Bright Shiny Things

by Barbara Nadel

  Take her card and use it the day before you come.

  Mishal had said that there was a risk her dad would check on transactions and she was afraid. She told him her mum had almost gone mad looking for her bank card when she’d taken it to buy her air ticket. How could she now take a credit card? She told him she was shaking.

  He said, Well, don’t! If you think he’s about to check up then take your ticket and leave. If I have to go without my presents then that is what I will have to do. Stop being a baby. You’re about to become the wife of an ISIS fighter, behave with dignity!

  Mumtaz had expected Abu Imad to go quiet then. He’d done so before when she had ‘disappointed’ him. But oddly he came straight back, seemingly in an entirely different mood.

  Mishal, I am sorry for my harsh words. I know that this is hard for you. But you must show courage and resolve now. I am doing my part. I am taking a huge risk by coming to Europe to get you. But I love you so much I can’t risk you not being able to be my wife because you are afraid. Once we are in the Caliphate, all will be well. But in the meantime, take a deep breath and take your mother’s credit card. You managed to get her bank card because you’ve booked your flight. And I can’t believe your father checks on her credit spending every day. I think that maybe he tells her that in order to control her.

  Mumtaz would have laughed if his messages didn’t remind her so much of the early days of her marriage. Ahmet had manipulated in just the same way. Telling her that he loved her ‘so much’ while at the same time getting her to do things to which she objected. He too had pointed the finger at how other men controlled their wives.

  Lee was still not back from his smoke. But then if she listened hard, she could hear that he was speaking on the phone. She couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  They’d booked flights from Stansted Airport at 16.50 on the Tuesday afternoon. Abu Imad had been delighted.

  Allah has surely chosen to bless His humble servant.

  If only there were anything humble about him.

  Maybe Lee was speaking to Abbas and Shereen? He’d told them right at the start that he’d not be giving them updates but now that they were going to Amsterdam, and the possibility of meeting Fayyad was real, perhaps he’d wanted to put them in the picture.

  A message arrived.

  Suggest you get all my presents at the same place as it will save you time. Harrods is a good bet.

  Did the irony of sending her to buy luxury goods from a shop that was the epitome of Western materialism occur to him, she wondered? That was, of course, assuming that Abu Imad/Fayyad was not faking his true purpose anyway. They were counting on the idea that he was. That was what his parents thought.

  Another message.

  I know that places like Harrods are evil but we exploit them, yeah?

  Yeah. Right.

  And do not travel in your niqab or even cover your head. Covered Sisters get hassled by security at Western airports. We’re all terrorists to them! LOL.

  Mumtaz pulled a face. Very funny – not – in the words of a youth both she and Abu Imad had left behind.

  The office door opened and Lee came in, smiling.

  ‘Good smoke?’ she asked.

  ‘Brill,’ he said.

  In common with everyone else on the planet, Ricky Montalban had watched the destruction of the Twin Towers of the World Trade Centre in New York in 2001 with ice running down his spine. What kind of people would do such a thing? And why had the CIA not stopped them? At the time it had felt as if al-Qaeda and its sympathisers were unstoppable. Ditto, more recently, ISIS. But most of the time they were stopped, in spite of occasional high-profile events across Europe. And if the tailor Aziz Shah was anything to go by, they had a lot of weak links.

  ‘They told me the children were just refugees,’ he told Ricky. ‘I believed them. I did what I did in good faith, Inspector Montalban. They said they would provide religion classes for them and who wouldn’t want that for young children alone in a new and unfamiliar city? Religion is something familiar to them. It is civilising and moral.’

  ‘They’ were, apparently, an organisation called ‘Light of True Belief’.

  ‘They are a registered charity,’ Aziz said.

  ‘No they’re not,’ Ricky said. ‘But that’s beside the point. Why’d you get Ali Huq to help you?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Huq is a very good man!’

  Last Ricky had heard, Bob Khan and a squad of woodentops were still looking for Huq who’d done a runner.

  ‘So this “Light of True Belief” mob get kids from Syria, how?’

