by Tim Hoy
Hamza stumbled back inside his house. I drove around the corner and pulled over. I pounded my hands on the steering wheel. I screamed. This couldn’t be happening.
What a fool I was.
I flew to Kilburn, through at least one red light, and ran to the Rahman’s house. I pounded on that front door as if I could break it down. The house was dark. No sounds came from within.
“Ahmed!” I yelled. “Where is she?”
Nothing.
Finally, a neighbor emerged from the house next door. “Please, love,” she said, “I have to sleep. And anyway, they’re all gone. Ahmed and his sister moved out two days ago,” she said and promptly yawned. “I haven’t seen the parents in a while.”
“Which sister?” I asked.
“The blind one,” she said. “Benazir. Lovely girl. Ahmed, I could do without.”
“Any idea where they went?” I asked.
The woman shook her head. “Don’t know and don’t care.”
“And Jabirah?” I asked.
“Haven’t seen her in weeks, poor love. Sweet girl, that one.”
Yes indeed.
Back home, knowing sleep would not come, I sat down to an online search that turned gruesome and then nightmarish. The subject of forced marriage led to concepts of tradition and, in turn, this nebulous notion of honor. Honor, of course, is in the eye of the beholder, as are the ways in which it can be besmirched. In parts of the world, marrying for love can be dangerous, even deadly. It was hard to believe what I read. The BBC website carried numerous stories of young women being killed by their families for refusing to accept the spouse chosen for her. The term used was honor killing. Each story brought me to tears. Then came the questions. They terrified me.
Was it possible? No, Jabirah wasn’t in Pakistan with her parents; I knew that. Neither was she with her brother and sister or Hamza, the man she fell in love with. Where was she? Was she even alive? I couldn’t stand this. I had to know.
The next morning, Jabirah’s disappearance became a police matter. I brought two Starbucks to work, gave Peter one, and told him everything I knew about my missing friend. The pertinent parts went in a missing persons report, which I filed, as it was clear nobody in her family would ever do so. Peter’s reaction reminded me of why he was a crack detective, at least when he tried.
“You honestly think her family may have done something to her?” he asked.
I nodded. “Or with her.”
“I’ve read about these things before, Tessa. I don’t know much about them, though.”
“I was up half the night reading.” I picked up my mobile and pressed some icons. “Here’s the Wikipedia definition:
An honor killing or shame killing is the homicide of a member of a family by other members, due to the perpetrators’ belief that the victim has brought shame or dishonor upon the family, or has violated the principles of a community or a religion, usually for reasons such as refusing to enter an arranged marriage, being in a relationship that is disapproved by their family, having sex outside marriage, becoming the victim of rape, dressing in ways which are deemed inappropriate, engaging in non-heterosexual relations or renouncing a faith.
Peter read it, shaking his head. “Wow,” he sighed. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“You have kids. Can you even imagine?” I asked.
“Not in a million years.”
I patted Peter’s arm. “I can’t wrap my head around that kind of evil,” I said. “Your own child.”
Peter got teary, which he tried to hide. Bless him.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Please. Don’t be. Maybe they carted her off to some uncle in a Welsh village or something. Or back to whatever circle of hell they came from,” he said as he dabbed his eyes.
“She’s in the UK.” I said. “If she’s alive, that is. Her parents aren’t here, but I know when they left. I know where they went. Jabirah wasn’t with them.”
“No way would they let her fly alone, right?” Peter said.
“Agreed,” I said. “They didn’t even want her to leave the house without a chaperone. She’s in the UK. Dead or alive.”
“In twenty-first-century London, mind you,” Peter said. “How insane is that? Kids are kids. They screw up occasionally. At some point, their hormones rage. Parents screw up too, you know? I sure as hell have. It’s called being human. You don’t kill your daughter for kissing a boy, for Chrissakes. It’s madness!”
“My first thought was that it couldn’t happen here,” I said. “Maybe in some forsaken part of Afghanistan but not in Britain. So I checked. In five years, there were over 11,000 reports of so-called honor-based crimes right here in the UK.”
Peter shook his head. Thousands of cases, though not all murders, of course. Some were acts of violence; a few included throwing acid in the face of the poor girl accused of shaming her family. It was unbelievable. How could honor, however defined, ever be more important than the life of a loved one?
For now, though, one step, one case at a time. The one we had was Jabirah. Who would want to harm Jabirah Rahman? My mind flew through all the bad seeds and sociopaths I’d dealt with in this job. That only made it even more shocking to think that someone she loved might have harmed her.
How could there ever be honor in murder?
Later that same day, permission came through to access the bank and credit card statements of the men I’d come to know as Freddy Hayworth’s BFFs. One, I suspected, was no such friend. My mind was stuck on Jabirah, but in a way that helped me focus on Freddy. I couldn’t change whatever happened to our dear Jabirah, but I intended to bring justice to the Hayworth family. That I could do.
Couldn’t I?
It turned out Ahmed Rahman hadn’t absconded. He’d simply sold the house and moved, with sister Benazir, into a modest rental flat not half a mile away.
