‘There,’ she said. ‘Imran Aziz and Mariam Gul. That was her name. She seemed a good woman, but not perhaps what Imran’s father had really wanted. But Imran was beginning to be the subject of gossip at his age and not married… I don’t think Mariam came from a very good family. Perhaps Imran chose her himself, being away from home in Lahore anything is possible…’ She glanced at her son slyly. ‘Away from home is away from good advice,’ she said. ‘You should remember that.’
And with that Mohammed Sharif had had to be satisfied, and he flew from Manchester to Lahore two days later without much confidence that he would be able to track down Mariam Gul or her family with the minimal information at his disposal, but determined to try.
The next morning, after a fitful night’s sleep in a room where the heat built up to a point where he felt as if he was drowning in the damp air, and still half bemused after the long flight and the painkillers he was still taking, Sharif spent half an hour using the mobile phone he had rented at the airport. His aim was to track down a distant cousin of his mother’s who had outraged his father, much as Mohammed had infuriated his, by joining the Pakistan security services after taking a degree in law. Sharif only knew of his existence, not being nearly as well versed in family relationships as his parents’ generation, because his name was occasionally invoked by his mother’s father and his own as an example of another young man in the family who had unaccountably and outrageously ignored his elders’ advice and chosen his own career and, Sharif suspected, his own lifestyle.
In his apparently hopeless quest to find a divorced woman of uncertain age amongst the millions of inhabitants of the Punjab, Ali Hussain, if he could locate him, might be at least a source of advice if not practical assistance, and Sharif was prepared to use the remote family connection on this occasion to the hilt. Official channels, he knew, would be slow and devious and might bring him unwanted attention both in Lahore and back home if anyone felt moved to report back to West Yorkshire about a holidaying British detective playing sleuth in a foreign country. That he could well do without.
Somewhat to his surprise, he eventually tracked Hussain down to central police headquarters, where he had apparently reached the rank of captain in some branch of the service that Sharif had never heard of. After the family politeness of exploring the tortuous connections of blood and marriage that linked the two men, Hussain had suggested that they meet that lunchtime at a branch of McDonald’s close to a sparkling new shopping centre and not far from the colonial mansions and administrative buildings of the British Raj on the Mall.
‘I didn’t know the Big Mac had arrived here,’ Sharif said.
‘Halal, of course,’ his cousin said. ‘But is there anywhere they haven’t arrived? It has the advantage of being quick. I have a busy afternoon booked.’
‘Of course,’ Sharif said. ‘It’s good of you to take the time.’
‘I heard something about Faria from my uncle. Family news spreads fast here – though not always accurately. The speculation can get red hot. Time for us policemen to keep our heads down below the parapet.’
‘I’m sure,’ Sharif said dryly. ‘I’ll see you in an hour then.’
After dressing painfully in khakis and a long-sleeved sports shirt to hide his bruises, although there was nothing he could do to disguise the plaster that still covered the deep cut on his head, and the strapping on his left hand, he ventured out into the crowded street and hired a quingqi, plastered with brightly coloured pin-ups and scenes from Bollywood and Lollywood – the fiercely competitive Mumbai and Lahore film industries – and asked to be taken to the McDonald’s he had been instructed to find. The driver veered and swerved through the traffic, while chattering on his mobile phone, but with thankfully unerring accuracy, although more than once Sharif closed his eyes as a truck or bus seemed to be heading straight at them at breakneck speed. The quingqi finally deposited Sharif, safe but shaking slightly, outside the familiar golden arches. As he paid the driver, he noticed a tall man of about his own age in a smart uniform heading towards the doors and he guessed this must be Hussain.
The two men waited in line for food and then settled at a table close to the door and exchanged the obligatory family pleasantries, news and information that spanned three continents and three generations from the ancestral village to branches of the family in Bradfield, London and Toronto.
‘And you?’ Hussain asked, finishing his cola and wiping his mouth, his eyes appraising his cousin. ‘You look as if you have been in the wars. What happened?’ Sharif told him about the assault he had suffered, but did not go into details. His belief that he had been attacked by members of his own community might spark a political debate, which he did not want.
‘You make enemies in this job,’ he said. ‘I expect you find the same.’
‘Oh yes,’ Hussain said. ‘Here you must watch yourself all the time. But you said your interest was this sad family matter? How can I help with that?’ He listened quietly while Sharif told him in detail about Faria’s death and the disappearance of Imran Aziz.
‘You think he killed her?’ he asked when Sharif had finished. ‘You think it’s a question of honour? She was unfaithful?’
‘We know nothing about the marriage or what went on between them,’ Sharif said. ‘She visited her parents very seldom and not at all for a few months. And I have been taken off the case because I’m too close to it. And now I’m on sick leave, anyway. That’s why I came. I thought that here I might find out a bit more about Imran Aziz from his former wife – if I can find her.’
Hussain looked at him consideringly for a moment as if wondering how far he would go even for a kinsman from a faraway country.
‘It is possible we could trace her,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You know that here divorced women are not always welcomed back by their families? Some of them find themselves alone and in difficulties and it’s not unknown for them to become known to the police.’