  ‘It’s all legal …’

  ‘How’d you know? There are mobs like this all over the place at the moment. Some kosher, some not …’

  ‘Oh, they are good people, they say—’

  ‘They can say anything, don’t mean it’s true.’

  He nodded his head to one side as if wanting to agree and disagree simultaneously.

  ‘The children have been granted asylum.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But how’d they get into the country?’

  ‘Didn’t they tell you?’

  ‘I want you to tell me.’

  The boys had owned up to coming in illegally. They claimed not to have known who had got them in. Their parents had paid a man in Syria, so they said.

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘So how did the boys come to you?’

  ‘From “Light of True Belief”, I told you.’

  ‘And they are?’

  ‘Ah, you see I know them through my brother-in-law, Mr Vakeel Uddin,’ he said. ‘He knows many, many Syrians. It’s all above board, totally legal.’

  Which sent all sorts of alarm bells ringing in Ricky’s head.

  ‘You know the two lads are being questioned in relation to the murder of Rajiv Banergee?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, no! No they can’t have done that, no! They’re good boys, well behaved and pious …’

  ‘With jihadi recruitment videos on their laptops.’

  ‘Laptops? They must have been given those. Qasim and Nabil are not those kinds of boys. Ali-ji must have given them those computers, ask him.’

  ‘What, the “good” man, Ali Huq?’

  Mr Shah shrugged as if to say ‘who can tell?’

  ‘So this “Light of True Belief” mob,’ Ricky said, ‘where are they?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Yeah. I know they exist but I can’t find them,’ Ricky said. ‘Where’d they operate out of?’

  ‘All over.’

  ‘All over where? All over London?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, they do much good work …’

  ‘Mr Shah you’re not listening,’ Ricky said. ‘Where are they based? If, as you claim, they’re a charity, they must have an office somewhere.’

  The tailor went quiet.

  ‘Well?’

  He shrugged. ‘All I can tell you, DI Montalban, is where my brother-in-law lives. My wife’s young brother, you understand. A solicitor. We’re not close. He’s a clever boy, whereas I …’

  ‘Where’s he live?’

  ‘Forest Gate,’ the tailor said. ‘His house faces on to Wanstead Flats.’

  Why had he run away? It had been stupid then and it wasn’t getting any less stupid now.

  Once he’d managed to lose Bob Khan, Ali had headed for Christ Church. When they’d been kids, he and his siblings had played in the graveyard – much against their parents’ wishes. The dead were unclean. But he’d always comforted himself with the knowledge that they’d never, ever been into the crypt. There, it was said, loads of bodies were stored in open coffins in what had once been something called a ‘charnel’ house. But in recent years the crypt had been turned into a cafe. Neither hungry nor thirsty, Ali nevertheless bought himself a coffee and sat behind a vast stone pillar in order to think.

  One of those guides who took people on ‘Jack the Ripper’ tours around the area had once told him that Christ Church had been built by a man called Nicholas Hawks
moor. A pupil of Christopher Wren, who’d built St Paul’s, it was said that this Hawksmoor was also a magician, that he raised the dead and spoke to demons. Some people even, apparently, called him the Devil’s Architect. What a place for a good Muslim man to end up!

  Except he wasn’t a good Muslim and, by running away from the police, he was stating that to the world. But what else could he do? If the police already had Aziz Shah then they’d know about the ‘charity’. The tailor was stupid. He had no idea who he was dealing with. His brother-in-law, who was the kind of man whose grievances regarding the status of Muslims were genuine and heartfelt, had allowed himself to be used by both Aziz, who made money from the operation, and his contacts in Iraq and Syria. Ali had only once met one of those. He’d tried to feel, as well as speak his approval, but he couldn’t. The man had been evil.

  Why did coffee have to have an identity these days? he thought. He’d asked for coffee and been given too many options. He’d reiterated that he just wanted coffee. This had turned out to be something the girl behind the counter had called an ‘Americano’. What was that? Apparently okay coffee with milk. He lifted the cup with a shaking hand.

