“I know what you mean,” said Derry. “I’ve been involved in four of these cases now, and each time I’ve really had to fight my way into them. A couple of things that might help: you need to remember that each case is different. Although I hope that reading the files might help, you won’t find a blueprint or common pattern there. That’s not surprising, really, since both victims and murderers come from a range of countries, religions and social backgrounds. And I think you should forget about the word ‘honour’, except as shorthand to help you identify the motive. To a Western mind, there’s nothing honourable about these murders, but, as you say, the term causes confusion. That’s been reflected in some of the sentences that have been handed down, even in European countries. Ask Nancy. She’s an expert on it. You didn’t say where she was, by the way.”
“She left me to work through the files. She said she’d come back to deal with any questions I might have later.”
“Good. OK with you, was she?”
“Reasonably. I found her a bit difficult to get on with, but I thought it might have been me. I seem to have developed a talent for rubbing people up the wrong way since I’ve been in London.”
Derry Hacker grinned.
“Only since you’ve been here? Seriously, though, she’s great when you get to know her. You can’t blame her for being wary, given the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“Didn’t she tell you? I thought she might have done, considering why you’re here.”
“Tell me what?”
“She was almost the victim of an honour killing herself. She’s half Bangladeshi – looks European, I know, must have inherited her mother’s looks.”
“You mean her father tried to murder her?”
“Yep. The family wasn’t even particularly religious – couldn’t have been, otherwise he wouldn’t have been allowed to marry the mother.”
“So he chose his wife but his daughter wasn’t allowed to choose her own boyfriend?”
“I think she’d have been allowed to choose a boyfriend all right. The point was, she wanted a girlfriend. Next to punishing young girls for daring to consort with men, the most common reason for honour killings is to get rid of anyone with LGBT tendencies. That’s why some of the victims are men: they’re almost always gay men.”
“God,” said Tim. “That is a surprise: and it explains a lot. Is her name really Nancy Chappell?”
“No. It’s not even an Anglicisation of her real name. She was given a new identity long before she joined the police. She was recruited especially to help us with honour killings. She knows what she’s talking about. As I’ve said, she’s boned up on international law on them, too.”
“It’s great that you’ve asked her to help me. Thanks!”
“You and I go back a long way. And you need friends in this game. I’m sure there’ll be something I’ll want help with one day. And talking of surprises, I have another small one up my sleeve.”
“Oh?” said Tim cautiously. Derry’s voice had taken on a laddish twang that Tim recognised of old.
“Yes. I didn’t mention the specifics earlier because you weren’t well, but you seem to be better now. Patti’s up in London today and tomorrow, attending a Forensics conference. I’ve asked her to have dinner with us.”
“Oh,” said Tim again, in what he hoped was a neutral tone. A dozen thoughts shot through his head, foremost among which was that he would have to tell Freya a white lie to explain his absence. He couldn’t have her getting wind of the fact that he was meeting Patti socially, however innocent the occasion.
Chapter 12
I head for the office, which has now moved from Holbeach to Spalding. It’s in New Road, just a street away from the police station. Being in the car without Sophia gives me an unexpected empty feeling, but I’m looking forward to getting my teeth into some work.
I haven’t worked in the new office before, though I’ve dropped in on Janey a few times and I spent a couple of hours there rearranging my stuff after the move. It’s in one of the old buildings with sturdy brass-plated doors that open straight off the pavement. Janey and I are sharing the building with traffic control – they’ve got most of it – because there’s no longer room for them at the station. It’s a venerable town house, at least two hundred years old; the wooden staircases are narrow and winding, the windows still have sashes and the ceilings are ornate, decorated with plaster roses and cornices. It was probably once the proudly-owned townhouse of a professional man and his family, but has now been half-transformed by some state-of-the-art fittings. Our office has simple stud walls with two work-stations separated by a low screen and an alcove for the hanging files that neither Janey nor I would part with, but the traffic crew are backed up by banks of computers and simulation units straight out of the Tardis. I think I’m going to like working with them: they’re energetic and cheerful and give a buzz to the place.
Janey’s on holiday this week. She’s taken her son to stay with relatives in Wales. She’s a single mother. I’ve never asked her about her exact circumstances – she’s been on her own as long as I’ve known her – but I can tell her wounds are still red raw. That’s why I don’t pry. I think she finds it tough, bringing up a boy on her own. His name’s Gwillim: she says she’s always been determined to show him his Welsh heritage. I can’t remember how old he is now: fourteen, perhaps fifteen? She must have borne him very young; she’s only a few years older than I am.
I’m sorry Janey’s not here, although she said it would be for the best; that I’d get used to working in the new place more easily if I was there on my own at first. Already I’m beginning to think she’s right. Janey may be brittle on the subject of her past, but she’s wise about almost everything else.
I prowl a little, inspecting cupboards, loos and coffee-making facilities, before I settle down. There is a small stack of documents in my in-tray, but I know that most of the work will have been e-mailed to me. I boot up the computer.
