Dishonour

by Helen Black

  ‘What?’ Sam spoke through a mouthful of jam and grease.

  ‘You’re just like your mum,’ said Jack.

  Sam frowned. ‘Thanks a bunch.’

  ‘Your mother’s a fine woman.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Jack shook his head. When had Sam turned from wide-eyed boy to grunter?

  ‘She always does her best for you.’

  Sam rolled his eyes. ‘I barely see her.’

  ‘All that’s going to change,’ said Jack. ‘What with the baby coming, she’s promised to take her foot off the pedal.’

  Sam raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Mark my words,’ Jack promised, ‘things will be different.’

  Sam wiped his sticky lips with the back of his hand and stood to leave the room. When he got to the door he turned.

  ‘Just because you want it to be true, Jack, doesn’t mean it is.’

  When the engineer had finally left, Lilly put her feet up on her desk. Her ankles were swollen to elephantine proportions. She felt like an overstuffed cushion, all lumpy and uncomfortable. She didn’t remember being like this when she was pregnant with Sam. Then again, that was over ten years ago and she hadn’t yet hit thirty.

  When the door opened she remained in the same undignified position. What the hell did the phone guy need now?

  ‘Are you open?’

  A young Asian man looked at her doughy toes.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Lilly, and struggled to get upright.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, but didn’t move.

  ‘Can I make an appointment for you?’

  Lilly scrabbled around for the diary she’d bought especially. It was leather-bound with gold lettering and had a whole page for each day. Her plan was to colour-code clients. She’d promised herself faithfully to avoid criminal and childcare cases: there was no money in either. Red for family, green for property. It was her first step to getting organised. Now, where had she put the damn thing?

  She grabbed a biro and a ticket for the dry cleaner’s.

  ‘Next Tuesday?’ she asked.

  The young man stroked his goatee. Lilly could see now that he was in his late teens, nineteen at most. A boy really.

  ‘Thing is, I’ve got my mum in the car,’ he said, ‘and we really need to talk to someone.’

  ‘I don’t want to be unhelpful,’ Lilly smiled, and opened her arms to encompass the chaos, ‘but as you can see we’re not quite up to speed.’

  He ignored the telephone wires that crisscrossed the floor and levelled Lilly in his gaze.

  ‘My sister killed herself and we need to know what to say to the police.’

  Lilly watched the woman sitting opposite. Her body was frail, lost in the folds of her plain brown shalwar-kameez. Her eyes were downcast to arthritic fingers that lay gnarled and motionless in her lap.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  The other woman didn’t acknowledge Lilly’s words but continued staring down at her hands.

  Lilly moved two phone directories, a box of manila envelopes and a broken laptop from her desk.

  ‘Sorry for the mess,’ she muttered. ‘Like I said, we’re not really open yet.’

  The boy gave a perfunctory nod and drew himself up. Lilly could see he was barely able to contain his tears.

  She opened a drawer for a legal pad. Amazingly there was one inside.

  ‘Can I start with your name?’

  ‘Anwar Khan,’ he said.

  ‘And your mum?’

  Anwar’s eyes darted towards the woman beside him. She looked old enough to his grandmother. Strings of thin grey hair escaped from the woollen shawl draped loosely over her head. Her face was lined and worn.

  ‘Deema Khan,’ he said.

  Even at her name Mrs Khan remained impassive. Lilly assumed she must be in shock.

  ‘And you say your sister died recently?’

  ‘Yes…’ Anwar coughed to clear his throat. ‘She took an overdose.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Anwar took a deep breath as if to steady himself. ‘It’s very important to us that she’s buried as soon as possible.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lilly.

  ‘Mum is devastated.’

  Lilly cast a glance at Mrs Khan, who continued to contemplate her lap. If it were Lilly, and her son had topped himself, she was sure she’d be screaming and wailing. But then grief did strange things to people, didn’t it?

  ‘And what can I do to help?’ asked Lilly.

  Anwar cleared his throat again. Lilly’s heart went out to this young man, so evidently forced to take control of what must be a terrible situation.

  ‘The police still have Yasmeen.’ He paused. ‘You know, her body.’

