Quick Before They Catch Us

by Mark Timlin

  ‘Job? What job?’ I echoed. ‘I’m not sure I’m in the market for a job.’

  ‘Mr Sharman. Just listen to what Mr Khan has to say, that’s all I ask. He said he will look in at ten-thirty after my set to see if by chance you dined here tonight. I told him you usually did on Fridays.’

  ‘Just as well I didn’t go for sweet and sour pork and Singapore noodles down the road then, isn’t it? What kind of job is it anyway?’

  Suri raised his right hand to stop further questions. ‘It is not for me to say. That is between you and Mr Khan. It is a matter of great delicacy and embarrassment to him, that I do know, and my heart bleeds for my old friend. Just be patient. And naturally this evening’s meal for you and your charming lady friend will be on the house.’

  ‘Even if I decline the job.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Sharman. No one could ever accuse me of being an Indian giver.’

  I ignored Suri’s joke. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘You just keep bringing the Irish coffees and I’ll listen to what the man has to say. But Suri – no promises.’

  ‘I understand, Mr Sharman. No promises.’

  With that he allowed me to return to Melanie at our table. She had polished off all her beer and half of mine, at the sight of which Suri bustled off to fetch fresh supplies before leaving us to order our meal.

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked Melanie when he’d vanished off to get changed for his Elvis spot. ‘Did you bounce a cheque here last time or something?’

  I told her what Suri had told me. ‘Good,’ she said when I’d finished and we’d ordered our food from our original waiter. ‘I said it was time you earned some money.’

  ‘I haven’t taken the job yet,’ I said.

  ‘If Suri bribes you with enough liqueur coffee you will.’

  A great judge of character was our Melanie. But she wasn’t far wrong, and besides I’d been getting lazy and it was about time I did some work for a change. The world was beckoning. But if I’d known what delights it was going to reveal I might just have gone back to my TV.

  4

  The food came and it was good. Every speciality of the house including ones we hadn’t ordered were piled up in front of us until the table almost groaned with the weight of it. With it came as much beer as we could manage, and afterwards enough Irish coffee to float a battleship. Something told me Suri was trying to soften me up. Suri, or his mentor, or both. Whoever it was, it was working. Especially with Melanie. She was scarfing up the food and drink like it was going to be illegal come midnight.

  ‘This is great,’ she said.

  ‘Sure is,’ I agreed. ‘But remember –’

  ‘I know,’ she interrupted. ‘A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips. Have you got any complaints?’

  Looking at her svelte figure I shook my head.

  ‘Then be quiet,’ she said and went back to her food.

  At nine-thirty as usual, as our empty plates and dishes were whisked away, the already dim lights in the restaurant were turned down even further, the fanfare from An American Trilogy thundered out from the PA system, a single spot illuminated the stage and Suri leapt into the light, rhinestones glittering on his one-piece white suit with the high collar and cape, and his hair piled up in a gleaming pompadour. He fell into a martial arts pose and let rip into the microphone he was holding in his right hand. I’ve got to tell you it cracked me up every time, but I never let it show. Suri took his Elvis Aaron Presley seriously, and when he was around, so did I.

  He went through his usual repertoire from Heartbreak Hotel to Polk Salad Annie with plenty of stops along the way, until he encored with Unchained Melody, took a bow to applause from what was by then an almost packed restaurant and left the stage.

  ‘Pretty good,’ said Melanie when the lights came up and the usual Ravi Shankar greatest hits came over the speakers, and I noticed that there was just one empty table by the door with a reserved sign standing on the tablecloth like a little soldier on guard.

  But the table wasn’t empty for long. A few minutes after Suri left the stage, round about half-ten like he’d said, the front door opened and a large Asian man in an expensive shiny suit came in flanked by two even larger Asians and was shown to it by a waiter, and I guessed that Mr Rajesh Khan from Manchester had entered the building.

