Babel

by Barry Maitland

  The activity in the street hadn’t reached the Horria. There was one family of very pale-skinned visitors, looking slightly bemused by the menu at a table decorated with two small crossed and faded flags of the People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen and the Yemeni Arab Republic, and there were two of the old men playing cards on a table at the back, but that was all and Kathy wondered how Qasim Ali made a living from the place. He was on his knees in front of the jukebox, fiddling with the switches. He gave a snort of disgust and struggled to his feet, giving the machine a hefty thump. Immediately a high-pitched female voice broke into an Arabic pop-song at full volume, to the consternation of the English family.

  Qasim welcomed Kathy as a great friend, and on her behalf accepted Leon. He seated them at a table at the front where they were only half deafened by the music and could look out onto the cobbled square, to a small printing works opposite on the right, and a tiny second-hand furniture store on the left.

  ‘Abu lived here?’ Leon murmured. ‘No wonder he was driven to murder.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not so bad,’ Kathy grinned. ‘Qasim turns the music down when people are praying in the mosque upstairs. We could have a look later if you like. Brock told me that your family were Muslim once. You never told me.’

  ‘It didn’t seem important.’ He looked at her. ‘We had other things on our minds.’

  She met his eyes, dark and intent, and she felt a familiar response stirring in her. No, she thought, I’m not falling for that look again. Leon’s adventure had brought them together again, but as friends, they had tacitly agreed. She was determined this time to move at her own pace, to try to keep control of the direction of her life. She looked out of the window and said, ‘Perhaps that’s why Brock agreed with you meeting Darr the first time.’

  Leon winced. ‘Don’t talk about that.’

  ‘Oh, but it was a success. From that everything fell into place.’

  ‘You mean Haygill’s world fell to pieces. And it was all a mistake. Mrs Haygill thinks her husband was spying on him when he wasn’t. I don’t feel very proud about that.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have told us about the gun otherwise. And anyway, their marriage was obviously on its last legs.’

  ‘We don’t know that. We don’t even know he’s guilty. How’s the money trail going?’

  ‘Nothing yet. They haven’t found any obvious withdrawals from Haygill’s accounts to correspond to the thirty thousand, and they’ve had no luck so far tracing the notes themselves back to his bank.’

  ‘Hm.’ Leon was silent for a moment, then said abruptly, ‘How’s Wayne?’

  ‘Wayne O’Brien? Didn’t you know? He doesn’t exist any more. They’ve changed his name, address and phone number, and he’s become somebody else. He’s working on another job.’ Brock had told her two days before, and at first she hadn’t believed it, thinking it was some kind of practical joke. But it was true. This happened in Special Branch, Brock had said, they come and they go. All the same, she would have liked to have said goodbye. She had felt an unexpected sadness, as if she’d just learned that Wayne had died rather than merely moved on.

  ‘Really?’ Leon’s shoulders straightened a little, and Kathy thought it looked almost as if a weight had been removed. ‘Hell, what a life.’

  ‘I liked him, Leon.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘He was what I needed at that moment. Nothing too serious.’

  ‘And I was too serious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He looked disconsolate.

  ‘Well, now, ladies and gents,’ Qasim boomed and put their coffees down in front of them. ‘Mind if I join you?’ He offered them his cigarettes and when they refused, lit up himself. ‘How’s the detecting going? I see you caught another one.’ He puffed and reached across to a newspaper lying on the next table and showed them the report— ‘BOFFIN QUIZZED IN MURDER HUNT’.

  ‘We’re not sure yet, Qasim,’ Kathy said.

  ‘He was Abu’s boss, right? Makes sense to me. Abu’d never ’ave done it on his own. Fact I still can’t hardly believe he did it at all. This guy must be a Svengali, right? Made ’im do it?’

  Kathy remembered Springer using that word too; Svengali the sinister manipulator, the evil hypnotist. Was Haygill really such a character?

  ‘The thing that blows me away is that those two actually met, here in this very place, before any of this happened.’

  ‘Which two?’

