by Helen Black
‘I don’t think he’s guilty,’ said Taslima.
Lilly laughed. ‘I don’t think a jury’s going to take your word for it.’
‘Then we need to show them he couldn’t have done it.’
‘No alibi, I’m afraid.’
‘Then we need to show them who did do it.’
‘A soddi,’ said Lilly.
‘Excuse me?’
‘A soddi. Some other dude did it.’ She wagged a chocolatey finger. ‘You know for a rookie, you’re pretty good.’
Taslima blushed.
Lilly reached for the second stick of Twix. At this rate she would soon look like a sumo wrestler.
‘Actually the police haven’t looked at anyone else,’ she said. ‘If we could at least show there was a possibility that someone else was involved…’
‘We’d have reasonable doubt.’
‘See, you’re a natural.’
Taslima waved off Lilly’s praise as ridiculous and busied herself with more filing. It was not her way to show pride but Lilly could tell Taslima was pleased by the compliment.
‘So if not Raffy, then who is most likely to be our man?’ said Lilly.
‘Obvious choice would be the boyfriend,’ said Taslima.
Lilly nodded, picked up the phone and dialled the CPS.
Kerry put a baton of raw carrot between her fingers like a cigarette. She was eating around two kilos of them a day and could barely face putting it in her mouth.
Each evening she peeled and cut them for the next day. Then first thing in the morning she would grab her Tupperware box and run out of the house before her resolve weakened.
The phone rang and she grabbed it, grateful for the diversion.
‘Hi, Kerry, how are you?’
‘Lilly Valentine.’ Kerry’s voice was deadpan.
Lilly’s voice was like an annoying budgie. Cheep, cheep. ‘Are you still on a diet?’ she trilled. ‘You looked great at court the other day.’
Kerry sighed. ‘What do you want?’
‘I just wondered if the police had managed to track down the father of Yasmeen’s baby.’
‘Not that I know of,’ said Kerry.
‘Could you check for me?’ Lilly asked. ‘I just want to know what steps have been taken to locate him.’
Lilly’s tone might sound friendly but both she and Kerry knew that the police would probably have done nothing whatsoever to ascertain either his identity or his whereabouts. They had their man, and therefore the investigation was complete.
‘I’ll chase it up for you,’ said Kerry, and hung up.
She didn’t know why, but she hated Lilly Valentine. Actually, she did know why. Lilly had always been irritating, with her soft curls and cleavage. She propagated an image that was cute and ditzy but Kerry had been trounced by her in court enough times to know that she was not all she seemed.
Lilly had graduated from figure of low-level annoyance to dart board material during their last murder trial when the prosecution barrister, Jez Stafford, had mooned after her like a love-struck teen. He’d laughed at her pathetic jokes and skipped in her wake. Kerry couldn’t understand it. He was handsome, clever, successful. What the hell did he see in Lilly Valentine? To top it off, Lilly didn’t even reciprocate his affections, instead choosing some scruffy copper to get her up the duff.
Whatever the reason, a cold, hard jealousy had begun to fester in Kerry’s gut.
She took a fistful of carrot, stuffed them into her mouth and picked up the phone. It was answered on one ring.
‘DI Bell.’
Kerry swallowed down the carrot. ‘Kerry Thomson.’
‘Are you all right?’ asked the DI.
Kerry coughed as shards of vegetable caught in her throat.
‘Fine. Look I’ve just had contact from Raffique Khan’s lawyer.’
The DI groaned. ‘Lilly Valentine.’
‘Imprinted on your brain, is she?’ Kerry smirked.
‘Not an easy woman to forget.’
Kerry wiped her lips with the back of her hand and inspected the orange stain.
‘What did she want?’ asked the DI.
‘To know whether you’ve located the victim’s boyfriend.’
The DI laughed but sounded pissed off. ‘Trying to pin it on him, is she?’
‘I should think so,’ said Kerry.
