Bright Shiny Things

by Barbara Nadel

  ‘I do!’

  He held her hand. ‘You have a heavy burden, what with the girl and having to work … You should have been cared for by your husband …’

  Would he ever stop feeling guilty for arranging her marriage to Ahmet Hakim? Mumtaz knew that nothing she could say to reassure him would ever make it better. She changed the subject.

  ‘Abba, we know that Ali is innocent but even so, now everyone knows about his sexuality …’

  ‘That was Bhatti from the electrical shop!’ he said. ‘He told the papers. Knowing him, for money!’

  ‘Do you know for sure it was Bhatti?’

  ‘I know in my soul,’ he said. Which meant he had no proof. Even though Mr Bhatti had known about Ali and Rajiv all along. Whoever had leaked the story, the damage was done.

  ‘Abba, how will Ali live here, as a gay man?’

  Her father visibly shuddered when she used the word. Then he said, ‘Well, he won’t.’

  Mumtaz didn’t understand. ‘He won’t …’

  Baharat shook his head. ‘I have thought and thought and I come to no conclusion but that he will have to go,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I do not know. There are good people here, Mumtaz, people who do not judge, but … Rajiv-ji could do the gay thing because he was different, always. His father wore women’s clothes. His family came here from India a long time before we Pakistanis and Bangladeshis arrived. He was accepted. Ali will not be.’

  Mumtaz knew that was possible, but she said, ‘If he goes, those people will have won.’

  ‘And if he stays he will be beaten up, maybe killed,’ Baharat said. ‘You know there are people here who will not let others live in peace, Mumtaz. There always have been. When you were a child it was the BNP …’

  ‘UKIP are still around.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but there are also people within our community,’ he said. ‘You know …’

  She nodded.

  ‘I don’t know what will happen when this is all over,’ he said. ‘Inshallah we will all survive.’

  Mumtaz said, ‘Inshallah.’ Because, as far as she knew, the outcome could only be as God willed.

  ‘Mrs Chopra is staying at her hotel,’ Bob said. ‘She knows she’s not to leave.’

  He’d joined Montalban for lunch in the canteen. What they had both chosen contained far too many chips.

  ‘She didn’t kill her brother,’ Montalban said. ‘I mean, she’s always been pretty terrifying, I remember Susi Banergee when I was a kid, but that story she told you rings true to me.’

  ‘And me,’ Bob said. ‘What about your bloke, guv?’

  ‘Charleston? He did something. I can see it on his face,’ Montalban said. ‘Also the other gym bunnies are, probably unintentionally, fingering him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Lewis and Cranmer say when they left the gym, Charleston was still there. Mirza says Charleston left after midnight, on foot, which means he could have been at the top of Brick Lane at the same time as Rajiv was being murdered. Mind you, Mirza could be lying. The search of his gaff brought up some very unsavoury contacts.’

  ‘And what does Charleston say?’

  ‘Sweet FA. Mr Dugdale, the solicitor his daddy’s bought for him, does all the talking so far. Fucking pissed off with it.’

  Bob didn’t say anything. Even with forensic evidence it wasn’t always straightforward to obtain a conviction. Charleston’s blood on Rajiv’s shirt didn’t prove that he killed him. Although Bob knew that Montalban had hopes about the faint stains that had been detected on Charleston’s T-shirt. If that blood proved to be Rajiv’s, that could be enough.

  ‘Next step’s going back to those kids who lived with Ali Huq and getting Charleston in an ID parade,’ he said. ‘Whether Huq had sex with them or not, they were out that night. A bit of persuasion might just tease the truth from the little sods.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘In care,’ Montalban said.

  ‘I didn’t think we did ID parades any more.’

  ‘We don’t, not often. But I think I’d like to see Charleston on one. Think it might make him sweat even more than he already is.’

  ‘Does Mr Huq know we’ve got someone?’ Bob asked.

