By Death Divided (16 page)

‘Your parents were here,’ Mower said. ‘They just went home to get something to eat.’

Sharif tried to say something but his voice seemed to be reduced to a mumble. Mower took the chair alongside the bed.

‘What’s the damage?’ Sharif whispered.

‘A nasty gash on the head,’ Mower said. ‘That’s what the doctors were really worried about. A few cracked ribs. And your hand – some bones broken. You were lucky, by all accounts. Can you remember what happened?’

Sharif glanced at the bandages on his left hand and winced as he tried to flex the fingers. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘They came up behind me as I was opening the car door.’

‘More than one of them, then?’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘But you didn’t get a sight of them?’

‘No,’ Sharif said. ‘No, I didn’t.’ he closed his eyes again, the effort of speaking redoubling the pain in his head. ‘Can you get the nurse,’ he said. ‘I think my head’s going to explode.’

‘We’ll talk later, mate,’ Mower said getting to his feet. ‘I’ll get back and tell them you’re back in the land of the living. Everyone will be pleased.’

And after his pain-killing injection, Sharif was grateful to close his eyes and allow himself to drift back into sleep. But as he did so he could hear an insistent cry somewhere in the farthest recesses of his fuddled brain. ‘
Allahu Akbar
,’ it came repeatedly. ‘God is great.’ And the more he tried to drive it from his mind the more insistent it became and he knew he had heard it quite clearly before the first blow that had beaten him to the ground. He knew he had not been attacked by white racists, as his colleagues had no doubt
instantly assumed. He had been attacked by members of his own community. And that filled him with overwhelming dread.

Laura Ackroyd was surprised at how soon her freelance efforts to track down Bruce Holden bore fruit, though it was not exactly the fruit she had anticipated. On Saturday she had called the offices of the local evening paper in Blackpool and spoken to the newsdesk, and then to a reporter, who listened sympathetically and then promised to write a short item about Holden’s disappearance from Bradfield with his daughter. She had given him Julie’s mobile number and emailed a photograph of Holden to the Lancashire paper, in the hope that the newspaper might flush him out where the police had proved so reluctant to do so.

By lunchtime on Monday, Julie had phoned her, almost incoherent at the other end, to say that Bruce had already been in touch, incandescent with rage himself, and threatening to kill himself and Anna if she did not leave them alone, promising to jump off the end of the pier with the child if his cover was blown.

‘He’s mad enough to do it,’ Julie sobbed. ‘Believe me. He’s crazy. And Anna can’t swim.’

‘This is all because the paper published his picture, presumably?’ Laura asked.

‘That’s what he said. He said he’d have to get out of Blackpool now, before someone recognised him. He said a lot more, about what he’ll do to me when he catches up with me. It sounded as if he was heading back here…’ Julie broke off and Laura waited patiently until she began to sound coherent again.

‘You’d better talk to Janet Richardson at police HQ,’ she said. ‘Will you do that now? Straight away? He’s threatening Anna now and she needs to know that.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Julie said. ‘Straight away.’

‘Where are you staying?’ Laura asked.

‘At home. I moved back into the house.’

‘Well, I should move out again if I were you,’ Laura said. ‘It’s far too easy for him to find you there. Let me know where you go.’

When she had rung off, Laura gazed across the busy newsroom without taking in any part of her colleagues’ intense concentration as they came up to their deadline for the day’s paper. Then she picked up the phone again and punched in Michael Thackeray’s direct line. Unusually she got an instant response.

‘Michael,’ she said. ‘You’re not going to like this.’ And she told him what she had done and Holden’s response. There was a long silence at the other end of the line and Laura guessed that Thackeray was torn between an angry personal reaction to her initiative and a professional one to the threat to the child.

‘Right,’ he said at length, his voice as chilly as she knew his expression would be. ‘I’ll talk to Janet Richardson and see what her assessment of the threat is. At first glance it’s serious and we’ll very likely put out a call for the two of them, starting in Blackpool, of course. Is Julie Holden back at her own house?’

‘At the moment,’ Laura said. ‘I suggested she move out again.’

‘Well, that’s one sensible thing you’ve done. I just hope she’s taken your advice,’ Thackeray said flatly. ‘But we’ll talk
later. Right now I need to set things in motion here.’ And he hung up without saying goodbye.

