Men from other cities would visit for £100-a-time ‘sex by appointment’ set up by the Oxford gang, who would also transport their underage sex slaves by taxi to London and Bournemouth to be abused.
My email pinged. It was a message from Tom with the subject heading ‘Highly Confidential PLEASE’.
Hiya Martin,
Are you in London? We have had plenty of drama up here. I have just started taking drugs. No, sorry, start again . . . I haven’t taken any illegal substances for decades, but my GP has put me on Prozac. I have taken two a day as prescribed and am totally unable to spell! I got lost last night (don’t let Tara know that I am telling you this bit, please). We were walking the dog in Thornberry Park, having taken my first Prozac tablet, and I thought Tara was following me but she wasn’t. It took me and the dog four hours to walk home. In the meantime, Tara had called the police thinking that I had killed myself. Apparently there were four police cars and a helicopter looking for me. After walking all the way through Crofton, Walton and down the dual carriageway, which is a very fast road without pavements, I realised I had no house keys. I thought I would find Tara at home, but instead I found a police car with a searchlight looking for me. This is what I put on Facebook . . .
‘I have just had a meeting with an interesting member of the constabulary. We had to sit in his police car for half an hour and he passed the time by showing me pictures on his iPhone of handbags, quilts and dresses that he makes in his spare time on his sewing machine. Perhaps the oddest thing is that he showed me a picture of himself wearing his latest creation. Life couldn’t possibly get any stranger, could it? He waited with me until someone came to take care of me, and as he left he said, “I haven’t enjoyed any of my police work as much as I’ve enjoyed talking to you tonight.” Potential boyfriend then?’
Love, Tom x.
I found Tom’s message worrying. He reported the episode with his usual humour, but he didn’t want me to talk to his wife about it. I replied immediately.
Wow! That’s a dramatic series of events! Will you tell me more when I see you the week after next? The main thing is that you are ok. I think the Prozac is a good idea if you are feeling bad. I am guessing that getting lost was a side effect of a medicine you aren’t used to yet. I particularly liked your story of the policeman and look for ward to hearing more about him. But I really don’t think you should take him on as a boyfriend . . .
See you soon. Lots of love.
PS I will of course keep all this confidential xx.
Tom wrote back:
Yes, it was the Prozac. But don’t you think it should be prescribed only with some kind of tranquiliser? I have looked it up on the Internet, as has my fantastically loyal, beautiful and absolutely wonderful wife. 99% of people using it for the first time say that their depression deepens for the first one to two weeks of use. There are reports of people who previously had ideas of self-harm or suicide becoming violent towards other people in the first few days of taking it. One man stabbed his wife to death and then killed himself. I have told Tara to keep all knives locked up for a while! Joking of course – I absolutely love her to death (. . . sorry!) x.
CHAPTER 15
Aled kept his promise. The Foreign Office wrote to say that Ayesha and I would be welcome to come and meet Alistair Smart, the minister with responsibility for India and Pakistan. The meeting would be off the record and there could be no promise of special treatment, but the government was anxious to demonstrate its commitment to protecting the interests of all British citizens in all parts of the globe.
Walking into Whitehall, where I had worked as a senior civil servant for five years after I left the BBC, brought back memories. I recalled the horror that would grip civil servants when ministers were forced to engage with members of the public, especially those with complaints. Their driving imperative was usually to minimise the fuss without making concessions; to manage the minister’s fears of negative publicity and restrain the politician’s impulse to offer promises that would be awkward to keep.
We were escorted down the FCO’s marble corridors by a secretary who brought us to Farooq Khan’s office. He greeted us politely but distantly. We were taken into a wood-panelled room where Farooq’s boss, Marjory Thompson, was leaning over the shoulder of a balding, chubby man at a mahogany desk. The two of them were leafing through a file of papers, but rose to greet us.
