PART TWO
CHAPTER 13
My schedule was busy, Tom lived 180 miles away and it was a trek to get there. I should have gone to see him, but I crossed my fingers and hoped he would be okay. He and Tara had been married for twenty years; they had two children, a nice house and a dog. I told myself they would argue, reconcile and get on with things. But the thought that I was letting my brother down nagged at me.
There was better news from the Foreign Office. They were prepared to meet Ayesha and me. No minister was available, but the department would be represented by senior officials. Could we come to a meeting in three weeks’ time?
Ayesha compiled a list of questions and objectives for the meeting, ranging from broad strategy – how to pressure the Pakistanis into re-opening the murder investigation and how to ensure it was done honestly this time, to fine detail – what had happened to the clothes Ibrahim was wearing and to the ropes that were used to bind him; had these been sent for DNA analysis and if not, why not? She told me we must press the FCO on the department’s policy regarding dual nationals; she felt they had been using Ibrahim’s status as an excuse for not helping his family, and that much of the reluctance was due to a shadowy racism that allowed government officials to differentiate between white and non-white British subjects.
We turned up at the appointed time and were ushered into a conference room in an FCO annexe. A smart young Asian man rose to greet us.
‘Hello. Farooq Khan. I’m the desk officer you’ve been corresponding with . . . And with me here’ – he turned to a middle-aged woman in a starched blouse and sensible shoes – ‘is Marjory Thompson, Head of Country Casework for India and Pakistan, my boss. Also, Superintendent Jerry Whitehead from the Metropolitan Police’s International Unit has joined us to answer any questions that fall in his remit.’
Farooq Khan began to express his condolences about the ‘tragic events’ that had brought us together, but Ayesha cut him short.
‘I’m going to start by showing you a photograph of my father,’ she said. ‘Because I want you to know that we are talking about a real person. Ibrahim Rahman was my dad, a loving husband and father. He isn’t a statistic that you can file away in your archives. The investigation of my dad’s murder has been a farce. The Pakistani police made two arrests that were based on false confessions. The exhumation and the independent autopsy that I insisted on proved these men were not the culprits. They were arrested because the murderers had bribed the police to arrest them, while the real criminals were allowed to go free. Now, despite all the noise and all the promises, there is simply no investigation going on. Things have ground to a halt. The police have pocketed their pay-off, the murderers are carrying on with their criminal activities and no one is doing anything about it.’
‘Well, hang on a minute—’ Farooq Khan interjected, but Ayesha overrode him.
‘Turning to our experience with the FCO: for months we were fobbed off with endless discussions about citizenship and whether my father was a mono or a dual national. This is not acceptable. While that was going on, the crucial time to ensure a proper investigation was being wasted.
‘Then the FCO told us that HMG does not send representations about individual cases to foreign governments, but the fact is that they do. I can cite specific instances of this happening. I have written six times to the UK High Commissioner in Islamabad and have received not a single reply. This is unacceptable.
‘I want you to tell me why the FCO has constantly given us reasons why it cannot help us, instead of looking for ways in which it can help us. Why has the FCO defined my father’s status as a dual national, when he’d lived in Britain for over forty years? And why are you so reluctant to assist us when we are a British family residing in the UK?’
Farooq Khan opened his mouth to answer, but his boss motioned him to silence.
‘I am sorry, Miss Rahman. If you have been given the impression that we treat dual nationals differently from mono nationals, that is a misunderstanding . . .’
‘But in Farooq Khan’s letters to me he says explicitly that the FCO cannot offer us assistance because my father was a dual national.’
Marjory Thompson gave Farooq Khan a glance.
‘That is incorrect. The FCO provides exactly the same level of assistance for dual nationals.’
‘Okay. Thank you,’ Ayesha said. ‘So I would like us all to note that this will not be a problem from now on. But the fact remains that the Pakistani authorities have not carried out any proper investigation, and they will not do so unless you take some positive steps to force them into it.’
Farooq Khan cut in.
‘But there is an investigation underway. The FCO has asked the Pakistani authorities for updates on the investigation, as it does with all cases. They have promised to provide updates, but you have to be aware that their way of doing things is very different from what might be done in the UK. We represent HMG in Pakistan and we must respect the local ways of doing things. We cannot interfere in local cases . . .’
‘I’m afraid that is nonsense,’ Ayesha said. ‘The FCO has intervened directly in numerous similar cases – all of them, I have to say, involving victims who were white. In the case of my father, you have done virtually nothing; and when you have done something you have consistently failed to keep me informed of what is going on.’
‘The problem is that we don’t have the right to ask them for information about the investigation . . .’
‘The problem is that there is no investigation!’
‘Yes, there is! The Pakistani authorities are telling us that there is an investigation . . .’
‘That is simply wrong. They might say there is, but it isn’t true. Can you tell me what they are doing?’
‘It isn’t for us to do that. You should get your lawyer to ask them for an update on the investigation.’
‘The police are doing nothing! There has been no analysis of the results of the second forensic investigation . . .’
‘It isn’t our role to force the pace of the investigation. We cannot—’
‘Force the pace! The second forensic examination was done months ago!’
