Dishonour

‘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.