by Abda Khan
Quite often, and especially on evenings like this when she had time on her hands, she loved to sit in Parliament Square. This place was special to her. She felt as though she were surrounded by the influences and institutions that denoted democracy, fairness and justice; all matters that were dear to her heart. She liked to sit still in the square for as long as was needed to allow her to ponder life, and all the stuff that it was made of. She usually did her best thinking here.
Farah ambled over to a bench in Parliament Square, which looked towards Westminster Abbey. It was now past seven o’clock in the evening, and the square and surrounding area were no longer heaving, as the tourists headed away, perhaps to catch a West End show, or to go to dinner.
She loved to sit and observe London in all of its peculiar quirkiness. Westminster was her favourite haunt. She had seen it all around here: elaborately orchestrated royal processions; slick politicians posing for the cameras on the lawn, trying to look important as they gave their interviews to the news channels; schoolchildren and tourists queueing for the tour of the Houses of Parliament; people waiting impatiently for their turn to board the London Eye; children dropping their ice creams whilst being pulled along from one tourist hotspot to another; sightseers stopping by the roadside sellers for those all-important but completely useless souvenirs to take back home to their loved ones, or posing before the street artists to have their faces sketched into an image that looked nothing like them. Farah herself was often stopped by strangers, who asked her in varying degrees of comprehensible English if she could give them directions, or if she would be kind enough to take a group photo.
As Farah sat on the bench, she thought about her freedom to wander about and enjoy her surroundings as she wished, whenever she wanted. In so doing, her thoughts turned towards Razia. Paul’s idea that perhaps the girl was lying did allow a small niggle of doubt to appear in Farah’s mind, but only very briefly, for a whisper that emerged from somewhere deep within Farah’s conscience told her that the girl was not a liar.
Farah sat on the bench and thought deeply about freedom; her freedom to be where she was, the tourists’ freedom to roam the streets of London, the media’s freedom to report on whatever it wished. Yet again, her thoughts drifted back towards the curtailment, or rather prohibition, of Razia’s freedom. She was anxious to know the outcome of Paul’s conversation with Zaheer. After an hour on the bench, she came to the conclusion that she had deliberated for long enough, and headed back home.
As Farah let herself into her apartment, she heard her phone ring in her bag. She thought it would probably be her mum; she often phoned at this time in the evening. Farah was half expecting her mum to contact her about a new potential suitor, in which case it would turn into a long conversation all about him, his job, his family, his height, and so on and so on. She shuffled her purse and bits of paper around, and pulled the phone out from the bottom of her handbag. It wasn’t a telephone number that she recognised.
‘Hello.’
‘Oh, hello. Is that Farah?’ enquired the polite, well-spoken male voice on the other end.
‘Yes, it is. Who is this?’ Farah asked.
‘It’s Zaheer.’
‘Oh. Hello.’
Farah was a little taken aback to hear from him, but nevertheless intrigued as to what he would say.
‘I understand from Paul that our housekeeper has been talking some nonsense to you.’
Farah cleared her throat before she spoke. ‘With all due respect, it didn’t sound like nonsense. Razia seemed genuine enough to me.’
‘Well, I assure you that whatever she said or implied, it was most likely a load of rubbish. She has a tendency to fabricate stories, does our Razia.’
‘Really?’ asked Farah.
‘Yes, really. In fact, I would go as far as to say that she is a pathological liar. I don’t blame her per se. She is the product of a poor, uneducated upbringing, and doesn’t really know any better. A bit of a silly girl really.’
Farah’s jaw dropped open at the audacity of this man. He obviously didn’t think much of her if he thought she was going to swallow this so easily.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you. I spoke to her myself, and I believe her. She isn’t a housekeeper at all. I know that you’re treating her as your slave.’
Zaheer’s tone remained civil, but he managed to change tactic within a matter of seconds.
‘Miss Jilani, I would ask you to proceed with caution from this point onwards. And I say this for two reasons.’