The next morning, Faisel Sharif sat uncomfortably, his beard resting on his clenched fist, across an interview room table from DCI Michael Thackeray, who had deliberately chosen to conduct this interview himself, with Kevin Mower at his side, rather than leave sensitive questions to less experienced officers.

‘I have to ask you this, Mr Sharif,’ Thackeray said. ‘Do you know any reason why Imran Aziz might feel justified in killing his wife? A reason of honour in your culture, maybe?’

Sharif winced, as if the very question was insulting, and shook his head heavily.

‘I know nothing of that sort,’ he said. ‘No reason.’

‘So tell me, how traditional a Muslim is Aziz? Are his expectations stricter than your own, for instance, coming as he did more recently from Pakistan?’

‘He too is a member of my family,’ Sharif said. ‘He and Faria are cousins. We are not fanatics, Mr Thackeray, and Imran certainly was not. But we do wish to maintain our traditions in a culture where I understand very well that they
are not usual. I see it for myself all around me. I do not want my daughters staggering around the town on a Friday night half naked and under the influence of alcohol. I do not want them being tempted by young men of loose morals. That is not our way.’

‘So you have brought up your daughters traditionally and Faria accepted an arranged marriage? You chose her husband for her?’ Thackeray asked, his voice even, giving nothing away.

‘Her grandfather and I suggested a match,’ Sharif said coldly. ‘Faria accepted our suggestion. It is not permissable to force a young woman into marriage in Islam. Families can suggest, young women decide.’

‘But Imran Aziz was older than she was, and had been married before?’

‘He was divorced. There had been no children of that marriage. Divorce is not difficult in Pakistan, for a man.’

Thackeray checked himself from putting the obvious question in response to that. ‘Wasn’t it rather that Imran divorced his wife so he could marry a British citizen and gain entry to the UK that way?’ he asked sharply instead.

‘Not at all,’ Sharif insisted. ‘His first marriage had not been successful. His business dealings were not going well. He wanted to make a new start in a new country with a new wife. There is nothing sinister in that.’

‘Did you discuss politics with your son-in-law?’

‘Imran was in business in Lahore. He was a very busy man. I am not aware that he took any great interest in politics.’

‘You realise that his disappearance is bound to attract the notice of other sections of the police force, times being what they are?’

‘If you knew Imran Aziz as I do you would know that
he would be a very unlikely terrorist,’ Sharif said, his lips tightening with distaste. ‘His interest in coming to this country was to restore his fortunes, not blow people up. He had been successful at home, but ran into difficulties. He thought there would be more opportunities here.’

‘And have there been? More opportunities? Was he making a success of life here?’

Sharif hesitated for a moment and then shrugged.

‘It’s not as easy as it used to be,’ he said. ‘I think he found it hard. I think perhaps that is why he did not keep in touch and seemed to be trying to keep Faria apart from her mother…He was not doing as well as he had hoped, not making enough money. He felt shamed by that. It was a difficult time for us all.’

‘But if he wanted children then this should have been a good time for Imran and Faria, surely? She was pregnant after – what? Two years of marriage? Wasn’t Imran delighted?’

‘I haven’t spoken to my son-in-law about this,’ Sharif said, glancing away as he spoke. ‘He had not told me that Faria was expecting a baby. Neither of them had told me. She only told her sisters. I only learnt of it after her death. But yes, I would expect him to be pleased. Are we not always pleased when children come?’ Faisel Sharif’s face looked gaunt in the harsh light of the interview room.

‘Generally people are pleased,’ Thackeray said quietly, aware of the gulf between a traditional paternalist and a society where sex was often casual and its consequences often unwelcome. ‘But not always,’ he added, uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking.

He took a deep breath. He knew he was getting nowhere with this bearded patriarch whose values were so different
from the norm, though not that different from those of his own father, who had followed a religious path nearly as uncompromising and puritanical as Sharif’s. Neither, he thought wryly, would have welcomed the comparison, though it was a fair one.

‘Mr Sharif,’ he said. ‘You must understand that we need to find your son-in-law urgently. Do you have any idea where he might be?’