  ‘Abu and this bloke.’

  ‘Haygill, his boss? He came here?’

  ‘No, no, not him. Him.’ Qasim pointed a fat finger further down the page at a picture of the victim, Springer.

  ‘Abu met Springer here?’ Kathy stared at Qasim in disbelief. ‘Surely not.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s true. Briony brought that old geezer here one day. He was interested in the history of our family. We had quite a chat. Then Briony said she’d take him upstairs to see the mosque, and on their way up they met Abu coming down. Right there . . .’ he pointed to the stairs at the back of the café, ‘. . . halfway up, they met, and Briony introduced them and they shook hands. Spooky, init, yeah?’

  ‘You never saw them meet again?’

  ‘No. He didn’t come here again.’

  They had met twice, Kathy thought, both times on stairs, one going up, one down. The first time they had shaken hands, the second time one had shot the other dead. Very spooky.

  ‘How is Nargis coping now?’

  ‘Seems OK, on the surface at any rate. She’s a well calm girl, yeah? She’s moved back upstairs, and George and Fran are keeping an eye on her. Every day she gets a little bit bigger.’

  ‘Her father hasn’t tried to make trouble?’

  ‘Nah. He wouldn’t dare. And they’re getting counselling now, the pair of them, from the imam and the social worker. It seems old Manzoor is very taken with the idea of a grandchild. Anyway, he’d be too scared you’d come after him again wiv your swizzle stick if he tried anything. You got it on you?’

  Kathy patted her pocket. ‘Of course, Qasim. I always carry it when I come to visit you.’

  His appreciative roar turned into a coughing fit, and he had to take a deep draw on his cigarette to recover himself. ‘Tell me though,’ he said through the smoke, his voice become squeaky, ‘that money Abu left her. Is she going to get it back?’

  ‘Depends. We’d be a lot happier about a lot of things if we knew where it came from.’

  Qasim studied his fingernails. ‘She won’t tell you?’

  ‘She says she doesn’t know. Do you?’

  ‘Abu wouldn’t have told me. He’d have known I’d start charging them rent.’ He gave a wheezing chuckle, his jowls and belly wobbling. Then he added, ‘The only one he might have told, apart from Nargis, would be Fran. They got on well, Abu and Fran, and Fran is good with money. She used to be a merchant banker, did you know that? Well, not exactly—she worked for one, in the City, while she was a student, before she converted to Islam. She’s got her head screwed on, and if I was in Abu’s shoes, and had come into a bit of cash, I might ask Fran where to invest it. Understand that I’m only telling you this because I want Nargis to keep the money. If it’s legit, Fran may be able to set your minds at rest. Nargis is on her own now. She and the baby are really going to need that cash.’

  Kathy nodded, thinking that of course that only strengthened Abu’s motive in taking the money to kill Springer. ‘Do you think Fran would tell us?’

  ‘I could have a word in her ear, if you like. She’s getting a few things down the supermarket right now, but she should be back soon. Why don’t you finish your coffees, do a bit more shopping in the street market, and come back in an hour, eh? You might like to have lunch here. Lamb kebabs is our special today, specially for market day.’

  ‘Fine. Do we need to book?’

  Qasim Ali thought that was very funny.

  The sky was darker when they left the café, and as they strolled through the market again big drops
of rain began to fall. They sheltered under the awning of a second-hand bookstall and studied the titles. They had been talking about Fran, and her abandonment of her previous life to take up the Muslim way, and Leon suddenly said, ‘Ah!’ and reached for one of the books. He checked it, then handed it to Kathy. ‘Here’s something appropriate. Used to be one of my favourites.’

  Kathy read the print on the front, Lawrence of Arabia, Seven Pillars of Wisdom. She turned the pages, maps of the Middle East to begin with, then an introductory poem, the first verse of which she read out loud.

  I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands

  and wrote my will across the sky in stars

  To earn you Freedom, the seven-pillared worthy house,

  that your eyes might be shining for me

  When we came.

