Honor Role

by Tim Hoy

  “You think the brother knows?” Tamir asked.

  I nodded. “Look at me, big tough police detective. I loved Jabirah, Tamir. So did my son. So did everyone. I keep using the past tense, which isn’t a good sign. Anyway, she met a man on the bus, a university student. They fell in love. I’ve spoken with him. He says he knows nothing. I suppose he could be lying but I don’t think so. It’s horrible and so damn frustrating. I feel powerless.”

  “Don’t,” he said. Like a little girl, at that moment I had a feeling that Tamir could make everything right. I knew better, but then and there I wanted so to believe it.

  We closed the restaurant. At my prodding, Tamir gave me a lesson in Sunni versus Shiite Islam among other things. He considered himself a Muslim, but in a category his pious father derisively called Buffet Islam, meaning he picked what he wanted from their religious tenets while ignoring others. He didn’t plan on having four wives, for example. And, no, Tamir explained, he didn’t believe that some God dictated the Quran, any more than one did the Bible. “Many of our traditions are good,” he insisted, “while some are not so much.”

  “Pretty much like any belief system, religious or otherwise,” I said.

  “Pretty much.”

  That night I went home with Tamir. His flat was on the top floor of the same building as the restaurant. I knew Jonathan was in good hands. So Tamir and I walked up three flights of stairs. A stairway to heaven.

  DI Lazarus and I went out to Heathrow for an unscheduled discussion with Ahmed Rahman. Lazarus drove. I read more articles on my phone about honor killings. My mind reeled. Such unimaginable evil.

  “Why is this guy working at the country’s busiest airport if he thinks sisters should be killed for kissing their boyfriends?” Peter said. “Who the hell knows what else he believes?”

  “He’s passed security clearances,” I said, because I’d checked.

  “Anyone can pass a security clearance before they do something crazy.”

  “What do you want them to do, consult a psychic prior to offering the job? It’s an imperfect system, Peter. And Rahman works in food services for a BA subcontractor. He doesn’t get anywhere near the planes.”

  “Says who? Do you know for certain what his ID gives him access to?”

  Point taken. I didn’t.

  We found Ahmed Rahman placing mini salads on food trays for in-flight meals. He was topped with a fetching hairnet. These were economy class dinners I’d guess from the paltry portions. After his contribution, the worker next in line added an afterthought-sized square of chocolate cake. Three bites’ worth, if that. Each passenger, we were told without asking, selects her or his main course from two choices. The hot main course is then added to the tray in flight. Ahmed looked up when his supervisor approached him and leaned in to be heard over the din.

  “Let Susan take over, Ahmed,” the supervisor said. Ahmed quickly pulled back to let his co-worker step in. “You’ve got visitors.”

  Ahmed turned with a start. He wasn’t ecstatic to see us.

  “There’s a break room over there,” the supervisor said, pointing behind us. “Should be empty right now.”

  We headed there with Ahmed following. The room was indeed free. I took a seat. Ahmed, reluctantly, sat across from me. Peter helped himself to a cup of coffee. His face after the first sip said to pass on the coffee.

  “We’ll need contact information for your parents and sister in Pakistan, Ahmed,” I said, opening a note pad and taking up a pen.

  “Why? Look, my auntie is sick; can’t you leave them alone?” Ahmed whined.

  “You say your sister is in Pakistan; we want to confirm that. We can get an order compelling you to provide the information, Ahmed. Is that what you want?”

  Now Ahmed looked more fearful than irate. He pulled his mobile from a pocket, pressed it a few times, and turned it to me. There were phone numbers and email addresses.

  “They’re using UK phones in Pakistan? That could get expensive,” I said. Peter, coffee in hand, sat down next to me and looked at the mobile screen.

  “I email them mostly,” Ahmed said. “Jabirah has a new email address. It’s there.”

  “And if we check the ISP on this email it will show us the email is coming from Pakistan?” Peter said to Ahmed.

  “What do you mean?” Ahmed asked, confused.

