A Time Honoured Killing

by Samesh Ramjattan

  “You need to make this quick, I have a Press conference about the Khan murder in ten minutes,” McNeil barked at him as he entered his office, clearly irritated by Nick’s appearance.

  “Well sir. That’s precisely why I’m here – the Khan murder,” Nick spoke amiably.

  “What about it?” McNeill retorted shortly.

  “This is a bit embarrassing sir, but…” Nick hesitated, trying hard to find a diplomatic word, “I have a conflict of interest…”

  “You knew the victim,” McNeil blurted bluntly, as the knowledge of which surprised Nick, who only be-came more agitated.

  “Since she was a child,” Nick replied.

  McNeil stopped his activity behind the desk and came up face to face with Nick. “You knew her and her family. Give this case the justice it deserves,” He waxed convincingly.

  Nick shuddered as he hesitantly uttered, “No-body…nobody knew about us,” Nick gulped. “Romantically, I mean.”

  But McNeil was hearing none of it. “And nobody needs know,” McNeill reassured.

  “Her father is one of the P-M’s closest advisers. So, we need to handle this with delicacy. He’s a man who values his privacy. The last thing they want to see is their daughter’s honour and reputation dragged through the mud,” McNeill continued.

  Nick’s protest was waning under McNeill’s coaxing argument. The emotional and physical fatigue had begun to take its toll and he felt like he could collapse at any moment.

  “Nick, handle this with the right amount of tact and there’s no limit to where you could go,” McNeill exclaimed as though there was nothing left to discuss. He then turned around and headed back to his desk.

  Nick stood motionless for a moment and suddenly felt the urge to flee, throwing the detective badge at his manipulative boss in the process. But he resisted the wily temptation with unwitting restraint. McNeill looked at him once more with a pronounced frown.

  “That will be all,” he declared, and that signalled the end of their engagement. Nick turned solemnly and made for the door. But then McNeill had more words for him, “Oh, one more thing, D-C Shankar.”

  Nick froze and turned around unwillingly facing the Superintendent.

  “I’d be careful what you say to the Prosecutor. He doesn’t share my vision of this department. Tread carefully, for your sake,” McNeill warned with a veiled threat underlying his advice.

  Nick could think of nothing better than to retire to an invigorating shower and the welcoming embrace of his bed covers. The temptation would have been enough on any other normal day. But then again, he couldn’t remember that last time he had encountered a normal day. He was becoming convinced that in this job normal days did not really exist. Everywhere he looked he was haunted by the image of Adilaah’s ghost. He saw her in the reflection of the running water at the bottom of the sink, in the glass windows and doors and in the memory of shared cups of coffee while he drank his in the staff canteen. Most of all the unbearable weight of despair that had overwhelmed the alcoves of his heart. He felt the guilt of responsibility. She was dead and somehow, he felt he was to blame. It was this feeling that motivated him to venture down the various flights of stairs of the bleak stairwell to the basement housing the Coroner, eagerly avoiding the busy elevator that meant interaction with other officers, something his melancholy did not permit.

  Reluctantly Nick approached the large glass screen that was the window into the Coroner’s laboratory. The laboratory’s cold white tiles and sterile stainless-steel surfaces were obscured by the bright trio of spotlights that beamed down in the middle of the room, over lighting the sculptured steely examination table. Across the table lay Adilaah’s rigid body, unceremoniously naked without any dignified cover. Nick analysed her figure which in life was shapely and desirable. Now its pale grey stiffness signified her mortal end.

  The Assistant Coroner, Aisha moved in closer, completing her mandatory clinical autopsy, inspecting her body for clues as to the cause of death, periodically speaking into a voice recorder and taking photographic evidence. As she concluded, she noticed Nick in the observation window and deliberately ignored him.

