Dishonour Read online

  ‘Saira is right,’ said Anwar. ‘We need to keep this as quiet as possible.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Mohamed.

  Finally, Raffy’s shoulders loosened and he let his head drop. ‘Fine,’ he muttered, ‘whatever.’

  DI Bell straightened his tie. His appearance mattered to him very much. Being slightly shorter than average he struggled to get shirts and suits off the peg.

  He watched the chief superintendent pacing his office and wondered if the Force had the higher ranks’ uniforms especially made. When his own time came he would pay his tailor to run one up, just in case.

  ‘I don’t have to tell you,’ the chief super stalked to the window, ‘that the country is in the grip of racial tension.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that, sir,’ said DI Bell.

  ‘Then I don’t have to tell you how tricky things are in Luton in particular.’

  Bell nodded. The local Muslim community was one of the most disadvantaged in Britain. A feeding ground for the young, the disenchanted and the angry. It was no coincidence that the 7/7 bombers had begun their fateful train journeys from Luton. The redtops had nicknamed Bury Park ‘Al-Qaeda Street’.

  ‘You’re too young to remember the last serious race riots.’ The chief super wagged his finger. ‘But I was a sergeant in Brixton in ’eighty-one. I saw at first hand what happens when positions become polarised.’

  Bell stifled a yawn. ‘That must have been tough, sir.’

  ‘Forty-eight hours of pitched battle. Petrol bombs raining down on us, for the most part.’

  Bell promised himself that when he wore the stripes on his shoulder he would never bore junior officers with tales of distant heroism. Sure, he would start a few rumours, let Chinese whispers do their job, but he would remain dignified in his silence.

  ‘Your father was there, of course,’ said the chief super.

  Bell nodded impassively, like he always did when the old man’s name came up.

  ‘One of his team took a direct hit,’ the chief continued. ‘He would have been burned alive if your father hadn’t reacted as quickly as he did.’

  Bell’s face remained impassive but inside his mouth he bit his cheek.

  ‘There were no paramedics, of course—far too dangerous,’ said the chief—‘so your father took off his own jacket and rolled the man in it. Left himself completely open, of course.’

  Bell imagined the burly silhouette of the old man, the burning skies of South London behind him.

  ‘It was absolute chaos, and I don’t mind telling you that the rest of us were struggling,’ the chief pointed at Bell, ‘but not your father.’

  Time to change the subject.

  ‘So what is it you want me to do about the Khan girl?’ he asked.

  The chief super was a flinty pragmatist, but even he wouldn’t actually order the release of Yasmeen’s body. Would he?

  ‘I don’t want you to do anything.’

  DI Bell felt a stab of disappointment in the other man. His lack of conviction made him look weak. Something else he would never allow. As the old man never ceased to point out, you had to show the lower orders that you were a man of iron.

  ‘What I want,’ the chief super continued, ‘is an assurance from you that the current situation is absolutely necessary.’

  So that was it. The old bugger wanted something to say if the shit hit the fan. An excuse.

  ‘All I can tell you, sir, is that I’m not entirely convinced that the girl killed herself. Something about it is all wrong and I think it’s only right we look into it.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said the chief super. ‘But we don’t want to open ourselves up to accusations of racism.’

  DI Bell knew exactly what to say. ‘Don’t you think it would be more racist not to follow up the death of a young Asian woman? I mean, sir, if she were white we wouldn’t just leave it, would we?’

  The chief super closed his eyes, evidently weighing up the rock and the hard place.

  ‘Fine. Continue the investigation,’ he said, ‘but be ready to give a decision and release that body as soon as possible.’

  ‘Their lawyer wants an update in two days,’ said Bell.

  The chief super raised his eyebrows. ‘They’ve instructed a solicitor?’

  ‘She came to see me earlier today,’ said Bell. ‘A Lilly Valentine.’

  The chief super groaned.

  ‘You know her, then, sir?’

  ‘We’ve had several dealings in the past,’ said the chief super, ‘and none has been what you would describe as a pleasure.’

