‘My strong advice to you, Miss Rahman, is to drop all these accusations and go home to England. In England perhaps crimes get solved. But here people get killed by powerful men and the murderers are never found. I advise you in your own interest, in your dead father’s interest and in your family’s interest: go home at once!’
Ayesha’s hands were shaking; she leaned on the chair to steady herself, but she did not back down.
‘So . . . you’re threatening me . . . you’re warning me . . . But you’re not denying that you know Javed Shafik . . . that you took a bribe from him . . . that Shafik killed my father and you’re protecting him!’
Iqbal was calm now. He spoke with the assurance of a man who makes the rules and has little to fear from them.
‘I am sorry to disappoint you, but your father was no hero. He didn’t quarrel with Shafik; far from it – he worked for him! Ibrahim Rahman was a partner in Shafik’s business; he was Javed Shafik’s accomplice. And you are very foolish indeed if you believe otherwise.’
‘You’re lying!’ Ayesha groaned. ‘My father would never work for a criminal like Shafik!’
‘Really? And what about all the other things you don’t know about your father? Like his fondness for young girls, for instance . . . Rahman was far from the lovely, innocent father you think he was – or pretend he was, or have convinced yourself he was – he was a lecher, a dirty old man who liked little girls!’
‘No! That’s a lie! You have no evidence of that . . .’
Iqbal was enjoying his triumph.
‘Do you think we’re stupid? Do you really think we don’t know about the traffickers sending girls back and forth to the UK, pretending they’re child brides? Why do you think your father was always coming here? Do you think we don’t know about your father’s shady past? About the girl he abused and murdered in Burnley? You would do well to think about that. And you would do well to get out of Pakistan while you still can!’
CHAPTER 23
The journey back to the hotel passed in hot, angry silence. Ayesha said she was tired and went to bed. Imran and I sat for a while over a coffee, but Inspector Iqbal’s outburst had unsettled us. His accusations had rekindled my doubts about Ibrahim, while for Imran there seemed to be an undertone of perceived national shame. It is easy to say that evil exists in all races and nations, but the peculiarly Pakistani character of the alleged crimes was harder for him to swallow.
Imran asked me what weight I gave to the story of the dead girl in Burnley, but I had no answer. We both wanted to dismiss Iqbal’s accusations as clumsy smears designed to humiliate Ayesha, but we both feared they might be true. I asked Imran what else Masood Jilani had told him about Ibrahim’s land acquisitions and about his reasons for convening the meeting of local landowners. Imran shrugged: he didn’t know anything more than what he had said to Inspector Iqbal, and much of that had been based on speculation. We parted with a tremor of apprehension.
When the three of us met for breakfast the following morning, Ayesha seemed reinvigorated. Having phoned her great-uncle Guddu she told us that Guddu remembered Ibrahim’s attempts to rally the landowners of Kahin Nahi. He could not recall exactly what the bone of contention had been, but he confirmed that there had been a public meeting and that it was broken up by the police.
‘So don’t you see?’ Ayesha said. ‘This proves what I’ve been telling you. My dad was trying to protect people; he was getting the small landowners together to fight off crooks and land-grabbers like Javed Shafik and his gang. He was murdered because he was standing up for what was right. He was never in league with Shafik – that was all lies by Iqbal. My dad was never an abuser or a murderer . . . he was a hero!’
‘Just like Yul Brynner against the Mexican bandits in The Magnificent Seven, you mean?’
‘My God, Martin!’ Ayesha gave me a withering look. ‘How can you be so cynical? I thought you wanted to help me. I thought you cared. And you come out with something like that . . .’
I had spoken the words before I could stop myself, but they captured the instinctive mistrust I felt about Ayesha’s determination to exonerate her father.
‘Perhaps I am cynical. It would be great if your dad turns out to be a hero – we would all prefer Yul Brynner to a . . . to a child abuser. But we have to be realistic; we need evidence before we start drawing conclusions.’