  ‘When did she die?’ Lilly asked.

  ‘Two days ago.’

  Lilly smiled kindly. Two days wasn’t very long in the circumstances, though she understood it must seem like for ever to the family.

  ‘Have they given you any indication when they will release it?’

  Anwar shook his head. ‘That’s why we’re here. We want someone to speak to them, make them understand how important this is.’

  Lilly looked from Anwar’s poor stricken face to his mother, who seemed oblivious to her surroundings. Her heart sank. She had promised Jack that there would be no more stress. No more clients needing to lean on her. She had to think of the baby.

  ‘I’m not sure you actually need a solicitor,’ said Lilly. ‘Can another family member not help?’

  Anwar pushed the heels of his hands into his forehead. ‘Mum can’t deal with this, Miss Valentine.’

  A cursory glance told Lilly he was right. Deema Khan was nothing more than a shell.

  ‘What about your father?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Anwar. ‘I’m the head of the family so it falls to me to ensure my sister has a proper Islamic funeral.’

  Lilly saw that the burden of responsibility was physically weighing the boy down, and sighed.

  ‘Give me the officer’s details and I’ll see what I can do.’

  Lilly parked in a side road and walked towards the police station, wondering why the Khans hadn’t chosen a local solicitor. Perhaps they thought she might have more sway with the police. The idea made her laugh out loud. Still, there were plenty of others she could have redirected them to.

  She swallowed down her guilt, telling herself this wasn’t going to be a difficult case. It wasn’t even a proper case. Just a chat with a copper. Absolutely nothing stressful. She knew Jack wouldn’t be pleased but if he’d seen the look on Anwar’s face he’d understand.

  The High Street in Bury Park was throbbing with shoppers laden with carrier bags and trolleys. Grocers piled their stalls high with melons, oranges and custard apples, their skins covered with indentations like a thousand dirty fingerprints. Lilly stopped to smell a plastic container of lemons, their leaves still attached.

  ‘A pound a bowl,’ the shopkeeper called from inside.

  A woman reached past Lilly for a handful of okra. She was enshrouded in black, even her eyes covered. Only her toes were naked, brown and soft, peeping out from under her burka, in leather flip-flops.

  Behind her, a girl of about sixteen rattled into her phone in Urdu. The startling cerise of her hijab matched her nail varnish and handbag. She handed over a pound and took her fruit without stopping for breath.

  The traffic crawled to a standstill as drivers stopped on double yellow lines to collect waiting relatives or chat to friends in the street. The smell of incense wafted through the air.

  After the stuffy environment of Manor Park it made Lilly smile. It made her feel alive.

  ‘Saag, very good for baby,’ the shopkeeper shouted, waving a bunch of spinach at Lilly.

  He wore a beige Afghan-style hat that Lilly was sure he didn’t need in the May sunshine.

  ‘How can I resist charm like that?’ Lilly laughed.

  By the time she arrived at the station she had spinach, ginger, a can of co
conut water and an interesting fruit called a pow pow. And it had taken a lot of willpower not to buy a jewelled sari in peacock blue.

  At the front desk she looked at the notes she had taken during her meeting with Anwar and pressed the buzzer.

  A blonde WPC came into the reception. Her shirt was tucked neatly into her trousers and displayed a tiny waist and flat stomach. Lilly stood as near to the counter as her own pumpkin-sized belly would allow.

  The WPC’s eyes couldn’t resist a flicker towards Lilly’s girth. It was quick but Lilly clocked it. When she’d been pregnant with Sam she’d bloomed. The apples of her cheeks had a rosy glow and she’d worn her jeans until the sixth month. This time, she felt like the bloated corpse of a humpback whale.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The WPC’s smile was as perky as her chest.

  ‘I’d like to speak to DI Bell,’ said Lilly.

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  Lilly tried a smile. ‘I called to say I was on my way.’

  The policewoman nodded and skipped away. Lilly lowered herself into one of the metal-framed seats. She could feel the steel tubes tattooing their pattern onto her bum.

