When I reached it, the cafe was on a side street not far from the main road and had a sign over the door with a stylised black and green cedar tree. It didn't look like much from the outside but when you got close you could tell it went back quite a way. The window advertised Lebanese delicacies like kibbeh and falafels in pitta. My mouth watered at the thought of food. The bacon sandwich had been a while ago.
Inside, the cafe smelled of spices and coffee. We were long past lunchtime but the lingering aroma had my stomach rumbling. There were tables all down one side and a counter at the back. I had not come here to eat, though. A tall man with dark eyes and residual stubble watched me as he busied himself behind the counter.
'Hi. I'm looking for Zaina. Is she around?'
He glanced up at me but continued cleaning out the remains of lunchtime sandwich fillings. 'You a friend of hers?'
'Not really. I'm trying to find someone, a friend of a friend, you might say. I thought she might be able to help.'
'She's not here.' The lie was clear and plain in his voice.
'OK,' I said. 'She's not here for me, or she's just not here?'
He wiped his hands on the cloth he'd been using. 'Who are you? What do you want with Zaina?'
'I'm only looking to talk with her for a few moments. It won't take long.'
The man spoke in a rapid guttural tongue to two men at a nearby table. They stood up, pushing their chairs back noisily. One of the other men further down the cafe stood up as well. Suddenly the space seemed narrow and claustrophobic.
'I'm not looking for any trouble,' I said, shifting my grip on the umbrella. 'I just want to speak to her.'
'Why can't you people leave her alone?' said the man.
He dropped the cloth and moved around the counter. I retreated, placing my back to the wall and trying to watch both sides at once. The umbrella stayed an umbrella. None of them were armed. There were four of them and one of me. It would be better if we could avoid conflict, but if there was a fight, the big guy from behind the counter would be the one who would start it.
'I don't want anyone to get hurt,' I said, trying to calm everyone.
One of the two young men spoke. 'You're the only one who's gonna get hurt. If I were you, I would leave while you still can.'
'What is this? What's going on? Ahmed, who is that man?' The voice came from the doorway to the kitchen at the back of the cafe. It should have been Arabic-sounding, but the accent was pure Ravensby. I peeked past the big guy to see who spoke. The headscarf and the long dress did not look out of place, but the face was too pale for the Lebanon. Besides, I recognised her from the photo.
'Hello, Karen,' I said.
EIGHT
Karen Hopkins bustled forward. 'What are you doing? Ahmed? Who is this man?'
'He's just leaving,' said Ahmed, meeting my eyes and nodding towards the door.
'How do you know my name?' she asked.
'I saw your mother this morning,' I told her. 'I was looking for Zaina, but now I've found you.'
'Well, as you can see, I'm not lost. What do you want?'
'Look,' I said, 'I don't want any trouble. I just want to talk to you for a few minutes.'
The young man looked angrily at me. He shook his head. 'He was asking about you, poking his nose in.'
'And so you threatened him.' She walked up to him and straightened his clothes, her distaste for violence plain.
'I didn't threaten anyone. I just wanted him to leave us alone.'
'Us'? This was an interesting development.
She turned to the men standing in the narrow aisle. 'Please, sit. You're not helping.'
They looked at Ahmed and he nodded. They slowly sat down again, watching me all the while as if I might suddenly sprout horns. I tried to look as relaxed and unthreatening as possible.
'I won't keep you long,' I said. 'I just wanted to ask you a few questions.'
'Did my mother put you up to this?'
'No, but I did talk to her. She wants you to call her.'
'She said that? Really?'
'She said you'd only have to pick up the phone. You could even reverse the charge.'
'Right. That sounds more like her.'
'Don't you want to talk with her? You could just let her know you're OK. She's bound to be worried about you.'
'She said that as well, did she?' She watched my expression. 'I thought not.'
I was missing something here. I looked at her again. The headscarf and the long skirt were almost ethnic dress, not so much a fashion statement as a cultural statement.
'I'm sorry, I was only asking about Zaina and your boyfriend here got heavy with me.'
'He's not my boyfriend.'
Her voice was like her mother's but she had picked up some of his accent. 'Whatever you say.'
'He's my husband.'
It suddenly came into focus. 'Of course, you're Zaina. Greg Makepeace told me, 'If you find Zaina, you'll find Karen.'' I mentally kicked myself for being so dim.
'Mum's vicar?' she said. 'He came to the cafe one day. We talked for a while. He brought me some things from home, personal things. What's he got to do with this?'
'So your mother knows you're here too?' I said.
'Who are you?' Ahmed said. 'Why is this any of your business?'
'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I'm called Neal Dawson. I'm looking into the disappearance of a number of young women from Ravensby. I thought Karen was one of them.'
'Do I look like I'm missing?' she asked.
'No, I guess not.'
'Then you can cross me off your list.' She guided her husband gently towards the counter, turning her back to me.
'Does your father know where you are?'
'I do not discuss my personal affairs in public like a soap opera.' She moved towards the door into the back of the cafe.
'Your sister?'
She stopped and turned back.
'Why can't you let it alone?' she said.
'I have my reasons.'
She looked up at her husband and he looked back at me. Then she came forward again and pointed at the table next to the window, away from the other customers. 'Sit there.' She instructed.
I moved slowly past the men who had stood to help Ahmed. They watched me with cold disapproval. Karen spoke with Ahmed behind the counter in low tones until he turned away and picked up his cloth, sulkily continuing to clean out the counter. Then she disappeared into the back for a moment, reappearing with a white cotton apron tied around her waist to serve the men who sat near the counter with hot tea and sweet sticky pastries. When she had spoken to them for a moment she came and placed a glass cup with steaming liquid with a spoon in it on my table.
'Mint tea,' she said. 'It makes you look more like a customer and less like a bouncer.'
I thanked her and she turned back to the older gentleman. She addressed him in a mixture of English and what must have been Arabic. After talking with him for a moment she went back behind the counter, removed the apron and brought her own mint tea to sit opposite me.
'It's normally busier than this,' she said, sliding into the seat.