  ‘No. I want to be sure of Charleston before I let him know. I’ve told his father it’s on the cards. Bit frightened old Baharat-ji might go into cardiac arrest. But Ali’s safe where he is for the time being. If I release him anything could happen.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of anyone being held in a church before,’ Bob said. ‘When he claimed sanctuary I had to ask him what it meant.’

  ‘Ancient privilege, sanctuary,’ Montalban said. ‘Course people don’t normally use it these days. I’ll be honest, I’ve used it for me own purposes. Keeps Ali out the way, no protests outside the nick either for or against the prisoner, and with the imam going in, no hassle for the church either. Couldn’t have planned it better.’

  Bob looked down at his chips. ‘I suppose every community has people who’re intolerant.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Montalban. ‘Shit innit.’

  Stansted Airport in Essex is forty miles outside London. It can be reached by road or rail in an hour to an hour and a half.

  Lee chose to drive. He’d booked a parking space at the airport and his journey took two hours, mainly because of traffic build-up on the North Circular. Mumtaz went by train from London Liverpool Street. Lee arrived first at 2 p.m. while Mumtaz made it by 2.30.

  Although their plane didn’t take off until 4.50, all passengers for international flights were advised to arrive a good two hours before. Not even the check-in desks were open when Lee arrived and so he drifted about occasionally looking at the odd book in Smiths. It was while he was perusing Andy McNab’s latest that he saw Mumtaz. She wasn’t wearing her headscarf, as instructed, and her eye make-up was very thick. She looked amazing.

  Imam Yusuf was his own age. He was different from any imam, Ali had ever met before.

  ‘There are Muslim groups who do not discriminate on the grounds of gender or sexuality,’ he’d said. ‘I know them.’

  Ali had said, ‘People like me should be killed.’

  The imam, who was an astute man had said, ‘And what would your death achieve?’

  Ali hadn’t answered. Now, alone except for the policeman outside the cafe door, he knew the answer to that question. It would stop the pain. It would also mean that his family’s honour would be restored. His parents and his siblings would be able to walk the streets with their heads held high again. And, selfishly, he wouldn’t have to face either prison or a future hiding in the shadows. In prison, if no one would believe his innocence, he would be killed. That was what happened to nonces.

  If he didn’t go to prison, he didn’t want to go to some group of ‘queer’ Muslims! What kind of freaky people would they be? How could they even call themselves Muslims? How could he?

  Montalban still hadn’t got back to him and the Reverend Reid had gone to see one of his parishioners. He felt as if he was on the edge of the world. The crypt’s windows were high up and small, which meant that he could only see people’s feet. He had no TV, no phone, no newspapers. He had no idea what was going on in the world. Not for the first time, he wondered whether this was by design. What did the police not want him to know?

  There were books but he had no patience to sit and read and so he just thought. It would have hurt Rajiv so much to see him like this. At one time they’d even talked about leaving the Lane and starting up as a couple somewhere new. But Ali had realised that wherever they went, he could not escape his guilt. That was why he had ended it. Rajiv had cried. They’d made love one last time and then they’d both cried. But Ali had stuck to his guns. He’d seen Rajiv countless times in his shop or in the street. They’d even spoken, from time to time. But always in an atmosphere of bitterness.

  What a way to live. But then it wasn’t living, was it?

  He went to the lavatory wit
h the intention of simply relieving his bladder but then, while he was washing his hands, a thought occurred to him. Then something else happened.

  It was stuffy in the airport and so Mumtaz treated herself to a cold drink with which to take her precautionary aspirin, and sat down to wait for the check-in desk to open. She hadn’t seen Lee but she was sure he had to have arrived. By reflex she took out her phone. As soon as she saw it she remembered that it was just a pay-as-you-go thing. It wasn’t her real phone. She couldn’t speak to Shazia or Abba on it. Lee had the number and Abu Imad and that was it. But if she phoned Lee, Abu Imad would know. He was that kind of man. Or was he?