Farah was more used to hearing this sort of spiel in a courtroom than in a telephone conversation.
‘Firstly,’ continued Zaheer, ‘if you persist with this defamatory attack against me, then I may have to re-evaluate my position with your firm. I will not do business with people I don’t trust, with people who are ready to malign my good character on the say-so of a prevaricator whose story they have not even verified. Paul and I may be good friends, but don’t be fooled into thinking that would stop me.’
‘Listen,’ interjected Farah, ‘your threats have no effect on me. There is always the option of reporting you to the police. I’m sure they will be very keen to hear all about how you are treating Razia.’
‘Ah! That brings me to my second point. As you very well know, or at least you ought to know, for you are a supposedly intelligent and educated woman, reporting me to the police is pointless, for I have diplomatic immunity.’
Farah swallowed hard. She thought for a few seconds, and finally remembered a newspaper article she had read recently.
‘I disagree,’ she said. ‘In fact, there is currently a case of a diplomat who is being sued for treating his maid as a modern-day slave—’
‘Get real,’ he jumped in. ‘The only thing that will happen if you go to the police is that you will make a total fool of yourself! And think of your own position. How would this affect your credibility? Your professional standing? Your judgement is already questionable, given your rather tawdry affair with a married man, and not just any old man, but your work colleague. Major blurring of professional and private boundaries there, I would say. Take this course of action, and this could all go so spectacularly wrong for you.’
Without giving Farah the chance of a comeback, Zaheer cut off the call abruptly.
Farah was fuming. She cursed herself for the rest of the evening and into the small hours of the night as she ploughed through it all in her mind, again and again. She didn’t enjoy being reminded by a man like Zaheer about her biggest mistake in life; she regretted the whole Tahir saga, from beginning to end, and was paying for it with uncomfortable daily reminders at the office. If she had learned one thing from the whole sorry mess, it was that she would never again make the mistake of entangling her personal and professional lives.
Moreover, she was beyond annoyed with herself for having handled the Razia problem so badly. She now felt that she had been a fool to go to Paul and blab about her suspicions, for all she had done in the process was to tip Zaheer off. After all the years of anti-money-laundering training, when it was instilled into her at every course she went to and on every online seminar that she had watched that a solicitor mustn’t tip off clients in the process of reporting them to the authorities, she had gone and made a classic schoolgirl error. Zaheer was far craftier than she had given him credit for. And now she was stumped, she had absolutely no clue as to what she should do next. The man was a menace, and his personal attack on Farah gave her the idea that he was someone who was capable of going to any lengths to protect his position.
But Farah knew that she had to do something, for her persistent sixth sense cried to her repeatedly: that girl was in grave danger.
13
As soon as Farah stepped foot into the office on Monday morning, the receptionist told her that Paul wanted to see her.
She rushed along the corridor towards Paul’s office. She was certain, judging by the conversation she’d had with Zaheer, that Paul must have been to
ld a tall story. The question was, was he prepared to put aside his friendship in order to do the right thing by an innocent victim? Farah had always perceived Paul as not only a fair boss, but also a level-headed man, someone who would do the right thing when faced with a moral dilemma. Even on a professional level, the code of conduct required an incredibly high standard of ethics which didn’t just sit inside the four walls of the practice; as solicitors they were duty bound to act so that they didn’t bring their profession into disrepute.
Farah knocked on Paul’s door, and entered far more slowly than she had hurtled down the corridor.
He was at the window with his back to her and both his hands in his pockets, when she walked in. He didn’t have his suit jacket on. He had placed this carefully on the back of his chair at his desk. He was stood tall, his stance rigidly upright. He was looking down at the traffic crawling along Shepherd’s Bush Road.
‘You wanted to see me?’ Farah asked him.
He turned around, softened his stance and leaned back against the windowsill, with his hands still in his pockets.
‘You can guess what this is about, can’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had a chat with Zaheer, just as you asked me to.’