  ‘She seemed pretty harmless.’

  ‘Do not underestimate that woman,’ the chief super warned. ‘If Luton is a tinderbox then Valentine is just the type to light a bloody match.’

  At least one day a week they have biryani for supper. Somehow Mum always manages to pick the day when she has the most homework.

  ‘You don’t like my food now, missy?’

  Aasha sighs. Of course she likes her mother’s food. Biryani is one of her favourites, especially when there are crispy fried onions crumbled into it. The problem is the clearing up. There’s the dish the meat has been in, the bowl the rice has soaked in, the onion pan and then the cooking pot itself, caked and hard with slow-baked spices. And because it’s their mid-week treat her father will insist it is served with the maximum ceremony of side dishes.

  She rinses the third pickle dish under the tap and checks her watch. Seven thirty. She can hear her brothers in the sitting room, laughing at some comedy with Catherine Tate. It annoys her that they don’t offer to help.

  Mum would never let them, of course, but they could at least ask.

  ‘There,’ says Mum, and puts away the last spoon. ‘Finished.’

  ‘What about the floor?’ asks Aasha.

  Her mother insists on ‘doing the mop’ after every meal.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ says Mum. ‘You get on with your school work.’

  Aasha watches her mum bend down for the bucket. She seems much older than her forty years. A lifetime of looking after her husband and sons has wrung her dry.

  Aasha grabs the mop. ‘Go sit down, Mum.’

  ‘What about your maths?’

  ‘I got it done at lunchtime,’ Aasha lies.

  An hour later Aasha is tucked up in her room. It’s the smallest one in the house. The boxroom, as English people call it. There’s hardly enough room for her single bed and wardrobe. There’s certainly not enough space for a desk like her brothers have.

  ‘Aasha can use the dining table,’ her father says.

  Fat chance. It’s always covered in letters from Pakistan, her brothers’ self-defence magazines and piles of clothes for ironing. This week Dad has been dismantling an old radio and the parts are scattered across it.

  Anyway, Aasha prefers to spread her books out on her bed. That way she can be sure of some peace without anyone telling her what to do or what to think. Here in her ill-lit cupboard she is mistress.

  She logs on to her laptop and looks at her maths homework. Algebra. She’ll be in for a tough one tonight.

  After twenty long minutes trying to work out how Y can possibly equal X, a box pops up in instant messenger.

  Lailla says: I’ve been very naughty.

  Aasha laughs and types her reply: Aasha says: What have u done now?

  She waits for the answer, imagining her friend’s candy-pink fingernails dancing across the keyboard.

  Lailla says: I’ve told Ryan u fancy him and he should msn u.

  Aasha is about to send a stinging response when another box pops up.

  Ryan wants to be your friend.

  Aasha chews her lip. She knows full well what her dad thinks about her having anything to do with boys. And as for a boy like Ryan, well, he’d send her ‘back home’ on the next plane in forty-two pieces.

  ‘No nice doctor or lawyer will want to marry a girl who’s been running around the town with every Tom, Dick and Henry.’

  And he’s ri
ght. Take Lailla. It doesn’t matter how many times she insists that she and Sonny have never gone all the way, no one believes her. So even if it’s true, which Aasha very much doubts, no boy will want her afterwards.

  Then again, messaging isn’t exactly the same, is it? It’s not real life. No one can say you’ve done anything wrong, can they?

  The box pops up. Another message from Lailla.

  Lailla says: PMSL at u angsting over what to do!!!

  Aasha doesn’t know whether she’s more cross at Lailla for knowing exactly how she’d react or herself for being so predictable.

  Well, not this time. This time she’ll live a little. If you could call it that in virtual reality. With a nod to her own courage she accepts Ryan as her friend. Almost immediately she regrets her decision.

  Ryan says: Hi beautiful.

  Aasha says: Hi.

  Ryan says: What u doing tonite?

  Aasha says: Not much. U?