‘You don’t want anything good to come out of this, do you? I find something positive for a change, something encouraging after all the awful things I’ve had to go through since Dad died, and you pour cold water on it! I can’t believe you said that about The Magnificent Seven. That is so disrespectful! I think you’d be happier if this whole thing turns out to be a complete disaster . . . so you can write a really horrible book damning me and my father and Pakistan and everything and everyone you come across!’
Imran stepped in.
‘Ayesha, Martin – why don’t we think about how we get clarification of these matters? Why don’t I ring the patwari and ask if we can see him? At least that would give us some first-hand information . . .’
‘Maybe. Or maybe we should go and see Javed Shafik . . .’ I was angry; and this felt like a turning point in our search for answers. ‘Now we know Shafik is up to his neck in human trafficking and scams and violence . . . why don’t we go and ask him if Ibrahim was in it with him? That would be the best clarification by a mile!’
Imran lifted his hands in a gesture of calm.
‘I am working on Javed Shafik, Martin. I told you I’m waiting for him to decide if he wants to be interviewed by you. So in the meantime I am going to call the patwari, okay? At least it will give us something concrete to do instead of sitting here getting angry with each other.’
Imran went into the hotel garden to make the phone call and escape the acrimony. Ayesha and I sat brooding. I yielded first.
‘I’m sorry. I was wrong to mock you. But you know we’ve always said we need to be honest with each other. It’s no good constructing some idealised picture of Ibrahim just because that’s how you would like him to be . . .’
‘That’s not what I’m doing! It’s you who keeps twisting things. You ignore the positive evidence and insist on the worst possible interpretation of everything. Don’t you believe me when I say my dad was fighting for the people’s rights? Don’t you trust me?’
‘If we’re being completely honest, Ayesha, I’m not sure that I do. You remember when we spoke about the Governor of Sindh and you said that stuff about Pakistanis being driven by self-interest? Well, sometimes I can’t help wondering if that applies to you, too.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means you’ve always tried to bully me into writing what you want me to write; that you’ve always—’
‘Well, poor little Martin! The big journalist bullied by a little Pakistani girl. Don’t make me laugh!’
‘Come on, Ayesha. You know there are different sorts of bullying. You can do it in more subtle ways . . .’
‘Well, you know what? You say you can’t trust me, but I honestly don’t know if I can trust you. You say I want to whitewash my father, but I think you’re desperate for some lurid, horrid scandal . . . so you can sell more books!’
Imran reappeared and an ingrained English horror of making a scene made us fall silent. Nothing had been resolved; it was just easier to allow Imran to take charge.
‘So. Good news. The patwari is available. He made a point of saying he will clear his diary for us, which means he is expecting a present. We shouldn’t take anything too valuable; we don’t want him to think we are desperate . . . or made of money. Martin, do you have something like a BBC pen or a tie? That would be a good level to begin with; we can up the stakes later on.’
I gave Imran a couple of BBC T-shirts that I had brought for this purpose and we picked up a driver from the hotel. As we drove through the midday traffic Imran spoke about the man we were going to see. Asif Chaudhry had been a patwari for over thirty y
ears and his father and grandfather had held the post for similar terms.
‘If you have these people on your side, you have a useful ally,’ Imran said. ‘If they are against you, you have a problem. It may seem strange to English people that we must kowtow to a bureaucrat, but I urge you to show respect. This fellow is very influential; he may hold some keys to our investigation.’
After what Imran had said about the patwaris’ wealth and power, I was surprised when we pulled up outside a rundown building with boarded windows. A nameplate in Urdu and English dating from the days of the Raj announced that this was the Office of Divisional Surveyor and Land Registrar, Patwari Chaudhry. In the course of our journey the weather had shifted from dry heat to oppressive humidity; steamy sunshine and dark clouds were now vying for possession of the sky. Imran knocked.
‘Patwari sahib? Chaudhry sahib?’