  “The email I got from Jabirah, the one telling me she’d married a man in Pakistan and wasn’t supposed to communicate with me anymore?” I said. Ahmed, on the edge of his seat, waited for me to continue. “That email was sent from Britain, Ahmed, not Pakistan.”

  “That’s not possible,” he said.

  “Why? Why isn’t it possible, Mr. Rahman?” Peter asked.

  “Because she’s not in Britain,” he said.

  Enough. I leaned in, got in his face. “Ahmed, I am going to find your sister. When I do, she had better be alive and well. Am I making myself clear?”

  He nodded, barely. Hatred burned in his eyes.

  Peter stepped in. “If we can’t reach your parents or sister, Mr. Rahman, the police in Pakistan will. Rumor has it they’re sometimes not as nice as we are.”

  Ahmed’s eyes narrowed to slits. Still, he didn’t take Peter’s bait. He didn’t say a word. Then again, he didn’t need to.

  Peter and I rose to leave.

  “I hope I never see you again,” I said to Ahmed, “because that will mean Jabirah’s alive and well.”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” he said.

  Peter stepped up to Ahmed; he looked as if he was going to clock him. Instead, he yanked off Ahmed’s hairnet.

  The next morning I got a text message from someone in the Home Office I didn’t know asking me to contact him on the number provided.

  “I wanted you to know a Mr. Ahmed Rahman has booked a flight to Pakistan departing the twenty-sixth of this month,” the Home Office employee said.

  “Thank you. How do you know?” I asked.

  “The airlines are required to inform us when anyone we have flagged uses their passport. He gave the passport number when he bought the ticket. You’re listed as the contact person at the Met on this. I assume you or someone you work with asked us to watch out for this person?”

  “Yes, thanks. Can you give me the flight details?”

  “PIA flight 788,” he said and added, “Just to be clear, unless he is actually charged with an offense, we can’t prevent him from boarding that plane.”

  “Understood,” I said.

  Chief Inspector Vernon brought me back to earth.

  “What is the charge, Grantley? There’s no body; her family says she’s with them.”

  “Which is clearly not true, sir,” I said.

  “Says you,” he replied.

  “And HMRC. Her passport hasn’t been used,” I said. Among other tasks assigned to it, Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs department controls the UK border, including airports.

  “I understand, but we have to have something more if we’re going to arrest her brother for murder,” Vernon said.

  “Like what?!”

  “You said she had a sister. What does she say?” Vernon asked.

  “She thinks Jabirah is in Pakistan with their parents.”

  “Has she been in touch with her?”

  “By email, but anyone could have written the emails, sir.”

  “I get that, Grantley, but nothing you’re telling me amounts to a case against this brother of hers. We arrest him; twenty-four hours later, he’s out. The Crown Prosecution folks won’t charge him. You know they won’t, and you know why.” Vernon wasn’t any happier with what he’d said than I was hearing it.

  “Because we would bear a burden of proof we can’t meet,” I said. “We’d never get a conviction.”

  Vernon nodded. “I’m sorry y
ou’re right, but you are.”

  “So he gets away with this? You didn’t know her, sir.”

  “I don’t need to have known her. And welcome to the real world. People get away with things every damn day, Detective Inspector. Yes, it stinks to high heaven. The question is this: Is the alternative worse?”

  “What alternative?” I asked.

  “Lowering our often impossibly high standards for convictions,” Vernon said. “Think about it.”

  Dejected, I turned to crawl out of Vernon’s office. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Find something, Grantley. Anything. Lock the bastard up and throw away the key. If you can.”

