An Act of Kindness: A Hakim and Arnold Mystery (Hakim & Arnold Mystery 2) (17 page)

Mumtaz, who had indeed asked her father about the ‘old days’, said, ‘Abba, I know that a few Jewish people do still live here, but were there many when you first arrived?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Baharat said. ‘I myself knew a Mr Klein, a family Rosenberg and my first employer here, Mr Braverman, was a Jew.’

‘Did you ever meet anyone who had been in a concentration camp?’

The smell of mutton biryani hung tantalisingly in the damp air. Sumita Huq, Mumtaz’s mother, would delay serving food until everyone was almost mad with culinary desire.

Baharat said, ‘Concentration camp? No. I believe that some Jews came to this country after the war, some of whom had been in the camps. But most of the East End Jews had been in London for generations. Now they all live in Ilford or Finchley or some such.’

‘Do you think that Jews who had been in the camps would have stood out?’

Baharat thought. ‘Probably,’ he said. ‘But why all of this interest in Jews and concentration camps? Did you not study about all that at school?’

‘Yes.’

‘So?’

‘So, I am just interested, Abba.’

‘Ah. Private detective.’ He tapped the side of his nose with his finger. Mumtaz inclined her head in agreement.

Nasreen Khan was no longer paying her to look into the lives of Reg Smith and his Jewish wife Lily, but Mumtaz was still intrigued by those lives. How had Lily Berkowicz and her son Marek managed to adjust to life in the UK after Belsen? How had they survived the camp? And what were their relationships like with Reg Smith? Did either of them actually love him or had it all just been about gratitude?

Ignoring his daughter’s thoughtful silence, Baharat continued, ‘You ask would foreign Jews have stood out in the old days? Not to look at maybe and only if they didn’t speak any English. When the uneducated come from Bangladesh it is the same thing. If they can speak the language they can do things and pass amongst people without comment. If they can’t, then the silly buggers must rely on their family members who can make themselves understood.’

Although only formally educated until the age of twelve, Baharat Huq nevertheless considered himself a man of learning, mainly because he had always spoken English and because he read multiple newspapers. One of his favourite sayings was
How can one get a balanced view of the world unless one reads The Guardian and The Daily Mail?

‘And then it is that they start with all the jihad talk,’ Baharat said. ‘They come here, knowing nothing of this country and they want to start jihad immediately. Uneducated and with no understanding of Islam!’

Mumtaz shook her head. Her father had it fixed in his mind that only recent, non-English-speaking immigrants from the sub-continent wanted to destroy Western society and impose a Caliphate. She knew a few boys who had been born and bred in the UK who were enthusiastic about that. Religious zealotry was not limited to those with no education. But Mumtaz hadn’t just come to see her parents to socialise with them or talk about mid-twentieth-century Jewish immigration.

‘Abba, is it OK if I go to my old room for a few moments, please?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘This is still your home.’

‘I think I’ve still got my copy of
The Complete Works of Shakespeare
here.’

‘Oh, one cannot do without Shakespeare! Go! Go!’

She knew that he’d never read a word of Shakespeare in his life. ‘Thank you, Abba.’

She stood up, noticing that Shazia was frowning at her. There was a
Complete Works
at the house in Forest Gate and they both knew it, but Mumtaz couldn’t think about that now. Once the meal had started she wouldn’t be able to leave the table except to go home. She had to get into her old bedroom, pick up her old complete works and look for some Mughal coins her Uncle Asif had given her when she was little. They had to be worth something.

*

He was still angry with her when they went to bed. Nasreen
reached out to touch him when she thought that he was half asleep, but even then her husband pulled away from her.

They hadn’t exactly had a row back at Strone Road, but he had shouted at her for questioning him. He’d said some horrible things about her parents, accusing them of poisoning her mind against him even though she’d not actually got anywhere near to asking him about what he did for a living. All she’d done was ask him about what he’d been doing.

Of course she had been digging, but he hadn’t known that. He hadn’t known what Mumtaz Hakim had said about him. Although Nasreen still didn’t believe what the private detective had told her, she nevertheless felt that Abdullah’s reactions to her questions had been overly confrontational. But then he’d always been volatile, even – as she thought about it now – when they’d first met he’d been so very keen to pander to her every whim that he’d come across as a bit of a desperate case. Her friends, Julie and Rachida, had found him ‘over the top’. Not that she’d seen either of them since her wedding.

