Blood Wedding

by P J Brooke

  Throughout the conversation, Hassan stood pale and frightened, anxiously looking from one policeman to another.

  ‘León, you keep an eye on the young lad here,’ ordered González.

  ‘He won’t cause any problems. He’ll do all he can to help. He’s very upset about the girl’s death,’ Javeed assured them. ‘This is the dining room, sparse but well equipped. We do our own cooking and cleaning. Everything is run to schedule. It’s certainly no holiday camp. I can give you some books on the theory and practice if you want. It’s a well-established training technique now, though every director brings something of his own experience to it. Mine of course is unique as I bring an Islamic slant. Muslims make good businessmen, you know. Making money honestly and spending it wisely is not against Muhammad’s teachings. All praise to Allah.’

  They moved out of the dining room into the TV and living room. Comfortable but not luxurious. Next was a small library with five computers set up in it. Max glanced at the shelves. Books in Arabic, English, French and Spanish. Mostly management books. But there were also novels.

  ‘Nice computers,’ Max commented.

  They moved on into a dormitory, clean, but spartan. Then into a bathroom, another dormitory and another bathroom.

  ‘This is my office – there’s a powerful computer here as well.’ Javeed smiled as he emphasized ‘powerful’. ‘There’s also a fax, telephone, everything. Next door is my bedroom.’

  Max noticed it was impeccably organized, not a paper out of place. A complete contrast to his own office. There was a faded photo on the desk of a very beautiful, dark-haired woman.

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Was. She’s dead.’ He offered no other comment. Both Max and González said nothing.

  ‘And this is my bedroom.’

  They entered a small room off the office. Again, everything impeccably in order. Max walked over to the bedside table. A novel lay open on the top. Max looked at the cover: The Flanders Panel by Arturo Pérez-Reverte, with a picture of a white knight and a black bishop.

  ‘I’m told that’s good,’ he said, turning to Javeed. ‘I must read it sometime.’

  ‘I’m enjoying it,’ replied Javeed. ‘The details on chess are good. He’s really done his homework.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was a good player myself . . . once.’

  They went back to the dining room, and then through a door into the open countryside.

  ‘We have a large water tank up there,’ said Javeed pointing upwards. ‘Big enough to splash in after a hot day in the hills. And over here is a small prayer room. I’ll show you around, but I’d be grateful if you would take your shoes off.’

  Max and González followed Javeed, removed their shoes, and entered the small prayer room. González had clearly never been inside a Muslim prayer room before.

  ‘Pretty bare.’

  ‘You don’t need ornaments to worship Allah.’

  Max turned to Javeed. ‘Thanks. We’d be grateful if you and the others here could come down to the Diva police station tomorrow with all your documentation. How many are you?’

  ‘There’s seven of us. Hassan is the Centre’s administrative assistant, and is also doing the course part-time. The others are training up in the hills. There are not many trainees at the moment, but we have only just started.’

  ‘That’s enough. We’ll take Hassan with us now,’ said González.

  ‘Okay. The lawyer agrees. But we must emphasize that Hassan is going with you voluntarily, and we are all keen to cooperate. My lawyer will be in Diva tomorrow at ten, and insists he is present during questioning. This is a goodwill gesture, to show we have nothing to hide.’

  ‘Okay,’ mumbled González.

  They went back to the dining room, and ordered Hassan to follow them after he had packed a small case.

  ‘You can drive, León,’ said González. Once in the car, González took out his handcuffs, and snapped them on Hassan’s wrists.

  ‘Hey. There’s no need to do that,’ intervened Max.

  ‘Yes there is. I’m not having the young bastard trying to escape. That Dr Dharwish was just too smooth to be true. Notice how he talked down to us – superior git. I just know there’s something up.’

  ‘I thought he was very polite and helpful. Quite an impressive set-up he’s organized there. In any case, you don’t think the EU would give money to the centre if it wasn’t okay, do you?’

