‘When did Ibrahim stop working at the mill and start his own business?’
‘In the 1980s. He saved up to buy his first cab and get a taxi licence from the council. Then he bought an office; it was an old terraced house in central Burnley. And we began to move up in the world. The minicab business expanded so much that he had to start employing other drivers.’
‘An immigrant success story?’
‘I suppose so. Dad’s ambition was always to own property. When he’d earned enough he bought what he called a “dream home” in the suburbs, away from the town centre. I think he bought it for my mum, really. It was an Edwardian detached with high ceilings and big rooms and lawns for us children to play on.’
‘So is that where your mum, Asma, still lives? Is that where we’re going to see her now?’
‘Yes. I just need to mention something before we get there. A few years after we moved in, the house next door turned into a squat. That really upset Mum and Dad. They had got on well with all the neighbours, they loved the street and they’d been very happy there. But when the squatters arrived there was a constant stream of racial abuse. They would climb over the fence making noise in the night, kicking over our milk bottles, trying to scare us. I remember Mum ringing me in tears and saying they’d been in the garden urinating on her vegetable patch. She said she’d have to dig everything up and start all over again; but she never grew anything after that. They had to keep all the curtains drawn. As soon as they opened them, next door would start pulling faces or exposing themselves and shouting. Mum and Dad complained, but the council did nothing. I was away in London by then and Dad tried to protect me by not telling me the extent of it. If he’d told me I could have done something. Then one summer they threw stones at Dad as he was cutting the grass and they hit him. He was so shocked. It soured everything for him.’
‘It must have been terrible.’
‘It was really depressing. I think it changed my dad. He felt that everything he’d achieved was being destroyed. He said he hated the house now; he could never be happy or at peace again. He stopped being the easy-going dad we’d known. He started having long silences when he wouldn’t communicate. And his temper got bad; he’d get angry over silly little things.’
‘I can understand that. And you’ve got two brothers, right?’
‘There’s me, then Bilal, then Tariq. Tariq was born after Asma came to England.’
‘And you were saying earlier that it’s the boys who get the privileges – help with education and things.’
‘Well, that’s the Pakistani way, the Muslim way. But my dad treated us equally, unlike most Muslim men. I’ve seen how badly some of them treat women, including their wives and daughters. Ibrahim was never like that. He always encouraged me to get an education. I won’t say he boasted about me when I got into Cambridge, but he was proud of me. Uncle Ahmed didn’t like it. He told Dad, “She’ll get too big for her boots,” and when Dad laughed at him, Ahmed said, “You, too, Ibrahim; you’re getting too big for your boots.” But Dad didn’t care. The whole point of coming to England was to make the most of every opportunity.’
‘Your uncle Ahmed seems to crop up a lot.’
‘It’s always been a bit of a mystery to me that they fell out, because when they were children in Pakistan Dad and Ahmed were close. They were the boys in the family and Granddad was proud of them. As you know, Ibrahim was his favourite – he was the youngest and he stayed at home with Hassan. Ahmed was adopted, but they treated him like their own. He was bright and did well at school. Dad had a lot of respect for him. Ahmed was his big brother, he was Dad’s senior; and Dad was very governed by respect for family and giving people their due. It was partly the Pakistani system of rank and social standing, but I think he was genuinely keen to see the best in folk. Dad liked people and he wanted them to like him. I never heard him criticise anyone unfairly or have a go at them behind their back.’
‘Yet you said Ibrahim and Ahmed fell out. What was that about?’
‘I think it was complicated. When I was a girl, Dad used to tell me about his childhood and how proud he was of coming over to England as a teenager in 1969, all on his own. But then he’d say, “Well, your uncle Ahmed was here of course,” and there was a sort of frown in his voice. When you’re little you can sense these things. If I asked him about it he’d say that Ahmed had been his sponsor and showed him how things are done in England and found him work. But he said that put him in Ahmed’s debt. If I asked him to explain, he just shook his head.’
