by P J Brooke
‘Best keep quiet,’ whispered León as they walked along the corridor. ‘The boss has a short fuse. And he can’t stand liberal wankers.’
‘You’d better do the interview,’ muttered González. ‘You might as well do something useful for that fat salary of yours. If I had my way you wouldn’t be here.’
Ahmed arrived precisely at eleven. He was still pale, but his shoulders were straight. Max greeted him warmly.
‘How are you?’
‘Bearing up.’
The interview was in the operations room. The flip chart had been removed.
‘Make yourself comfortable.’
González switched on the tape recorder. Max began the interview.
‘We know very little about your daughter. So we would be grateful if you would fill us in on her background. At this stage we have no clues as to why it happened. We are definitely treating it as murder. So if you could just begin by giving us as much information on her as possible.’
‘Her name is Leila Mahfouz. My own parents were Egyptian. Came to Britain when Nasser took over. I was ten, I think, at the time. Leila’s mother was Scottish . . . from Edinburgh. We met at university, and married when I finished my PhD. I taught History of Art at various universities. Leila was born on 18th August 1980 in York. I was working on Islamic art and architecture in Spain, so we used to come to Spain most holidays. Leila was our only child. Her mother died when she was sixteen.’
Ahmed’s voice faltered. Sobs began, but he paused, took a deep breath, and continued.
‘Shortly after, I rediscovered my faith. When Leila left for college, I moved permanently to Spain to help set up a Sufi community, first in Granada and then some two years ago here in Diva. Leila went on to do graduate work in History at Edinburgh. She chose to do her thesis on Diva during the Civil War, and was over here doing her fieldwork.’
The sobs could no longer be contained, and Ahmed’s head collapsed into his hands. Anita Guevarra left the room, and returned with a glass of water. She placed it beside Ahmed, and put an arm around his shoulders. Ahmed sipped the water, straightened his shoulders, and wiped his eyes.
González glared at Guevarra. Max continued with the interview.
‘We’ll get all the documentation later, if we may. Have you any idea who might want to kill her?’
‘None whatsoever. The thesis was going well. She seemed happy and contented. She spent some time in Granada, and was interviewing people there and here in Diva.’
‘Did she have any particular friends in Granada and Diva?’
‘She’d made a lot of friends locally – and there was a graduate student at Granada University with whom she would sometimes stay overnight. She knew nearly everyone in our small community. I can give you their names and phone numbers if you want.’
‘That would be useful. Any boyfriends?’
‘She was invited out to parties and such things. But nothing serious, I think. There’s a boyfriend back in Scotland, but I had the impression that had cooled off.’
‘Is there anything else you can think of that might be useful?’
‘Not really. A young man in our community was fond of her. They’d gone for a walk last Thursday. And apparently quarrelled after prayers on Friday.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘Hassan Khan. He’s a British Muslim. He works at the Ibn Rush’d Centre.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s an adventure training centre up in the mountains. But where exactly it is I don’t know. Leila and I were going to visit soon.’ Ahmed’s voice broke, but he managed to hold back the tears.
‘Ah! A Muslim kid?’ interjected González. He tried to make the ‘Ah!’ seem significant. ‘We should interview this lad. When did you last see your daughter?’
‘Friday at prayers. There was a message on the answer-phone to say she was going to a party. Must have stayed over with friends – she didn’t come back that night. And then she called me on my mobile on Saturday afternoon to say she was home.’
‘Do you know where the party was?’
‘No.’
‘Isn’t it unusual for a Muslim girl to stay out by herself overnight?’ asked Max.
‘Unusual? In some families, yes. But Leila’s twenty-three. She’d spent all her life in Britain. My faith doesn’t make me an authoritarian patriarch. My girl and I can work things out. Oh Allah be merciful. It’s all lost now.’
‘I think that will be all for now. We’ll obviously want to talk to you again. Could León go back with you and look around Leila’s room, collect anything that might be useful?’ asked González.