‘Well, whoever he is, he’s gone AWOL,’ said the DI. ‘None of the dead girl’s friends or family even knew she had a boyfriend, never mind who he was.’
‘You need to find out,’ said Kerry.
‘The investigation is over,’ said the DI.
‘Trust me, you should pursue this.’ Kerry reached into her mouth with her pinky and scraped at a molar. ‘Valentine will.’
She extracted a piece of carrot and flicked it away. She had covered all her bases.
DI Bell breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, forcing himself to unclench his teeth and buttocks.
He absolutely would not allow Lilly Valentine—or any other defence lawyer, for that matter—to dictate the agenda. This was his case and he was in control. Raffique Khan had killed his sister, end of story. The case would go to court and the overwhelming evidence would secure his conviction. Bell would be lauded for his single-minded approach.
‘It was difficult,’ he would tell reporters, ‘but justice must prevail, whatever the sex or race of the victim.’
He would pause at this point, make sure the cameras got his best side.
‘I will not rest until these so-called honour attacks are a thing of the past.’
He smiled, imagining the headlines describing him as the, ‘Honour Killings Tsar.’
They’d mention the old man, of course, detailing his meteoric rise through the ranks. His commendations for bravery would be listed and they would note how he had been set to become the youngest Chief of Police in history before his tragic death. But the final line would be saved for Bell himself, and how he superseded his father’s illustrious career.
He stopped his reverie in its tracks. Kerry Thomson had been very sure that Valentine would pursue the boyfriend angle. What if she were able to sow even a tiny seed of doubt in the minds of the jurors? Or worse, what if she were able to criticise Bell for not investigating?
He frowned. People these days were so woolly and liberal, always so quick to find fault with the Force. A not guilty verdict in a case like this would do irreparable harm to his plans.
He nodded to himself, as it became clear what to do. He would head Valentine off at the pass.
To: Dr Cheney
From: DI Bell
R V Raffique Khan
I note from your autopsy report that Yasmeen Khan was pregnant at the time of her death. We are keen to discover the identity of the father.
Could you please conduct a DNA test and run the results through the data base for a potential match.
This is a long shot, and I don’t expect a match, but we must cover all bases on this one.
Aasha packs her school rucksack, throws it over her shoulder and starts to clatter down the stairs. She’s got five minutes to catch the bus. She doesn’t want to go to school but can’t face another day in bed.
Imran appears at the bottom. ‘Where did you go last night?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Stop messing me about, Ash,’ he snarls. ‘Where did you go?’
Aasha stands her ground, halfway down the stairs, but she’s nervous. She can see her brother’s naked aggression. If Mum were here, she would defuse his anger. But she’s not, is she? Everyone is out, leaving just Aasha and Imran’s fury.
‘Nowhere,’ she repeats mechanically.
Out of the blue, Imran punches the wall and Aasha flinches.
‘Tell me where you went,’ he shouts.
Aasha’s heart is pounding. Her brothers have never hurt her but she’s never disobeyed them. Looking now at Imran’s teeth, bared like a dog’s, she feels frightened.
‘I went to Lailla
’s,’ she whispers. ‘I needed to catch up on what I missed yesterday.’
‘You’d better not be lying to me.’
Aasha gulps back her panic. ‘I’m not lying.’
‘What’s her number?’ He whips out his phone from his back pocket. ‘I’ll call her right now.’
Aasha can hardly breathe. Will Lailla cover for her?
‘I don’t remember her number.’
He jerks his head towards her rucksack. ‘It’ll be on your mobile.’
Aasha doesn’t know what to do. If she gives him Lailla’s number she can’t be sure what Lailla will say. Lailla might be many things, but quick-witted isn’t one of them.
‘It’s not on my mobile,’ she says.
He holds out his hand. ‘Just give it to me.’
She can’t hand it over. What if he checks it? He’ll find Ryan in her contacts, his number marked with a little heart.
