Babel bak-6 Page 17

  Other speakers followed. An American academic and a leading member of the London literary scene both spoke powerfully about the values Springer stood for, to the accompaniment of much flash activity and note-taking from the press contingent which occupied the rear third of the raked seating. Perhaps the most surprising contribution, and for Kathy the most moving, came from a reasonably sober and clean looking Desmond Pettifer, who took the lectern and announced that he would recite his friend Max Springer’s favourite poem, which henceforth, he believed, would carry redoubled meaning for all present. With an accent becoming more pronouncedly Welsh with every syllable, he then spoke the lines of Dylan Thomas’ ‘Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night’. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and began to appear around the hall too, as he intoned the final words with a fierce passion, ‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light’.

  The contrast with the interment of Abu Khadra that afternoon could hardly have been greater. After a light pub lunch, Kathy drove them to a large public cemetery near Tooting in South London. The morning sun was now hidden by a sullen grey cloud mass, and as they turned in through the gates and slowly wound their way through endless silent lanes of death the prospect became more and more grim, and, it seemed to Kathy, Dylan Thomas’ defiance more and more forlorn.

  In a bleak corner most distant from the entrance, a small area had been set aside for those of the Shia Muslim faith. They were early, and reversed the car and parked at the roadside on the fringe of the area, with a view towards the newly excavated hole visible at the end of a desolate row of stones and markers inscribed with Arabic characters, a few freshly delineated in gold, the majority old and faded. As she stared out through the misting window at the scene, it occurred to Kathy that this was an appropriately terminal backdrop to the final moments of what looked to be her last case.

  To avoid any possibility of fresh disturbances, there had been a strict news blackout on Abu’s burial. Only the imam of the Nur al-Islam mosque had been consulted over the arrangements, and he had been entrusted with inviting only the closest intimates of the dead man, in strictest confidence. Shortly before 3:00 p.m. a black hearse approached, followed by a single car, a battered red Toyota. They stopped just beyond the grave, steam coiling from their exhausts. Two men got out of the front of the Toyota, and Brock pointed out the heavy bulk of Qasim Ali, proprietor of the Horria Cafe, as he eased himself with difficulty out of the driver’s seat. He didn’t know the other man. Both wore overcoats and were holding black Homburgs which they arranged carefully on their heads before moving forward to the hearse, where two attendants in black suits were opening the rear door. Together the four men slid a plain casket out of the vehicle and gripped its side handles. Another man got out of the front of the hearse, wearing the black robe and headdress of a cleric, and led the way towards the grave.

  Now the back doors of the Toyota swung open and three women emerged. All had covered heads, two wrapped from head to foot in loose black chadors, the other in a quilted coat and black headscarf. The last hesitated and stared curiously at Kathy’s car before following the men.

  ‘That’s Briony Kidd, isn’t it?’ Kathy pointed at her. ‘I was looking out for her at Springer’s service.’

  ‘You’re right. What about the other two?’

  Kathy shook her head, unable to recognise them. They walked together, comforting each other, heads bowed, handkerchiefs held to their eyes. ‘They look like Arabs, don’t they? Maybe Abu’s relatives?’ It was impossible to tell their ages.

  As the group gathered around the grave and began the rites of interment, Brock nodded towards the far end of the road along which they had travelled, where it emerged through a cluster of extravagant Victorian sarcophagi. Another car had appeared there, dark blue or purple, and had come to a halt in a position where it could observe the proceedings, though without switching off its engine. A light drizzle had begun, and its wipers began to beat very slowly across its windscreen.

  ‘The next funeral?’ Kathy suggested, but they had seen no other freshly dug graves at this end of the field. As she spoke the dark car began to creep forward, as if trying to maintain its view in the diminishing visibility.

  ‘Probably Russell’s boys,’ Brock said. ‘I thought they’d be here. Like us, unsure whether to show their faces or not.’

  The other car had moved forward into a dip, its windshield visible, but not its grille and numberplate, like a half submerged crocodile, watching.