  At last the WPC returned and ushered Lilly through. She gave a puzzled look at Lilly’s shopping, shrugged and led her through the corridors at such a sprightly pace Lilly could barely keep up. When they arrived at the foot of a steep staircase Lilly let out a groan. Plastic bag in one hand, she grabbed the banister and hauled herself up. By the time she arrived at the inspector’s room she was gasping for air.

  ‘Good grief,’ said DI Bell, leading Lilly to a chair, ‘are you OK?’

  Lilly took a deep breath. ‘The stairs…’

  The DI frowned at the WPC. ‘Why on earth didn’t you show Miss Valentine to the lift?’

  ‘I didn’t think.’

  DI Bell waved her away with an impatient flap of his hand. ‘Young people these days can’t put themselves in anyone else’s shoes, can they?’

  He didn’t wait for Lilly’s reply but turned instead to pour her a glass of water.

  Despite the fact that it was her own wellbeing in discussion, Lilly didn’t like his tone with the young woman and gave her an apologetic smile as she left. Everyone had been young once, hadn’t they?

  ‘So…’ DI Bell smiled and displayed perfect, even, white teeth. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Lilly clamped her lips over her own crooked teeth and wished her mother had made her wear a brace as a child. Sam and all his friends sported matching train tracks; some even had the hugely expensive ‘invisible’ ones that turned a disgusting brown when they drank Coke. When they came off they would all troop back to their dentists for the obligatory bleaching.

  ‘I understand you’re overseeing the death of Yasmeen Khan,’ she said.

  DI Bell nodded and handed her the glass. His fingers were surprisingly small, the nails clean and buffed.

  ‘I’ve been instructed by the family to ascertain when you intend to release the body.’ Lilly sipped her water. ‘I’m sure you understand that they are very keen to bury their loved one.’

  DI Bell nodded again. ‘It’s natural for any family to want to make arrangements.’

  His accent was public school. In the past this might have grated, but Sam sounded exactly the same.

  ‘And as Muslims, they would be expected to carry out the necessary prayers and ablutions as soon as possible,’ she said.

  DI Bell raised an eyebrow. ‘And as a police officer I would be expected to carry out an investigation into any death for as long as necessary.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting otherwise,’ Lilly smiled. ‘I’m just asking you to take into account the family’s religion.’

  ‘I will of course take that into account,’ DI Bell straightened his back, ‘whilst continuing with my investigation.’

  Lilly gathered her patience. She was tired and uncomfortable. Her feet were bursting out of her shoes. Why did coppers have to turn everything into a row?

  ‘The girl killed herself. What exactly is it you need to investigate?’

  ‘I simply want to assure myself that this matter is as cut and dried as it seems,’ said DI Bell. ‘And I would assume Yasmeen’s family would want the same. Whatever their religious affiliations.’

  Lilly levelled the man in her sights. Now she listened carefully, his voice was all wrong—too stilted, trying much too hard. He said all the right things but it was as if he were reading from a script.

  ‘Why don’t we speak again in two days?’ she said. ‘I’m sure that will give you ample time.’

  The plate of pakora smelled so delicious Lilly’s stomach lurched. She could almost taste the chilli and coriander.

  ‘Please,’ said Anwar, and gestured for her to take one.

  Lilly’s smile was rueful. ‘Spicy food is a bit of a problem at the moment.’

  This was an understatement. A month ago, when Lilly had cracked and had a takeaway delivered, she had barely swallowed three spoonfuls of chicken korma and a nibble of chapatti when the heartburn kicked in and she’d been up all night chugging on a bottle of Gaviscon.

  Anwar gave a polite smile and passed the plate back to his mother to be returned to the kitchen.

  After a momentary rattling of crockery and cupboard doors she resumed her place next to her son. On a chair to the side of the room sat a man in his early fifties. He wore white cotton kurta pyjamas and kufi cap. He scowled at Lilly from behind a long grey beard.

  ‘This is my uncle,’ said Anwar.

  Lilly held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  The man looked from Lilly’s face to her hand and back again before finally taking it in his. ‘Mohamed Aziz.’

  Lilly cringed at the sweat on his palm and surreptitiously wiped her hand against her leg.

  ‘Have you spoken to the police?’ asked Anwar.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lilly, ‘I met with the officer in the case about half an hour ago.’