  A moment later Suri came back, dressed again in his tuxedo, spotted the newcomers and almost jogged over to them. There was a whispered conversation and he pointed in my direction then headed our way. ‘That is Mr Khan,’ he said in a whisper when he got to where Mel and I were sitting.

  ‘I guessed,’ I said. ‘It was a bit like the entry of the gladiators there for a minute.’

  ‘He asks will you join him?’

  ‘Both of us?’

  ‘No. You alone. The young lady will be fine here.’

  ‘My name’s Melanie,’ she said. I’d noticed that she didn’t like to be talked about as if she wasn’t there. Especially at that time of the month.

  ‘Miss Melanie,’ said Suri. ‘My apologies. Another coffee?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Mel.

  ‘I’ll have one too,’ I said. ‘Will you bring it to his table?’

  Suri nodded, I winked at Mel and told her I wouldn’t be long and Suri led me over to where Khan and his party were sitting.

  ‘Mr Khan, sir,’ said Suri. ‘This is Mr Sharman who I have told you so much about.’

  Khan pushed back his chair and rose to his full height which was about the same as mine, but he outweighed me by maybe five stone. I guessed he was fiftysomething, but his brown skin was smooth and unlined and his thick hair was so deep a black as to be almost blue. ‘Thank you, Suri,’ he said, and Suri bowed and backed away towards the bar.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Khan,’ I said and stuck out my mitten.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Sharman. Forgive me for interrupting your evening,’ said Khan and took my hand in a strong grip. His accent was middle class and refined. No trace of Bombay or Bradford. He could’ve been a doctor or a lawyer or anything along those lines, but with the two minders in tow I doubted if he was. ‘Join me.’ He flicked his free hand at his two companions who got up and did a fast shuffle in Suri’s wake. I took one of the vacant seats and Khan sat opposite. ‘Did you enjoy your meal?’ he asked.

  ‘Very much. I always do.’

  ‘Excellent. It’s important to know that my investments are being used wisely.’

  ‘Suri runs a fine restaurant.’

  ‘He had a good teacher. Me. And you enjoy his act?’

  ‘Always. I try not to miss it.’

  ‘Good. He told me you are a Friday night regular. Did he tell you why I wanted to speak to you?’

  A little preliminary work and then straight down to business. It struck me Mr Khan was quite a powerful man whatever his business. Or probably because of it. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Just that you wanted to see me on a private and delicate matter.’

  ‘Then let me explain.’ He took a brown envelope from the inside pocket of his expensive jacket and laid it, unopened, neatly in front of him between the unused cutlery. ‘I have a family, Mr Sharman. Not a large family. Three children in all, two boys and a girl. They are grown, but they are still children to me. Do you understand that?’

  ‘I have a daughter of my own, Mr Khan,’ I replied. ‘She’s sixteen now. Almost an adult, but I still think of her as a baby.’

  ‘Then you do understand. That is very good, it makes what I have to say easier. My children are older. The boys are in their twenties and Meena is eighteen. Just eighteen.’

  I said nothing.

  Khan undid the envelope and took out some photographs. He separated one from the pile and slid it in front of me. It was a girl. A very beautiful Asian girl. She looked straight into the camera’s lens and smiled. It was the kind of smile that wo
uld break hearts and it almost broke mine. It made me think of my daughter Judith, and lately that always makes my heart ache. ‘That is Meena,’ he explained.

  ‘She’s lovely,’ I said.

  ‘She is. That was taken last year on her seventeenth birthday. She was even more beautiful the last time I saw her.’

  I made a puzzled face.

  ‘She is gone, Mr Sharman,’ he explained.

  ‘Gone?’ I queried,

  ‘Yes, gone.’ His hand played with the knife in front of him. There was a heavy gold ring on his little finger.

  ‘Gone where?’ I asked. I felt he expected me to.

  ‘I don’t know. That’s why we’re sitting here.’

  ‘Run away?’ I said. I remembered when Judith had run away years before and how helpless I’d felt.

  ‘Eloped.’ His mouth twisted as he spoke.

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘With whom?’ I asked.