  As Nick entered the laboratory, he found Aisha perched in front of her desk, preparing to transpose her voice recordings. She saw his emergence has an unwelcome interruption of her work. Aisha had a small frame with black, fiercely platted hair that was better suited to a six-year old. Today she wore a bland ensemble that consisted of a white t-shirt that highlighted a flat chest over a pair of tailored trousers and flat soulless shoes, all trapped under an oversized lab coat. She had an insipid personality to match her plain choice of clothing. She belonged in the laboratory. Nick plonked himself into an accompanying seat next to her. He stared at her in an attempt to get her attention which she was irked to grant.

  “Did you establish the cause of death?” Nick inquired.

  “Yes,” she blurted.

  “And?” Nick persisted.

  “It will be in the report Nick!” Aisha declared.

  “Just today, can you forget procedure and think of the victim. Please?” Nick pleaded, hoping her sense of humility would pervade.

  “Blunt force trauma to two sections of the head. At the frontal lobe and at the back of the head, at the base of the skull. Induced an acute subdural haematoma. She was dead in a matter of minutes,” Aisha sprouted off, with a slightly banal tone that was suited to a specimen and not a person.

  “Any foreign fluids?” Nick probed further.

  “She wasn’t raped if that’s what you’re asking,” Aisha patronised. “But her stomach contents did exhibit an unusual number of anti-depressants.” Nick paused to process Aisha’s words, and then lifted his gaze to Adilaah’s body. It was difficult to see her in that state especially after the visions that had plagued him all morning. He felt as though she could open her eyes at any moment and stare back at his all-consuming gaze.

  “You OK?” Aisha asked with uncharacteristic empathy.

  “Anything else?” Nick retorted, bluntly dismissing her offer, prompting Aisha to tense up and return to her cool disposition.

  “One more thing. I found traces of a strange compound present in her uterus,” Aisha exclaimed.

  “What kind of compound?” Nick inquired with intrigue.

  “I’m not sure. I’ll have to run a few tests – might take a few hours,” Aisha said curtly.

  “Be sure and call me only,” Nick said ominously, leaving Aisha puzzled by the remark. She disregarded it and returned diligently to her work. “Aisha”, Nick said commandingly, prompting her to look him in the eye, eager to hear what would follow, so that she might dismiss it with blithe indifference.

  “Thanks,” Nick uttered with heartfelt gratitude, which caught Aisha by surprise. She smiled, blushing indiscriminately.

  5

  The prayer hall of the mosque was grand, with high vaulted ceilings and ornate carvings of ancient Islamic scripture. Nick couldn’t help but feel somewhat humbled by the imposing structure. A few hours of sleep, an invigorating shower and change of clothes made him feel altogether more lucid and focused. He had ditched the suit which he had spent almost forty-eight hours in, and settled for denim jeans, white t-shirt, trainers and black jacket, attire more fitting of his need for comfort than presentation.

  By now the sun was directly overhead ensconcing the building in liberating white light and awakening the nuggets of coloured glass embedded in the ivory plaster, meant to resemble the gemstones in the original ancient mosques of the middle east.

  Nick stood quietly and patiently to the rear of the hall. Before him sat rows of engrossed Muslim men, perched upon their multi-coloured mats and transfixed by the figure on stage. Each were dressed in their traditional Thawabs – long cotton tunics and adorning white prayer caps; demonstrating their devout humility to their god. Nick followed the neat converging lines clocking each one’s face. Somehow, he envied their blind subscription to their faith, eager to hear some revelation that might
assist in their individual journeys towards salvation. He wished he found similar revelation in such words. For there were those times when all of the assertion and thoughts that his overworked mind could muster, brought no solace and indeed, like with anybody, he felt there was the need for a stronger and altogether more omni-present tonic. These were the times when his choices made no sense and he then wondered how he found himself at that present point in his life, questioning all of it – Carley, McNeill, Ron and of course Adilaah, and how badly things had been left with her. The thoughts spun around incessantly until he felt the weight of the words of the speaker on stage.

  “It is now time to awake from your trance…” the words echoed. Nick felt as though they were intended only for him.