  Ryan says: U gotta guess. Is it a. thinking about Lindsay Lohan or b. thinking about Aasha Hassan?

  Aasha says: c. doing ur maths homework.

  Ryan: Ha ha. Ur a funny grrl.

  Aasha is breathless and pink and doesn’t know what to say next. Fortunately Ryan sends another message.

  Ryan says: Will u meet me after school tomoro?

  Aasha says: I don’t think I should.

  Ryan says: Come on. I’m nowhere near as bad as everyone says.

  Aasha considers what to say next and almost squeals at her own daring.

  Aasha says: That’s very disappointing.

  Chapter Two

  September 2005

  ‘Our words are dead until we give them life with our blood.’

  I’m frozen in my place in front of the television, the breath literally sucked out of me.

  The man on the screen is so angry, as if he can barely control it. His eyes shine with fury, not fear, despite the fact that he filmed himself making this speech just hours before he strapped explosives to himself and led the most devastating attack upon London since the Second World War.

  The newspapers have spent every day since 7 July reviling this man: evil, murderous, insane. Now his picture stares out from every broadsheet, every tabloid. His words ring out from every TV and radio station.

  He is dressed in an Arab keffiyeh, an AK-47 slung, almost casually, over his shoulder. He spits his death message out, each syllable a poisonous bullet.

  ‘Until you stop the bombing, gassing, imprisonment and torture of my people, we will not stop this fight.’

  But it’s not what he is saying that cuts me to the quick but his accent. Thick and strong, as Yorkshire as coal dust. This is a lad from Leeds. Born in this country. Died in this country.

  Yet each toss of his head, each challenge in his face, tells me this man did not consider himself British. He is a stranger here. Unloved. Unwelcome.

  His words ring so true, he could be me. It feels like coming home.

  ‘You’ve got to be having a laugh.’

  Lilly pointed at Sam’s plate piled high with chocolate digestives.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘That is not a proper breakfast,’ said Lilly. ‘Get some cereal.’

  ‘I don’t want cereal.’

  Lilly raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t slept well and her feet were still swollen. ‘I don’t have the energy to fight, big man.’

  ‘Then don’t.’

  She reached for a packet of Cheerios. ‘For me?’

  He licked the chocolate from a biscuit.

  ‘Just a few spoonfuls for your poor old mother.’

  Sam ignored her.

  ‘Your poor old pregnant mother?’ She emptied a handful into a bowl. ‘A mother who worries about her son all day if he hasn’t a decent meal inside of him.’

  Sam poked the box. ‘That’s hardly a decent meal.’

  ‘Better than that.’ She nodded to the biscuits.

  Sam grabbed the bowl, the dry hoops rattling around the bottom, then yanked the milk from the fridge.

  ‘You, Sam Valentine, are an angel,’ Lilly laughed.

  ‘Whatever.’

  Something was going on with Sam. He was sullen and uncooperative. The child whom every school report described as ‘sunny’ had morphed into a shadow.

  When his face first darkened, Lilly had assumed it was the baby troubling him and had taken every opportunity to assure him that he wouldn’t be pushed out.

  ‘There’ll still be lots of time for you,’ she’d said.

  ‘There’s no time now,’ he’d moaned.

  Lilly had acknowledged the truth of this. She was always busy, pushed for time, trying to juggle everything. Poor Sam often got pushed to the sidelines.

  And yet something told her now that it wasn’t the arrival of a new baby brother or sister that was bothering him.

  ‘Is everything all right at school?’ she fished.

  Sam rolled his eyes theatrically.

  ‘If there were any problems, you know I’d go straight up there,’ she said.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ he mumbled.

  She watched her son drag himself and his breakfast up the stairs. She certainly didn’t have the strength to follow up the ‘no eating in the bedrooms’ rule. No doubt she’d find the remnants stuck to the windowsill, the discarded bowl making a perfect white circle on the freshly glossed wood.

  After a fire in the cottage had left every room blackened by smoke, the insurance company had agreed to cover the cost of redecoration. For three weeks two handsome Polish men filled the cottage with their indecipherable chatter and the smell of undercoat.