‘They lived in Lahore while they were married,’ Sharif said. ‘My mother says she was not a woman from a village family. She thinks Imran may have met her in Lahore. She may still be here.’
‘She may,’ Hussain agreed. ‘Give me a day and I’ll see what I can discover in our files. Since 9/11 they have become – what shall I say? – a bit more extensive, and a bit more accurate. I’ll check her out and give you a call. I’ve got your mobile number. I’ll check out Imran Aziz for you, too. If he was in business here there will be be traces of him to be found in the records, more easily than for his wife actually.’
‘I’d be grateful,’ Sharif said. ‘Faria was like a sister to me. Her death, her murder, must be solved. Her killer has to be found.’
‘Of course,’ Hussain said. ‘Of course he must.’
Laura sat hunched in her chair on the other side of the fireplace from Michael Thackeray, grimly aware that what had been planned as a rare evening together was turning into a battlefield. She should not have answered her mobile, she thought, when it had rung soon after they had finished a companionable meal together. Just for once she should have let it ring. She, after all, was not the senior police officer on more or less permanent call. She could have let it ride, but her insatiable curiosity always made it very hard to ignore a ringing phone.
So she had answered it and listened to a hysterical Julie Holden on the other end of the line, demanding to know what her bloody boyfriend had done today to trace her daughter. Laura had tried to calm the distraught mother down, but she was conscious of Thackeray half listening to the conversation and that he very quickly adopted a stony expression, which presaged nothing but trouble to come as he worked out what was going on.
‘Would you like to talk to her,’ she had mouthed at Thackeray eventually, but he had shaken his head vehemently, and left her to persuade Julie to calm down as best she could by suggesting she talk to Sergeant Janet Richardson the next morning. When she finally hung up Thackeray had buried his head in that evening’s Gazette and continued to read
it in silence until Laura could bear it no longer.
‘She says nobody’s been in touch with her,’ she said. ‘Surely someone’s liaising with her. She’s beside herself with worry.’
‘She’s no right to try to get to me when I’m not on duty,’ Thackeray said, his voice like ice. ‘She’s no right to try to get at me through you.’
‘Of course not,’ Laura said. ‘But you can understand how desperate she is, and I have been following her story. She’s a perfect right to call me if she wants to.’
Thackeray flung the newspaper to one side with a heavy sigh but Laura ploughed on regardless, ignoring the warning signs.
‘Isn’t Sergeant Richardson supposed to keep her in touch with developments?’ she asked. ‘She could be at risk if Holden comes back to Bradfield. She needs to know…’
‘As far as I know there are no developments. No one’s seen Holden and the child since they left their rented place in Blackpool. He could be out of the country by now. As far as I know Janet Richardson is doing the job she’s paid for, which involves dozens of cases like this. Neither she nor CID can devote themselves to Julie Holden full time when there’s no obvious risk to her safety or the child’s. Get real, Laura. And for God’s sake don’t give your mobile number to every lame dog in your contacts book. We’ll never get any peace. We get little enough time together as it is.’
Laura flushed faintly and turned away. She understood the justice of Thackeray’s reaction but she was still concerned for Julie’s safety.
‘You haven’t talked to Julie and her mother-in-law,’ she muttered. ‘They’re both terrified of this man. He’s a monster. And there’s a child involved.’
Thackeray gazed at her for a moment without speaking.
‘You get in too deep,’ he said at last. ‘All the time, you get in too deep. You should learn to insulate yourself from it, if you’re going to insist on writing about these emotional cases. It’s the only way to survive. Believe me, I know.’
Laura looked at him sceptically.
‘But you don’t, do you? You don’t insulate yourself. You can’t, any more than I can. Is that what this is all about? There’s a child involved again so you’re trying not to think about it? I watched you when those children were killed in Staveley last year. You hated every minute of that case. It nearly tore you apart. You’re just as emotional as I am. You just hide it better.’
Thackeray said nothing as she flounced across the room and poured herself a large vodka and tonic.
‘Do you want anything?’ she asked, grudgingly and when he shook his head she sat down in the armchair opposite him and sipped her drink, trying to look unconcerned although her heart was thudding uncomfortably. She knew that she was trespassing flat-footed into areas that she had never felt were hers to approach, but with a flash of understanding she knew she was right to venture there at last. She had been happy with Thackeray for months now, as their relationship seemed to have reached a level of contentment they had never previously known. But if it was to go further, she thought, she needed some answers to questions she had quietly buried for years. And perhaps the disintegration of Julie Holden’s marriage and what she believed was the threat to her daughter was the catalyst they needed to clear the air. She took a larger gulp of her drink and decided to live dangerously.
‘You don’t deny it, then,’ she said quietly, more a statement of the obvious than a question. ‘You hang on in there with the job, on the edge every time a child goes missing or a body is found, but can you hang on in with me when you know how much I want a child? Can you give me that, Michael? Or am I wasting my time with you? I really, really need to know the answer. I have a right to ask. I’ve waited long enough.’
Thackeray flinched at the directness of the question and for a moment she thought he was going to fling himself out of the flat with all the risk that entailed of his trying to drown his past in a bottle of whiskey. But after closing his eyes for a moment he seemed to come to a decision.