‘He phoned me too,’ she butted in.
‘Ah, yes. He did mention that he might call you. Then you will understand, you really have got this all wrong, Farah. I think you have been led a bit of a merry dance by this Razia girl.’
Farah hesitated before answering. She needed a few moments to think about how best to proceed.
‘I know.’
Paul cocked his head to one side, and scrunched his eyes a little.
‘You do?’ he asked. ‘Only, you were pretty adamant the last time we spoke.’
‘I know. But Zaheer explained everything to me. I’m sorry about the whole thing; it was all just one big misunderstanding. Thanks for your help. But you don’t have to worry about it any more.’
Farah had walked in ready for a confrontation, but had quickly realised that there wouldn’t be much point. As things stood, she had already spilled enough to Paul, and it hadn’t done a scrap of good. She couldn’t help wondering what the repercussions may have been for poor Razia. She shuddered to think. Farah knew that she had to deal with this on her own now, and what’s more, she had to be a lot smarter about it.
‘OK,’ said Paul. The hint of surprise was still evident as he dragged the word from his mouth slowly. ‘Let’s hear no more about it, eh? I am saying this to you as a friend, as well as your boss.’
‘Of course. Understood.’
Farah stood silently on the wide pavement outside and stared ahead at the grand building; the embassy was housed in a distinctive, Georgian period whitewashed property that looked like it had seen better days. It needed of a bit of a touch-up here and there, but it still looked very handsome nonetheless. There was a feature balcony on the first floor, where hung the British and Pakistani flags; there they were stationed, like two soldiers standing silently but decisively, on their guard. She hoped they would symbolise some sense of unity and partnership as she tried to find a way through the obstacle-ridden path on her journey to secure Razia’s freedom. The flags danced lightly in the delicate spring breeze which drifted along ever so casually on this sunny Friday.
Farah walked in a little cautiously and saw that the waiting area was nigh on full; some people were seated, whilst others were just standing around. There was a baby in a pushchair crying profusely, despite the mother’s best efforts to calm it down. She was hastily pushing the buggy back and forth, but the baby continued to bawl in a repetitive high-pitched screech, like a bird stuck in a cage begging to be let out. The baby’s cries were competing with an argument that appeared to be in full swing in the far corner of the room. A tall, angry-looking Pakistani man with a large moustache was shouting at a distressed employee almost half his size. Farah couldn’t actually make out what it was about, but tempers were frayed. She looked away and to her right she noticed that the reception counter was free. She strolled over, albeit with a little trepidation, going through in her mind what she would say.
‘Can I help you?’ asked the chubby lady sat behind the counter. She spoke with a strong Pakistani accent. She was chewing a piece of bright blue gum, and her large red glossy lips moved in an exaggerated manner with each circular chew. She had very curly, short, unnaturally coloured pale brown hair, fat round cheeks and a round nose. And to complete the look, she wore round glasses.
‘Oh, yes, I wonder if you can. My name is Sara Khan, and I’m here to see Mr Amin.’
‘The High Commissioner?’ she asked, surprised. ‘Mr Amin has been away all week, and he specifically asked me not to book any appointments.’
‘Yes, I am aware of that. I phoned on Monday and was told he would be back today. I spoke to him personally earlier this morning. He did say he was not taking any appointments today, but when I explained it was a very urgent matter, he very kindly agreed to fit me in.’
‘Hmmm,’ she said, still looking doubtful. She phoned through and informed the person on the other end, nodded her head a few times, and then put the phone down.
‘Mr Amin says he can see you now. I will show you the way. If you will follow me, please.’
Farah entered the large office with a few tentative steps, but she tried to focus her mind on the task ahead. It was traditionally furnished with solid wooden fittings and wooden chairs cushioned with burgundy velvet seats. On the wall behind the desk hung a large portrait of Pakistan’s founding father, Mohammed Ali Jinnah, or Quaid-e-Azam, the title by which he was more fondly known to most Pakistanis. Her gaze lingered on the portrait for a second or two longer than she would have anticipated, perhaps because this was the first time she had seen such a large image of the founding father of her Motherland. She had never before given much thought to this man, but the portrait propelled her to think about him, even if for just a few seconds.