‘It’s on my laptop,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘I transferred all my contacts to the address book on my laptop.’ If she gives him a moment to think about it he will realise this is a ridiculous lie. Instead she sprints back up to her room. ‘I’ll get it,’ she calls over her shoulder.
Once in her room she shuts the door and leans her back against it. She feels sick with fear. How long does she have before Imran comes barging in?
Tears sting Aasha’s eyes. It’s all so unfair. She’s done nothing wrong. She’s a good girl.
‘I’m warning you, Ash,’ Imran’s voice is sharp, ‘don’t vex me.’
She bites her knuckle to keep back a sob. She has to get out of there.
She runs to her window and looks wildly out. Her room is directly above the porch, its roof ten feet below. She can jump onto it and then down to the garden. Her hands shake as she opens the window. If she slips she might break her leg. Or worse.
‘Ash,’ Imran barks, ‘don’t make me come up there.’
She leans out. It seems such a long way and the porch roof is narrow.
She hears her brother swear, then the steady plod of his footfall as he ascends the stairs.
What scares her most? Her brother, or falling to the ground? Imran’s footsteps are near the top. Definitely her brother.
She swings her legs over her windowsill so she is sitting on the ledge.
He’s at her door. ‘You are so going to regret this.’
She lets herself drop.
Her stomach rises to meet her mouth as she falls, but nausea gives way to terror as she lands on the porch roof and lurches forward. She throws out her hand to steady herself, trying desperately to gain her balance.
When she feels steady on her feet she gulps a lungful of air and wills herself to take the next step. The patio looks hard. She’s been to enough science lessons to know she could kill herself if she lands badly.
‘What the fuck?’
Aasha looks up. Imran is leaning out of the window, his face contorted by disbelief and venom.
‘Are you mental?’ he shouts.
She looks down at the patio, back up to Imran. Maybe she is mental. She certainly feels it.
She jumps.
The concrete rushes up to meet her and she jars her knees as she lands. Her hands are pushed forward, the skin scraping away. She groans in pain but knows she has no time to stop. She jumps to her feet and races across the lawn to the road. It will take her brother only seconds to leap downstairs and out of the house so she tears away, her hair flying behind her like banners.
She whips down the road, her mind whirling as fast as her feet. Where should she go?
Panting, she checks behind her. She can see Imran in the distance. He’s a long way behind, but if she can see him, then he can see her. And he’s fast. And fit. All those hours in the gym with Ismail and their mates.
She can’t keep running much longer. Where should she go?
At the top of the street a bus pulls into the stop. The last passenger, some old man shuffling in his socks and sandals, clutching a Lidl carrier bag, climbs on. The driver puts on his indicator.
Aasha digs deep and finds enough energy to propel herself towards the bus. The automatic doors are just closing with an airy hiss when she slams her body into them. She glances behind her. Imran is gaining on her—she can see the look of pure hatred on his face.
She beats on the door with both palms. ‘Please,’ she shrieks, ‘let me on.’
The driver rolls his eyes.
‘Please.’
He opens the doors and Aasha falls inside.
‘I wish mine were as keen to get to school,’ he laughs.
She feels in her trousers for her bus pass, waves it at him and flees to the back seat.
Aasha looks out of the window for Imran. He is less than fifty metres away when the bus pulls out. Their eyes lock and he mouths something.
She doesn’t catch the words but she knows exactly what he means.
Lilly glugged a mouthful of Gaviscon straight from the bottle. It was thick, sweet and chalky, like cold school-dinner custard. She tried not to gag and berated herself for wolfing chocolate so soon after a breakfast most people would consider greedy. She rubbed her breastbone and took another swig.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Taslima.
Lilly burped unhappily. ‘Thank God one of us still has a brain that functions.’
‘Yasmeen’s killer doesn’t have to be the boyfriend,’ said Taslima.
‘Statistically murders are committed by those close to the victim,’ said Lilly. ‘And we know the killer not only got in the house without a struggle, but managed to poison Yasmeen’s drink without arousing suspicion.’