Jerry Whitehead, the representative from the Met Police’s International Unit, looked uncomfortable. He was in his fifties, almost certainly serving out his time before drawing his pension, but he appeared to be taking Ayesha’s predicament seriously.
‘So it’s been months since you had your father exhumed and there’s been no progress since then?’
Ayesha nodded.
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘I know that could never happen in the UK, but things are very different over there. And what I am concerned about is that the more time goes by, the less useful any forensic evidence will become. Not to mention the increased likelihood that they will lose key items, like my father’s clothes, which already seem to have been mislaid.’
Marjory Thompson tried to calm things.
‘The problem is that this is all happening on sovereign Pakistani territory. The authorities say there is an investigation going on and that means we can’t intervene. If you are unhappy, the best way is for you to take it to the court.’
‘We’ve already done that. But you know as well as I do that there is such a backlog – hundreds of cases – and the delays are terrible. You can never get a judge to hear an application without bribing him. And in our case it’s already too late, because the murderers have paid such massive bribes that we simply can’t match them. I am telling you that the only way to get justice for my father is for the FCO to start making robust diplomatic representation to the Pakistani authorities.’
Marjory Thompson shrugged. ‘Well, I’m afraid we are not going to do that, because the Pakistani authorities say there is an investigation that is going on . . .’
Farooq Khan seized his moment; his boss’s reprimand had caused him to lose face in front of Ayesha, a Muslim woman, and he didn’t like it.
‘Yes. That is absolutely correct. What we don’t want to do
– and what we must not do – is to upset any diplomatic ties with Pakistan. That is our paramount consideration . . .’
‘Really?’ Ayesha shot back. ‘That’s what you consider paramount? More important than bringing murderers to justice? More important than my father? More important than a human life?’
‘We are confident our colleagues are dealing with this case in the best possible way . . .’
‘You are confident? Well, I am not confident. The Pakistanis only do anything when there is real pressure on them to do it. We need pressure to be brought to bear . . .’
‘That’s just not the way we operate. Pakistan tells us there is a case going on and we can’t go pestering them for details of the case . . . We are not representing you in Pakistan; only your lawyer can do that. We can only give you assistance within the remit of our consular powers . . .’
‘But there has been no progress. All I am asking is for you to give us robust assistance to help get something done . . .’
‘I’m afraid there is no point in us promising you robust assistance – we cannot do this,’ Farooq Khan said. ‘Our colleagues in Pakistan say the Pakistani authorities are getting annoyed about all the inquiries they are receiving from us. If we consider that this matter is in danger of upsetting diplomatic ties with Pakistan, we may have to cease our assistance to you. We cannot jeopardise our ties with Pakistan. Our colleagues in the High Commission tell us—’
I raised my hand.
‘Excuse me, but can we just be clear? Are you saying the inquiries about this case are annoying the Pakistani authorities and that the FCO might have to stop being involved in the case because of this?’
Marjory Thompson caught the whiff of bad PR.
‘No, that is not correct. I’m sorry, what Farooq says is wrong . . .’
‘Oh no, it isn’t!’ Farooq Khan was loath to let another woman disrespect him, even if it was his boss. ‘I have been the desk officer on this case and the Pakistanis are saying we are approaching them too frequently and it is causing problems . . .’
Marjory Thompson stood up; Farooq Khan fell silent.
‘The FCO will continue with its assistance,’ she said with an air of finality. ‘We will continue to do what we can. I think this meeting is coming to a close. If you have no further questions, I think we should finish . . . Now if we can talk off the record, I am of course very sympathetic to what you have been going through . . .’
It had been nearly a month since I had had lunch with Tom; nearly a month since my brother phoned me in a state of evident distress. I had emailed him and got no reply; it was weighing on me that I hadn’t made any further efforts to check he was okay. I rang his home number and Tara replied. I asked how Tom was doing and she said, ‘Fine.’
CHAPTER 14
Ayesha was tough and determined. She had risen to the top of London’s IT industry where women, especially Asian women, have to be ruthless to succeed. And now she was driven by a passion that stemmed from love for her father, regret for his passing and, perhaps, a tacit sense of guilt that she had not done more to save him. She was exorcising her pain through the search to discover who had murdered Ibrahim and why. Her passion and anger had sliced through the bland assurances of the Foreign Office officials, but when we met again a week later, Ayesha was full of regret that she hadn’t insisted on concrete undertakings from them.
‘I’m kicking myself, Martin. We had them on the ropes and we didn’t pin them down. It’s my fault – I should have got specific promises from them, but I let them get away with a few expressions of goodwill. I don’t know how it happened – it’s not like me to be so unfocused.’
‘They were always going to resist getting into specifics,’ I said. ‘Maybe they genuinely are limited in what help they can give us. In any event, I’d say the best thing we can do now is to help ourselves. We need to do what I suggested earlier and go to Pakistan, don’t we?’
Ayesha was silent. For all her bravery she was reluctant to return to Kahin Nahi. When I asked if she was afraid she nodded vaguely.
‘Ayesha,’ I said, ‘we had a deal. You promised that if I got us a meeting with the Foreign Office, you would come with me to Pakistan . . .’