  For a while nothing moved, the rain becoming heavier. Then the graveside party began to stir. The officiate spoke to each in turn, then the whole group began walking back to the cars, flanked by the two men in suits, now carrying umbrellas.

  There was movement on the road ahead, too, the windscreen glinting as the dark purple car slid up out of the dip and came forward, steadily putting on speed. Puzzled at first, and then alarmed, Brock and Kathy watched as it accelerated towards the back of the Toyota. The funeral party was unaware of it at first, then Ali and the other man jerked up their heads and suddenly began shouting. With a squeal of brakes and skidding rubber the dark car juddered to a violent stop inches short of the Toyota, boxing it in against the back of the hearse. Its doors flew open and three men jumped out, waving clubs as they dived for the women.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Kathy and Brock swore in unison, then Kathy ducked forward to the glove compartment, groping inside for the Asp extendable baton that she kept there. She hurled her door open, flicking the baton out as she jumped.

  As she ran forward Kathy saw that Ali and his companion had closed with the attackers, the big cafe owner giving a great roar as he pitched himself on top of one of them. Another one turned, raising his club to strike Ali, but was pulled down too with a flying rugby tackle from Ali’s mate. The third attacker didn’t pause, charging on, his attention fixed on the two cloaked Arab women. He ripped the headdress off one, then thrust her aside and turned on the other, grabbing her round the neck, club arm raised, just as Kathy reached him. She lashed at his upper arm with her baton and felt it connect with his elbow with a crunch, then heard his wild shriek echo across the rain-soaked cemetery as he released the woman and stumbled backwards.

  She yelled at the men struggling on the ground, ‘Police! Don’t move! Stop fighting!’ but they took no notice whatever of her. They were punching furiously, arms and legs flailing.

  Briony Kidd ran to Kathy and grabbed her sleeve. ‘Do something! They want to kill her!’ she screamed. ‘They’re crazy! Save her! Get her away!’

  Kathy looked quickly around. The hearse was on the move, bouncing across the burial area as it turned in a wide arc and back onto the road heading in the direction of the exit. The three women, wide eyed and terrified, were clustering around her. The man she’d struck was bent over, cursing as he nursed his arm, and his companions seemed to be getting the better of the fight on the ground.

  She said, ‘Come on, quickly,’ and started ushering the three women towards her car. As she hurried them along she looked back and saw the man she had disarmed pointing at her with his good arm. He was yelling something in a language she didn’t know, and his two companions were struggling to their feet, disengaging themselves from Ali and his friend who lay on the ground.

  Kathy bundled the women into the back of her car and jumped in behind the wheel, tossing the Asp to Brock. The blood was pounding in her ears. She felt elated and thought, I did OK, I didn’t blow it. But no sooner had she formed this thought than it was overwhelmed by a wave of nausea that flooded through her. She gripped the wheel tight, fighting to hold it down. Her skin felt icy and she began to shake.

  ‘Let’s go, shall we?’ She heard Brock’s voice, incredibly calm, at her shoulder, and half turned to see his eyes on her white knuckles. She nodded stiffly and dragged one hand off the wheel to ram the gear stick home. As the car jumped forward the three attackers stumbled to a halt, gasping for breath, then the injured one screamed something and they turned and began running for their c
ar. As she passed them Kathy was startled to recognise the man she had struck as Sanjeev Manzoor, proprietor of the Manzoor Saree Centre on Shadwell Road. And at the same moment he clearly recognised her, for he let out a great cry of fury and began shaking his good fist at her.

  Kathy drove as fast as she dared along the cemetery road, watching her mirror for any sign of the purple car behind.

  ‘Are any of you hurt?’ Brock was asking, stretching back over his seat at the three women in the back as he pulled out his phone. The most distraught was the shrouded figure in the middle, sobbing steadily while the other two tried to comfort her. ‘Is she hurt?’ Brock repeated.