Ayesha had turned off the motorway and was navigating her way through Burnley town centre. I wanted to hear more about the brothers’ quarrel; she said she would talk further on the return journey. The conversation in the car had been our friendliest and it felt as if the mistrust between us was diminishing. In a pleasant suburb on the far side of town we pulled up at Ibrahim and Asma’s dream house.
CHAPTER 7
Ayesha had warned me that her mother had been depressed since Ibrahim’s death. She had been up to see her a couple of times but the weight of Asma’s grief had left her unable or unwilling to talk. We found her sitting alone, a tiny, diminished presence in the high-ceilinged front room. The curtains were closed, most of the furniture appeared to have been removed and what remained was pushed against the wall. The floorboards were bare; our voices echoed in the unheated space.
Asma roused herself to greet us then brought plates of rice and meat from the kitchen that she laid out on folding tables. The act of serving food heartened her; a brief smile crossed her face and I glimpsed some of her daughter’s radiance in her eyes. She had Ayesha’s delicate features and glossy black hair, but her face was lined with care. Asma seemed wary of my presence and I wondered if Ayesha had properly explained who I was. I remembered what she had said about having to keep her relationship with Peter a secret. When I told Asma that I was a writer she nodded, but I wasn’t sure she had understood. She began to speak in Urdu, but Ayesha interrupted. ‘That’s not polite, Mum. Martin only speaks English.’ Asma nodded again and was silent.
Ayesha spoke about her work, about life in London, about her old schoolfriends from Burnley. When she asked about Bilal and Tariq, Asma said, ‘Your brothers are well.’ The conversation seemed awkward. It was unclear if Ayesha had told her mother what she had discovered in Pakistan. I wondered how Ayesha would broach the subject they were both avoiding.
‘Mama,’ she said finally, ‘I’ve been worried about you. You don’t talk to me properly when I ring you. You don’t tell me what’s been going on. You don’t seem yourself . . . Are you sure you’re all right?’ Asma smiled but her eyes were heavy with sorrow. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Please do not worry about me. I have a lady from the council who is coming to see me. And I am watching Strictly Dancing on the television.’ Ayesha glanced at me, amused, embarrassed, worried. She tried again. ‘No, I mean how are you feeling? How are you coping? It won’t help just pretending that nothing has happened.’
Asma thought for a moment; then she spoke reluctantly. ‘I am . . . sad, Isha. Life without ’Brahim is hard. He was important in all our lives. How can we be happy without him?’
Ayesha took her hand. ‘Yes, Mama. I know. It’s the same for me. And for Bilal and Tariq. We loved him. We always will. But Dad isn’t coming back, Mum. He just isn’t. We have to get on with life . . .’
Asma nodded. ‘Of course. That is right. I am getting on. Getting on with life.’
Ayesha was staring at the floorboards, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘I love you, Mama . . . And I loved Dad. He was always good to me. I miss him . . . so much. I know what it must be like for you . . .’
Asma gave a sob and hugged her daughter. The two women were caught up in the intensity of their grief, oblivious to my presence.
‘Where are you, ’Brahim! Where are you, my husband!’ Asma’s wail rose from deep within her. ‘Why have you abandoned me? Why have you gone from me, my love?’ The warmth of their embrace was a
fleeting shield against life’s horror, but Ayesha pulled away.
‘Mum . . .’ She paused, as if weighing up what she had to say. ‘Mama . . . I need to ask you something. Why did you not tell me when Dad went on all those trips to Pakistan? And did you know why he was going there? It’s important . . .’
Asma wiped her eyes. ‘I didn’t tell you, Isha, because Daddy told me not to. He didn’t want to worry you. Granny was ill in Pakistan. He was going there to look after her . . .’
Her mother’s explanation was the one she wanted to believe, but Ayesha wasn’t sure she could do. ‘Mum,’ she said, ‘is that really why he went there so often? People are saying there was a different reason . . . That he was involved in some sort of land deal and building a mansion with golden taps . . .’