‘Ah, Ms Rahman, I presume,’ the man said, proffering then withdrawing a hand as he remembered that Muslim women are not permitted handshakes. ‘And you are Martin – I recognise you from the television. Well, you are both very welcome. Please take a seat; we have sandwiches here and Farooq will take your orders for tea or coffee.’
Farooq scowled.
‘As you know, Ms Rahman, I am the minister who keeps an eye on your part of the world . . . I mean, on the part of the world where your father so tragically lost his life. I recognise of course that you and your family are good Lancastrians – Burnley, if I remember correctly. Anyway, I believe Marjory has cleared up the misunderstanding about the dual nationality thing. I am most keen that we at the FCO take good care of all our UK citizens, Lancashire or Yorkshire – I’m from Yorkshire myself, but don’t let’s allow that to come between us!’
Ayesha looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
‘Now, what I would like to do today – and thank you for coming here to see me, by the way – what I would like to do is to put your minds at rest. I have spoken to my colleagues in the British High Commission in Islamabad and they have assured me that everything possible – I stress, everything possible – is being done to bring those responsible for Mr Rahman’s . . .’ he glanced at his notes, ‘. . . for Ibrahim’s death to justice. No stone left unturned, as they say . . .’
‘I’m sorry, minister,’ Ayesha was struggling to sound polite. ‘I fear you haven’t been given the latest information. The investigation by the Pakistani authorities into my father’s murder has ended. They are no longer pursuing the case. There is no activity whatsoever. And despite all our requests, the British High Commission has failed completely to demand an explanation. I am at my wits’ end. I have come here because I regard you as the only person with the ability to help me and my family. And I am sure that Martin, who is planning to write about this, would say the same thing. Martin’s book already has plenty of villains; what he needs now is a hero!’
Ayesha’s speech took me by surprise and, judging by the look on Alistair Smart’s face, him too.
‘Well now, Ms Rahman, that is very kind of you . . . Very, er, kind. And of course I would wish to play a positive role in this matter; a very positive role. I must say that actually there is a presumption against HMG getting involved in proceedings in foreign countries. And there are limits to what we can do. On the other hand, I have had five or six conversations about deaths in Pakistan in the last year . . .’
Marjory Thompson sensed the danger of ill-considered concessions.
‘Ms Rahman, we have had this discussion many times. You claim there is no investigation, but the Pakistani authorities are telling us that there is one. You can see our difficulty . . .’
Ayesha’s eyes remained fixed on the minister; the civil servant was a distraction.
‘Minister, I beg you to believe me when I say that we know there is no investigation. I have personally discovered that the perpetrators have successfully applied to the High Court in Pakistan to block the opening of any reinvestigation. Effectively that has put an end to things. Now we can see how powerful these people are, both in terms of their political contacts and the money they have access to, neither of which we have.’
Ayesha had not mentioned anything to me about a High Court application. When I glanced across at her, I had the impression that she winked. But Alistair Smart was taking her claim seriously.
‘Well now, I’m not sure that I know what to make of that. I must say I find it hard to believe that the High Court of any country would take a bribe from murder s
uspects. Don’t you agree, Farooq?’ The minister, playing for time, had turned to the most junior person in the room. ‘You are Pakistani. Is it credible in your experience that the highest echelons of your country’s judiciary would be amenable to such a thing?’
‘Minister, forgive me,’ Farooq Khan said. ‘I am hardly Pakistani. I am British. And my family came from Bangladesh, not Pakistan. But if you ask me about Pakistan, I would say anything is possible in a society as corrupt as that.’
Marjory Thompson appealed for calm.
‘Farooq, please! I think that is quite enough. Minister, I wonder if I might have a word?’
She spoke into the minister’s ear in a conspiratorial whisper, waited until he nodded and then addressed the room.
