‘I have never met him. The first time I heard of him was when he-’
‘You’re indicating Chief Inspector Brock?’
‘Yes, when he came to the mosque and asked for our help in finding this man.’
‘That was the Twaqulia Mosque in Shadwell Road on the evening of the twenty-fifth of January?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’d never heard Khadra’s name or seen him before then?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then why did you go to his funeral today, Mr Manzoor?’
‘Out of curiosity, that’s all.’
‘How did you find the way? The burial was deliberately kept confidential.’
‘I… I saw the others leaving Chandler’s Yard. I followed them.’
‘You saw some people leaving Chandler’s Yard and you thought, “Ah, they’re going to a funeral, I’ll just tag along”, eh?’
Manzoor said nothing.
‘At the funeral you attempted to confront one of the mourners, your own daughter, as you have yourself just said. How did you know she would be there?’
Versi said, ‘Superintendent, you have just said that Mr Manzoor’s daughter is another matter.’
‘But in this point she is relevant to my inquiries. I put it to you, Mr Manzoor, that you followed the funeral party because you knew that your daughter had been friends with Abu Khadra, and you expected her to go to the interment. Is that true?’
Manzoor shook his head and said nothing.
‘You refuse to answer? Then let me also put another obvious conclusion to you, and that is that if you knew of Abu Khadra this afternoon, the second of February, then you also knew of him on the twenty-fifth of January, when DCI Brock came to the mosque.’
‘No!’ Manzoor snapped.
‘Oh, I think you did. You believed him to be her lover, didn’t you?’
Versi had no idea where the policeman’s questions were leading, but it was clear to him that his client should say nothing until they did know, and he interrupted to say as much. But Russell could see that Manzoor was boiling with fury and frustration, so he merely nodded and said, ‘Yes, yes. I can imagine how difficult it must be for you, Mr Manzoor, with a runaway daughter and all that. I dare say you thought you were doing the right thing…’
‘The right thing!’ Manzoor exploded, banging a fist on the table. ‘Don’t you patronise me, sir! Don’t you talk about my daughter to me! You’re just trying to protect your own kind! I am attacked and humiliated in front of my brothers and my daughter by a racist policewoman and you do nothing but try to spin webs to protect her.’
Russell snapped back hard, ‘But suppose you were wrong about Khadra, Mr Manzoor? Suppose he was nothing but a good friend to your daughter, and you got yourself worked up over nothing?’
Manzoor’s eyes bulged with outrage at this sidestep. ‘No! He was her seducer! He corrupted and debauched her, my daughter, my beautiful Nargis.’
‘You’ve got no proof of that,’ Russell said dismissively.
For a moment it seemed that Manzoor was tearing at his clothes, pulling off his jacket prior to a fight, but then he jerked a leather wallet out of an inside pocket and plucked out of it a colour photograph which he waved at the two policemen. ‘Proof?’ he yelled. ‘I have proof!’
It was taken in a public swimming pool, Brock guessed, the background all black heads bobbing against blue water. In the foreground, leaning on the tiled edge, were Nargis and Abu, both dripping wet and grinning widely at the camera. She was wearing a bikini, and he had his brown arm round her shoulders, holding her close. They both looked very young and very happy.
Russell and Brock examined it carefully while Versi argued in an agitated whisper with his client, trying to get on top of all this.
‘When was it taken?’ Russell asked.
‘I don’t know. Before…’
‘Before she was sent to Kashmir,’ Brock nodded, recognising the differences between the girl in the picture, softer, plumper, and the one who had drunk tea in his living room that afternoon.
‘Is that why you sent her away?’
‘No, no. I didn’t know then about this man.’
‘So how did you get this picture?’
The rage had gone from Sanjeev Manzoor. He lowered his head and began to weep bitterly. ‘It came in the post.’
‘When was this?’
He pulled a crisp white cotton handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes and nose. ‘The day he came to the mosque.’
‘You are indicating DCI Brock? So that would be Tuesday, the twenty-fifth of January. Do you know who sent it?’
‘No. There was nothing else, no letter, nothing.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘It was the first sign I had had of Nargis in three months. It broke my heart.’
‘And you felt very angry towards the man in the photograph, Abu Khadra?’
‘I didn’t know his name, only that picture. Of course I was angry. I wanted to kill him.’
‘And that evening, after DCI Brock came to the mosque and showed you a picture of the same man and told you his name, you had the opportunity to do that, by telling the skinheads what to do. You stage-managed it didn’t you, Mr Manzoor? You directed the murder of the man you thought had corrupted your daughter.’
16
K athy felt a new energy as she drove back to the women’s refuge that night, as if the discovery of the money under Nargis’ mattress had awakened some instinct for the hunt that had been missing until then. Perhaps it was the amount of the cash, thirty thousand as in thirty pieces of silver, that seemed so telling, but for the first time she felt a sense of reality about the crime and their dead suspect, as strong as if they had found the gun rather than money in the pouch. In fact more so, because the gun would have simply sealed Abu’s guilt and finished the story, whereas the money opened new questions and trails. About Nargis, for example, the beautiful, innocent Juliet mourning her killer Romeo. Even if she hadn’t pried into Abu’s belongings when he was alive, he had been dead now for ten days and it seemed inconceivable she hadn’t known that she was sleeping on all that cash. Kathy just hoped she could find out before the CIB caught up with her.
Nargis and Briony were washing up some plates in the kitchen when Kathy arrived. She told them that she had to ask Nargis a few additional questions, and explained that she would have to do it in the formal setting of the local police station, where a proper record of their interview could be made. Briony began to object that her friend had gone through enough that day, but Nargis said it was OK. She seemed quite calm and answered Kathy’s questions about the refuge in her soft little voice as they drove.
Since Nargis was still a juvenile, Kathy had arranged for a social worker to be present for the interview, and when the three of them were seated in the small interview room, Kathy cautioned the girl and explained her rights, then began to ask her about her relationship with Abu.
‘You first met him how long ago, Nargis?’
‘A year ago, this time last year.’
‘And you became close friends?’
‘We went out together.’
‘You were his girlfriend?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then, six months ago, your father sent you overseas to be married, and when you returned last October you ran away from your home and went to live in a room in the house of Mr Qasim Ali in Chandler’s Yard?’
‘Yes.’