He pushed gently at the door, which opened. We found ourselves in a sort of waiting room. It seemed deserted. Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with official papers in fraying cardboard folders. A fine dust flecked the sunlight that crept through the cracks in the boarded windows.
‘I thought you said these documents were precious,’ I whispered to Imran. ‘That people kill and bribe to get their hands on them. How come they’re just left lying where anyone can take them?’
‘Ah, but these are not the precious ones!’ The politely mocking voice came from a door at the far end of the room. A stooped figure in a cream waistcoat was peering at us through half-moon spectacles.
‘Welcome, welcome, gentlemen and lady. Patwari Chaudhry is pleased to meet you. Do come into my parlour.’
The inner room was darker; a lamp burned on a desk piled with documents. The place was improbably cramped, submerged under fathoms of paper. My shoulder brushed against the door jamb and a piece of the wooden frame fell to the floor. I made to apologise, but Chaudhry raised his hand.
‘You see the squalor to which the Pakistani state condemns its servants. Our offices were built by the British and no funds have been provided for maintenance since then. Such are the conditions in which we patwaris work; we labour from dawn until dusk, yet we remain on the receiving end of criticism that we are corrupt!’
‘Not from us, patwari sahib!’ Imran hastened to reply. ‘Allow me to introduce Mr Martin and Miss Ayesha. Both have come here from England to meet you.’
Chaudhry smiled. ‘Ah, yes, England. Blighty. Have you brought anything with you from England?’
Imran handed over the two T-shirts with a slight bow. Patwari Chaudhry felt them between his fingers. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I shall give these to my nephews. Is there something else? I mean, something for which you require my assistance?’
Imran nodded. ‘Chaudhry sahib, Mr Martin is a journalist. He is researching about our notorious land-grabbing practices and mafia gangs that are involved in this—’
Chaudhry laughed. ‘Yes, of course – land mafias are us. Or that is how the world thinks of us, a lawless state where property is not safe and life is gravely at risk. What do you want from me?’
‘We would like you to tell us what you know, Chaudhry sahib. We will be grateful for your help.’
Chaudhry leaned back in his chair and folded his arms with the air of a man who has been asked about his favourite subject.
‘There are many tales of this practice. I have seen it at first hand and can tell you things that others cannot. This information is valuable.’
He directed his eyes to the ceiling. Imran placed a bundle of rupee notes on the desk. With a quick glance Chaudhry pushed it under a leather-bound blotter.
Imran had said we should not disclose our specific interest in Ibrahim’s land dealings, as the patwari would demand a bigger bribe. The aim was to extract the information tangentially, through the general questions of a Western journalist pursuing a story.
‘Mr Chaudhry,’ I said. ‘Is it true that the land mafia is as powerful as the Pakistani media make out?’
‘Much more powerful!’ His reply sounded like a boast. ‘In Karachi the land mafia is involved in drugs, kidnappings, bank robberies and many other crimes. They are well connected. They get tipped off about uninhabited plots and buildings in prime areas. Then they move in with fake documentation to take possession, leaving the real owners, often living abroad, to pursue their case vainly through the courts. Millions of acres are seized every year.’
‘And why does the government not do anything about it, if it affects so many people?’
‘My boy, you are naïve! The government is involved in it. The land mafia is a conspiracy of criminals, politicians, property dealers and – it has to be said – corrupt patwaris who provide the forged documents. There is a case at the moment where the relatives of one of our leading parliamentarians have helped themselves to a huge slice of land on the Lyari River outside the city. They have started cutting down trees, erecting buildings and dumping their waste into streams that supply drinking water to thousands of people. This is valuable land, yet these crooks have come in and started building homes. They are so powerful that they have got electricity piped in from the national grid. Who can even think of challenging such people?’
‘And what about individual families who fall foul of the land mafia?’
