Babel (25 page)

‘I know about Nargis’ story, but what suffering had Abu experienced?’

‘I don’t know all the details, but he came from a poor family in Lebanon, and they went through some very bad times and he got into some kind of trouble. But he was lucky, he said. He might have become a kid of the streets or maybe a terrorist, but instead he got a sponsor who helped him get an education. He went to university in Saudi or the Gulf, and when he was qualified he got a job from this professor who brought him over here. He said he owed this man everything. He said he was like a father to him.’

‘Professor Haygill?’

‘I don’t know his name. He just said this English professor had saved his life.’

They were interrupted by several women from Qasim’s kitchen who began to bring dishes to the table, containing stews and loaves of flat bread. ‘A feast for the heroes!’ Qasim announced, and then, in an undertone to Brock, added, ‘This is yer classic Yemeni
asid
. But I can do you steak and chips if you’d rather, eh?’ Brock said he’d stick with the stew, and everyone began to eat.

After they’d wiped their plates clean, and Qasim relaxed with a contented grunt and lit up, Brock said, ‘The room that Nargis lives in upstairs, who owns it?’

‘Grandpa Qasim owns the whole building.’

‘And did Nargis pay rent?’

‘No. She hadn’t a bean. She came with nothing.’

‘That was good of you.’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I want to have a look in the room, with Sergeant Kolla. You can come along too, if you want.’

‘You want to search Nargis’ room?’

‘Yes. I’m entitled to do that if I believe that Abu occupied the room too, and may have left something there. I’d like your cooperation. Would you ask Grandpa Qasim for me?’

Qasim tilted his weight back dangerously in his chair and drew on his cigarette, pondering. ‘You still ’aven’t got the gun, ’ave you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I don’t like the idea of you poking around in their room.’

‘No, neither do I, but I’m afraid it’s necessary. Fran could be a witness too if you like.’

‘Blimey.’ Qasim blew a puff at the ceiling fan. ‘It’s not that big a room.’ He leaned forward and spoke to Grandpa Qasim for a moment, then turned and nodded to Brock and got up to lead the way.

They climbed the stairs at the back of the café which led up to the lobby of the little mosque where Brock had found Abu’s shoes and coat, then continued up another, narrower dog-leg flight to the attic floor. There was no lock on the door of Nargis’ room, and Fran and Qasim looked on with disapproval as Brock and Kathy put on latex gloves and went inside.

It was a small space, once perhaps a maid’s room, largely filled by an old iron-framed bed, and the belongings it contained were pathetically few. As they studied it, their backs to the others at the door, Kathy murmured to Brock, ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’

He gave her a sidelong look, then nodded. ‘You’re right. Go back outside with the others. I’ll take care of it.’

She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘Come on. Let’s do it quickly.’

The clothes that Nargis had brought or been donated were hung behind a curtain in an alcove in one corner, and Kathy started there. Brock turned to a backpack in another corner, which held some of Abu’s things, his motorbike helmet, some socks and underwear and sweaters, a folder of documents.

They both finished at the same moment and turned together to the bed, approaching it from opposite sides, and began feeling swiftly under pillows, blankets, mattress as the witnesses watched them dolefully from the doorway. Beneath the pillow they found a folder of documents that appeared to belong to Nargis, her passport, birth certificate and medical papers, as well as a number of documents in foreign script that they assumed related to her period in Kashmir. They put these back and continued working down towards the foot of the bed where they raised the tail of the mattress and found a plastic bag.

Brock lifted it up, immediately disappointed that it didn’t seem heavy or hard enough. More documents, he guessed, and confirmed it by pulling out Abu’s passport and a number of documents in Arabic. Wrapped inside them was a plastic pouch, sealed with a strip of tape. He carefully pulled it away and looked inside, and as he did so his face lost all expression. He handed the pouch across to Kathy, who felt inside and slid something out of one of its pockets. They all recognised immediately what it was, a wad of money.

Kathy examined it and said softly, ‘Hundred pound notes. A pack of fifty.’ She laid it on the bed and slid five more identical wads out of the pouch.

‘Thirty thousand quid,’ Qasim breathed.

Brock took the pouch back from Kathy and held it up to the light of the lampshade hanging from the centre of the ceiling. ‘BCCD,’ he read. ‘What’s that?’ Then he squinted more closely at some small print. ‘Bank of Credit and Commerce Dubai.’

He replaced the money in the pouch and the pouch in the plastic bag and they continued with their search, under the carpet, behind the mirror, beneath the little table and chair, until they were satisfied that there was nothing more.

Sanjeev Manzoor bustled in looking belligerent and aggrieved. He was dressed in a smart dark suit as usual, against which the white triangle of the sling supporting his right arm looked particularly conspicuous, like a banner signifying ‘victim’. His solicitor was an older Asian with greying hair and a look of permanent scepticism on his face, as if he’d seen everything and heard every possible explanation for it. He carried a bulging, battered leather briefcase that seemed to require all his strength to hoist onto the table. They waved aside the offer of tea or coffee, and nodded curtly as Superintendent Russell introduced himself and Brock. They were in the scruffy setting of the interview room of the Shadwell Road police station, where Brock had found a fax awaiting him when he finally arrived after leaving Chandler’s Yard. The fax had comprised a cover sheet from Russell together with a copy of a single page from an interview with the skinhead Wilson.

Brock set his chair slightly behind and to one side of Russell’s, so that there would be no doubt as to who was in charge. He eased himself down, hooked his stick on the seat and gazed benignly at Manzoor who, he was delighted to see, was sporting the same silk polka dot tie he had been wearing at mosque that night.