Asma shook her head. ‘Oh, Isha, don’t ask me this. Daddy never told me . . . He never told me about these things . . .’
‘But you suspected something? You knew it wasn’t just for Granny that he was going there?’
‘No. I don’t know anything. It isn’t my business. We can’t bring Daddy back . . .’
‘But don’t you want to know what happened? Don’t you want to clear Daddy’s name? Isn’t there anything – anything at all – you can remember that might explain why people are saying such bad things about him?’
‘All I know about is that girl who died. Is that what . . .?’
Ayesha cut her off in Urdu. She glanced in my direction and saw that I had heard.
‘I meant business activities, Mum. Don’t worry. I can ask Bilal and Tariq . . .’
Ayesha stood up; I was wondering if she was signalling that the conversation was over when a key turned in the front door. There was a voice from the hall and Ayesha’s brother Tariq walked in, shouting into a mobile phone. Ayesha tensed; Asma leapt to her feet, but Tariq made a point of ignoring them, anger in his face. He finished his call and addressed the two women in Urdu. His questions were an interrogation; the subject was unmistakably me.
‘So what are you here for?’ Tariq turned to me, hostility in his voice.
‘I’m here because Ayesha invited me. I’m a writer. I’m hoping to write about what happened to your father.’
‘Oh, you are, are you? And why would you want to do that? My sister’s idea, is it?’
Ayesha intervened. ‘Tariq, don’t jump to conclusions. Martin’s going to help us find out what happened to Dad. He’s an investigative journalist; he’s done this sort of thing before.’
‘We don’t need his help. What’s the point? He can’t do anything that we can’t do for ourselves.’
‘No, Tariq. We’re not getting anywhere with the Pakistani justice system. Martin’s going to write a book. He’s going to tell people how corrupt the whole thing is and how murderers can . . .’
‘Shut up, Ish! Listen to me. That country is third world. You can write what the hell you want about them and it won’t make a bit of difference. You’re not going to shame them into telling the truth just because some stupid English journalist writes a book about them!’
Tariq was fierce; like an Asian Heathcliff blown in from the Lancashire moors, his eyes filled with rage. The women seemed in awe of this angry, wayward child; Ayesha told me later that she and Bilal barely spoke to him and his visits home were rare. He had come now to confront the intruder who was inserting himself into the family’s story.
‘You can’t help us.’ Tariq placed himself menacingly in front of me. ‘You don’t understand how things work in Pakistan – it’s no use relying on the police or the courts or appealing to what’s right and what’s wrong. The only thing that works over there is violence. The only way to sort this out is for me to go and slit those guys’ throats, the guys who did it to Dad. That’s what I’m planning to do. So stick that in your book!’
I said that on balance I didn’t think he should go slitting any throats just yet; that it would spoil the whole storyline. Tariq didn’t laugh, not the glimmer of a smile. Ayesha hastened me out to the car.
The drive back to London was subdued. I asked if Tariq was serious about his plans for revenge but Ayesha didn’t reply.
‘I was telling you about Ibrahim and Ahmed,’ she said. ‘You wanted to know why they quarrelled.’
I nodded. She was evidently more comfortable talking about some things than about others.
‘Okay. Well, the first thing I can remember is when we were children. Ahmed had a boy and a girl and we played with them sometimes. But Ahmed’s wife, Sania, was a horror. She was always telling us off. One day she came round and started ranting at Mum. She was angry because she said Tariq had been rude to her daughter. Asma just laughed, but Sania started lecturing her and telling her she needed to teach her children manners. It was trivial, but it brought a lot of things to the surface. I think Ahmed and Sania were jealous of us. Everything we did, they had to copy. If we got a new car or had our garden done, they did the same. Sania would tell people all sorts of lies about us, and within the Pakistani community gossip is really powerful. We were very English in that sense, because we weren’t prepared for it; we were shocked by her behaviour and it caused huge problems.’
‘What about Ibrahim? How did he deal with it?’