‘Ms Rahman, I am pleased we were able to have this meeting. I think we have clarified several important issues. The minister has kindly agreed that, exceptionally in your case, the Foreign Office will approach the Pakistani High Commission here in London to inquire about the progress of the police investigation into your father’s death. We will find out how much more we can get from the Pakistani authorities. We will speak to the High Commissioner and ask him to ask the Pakistani police—’
Ayesha rolled her eyes. ‘It’s no good just asking for a general update—’
‘We can make it clear that HMG is concerned. We can ask for more detailed information, which your lawyer in Pakistan can then follow up. I should say that families often feel there is no proper investigation being carried out. In many cases, the killers are local and the family has suspicions that they are being unfairly protected. I will also ask for the question of your unanswered letters and emails to be looked into.’
The meeting was over. The minister and the senior civil servants picked up their papers and rose from their seats. Ayesha tried to prolong the conversation, but Marjory Thompson cut her short.
‘Farooq will show you out. Thank you for coming. And please be assured that we are doing everything possible to resolve this issue.’
At the exit Farooq Khan could contain himself no longer.
‘You know something?’ he said, turning to Ayesha. ‘You Pakistanis take up more of our time than any other nationality, and you’re never grateful! I’ve been in all the meetings about your case; your endless letters and complaints are driving us round the bend. Marjory says Pakistanis are always murdering each other over honour feuds and land disputes and family quarrels. She says there’s just no way the Foreign Office can spare the time and resources to get involved. So my advice to you is to get out of here and go and ask your Pakistani friends to sort things out for you!’
Ayesha tensed; she looked ready to punch the man. I hurried her out into the street, and as I did so my mobile phone buzzed. It was a text from my sister-in-law. ‘Martin, please ring when you can. I need to talk to you about Tom.’
I hesitated. Tara’s text sounded urgent; but Ayesha was furious, pulling at my sleeve until I followed her into the Red Lion pub across the road.
‘Get me a red wine, will you? We need to decide what we’re going to do about the fiasco we’ve just been subjected to. I can’t believe they treat people like that and think they can get away with it! Get the drinks, will you . . .’
When I returned from the bar, Ayesha gave vent to her anger.
‘It’s my father’s death that’s made me face up to this, Martin, made me think about who I am. I used to think I was British and I used to think I was Pakistani too; but now I know I’m neither. What I discovered in Pakistan, all that cruelty and dishonesty and corruption, has made me realise I’m not Pakistani; my DNA is different from all that. But since I’ve been dealing with the British establishment, it’s made me realise I’m not British either. With the Foreign Office, it’s like they theoretically recognise me as British, but the way they treat me it’s clear they don’t. I’m sure Farooq was telling the truth when he said they regard us with contempt. It feels like utter rejection. And at the same time, I’m having to reject my Pakistani side. As a family we’re in no-man’s-land. We don’t want to be Pakistani because we’re treated so badly over there: it’s all about money and there’s no sympathy or value for human life. And then there’s this rejection from the British authorities. I feel in a complete muddle. Who are we as a family when our father struggled so hard for us to be British, and we feel British and we feel our loyalties are to Britain? Then at the same time we’re told we’re not Pakistanis, because people in Pakistan say, “Well, if you were really Pakistani you’d know how to deal with this: you’d know that you have to pay bribes and kowtow to these people and so on”, but that’s not in our DNA. Nobody is willing to accept us. So I’ve decided I have to take responsibility. It’s my responsibility to stick up for my father and take this case forward. I know the risks that involves, but I have to do it because nobody else will: the Pakistani authorities say, “You’re a British kid; why don’t you ask your British government to help you?” And the British say, “You’re Pakistani, so sort it out with your people over there.” Before this whole thing happened, my line at dinner parties was, “I’m so lucky because I have the gift of two cultures”, but the gift’s gone. I thought I had two worlds, two identities at my fingertips, but now I have none . . .’
Ayesha’s outpouring of alienation was upsetting. I sympathised with her predicament. But I couldn’t help thinking that perhaps the FCO had a point – the honour feuds and the murders carried out for reasons that in the West would seem ridiculous did make it difficult for the Foreign Office to intervene.