Just before they’d gone to bed, Abdullah had broken his silence to her with, ‘We’ll move into the new house the day after tomorrow.’

She’d been horrified, but she’d said nothing: just turned away from his fierce, disapproving eyes and got into bed. The new house was still a wreck! What was more, Abdullah was now knocking down the wall between the living room and the dining room. Against everything they had agreed, he was turning their home into a modern house. Nasreen fought not to cry. There was plenty to be done at the new house and there were few places to rest; and now that morning sickness had become a regular feature, she needed a quiet place in which to recuperate. But there was nothing to be done. Abdullah wanted them to move in and so
move in they would. Now that she was married, her father wouldn’t interfere. Nasreen was Abdullah’s wife and therefore his responsibility and his property now.

*

‘You know as well as I do that she’ll say she went willingly,’ Vi said.

It was just gone one in the morning and she was in Lee Arnold’s Forest Gate flat, drinking tea and talking about Wendy Dixon.

‘And I can’t prove nothing,’ Vi continued. ‘She had a black eye and was walking a bit unsteady before she went into that flat on Forest Road with them two blokes.’

‘How long was she in there?’ Lee asked.

‘Three hours. But she come out much the same as she looked when she went in.’

‘Did you know either of the blokes?’ Lee asked.

‘I knew one,’ Vi said. ‘Do you remember George White? Conman.’

‘Bad one,’ Lee said. ‘Did a lot of time.’

‘Tried to get some book deal on the back of having once met Reggie Kray when he was in Maidstone. One of the blokes was his son, Norman.’

‘Don’t know him,’ Lee said. ‘What’s he do?’

‘Norman and the other bloke do maintenance on rented properties for local landlords.’

‘Including the Rogers.’

‘Yep.’ Vi lit a fag. ‘And Sean particularly likes to keep those who work for them sweet. Give incentives. Know what I mean?’

‘Keep quiet about the illegal gas boilers and galloping mould in the flats and we’ll pay you well and give you the odd free shag.’

‘That, or they asked Sean for Wendy specifically,’ Vi said. ‘I mean if she owes him money, which we know she does, she’s his
now to do what he wants with. I checked out the address of the flat and it too belongs to Sean.’

‘Could be him and his brother keep it as a “love nest”, Lee said, scowling. ‘Fuck, it’s like something out of fucking Dickens!’

Vi laughed, a deep, scarred, mirthless rumble. ‘Welcome to free-market Britain,’ she said. ‘Bye-bye council houses, hello landlords who’ll charge you what they like, put 2,000 percent interest on your debt if you default and put you on the streets.’

‘So what can we do about it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I thought you were going to contact Wendy Dixon? Offer her some sort of deal?’

‘I said that to make Mumtaz feel better,’ Vi said. ‘Wendy Dixon won’t take a deal! She might tell Sean Rogers I offered her one and I can’t risk that. How’s it going with that investigation Mumtaz was doing into the old Smith house by the way?’

‘Ah, well it’s funny you should say that—’

Her phone rang. She took the call, listened, and then said, ‘That’s good. I’ll be there.’

‘So, what …’

Vi stood up. ‘Unless Wendy Dixon comes to us and fingers the Rogers’ there’s nothing I can do. Not unless she’s assaulted or raped and she reports it.’

‘Mmm … But you know that Mumtaz’s client’s husband works for the Rogers’.’

‘What, the Smith house, Strone Road?’

‘Yes.’

Vi narrowed her eyes. ‘Interesting.’ She stood up.

‘You off?’ Lee asked.

‘Tony Bracci has found something I was looking for,’ Vi said with a smile. She walked towards Lee’s front door.

He said, ‘So that’s Wendy Dixon over and done with then is it, Vi?’

She turned, smiled and said, ‘Oh, I didn’t say that, Arnold. I would never say that.’ And then she left.

If the Rogers brothers and their business parter, Yunus Ali, had ever been off Vi’s radar they were certainly back on again now.

*

Kazia Ostrowska refused to speak any language but Polish. So at three in the morning, Vi had had to organise a Polish/English translator. But once communication had been established, Kazia gave them the silent treatment.

‘Your friend Dorotka told us you used the landline in the Bancrofts’ house to tell us about Mr Islam and his cannabis habit,’ Vi said. She hadn’t. Dorotka Walensa, in spite of her little girl looks, had proved to be a much tougher nut to crack than Kazia had been. She’d been silent treatment from the start. But then, as Tony Bracci had told Vi, he’d expected nothing less from a dyed-in-the-wool Wisla fan. ‘They’re beyond nuts,’ he’d said. ‘It’s like they’re all in the SS or something.’