  “This is a time of great suffering for all Muslims around the world. For many brothers of the Holy Prophet, our faith is under treat,” the speaker continued with voracious conviction. “Threatened by a war of attrition waged by enemies of our faith. Many of us would label them Infidels, but I do not.”

  He then paused and surveyed his engrossed audience.

  “The enemies of our faith exist only in our own hearts!” He announced with passion. “And no heart can be vanquished, if it is true!” Another solemn pause left the crowd desperate for the closing words. “Search inside your own hearts and find your truth. God be with you!” He finished.

  Rapturous applause followed his words as the hall was consumed by heartfelt adoration. Nick felt compelled to clap and gave a slow-handed applause as he watched the speaker descend from the podium, greeting and glad-handing the congratulatory pious Imams and Clerics. Nick began to walk closer to the stage closing in on the white-haired speaker, cloaked head to toe in white and gold patterned robes which made him seem supremely benevolent and avuncular.

  Nick could remember how, as a child his robes would bedazzle him, garnering only admiration and humbled respect. To him the man had a peculiar untold wisdom which seemed to calm him, making demands on his sub-conscious self to live up to a higher set of morals. At first sight his very presence seemed to terrify him, forcing him to take refuge in his father’s shadow, but there was something about the man’s invoking spirit that would welcome him in, like an enveloping embrace that he craved. Indeed, after that initial looming shock, Mahmoud Khan felt like the father he wanted.

  Mahmoud caught sight of Nick, as his admirers began to wane and made a determined march in his direction. The acknowledgement filled Nick with an elevating excitement.

  “Did you enjoy the speech?” The words came from nowhere with an underlying derisive tone. Nick turned around to discover the presence of a young Muslim of muscular build, dark brown skin, large sunken eyes, short buzz-cut hair and meticulously manicured beard.

  “Ashraf,” Nick offered a frosty greeting that held none of the eminence that he had felt for Mahmoud. “Your father still has a way with words.”

  “What do you want?” Ashraf inquired bluntly.

  “I’m meeting your father,” Nick replied confidently. Ashraf stared back at Nick with a resolute disdain. He could sense Ashraf’s annoyance as he cast his mind back to a time when the two were boys and they shared an inseparable bond, despite their differing religious backgrounds.

  Nick recalled first driving up to the enormous house that stood high on Muswell Hill, set back from the tree-flanked road, and connected via an asphalt driveway that was shrouded by elegant multi-coloured flower beds. He could just about see out the front passenger side window while drowning in the maroon leather upholstered seats, careening his neck to take in all of the splendour of the house and its palatial gardens. His father encouraged him to sit down more appropriately as the brand new 1990 black Jaguar Sovereign came to a serene halt in front of the house. His father disembarked promptly, and Nick watched as he went up a minor flight of stairs and into the house. Nick looked about, but his boyish curiosity could not be abated, and he opened the large car door, unclipped the seat belt and alighted from the car. Nick could not understand how his father’s boss could afford all this by selling fabric. He must have sold a lot to be able to afford this house, these gardens and a driver, in the form of his father to drive him around all day in an expensive car. A lot of fabric indeed!

  Nick walked along the side of the house, absorbing the tidy white washed walls that aligned the renovated Victorian mansion and symptomatic bay windows. In one of them stood a girl only a few years younger than him. The sun irradiated her pale, milky complexion and highlighted her stifled gaze from out the window. She looked enviously at him, longing for the freedom of fresh air, sunlight and the joy of opening up her lungs, while racing through the garden on the liberating damp green grass. She gave Nick a hopeful wave as she turned toward him, giving him her full attention. The sunlight ensconced her tiny frame making her look like an angel. Nick smiled at her and she returned the gesture, presenting a momentary fleeting gleefulness. But then that was soon gone as she turned her attention back at her original preoccupation.

  Nick followed her stare and entered into a densely planted enclosure. A short distance away, he watched as a boy of similar age plundered away at numerous tennis balls strewn across the lawn with a cricket bat. He placed a determined amount of vigour in smacking the daylights out of each ball that nested peacefully in the grass. He continued for a while as Nick watched with a particular feeling of delight, sharing the same sense of joy that the little boy shared as he pummelled them.