Mr Amin rose from his chair behind his desk.
‘Please, come in, and take a seat,’ he said, pointing at the chairs on the opposite side of his walnut desk.
Mr Amin was perhaps in his early sixties; he was clean shaven, and had a thick, impeccably combed and parted, mostly black head of hair, with the odd grey hair that had clearly been missed by the dye. He was dressed in a sharply tailored dark grey suit, a crisp white shirt, and his dark metallic grey tie was knotted to perfect symmetrical precision. When he sat back down he did so with a severely straight back, and held his head high. Everything about him suggested some sort of military meticulousness. Perhaps he was actually ex-military, thought Farah, which made her wonder what sort of a response would be forthcoming from this man after he had heard what she had to say.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, and slowly walked over and sat down.
‘So, what can I do for you, Miss Khan?’
Farah opened her mouth, but then paused. She bit her bottom lip, as she often did when she was nervous. Mr Amin waited patiently. Farah knew she had to be upfront and honest from the off if she was going to have any hope of this man helping her.
‘Firstly, my name isn’t Sara Khan.’
‘Oh?’ he remarked, and twisted his head slightly to one side, breaking the symmetry of his posture.
‘My name is actually Farah Jilani. I work at Drake’s Solicitors. My boss, Paul Drake, is a good friend of your colleague Zaheer Mansur.’
‘Ah, yes, I have heard Zaheer mention him occasionally. But then, I don’t follow: why the cloak and dagger?’
‘It’s rather a sensitive matter.’
‘Go on. I’m listening.’
Farah paused again for a moment or two, just to make sure she had his full attention. Mr Amin gestured with his hand for her to go on.
Farah recalled the event at Zaheer’s house, and what Razia had told her, and the fact that she was convinced that Zaheer was lying, but he had managed to persuade Paul otherwise.
She took a deep b
reath once she had finished. Mr Amin had sat and listened quietly, without interruption. His face gave nothing away.
‘So, do you think that despite my professional standing, and my years of legal training, that I could be still so gullible as to be duped by a so-called pathological liar?’ Farah asked him.
‘No, you seem like a rational young woman, although of course I’ve only just met you; I don’t know you at all.’
‘I appreciate that, but I have come to you because you are his boss, and you have a duty to investigate the allegations I have made against one of your senior members of staff, for whom you are responsible.’
Mr Amin slowly brought his right hand to his chin, which he stroked gently with his thumb and index finger whilst he thought about the matter for a few moments.
‘Fine,’ he said to Farah, ‘I will go over to Zaheer and Aneela’s house this evening, unannounced, and see if I can find out what is going on.’
Progress at last, thought Farah to herself.
‘I’m coming with you,’ Farah said.
‘No; I think I should go alone.’
Farah was having none of it.
‘Why? So you can go there and all be boys together, and he can convince you I’m wrong, by feeding you some cock and bull story, just like he did to Paul? In all fairness, I don’t know you very well, do I, and I would feel much better about the whole thing if I went along too.’
‘If you don’t mind my saying, you do sound a tad paranoid.’
‘With good reason. I trusted Paul and look what happened. And I have made a promise to that girl, which I have to see through. I’m coming with you. And I’m not taking no for an answer.’
Mr Amin gave out a short sigh.
‘OK. Meet me outside their apartment at half past seven this evening.’
14
Farah reached Hans Place a little early, and stood by the tree-filled square, waiting for Mr Amin to arrive, assuming he would arrive at all. She looked towards the apartment and thought about Razia; she wondered how this evening would pan out for her. She had started to walk towards the apartment when she saw Mr Amin pull up in his black S-Class Mercedes.