‘Well, that may of course be true. But there could also be other explanations. It is a fact that Mr Rahman – Ibrahim – was buying land around Kahin Nahi. I have traced several of his purchases and most of them involve plots adjoining or close to the property of the Rahman family, the lands farmed by Mr Rahman’s father and his father before him. So it could be that Ibrahim started buying the land for entirely innocent purposes. But then I think something happened, something – or someone – that drew him into buying more and more until he was in it way over his head . . .’
For the first time, the hostility disappeared from Ayesha’s expression.
‘But how could Dad have afforded to buy all that if he wasn’t getting money from somewhere dodgy?’
Imran shrugged. ‘That is something we will have to find out. We’ll need to speak to the patwari who dealt with the transactions. All I am saying is that there may have been a less sinister explanation for the land purchases than we have been assuming. But I have the strong impression that they played a part in Mr Rahman’s tragic end . . .’
CHAPTER 21
We had arranged to meet for breakfast, but Ayesha did not appear. The heat seemed to have moved up a notch; even the hotel’s powerfully cooled interior was beginning to turn sticky. I had finished eating and was about to ring Ayesha’s room when she walked up to the table and slumped in a chair. She was wearing dark glasses.
‘Sorry. Sorry for keeping you waiting. I see you’ve finished. Anyway, I only want a coffee.’
She clicked her fingers to the waiter, who bowed and went to fetch her order.
‘I’m fine. You don’t need to say anything. What’s Imran got fixed for us?’
She appeared less resentful now, less angry. The suggestion of a possible exoneration for her dead father had attenuated her indignation.
‘ “Good morning, Ayesha . . .” Isn’t that what people usually say when they meet? Don’t they usually ask how we slept and stuff like that?’
‘Very funny. Thanks for reminding me. Why don’t you just answer the question . . .’
Her words were spiked, but there was a hint of a smile.
‘Well, Imran’s already rung,’ I said. ‘He’s arranged for us to meet a senior commander in the Karachi Police Department. Apparently he and Imran were at university in London together. Imran thinks this fellow will be able to persuade – or order – our friend Inspector Iqbal to talk to us.’
Ayesha nodded. ‘Okay. That sounds helpful. And what do you make of the things Imran was saying last night – about my dad’s land purchases? Who is this patwari person he was talking about?’
‘I asked Imran about that when he rang this morning. The patwari is the local official who records land sales. Like a land registrar in the UK, I suppose; but Imran says it’s more complicated here and we need to be on our guard when we’re dealing with him. He’ll explain when he sees us.’
Imran arrived as Ayesha was finishing her coffee. He bade her good morning, asked if she had slept well and looked surprised when I laughed. Imran said his friend, Commander Zaid Alam, would be joining us shortly, but he wanted to explain a few things before we met him.
‘Zaid is a top policeman and I can vouch for his honesty. He is highly educated; he runs a tight ship, but he is beholden to the system of policing that pertains in Pakistan. This is not the UK. Police and politicians work closely here. And this can lead to corruption. Zaid knows full well that cops like Iqbal Hafiz take bribes. It is not ideal, but it has been like that for centuries.’
‘Thank you, Imran,’ Ayesha said. ‘We understand. And we’re grateful to your friend for helping us get to see Inspector Iqbal. Can I just ask about what you were saying last night concerning my father’s land purchases? You said the patwari might be able to help us . . .’
‘I hope so; but again I think it will depend on how we approach things. Like the police, patwaris exercise unchecked power. They alone draw up the records of land sales and transfers, boundaries and legal titles. Civil servants are rarely monitored by the centre, so they are masters in their own kingdoms. Tampering with the records is rampant. Land-grabbing crooks pay patwaris billions of rupees to get property illegally transferred to their names, leaving the real owners bereft. Even feudal lords seek their favour and they escape punishment because of their political connections. The patwari who dealt with your father had great power over him; he could register the land to whomever he wished, and could be bribed or threatened into favouring the most persuasive party. That sort of thing has caused countless feuds and murders. So my first thought was that something of this ilk may be at the root of your father’s troubles. When we go to see the patwari, we need to be very aware of this . . .’