  What now? If he’d ever had a plan for what would happen after he ran out of his shop, he’d forgotten it.

  ‘Mr Huq?’

  And then there was DC Khan together with three uniformed officers, framed by two ecclesiastical arches, the light pouring in behind them like faintly yellowed water.

  Ali stood. There was nowhere to run this time. It was only then that he remembered something from his primary school days. The John Cass School had been and remained an institution administered by the state religion, the Church of England. And as such, that church had special historical privileges. He hoped they still applied.

  As Khan walked towards him he said, ‘DC Khan I must tell you that I’m here because I am claiming sanctuary.’

  FIFTEEN

  Mumtaz couldn’t relate to the deceased Princess Diana or her lover, Dodi Fayed, but she was at one with the albatross they appeared to be clinging on to. She looked up at the staggeringly ugly statue between two escalators and felt yet another urge to cry. But she stopped herself. Harrods Department Store, which had its own dress code (no uniforms, no scruffs) probably didn’t allow crying. She leant up against a vast marble wall and tried to collect her thoughts.

  Ali, her brother, had claimed sanctuary in Christ Church. She had a dim memory that such a thing existed but she didn’t know that anyone actually did it any more. Charged though not arrested, he’d been in the crypt all night. Her father had told her it was not anything to do with Rajiv Banergee’s death but was related to an accusation of male rape. Those boys he’d given shelter to had accused him of abusing them. Specifically they’d accused him of abusing them on the night Rajiv had been murdered. They’d either killed Rajiv themselves or they knew who had. Although when she’d told Lee, he had said it was too early to jump to any sort of conclusion. She disagreed. Her brother wasn’t gay! Her brother, now she came to think about it, wasn’t anything.

  Lee looked into Abbas al’Barri’s bloodshot eyes and said, ‘You’re going to have to trust me.’

  Abbas tipped what remained of his whisky down his throat. ‘He’s my son,’ he said. ‘The jewel in my crown. How can I do that?’

  ‘Because it’s me,’ Lee said. ‘Because, if you like, you saved my miserable life for a reason. This is that reason. I don’t know, Abbas. But you’ve got to do it.’

  Shereen touched her husband’s arm. ‘Lee is right, Abbas,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t you tell me where you’re going?’ Abbas asked. ‘Is it Istanbul?’

  ‘I’m not telling you,’ Lee said. ‘Don’t ask me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve told you why not.’

  Lee watched his friend turn the Tooth of Jonah over and over in his hands.

  ‘To send this to us has to mean something,’ he said.

  ‘I hope so,’ Lee replied.

  ‘You get no sense, from talking to him that …’

  ‘I won’t know what his motives are until I get there,’ Lee said. ‘We know he’s in the caliphate and we also know that while he’s there he will be watched. If he does want to get away he has to pretend that he doesn’t. That’s why we can’t rely on anything he says or does while he’s there. If he does want out then he’s going to have to keep that well hidden until he gets away.’

  ‘You must be going to Istanbul.’

  Abbas looked into Lee’s eyes, searching for clues. He found none.

  ‘What day are you leaving?’

  ‘Abbas,’ Shereen said, ‘Lee can’t tell us.’

  Abbas handed the tooth to Lee. Then he poured himself another drink and went back into the house.

  When he was out of earshot, Lee said, ‘You know I’m not going into this with no plan, don’t you, Shereen?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She lit a cigarette.

  ‘I’ve got bases covered,’ he said. ‘I take risks, but I don’t take stupid ones.’

  ‘No.’

  He put the Tooth of Jonah in his pocket.

  ‘When you show him the tooth, tell him we love him, won’t you?’ Shereen asked.

  ‘Course.’

  Lee leant back against the big cushion Shereen had put on the deckchair for him and closed his eyes. Last time he’d spoken to her, Mumtaz had been in a right state about her brother. He hoped she was OK on her shopping trip to Harrods.