Sharif looked at the DCI silently for a moment, his eyes unfathomably dark, and then shook his head impatiently.

‘Do you think, if he is the one who has killed my daughter, I would not wish him found and brought to justice? I have no idea where he is. But I pray to Allah that you find him soon.’

When Sharif had departed Thackeray turned to Mower in exasperation.

‘Can he really have known so little about what was going on with this couple?’ he asked. ‘It sounds like wilful ignorance, as if there were things he actually didn’t want to know about.’

‘It doesn’t make sense, guv,’ Mower said. ‘If Aziz divorced his first wife because there were no children, why would he kill Faria just when she had fallen pregnant? Someone’s lying. But who?’

‘We need to talk to Faria’s mother and sisters as well, but perhaps we’d better do that in their own home. Arrange to talk to them yourself, Kevin, will you, and take that young Asian PC with you. What’s she called, Nasreem something? We don’t want to upset the community too much at this stage, although I’ll arrest the whole family if I can’t get any sense out of them any other way.’

‘This is where we’ll miss Omar,’ Mower said, but his remark met only a stony stare from Thackeray. The DCI followed the
sergeant downstairs but then hesitated in the doorway to his own office.

‘The terrorist officers are working on all the stuff they took out of Aziz’s house. I’ll talk to Doug McKinnon later and see if I can get any indication of how that’s going so we know where we stand. If this is anything more than a simple murder case, we need to know as soon as possible. In the meantime, chase up any sightings there may have been of Aziz. One thing I’ll ask McKinnon is whether he has any objection to us issuing a photograph of him if they’ve found one. There’ll be much more chance of finding him if we can get his face onto the front page of the
Gazette
and onto local TV.’

‘Guv,’ Mower said.

But within ten minutes he was back, knocking on Thackeray’s door and poking his head round tentatively.

‘I thought you’d want to know that there’ve been some developments in the Bruce Holden case, the bloke who’s run off with his daughter…’

Thackeray hesitated for a beat.

‘I know he’s been threatening his wife by phone, threatening the child,’ he said reluctantly.

‘Janet Richardson’s been following up,’ Mower said. ‘Two developments. Blackpool police had a call from a landlord who let Holden a flat. Recognised his picture in the local paper, apparently. I don’t know who…’ he stopped, suddenly realising who might have used the local press to such good effect. ‘Anyway, they’ve done a flit, as they used to say. Packed their bags and moved on, according to the landlord. Blackpool say they’ll keep an eye out but they don’t sound too optimistic.’

‘And the other development?’ Thackeray asked quickly.

‘Fingerprints from the Mendelsons’ place, on the back door. They match Holden’s, which turned up on file. Some road rage fracas a year or so back in Milford. He was arrested but the charges weren’t proceeded with. CPS decided it was six of one and half a dozen of the other after a minor collision. Did nothing about it in the end.’

‘Did you tell Blackpool that?’

‘Yes, told them we had reason to hold him on suspicion of breaking and entering as well as the assaults. Not to hesitate if they locate him, he could be violent.’

‘They should have a record of him. Apparently he was sectioned after some violent incident with the police over there. That’s twice he’s been let off when perhaps he should have been charged.’

‘They didn’t mention it. Anyway, we’ve circulated the registration number of his four-by-four. Someone somewhere will pick him up in the car in the end.’

‘Good, let’s hope so,’ Thackeray said. ‘If he’s threatening the child we need to get hold of him quickly. We’ve already got every reason to arrest him. We should have done it by now.’

‘Did you get anything out of Doug McKinnon on the Aziz case?’ Mower asked.

‘Not a lot. They’ve done a quick trawl through Aziz’s phone records but not come up with anything suspicious so far. His computer will take much longer. They’ve not found any mobiles in the house but there is a charger so at least one of them had a handset, but of course they might have been carrying it when they left. No sign of bills from a mobile company apparently, but they could be using pay-as-
you-go
. You can ask Faria’s sisters if she used a mobile. They’ll
certainly know.’

‘A lot of Asian girls have mobiles their parents don’t know about. Perhaps it goes for wives too. So do we publish Aziz’s picture?’

‘Not yet,’ Thackeray said, not bothering to hide his frustration. ‘McKinnon says it will compromise his investigation.’

