Blood of the Innocents

by Collett, Chris

  ‘And you have no idea where else Yasmin may have gone. Are there any friends or relatives she might have gone to stay with instead?’

  ‘I’ve contacted everyone I can think of. We have family in London, Bradford.’

  ‘What about your cousin Ameenah?’ Mohammed Akram asked of his wife.

  ‘I’ve called them.’

  ‘I understand Yasmin’s sister lives abroad.’

  ‘In Lahore,’ said Shanila Akram.

  ‘Is there any chance that Yasmin would try to go there?’

  ‘She doesn’t have a passport yet. We are in the process of applying.’

  ‘And she wouldn’t have money for a ticket,’ added Mohammed Akram.

  ‘Mrs Akram, I’d like you to think back to Monday night; Yasmin’s last evening at home. How did she seem then?’

  ‘She was fine.’

  ‘And nothing unusual occurred?’

  ‘Nothing. Except . . . she was late home. There had been a problem with the trains, but it’s not uncommon.’

  ‘Does Yasmin enjoy school?’

  This was safer ground, easier to elaborate. ‘Yes, she’s a clever girl. Her teachers are pleased with her.’

  ‘It was a big decision to allow Yasmin to go to a school outside our own religion,’ Mohammed Akram added. ‘But the high school has an excellent reputation and we felt it would benefit Yasmin’s career prospects to go there, even though it involved extensive travelling.’

  ‘And there was nothing bothering Yasmin that you can think of.’

  A glance between them that Mariner tried in vain to read. Could have simply been a clumsy and belated attempt at mutual reassurance.

  ‘Nothing.’ It was Shanila who spoke.

  ‘Yasmin hadn’t fallen out with any of her friends?’ Millie asked. ‘It happens all the time with girls that age.’

  Mohammed Akram spoke up. ‘If there is anything on Yasmin’s mind she would tell us. She’s a sensible girl, and we are very close. The family is important to us and we always encourage our children to be open and honest with us, so that we can support them.’ Recited like a mantra.

  ‘Anything could have happened to her. She’s so young—’ Shanila Akram’s voice cracked with emotion.

  Millie leaned over and put a hand on the woman’s arm, demonstrating the value of her presence. ‘The vast majority of missing persons turn up alive and well within seventy-two hours, Mrs Akram,’ she said. ‘We’ll do everything we can to find Yasmin.’

  ‘We’ll need to look at her room,’ Mariner said, offering something practical to focus on. ‘It’s just routine, but the sooner we can do that the better.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Akram volunteered.

  ‘That may not be necessary. You said that Yasmin’s grandmother is at home? If she can let us in—’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’ll let her know you’re coming.’

  ‘Then we won’t keep you any longer,’ said Mariner. He took a business card from his inside pocket and handed it to Mohammed Akram. ‘If Yasmin does contact you, or you think of anything, however small, that might help, give me a call at any time. And of course we, in turn, will keep you informed.’

  ‘I’ll keep in touch,’ Millie reassured Shanila Akram.

  ‘Thank you.’

  It was Mohammed Akram who stood to show them out. Signalling for Millie to go on ahead, Mariner waited until he and Akram had descended the stairs and were alone in the lobby before saying, ‘Mr Akram, when you first came in you seemed to think that we might be here about something else. You asked your wife about some letters. Do these relate to the graffiti outside?’

  Akram rubbed a hand over his face. ‘And the rest. It’s become a way of life for us: graffiti, bricks through the windows, dog excrement through the letterbox. Recently my car was damaged.’ His eyes lit up as he seized on an idea. ‘Do you think Yasmin’s disappearance is connected with these incidents? There are some sick people out there, Inspector,’ he said, with growing fervour. ‘After September eleventh we went through a bad time.’

  ‘We can’t jump to any conclusions at this stage,’ Mariner said. The incidents would have been looked into, but it seemed a little premature to be making those kinds of assumptions, unless Akram knew something they didn’t. ‘Do you have any thoughts about who might be behind these attacks, Mr Akram? Or anyone who might have a specific motive to harm your family?’