  ‘“Officer in the case”?’ Mohamed sneered. ‘The sad passing of Yasmeen is not a case.’

  ‘It’s a figure of speech,’ said Lilly. ‘The officer who has been assigned to look into Yasmeen’s death.’

  Mohamed shook his head, clearly dissatisfied with Lilly’s explanation.

  Then the the door burst open and a teenage boy and girl burst in.

  Anwar jumped to his feet. ‘What are you two doing back here?’ he said. ‘I told you to stay at Auntie’s for the afternoon.’

  The girl straightened her hijab. ‘She felt ill so we came home.’

  ‘OK then,’ Anwar was still on his feet, ‘why don’t you go upstairs?’

  The girl looked at Lilly and knitted her brow.

  ‘Listen to your brother,’ said Mohamed.

  The girl frowned but turned as if she might head for the stairs.

  The boy, however, was not so easily persuaded. He squared his shoulders, openly aggressive. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ said Anwar.

  The boy folded his arms across his chest. ‘I want to talk about it now.’

  Anwar pursed his lips but Lilly caught his glance towards his uncle, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Evidently, Anwar did not make all the decisions for the family.

  ‘Fine. This is Miss Valentine,’ said Anwar. ‘A solicitor.’ He turned to Lilly. ‘This is my brother, Raffique Khan.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Lilly, and held out her hand.

  Much like his uncle, the boy looked at her hand as if there was nothing he would less like to do than shake it. But Lilly had dealt with stroppier teenagers than this in her fifteen years of practice and she held fast, her arm outstretched. Eventually he had no option.

  ‘Why do we need a solicitor?’ Raffique asked.

  ‘You know perfectly well.’ Anwar sat down heavily. ‘We need the police to release Yasmeen’s body.’

  ‘The police are racist scum,’ the younger brother spat. ‘They will do whatever they can to make us suffer.�
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  Anwar sighed. ‘Don’t start all that, Raffy.’

  Raffy kissed his teeth. ‘So why is my sister’s body still in their morgue?’

  Anwar looked at Lilly, his eyes pleading for some help.

  Lilly cleared her throat. ‘As I was trying to explain to your uncle, the police will not close this matter until they have assured themselves that Yasmeen’s death was either suicide or accidental.’

  ‘And how long will that take?’ asked Mohamed.

  ‘I’ve given them two days to review the matter and get back to me.’

  Raffy threw his arms in the air. ‘I can’t believe we’re just gonna sit here and agree to that.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ asked Anwar.

  ‘That we sort this out ourselves,’ Raffy shouted. ‘Do you honestly think that if it were one of us Yasmeen would just hang around chatting with solicitors?’

  Anwar rolled his eyes. ‘OK, Raffy, let’s go down there and storm the place.’

  ‘Why not, man? Better than leaving everything up to her.’ He jabbed a finger at Lilly. ‘She’s probably in on it with them.’

  Anwar groaned. ‘She’s a lawyer.’

  ‘She’s fakir.’

  Lilly had had enough. In situations like this, feelings ran high—of course they did. She was a past master at letting clients get it all out of their systems. Vulnerable kids often covered their fears with swearing fits and throwing chairs, and who could blame them? The lawyers that represented them knew when to take cover and wait but they also knew when to call a halt to the hysteria.

  ‘Why don’t you call them?’ she asked.

  Raffy’s eyes flashed. ‘Call who?’

  ‘The police.’ Lilly pulled out her mobile and laid it on the table. ‘I’m sure they’ll be only too happy to tell you what a pain I am. That I am most definitely not in on anything with them.’

  Raffy glowered at her but Lilly held his gaze. ‘Sadly, there’s no love lost between me and Her Majesty’s constabulary.’

  At last Raffy looked away. ‘I still don’t see why we can’t use one of our own.’

  ‘Do we really want someone local sticking their noses into our business?’ asked the girl, who Lilly had almost forgotten was there. ‘Hasn’t Mum suffered enough?’

  The girl rubbed her mother’s arm and Deema’s hand fluttered upwards as if she might touch her daughter. Eventually it just sank back into her lap as if she were incapable of giving or receiving comfort.