It was late and I was tired. I put Ayesha into a taxi and agreed we would meet again.
Finally I was able to ring Tara. ‘Martin,’ she said. ‘Tom has tried to kill himself.’
CHAPTER 16
The journey out of London was torturous, the traffic unrelenting. Tara had given me the bare details; my mind extrapolated the worst. The drive to Tom’s house took an age.
Tom was four years younger than me. As children, we had played together, fought together, gone on adventures. When I was ten and Tom six, we went exploring a forbidden building site. There were a dozen of us, but the policeman who caught us picked on the littlest. ‘What’s your name, son?’ Tom looked at me and said, ‘Ask him.’ That’s how things were. I was good at coping; sweet, innocent Tom could never quite get to grips with the world.
What he lacked in practical skills, he made up for in good nature. His imagination was sparky; his humour made you smile and groan. For years he worked as a printer, but his passion was sculpture, bending metal into original, unexpected creations. He wrote quirky, striking stories. But he didn’t recognise his own gifts. I think Tom found people intimidating, the natural world and animals more straightforward to deal with. He loved his children but had himself remained a naïf, wandering through life with eyes wide. He put on a brave face, but the world scared him.
Tara’s message had shaken me. Tom had always needed someone to look after him. Our parents had done it while they were alive. Then Tara took on the task. I wondered if she was regretting it.
When I pulled into the drive the house was in darkness. Tara came to the door and switched on the light. She had been a nurse for twenty years and she rarely lost her outer calm.
‘I came home from work last night and I couldn’t find him. That wasn’t too unusual. Since he lost his printing job, he’s been acting quite strange. And drinking. I texted him and he said he was okay. He came home at midnight and went straight to bed. When I went to work this morning he still hadn’t woken up. Then this afternoon I got a text from him and it said something like “Goodbye”. I was worried, so I came back to the house and he wasn’t here. I looked in the garden and found him in the shed. He had blocked up the windows and the door and lit a barbecue . . .’
‘Oh, Christ. How was he?’
‘Alive. The shed was full of fumes and he’d obviously drunk quite a lot; probably taken pills as well.’
‘Could he talk?’
�
��Yes. He was woozy. He said he wanted to kill himself and told me to leave him alone . . .’
‘And do you think he was serious? About wanting to kill himself, I mean?’
‘Who knows, Martin? I’ve been dealing with cases like his all my life and I’d still struggle to tell you which are the serious ones and which aren’t.’
‘But was it out of the blue? Or have there been warning signs? He told me about the Prozac and getting lost, but I had no idea it was as bad as that.’
‘He’s been very unhappy. At first he kept busy, cutting the grass and keeping the garden tidy. And he was making his sculptures. But he gradually stopped doing all that and he started drinking earlier and earlier in the day. When I’d get home from work he was usually sitting in the garage smoking or he was asleep. It has been really tough for us all.’
‘But what happened this afternoon was much worse than anything he’d done before, wasn’t it? What did you do when he told you to go away and leave him?’
‘I wasn’t going to leave him to die. I rang 999 and the police came with an ambulance. There were four or five of them, big blokes. They wanted to take him to hospital, but Tom kept arguing and saying he wouldn’t go. So they ended up having to wrestle him to the ground and force him into the ambulance.’
I pictured my brother being manhandled, a scared little boy maltreated and humiliated because he was unhappy with his life, because he had no one to soothe his hurt.
‘They took him to A&E and pumped his stomach,’ Tara said. ‘He’d taken sleeping pills, right enough. But he kept trying to leave, insisting on discharging himself. They’re holding him under the Mental Health Act.’
I was taken aback.
‘God almighty. I saw him for lunch just a few weeks ago and he didn’t mention anything like that. He spoke about some stuff that was worrying him, but nothing serious . . .’
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