‘Yes, of course. But I’d prefer it if a woman touched Leila’s things.’
‘Okay. Guevarra then.’
‘Ahmed, could you manage one more question?’ asked Max. ‘I have to ask . . . where were you between say four and six on Saturday afternoon?’
‘I was having lunch with the new family over from Britain. They wanted to talk about the present difficult situation.’
‘Difficult situation?’
‘Yes. The war. The problems in Palestine. The problems here in Spain.’
‘You have witnesses?’
‘Yes. Of course. Would you like their names? Then I came home before five for the meeting with you, Max.’
Ahmed turned to Guevarra. ‘We were expecting Leila, but she didn’t turn up.’
‘Could she have returned to the house while you were out?’ Max asked.
‘Yes, she did. There was a load of laundry on. And she must have had a sandwich. Am I a suspect?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Max.
González glared at Max, and then asked, ‘How long were you in the house alone?’
‘Oh, about twenty minutes.’
‘So you could have gone out?’
‘I could have, but I didn’t.’
‘Okay. We’ll check up on the family.’
‘Did Leila have a mobile?’ asked Max.
‘Yes, of course. She always had it with her. She called me on it on Friday and Saturday.’
‘We haven’t found it.’
‘Maybe it’s in her room. I don’t know . . .’
Guevarra and Ahmed left the room together.
‘It’s that bloody British Muslim kid. I feel it in my bones,’ said González.
‘We’ve no evidence. It’s not illegal to go for a walk in the hills,’ said Max.
‘Yes, but what’s a bloody British Muslim doing up the mountains here? Doesn’t sound right to me. Let’s go and pick the bastard up.’
‘We’ll certainly want to question him. But don’t jump to conclusions. Innocent until proven guilty, remember.’
‘Fuck that. If you feel someone is guilty, you’re usually right.’
‘Do you want me to come?’ asked Max.
‘Sure. You’re the expert. And you’ve been assigned. I don’t want to be accused of bloody bias. Bite to eat first?’
Max did not fancy eating with González. The fat bastard probably had disgusting personal habits. ‘I have to go to the bank and post office. So see you back here at four?’
‘Agreed. Right – León, get a fix on this bloody Muslim adventure centre. Never heard such crap in my life.’
Max slipped away quickly. He could eat in el Paraíso. Alone.
‘Terrible news about that British girl,’ said the waiter as he took Max’s order for garlic soup, the fish and half a bottle of the Márquez de Abaxurra. ‘To think I served her and that young man on Thursday.’
‘You did? What time?’
‘Late afternoon. They sat outside there, quite friendly like, until a car came up. The young man left, and the girl set off on her own afterwards.’
‘You don’t know who was in the car?’
‘I’ve seen him around. Foreign, very dark, grey hair. Runs some centre or other in the mountains.’
‘That’s interesting.’
‘Any suspicions, Max?’
‘Can’t
comment.’
Max had picked up the European edition of the Guardian on the way over. El País was good, but he still liked to read a British paper now and again. He glanced at the headlines: ‘US Government Warns Terrorist Attack Likely’. Not again. They’d been saying that for over a year. Still no attack. Some balls-up about to hit the press. You always get terrorist warnings just before. Max turned to the inside pages: ‘Intense International Pressure on Palestine to Sign Peace Deal’. He quickly skipped to the sports pages. Celtic beat Rangers. Great. He walked slowly back to the police station. The shops were all shut: siesta sacred.
González was waiting when he arrived.
‘It’s four twenty,’ he announced ‘León has a fix on that Centre – five kilometres north of Capa, off the old Sierra Nevada road.’
Max told him what he had learnt from his waiter.
‘Could be two bastards involved,’ grunted González.
The three of them got into the car, León in the back seat, González’ face shiny with expectation. The road out of Diva wound its way up the mountain. They could soon see Capa, its white houses climbing on top of each other up the hillside.
‘So, León, what do you know about this centre then?’