  ‘With him.’ He separated another photograph and passed it to me. It was a bad photo. A Polaroid lit by a flash that made the subject’s eyes red like a werewolf’s. He was in his twenties, white, with a spiky, Rod Stewart seventies haircut, wearing a T-shirt that showed his upper arms and the tattoo on the left one. In one hand was a pint glass half full of beer, in the other a cigarette.

  ‘Who is he?’ I asked.

  ‘Scum. A jailbird who inveigled himself into the life of my family and took the jewel I called my daughter.’

  ‘Called?’ I queried. ‘Do you think something has happened to her?’

  He shook his head. ‘You misunderstand me,’ he said. ‘I mean that she is no daughter of mine until she returns without this… this… man.’

  ‘And does he have a name? This man?’ I asked.

  ‘Jeffries.’ Khan almost spat the word. ‘Paul Jeffries.’

  5

  ‘Tell me more about Paul Jeffries,’ I said when Khan seemed to have regained his composure. I was interested, I’ve got to admit. It was quite a while since I’d had a job, and it was intriguing. Other people’s problems always are. And they take your mind off your own. And you don’t seem to hear about couples eloping like you used to. Gretna Green is not the place it was.

  ‘He met one of my sons at a club in Manchester some time ago. Sanjay – my younger son. They got friendly.’

  ‘How old is Paul?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘And Sanjay?’

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  ‘And you say that Paul has been to prison.’

  He nodded.

  ‘What was he inside for?’

  ‘What wasn’t he? Burglary. Car theft. Actual bodily harm and drugs.’

  ‘Quite a record. How do you know all this?’

  ‘I got it out of Sanjay later. Paul had confided in him, but no one thought to confide in me.’

  That’s families for you, I thought. ‘Has Sanjay ever been in trouble with the law?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘There’s no ‘‘of course” about it. How about your other son?’

  ‘No. And before you ask, nor has Meena. Now may I continue?’

  ‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘I just need to fill in the background. Do go on.’

  ‘They started meeting at other clubs on a regular basis. They shared a taste in music. Black American music. Where Sanjay got that from I’ll never know.’

  I could almost hear the arguments in the Khan household.

  ‘Then Sanjay invited Paul to the house where he met my other son – and Meena of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  Khan ignored me.

  ‘Paul was out of work at the time. As usual, as far as I can understand. He’s nothing. An itinerant picking up jobs where and when he can. How he could afford to go around with Sanjay I don’t know. From his previous record, by thieving I imagine. Deepak, my elder boy, offered him a job in one of the restaurants he manages. A barman. The boys felt sorry for him. Little did they know that behind all our backs he was busily seducing Meena.’

  ‘Was it that cold blooded?’

  He looked at me quizzically. ‘Meaning?’ he asked.

  ‘Do you think he just hung around to… seduce, as you put it, your daughter? Or did they fall in love?’

  ‘Love. Love is nothing. Love is a commodity to be bought and sold like any other.’

  I was beginning to take a bit of a dislike to Mr Khan, and if it hadn’t been for Suri behind the bar watching our conversation from a distance I think I would’ve left then.

  ‘I may be an old cynic, Mr Khan,’ I said. ‘But cynical as I am, I’m afraid I can’t agree with you on that one.’

  ‘Sentimental rubbish. Meena was promised to another.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The son of a friend from the sub-continent.’

  ‘Did she tell him she loved another?’ Even as I said it, the question sounded like something from a Victorian novel. But then Khan’s attitude was pretty Victorian. But Meena wasn’t my daughter. And I imagined that if Judith had run off with a jailbird I’d be a little Victorian myself. More than a little, in fact.

  Khan laughed. The first time he’d done that. ‘Tell him,’ he said. ‘How could she tell him? She’s never even spoken to him.’

  It clicked then. ‘An arranged marriage,’ I said.

  ‘Of course. Like mine and my father’s before me, stretching back generations. It is the best and only way.’

  ‘Obviously Meena didn’t see that.’