  ‘Apart from the usual?’ Akram glanced up at Mariner. ‘My wife and I built up this school from nothing. When we both left college as trained teachers we could see that the British education system was failing the children in our communities. Many of the children around here have little English when they enter the school system, so they are already at a disadvantage. We founded this school in an attempt to give them a better start. Now every year we are inundated with applications. We have expanded several times but still we don’t have enough space to take all the children who want to come here.’

  ‘And plenty of people resent success,’ said Mariner.

  ‘While others feel very threatened by Islam, as I’m sure you are aware, Inspector. Bad enough having the country overrun with Asians, let alone educated Asians.’ He took a pamphlet from his pocket. ‘We get these all the time.’

  The red, white and blue flyer was being published by an organisation calling itself ‘The Right Way’. Mariner had encountered it before: a right-wing organisation led by Peter Cox, a known racist and white supremacist based in the city. ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘It comes and goes.’ Akram was suddenly uncomfortable. ‘It’s been worse since the letter.’

  ‘What letter?’

  He shifted uncomfortably. ‘I belong to an Asian business consortium. We have all been targets and we were sick of the constant harassment. We wrote a letter to the local press denouncing the cowards who instigate race crimes and in particular The Right Way.’

  ‘So you could have inflamed the situation.’

  ‘It was impulsive, something I now regret. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but it probably hasn’t helped.’

  To put it mildly, thought Mariner.

  ‘This came through the post at the end of last week.’ Akram took from his pocket another sheet, this time of A4, word-processed on a computer, which he handed to Mariner.

  al-Fath (The Victory) Punish the hypocritical men and the hypocritical women. For them is the evil turn of fortune, and Allah is wroth against them and hath cursed them, and hath made ready for them hell . . .

  ‘It’s from the Koran,’ Akram said. ‘My wife hasn’t seen it. I didn’t want to upset her, especially now—’

  ‘It’s powerful stuff. Do you know if anyone else has received anything similar?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t told anyone.’

  ‘Not even the police?’

  ‘What would be the point? It’s completely anonymous. What could you do? It could have come from anywhere.’

  ‘And the envelope?’ Mariner asked, without hope.

  ‘It was printed anyway, but I threw it away.’

  ‘I’ll need to take this to get it checked for fingerprints.’

  Akram shrugged. ‘As you wish.’ But they both knew that as it stood it was a long shot.

  ‘If you get any further communication like this from anyone, please let me know immediately.’

  ‘Is it possible that Yasmin could have been abducted?’ Akram had clearly begun to give the idea some thought.

  ‘I think in the circumstances it’s a possibility we shouldn’t discount.’

  ‘Please help us to find her, Inspector.’

  ‘We’ll do everything we can. You said you were away from yesterday afternoon? Where did you stay last night?’

  ‘We have family in Bradford.’ As he spoke, Akram pushed open the door to the reception area, where Millie was chatting to the girl behind the desk. Seeing them, she drew the conversation to a close. Akram showed them out.

  Outside on the forecourt an
other car had been added to the collection: Akram’s top of the range black Mercedes with the registration MOH 1. It had a vicious scratch along one side. ‘Yours is the Mercedes?’

  Akram nodded.

  ‘It’s a distinctive car,’ said Mariner.

  A glint of irritation flashed in Akram’s eyes and Mariner began to recognise him as a man with a short fuse. ‘I work hard. I should be allowed to drive the car I choose.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Mariner, calmly. ‘I only meant that it makes it an easy target. We’ll be in touch, Mr Akram.’

  Chapter Three

  While they’d been inside, the sun had moved round and their own vehicle was no longer shielded from its burning rays. The heat inside gusted out when they opened the doors. It wasn’t until Mariner pulled out on to Highgate Middleway, where the traffic and the air moved more freely, that he asked, ‘So what have we got here, simple absconder or something more sinister?’