  ‘That EU bureaucracy doesn’t know its arse from its elbow. Look at the cock-ups it’s made all over Andalusia. Mind you, we need the money. I’m not happy about letting in all those East Europeans – it will mean less money for us. Someone told me they’re even thinking of letting in the bloody Turks. They’re not European, not even Christian. Hey. You know what’s odd about that place – they didn’t even have a picture of a saint or anything, even in that prayer room of theirs.’

  ‘Muslims don’t. Haven’t you been round the Alhambra?’

  ‘No. Can’t stand that arty stuff. I don’t like all this Muslim baloney, Al Andaluz and all that shit. Don’t like all that fuss over that poofter poet, what’s his name, Lorca, either. You know . . . got shot in the Civil War for siding with the Red rebels.’

  ‘They weren’t rebels; they were the democratically elected government of Spain. It was Franco who was the rebel.’

  ‘Not in my book. Franco saved us from the Commies, and kept our Christian traditions alive. I remember my dad telling me what those Red bastards did, raping nuns and all that. Franco kept good law and order. He wouldn’t have allowed all these Muslim immigrants in, nor those hippy scruffs either.’

  They were approaching Diva now. Hassan had not said a word.

  ‘Out you get, lad,’ said León as he stopped the car outside the police station.

  González and Hassan went on ahead.

  ‘Best keep off politics with the boss. He reckons he missed promotion for years because he supported Franco. Mind you, he’s not wrong about a lot of things,’ said León.

  As González got to the door of the police station, Max called out, ‘I’ll help you question the young suspect tomorrow. But only until lunchtime. I have to be back in Granada for the afternoon. Remember to write officially to Granada so I can continue to help.’

  González disappeared into the Guardia Civil building. There was a black horseshoe nailed on the outside wall.

  Chapter 6

  Jorobados y nocturnos,

  Por donde animan ordenan,

  Silencios de goma oscura

  Y miedos de fina arena.

  Hunchbacked and nocturnal,

  They command where they appear,

  The silence of dark rubber

  And ears of fine sand.

  Frederico García Lorca, Romance de la Guardia Civil Española

  Max arrived before nine at the police station. He pointedly looked at his watch when González entered fifteen minutes late.

  ‘Good morning. Shall we begin? Don’t have much time.’

  González grunted, and turned to Cabo Guevarra. ‘Girlie, get us two coffees.’

  Guevarra returned five minutes later.

  ‘Gracias. Max, one for you. Okay. Let’s get the show on the road. What we got? Bugger all. If we had any brains we’d have questioned the lad last night, and stopped poncing about. But Max here said we had to wait for his lawyer. The lad’s our prime suspect. Probably got given the heave. She starts playing silly buggers, he swipes her, and she’s down the ravine. Just got to get the bugger to confess.’

  ‘But only in a legal way,’ interrupted Max

  ‘Sure, only legal. But there’s legal and legal. No new evidence. Still no mobile. Spoke to the doc. Says she could have been pushed, could have jumped, could have stumbled, could have been hit. Difficult to say with broken necks. Okay I’ll kick off with questions to the lad. Then Max can take over. Try the bad cop, good cop routine. Any questions? Any opinions?’

  Guevarra looked at Max in disbelief. ‘I felt th
e father’s grief was genuine. For me he’s not in the frame.’

  González guffawed. ‘Two years in the force now, girlie? The grieving parent act is the oldest con in the book. But you’re probably right for once. I reckon it’s the boy. But best double check on the dad’s story. Guevarra – you follow that one up. And get any gossip on that community. Always thought they were a little bit doolally. Bloody bunch of hippies playing at being Muslim.’

  The heat was beginning to build up. The ends of González’ droopy moustache were dripping water. González wiped his face and moustache with a handkerchief that had seen better days.

  ‘León – you pop up to Capa, and sniff around. See what you can get on that lot in the hills.’

  ‘Before you start questioning people, I have to declare an interest,’ interrupted Max. ‘I have met Leila’s father on several occasions through my police liaison work with the Muslim communities. I met Leila at her father’s house and . . . I invited her out two or three times for a cup of tea to talk about her doctoral thesis.’

  ‘A cup of tea?’ laughed León.

  ‘Yes, a cup of tea.’

