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‘The girl killed herself. What exactly is it you need to investigate?’
‘I simply want to assure myself that this matter is as cut and dried as it seems,’ said DI Bell. ‘And I would assume Yasmeen’s family would want the same. Whatever their religious affiliations.’
Lilly levelled the man in her sights. Now she listened carefully, his voice was all wrong—too stilted, trying much too hard. He said all the right things but it was as if he were reading from a script.
‘Why don’t we speak again in two days?’ she said. ‘I’m sure that will give you ample time.’
The plate of pakora smelled so delicious Lilly’s stomach lurched. She could almost taste the chilli and coriander.
‘Please,’ said Anwar, and gestured for her to take one.
Lilly’s smile was rueful. ‘Spicy food is a bit of a problem at the moment.’
This was an understatement. A month ago, when Lilly had cracked and had a takeaway delivered, she had barely swallowed three spoonfuls of chicken korma and a nibble of chapatti when the heartburn kicked in and she’d been up all night chugging on a bottle of Gaviscon.
Anwar gave a polite smile and passed the plate back to his mother to be returned to the kitchen.
After a momentary rattling of crockery and cupboard doors she resumed her place next to her son. On a chair to the side of the room sat a man in his early fifties. He wore white cotton kurta pyjamas and kufi cap. He scowled at Lilly from behind a long grey beard.
‘This is my uncle,’ said Anwar.
Lilly held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
The man looked from Lilly’s face to her hand and back again before finally taking it in his. ‘Mohamed Aziz.’
Lilly cringed at the sweat on his palm and surreptitiously wiped her hand against her leg.
‘Have you spoken to the police?’ asked Anwar.
‘Yes,’ said Lilly, ‘I met with the officer in the case about half an hour ago.’
‘“Officer in the case”?’ Mohamed sneered. ‘The sad passing of Yasmeen is not a case.’
‘It’s a figure of speech,’ said Lilly. ‘The officer who has been assigned to look into Yasmeen’s death.’
Mohamed shook his head, clearly dissatisfied with Lilly’s explanation.
Then the the door burst open and a teenage boy and girl burst in.
Anwar jumped to his feet. ‘What are you two doing back here?’ he said. ‘I told you to stay at Auntie’s for the afternoon.’
The girl straightened her hijab. ‘She felt ill so we came home.’
‘OK then,’ Anwar was still on his feet, ‘why don’t you go upstairs?’
The girl looked at Lilly and knitted her brow.
‘Listen to your brother,’ said Mohamed.
The girl frowned but turned as if she might head for the stairs.
The boy, however, was not so easily persuaded. He squared his shoulders, openly aggressive. ‘Who’s this?’
‘We’ll talk about it later,’ said Anwar.
The boy folded his arms across his chest. ‘I want to talk about it now.’
Anwar pursed his lips but Lilly caught his glance towards his uncle, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Evidently, Anwar did not make all the decisions for the family.
‘Fine. This is Miss Valentine,’ said Anwar. ‘A solicitor.’ He turned to Lilly. ‘This is my brother, Raffique Khan.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Lilly, and held out her hand.
Much like his uncle, the boy looked at her hand as if there was nothing he would less like to do than shake it. But Lilly had dealt with stroppier teenagers than this in her fifteen years of practice and she held fast, her arm outstretched. Eventually he had no option.
‘Why do we need a solicitor?’ Raffique asked.
‘You know perfectly well.’ Anwar sat down heavily. ‘We need the police to release Yasmeen’s body.’
‘The police are racist scum,’ the younger brother spat. ‘They will do whatever they can to make us suffer.’
Anwar sighed. ‘Don’t start all that, Raffy.’
Raffy kissed his teeth. ‘So why is my sister’s body still in their morgue?’
Anwar looked at Lilly, his eyes pleading for some help.
Lilly cleared her throat. ‘As I was trying to explain to your uncle, the police will not close this matter until they have assured themselves that Yasmeen’s death was either suicide or accidental.’
‘And how long will that take?’ asked Mohamed.
‘I’ve given them two days to review the matter and get back to me.’
Raffy threw his arms in the air. ‘I can’t believe we’re just gonna sit here and agree to that.’
‘So what do you suggest?’ asked Anwar.
‘That we sort this out ourselves,’ Raffy shouted. ‘Do you honestly think that if it were one of us Yasmeen would just hang around chatting with solicitors?’
Anwar rolled his eyes. ‘OK, Raffy, let’s go down there and storm the place.’
‘Why not, man? Better than leaving everything up to her.’ He jabbed a finger at Lilly. ‘She’s probably in on it with them.’
Anwar groaned. ‘She’s a lawyer.’
‘She’s fakir.’
Lilly had had enough. In situations like this, feelings ran high—of course they did. She was a past master at letting clients get it all out of their systems. Vulnerable kids often covered their fears with swearing fits and throwing chairs, and who could blame them? The lawyers that represented them knew when to take cover and wait but they also knew when to call a halt to the hysteria.
‘Why don’t you call them?’ she asked.
Raffy’s eyes flashed. ‘Call who?’
‘The police.’ Lilly pulled out her mobile and laid it on the table. ‘I’m sure they’ll be only too happy to tell you what a pain I am. That I am most definitely not in on anything with them.’