  ‘She’s pregnant,’ Briony said, glaring at him as if it were his fault.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She looked questioning at the other woman wearing the chador. ‘Fran?’

  ‘Six or seven months,’ Fran offered, looking worried.

  Brock turned back to Kathy. ‘We’d better get her to a hospital. I’ll call for assistance.’

  ‘No!’

  The cry from the back was so loud and firm that Brock swung back with surprise and saw the weeping woman in the middle staring at him.

  ‘I don’t need the hospital! I’m all right. And anyway, he’ll find me there.’

  ‘We’re police officers,’ he said reassuringly. ‘We’ll protect you.’

  But this information only seemed to distress the woman more. She looked pleadingly at Brock and sobbed, ‘No, no. No police, please. No hospital.’ She turned to the women on each side of her and began whispering frantically. As he watched them, Brock’s uncertainty grew. Although the pregnant woman had the dark eyes and brown complexion of an Arab or Asian, she had spoken with a broad London accent, and, looking more closely at her, she seemed very young, no more than a girl. The other woman wearing the chador, Fran, had the same white complexion as Briony Kidd, who looked the oldest of the three, and also the most decisive.

  ‘Look,’ she said to Brock after some whispered conversation, ‘all we need is for you to get us away from here and drop us somewhere. A tube station or somewhere. We can look after ourselves after that. We don’t want to press charges against those men or anything.’

  Brock was about to reply when Kathy muttered ‘Damn!’ and brought the car skidding to a halt. They had reached an older part of the cemetery and the roadway was narrow and meandering, hemmed in on each side with stone obelisks and angels and dripping yew trees. Ahead the road crossed an ornamental stone bridge, now blocked by a funeral procession coming sedately towards them. Kathy was forced to pull hard over to let them through. The leading hearse slowly passed, then one by one the long cortege of following cars came rolling over the bridge.

  Kathy was still watching her mirror. After a while she murmured to Brock, ‘Company.’

  He looked back through the rear window and saw the purple car approaching in the distance. It slowed as it saw them and the other procession, but didn’t stop, creeping steadily forward.

  Briony caught the expression on Brock’s face and looked back over her shoulder to see what he was looking at. When she turned back she was frowning with doubt, biting her bottom lip.

  ‘Briony, back there you told me they wanted to kill your friend,’ Kathy said. ‘Was that a lie or the truth?’

  ‘It could be true,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve got any choice but to let us help you.’

  She said nothing. The other two had seen the purple car now and were whispering together in agitation.

  Brock said, ‘Let’s do a deal, Briony. We’ll get you somewhere safe and listen with an open mind until you’ve explained to us exactly what this is all about. Otherwise we’re heading straight for Tooting police station and I’m going to charge the lot of you with affray.’

  The three women looked at each other, then the pregnant girl wiped her eyes and said in a whisper, but with firmness, ‘Yes,’ then added, ‘please.’

  Brock nodded and turned away and started pressing buttons on his phone. The last car of the cortege finally cleared the little bridge and Kathy drove off just as the purple car came up behind. Together they accelerated away, driving fast enough to attract disapproving looks from mourners leaving the chapel near the cemetery entrance. At the gates Brock told her to go right and they turned into the general traffic, their tail sticking close behind for over a mile until first one, then a second police patrol car joined their progress and pulled the other car over. The women watched through the back window until they were out of sight.

  ‘What’ll happen to them?’ Briony demanded.

  ‘We’ll start with carrying an offensive weapon in a public place, and see where we go after that. It rather depends on you, and your other two friends.’

  ‘Yes, what about George!’ Fran cried. ‘What about George and Qasim!’

  ‘Qasim has a mobile phone,’ the pregnant girl said, and reeled off a number.

  Brock made her repeat it, dialling as she spoke. After several rings a hoarse voice said, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is this Qasim Ali?’ Brock asked.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ This seemed to be Qasim’s habitual greeting.

  Brock offered the phone to the women in the back and Fran grabbed it. ‘Qasim? It’s Fran. Are you all right? Is George all right?’