Imran stood up and waved across the lobby. A tall, athletic man in a white shirt with epaulettes was striding towards us accompanied by a retinue of uniformed policemen.
‘Zaid!’ Imran thrust out his hand and the two men embraced. ‘It is good to see you. Thank you for coming . . .’
‘Not a problem, my friend. I am here officially to check on the security of this hotel and its many distinguished Western visitors.’ He smiled in our direction and Imran made the introductions. A representative of the hotel management arrived with two waiters, inviting us to sit at a fresh table on which they spread a selection of snacks and drinks, while the uniformed officers stood guard. Zaid was patently a man of influence.
‘How can I help?’ he said as the waiters fussed. ‘Imran has told me the essentials of your inquiry. I know you have concerns about the conduct of some of my men. Please tell me what I can do.’
I began to explain about Ibrahim Rahman’s murder and our suspicions that the Kahin Nahi police had been bribed to let his killers go free. Zaid listened politely; when he spoke it was clear that he had read the file.
‘Let me say this: Kahin Nahi is probably the most dangerous and crime-ridden neighbourhood of the dangerous, crime-ridden city we call home. Inspector Iqbal Hafiz is a difficult man; he is rude and ruthless, and he is almost certainly corrupt. But his methods keep a lid on the violence, which is an achievement. It is a terrible thing when evil men get away with evil deeds; but sometimes policemen must choose between two evils. In Karachi compromise is a way of life, and the noblest of us are flawed. We are forced to make backroom deals and trade-offs between principle and power—’
‘But this is my father we are talking about!’ Ayesha’s anger had returned. ‘How can you sit there and talk about compromise? How can you defend men like Iqbal who have taken money to cover up for criminals?’
‘I do not defend them,’ Zaid said. ‘I am explaining to you the background against which these events took place. I am aware that corruption happens. If it goes too far, then I intervene. But this is how the system functions; you cannot eradicate it without everything breaking down. I will tell Iqbal that he must speak to you. Then it is up to you to decide where the truth lies.’
Zaid tapped in a number on his mobile phone and was answered immediately. He spoke briefly in Urdu and clicked the phone off.
‘I have told Iqbal. He is expecting you . . .’
Imran laughed. ‘Zaid-ji, how do you do that? I called Iqbal for days and he never answered!’
‘Are you naïve, Imran-ji? All police have two phones – one for the public that they never pick up and one for important calls; I got the second one. Now, how are you planning to get to Kahin Nahi?’
Imran said he would drive us in his car, but Zaid looked dubious.
‘For you and for Ms Rahman, of course, that is fine. The problem is Martin. We are experiencing a spike in carjackings, in which Westerners are prize targets. On that score Martin sahib sticks out like a sore finger . . .’
I began to say I was willing to take the risk, but Zaid raised a hand.
‘I cannot allow you to go unaccompanied. Daniel Pearl was abducted in broad daylight in this city right outside the Metropole Hotel and ended up with his throat being slit on camera. I shall provide a
detail of my men to take you to Kahin Nahi.’
CHAPTER 22
Karachi was suffering in the heatwave. Temperatures were nudging into the mid-forties. On television spokesmen for the National Disaster Management Authority gave updates of deaths and prognoses for the city’s water supply. The chronic power cuts, normally accepted with wry humour, had turned deadly as whole districts were left with dry taps and standpipes. The rich ordered deliveries from water tankers; the poor slipped into dehydrated decline. On the streets volunteers handed out dates and drinks for Iftar meals to break the Ramadan fast. In the hospitals dying patients lay in corridors. Thousands fled from homes that had become unbearably hot, sleeping in the open, staggering down highways in search of shelter. City services were overwhelmed; the morgues ran out of space, bodies were stacked in meat storage facilities and gravediggers quadrupled their fees.