‘It’s an old farm – used to be called Los Moros, but they’ve changed the name.’
They passed another dirt track turn-off, and then entered Pampa. Max knew there was a good mountaineering centre in the office of the Parque National de la Sierra Nevada, but González refused to stop to ask for directions. Next was Buba, busy with tourists, the local rugs outside the craft shops. Ten minutes later they entered Capa.
‘Best ask the route,’ said Max.
‘No. Just keep going. There can’t be many roads north of here,’ said González.
But ten minutes beyond Capa, there were no roads, just dirt tracks to farms. The Centre could be along any of them. Something had upset González’ stomach. A loud fart filled the car. Max and León hastily opened the windows. González pretended nothing had happened. He grumbled all the way back to Capa.
‘What fucking bastards would want to live in such a remote place. They must be up to no good.’
‘Adventure training centres usually are in remote places,’ Max reminded him.
‘Sure. But have you ever heard of a Muslim adventure centre?’
Max admitted he never had. They stopped at the Sierra Nevada bar. Max remembered a memorable tapa of aubergines in honey. He was with some girl at the time, but damned if he could remember who. The manager was helpful. Left, third left, and keep going. But which was third left? The track was bumpy, and tempers were beginning to fray.
Max noticed that León had picked up his trait of correcting González’ more absurd pronouncements, making Gonzo more and more angry. Although he had lived all his life surrounded by mountains, González did not like them. ‘Tracks all over the fucking place,’ he kept repeating. And then shouted, ‘Where the fuck is this bloody Centre?’
‘I think it was the other track we passed,’ said León.
González muttered all the way to the farmhouse. ‘Any fucker living out here must be pretty dodgy.’
It was a two-storey farmhouse with low wings on each side. New buildings completed the square, with a small domed building a little way off. González tooted his horn angrily. Nobody came out.
‘Let’s have a look around. If necessary, kick the doors in,’ said González.
‘We don’t have a warrant.’
‘Fuck that. This is a murder case. We can do what we like.’
They approached the farmhouse. A man appeared.
‘Bet they’ve hidden everything,’ muttered González.
The man, tall, athletic, silver grey hair, dressed in a crisp shirt and pressed chinos, walked up to them. He bowed formally and greeted them in Arabic. ‘Can I help you? This is the Ibn Rush’d Centre.’
‘You sure can,’ said González. He showed his identity card. ‘We’re police officers. We’re looking for a young man called Hassan Khan.’
‘Yes. He’s here.’
‘Good. We need to speak to him.’
‘Is this about Leila?’
‘Leila Mahfouz . . . yes.’
‘Okay. Hassan was just about to phone you. He was her friend.’
‘How did you know about the girl?’
‘We were invited to the funeral. But come in. Follow me. I’ll show you into the dining room, and then find Hassan.’
‘Your name, please.’
‘I am Dr Javeed Dharwish, Director of the centre.’
They entered a dining room, plain but comfortable with a long wooden table and ten wooden chairs, maps of Spain on the wall. There was a large kitchen, well equipped, off the dining room. Max noticed a mobile phone on the table: it had a booster antenna, which you had to buy in the States. Next to the phone was a small Moroccan dish filled with mints wrapped in silver paper. He also noticed a powerful radio. Come to think of it, the roof of the farmhouse had a large antenna on top of it, and a mass of solar panels.
‘If you wait here, I will go and fetch Hassan,’ said Javeed.
‘Well,’ said González. ‘What do you think?’
‘Not much here,’ replied León, ‘pretty sparse.’
‘Of course it is. They’d have hidden everything. I smell a bunch of Muslim terrorists.’ said González.
The thought had crossed Max’s mind, but he wasn’t going to admit that to González. ‘No evidence of that. If it were a bunch of American Boy Scouts we’d have thought it was okay.’
‘Sure. But what’s a bunch of Muslim blokes doing living here except they’re up to no good? Speaking of which, he’s been gone a long time. He could have warned Hassan to do a runner.’
