“Poor Jeff? You have more reason to hate him than anyone . . .” There was a long pause before Kelly added, “I don’t want to worry you, Rukshana, but I think you might be on the list of suspects, what with being let go.” There was another long pause and then Kelly asked, “It wasn’t you, was it?”
“Of course not.”
“That’s what I told the police! A nice inoffensive Muslim girl like Rukshana — no way was it her. The thing is, though . . . I’m not sure they believed me.”
IT WAS THE following Tuesday, the last day of the cricket match between England and Pakistan. The commentators agreed it was going to be a thrilling finish, and Rukshana’s grandfather was in position in his armchair for it. Rukshana was jumpy. Every time she heard a noise outside, she got up and looked through the window. Then at about noon it happened. A silver sedan pulled up outside her house and a man got out and walked up the garden path. There was a knock on the door.
Rukshana’s grandfather snapped, “Ignore it.”
Instead Rukshana ignored him and went to the door. She opened it to a man with a flashy suit, sunglasses, and slicked-back blond hair. He’d obviously modeled himself on a character from an American cop show. He showed her some ID.
“Rukshana Malik?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Constable John Martin, Metropolitan Police. I’m investigating a very serious crime and I’d like to ask you some questions.”
She looked into his eyes. He knew. And what’s more, he knew that she knew that he knew — but could he prove it? Rukshana had been ultra careful. She’d made sure she was unrecognizable in the burka and in her sister’s clothes. She’d burned all the evidence and left the bike on the High Street, where some kids had promptly stolen it. She’d worn gloves. She had a story worked out and she was sticking to it. She knew what to do; she watched the same American cop shows as DC John Martin.
“You’d better come in.”
John Martin said good afternoon to her grandfather and was ignored for his trouble. Rukshana whispered, “He’s watching the cricket, he doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
“I see.”
They sat down on a sofa. John Martin went through the preliminaries, explaining why he was there and giving Rukshana the chance to avoid wasting everyone’s time.
“Is there anything you’d like to tell me about the events of last Thursday?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”
John Martin sighed. He knew. But could he prove it?
“Could you tell me where you were last Thursday?”
“I was here all day with my granddad.”
John Martin looked over at the cricket fanatic. “Could you confirm that, sir?”
Martin was ignored. Rukshana explained, “He’ll confirm it when the cricket’s over.”
John Martin was disgusted. “I’m sorry, I’m not waiting seven hours for the cricket to finish.”
Rukshana shrugged her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
John Martin moved on. “You must have been very disappointed to be passed over for promotion at the bank?”
“Not really, no.”
John Martin feigned surprise. “Not really?”
“I’m a person of faith, Detective Constable. Do you know what that means?”
John Martin looked blank. Islamic theology obviously wasn’t his strong suit. Rukshana went on. “I accept everything as part of the divine plan. So, no, I wasn’t disappointed.”
“Very commendable, I’m sure. But you must have been a little upset when you were let go? Angry?”
She smiled at him. “That’s for atheists, I’m afraid.”
John Martin had the feeling he was being put down, but he pressed on. “Were you aware that the successful candidate was having intimate relations with your manager?”
“Jeff and Sarah? I certainly was not. I had no idea. People don’t pass gossip on to me. It’s because I’m a Muslim, you see.”
John Martin pursed his lips and produced a photo from a file. He handed it to Rukshana. “Do you know who that is?”
It was a CCTV still photo from the lobby of the bank. It showed Rukshana at the security gate in her heels, short skirt, low-cut top, and sunglasses. Rukshana passed it back.
“No, sorry.”
John Martin passed it back to her. “Have another look. Rack your brains.”
Rukshana studied it again before handing it over.
“Still no.”
John Martin moved in for the kill. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
Rukshana feigned outrage and tugged at her headscarf. “Certainly not. I’m a good Muslim. That girl looks like a prostitute. Totally inappropriate clothes for any decent Muslim woman.”
John Martin passed her another photo, asked her if she recognized the subject. This one was a CCTV still of Rukshana in her burka outside Al-Nutjobs. But Rukshana had hit her stride. “I doubt her own mother would recognize her. If it was a woman, of course; perhaps it was a man in disguise? We don’t wear burkas in this house.”
John Martin played her the tape of the phone call to the anti-terrorist hotline. When it was finished he said, “That was you, wasn’t it?”
“It sounds more like a white comedian making fun of Asians. There’s too much of that sort of racism in our society. I don’t know why the police don’t crack down on it.”
And so it went on. For an hour, John Martin probed and Rukshana parried. But Rukshana could see the detective was getting frustrated. He knew, okay, but he couldn’t prove it. Eventually, John Martin accepted a cup of tea and a couple of Samosas that he found “very tasty.” Then, with obvious reluctance, he returned to the attack.
“Our inquiries have revealed — oh, I say, good shot!”
John Martin was looking over Rukshana’s shoulder at the cricket. A young Pakistani batsman had just hit the ball clean into the cheering crowd. Granddad turned around and said to him, “What about that kid, eh? What a prospect!”
John Martin returned to his questioning, but he began going around in circles. He admitted the photos could have been of anyone. He also confessed there was no fingerprint evidence and that the tape didn’t really prove anything. He admitted — off the record — that the police had quite a list of people who didn’t much like her ex-boss Jeff, so they had a lot of others to interview. In fact, some of his fellow officers suspected Jeff’s wife was the real culprit, and, frankly, they didn’t blame her. The wife was certainly a more promising suspect than a nice Muslim girl like Rukshana.
“Okay, Miss Malik, I think we’re about finished for now.”
But as he got up to go, he noticed something on the mantelpiece. He walked over and picked up the large pair of sunglasses that Rukshana had worn the previous Thursday when she’d framed Jeff. They were sitting where she’d left them when she’d gotten back. John Martin looked at the shades and then fished out the CCTV still of Rukshana in the bank lobby and studied it. They were obviously the same distinctive pair. Rukshana felt her stomach tense. She’d been so careful, and now this . . .
But before John Martin had a chance to ask Rukshana for an explanation, her granddad snapped, “What are you doing with my sunglasses?”
“Your sunglasses?”
“Yes. They’re medicinal, I use them to cut out the glare from the TV.”
Granddad got up, took the sunglasses from the cop’s hand, and put them on. He looked quite natty in them. John Martin was not convinced.
“You use them to cut out the glare from the TV?”
