him.

  ‘No harm done,’ he said. ‘I’ll be on my way.’

  Lilly watched him meander away, telling herself that it was just as the man said, a misunderstanding. She had nothing to worry about. She was being paranoid.

  Mark Cormack waited ten minutes before returning to his car. When the solicitor caught him he’d come out with a load of old rubbish and she hadn’t bought a word of it.

  He didn’t want her noting down his number plate and getting some contact at the DVLA working out who he was.

  They were like that, these legal types, friends in high places and all that.

  When he was sure the women were gone he pulled out his packet of Benson & Hedges. Some muppet had told him that having fags with him would help him give up. Something about craving what you couldn’t have. It was bollocks. If you had ’em, you smoked ’em. Simple as. He lit one up and took a deep, appreciative lungful of smoke before driving back to his office.

  Now he knew where the woman lived and worked. Job done.

  Ryan lies next to Aasha and watches her sleep. He daren’t move a muscle in case he disturbs her, which is quite an achievement on his single bed.

  Her chest lifts up and down as she breathes and Ryan copies her, taking in the air at the exact same time as her, then letting it out again.

  Their hands are entwined. His white, hers lush brown. They could be on some sort of poster. He’ll paint it one day and sell, like, a million copies. Then he and his mum can move out of the Clayhill and he’ll pay someone to do the cooking and washing and that.

  Ryan smiles. He hasn’t felt this calm for the longest time. Probably not since his dad said he was going for a packet of fags and never came back. Before that, his mum had always been a bit edgy, hardly ever leaving the flat, taking to her bed on bad days. Ryan hadn’t worried about it too much. He’d left it to his dad and done what other kids do: went to school; played football. Once it was just the two of them, his mum went downhill fast. Ryan doesn’t play football any more. He keeps a baseball bat by his bed but it’s not for a game with his mates.

  If he goes out she won’t eat or get washed, just waits for him to get back. Sometimes he has to, like for school and stuff, but then he just spends the whole time wondering what he’ll be coming home to. When she goes through phases of cutting he just bunks off and stays indoors, bricking it that one day she’ll cut too deep.