  She put the phone back in her bag. Who was Abu Imad/Fayyad al’Barri? On the face of it he was a totally radicalised terrorist who had, by his own admission, killed people. He was arrogant, sexist, dictatorial and materialistic – in spite of his adherence to the ‘caliphate’. But was that really who he was? Or rather was that someone he had become and now no longer wanted to be? If he was playing a game in order to leave ISIS, he was playing it very well. Maybe too well. Maybe that was him.

  The only evidence to the contrary that existed was the Tooth of Jonah. A star of the religious relic world, a bright, shiny thing that all Fayyad’s parents’ hopes centred on. Lee had known from the start that it could just be delusion. But Mumtaz knew that his motivation for helping the al’Barris went deeper than just finding Fayyad. Abbas had saved his life. Lee had to try and make that up to him. Also there was his guilt over being part of an invasion force that had wrecked Iraq. It didn’t matter what the intentions of the British government may have been, that was what had happened.

  Mumtaz drank her very expensive orange juice and looked up at the boards for gates checking in. Amsterdam was still not showing.

  Then something occurred to her that she hadn’t thought about before. What if Mishal, her teenager alter ego, was actually a radical? If Fayyad really wanted to return to the UK, how could he know that this girl would help him? She might not. But then maybe he was relying on his sex appeal to make her do whatever he wanted?

  ‘Mishal?’

  It was a woman’s voice and, for a moment, Mumtaz didn’t know where it was coming from. She looked around, but saw no one.

  ‘Hello? Mishal?’

  She was standing behind her. A column of black material, only her eyes visible.

  ‘I bring greetings from Abu Imad,’ the woman said.

  Mumtaz forced a smile.

  ‘There’s been a change of plan.’

  Mumtaz felt as if someone had put a large, cold stone in her stomach.

  NINETEEN

  In the short time they’d been away from Ali Huq’s house the boys, Qasim and Nabil, had changed. They looked genuinely nervous.

  Ricky Montalban instructed their translator to give them very specific instructions. This was their last chance to tell the truth. He was implying that in the past they’d lied and that was quite deliberate. He wanted them to know. He also believed, sincerely, that they had lied.

  Amir Charleston stood in a line of random men, some of whom were Asian and some not, behind one-way glass. He’d started sweating heavily even before the sergeant in charge of the line-up told them all to be quiet and keep still.

  Qasim and Nabil, fascinated by the fact that they could see while not being seen, walked up and down getting used to the idea. Ricky feared they could do that all day. He asked them to stop, to concentrate and to tell him if they recognised any of the men on the line. If they did, then from where and when did they recognise them?

  The boys walked up and down more slowly. Their translator followed. From time to time one or other kid spoke.

  Eventually Ricky said to the translator, ‘What they saying?’

  His eyes moved in that way that was sometimes described as ‘shifty’.

  ‘Well?’

  They were standing in front of Charleston but not looking at him.

  Eventually the translator said, ‘They think they know this man.’

  ‘Number 3?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  He spoke to the kids who now, for some reason, whispered.

  When he’d finished the translator said, ‘They know him as a good Muslim.’

  ‘Oh? Really?’

  ‘That is what they say.’

  Like his Pakistani mother, Charleston was a Muslim. He also exercised a lot, which modern ‘good’ Muslims did seem to do. But he had also mixed with people like Taha Mirza whose choice of home entertainment had little to do with caring and compassionate religion.

  ‘Where’d they know him from?’ Ricky asked.

  The boys said they’d seen him running on Brick Lane. He asked them the man’s name, but they didn’t know.

  ‘So how can you tell he’s a good Muslim?’

  The translator asked and, this time, the boys clammed up.

  They knew Charleston alright and Ricky would have put money on that having little or nothing to do with running on Brick Lane.

  Then he asked them whether they boxed.

  There’d been no time to get his car out of the long-stay and so Lee Arnold did what Mumtaz and her burqa’d friend were doing and got a cab.

  But as soon as he got in, someone else joined him.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he asked Abbas al’Barri.

  The cabbie said, ‘Where to gents?’

  Lee pointed to the cab that contained Mumtaz. ‘Follow that,’ he said. Then he turned his attention on Abbas. ‘Why are you here?’