  ‘I thought it was interesting that Mr Akram made the point about his wife reporting Yasmin missing.’

  ‘Implying that perhaps he wouldn’t have? That she’s over-reacting?’

  ‘Could be. I thought his response was unusual. To begin with, he seemed angry, then once he’d calmed down he was almost businesslike.’ Millie was perceptive.

  ‘Maybe he’s just a pragmatist: OK, this is the problem, so what can we do about it?’

  ‘So far I can’t see a clear reason why Yasmin would have run away.’

  ‘Not one that they’re telling us about. But does there have to be one? It could be that even Yasmin herself doesn’t know. Perhaps she just needed some time away. Sometimes it happens.’

  Millie turned to face him. ‘Does it? That sounds like experience talking.’

  Mariner shifted in his seat. Now wasn’t the time. ‘Think about it,’ he said. ‘Yasmin’s parents are both high achievers, which makes me wonder what sort of pressure they put on their children.’

  ‘Without playing a particularly active part in their lives. They’re “busy people”. Sounds as if most of the parenting gets left to grandma.’

  ‘Even worse then: at seventeen, having an elderly woman breathing down your neck.’

  ‘Yasmin might have a great relationship with her grandmother, ’ Millie said.

  ‘Yes, she might.’ But the ensuing silence signalled that they both had doubts.

  ‘Have a look in the inside pocket of my jacket.’

  Reaching round to the back seat, Millie fished out the plastic wallet containing the sheet of A4. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s the latest of a series.’ Mariner took her briefly through his conversation with Mohammed Akram.

  ‘So he was pretty quick off the mark to finger Cox’s organisation.’

  Mariner shrugged. ‘If you’ve been subjected to that kind of campaign it would be only natural. Though I did wonder about their knowledge of the Koran.’

  ‘It would be a clever tactic though: turning someone’s religious beliefs back on them.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Alternatively, this could have come from inside the community. Sometimes the in-fighting can be worse than anything from the outside.’

  Mariner turned to her. ‘You’ve got a reason for saying that?’

  ‘Fakhra in the office was less than discreet. Competition to get into Allah T’ala is fierce. There are forty-six places available for the new term, and they’ve already had a hundred and thirty-eight applications.’

  ‘Mm, Akram said as much to me.’

  ‘Did he also tell you that one family in particular was upset that their child didn’t get a place for September.’

  ‘Not specifically. But forty-six vacancies for a hundred and thirty-eight kids doesn’t make for great odds. Not getting a place is pure bad luck, no worse than losing on the lottery. Why take it personally?’

  ‘This child is very disabled. The father is bitter about this anyway and has turned his frustration on the school. According to Fakhra he’s also religious fanatic and “a bit of a nutter”. The consensus is that he was the one who damaged Akram’s car.’

  ‘Did you get a name and address?’

  ‘Fakhra was reluctant. She said she’d want to speak to Mrs Akram first. They don’t want to make more trouble for this man’s family. I think she already felt she’d said too much.’

  ‘All we’d want to do is eliminate him from the enquiry.’

  Millie wafted the letter in mid-air. ‘In the meantime, how seriously do we take this?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. After the quote, it all gets a bit vague, so I wouldn’t want to automatically jump to any conclusions. And it’s not much of a lead. It could have been written by anyone with access to a PC.’

  ‘Even Mr Akram.’

  ‘That had crossed my mind.’

  ‘You didn’t immediately warm to him, did you?’ Millie said.

  ‘That obvious? I agree with you that his reactions weren’t quite right, anger seemed to outweigh anxiety.’

  ‘It’s not always an indicator. People can be very good at covering their feelings, can’t they? His wife is clearly not coping, so he may feel it’s important to try and appear in control, even though he’s not.’

  ‘I felt it was more than that. I thought he seemed annoyed with her.’

  ‘She’d been left in charge.’

  ‘But that shouldn’t make her wholly responsible. There seemed to be some blaming going on.’

  Millie didn’t seem convinced. She turned her attention back to the letter. ‘But if this is a genuine threat we might be looking at abduction.’