“It’s my father’s house. He told me to sell it, gave me power of attorney to do so. That’s it, full stop,” Ahmed said when Peter and I showed up at his new address. Benazir, apparently, was in school. I asked Peter to ride along as a favor. He didn’t hesitate. Peter too was rattled, and he’d never met Jabirah.
“Where is the rest of your family planning to live?” I asked. “This flat has one bedroom.”
“I don’t know what their plans are. They may not come back here,” Ahmed said.
“Why not?” Peter asked.
“I don’t know,” Ahmed said. “I also don’t know that it’s any business of yours.”
“It is now,” I said. “This is now officially a police matter. A missing persons report has been filed on your sister Jabirah Rahman.”
Ahmed didn’t like the sound of this. “Oh? By who?”
“By me,” I said. I didn’t take my eyes off his.
“Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Rahman?” asked Peter.
“Of course I do! She’s with my parents in Pakistan!”
My head shook. “How did she get there?”
“What do you mean? She flew there, of course. With my…” he stopped talking.
“Go on,” Lazarus said.
Ahmed kept mum.
“I think we all know she didn’t leave the UK, Ahmed,” I said. “At least not on a commercial flight. Surely you know we can check on those things. Your parents left; that shows in the records. There’s no record of your sister leaving the country.”
Ahmed offered no response.
“Where is she, Mr. Rahman?” Peter asked.
“There must be some mistake,” Ahmed said, finally.
“That’s just what we’re afraid of, Ahmed,” I said. “Some mistakes put people in prison, you know.”
It must have taken a huge effort for Ahmed to keep control. Either he was very angry or very scared. He shook so much he nearly collapsed into a
chair. He sat and slouched, as if carrying a weight, which I believe he was.
“We know she went away with Hamza,” I said. “We’ve spoken to him. We know you and your father followed them, grabbed her when they made a stop, and drove away.”
“That’s the last anyone saw her, Mr. Rahman,” said Peter.
“I know Benazir wants answers too, Ahmed. And she’ll start asking them. She loves her sister,” I said, with all the emotional force I could muster.
“I love my family too,” Ahmed said.
“But that’s not really the question here, Ahmed, is it?” I said. “Jabirah! Where is she?” I leaned over Ahmed and spit the words at him: “Where the hell is she?”
“Look,” Ahmed said eventually—he wouldn’t look at me, “I wish I could help you.”
“Do you,” I said, still in his face. “Do you really?” He said nothing. “Get up!” I yelled. He struggled from the chair and stood. I moved in closer, finding it hard to control my anger. “Ahmed, I know Jabirah. My son and I care a great deal for her. She’s a good person. She may have kissed a young man; she may have fallen in love with him, but she’s an adult—”
“It’s none of your business!” Ahmed yelled.
I pushed him against the wall. Yes, I knew better, but I couldn’t help myself. “Oh hell yes, it is. It became my business when you and your family came to this country. You wanted to live here, fine.”
“Not another anti-immigrant bigot,” Ahmed said.
“Oh, I’m not anti-immigrant, Ahmed,” I said. “Don’t even try that one.”
“You just do a good impression.”
“No, no. You come here, you abide by our laws. If anyone, including you, has harmed your sister in any way, you’ve broken the law. I don’t give a shit what your tradition tells you. Do you understand me?”
“Get off me!” he yelled.
“We’re talking about your sister here, Ahmed,” I said. “She’d better be alive and well someplace of her own choosing, or I’m going to make it my aim in life to ruin your life.”
“That makes two of us, Mr. Rahman,” Peter said. “We’ll be on our way. Have a nice day.”
Peter and I took our leave. We didn’t speak until we got into the car and drove away, Peter at the wheel.
“A bit harsh in there, Tessa,” he said.
“I was. I know.”
Peter pulled into traffic as I started to cry.
“What if he killed her, Peter?”
“If he did, he’s not getting away with it,” he said.
“Oh, really? We don’t have a body; we don’t have witnesses, other than maybe the father and mother. And they’re in fucking Pakistan!”
“We need to put a travel restriction on your friend Ahmed,” Peter said. “Confiscate his passport maybe.”
“We can flag him, but we’ve no grounds for taking his passport. He hasn’t been charged with anything. Poor Benazir,” I said. “How awful for her.”
“How do you know she didn’t approve?” asked Peter.
“Oh no. You didn’t know them. You never saw Jabirah and Benazir together. No way.”
“Uh-huh.” Peter sounded unconvinced. “Let’s find out where she goes to school.”
“Make the next left,” I said.
“What? You already know?”
I nodded. We drove to the school in silence. What was there to say?
On arriving, we were ushered into the headmaster’s office to await Benazir. This time, though, the headmaster, Mr. Rawley, insisted on staying with us.
“She’s still a minor. Either I stay or we wait until someone from social services can get here. Your call,” Rawley said.
He won. And he was right. As soon as Benazir entered, I spoke so she would hear my voice.