  The place hadn’t looked this good in years. The walls were still uneven and the hall filled with bags for recycling, but everything seemed much less shabby. Although Lilly had been terrified by the fire she had to admit that there had been this one small silver lining.

  Penny had suggested she invite some of the Manor Park mums over for a coffee morning. ‘Show the place off,’ she said.

  Hmm. The lining wasn’t that bloody metallic.

  Lilly fingered her new kitchen curtains. They were gingham and wonderfully kitch. They made her smile.

  ‘I never took you for a woman so interested in soft furnishings.’

  Lilly turned to Jack, who had slipped into a chair.

  ‘Think of the hours you could while away in John Lewis picking some cushions to match,’ he said.

  Lilly threw a dishcloth at him. It landed on his lap with a wet thump.

  ‘And there was me going to make you a bacon butty,’ she said. ‘But you can whistle for it now.’

  Jack laughed and threw the cloth back. It hit the window behind her.

  ‘Fried pig,’ he patted his stomach, ‘I don’t think so.’

  Lilly had to admit that Jack’s current regime of running ten clicks a day had paid off and he was looking pretty buff, but his refusal to eat anything remotely bad for him was bloody irritating. She had always loved to cook and he had always loved to eat. A match made in heaven. Now all he would countenance was salad and soup.

  He grabbed a banana and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Get plenty of rest today.’

  Lilly waved him away. His healthy lifestyle was unattractive enough without his constant worrying.

  ‘I’m not ill, Jack.’

  ‘Don’t be so defensive, woman. I just thought that since you’ve no work to do you may as well put your feet up.’ He peered at them, spilling over the sides of her slippers. ‘They look like they need it.’

  She knew full well he was just trying to be nice but as she watched Jack peel the banana and take a bite, her annoyance rose.

  ‘I do have work to do,’ she said.

  ‘Is that right?’ Jack’s mouth was full of fruit.

  ‘The family in Luton I told you about want me to pursue matters with the police.’

  Jack swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple dancing. ‘I thought you said they just wanted a bit of advice.’

  ‘They did
,’ said Lilly, ‘and now they need some more.’

  Before Jack could give his opinion Lilly picked up the phone and dialled.

  ‘I’ll be going then,’ he said, and left the room.

  When Lilly heard the front door slam she felt a pang of guilt. She’d been hard on Jack and she knew it. She was the one making difficulties, refusing to play happy families. He was making her brain hurt at the moment—but he meant well, so why was she railing against him? She considered going after him but on the fifth ring, DI Bell answered.

  ‘It’s Lilly Valentine here,’ she said, ‘the Khans’ solicitor.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said.

  ‘We agreed to review the situation in two days.’

  ‘I recall that’s what you said, not necessarily what we agreed.’

  Lilly gave a polite laugh. ‘So can I tell the family you’ll release the body today?’

  Bell paused. Lilly had been around enough barristers, judges and senior police officers to know that they liked to milk the moment. She knew that the best way to get what she wanted was to allow them their dramatic tension. But the baby was lying heavily on her pelvis and she desperately needed to pee.

  ‘DI Bell?’ she prodded.

  He gave a small humph, disappointed not to be allowed his moment in the sun. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said.

  Lilly crossed her legs. ‘Oh, come on, Inspector, you’ve had enough time to make a decision.’

  ‘Yes I have.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, I’ve come to a decision,’ he said.

  ‘Then you have to give this girl back to her poor family.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

  Lilly shook her head. What was he going on about? He may be a pretentious jobsworth but he wouldn’t risk a legal action against him, would he? Unless…Lilly felt a heaviness settle on her. She gulped.

  ‘And the reason?’

  DI Bell cleared his throat. Lilly could almost see him straightening himself up to full height. ‘It is my considered opinion that Yasmeen Khan was murdered.’

  Jack’s desk was buried in paperwork: forms to be filled, statements to be drafted, information to be forwarded to the courts.