‘My God, they are legion! You need only look at the suburbs around Karachi where land has been occupied since time immemorial by natives of the place. They are poor and ignorant; they don’t have the means to secure the proper fards and pertt sarkars – the land documents that would prove their ownership. So as the city’s boundaries expand and these places become valuable, the land-grabbers move in. I dealt with one couple who went away for a week and returned to find a wall had been built round their land, watched over by armed guards. When they went to lodge a complaint, it turned out the police were part of the conspiracy and refused to file the report.’
‘Does no one do anything to defend their rights?’
‘Last autumn property owners from Shabrati Goth in Karachi Federal Area B tried to stage a rally against land-grabbers who were threatening to kill them if they didn’t vacate their homes. But the land-grabbers had bribed the local officials so the rally was broken up by armed police. The state has no interest in protecting people who dare to raise their voice against the land mafia.’
‘And yet you are saying that people do actually stand up to them?’
‘There was a case right here on our own doorstep. The Orangi Pilot Project director, Perween Raja, had worked for years to help people in places like Orangi and Kahin Nahi. She fought to get them proper sanitation and a clean water supply. Water has become the monopoly of criminals who get funds from the government to build water schemes then pocket the money. So Perween drew up a map of illegally occupied land that had been taken over with the help of corrupt political parties, and that is what got her killed. Four gunmen opened fire on her car near Pirabad Police Station. Karachi is full of criminal gangs and political and religious militants. Land-grabbing is big business for them, and people like Perween who have the courage to speak out put their life in danger.’
‘May I ask if one of these criminals, a man called Javed Shafik, has ever come across your path?’
Chaudhry looked at me carefully. ‘Yes. But this is not surprising. Javed Shafik is a big figure in the property business. It is inevitable that he would come to a patwari to get the certificates he needs.’
‘I am not implying any wrongdoing on your part, Mr Chaudhry. But I would like to hear your views of Mr Shafik. Some police officers have told us that he is influential in the organised crime world.’
‘This is true. Shafik is a drug-dealer, a blackmailer, a people-trafficker. He has more illegally occupied land than anyone in north-west Karachi. But he has the backing of some powerful politicians, men who control this city. I cannot refuse to work with him or I would suffer the same fate as Perween Raja.’
Imran took over. ‘You mentioned a rally against the land-grabbers in S
habrati Goth. Do you recall something similar in Kahin Nahi? It was led by a fellow called Ibrahim Rahman, who I think came to see you about his own land deals. Do you remember him, Chaudhry sahib?’
The patwari squinted at Imran. ‘Perhaps I remember this Rahman. What would be your interest in him?’
‘We just happen to be interested in the case. Can you tell us what Mr Rahman said when he came to you?’
The patwari thought for a moment, suspicion in his eyes. ‘I remember one thing. Rahman talked to me about his daughter—’
‘Really! He mentioned me?’ Ayesha looked startled.
‘Ah!’ said the patwari. ‘So this daughter is you? It seems this is not just another case you happen to have read about . . .’
Imran mumbled a few words in Urdu and Chaudhry nodded. Imran placed more banknotes on the table. Chaudhry smiled.
‘I see we shall have to consult those documents that Martin sahib was mentioning when you first came in here, the ones that hold the secrets . . .’
In a third room deep within the building he took a series of keys from a locked cabinet, inserted them into a heavy iron door and disappeared from view. Five minutes later he reappeared with a bundle of papers, relocked the safe room and sat down at a table.
‘We are interested in what land Ibrahim bought,’ Imran said. ‘We also wish to know if anyone was competing with him over ownership of this land, anyone who might have quarrelled with him because of it . . .’
Chaudhry motioned us to sit opposite him.
‘Let me consult the documents. I have some recollections of Miss Ayesha’s father, but this was a complicated case. I wish first to refresh my memory.’
Chaudhry leafed through the papers, nodding to himself as he opened then re-sealed one file after another.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My memory was not deceiving me. There was someone else interested in these parcels of land—’
‘I knew it!’ Ayesha could not restrain herself. ‘It was Shafik! He was the one who wanted my father’s land. It was Shafik who killed him!’
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