‘I didn’t say that; I said if you got us a meeting with a minister at the Foreign Office. I think we need another meeting and this time we really do need to see the minister. Will you help me?’
There was little point arguing. I wasn’t sure how I would persuade the Foreign Office to serve up a minister, but Ayesha was determined to exhaust every possible option before considering a trip to Pakistan. My own contacts in Whitehall were long gone and I no longer had the clout of working for a national news organisation, so I cast around for advice, beginning with my former BBC colleague Aled Parry-Jones. Aled was a big, practical Welshman who had spent several years as the Corporation’s Islamabad correspondent.
‘Bloody Foreign Office!’ he said when I told him how Ayesha had been treated. ‘Always trying to shuffle off responsibility. Give me a few days. They owe me a favour after the episode in Balochistan. I’ll see if Alistair Smart will talk to you. He’s the minister responsible for south Asia and he’s not a complete idiot; he may be some help. How’s the book coming on?’
‘Slowly. And I’m writing it in real time, so I’ve got no idea where the plot’s leading – if Ibrahim really is the hero Ayesha wants him to be, or some despicable crook. And because Ayesha keeps blowing hot and cold about cooperating with me, I’m worried I’m going to end up with half a book and no way to find out how the story ends!’
Aled laughed. ‘Ha! The miseries of being a writer! Just wait until you have real problems to deal with! You’ll have enough of that when you get to Pakistan.’
‘What do you think of the story?’ I asked. ‘Does it interest you?’
‘Yes, but I’ve spent years out there. I have to say, the dynamic between British Pakistanis and Pakistanis in Pakistan is pretty fraught. There are all sorts of jealousies and resentments between them. I’ve come across quite a few murders like yours, usually connected with land disputes or family feuds. There was one I was thinking of writing about myself. But it turned out to be such a nest of vipers that I dropped the idea.’
‘I was drawn to Ayesha’s story precisely because of its drama and the emotions it has stirred up,’ I said. ‘There’s something elemental about the passion and pride, the anger and hatred that exists in Pakistani culture. We’ve lost that in the West; it’s as if our society has been mollycoddled and gone soft. In Pakistan there’s still that untamed fierceness that you associate with legends of heroes and villains from ancient times. And then I find Ayesha herself fascinating; as a person, I mean. She’s suffered so much and she’s been so brave. But there’s a lot I don’t understand about the Pakistani mentality, or at least about Ayesha’s. At times she seems completely opaque; she wants to solve her dad’s murder but she’s scared of discovering what’s behind it. She’s constantly trying to make me write the story the way she wants it written, as though she’s worried that something terrible is going to emerge.’
‘Okay. Look,’ Aled scratched his chin. ‘I wasn’t going to mention this, but it strikes me there’s a pretty big elephant in the room. You said Ibrahim was a taxi driver when he was suspected of involvement in that girl’s death, right? So think about it. Who were the guys behind the scandals in Rochdale and Rotherham and Oxford? It was Pakistani men abusing white girls. And who were the people organising it all? In nearly every case it was Pakistani taxi drivers. They’re the ones who were running the gangs, ferrying the kids back and forth, collecting the bookings and the money. You should read the cuttings. I’m not saying Ibrahim was one of them, but it’s worth looking at. I wonder if that’s what Ayesha’s worried she’ll discover . . .’
I got home late, with a notebook full of questions and a headache. There was so little firm ground, so many certainties that had crumbled at the first challenge, so much that seemed alien and incomprehensible.
>
Clicking on the Internet I entered the search terms, ‘Child abuse; taxi drivers; Pakistani’. The screen filled with lurid newspaper headlines and stories of crimes carried out in cities across the country.
Police say vulnerable girls across Rochdale and Heywood were subjected to grooming by a network of men, mostly taxi drivers. Nine men of Pakistani heritage were jailed for crimes including rape, trafficking and child sex abuse . . .
The report concluded that approximately 1,400 children were sexually exploited in Rotherham between 1997 and 2013 . . .
Girls as young as 12 or 13 were being trafficked around the north-west of England. Men who worked in the take-away trade or as taxi drivers – professions that gave them unsupervised access to young teenagers – were grooming girls by offering them gifts, getting them hooked on drugs or alcohol, then forcing them to have sex. Victims were driven between Rochdale, Oldham, Bradford and elsewhere to have sex with men . . .
The facts were shocking, and the attitude of the rapists towards the girls sickening:
All the girls were white, all the accused were Asian Muslim men, and they displayed a searing contempt for their victims. ‘You white people train them in sex and drinking,’ one of the accused told the jury, ‘so when they come to us they are fully trained.’
Girl E had only just turned 13 when Sajid picked her up in his taxi and plied her with vodka before raping her. She later said Sajid and his co-defendants ‘treat white girls as easy meat’. Another victim said: ‘Pakistani men pass you round like a ball, they’re all in a massive circle and put a white girl in the middle.’
Two themes recurred throughout the reports – that the crimes were largely organised by taxi drivers; and that many of the girls were vulnerable children from care homes:
The gang’s victims were typically in care or on ‘at risk’ registers, their isolation from their families having turned them to drink, drugs or both.
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