‘But someone else could easily have done both those things,’ said Taslima.
Lilly nodded. ‘Someone like Raffy.’
‘Or any other member of her family.’
Lilly thought for a second. If this was an honour killing, like everyone seemed to think, then why did it have to be Raffy?
‘I see where you’re coming from,’ she said. ‘But Anwar doesn’t seem likely.’
‘Why? Because he’s quiet and well spoken?’ Taslima asked. ‘That doesn’t mean he isn’t backwardly traditional.’
Lilly considered for a second. ‘I suppose he is the head of the family since his father died.’
‘And he seems to take that responsibility very seriously, no?’
‘Yes, he does,’ Lilly agreed, ‘but I don’t know whether that would stretch to murder.’
‘Didn’t you say there was an uncle?’ asked Taslima. ‘Would he be capable of something like this?’
Lilly had to admit she had been uncomfortable around Mohamed Aziz from the word go. His involvement with the Khans seemed to go far beyond avuncular duty, and he was domineering and bombastic. His demands to have Yasmeen’s body returned seemed nothing to do with religion.
‘There was something about him I didn’t like,’ said Lilly. ‘His attitude to women seemed disturbing.’
Taslima clapped her hands.
‘Hold on,’ said Lilly. ‘It’s still far more likely to be Raffy or the boyfriend.’
‘But we should check the uncle out, right?’
Lilly threw her car keys at Taslima. ‘Saddle up, Tonto.’
Ryan’s head is about to explode. He covers his ears with his hands but the ringing of the doorbell continues.
At first he tried to ignore it but someone has their finger on it and won’t take it off. His mum wouldn’t dare answer it but it looks like he’s going to have to.
If it’s that fucking copper he can jog on. He’ll have to come back with a whole army, ’cos there’s no way he’s getting in, warrant or no warrant.
Whoever it is they’re now hammering with their fist as well as ringing.
By the time he gets to the door he’s seething with fury, ready to punch the face of whoever it is outside. He’s never been one to carry a shank, which is a good job, because he’d be tempted to cut whoever it is right there on the d
oorstep.
He yanks the door open and it hits the wall behind, sending plaster into the air.
‘What the fuck do you want?’
When he sees who’s standing there, and the state she’s in, he’s floored.
‘Aasha?’
Tears are pouring down her cheeks and her shoulders jerk up and down between sobs. Her hands are covered in blood and dirt.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry,’ her voice is raw, ‘I didn’t know where else to go.’
Ryan can feel panic starting in his stomach. There’s no way he can let her in.
‘What do you want?’ he asks.
She shakes her head, sort of wild and out of control. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘My brother’s going to kill me,’ she says.
Ryan’s heard enough from Lailla about Aasha’s brothers to know this might be true.
Aasha puts her hands on her knees and bows her head. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
Ryan’s heart is beating fast, like he’s coming up on a pill. He doesn’t know what to do.
Aasha, still bent forward, looks up at him, her eyes huge and sad. ‘Please let me in, Ryan.’
What can he do? What can he say?
‘I’m a bit busy,’ is all he can offer.
‘Please,’ she whispers.
He grunts and pulls her inside. He takes her through to the kitchen and she flops into one of the chairs. He lets the tap run cold and fills a cup for her. She takes it in both hands and sips it.
He hopes he can calm her down a bit and send her on her way.
She takes another sip.
‘You can’t stay here,’ he says.
Suddenly her shoulders bunch up and she puts her hand to her mouth. Sick seeps through her fingers and there’s that horrible acidic smell in the air.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Ryan growls, and pushes Aasha to the bathroom.
He stands outside and listens to her throw up. This is total shit.
He can feel the anger rising in him, burning him from the inside out. What does she think she’s doing, coming to his yard, banging on the door, puking all over the place?
‘You done?’ he shouts.
At last she opens the door, her eyes still wide and full of tears.