Vi leaned on the table between her and Kazia and said, ‘And the only way you could’ve seen him was if you went inside the Plashet Jewish Cemetery, which you’re not supposed to, are you Kazia.’

The girl said something to the translator who said to Vi, ‘No comment.’

‘Oh, the no comment game. How original.’ Vi leaned back in her chair. She was knackered. After taking Dorotka in earlier that afternoon she’d done an unofficial obbo for Lee Arnold, and now she was back with Kazia Ostrowska and what seemed to be an attempt to smear Majid Islam’s character.

‘Doesn’t bother me, I’ve got all night,’ Vi said. ‘We’ve a recording of the voice that made the emergency call on Saturday night and if it matches yours …’ She looked up at the girl, who remained impassive. ‘It’s up to you. But let me give you a little snapshot of what’s going on in my mind at the moment, shall I?’

The translator, aware that Kazia could both speak and understand English, did not translate Vi’s words.

‘I’ve got a theory about why you were in the cemetery … But whatever you were there for,’ Vi said, ‘you came across Majid Islam smoking weed. You saw him, he didn’t see you, but you recognised him as the bloke who’d called us out the night we found the body of John Sawyer and the skeleton. The bloke who got you arrested.’

Kazia said nothing.

‘And you know what I think you saw that as? An opportunity,’ Vi said. ‘Smear Mr Islam’s character, muddy the waters around his testimony and get you and also Bully Murray completely off the hook for John Sawyer’s murder.’

This time Kazia looked confused.

‘Oh, didn’t I explain?’ Vi said. ‘It’s my belief that you and Mark Murray knew each other before the night when we found the body of John Sawyer. He told me some crap about following you in there because you gave him the come-on outside the cemetery. But you wouldn’t follow someone into a graveyard for sex just on a look, would you? What was it, Kazia? Met him up in East London for a bit of alfresco nookie before, had you?’ She watched the girl colour. ‘Kazia Ostrowska,’ she said, ‘you are going to have to talk to me if you don’t want me to charge you and your boyfriend with murder.’

Mumtaz thought that Shazia had forgotten her key. It wouldn’t be the first time. With the doorbell frantically playing ‘Green-sleeves’ over and over again, she opened the door.

‘Hello, Mrs Hakim.’

He had his fingers around her throat before she could even breathe. Naz Sheikh kicked the front door shut behind him and pushed her back towards the living room. The conflict that existed between her fear and her anger rendered Mumtaz temporarily dumb. Then she felt his other hand on her breasts.

‘Stop that!’

He carried on. ‘But we both know that you love it, Mrs Hakim,’ he said. ‘Why else didn’t you give the police my description when I stuck your old man like a pig on Wanstead Flats? Not just because you hated him, was it?’

‘I hate you!’ She did. But when Naz Sheikh had killed Ahmet Hakim on Wanstead Flats just over a year ago, she’d hated her husband more.

He pushed her up against the doorpost.

‘You’re just your father’s thug!’

He ground his hips into hers. ‘Your father is a gangster and so is your brother!’ she said. Although the Sheikhs hadn’t put her on the streets in order to service what were really Ahmet
Hakim’s debts, threats against her and Shazia were constant.

‘I can’t wait to get my hands on that daughter of yours!’ Naz said into her face.

‘Never!’

‘I’ll have you too, Mrs Hakim,’ he breathed at her. His words were rasping and harsh now as if he were really having sex with her. Mumtaz felt her stomach turn. She wanted to push him away, but if she did that she didn’t know what he’d do.

‘Not that I like older flesh,’ he continued. ‘I like young things. Even if they’re damaged – like your daughter.’

‘Leave Shazia alone,’ she said. He knew all about what Ahmet had done to his daughter and yet he had no compassion. She was just a whore in his eyes, a whore who had called her own father to her bed.

‘Do you have our money, Mrs Hakim?’

‘It isn’t due yet,’ Mumtaz said. ‘I won’t give it to you until the due date.’

‘Yes, but do you have it?’ He tightened his grip on her throat while he rubbed himself up against her.

Almost vomiting with disgust she said, ‘Yes, I have!’ And then she pushed him away from her. Instantly she knew she’d done the wrong thing.