  ‘Tea and sympathy, was it?’ said León.

  Max tried to maintain his dignity. ‘It was more a case of tea and thesis.’

  León could hardly speak with laughter. ‘And she invited you up to see her thesis notes, I suppose. Tell me . . . do these Muslim girls have it in the shape of a crescent moon?’

  It was González who pulled the meeting to order. ‘There’s a serious point here. Max has to be a suspect.’

  ‘Yes,’ interrupted León. ‘He clearly hoped to have it off with her, but he implies he didn’t . . . so it could be a case of sexual frustration and jealousy. I suggest, sir, we ask Max to give us notes on what was said and even happened at these tea meetings, and then if you like I’ll interview him. He of course does have an alibi for the time of her death – he was with her father.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said González, grinning.

  ‘Very decent of you to notice my alibi, Teniente,’ said Max. ‘But you do need to know that I recommended Leila to interview my abuela, Paula, for her thesis. So she visited our place at the end of the Jola road pretty often, and got to know all the family there.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said González. ‘That does further complicate things. Guevarra, you’d better interview Doña Paula, and that wife of Juan’s, Isabel, isn’t it? And León – you interview Juan. Anything else to tell us, Max?’

  León giggled lasciviously. ‘Perhaps we can get some interesting details when Guevarra isn’t present?’

  ‘It was only tea,’ protested Max lamely.

  There was a knock on the door, and the secretary entered. ‘The lawyer from Granada has arrived, sir.’

  ‘Okay, bring him in. Sure to be some posh git if he’s working for that guy, what’s his name?’

  ‘Dr Javeed Dharwish,’ offered Max.

  ‘Yeah. Javeed. It gets my goat when them foreigners think they’re superior to us poor Spaniards.’

  A young lawyer, hair brushed back to silken perfection, pale grey suit, cream shirt with silver cuff links, came in. He looked round the room, placed an expensive leather briefcase on the table, and smiled.

  ‘Buenos dias. Gabriel Martín Facarros.’ He handed out a gold printed card to everyone. ‘My client, Dr Javeed Dharwish, telephoned me last night. He explained what has happened. The suspect Hassan Khan, if he is a suspect, is entirely here of his own free will, and is willing to cooperate fully. But if there is any overstepping the legal boundaries, and I will be the judge of that, then cooperation will cease, and a formal complaint will be made. Is that clear?’ And he smiled at everyone again.

  González grunted. ‘Bring the lad up.’

  Hassan entered the room. He had not slept much.

  ‘Sit down,’ González said. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘No thanks. I had one not long ago.’

  ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions. Standard procedure at this stage.’

  ‘Am I a suspect?’

  ‘No, no. We just want you to help us with our inquiries. Max here will ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Okay. You told us yesterday a bit about your walk and tiff with Leila. But could you begin by telling us about yourself, and how you ended up as an assistant to Javeed and on this training course?’ asked Max.

  ‘Is this really relevant?’ interrupted the lawyer.

  ‘Just getting some background.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Hassan. ‘I’m British. Dad came over from P—Pakistan to work in Leeds, then moved to London where he married mum. She’s a Londoner. I was six when she left us both, and I lived with my dad.’

  Hassan shuffled awkwardly in the chair. Wiped his palms on his shirt. Scratched his ear.

  ‘Sorry about the heat,’ said Max. ‘Water?’

  ‘P—please.’

  Guevarra left the room to fetch some water. Hassan slowly drank the whole glass. González raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Come on. Come on. We haven’t got all bloody day.’

  Hassan cleared his throat. ‘There’s not much to say. I was good at maths at school, good with computers, and then went to Brunel to study computing and electronics. I did a work placement with Dr Dharwish’s consultancy firm. Then Javeed – Dr Dharwish – told me he had this job at the Ibn Rush’d Centre. I needed a break before p—postgrad, and was fortunate to be chosen.’

  ‘Why a break?’

  ‘Oh. Just needed to get my head around things. Find out who I really am, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Religious?’

  ‘Muslim of course, and I practise my religion as devoutly as I can. More so now.’