“Hello, Benazir,” I said. My tone was kindly.
She started crying. Out of fear or sadness? Or both? I hugged her.
“Benazir, do you know where your sister is?” I asked kindly.
The headmaster spoke. “Benazir, if you don’t want to speak with these people you don’t have to, at least not right now.”
“Who are ‘these people’?” she asked. “Other than Tessa, who’s my friend, who else is here?”
“My partner. From work. His name is Peter Lazarus,” I said.
“Why is he here?” asked Benazir. She drew away from me.
“Because your sister isn’t with that man she met. She’s missing,” I said.
“Then she’s with my parents!” Benazir was beside herself, barely keeping control.
“Benazir, sit down, please,” I said. I looked to Mr. Rawley. “Can we get her something? Tea, maybe?”
“Of course,” he said. He proceeded to the door, mouthed an order, and returned to my side.
Benazir kept crying.
“I’m sorry we have to do this,” I said.
“You’re frightening me,” she said.
“I’m frightened too, Benazir. I’m frightened for Jabirah. Honey, she’s not in Pakistan. She’s not with your parents. We can check these things. She hasn’t left Britain.”
“No!” Benazir cried.
I did what little I could to comfort her. The tea came. We all sat down, save Peter, who stood as if guarding us.
“You told me she ran away with her boyfriend,” I started again.
“She did! I know it!”
“She did, Benazir, but she didn’t get very far.”
“What are you talking about?” Benazir cried.
“We have…” Peter started. I shook my head. Let me handle this.
“We know your father and brother found her, very soon after she and Hamza left together,” I said.
“Is that his name?” Benazir said. “She wouldn’t tell me. She said the less I knew, the better.”
“She told you she was going?” I asked. It only confirmed how close the sisters were.
Benazir nodded. “Only that she’d met someone and that she wanted to be with him. And that it was her decision whom she married. I laughed when she said that; I was so shocked.”
“You don’t agree?” I asked, gently.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I know what I’ve been told since I can remember. My future is in the hands of my family. But living here, it’s hard to agree. I know people like you and Jonathan, like the Obinnas, who make their own lives. You don’t seem to suffer because of it.”
“I don’t, Benazir. I really don’t. In fact, I thrive. So what makes you think Jabirah is with your parents in Pakistan?”
“That’s what they told me all along. That’s what Ahmed said too.”
“Have you spoken with her?” I asked, looking at Peter.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Mobile phone reception can be bad there. It’s not like here.”
“May I ask a question?” Mr. Rawley said.
“Please do,” I said.
“Benazir,” he said, “do you feel safe at home with your brother?”
“What?” she cried. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I? He’s my brother.”
“Of course he is,” said the headmaster. “I’m sorry, but I had to ask.”
“No, sir, you did not!” This Benazir said with a wariness that was devastating.
“What do we do with her?” Lazarus asked as we drove back to the Yard. “Or for her. She’s alone with that piece-of-shit brother of hers.”
“What can we do?” I asked. “We can’t prove anything other than her older sister has gone missing. Benazir’s a minor. Her parents aren’t even in the country. You want to put her in some foster home or detention center? Over my dead body, Peter. And I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
“I don’t want to do either, Tess, but if we truly think Ahmed harmed Jabirah, why the hell would we leav
e a teenage girl in his care? A blind teenage girl.”
“Because we don’t have a choice,” I said. “At least not yet.”
“Which is maybe the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Agreed,” I said. “Trust me, Peter. I agree.”
A text message pinged. Chief Inspector Vernon: “See me.”
“Can you hurry it up?” I said to Peter.
Lazarus switched on the siren and went to warp speed, or the London street version thereof, meaning not so fast.
“I’m sorry you’re not busy enough, Detective Inspector,” Vernon said. I had barely entered his office. His eyes remained glued to the computer screen on his desk, his fingers on the keyboard. I got not so much as a nod.
“What makes you think that?” I asked, knowing this had to be some kind of setup. The chief inspector never said “sorry.”
“You and Lazarus are working a missing persons matter, I’m told?”
“Not exactly working it, sir. And it’s not interfering with our other cases,” I said.
“I’ll decide that, DI Grantley.” Only then did the chief inspector look at me.
“Of course, sir. It’s just that I knew the missing woman. I know who to speak with.”
“If she’s missing, maybe you should use the present tense when speaking of her, Grantley,” Vernon said.
That did it. I’d never gotten emotional in front of the chief inspector before. Tears came to my eyes again. Not good.
“Sit down, Grantley. I’m not trying to chew your head off.” He handed me a tissue.
“I’m so sorry, sir. She looked after my son. We both care about her, and she’s vanished.”
“And her family says she’s missing?” he asked.
“No, sir. They didn’t report her missing. I did.”
“What have they got to say? The family.”
“They insist she’s in Pakistan with her parents and some sick relative.”
“You don’t think so,” Vernon said.
I’d calmed down. “No, sir. I’ve checked. If she left the UK, it wasn’t by lawful means. And she’s not with her brother and sister here in London.”