‘You have a right to ask,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘And you have a right to an answer.’
The silence between them lengthened until, her voice hesitant, Laura spoke again.
‘And what is the answer, Michael?’
He crossed the room to her and sat beside her, taking her hands in his, and she could see the pain in his eyes but for once did not regret putting it there. They needed to have this out once and for all.
‘You have no idea how the guilt corrodes you inside,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s enough to lose a child and see so many lives wrecked, Aileen’s destroyed so slowly over so many years, my parents distraught, her parents distraught, but to know that it was all down to the way you behaved, the crimes you committed…I wonder if your man Holden is going through all that now, you know? Is he thrashing about the way I did? The way I still do sometimes?’
‘He’s sick, Michael, that’s obvious,’ Laura said, veering away from their own problems as if the heat was too intense. ‘And thankfully someone’s decided to stop him abusing women before he goes too far. If you can just find Anna and get her out of his clutches…’
But Thackeray had lost interest in Julie Holden and her problems.
‘No one even noticed what I was doing,’ Thackeray said. ‘There was no one to stop me before I drove Aileen over the brink and she did what she did. I’ve forgiven her long ago but I don’t think I can ever forgive myself. I live with the fact that I effectively murdered my son every day of my life.’
Laura knew better than to argue with his bleak assessment of his own part in Ian’s death. It was too close to the truth to be debatable now.
‘No absolution, then?’ she said softly. ‘I thought you were brought up with that.’
‘I was brought up with a lot of things, but they died too and were buried with Ian. And now with Aileen.’
‘You’re too hard on yourself,’ Laura whispered, although she knew she was wasting her breath.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Thackeray said. ‘And you want to know why I persist with this job, for all the stress and pain it can cause? Because every time someone’s killed, and especially if it’s a child, I want to pin the blame where it belongs, however hard it is to do. I want everything out in the open and justice served as it never really was in Ian’s case. It wasn’t Aileen who should have stood in the dock, it was me. But neither of us ever did, Aileen because she was never fit to plead and me because the blame was indirect and could never be proved. So I plough on, dispensing some sort of justice, knowing all the time that it’s a case of the guilty pursuing the guilty, that I’m as culpable as the Bruce Holdens of this world.’
‘No, that’s not true, Michael. You’re too hard on yourself,’ Laura said, taking his hand.
‘You don’t know. You can’t know. You weren’t there. But maybe it makes me a better copper. Who knows?’
‘No, I don’t believe that,’ Laura said. She kissed his cheek, fighting back the tears, knowing that she had her answer. ‘You can’t do it again, can you? You can’t bear another child.’
He pulled Laura close and clung to her for a long time.
‘I love you, Laura,’ he said. ‘I always will. But no, I don’t think I can do that again. I’m too afraid to make myself that vulnerable again. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ Laura said. ‘You can’t imagine how sorry that makes me.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Anna Holden sat on the floor in her grandmother’s cellar trying not to cry. Her nanna was lying asleep on the bed of cushions her father had left for them and Anna had spent the last half hour creeping around the small square room and the coal cellar next to it trying to find some way out of their prison. But the cellar window had been securely boarded up from the outside, and the small metal grill at the top of the coal chute was too small and too firmly wedged in place by years of accumulated dirt and dust for her to move it even when she scrambled up the chute and tried to put her full weight on it from beneat
h. Hot and dirty, she had sunk to the floor, trying not to cry in case she woke Nanna.
She could see that outside it was daylight again now. Small lozenges of light dimly illuminated the coal cellar through the patterned grating, but in the main room almost no light at all penetrated past the boards attached to the window frame outside. When Bruce had first locked them in her grandmother had tried banging on the window and even shouting to attract attention from the street outside, but after a while both of them had grown hoarse and they had evidently not been heard through the glass and thick boarding. Anna had seen her nanna glancing anxiously at the single light bulb that Bruce had left on and she knew that occasionally bulbs failed. If that happened, she thought, she would be really frightened, especially of the spiders, whose webs festooned the ceiling in great dusty swathes. Anna hated spiders. But there was no way to turn the bulb on or off. The switch, Nanna said, was on the kitchen wall beyond the locked cellar door. They should just be thankful he had decided to leave it on when he left them, she said, trying to reassure Anna, who was not at all reassured but said nothing.
Anna was beginning to panic as the second day of their imprisonment wore on. At first she had believed her father’s promises that he would not keep them there long. It had seemed like something of an adventure: she had helped her grandmother, who found it hard to get up from the cushions on the floor, to make picnic meals from the supplies her dad had dumped in a cardboard box. But although he had put in cans of baked beans and ham he had neglected to include a can-opener, so that even Anna began to wonder how long their supplies of bread and cheese would last. She noticed that her grandmother ate and drank very little, and while at first she had tried to fulfil her promise of playing games to keep themselves occupied, she soon seemed to run out of energy and as night fell outside she lapsed into a heavy sleep while Anna, cuddling up to her for warmth under the single duvet and blanket, found it hard to close her eyes, anxiously watching for signs of life amongst the cobwebs.
By Death Divided Page 19