  It had been a coincidence. Shereen hadn’t planned to go to Lee’s office when she’d gone shopping on Green Street. But then someone had left a printout of an e-ticket out on a desk, which she’d seen.

  ‘Doesn’t explain why you’re here though, does it?’ Lee said.

  ‘That is obvious. I want to see my son.’

  ‘So you’ve a seat on the 16.50 flight?’

  ‘Yes. What is happening? Do you know?’

  Lee was furious he had Abbas in tow. He’d been beside himself when he’d watched Mumtaz go off with that woman. Now Abbas complicated everything.

  ‘No, I fucking don’t,’ he said.

  They exited the airport and pulled onto the A120.

  ‘You want me to carry on following?’ the cabbie said.

  ‘Yeah. Ta.’

  Abbas, his eyes wide with fear or excitement or the wonder of the Essex countryside said, ‘Do you know where they’re going?’

  Lee didn’t even bother to dignify that with an answer.

  He couldn’t do it. Reflex kept pulling his head up and forcing his lungs to fight for breath. Maybe if he smashed his head against the sink? Ali began to cry. He couldn’t even do that. When his head was finally pulled away from the sink by someone else, his nose was full of snot.

  ‘Mr Huq!’

  She was young and pretty and she had a very strong grip.

  ‘I’m DC Iqbal, remember?’ she said.

  The family liaison woman from the police. He’d seen her once.

  ‘I’m not going to ask you what you think you were doing because I think that’s obvious,’ she said. She pulled him towards the door. ‘Come on. We need to talk.’

  Ali didn’t want to, but he also didn’t fancy the bother of saying ‘no’. She gave him a towel to dry his face.

  ‘How did you know where I was?’ Ali asked.

  ‘Once I’d looked around the cafe, you could only be in the loo,’ she said. ‘And I heard you.’

  He hung his head.

  ‘If we’re talking drowning, you should know that doing it in a sink is probably one of the hardest methods,’ she said. ‘The temptation to breathe is far too great. But moving on …’

  They both sat down. Water from his beard dripped down onto his chest and he felt embarrassed.

  ‘I’m here to tell you that DI Montalban is questioning someone about the murder of Rajiv Banergee,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  �
�Can’t tell you,’ she said. ‘But this person’s a strong contender. We’re just waiting on the results of one forensic test …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can’t tell you that either,’ she said. ‘But what I can say is that there’s no need to take your own life whatever.’

  ‘Whatever?’

  ‘If the test is positive for what we think, then you are in the clear. If it doesn’t you’re still in a stronger position than you know.’

  ‘But what about Qasim and Nabil? The allegations of … sex …?’

  She looked at her hands. ‘Can’t tell you anything about that,’ she said.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Not because I’m not allowed to, but because I don’t know. What I do know, however, Mr Huq, is that you need to leave here now.’

  The woman still hadn’t told her her name. Now they were in a taxi with a stranger, she couldn’t exactly ask her. The woman for her part, remained silent.

  Mumtaz tried to remember where she’d told the driver to go. It had been a weird name. Something about Easter?

  The woman didn’t make eye contact. She looked out of the window to her left. Mumtaz, too, watched. She had to try and remember where they were going. She’d seen Lee walk out of the queue that had started to form by the check-in desk for their flight. There was a car behind that had followed them from the airport, but she couldn’t see any faces.

  They exited the A120 and turned into a village.

  The driver said, ‘Good Easter. Right?’

  ‘Yes,’ the woman said. ‘Fambridge End.’

  So it was ‘Easter’. But what was it and where?

  Mumtaz looked at the woman’s hands. They were smooth and beautifully manicured. Her nails, which had to have been painted professionally, were spectacular. Long and tapered, they were a deep, dark red and they shone. Mumtaz’s own nails were a disgrace. Weak and malformed, she kept them short. If she didn’t, typing became difficult, as did doing the washing-up. Now, though, she used them as a distraction. She was frightened. Her chest felt tight and she was sweating. So far her heart hadn’t begun to palpitate, but it soon would.