Raffy glowered at her but Lilly held his gaze. ‘Sadly, there’s no love lost between me and Her Majesty’s constabulary.’
At last Raffy looked away. ‘I still don’t see why we can’t use one of our own.’
‘Do we really want someone local sticking their noses into our business?’ asked the girl, who Lilly had almost forgotten was there. ‘Hasn’t Mum suffered enough?’
The girl rubbed her mother’s arm and Deema’s hand fluttered upwards as if she might touch her daughter. Eventually it just sank back into her lap as if she were incapable of giving or receiving comfort.
‘Saira is right,’ said Anwar. ‘We need to keep this as quiet as possible.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Mohamed.
Finally, Raffy’s shoulders loosened and he let his head drop. ‘Fine,’ he muttered, ‘whatever.’
DI Bell straightened his tie. His appearance mattered to him very much. Being slightly shorter than average he struggled to get shirts and suits off the peg.
He watched the chief superintendent pacing his office and wondered if the Force had the higher ranks’ uniforms especially made. When his own time came he would pay his tailor to run one up, just in case.
‘I don’t have to tell you,’ the chief super stalked to the window, ‘that the country is in the grip of racial tension.’
‘I’m well aware of that, sir,’ said DI Bell.
‘Then I don’t have to tell you how tricky things are in Luton in particular.’
Bell nodded. The local Muslim community was one of the most disadvantaged in Britain. A feeding ground for the young, the disenchanted and the angry. It was no coincidence that the 7/7 bombers had begun their fateful train journeys from Luton. The redtops had nicknamed Bury Park ‘Al-Qaeda Street’.
‘You’re too young to remember the last serious race riots.’ The chief super wagged his finger. ‘But I was a sergeant in Brixton in ’eighty-one. I saw at first hand what happens when positions become polarised.’
Bell stifled a yawn. ‘That must have been tough, sir.’
‘Forty-eight hours of pitched battle. Petrol bombs raining down on us, for the most part.’
Bell promised himself that when he wore the stripes on his shoulder he would never bore junior officers with tales of distant heroism. Sure, he would start a few rumours, let Chinese whispers do their job, but he would remain dignified in his silence.
‘Your father was there, of course,’ said the chief super.
Bell nodded impassively, like he always did when the old man’s name came up.
‘One of his team took a direct hit,’ the chief continued. ‘He would have been burned alive if your father hadn’t reacted as quickly as he did.’
Bell’s face remained impassive but inside his mouth he bit his cheek.
‘There were no paramedics, of course—far too dangerous,’ said the chief—‘so your father took off his own jacket and rolled the man in it. Left himself completely open, of course.’
Bell imagined the burly silhouette of the old man, the burning skies of South London behind him.
‘It was absolute chaos, and I don’t mind telling you that the rest of us were struggling,’ the chief pointed at Bell, ‘but not your father.’
Time to change the subject.
‘So what is it you want me to do about the Khan girl?’ he asked.
The chief super was a flinty pragmatist, but even he wouldn’t actually order the release of Yasmeen’s body. Would he?
‘I don’t want you to do anything.’
DI Bell felt a stab of disappointment in the other man. His lack of conviction made him look weak. Something else he would never allow. As the old man never ceased to point out, you had to show the lower orders that you were a man of iron.
‘What I want,’ the chief super continued, ‘is an assurance from you that the current situation is absolutely necessary.’
So that was it. The old bugger wanted something to say if the shit hit the fan. An excuse.
‘All I can tell you, sir, is that I’m not entirely convinced that the girl killed herself. Something about it is all wrong and I think it’s only right we look into it.’
‘Quite so,’ said the chief super. ‘But we don’t want to open ourselves up to accusations of racism.’
DI Bell knew exactly what to say. ‘Don’t you think it would be more racist not to follow up the death of a young Asian woman? I mean, sir, if she were white we wouldn’t just leave it, would we?’
The chief super closed his eyes, evidently weighing up the rock and the hard place.
‘Fine. Continue the investigation,’ he said, ‘but be ready to give a decision and release that body as soon as possible.’
‘Their lawyer wants an update in two days,’ said Bell.
The chief super raised his eyebrows. ‘They’ve instructed a solicitor?’
‘She came to see me earlier today,’ said Bell. ‘A Lilly Valentine.’
The chief super groaned.
‘You know her, then, sir?’
‘We’ve had several dealings in the past,’ said the chief super, ‘and none has been what you would describe as a pleasure.’
‘She seemed pretty harmless.’
‘Do not underestimate that woman,’ the chief super warned. ‘If Luton is a tinderbox then Valentine is just the type to light a bloody match.’
At least one day a week they have biryani for supper. Somehow Mum always manages to pick the day when she has the most homework.
‘You don’t like my food now, missy?’
Aasha sighs. Of course she likes her mother’s food. Biryani is one of her favourites, especially when there are crispy fried onions crumbled into it. The problem is the clearing up. There’s the dish the meat has been in, the bowl the rice has soaked in, the onion pan and then the cooking pot itself, caked and hard with slow-baked spices. And because it’s their mid-week treat her father will insist it is served with the maximum ceremony of side dishes.