  ‘What does she know?’ He raised his voice and slapped the table and people looked, including Melanie. ‘She is just a stupid girl whose head has been turned by a little jailbird who talks big and does nothing.’

  ‘He got your daughter,’ I observed.

  Khan’s dark skin turned darker and I thought he was going to lean over and give me a smack like he had the table. But instead he mopped at his face with a napkin. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I get carried away.’

  In an ambulance if you’re not careful, I thought. If you go on like that. Off to the cardiovascular unit. ‘How long ago did this all happen?’ I asked when he’d calmed down.

  ‘Paul Jeffries and Sanjay met maybe eighteen months ago, and he and Meena ran away in July.’

  Three months previously.

  ‘Have you heard from them at all?’ I asked.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Has anyone heard from them? Her brothers, for instance.’

  ‘Her brothers are even angrier than I. It was them that Paul Jeffries used the most. Believe me, they would not contact them.’

  ‘She must have friends. Girl friends. How about them?’

  ‘Nothing that I’ve heard about.’

  But that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. I knew how teenage girls like to talk. ‘But you’ve been looking, I presume.’

  ‘Naturally. Her brothers and myself. And friends of the family and business acquaintances. I have a network of people constantly looking. My network reaches far and near.’

  ‘But not far and near enough,’ I said.

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Have you been to the police?’ I enquired.

  He shook his head. ‘No police. It is bad enough what has happened without involving the authorities. I take care of my own business. And my own family.’

  But not this time, I thought. This time you need outside help. ‘So what do you want me to do?’ I asked after a moment. Of course, I knew, but I wanted him to tell me. I wanted him to ask, just like a normal father would do.

  ‘I want you to find them.’

  ‘Where do I start?’

  ‘In London. He comes from London. South London, to be precise. Your area of expertise, I believe, Mr Sharman
.’

  ‘Does he know you’re after them?’

  Khan nodded. ‘Of course. He knows I won’t rest until Meena is home with me where she belongs.’

  ‘Then it’s probably the last place he’ll come.’

  ‘He’ll come here. He’s like a rat. He’ll return to his nest.’

  Suri arrived at that moment with a fresh Irish coffee for me and what looked like a glass of sparkling mineral water with ice and a slice for Khan. But then it might’ve been a gin or vodka and tonic. What did I know? What did I care?

  When he’d gone I leant forward. ‘Mr Khan,’ I said. ‘Tell me something about yourself.’

  He looked puzzled. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like what you do.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m interested. You obviously know a lot about me; tell me a little about yourself.’

  ‘Is this important? I want you to do a job for me. I have the wherewithal to pay –’

  I cut him off. ‘I’m not interested in your money, Mr Khan. Well, not exclusively. And I do like to know who I’m working for. That is if I decide to take the job,’ I added. ‘As a matter of fact I’m at a loose end at the moment, and you seem to be important to Suri who I’m very fond of. But the same doesn’t go for you Mr Khan. Not in the least. So if you do want me to take the job – indulge me.’

  6

  For a moment I thought he was going to tell me to piss off, but instead he said. ‘You have a very strange way of doing business, Mr Sharman, if I may so so.’

  ‘So I’ve been told, and believe me it’s cost me in the past. Cost me dear.’

  ‘I can believe that. If you really don’t care about money then you are a very dangerous man.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Suri told me you were strange. But not exactly how strange,’ he said and sipped at his drink. ‘But reliable and good at what you do, and I trust his opinion. Very well. A potted history. My family came from Uganda where they’d settled years before. They were merchants. Rich. They sent me here to school. A good school. A very good school. I did well and went to university. I lived the life of Riley. Then Amin sent them packing. With nothing. My university days were over. My father was forced to open a little tobacconist’s on Whalley Range in Manchester. Not the most salubrious of neighbourhoods. We lived over the shop. My father, my mother, my sister and my four brothers. We worked hard. Sometimes twenty-three hours a day. Soon we had more tobacconists. My brothers and I moved into clothing. Wholesale and retail, and then restaurants. You English love your chicken korma.’