  The boy slammed another unsuspecting ball and it whizzed past Nick’s feet. The boy ceased his activity and began to gaze at Nick. Nick then summarily picked the ball up and tossed it back to the boy, who lifted his bat up and smashed it in the opposite direction. Nick then searched around for another ball and upon discovering one buried in a flower bed, tossed it with more skill and velocity than the previous. This time the boy put far more batting skill into his response and thudded it straight back to Nick with some height. Nick quickly positioned himself under the falling ball and with the ceremony of a world-class cricketing fielder, caught it and held it up triumphantly. He gazed back in the direction of the boy who chuckled at the display, then motioned for him to come over. Nick strolled over cautiously and stopped in front of him.

  “Ashraf,” he said, extending his small hands, dropping the bat.

  “Narendra,” Nick replied cordially. “But everyone calls me Nick.”

  Nick still saw that boy in the man before him, but Ashraf had changed. That little boy had grown into a man that had always struggled to emerge from under his father’s shadow. He had forged his entire character with reverence to his father’s will and he had become bitter that his father did not recognise it. In fact, Mahmoud took it for granted and toyed with his love, withholding it so that he could maintain the control over the boy who had evolved into a man, but who was still desperate for his father’s love. Nick felt empathy for him for they shared the same estranged relationships with their fathers, and perhaps that was what brought them together initially. Two boys whose friendship was forged in the absence of sentiment of love from their fathers. That, however may have been the way things were, but now things were very different. That friendship had died a long time ago and now all that was left was a disgruntled acquaintance moulded on a previous incarnation. Now their exchange was one of hostility, two adversaries with opposing ideals.

  “I’m sorry about Adilaah,” Nick offered, as his own grief was hoping to make amends with Ashraf’s. But it did not seem to, as Ashraf retorted, “One of those things.”

  “She will get the justice that she deserves,” Nick reassured.

  “She will. We will see to it. Without interference,” Ashraf sneered.

  “Ashraf!” Mahmoud’s voice commanded as he appeared before them. His presence made Ashraf immediately desist. “Go and attend to your duties, while I speak to Narendra.”

  Ashraf looked at his father defeated, then scowled at Nick and walked off in a huff.

  “Narendra, how have you been, my c
hild?” Mahmoud lamented with a welcoming tone, genuinely thrilled to see him. Nick beamed at the gesture, uttering, “Fine sir. How are you?” Extending his hand for Mahmoud to shake.

  “You are not too big for me to give you a hug!” Mahmoud lauded as he wrapped his big arms over Nick shrouding him in affection. Nick tried to maintain his composed exterior, but the old man’s kindness overcame him, and he obliged.

  “Let’s go walk in the garden,” Mahmoud gestured, and they strolled through to a pristinely manicured garden that sat beside the mosque in a walled enclosure.

  Nick and Mahmoud strolled along a ceramic tiled path that snaked its way through the sun-baked garden flanked by the heady perfume of roses.

  “I didn’t think you’d be speaking so soon after…” Nick hesitated. “Adilaah.” Nick glanced over at the tall man and he noticed the mention of his daughter’s name weakened his resolve.

  “It takes my mind off of the situation and allows me to focus on my faith. You know Allah gives us these tests in life to make us stronger and bring us closer to him,” Mahmoud affirmed. “Have you seen your father?”

  “Not Lately,” Nick answered, afflicted by the mention of his father.

  “A child should never forget the sacrifices that a parent makes for him. You should honour him while you still can,” Mahmoud advised.

  “He barely remembers who I am,” Nick replied with deepened remorse.

  They had come to the end of the small garden, and Mahmoud stopped, slowly turning to face him. He paused and took a solemn breath as he spoke. “That is why I asked for you to come here today. I’ve known you all your life, just as I have known your father and I am certain you are the kind of man who will honour my family especially with this investigation.”