There are several e-mails waiting, including a ‘welcome back’ message from Superintendent Thornton. Tim has taught me always to look beyond any generous gestures made by Thornton and try to work out what might have prompted them, but sometimes I think he’s being too cynical. Thornton obviously wants to get the most he can from everyone, but I believe he has a real regard for both of us. There’s a short e-mail from Juliet, also welcoming me back and saying she’ll drop round later. There’s also a note from Andy Carstairs, about a boundary dispute between two farmers that’s led to blows. Not my favourite kind of project, but of a type that I’ve been involved in many times before. There’s a fairly cut-and-dried set of steps to take to work out who’s in the right. Quite a good thing to start back with.
I contact the land registry to ask for copies of the relevant documents and am just settling down to read Andy’s account of the vicious physical attack made by one of the farmers on the other, when the phone rings.
“Police research office.”
There’s the sound of musical laughter.
“Juliet? Is that you? What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. It’s just that you sound so professional.”
“Not sure how to take that! Don’t I usually sound professional?”
“Yes, of course. It struck me as strange, that’s all, probably because I’ve not seen you in the work context lately.”
“If you mean you’ve come to define me as the mother of a small child, I can see I haven’t come back a moment too soon!”
“Well, I’m glad you’re back, anyway. We all are. And the work’s stacking up, as usual.”
“So you said when we last spoke, but all I’ve got so far is some pretty routine checking to do for Andy.”
“That’s great, because I have something more unusual that I’d like you to help with. I think Superintendent Thornton may have mentioned something about it t
o you. Have you got time to see me now?”
“Sure. It won’t take me long to get as far as I can with Andy’s job. I’ll put the kettle on. I’ve just found out where it is.”
“Excellent. I’ll be there in ten minutes, tops.”
Juliet arrives even sooner than she’d said. I notice the change in her immediately.
“You’ve had your hair cut! I’m sorry, that’s such an inane thing to say. It looks lovely. Have you lost some weight as well, or does that style just make your face look thinner?”
Juliet pulls a face.
“Just a few pounds, nothing drastic. Glad you like the hair. I thought it was time for a change. No milk or sugar in my tea, thanks,” she adds, as I pour hot water on to the tea-bags. “When’s Janey coming back?”
“Not until next week.”
“You’ll appreciate being on your own for a while.”
“That’s what she said. But we get on so well that I’d just as soon she was here.”
“Well, I’d rather give this piece of work I have to you than her, even though I’m certain she’d want it if she knew about it, so the fact that she’s on holiday solves a problem.”
I carry the two mugs of tea over to the small table that separates my desk and Janey’s.
“I’m intrigued. Will you tell me what it is?”
“Of course, but you’ll have to be discreet. It’s only semi-official. Superintendent Thornton knows what I want to ask you to do and he’s ambivalent about it. He’s more or less said that he’s not sure about it, but he’ll look the other way.”
I laugh.
“If Tim were here, he’d say that was typical.”
“Yes, well you might have to keep Tim a bit in the dark about it, too. He’ll probably like it even less than Thornton.”
“Now I’m really curious! Tim and Thornton don’t often take the same view, not even at different points of the spectrum.”
“Their reasons will be different. Thornton doesn’t want us to do anything that’ll make the force look bad and Tim will think of it as encroaching on his territory.”
I stop smiling.
“Is it something to do with this suspected so-called ‘honour killing’? Tim’s hardly talked to me about it, but I can’t help feeling that there’s something about it that doesn’t stack up. I understand that a girl’s disappeared, but why are you all so determined to believe that she’s been murdered?”
“That’s the point, not all of us are. Her disappearance coincided with a dossier of stuff that Thornton received about honour killings and how to look out for them. Some of the signs fit her case and, in my opinion, others don’t. I think Thornton’s getting cold feet now, but despite what you think about him and Tim always being on opposite sides, Tim’s gone overboard on this one. The main suspect’s gone to India and Tim’s determined to follow him there. He’s with Derry Hacker this week, finding out more about some of the honour killings they’ve worked on at the Met.”
“That much I knew. But who is the suspect? One of the girl’s relatives?”
“Not one of her immediate family, and that’s one of the anomalies as far as I’m concerned. You’re right when you say it’s usually the victim’s kin who decide to murder her to avenge their honour, but in this case it’s the fiancé – or putative fiancé, I should say, as my understanding is that the family chose him for her. He is her cousin, but she only met him recently. The girl’s name’s Ayesha Verma. She was – or is – clever, hoping to become a solicitor. The fiancé came here from India to meet her. I don’t know much about him, except that he’s nearer fifty than forty, so has almost certainly either been married before and divorced or has another wife living. Officially, Hindus can no longer practise polygamy, but there’s evidence some still do. But according to Bahir Verma, Ayesha’s father, the cousin is single.”
“How old is she?”
“Seventeen. Nearly eighteen.”
“So she rejected their choice of husband?”