Javeed and Hassan entered the room. Hassan looked pale and worried. He introduced himself to the policemen. González glared threateningly at him.
Max asked him if he knew Leila. Hassan confirmed that he did, and muttered how shocked he was at what had happened. He volunteered he had been with her for most of Thursday afternoon, walking from Pampa to Diva.
‘Just walking?’ interrupted González.
‘Just walking and talking. There’s not much else to do between P—Pampa and Diva.’
Hassan’s story tallied with everything they knew.
‘Did you meet her on Friday?’ asked González.
‘Yes. We met after Friday p—prayers.’
‘Oh. So you were in Diva on Friday. And on Saturday?’
‘Yes. I went in with Javeed . . . to the supermarket. We drove back up about seven in the evening. But I didn’t see Leila.’
‘How did you know something had happened to her?’
‘Javeed told me. Zaida from the mosque phoned him. I still can’t take it in.’
‘Do you know what happened to her?’
‘How would I know? Zaida just said she was dead.’
Tears welled up in his eyes, but he refrained from crying.
‘When did you find out?’ continued González.
‘Sunday. Before the funeral. I wanted to go. But Javeed said I was too ill.’
‘Why?’
Javeed butted in. ‘He was very upset, and had a bad migraine. The others went, but I stayed with Hassan.’
Max turned to Hassan. ‘Why were you upset?’
‘We were close friends. I was very fond of her. Her death and . . . well, we had a row after p—prayers, a silly one . . . gave me migraine.’
‘A quarrel? Over what?’
‘Nothing really.’
Javeed came in again. ‘I told Hassan he had to concentrate on his work and the course, and it was better not to get involved with Leila.’
‘That’s enough for me,’ interrupted González. ‘We’d like to take Hassan in for questioning. We can hold him for seventy-two hours if the judge consents, you know.’
Max was inclined to agree. He felt they would get a lot more out of young Hassan when Javeed wasn’t present.
Ja
veed replied, ‘Are you arresting him? If so I’d have to check with my lawyer first.’
‘At this stage we are not formally arresting him. Just want to ask him some questions. But do check with your lawyer,’ said González.
‘Before you phone, could you tell us about the centre?’ asked Max.
‘Sure. The Ibn Rush’d Centre is named after the great Andalusian Islamic philosopher – Averroes, he’s called in the West. It is an adventure training centre, set up less than a year ago, for young European Muslim entrepreneurs.’
‘Muslim entrepreneurs?’ interrupted González.
‘Sure. What’s odd about that? I’m a business consultant, specializing in training courses for businessmen. In Britain there’s John Baltimore’s place in Scotland, in France, Pierre Boulez has a centre in the Alps, and in Spain Javier Solaga has one in the Picos de Europa. We realized there wasn’t a training place for up-and-coming young Muslims, and decided to make it a European centre. We got money from the EU. But most of our other funds come from Muslim businessmen, based in Europe. Would you like a brochure?’
‘Yes. And any other information you have,’ said González.
Javeed left the room, returning after five minutes.
‘The lawyer recommended we cooperate as we have nothing to hide. But he insists he has to be present before any questioning. And here are some leaflets, our brochure, even our business plan if you’re interested. We also have a website.’
‘But what do you do here? That looks like an assault course outside,’ asked Max.
‘Yes, it is. Our practice is partly based on Baltimore’s course in Scotland. He used to be an SAS officer, and developed a course that tests people to their limits. It brings out leadership, resilience and innovation. You know what you’re made of when you’ve finished here. We chose this area because of its Islamic past, with mosques not too far away, and because the mountains here are ideal for training. We’ve only just begun, but I think it will go well.’
González interrupted. ‘Any weapons?’
‘No. I’ve an old rifle for shooting rabbits and suchlike. They’re tasty.’
‘Do you mind if we look around?’ asked Max.
‘Not at all. Let me show you. We’re quite proud of what we’ve done here in such a short time.’