  She listened anxiously for a moment, then said, ‘No, no, we’re safe. They were the police. We’re with them. We have to talk with them. We’re all fine. You’re sure about George?’

  Brock took back the phone and spoke to the cafe owner. It seemed that Qasim and George were only bruised from their fight, and were currently driving aimlessly through the South London streets trying to find the missing women. Brock told them to go home and wait for him to ring again, then turned and spoke quietly to Kathy. ‘Well, now, we’re almost in Dulwich. Where’s close, private and comfortable, where we can sit down with a nice cup of tea?’

  Kathy glanced over at him, eyebrow raised. ‘You’re not thinking. .. Warren Lane?’

  ‘It did cross my mind.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  Brock shrugged and checked his watch. ‘I’m sure it isn’t. But time may be short. And I very much want to hear what all this has to do with the deaths of Abu and Springer.’

  Kathy said nothing, but turned the car in the direction of Matcham High Street. Within ten minutes they were in the courtyard at Warren Lane. She parked under the horse chestnut tree near Brock’s house.

  Brock led the way to his front door, limping on his stick, and led the women inside.

  ‘Is this what they call a “safe house”?’ Briony asked. She seemed fascinated, scrutinising everything, the pile of mail waiting inside the front door, the titles on the spines of the books lining the upstairs landing, the computer in the living room.

  ‘Something like that,’ Brock grunted, lighting the gas fire and getting them seated in the armchairs around it.

  ‘Pretty classy,’ Briony said, studying the little Schwitters collage hanging in one corner. Her eyes were still red and puffy from the tears she had shed at the funeral, and her interest now seemed like a front.

  ‘Come and sit down, Briony,’ Brock told her. ‘You can make us some toast on the fire, OK?’

  He assembled food and tools, Kathy brought in a tray with the tea and they settled themselves, awkward at first, then gradually more relaxed and calm.

  ‘Well, let’s begin with your names,’ Brock suggested. ‘I know Briony. What about you two?’

  ‘I’m Fran Said, George is my husband.’

  ‘George Said,’ Brock said. ‘And he’s a friend of Qasim Ali’s, is he?’

  ‘They’re cousins. We live with them, in Chandler’s Yard. We’re all part of the same family, see?’ She took a bite of the slice of toast and honey that Briony handed her. She seemed hungry after all the drama.

  ‘I see.’ Brock frowned, tentative. ‘Forgive me for sounding personal, Fran, but you don�
��t look… well… Yemeni.’

  ‘My mum’s from Middlesex, and she says my dad was Irish, but I couldn’t say for sure.’ She said this with a note of defiance, then took another mouthful of toast.

  Brock didn’t pursue this, but turned to the pregnant girl. ‘And are you part of the Ali family too?’ he suggested gently, but from the way he said it Kathy guessed he already knew the answer.

  The girl lowered her eyes, and for a moment there was silence and her two friends paused in their chewing. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘My name is Nargis Manzoor.’

  ‘Ah yes. The missing daughter of the man who has the shop in Shadwell Road.’

  The girl nodded.

  Kathy said, ‘That was him, at the cemetery…’ but everyone else seemed perfectly aware of that.

  ‘How old are you, Nargis?’ Brock asked.

  ‘Seventeen,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’ve heard a little of your story, but I’d like to hear it properly, from you.’

  Nargis took a deep breath, the oval of her face all that was visible of her in the black habit.

  ‘My dad is very old-fashioned,’ she began. ‘It’s not his fault. It’s just the way he is. He grew up in a place called Mirpur, in Kashmir, which is big on dust and religion and not much else. He followed his uncle out here in the seventies, and after a few years he went back and brought my mum out. She’s been here for twenty years, but she doesn’t speak any English. She doesn’t need to, ’cos she never goes outside. Dad takes care of everything. She might as well still be in Mirpur. What dad values more than anything is respect, from his family, and from the people he goes to mosque with and does business with.