  ‘That’s what Max Springer seemed to want to do,’ she pondered. ‘To earn us freedom, even at the expense of truth.’

  ‘That’s absurd.’ Leon sounded shocked. ‘You can’t have one without the other, surely.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what Brock said.’

  She turned the pages over and noticed a passage describing the Arabs.

  ‘“They were a people of spasms, of upheavals, of ideas . . . Their largest manufacture was of creeds . . .” ’

  ‘I think that’s what Springer meant by truth—the absolute truth of creeds, whether religious or scientific.’

  ‘But they’re completely different, scientific truth and religious truth.’

  ‘All the same, Springer saw them both as opposed to freedom. At least, according to Briony Kidd.’

  Her eyes skipped down to another phrase, ‘“Dry souls ready to be set on fire.” Not exactly how I’d describe Qasim Ali, but you never know, I suppose. Let’s go back and see what he’s got for us.’

  They ran back through the drizzle and found Fran Said, head covered by a black scarf, waiting for them at the table where they had previously been, drinking a cup of tea. Kathy introduced Leon and they sat down. The pale family at the central table was still there, finishing off large helpings of burgers and chips, but no new customers had been lured in by the amplified voice of Umm Kalthoum.

  ‘I was telling Leon about your background, Fran. I think it’s really interesting.’

  Fran shrugged. ‘Not really. I’m not sure I want an interesting life, just one that I can feel certain about.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s interesting how you opted for an arranged marriage, for instance.’

  ‘It worked for me.’

  ‘But not for Nargis.’

  ‘It wasn’t the fault of the system,’ Fran said defensively. ‘Her life here and the ways of the old country were just too far apart.’

  ‘Yet the marriage in Kashmir was valid? So what could Nargis do, if, say, she wanted to marry someone else, like Abu?’

  ‘That would depend on her husband. Under Islamic law, the wife can’t initiate a divorce. If she did that through a British civil court, and her husband in Kashmir didn’t want the divorce and didn’t pronounce the talaaq, that’s the divorce formula, then in the eyes of Islamic law they would still be married. Nargis hoped . . . hopes that her husband will divorce her so that he can marry again, only . . . she doesn’t want it to be to her sister Yasmin.’ Fran’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

  ‘No, and she’s only fourteen, isn’t she? So Nargis is still married, and that means that she and Abu were living in adultery . . .’ Kathy saw the look of alarm flare in Fran’s eyes and added quickly, lowering her voice, ‘I’m sorry, Fran. I just need to understand the situation that Nargis and Abu were in. Islamic law is very strong on adultery, isn’t it?’

  ‘“Surely, it is a foul thing and an evil way.” That’s what the Qur’an says.’

  ‘So they were faced with the alternative of separating and Nargis remaining faithful to a husband she detested, or living together as outcasts from their faith, not to mention under threat of dire retribution from her father and his brothers. That’s about it, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It must have been a terrible dilemma. They must have been tempted just to disappear, and start again somewhere else. But where could they go where they could rejoin the Muslim community without being found out? What sort of resources would they need to do that? And then Abu comes home one day with thirty thousand pounds.’

  Fran glared at her. ‘You think it was blood money, don’t you? You think someone paid him that money to commit a murder.’

  ‘What else can we think, Fran? When we spoke to Nargis a week ago she said he’d brought it home about two weeks before. Max Springer was shot exactly two weeks before.’

  ‘No! The only reason I agreed to talk to you is to tell you that you’re wrong. That money belongs to Nargis and her baby. You can’t take it from her.’

  ‘Convince me. What do you know to make you so sure?’

  ‘Suppose . . . suppose the money was a genuine gift, but it’d come from abroad, and the person who gave it didn’t want it known about, maybe for tax reasons or something, in their own country.’

  ‘Which country?’