“Neither her father nor her mother admits to that, but I’d say it’s likely, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes. But I’d also say it’s as likely that she ran away as was murdered. If she’s almost eighteen and has a bit of gumption, she could easily get a job.”
“That’s what I think – or thought. But neither her bank account nor her National Insurance number has been used. The parents still have her birth certificate and passport. And apparently she left her mobile phone behind.”
“That makes it sound a lot more serious. She could be a runaway, but she could also be being held prisoner somewhere. Or have been murdered without it being an honour killing.”
“Tim’s convinced it is one, and so was Superintendent Thornton, at first. As I said, he’s having second thoughts. I just don’t think there’s enough evidence to justify Tim going to India to interview the fiancé – who appears to be quite willing to co-operate, by the way. As do the parents. The father’s a bit stiff and formal, but the mother’s nice. If she’s making up how worried she is about Ayesha and knows that the girl’s already dead, she deserves an Oscar.”
“Tim and Superintendent Thornton must have some reason for thinking that there’s been an honour killing.”
“From what I know, they’ve jumped to that conclusion mainly because the family is Hindu. And because Thornton got that dossier about honour killings around the same time. Thornton’s now wondering if the girl’s been murdered by someone outside the family. I still think she’s probably a runaway.”
“I’d say there’s a fifty-fifty chance that any one of you may be right, but I don’t see how I can be of much help. What do you want me to do?”
“I’d like you to meet some girls whose lives have been put at risk because they’ve defied their families’ wishes. I’d like to know what you think makes them tick – how they reacted to authoritative parents and being coerced into something they didn’t want to do.”
“You mean, compile some case studies? Sounds fascinating. But you’re the sociologist, not me. Why can’t you do it?”
“I’d love to, but I’m a policewoman as well as a sociologist. I’m not allowed to waste time on conjecture. The sort of evidence I’m asking you to find won’t stand up in a court, but if we’re lucky it may help us to find Ayesha.”
“Wow! Of course, the answer is yes. But I don’t know where to start. I doubt if there are many Hindu girls in Spalding, and even if there were, I could hardly accost one in the street and ask her about her private life. Her parents would be down on me like a ton of bricks.”
Juliet laughs.
“I wouldn’t put it past you, but I agree the consequences would probably be dire. And you’re right that there aren’t many Hindus living here – another reason that I’m dubious about the honour killing theory, because frequently they take place in large communities where the families all know each other’s business and influence each other’s behaviour. The girls you speak to don’t have to be Hindu, though. Honour killings have been carried out by people of many different nationalities and several religions. I’ve been in touch with social services at Peterborough, and I think they’ll help. You’ll have to be extremely discreet and not tell anyone about it. The girls’ identities will have to be kept completely anonymous.”
“What about Tim?”
“Up to you how much you tell him. Between you, you seem to have worked out a way to keep your professional lives separate from your private lives. I know that anything you tell him will be treated confidentially. It’s really a question of whether he’ll think that you – and I – are invading his patch.”
“I’ll have to tell him a certain amount, otherwise he’ll be furious when he finds out. I think it’s highly unlikely it’ll dissuade him from going to India, though, even if I’ve completed the case studies before he plans to leave.”
“You’re probably right abo
ut that, but at least it’ll help us to demonstrate that we didn’t fail Ayesha Verma by blindly going down one single alleyway.”
“Talking of Tim, how has he seemed to you lately?”
“I’d thought of asking you the same question and decided it would be rude of me. But since you ask, he’s been a bit strange. He puts it down to the side effects of the malaria tablets he’s taking, but I’d say there was more to it than that. He called me yesterday to say that he thought he’d seen Peter Prance, wanted me to check on any sightings since the Sheppard case.”
“Peter who?”
“A conman who was blackmailing Hedley Atkins, the bloke who was finally convicted of killing his grandmother and sister about five years ago. It was all quite strange: it started out as a cold case enquiry into the murder of a woman called Kathryn Sheppard, whose remains were dumped at the side of the road many years before they were found. I don’t know if you remember it?”
“Vaguely. I don’t remember Peter Prance. Did I ever meet him?”
“I doubt it: otherwise, I’m sure you wouldn’t have forgotten him! As I’ve said, it was a few years ago, probably not long after you and Tim got married.”
“So why do you think it’s odd that Tim says he saw him?”
Juliet shrugs.
“It just seems unlikely, that’s all. And Tim was obsessed with the idea when he rang me.”
I laugh.
“I’m sorry, you’re not convincing me. Tim’s always obsessed about whatever it is that’s going on in his mind at any one time. I suppose everyone is, really,” I add, feeling I should show some loyalty.
“I suppose you’re right. And he is a larger-than-life character.”
I don’t answer. She’s right, but what Sophia and I want from Tim at the moment is not flamboyance, but a little bit more TLC.
Chapter 13
“Freya? Is that you?”
“Yes, of course it’s me. Is something the matter, Tim?”
Rooted in Dishonour Page 6