The hotel reception rang in mid-afternoon to say that our escort had arrived. In the lobby three policemen in body armour were waiting for us, machine guns across their chests. Karachiites, long inured to the city’s trappings of violence, barely gave them a second glance. We set off northwards in an armoured jeep, passing through the middle-class suburb of Nazimabad with its 1950s apartment blocks built for the influx of Mohajir refugees, then on into Liaquatabad and Buffer Zone. The roads became rougher, the streets more frequently scarred by open sewers. The jeep had no air conditioning; all of us, not least the policemen in their flak jackets, were suffering. In the katchi abadis, the slums of Karachi’s Orangi Town where a million people scrape out a fragile existence, our guardians flicked the safety catches of their weapons. Imran spoke to them in Urdu but their reply was terse. He whispered to me that we were ‘in a place where police are regularly strafed’.
We turned into a narrow one-way street. Crowds filled it, slowing our progress. People were looking in at the windows. The policeman in the back of the jeep put his hand on my head and pushed me down. It was cramped and hot; I could see nothing beyond a row of feet. Outside, voices were raised; the jeep seemed to sway as if rocked by unseen hands. Memories of the two British soldiers dragged from their car and murdered by an angry Belfast crowd in 1988 flashed into my mind. Then the jeep accelerated, bouncing precariously down the uneven road. The policeman laughed and pulled me upright.
After a moment Imran nudged me. ‘They were feeling edgy,’ he said, ‘because that is where a police patrol was shot dead last month. They’d set up a sting on a gang of car thieves, but someone had been tipped off and they were fired on from all sides. A crew from SAMAA TV who’d gone along to cover the operation got caught in the crossfire.’
Kahin Nahi was beyond Orangi Town, at the very limit of the city. A scruffy main street was lined by shacks, with a garish marriage hall rising above them. In lay-bys at the side of the road, men congregated around parked trucks and trailers, smoking, talking and arguing. Piles of rubbish were everywhere; dogs pulled at the carcass of a dead donkey.
We made a sharp left turn and came to a halt in front of an armoured gate set in a wall of umber brick. The police station guard waved the barrel of his rifle at us, indicating that we should park further away. Regarding it as a slight, our driver switched off the engine. There was a stand-off until the driver produced a document and thrust it at the sentry. He weighed it up quizzically before disappearing inside.
The gate reopened and we were ushered out of the car. Behind the wall was a quadrangle of scrubby grass with chickens scratching at the baked earth; at its centre, set back from the outer defences, a single-storey building flying the Pakistani flag proclaimed itself to be ‘Police Station No. 211; Kahin Nahi District, Karachi’. The sentry pointed to a door.
Stepping from blinding sunlight into the dark interior was disorienting. I sensed that the room was small – around twelve feet by twelve – and I heard a voice speaking in Urdu. A stocky, moustachioed man was sitting behind a desk, dressed in the grey-blue uniform of a Deputy Superintendent of Police, with a mobile phone clamped to his ear. He took no notice of us. Ayesha, Imran and I stood uncertainly then settled on a row of hard-backed chairs ranged against the wall. Inspector Iqbal did not look in our direction; it was hard to tell if he was genuinely busy or just making us wait. Imran sat impassively, but I knew Ayesha was seething.
An ancient air conditioning unit set high on the wall rumbled noisily, dripping water onto the floor. When a puddle formed an elderly man in grubby pantaloons ran in and mopped it up with a towel. I watched the ceremony repeated several times, fascinated by its Sisyphean precision. The plaster on the wall behind Iqbal’s head was peeling. A portrait of Muhammad Ali Jinnah looked down on the servant of the state he had founded. A carved wooden panel immortalised the names of the DSPs who had served before.
When Iqbal ended his call and put down the phone, Ayesha began to speak but Iqbal snubbed her.
‘Imran-ji,’ he said in accented, fluent English. ‘The Commander is your classmate? He wants me to talk to you? But I don’t know what about. There is nothing to tell about this stupid case!’
I tried to object; Iqbal ignored me and switched pointedly to Urdu. A game of status was being played and I was losing it. I motioned to Imran, but he shook his head. When Iqbal paused, Imran spoke.
‘DSP Iqbal, sir; thank you for receiving us. We know you are busy . . .’