  Not even his mother’s cooking had been able to tempt his son to eat. Ali had just stared at it while his father and the vicar, the Reverend Reid, tried to make him see sense. Why had he claimed that sanctuary nonsense? What was even more frustrating for Baharat was that his son hadn’t even known what DC Khan had been coming to arrest him for. He had assumed that it concerned Rajiv Banergee. But it didn’t. It was about those damned boys who lived in his house, making accusations.

  What Ali was doing made him look guilty. He wouldn’t have it, but that was the truth. And now his claim to sanctuary was all over the area. Everyone thought it was to do with Rajiv. Except Baharat and his family. And the police, who were furious with him. DC Khan had first laughed and then lost his temper when Ali had made his strange, archaic claim for sanctuary. It was only when he had contacted his superior, DI Montalban, that he’d calmed down. Montalban, so the Reverend Reid had told him, had instructed Khan to let Ali’s claim stand. Why?

  Sumita had cried. She’d not really stopped ever since Ali had been questioned by police the first time. Asif claimed that he’d always known his brother was ‘in the closet’ as he put it and Mumtaz had gone quiet. What was more, she was going away to work on Tuesday. Abroad somewhere. That had never happened before. Shazia was going to come and stay, which was nice. Although not his own blood, the girl was about as close as Baharat had to a granddaughter – or may ever have. Asif’s girlfriend had just had her womb removed, poor woman. And now that Ali was gay …

  The world was beyond Baharat at such times. He’d told the vicar, who had said that it was beyond him too. That hadn’t helped.

  It had been a while since Baharat had wandered down Folgate Street. Years ago he’d known the American, Dennis Severs, whose house had become a sort of monument to Spitalfields past. He’d been an interesting, if eccentric man, who had lived the last years of his life in his four-storey Huguenot house in Folgate Street, turning his dreams of the past into some sort of alternate reality. An unusual city attraction, number 18 Folgate Street was just one of many Huguenot houses on Folgate, now overshadowed by an ever-increasing number of glass and steel tower blocks. The seemingly endless demand for city office space had to be addressed. Dennis would have been horrified.

  Baharat looked around more as a form of meditation than anything else. Maybe walking and thinking about the past would ease his mind in some way? Then he saw a familiar face. Coming out of that house he knew to be rather like the Severs place, but a hotel, was Susi Banergee.

&n
bsp; Baharat knew that she’d stayed at a local hotel when her brother had first been found dead. But surely she wanted to be in her own home now?

  Paying over a hundred pounds for a pair of sunglasses was mad, paying nearly six hundred pounds for three T-shirts was absurd. Mumtaz could see that the material was good quality but she couldn’t really understand why the young woman serving her was wrapping each garment so reverentially. Something, she imagined, to do with the Alexander McQueen designer ‘magic’.

  ‘That will be five hundred and eighty-five pounds please, madam,’ the shop assistant said.

  Mumtaz handed over her credit card. Lee had already put enough into her bank account to cover all these purchases, although whether Abbas al’Barri was going to ultimately pay off everything, she didn’t know. She hoped so.

  Was the whole scheme crazy? What if Abu Imad became violent? He could. And why hadn’t she considered Shazia more carefully? If she was killed or kidnapped, what would happen to her?

  ‘Is everything alright, madam?’

  She looked up at the assistant and smiled. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, I’m just a bit tired.’

  The assistant smiled. She was a pretty young woman with wonderful, slanted green eyes.

  ‘If you’d like to put your PIN into the machine.’

  Mumtaz typed her number. The assistant tore off her sales receipt and put it in the bag with the T-shirts.

  ‘Have a nice day, madam.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Chief Superintendent Vine closed the newspaper on his desk.

  ‘Does Mr Huq know about this?’ he said.

  ‘He knows what he’s charged with but not about the media coverage, sir,’ Ricky Montalban said. ‘At least I don’t think so. We’ve shut the crypt and we’re limiting Mr Huq’s access to media of all kinds.’

  ‘Does he have a phone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that. What about the family?’

  ‘DC Iqbal has been appointed FLO,’ he said. ‘She’s over there now.’