  ‘Lebanon.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘When Nargis came back from Kashmir and took shelter here, her friendship with Abu began again. They loved each other, and after a little while they became lovers—they couldn’t help themselves. But Nargis was now married to someone else, and carrying that other man’s baby. They were frightened to go to the imam for advice, because they were afraid he would denounce them. They began to dream of going abroad, to the Lebanon perhaps, where Abu’s family live, or the United States where he has a cousin. But meanwhile Nargis’ father had taken out the warrant against her, and they were afraid that they would be arrested if they tried to leave the country under her own passport, or if they tried to marry here and leave under his name. And all the time the baby was growing.

  ‘A couple of weeks ago—and yes, it was the time of the murder of Professor Springer, but that was a coincidence— Abu came to me for advice. He had been able to obtain a sum of money from his father to assist them. Thirty thousand pounds, in sterling notes. With some of it he was hoping to buy a false passport for Nargis. But he was worried at having so much cash, and didn’t know what to do with it to avoid suspicion. He wanted the money to be in Nargis’ name, and he asked my advice. Should he open a bank account for her, or buy travellers’ cheques, or jewellery, or a bank draft? I suggested a range of things, but a few days later he was dead.’

  Fran’s sincerity was plain, as was her sympathy for the tragic circumstances of her friends, yet she didn’t seem to realise how incriminating for Abu her story was. His desperation to save Nargis, and his insistence that the money should be held in her name only strengthened the case against him.

  ‘He said the money came from his father? Those were his words?’

  Fran frowned. ‘Not exactly. Abu was adopted, you see. He said something like, the money has been given to me by the man who has been a father to me. Something like that.’

  ‘Is Khadra his adopted name, do you know? Will that be the name of his adopted father in Beirut?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Well, we can try to check.’

  Fran heard the doubt in Kathy’s voice and said dully, ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

  ‘I believe you’ve told me what you believe to be the truth, Fran, but it won’t help Nargis unless we can find some documentary evidence of where the money came from. Have you any idea how it came into the country? There must be bank records somewhere.’

  Fran shook her head glumly. ‘No, that’s what I meant earlier, about Abu’s father not wanting the money traced. Abu told us once that his adopted dad is a bit of a crook, a dealer in the black market. When I asked him why he’d been given the money in cash, he said he thought that was so it couldn’t be traced. I assume his dad got someone to bring it into the country by hand.’

  ‘So the father isn’t going to be keen
to talk to us about it, even if we do track him down.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ She sighed. ‘I haven’t helped, have I?’

  ‘I don’t know, Fran. The more we can piece together the better. Maybe you’ll think of something else. What about your husband? Would Abu have talked things over with George?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Abu was secretive, and only told me about the money because he needed advice. George is hopeless with money.’

  Later, walking back to the car, Leon glanced at Kathy, deep in thought.

  ‘She’s bright. Too bad she’s given up the merchant banking. But I suppose that must be a tricky occupation for a Muslim.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, they don’t believe in interest. If they earn any, on bank accounts for instance, they’re supposed to give it away to charity, as zakah.’

  ‘What’s zakah?’

  ‘Alms. It’s one of a Muslim’s obligations. You can give zakah to the poor, or the needy, or . . . there’s a third category, with a funny name. I forget. What were you thinking so hard about?’

  ‘The gun. The money was intact, thirty thousand exactly. So he didn’t use it to buy the gun.’

  ‘Maybe dad in Beirut sent it over with the cash.’

  ‘Then why use it to kill Springer? If he was going to shoot anybody it’d be more likely to have been old man Manzoor.’

  ‘Guns! That was the third category.’

  ‘You can give alms to buy guns?’

  ‘Sort of. Feesabeelillah, it’s called. Money spent supporting the Muslim cause. Money for Jihad.’

  The following day, Sunday, Kathy drove down to Battle to make her peace with Suzanne. They sat in the conservatory and drank coffee, just as she had done three weeks before, reading Max Springer’s obituary.

  ‘You’re looking so much better, Kathy,’ Suzanne said. ‘Are you sleeping?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ Kathy smiled at hearing the brisk tone again that Suzanne adopted when discussing the health of one of them, her brood of grandchildren, Kathy, Brock— potential problem children all. ‘I’m just sorry that I haven’t been in touch more.’