  ‘Fanatical?’ butted in González.

  ‘What’s that meant to mean?’ asked Gabriel. ‘Muslim and fanatical are not the same thing.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Hassan. ‘Javeed said I’m to tell everything to show we have nothing to hide.’

  ‘Why we?’ continued González.

  ‘Because we’re Muslims. These days we’re all suspects.’

  González grunted.

  ‘No. Not fanatical, but I am devout,’ continued Hassan.

  ‘Political?’

  ‘Voted Labour last time. This time I’ll probably vote Liberal. But I’m not in any group or party.’

  Max decided to take over again. ‘How did you get chosen for this job?’

  ‘I first met Javeed at a Palestine Solidarity Meeting. I was pretty low, and he helped me out. We got to know each other, and I had a work placement in his office. I also used to help him with his charity work, collecting money for a hospital in Gaza.’

  ‘But didn’t you need references and some qualifications for the Ibn Rush’d job?’

  ‘Yes. Three references. Also I’m good with IT, and Javeed needed someone to set up systems and help him with the administration. And I had a good project idea, it’s—’

  ‘Tell us about the girl,’ González butted in.

  ‘Leila. We met at p—prayers, talked a few times, and sometimes after p—prayers some of us would go to her father’s place for tea. I went out with her a few times. Last Thursday I went for a walk with her, then met her after p—prayers on Friday, and had this silly quarrel.’

  Hassan’s voice began to croak.

  ‘More water?’ asked Guevarra.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Oh bloody hell. Guevarra, get a bloody jug of the stuff,’ interrupted González. ‘We’ll be here all night just to make sure he’s comfortable.’

  Max pointedly continued. ‘Quarrelled? Over what?’

  ‘My fault. I said I couldn’t go out with her again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Javeed advised me against it.’

  ‘Do you do everything Javeed suggests?’

  ‘No. But he’s helped me a lot, and he said I should concentrate on the job and the course. It’s tough, trying to do both, you know.’

  ‘Back to the girl. Nothing else to tell
us? Nothing happened?’ said González, impatiently.

  ‘What could happen? It was just a walk, and then a silly quarrel.’

  ‘You didn’t touch her or anything?

  Hassan blushed. ‘Of course not. I respect her.’ His voice broke, and tears clouded his eyes. ‘I mean respected her.’

  Gabriel interrupted. ‘There’s no need for that sort of questioning.’

  Max felt the questioning was becoming insensitive, but let González continue.

  ‘On Saturday you met up with her again?’

  ‘No. I’ve already told you. I went into Diva with Javeed before five to get some things for the centre. I never saw her again after Friday.’

  Hassan’s hands shook, and his shoulders slumped.

  ‘Come on. Expect us to believe that? You met up with her, didn’t you? You grabbed her, and she fell over the ravine.’

  ‘I told you I never saw her after Friday.’

  ‘It’ll be easier for you if you just admit it.’

  Gabriel again interrupted. ‘If you continue this way I will advise my client not to cooperate any further.’

  Max came in again. ‘Could you give us a detailed account of your movements, say between four and six, the evening of last Saturday?’

  Hassan controlled his breathing a little. ‘Well, Javeed and I set off for Diva at about three. We drove down the mountain, and got here a bit after four. We were early, so the shops were still all shut, so we went for tea and a game of chess in the Al Andaluz café. They can give you the exact time we got there. It was raining when the shops reopened, so we decided to stay in the café and finish our chess game.’

  ‘Who won?’

  ‘I did,’ said Hassan smiling, faintly.

  ‘What was your winning move?’

  ‘Oh. Let me see.’ Hassan closed his eyes. ‘Yes. I remember now. Javeed had taken my second white knight, the one on B1. I then moved my bishop to D3 to put him in check, and that won the game because the black king had to move from A4 to B3 leaving the white bishop to take the black queen. Once that happened I was able to advance my pawn on D5 to become a queen.’

  ‘Come on. Who cares how he fucking won a game of bloody chess?’ interrupted González.

  Max gave González a withering stare, and then turned back to Hassan. ‘What did you do next?’