  I kept walking, down the stairs and out of the building, into a light, late-afternoon shower. There was nothing requiring my immediate presence at the Met. The workday was over. I considered heading to Tamir’s nearest restaurant in hope of finding him there. There would be solace in his good company. Tamir hadn’t known Jabirah, though. The flood of memories running through my mind wasn’t for sharing. They were mine alone. Eventually I came to Westminster station and caught the Jubilee Line north to Bond Street. My intention was to browse the boys’ department at Debenhams. Jonathan needed new pants. Emerging from Bond Street station I made to cross Oxford Street. After a few steps, I stopped, turned around, and instead entered South Moulton Street. At its end, I crossed Davies Street and entered Claridge’s Hotel. Alec had stayed there once as a child, he’d told me, when his late famous father was knighted by the queen. I’d never been inside the place, a fact I remedied then and there. Once in the quiet, plush lobby, I shook myself off and headed to the hotel bar, which was half empty. There were vacant stools, so I crawled onto one and ordered a perfect Manhattan. Manhattans in London. Made sense to me. Okay, nothing made sense to me, not then. There I sat, perfectly still save for the occasional sip. Pondering the fate of dear Jabirah Rahman.

  The alcohol soothed, as did the barstool musing. Alec came to mind. Years before, he’d probably been in this same room sipping a Coke while one of his parents nursed something stronger. The only thing Alec had to hide from was his own nature. He was broken. I—and our baby—healed him, or so he said. I thought there was truth to that. He saw us as a kind of salvation. He feared what he would become if not tethered to our family. I was grateful for the family I’d built at Potential House after Alec was gone. It was my own kind of salvation.

  After the second Manhattan I stopped, but I did eat the cherry. Glancing about, I followed the tale of black-and-white celebrity photos on the walls. The great who’d entered this very room.

  With the bill settled and the rain thankfully stopped, I walked back to the Bond Street tube station, having totally forgotten my son’s need for new clothes. I boarded the next northbound Jubilee Line arrival. Standing in the crowded carriage, people-watching, something hit me like a ton of bricks. I fished out my phone and called Tommy Rankin, who worked the occasional miracle in tech services at the Met.

  “Tommy, if I email you a clear photo of a few men, can you use that facial recognition stuff to find them on CCTV footage? Will that work?”

  “Probably, provided the footage is clear as well,” he said. “How much footage?”

  “Three days over the course of five months,” I answered.

  “Fine. One question: Are they white?”

  “What? Are they white? Yes. Why?”

  “The software likes white people more, for some reason. Identifies them better, or more easily,” Tommy said. “I’m not kidding.”

  “Jesus, a racist software program. Okay, I’ll get you the photos. Soon as I have the footage, I’ll forward it,” I said.

  “All right, that works.”

  “Listen, Tommy, I’m pretty sure one of them’s a murderer, so it’s important, okay?”

  “Your wish is my command, DI Grantley.”

  “As well it should be,” I said, a smile on my face as I ended the call and started another.

  “Vic,” I said when Detective Cooley picked up. “It’s Tessa Grantley at the Met.”

  “How are you, Detective Inspector?”

  “Good. Look, if I give you three dates in the past year, can you ask the folks at Sheffield Station for CCTV footage of the main entrance and whatever platforms the trains from London use?”

  “How soon do you need it?” Detective Cooley asked.

  “Straightaway, please.”

  “Is this about that guy down there who died? Hayworth, right?”

  “It is,” I said. I’ll email you a photo and the dates. Stay tuned.

  “I’m on it. Ring you back.”

  Ending that call, I closed my eyes for the mere moments left to my stop.

  As I exited the station, my phone read 16:25. I could take Jonathan out for dinner, which rarely happened during the week.

  My son loved the chicken tikka at our neighborhood Indian restaurant. He said it was “almost” as good as Jabirah’s. I picked at a lamb vindaloo and was reminded of it all the night, which served me right. By five a.m. I gave up on more sleep. My inbox included an email, with attachments, from Detective Cooley in Sheffield. I read it quickly and forwarded it to Tommy Rankin, flagged urgent.

  When I got to the Yard that morning, the first thing I did was pay Tommy a visit. He was in already, leaning at two computer monitors on the desk in front of him.

  “Got my email?” I asked as I approached.

  Tommy nodded. “Come look,” he said which I did. “They’re not the best quality. See what you think.”