The phone on Iqbal’s desk rang and he picked it up at once, speaking in English so we could understand that the most trivial matters took precedence over us. He spoke about a dinner he had attended, about vacation plans, about acquaintances in the UK, their medical problems and the deficiencies of the British health care system. ‘British Pakistanis!’ he concluded, with a glance towards Ayesha. ‘They claim benefits over there; then come here in their gold bracelets and chains!’
Iqbal was playing the maharaja; Imran said later that I reminded him of ‘Sir Clive at the court of the Great Mughal’, impotently waiting to speak. After fifteen minutes, I got up and went to the door from which the floor-mopping flunkey had entered. I motioned to Iqbal that I wished to wash my hands. I found the bathroom, but instead of using it I loaded a cassette into my pocket tape recorder. I made to flush the toilet, but discovered the building had no running water. As I returned to the audience room, Iqbal plucked a tissue from a gold-plated box on his desk and handed it to me without interrupting his phone call. The recorder in my pocket was turning.
When Iqbal deigned finally to address us, he gave no indication of being on the defensive. He was a man used to giving orders, used to the deference of petitioners forced to hang on his whim.
‘So here is Miss Ayesha, back with us again,’ he said with a hint of a sneer, ‘still not satisfied with Pakistani justice.’ Iqbal addressed himself to Imran to show that Ayesha and I were beneath his dignity. It was a gesture of contempt, but I wondered if there was weakness in it.
‘You know that I am talking to you only because Commander Zaid has requested it. What is it that you wish to ask?’
‘We wish to benefit from your expertise, DSP Iqbal,’ Imran said carefully. ‘We understand that the first set of miscreants arrested for the murder of Ibrahim Rahman have proved to be innocent of the crime.’
Iqbal sat impassively, his head slightly cocked.
‘So we wish to explore what further facts we might discover with your assistance. We know that prior to his death Ibrahim was buying land in the Kahin Nahi district. And since land is a sensitive issue, it struck me that Mr Rahman might have been killed in a land dispute. Perhaps there was someone competing with him for the property and the competition got out of hand . . .’
Iqbal snorted. ‘Then you know nothing about Kahin Nahi. The land here is worthless. There is so much of it, millions of acres. It is never going to be developed for building and it is the worst agricultural soil in Pakistan. You can forget that theory!’
Imran looked pensive.
‘Iqbal sahib, I bow to your knowledge. I do not know why someone would want this worthless land. I
do not know why Ibrahim himself would want it. But it seems that he did do. And this is what puzzles me: he was so attached to the land that he was willing to defend it . . .’
I saw Iqbal’s eyes dart to Ayesha. Imran’s account had taken an unexpected turn.
‘Masood Jilani, the unfortunate detective fellow who worked for Ms Rahman, informs me that Ibrahim called a meeting of landowners in Kahin Nahi. These were small farmers, mainly families with inherited property – worthless property as you say, DSP; but Ibrahim was organising people to protect it . . .’
Iqbal shifted in his chair.
‘. . . I understand that there was a confrontation involving a certain amount of violence, in which the Kahin Nahi police had to intervene. I am sure this will be logged in your records, Iqbal-ji . . .’
Iqbal’s fingers tapped on the desktop.
‘Perhaps I remember something,’ he said. ‘We have endless problems with land disputes. I can’t be expected to remember them all.’
‘No. Of course not. But I think you might remember this one; because it involved someone you know personally. I believe that Ibrahim Rahman’s quarrel was with Mr Javed Shafik . . .’
For the first time since we arrived Iqbal wavered.
‘Imran-ji,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I can tell you that this is not the case. Shafik has nothing to do with this affair.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Ayesha leapt to her feet. ‘You say that . . . because Shafik has bribed you to cover up for whoever killed my dad!’
Iqbal’s fist clenched.
‘You silly English girl! You need to watch your tongue. This is not England. You come here and you think you can tell us what to do. You think things will be like they are in England. Well, this is Pakistan. You don’t know the first thing about this place!’
Iqbal realised he had let his anger get the better of him. His eyes narrowed.
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