‘He found it hard. There was one occasion when Ahmed attacked my father, I mean physically attacked him. Sania had said something to Tariq and me and we had answered her back. Ahmed came over and things deteriorated. That was the beginning of the end. Ibrahim believed in honour and family respect, but this was too much.’
‘So what did Ibrahim do?’
‘He should have challenged Ahmed; that’s what the Pakistani honour code demands. You mustn’t allow anyone to disrespect you. But it all happened when Dad was really depressed by the abuse he was getting from the squatters next door. He was getting abuse from the white racists and now abuse from Pakistani bigots in his own family. I think Dad felt nobody wanted him, that he didn’t belong anywhere. He withdrew into himself and did nothing. He was in a bad way.’
I had been listening to Ayesha’s account, waiting for a chance to mention something else.
‘Ayesha, can I just ask you about something Asma said? She mentioned a dead girl. What did she mean by that?’
Ayesha’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.
‘No, she didn’t,’ she said. ‘You must have misheard.’
CHAPTER 8
I didn’t see Ayesha for over a week after our trip to Burnley. There had been too many instances of her concealing or trying to conceal potentially important information. I understood her desire for her father to be innocent and for any book to portray him in a positive light, but working relationships like these have to be based on trust.
I asked Ayesha for a meeting and she agreed we should have one. I suggested a time but she said she was busy; I suggested another but she wasn’t sure she could make it. I asked her to pick a date and she did so, but texted at the last minute to say she was tied up. The same thing happened again. Ayesha’s excuses became less and less credible.
I told her she would have to make her mind up: if she wanted to be part of the book I was planning, she would have to commit herself. Otherwise I could either drop the whole thing or write a fictionalised version of the story without her input. She rang to invite me to her apartment.
On the way to Maida Vale I resolved that I would not leave without clearing the air, without getting to the bottom of all the hints and half-revelations. Ayesha said she had arranged another conference call with Masood Jilani, the private detective in Kahin Nahi. She hoped I would take my invitation to be present as an indication of her good faith. She apologised for her silence, said she had been feeling particularly sad and thanked me for my patience.
Masood Jilani rang punctually. He had news of the police investigation into Ibrahim’s murder and the news wasn’t good. Inspector Iqbal, the Kahin Nahi Station In-Charge, had released the two miscreants he had been holding on suspicion of poisoning Ayesha’s father.
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‘It was a charade from the very start,’ Masood said. ‘Just as I told you, the police were arresting these fellows only for fobbing us off. And look, they succeeded. You have gone to England, Inspector Iqbal has got you off his shoulders and now he can collect more bribes from whomever is paying the cover-up. We are back at number one square.’
I spoke first. ‘Masood, I’m sorry, that sounds ridiculous. If everyone knows the police are on the take and that they’re arresting people and releasing them on a whim – or on payment – why don’t the authorities stop it? Surely the Pakistani government wouldn’t tolerate such blatant corruption . . .’
Masood found my ignorance exasperating. ‘It is very simple, Martin sahib. In rural areas the police have to be self-financing. They don’t get money from the government, or at least not enough to operate on. In the old days they were entitled to food and support from the community; local farmers had to bring them milk and bread. But that has gone. So now they have to find ways to supplement their inadequate salaries. In big cities police skim off the profits from illegal operations like gambling and prostitution. But there is less of that in the countryside, so they need other revenues. And chiefly that means raking in money from crime perpetrators and crime victims. They take bribes from both sides; from criminals wanting to avoid prosecution and victims wanting the criminals prosecuted. The outcome of a case depends very often on who pays biggest bribe.’
I tried to interrupt, but Masood was in full flow.
‘One very common trick of rural police is that they prepare two First Investigation Reports, each implicating different people. So they can tap both sets of suspects for money to get one FIR acted on and other one thrown out. Also they insert as many names as possible in FIR to increase number of people who will pay to get their name taken out. And since actual criminals are usually wealthiest of all, they pay biggest bribes and get excluded from the investigation.’
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