  One screen showed people coming and going from the main entrance to Sheffield railway station. The tape had been speeded up, so everyone looked to be walking quickly. On the other screen were stills—captures—of white males identified by the software Tommy was using. There were five stills so far, none of them clear. Of the five, two were of the same man, in the same outfit. One photo showed him exiting the station and one entering it. Two more were of another man. The time stamps indicated this second man entered the station just past noon and exited it almost exactly four hours later. The final still was of a man walking into the station. There was no corresponding picture of him exiting the building, either before or after he entered it.

  I pointed to the first man, who had exited the station at half past eleven in the morning and entered it again three hours and twelve minutes later.

  “That guy,” I said. “Can you blow it up or something?”

  “I can try. Him?” Tommy asked, pointing to the grainy photo on the screen. “Right height, maybe? Right walk?”

  “Possibly. He exited the station first, which means he arrived in Sheffield from somewhere and later returned to catch an outbound train. The other guy’s a local. So is the one your app only caught once. He was off to somewhere, not arriving from somewhere.”

  Tommy nodded. “Makes sense.”

  “It better.”

  No comment from Tommy as he clarified the photos as best he could. In the photo leaving the station, the man had a hat on and kept his head down, which didn’t help us. Somehow, though, when he returned to the station the hat was gone. His head was down somewhat, but not too much.

  “Can you email that photo to me?” I asked Tommy.

  “Doing it now. That’s who you were looking for?”

  “Unfortunately, I think so. Thanks, Tommy.”

  “Let me know what happens,” he said. “I’m nosy.”

  The next morning I took DI Lazarus shopping. Peter hates shopping. We entered the establishment minutes after ten a.m.: opening time, according to its website. Once we’d closed the door behind us, the traffic noise abated. The shop was still, save for the ticking of many clocks. Nobody greeted us. I nudged Lazarus.

  “Hello!” Peter sounded.

  “Coming!” came the reply. Shoes clicked on unseen stairs, the noise increas
ing in descent.

  “We don’t usually get…” David Colfax started. He stopped when he saw me. “Brought a friend?” he said, addressing me.

  “This is Detective Inspector Lazarus, Mr. Colfax.”

  “So formal,” said Colfax. “That can’t be a good sign. Not looking for a new chair, rug, or something, Detective Inspector?”

  “It might be best to speak in your office,” I said.

  “Okay,” Colfax replied. “I’ll have to lock up; I’m the only one here.” He did and next turned a worn sign from OPEN to CLOSED. Silently, he led us up the back stairs to his office. “Please sit.” Lazarus and I did. “I can’t offer you refreshment, I’m afraid. The cupboard’s bare. Hilda’s doing the shopping as we speak.”

  “How old were you when the picture was taken behind you—the one with your dog?” I asked.

  Colfax turned. He picked up the handsome silver frame, which held a faded color snapshot of a boy with his dearly beloved pet, a Golden Retriever, the child and dog in warm embrace. Smiling, Colfax’s eyes stayed on the picture.

  “Eight years old,” Colfax said. “I still miss her. Goldie. That was her name. My mother’s choice. I thought it a bit obvious for a retriever, but what’s in a name?”

  “How long after the photo was taken did Goldie get poisoned?” I asked.

  Colfax looked up at me, and then at Peter.

  “Not more than a month, I’m afraid. How did you know?”

  “I spoke with your vet yesterday. She’s still practicing,” I said. “Some people keep very good records. You also told Clark James about it, Molly’s father.”

  “I may have,” Colfax said. “Can’t recall.” He turned to Lazarus. “Don’t you get to say anything?”

  “When I have something to say, Mr. Colfax, you’ll know,” Peter said.

  “We have CCTV footage of you on the platform of Sheffield station on Tuesday the ninth of September. Your credit card statement shows the purchase of a railway ticket on the seventh of September. I checked with the railway. You booked a return ticket from King’s Cross to Edinburgh Waverly, but you got off in Sheffield.”