Russell cleared his throat and began, pressing the start buttons on the recording machines and identifying those present and time and date. He thanked Manzoor for his cooperation and emphasised that he was not under arrest and was under no obligation to answer questions, but cautioned him nonetheless.

‘One moment, Superintendent,’ Manzoor’s solicitor, by the name of Versi, interjected, wrestling a fat file out of his briefcase. ‘My client has asked me to make it plain that he will refuse to answer any questions unless and until he has an explanation of why the police have not yet taken steps to return his daughter to him under the terms of the magistrate’s warrant dated the sixteenth of October last, of which this is a certified copy . . .’ He plucked a sheet of paper from the file and slid it across to Russell. ‘His cooperation is also conditional upon the arrest of the officer, Sergeant Kolla, who obstructed him in speaking to his missing daughter and who caused the serious injuries to my client this afternoon.’

Russell studied the paper for a moment, then said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you with either of those matters, Mr Versi. Since Mr Manzoor has lodged a formal complaint against Sergeant Kolla, that matter will be taken up by the department that specialises in such cases. But I can assure you that they are taken very seriously indeed. As for the matter of your daughter, I believe that is in the hands of the local division. We are here purely in connection with investigations into the arrest and death of one Abu Khadra, about which we believe you may have information that can be of assistance to us. This is a very serious matter, Mr Versi, a murder investigation, and we cannot accept conditions upon your client’s cooperation.’

Versi and Manzoor put their heads together for a moment, then Versi straightened and said, ‘My client is a very prominent and public-spirited citizen, Superintendent, and will be glad to provide whatever assistance he can. He only wishes to draw your attention to the extreme emotional and physical stress these other two matters are placing him under.’

‘That is understood.’ Russell nodded and turned to Brock. ‘Chief Inspector? Anything you’d like to add?’

Brock gave a mild little cough and said, ‘No, no . . .’

Russell turned back to address Manzoor.

‘. . . except . . .’ Brock smiled apologetically, ‘well, since Mr Manzoor mentions those other two matters together, there is one curious feature, although as you say, Superintendent, it has nothing to do with our case . . . May I?’ He reached over and picked up the photocopy of the warrant. ‘Ah, yes. Issued under Section nineteen of the Sexual Offences Act 1956, relating to the abduction of girls, on the basis of a statement on oath provided by the father.’

‘Yes?’ Versi looked at him curiously. ‘So?’

‘And witnessed by yourself, I see, Mr Versi.’

‘Certainly. What is your point please?’

‘Well, you’re the lawyer, so correct me if I’m wrong, but I understood Section nineteen of the Act related to the abduction of
unmarried
girls under the age of eighteen.’

Brock was aware of Manzoor giving a little start.

‘That’s right.’ Versi nodded.

‘Well . . .’ Brock beamed, ‘of course, Mr Manzoor, of all people, will know the marital state of his daughter Nargis. It’s only that the very same Sergeant Kolla whom he refers to happened to mention to me only today something about getting a translation for a wedding certificate issued to a girl called Nargis in Kashmir. And if that were the case, of course, the issue of a fraudulent warrant on the basis of a perjured oath would be an extremely serious matter. But probably I’m getting confused with another Nargis, eh? Just a curious coincidence?’

Manzoor was rigid in his seat, staring at Brock. Versi turned to him, puzzled.

‘Anyway,’ Brock went on cheerfully, ‘this is all completely irrelevant to what we’re here for. Those investigating the complaint against Sergeant Kolla will no doubt be interested in clearing up the confusion, if there is one, but we are not.’ He turned to Russell with an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, I’m wasting time.’

Russell frowned, ‘Yes, I think we’d better stick to the point here, Brock.’

‘Em . . .’ Versi was glancing back and forward between Manzoor and Brock with a look of perplexity. ‘I wonder if I might have a moment with my client?’

But Manzoor roused himself abruptly and said, ‘No, no. Let’s get this other thing out of the way and then we can be gone. I don’t feel well.’

Versi said, ‘Mr Manzoor was given pills at the hospital.’

‘Of course,’ Russell conceded. ‘I have only a few simple questions to ask Mr Manzoor. It shouldn’t take long. Firstly, how long have you known the man Abu Khadra?’

‘I have never met him. The first time I heard of him was when he—’

‘You’re indicating Chief Inspector Brock?’

‘Yes, when he came to the mosque and asked for our help in finding this man.’

‘That was the Twaqulia Mosque in Shadwell Road on the evening of the twenty-fifth of January?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’d never heard Khadra’s name or seen him before then?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Then why did you go to his funeral today, Mr Manzoor?’

‘Out of curiosity, that’s all.’

‘How did you find the way? The burial was deliberately kept confidential.’

‘I . . . I saw the others leaving Chandler’s Yard. I followed them.’

‘You saw some people leaving Chandler’s Yard and you thought, “Ah, they’re going to a funeral, I’ll just tag along”, eh?’

Manzoor said nothing.

‘At the funeral you attempted to confront one of the mourners, your own daughter, as you have yourself just said. How did you know she would be there?’

Versi said, ‘Superintendent, you have just said that Mr Manzoor’s daughter is another matter.’

‘But in this point she is relevant to my inquiries. I put it to you, Mr Manzoor, that you followed the funeral party because you knew that your daughter had been friends with Abu Khadra, and you expected her to go to the interment. Is that true?’

Manzoor shook his head and said nothing.

‘You refuse to answer? Then let me also put another obvious conclusion to you, and that is that if you knew of Abu Khadra this afternoon, the second of February, then you also knew of him on the twenty-fifth of January, when DCI Brock came to the mosque.’