‘If Aziz has contacts he shouldn’t have, they’ll know all about his disappearance by now,’ Mower said. ‘They’ll probably have organised it. What do our own terrorism people at county say?’

‘Not on their radar,’ Thackeray said.

‘But that means nothing?’

‘Nothing at all,’ Thackeray agreed gloomily. ‘The ones not on the radar are the ones we need to worry about.’

‘And what about the assault on Omar? Any progress?’

‘Nothing so far, guv. He’s still very confused and says he didn’t see anyone. We’re looking for witnesses but nothing’s turned up so far.’

‘Right. Don’t let it slip. I want those bastards caught.’

Mohammed Sharif was let out of hospital that afternoon, his ribs strapped, his head and hand bandaged and a large bottle of pain-killers in his pocket. He was no longer regarded as in danger and his bed was needed. He took a taxi back to his flat and, exhausted by the effort of getting home, he lay down on his bed with the blinds down, half sleeping, half waking, as the winter evening closed in, and he eventually found himself in the near-dark wincing with pain as the effect of the painkillers wore off. Groaning, he slid off the bed and gingerly made his way to his tiny kitchen, where he swallowed another handful
of pills with a glass of water and then lowered himself gingerly into an armchair in the living room and looked for messages on his mobile. There were none. No one – family, friends or colleagues – had tried to contact him since the assault. Not even Louise, who was unlikely to know about the assault, had so much as sent him a text.

It was as if he had dropped out of existence, he thought, and not for the first time he wondered whether the path he had chosen, semi-estranged from his own community and not really accepted by the rest, was sustainable. People talked about integration but there were times when it felt more like exile to him. And now he seemed to have angered Muslims who were prepared to use violence against him, and he did not know who they were or why they had attacked him so ferociously – whether it was his police work or his girlfriend they had taken exception to – and he wondered whether he could bring himself to report what he suspected.

He called Louise to explain what had happened to him, but only got her voicemail and then remembered that she would still be at work, rehearsing the school play. His depression deepened as he tried to persuade his mind to clear the miasma that infected it after twenty four hours of pain and drugs, but failed, and the next thing he knew he was awake again but in darkness, the blinds he did not recall pulling down keeping out the orange glow of the street lights outside, and not even an electronic standby light providing any orientation in a space that suddenly seemed completely alien. With a groan he hauled himself to his feet and stumbled to the light switch by the door and found himself almost blinded by the glare. But as the lights came on and his brain kicked back into gear, in spite of the jabbing pain in his side and his thumping head, he
suddenly knew what he had to do.

He moved slowly to his computer on the other side of the room and logged on to a travel site he had used before. Thackeray’s ban on his involvement in the investigation into his cousin’s death was even less likely to be lifted now he was injured, he thought. But there was one other course open to him. Given a little time for his ribs and other injuries to mend, he would go to Pakistan and see what he could uncover about his cousin’s marriage and her husband’s previous life in Lahore. In fact the more he thought about it, the more he felt convinced that the answer to her death lay there. With a faint feeling of excitement mitigating his gloom, he booked a seat on a flight to Lahore in two days’ time.

Bruce Holden took the back roads across the Pennine hills, reasoning that a muddy four-by-four would be less noticeable there and would avoid the cameras that increasingly infested the motorways. He felt calm now, the rage that had infused his last conversation with Julie dissipated into a manic clarity as he formulated a plan. He had bundled up the few possessions the two of them had taken with them to Blackpool and roused his daughter at three that morning, bundling her in a blanket and strapping her into the front seat. She had barely protested and had fallen asleep again before he had reached the outskirts of the town. He had headed north then, weaving through the old mill towns, almost deserted at that time in the morning, and reaching the bare summit of the hills above Colne before the eastern sky showed the faintest streak of dawn.

By five-thirty he had pulled up in a narrow gap between other parked cars outside his mother’s house and, leaving Anna still asleep in the front seat, let himself in with the key
she had given him when he had stayed there. He took the stairs two at a time and opened his mother’s bedroom door. She was asleep, the duvet pulled tightly up to her ears but she woke at once, plainly terrified, when he shook her shoulder roughly.