  ‘Could be. Akram was quick to suggest that too.’

  ‘Wouldn’t we expect a ransom demand?’

  ‘Not necessarily right away. The timing would have to be right.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘We continue to treat this as a missing persons and talk to the people who really know what Yasmin is thinking. ’

  In terms of location there could hardly have been a greater contrast between the small Islamic school and the girls high school that Yasmin attended. On the Granville Lane patch, it was more familiar to Mariner. Purpose built in the mid 1930s the red-brick building nestled snugly in leafy suburbia, surrounded by acres of what at any other time of year would have been lush green grass, but which had by now been scorched to a crusty, brownish yellow by the relentless sun.

  Here Mariner really was glad of Millie’s presence. Pre-adolescent girls had ceased to be one of his areas of expertise for going on for thirty years. In addition, these were likely to be worried adolescent girls, given that one of their friends had disappeared. The meeting with Yasmin’s closest friends was to be supervised by the head of pastoral care but, even so, Mariner felt a certain apprehension as, in the middle of the afternoon, he and Millie drove slowly along the winding, tree-lined drive.

  They were a little early, so were invited to take a seat in the reception area to wait.

  With its coffee-table reading and lush green pot plants it was more like the lobby of a private corporation, though it lacked the comfort of air conditioning. The power of the connection between aroma and memory never failed to amaze Mariner, and the combined old-school smell of cleaning fluids and cooked food was one of the most potent of all. His lightweight suit felt suddenly constrictive as he made a conscious effort not to let his own experiences affect his perceptions. His own schooldays had been far from the happiest of his life when he’d been a square peg in a round hole at the boys grammar school he’d attended.

  Nearly six feet tall by the age of thirteen, he’d stood out, literally at first, and then socially too, when people had gradually discovered that his was a single-parent family. Lone parents back then were still a relative rarity, and amongst his particular strand of lower-middle-class population were virtually unheard of. Throw into the equation his mother’s eccentric mode of dress and outspoken views and any attempts of his to blend in hadn’t stood a chance. He and Anna had recently watch
ed the video About a Boy and in the central character Mariner had seen shades of himself, from the bizarre dress code to the gross social ineptitude. He too had been a victim of hand-knitted pullovers and oversized home-made PE shorts. Even his lunches had been outside the norm, with sandwiches made from home-baked wholemeal bread at a time when white sliced Mother’s Pride was all the rage. It was during those years, at the age when conforming meant everything, that his relationship with his mother had begun to deteriorate.

  Mariner wondered how Yasmin fitted in here. Looking at the most recent school photo, displayed on the wall ahead of them, there weren’t many other brown faces. Did it mean that Yasmin had a point to prove, or was she made to feel like an outsider? The staff line-up was interesting too: the proportion of men to women more evenly balanced than he might have expected and Mariner wondered not for the first time what would make any man want to work in a school full of young girls, exposing himself to unattainable temptation.

  Unlike the displays at the Islamic school, here around the main photograph were displayed sketched portraits, drawn, the label announced, by members of the Year 12 A level art group: pencil sketches of body parts. The most striking one was of a male torso, from the waist to just below the chin, displaying a series of intricate tattoos on the biceps and shoulders. It was expertly drawn, the proportions just right.

  ‘Robbie Williams,’ said Millie, knowledgeably, at the same moment as the deputy head appeared. Small and trim, her powder-blue suit and bright turquoise and yellow blouse, offset by shoulder-length blond hair, Mrs Darrow stood out like an exotic bird amid the drab navy blues of the school uniforms. She apologised for keeping them waiting before setting off at a brisk, high-heeled pace along endless corridors, leading them through what seemed to be an impossible number of left turns. Occasionally, confident young women clomped by in heavy shoes and perilously short skirts, surreptitiously eyeing them up, perhaps thinking that they were parents, although Millie was way too young. Mariner took the opportunity of the lengthy trek to draw out Mrs Darrow’s opinion of Yasmin.