“Once they’ve finished their cosy chat you and I are going to have a wee word with our pal. I don’t like it when people go behind my back”
CHAPTER TWELVE
DAY SEVENTEEN: 9th September.
Sheffield:
“What’s that address again?” Hunter asked pulling the car into the kerb.
Grace slid the handwritten note over the handbrake to where Hunter could see it and ran a French manicured finger nail beneath the scribbled destination he had been searching for over the last five minutes.
Zita had telephoned Hunter yesterday afternoon. She had got back to him with the address of the Asian Women’s Refuge and had fixed up a meeting with its owner — her contact.
They had found the street easily enough — off the Wicker in Sheffield, but all the buildings looked the same; three storey Victorian red-brick houses with their soot encrusted frontages from past industry and with dusty windows. At first glance it appeared as if the majority of them were empty, or more likely were used as storage for the small shops or last remnants of businesses, which still operated in this run-down area. Hunter and Grace knew that behind one of the doors was the refuge. However, given the absence of a number and knowing that the secret address would have no signage advertising itself, finding it was proving extremely difficult.
“Give the woman a ring Grace, tell her where we’re parked and ask her to come out and make herself known, otherwise we’ll be here all day.”
Grace reached into her handbag, mumbled to herself the telephone number she had scribbled on the inside leaf of the folder, and tapped it into her mobile. Within seconds there was an answer and Hunter listened to the one sided conversation from Grace. Less than thirty seconds later Grace ended the call and slipped the phone back into her bag.
“She’ll be down in a minute. She’s been watching us drive up and down from her office somewhere up above us but because we’re in an unmarked car she didn’t come down.”
Hunter turned off the engine and as he had parked on double-yellow lines he placed the ‘police visiting’ card on the front of the dashboard.
A sharp rap on the front nearside door startled them. Hunter looked sideways to see a middle-aged Asian woman crouched down by the door looking in at them. He took in the details of a smile but most of her face was partially covered by a white cotton veil.
Nahida Perveen, as she introduced herself, greeted them with an energetic shake of her hand.
Dressed in a long white cotton dress, embroidered with a gold neckline, Hunter could see she was tall and slender though he still couldn’t make out her features because of the veil.
“Sorry I didn’t come down and make myself known. We have to be very careful here as you can guess. I forgot to ask Zita what you looked like and some of the husbands and fathers of the women who are staying here will do anything to find this place.” Her voice was perfect BBC English.
She led them through a solid wooden door into a dark entryway. Hunter could pick out detailed Victorian tiles, which covered the lower half of the entrance hallway. They followed her up a stone stairway to the first floor where the lighting was better. “We have ten ladies with us at present but I don’t think any will make an appearance. They’ve gone through such a lot and have come here for safety until we can help them turn their lives around. They knew you were coming but you still won’t see any of them. Some of them don’t even trust the police unfortunately,” Nahida said as she took them to the top of the stairs, only occasionally looking back as she spoke.
Hunter still couldn’t make out her face.
She showed them through another locked door, guided them along a corridor and showed them into a room, which Hunter guessed put them somewhere at the back of the building. It was a huge sitting room, brightly lit, with a high ornate plaster ceiling. It was furnished with four sofas and three armchairs, all draped with patterned throws; none of the fabrics matched. They were arranged around two low wooden coffee tables. The carpet was thin, stained and threadbare. Hunter could see that the place had been furnished on a tight budget.
Nahida chose one of the chairs and pointed out one of the sofas, as the place for them to sit. She crossed one leg over the other and leaned back.
That was when Hunter caught sight of her badly scarred face. A clump of pink leathery flesh marred the left hand side of her head.
“You’re probably wondering how I got this scar?” she said.
Hunter diverted his gaze and latched onto her almond eyes. He felt embarrassed. He had held on too long looking at her face. He could feel his cheeks flush.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” She smiled. “I’ve lived with this for almost twenty years. That’s what made me set up this place.” She pulled back her cotton veil a fraction; it was enough for Hunter to see the full extent of her injuries. The scar wound its way from the side of her left eye over her ear down towards her jaw. A portion of her hair was missing. In its place was a lumpy piece of scarred flesh.
“My boyfriend did this with drain cleaning fluid — a powerful acid.” She re-covered her face. “This ended my career. You see I was a TV news journalist working in London — an in-front of camera reporter.” She gave them an awkward smile.
“I’ll not bog you down with the details because I know you’re here on other matters but it will give you an awareness of where I am coming from. The man who did this; my boyfriend, was chosen for me by my parents. He came from my parents village in Pakistan; he was from a family who had been very good friends with them. My father and his father had been business partners before my parents came to live here. I quickly discovered that his values and culture were entrenched in something I didn’t really understand and I knew it wasn’t going to work within weeks of meeting him. Firstly he wanted me to pack in my job. He started to accuse me of flirting with my colleagues. After nine months I told him I had taken enough and told him I wouldn’t be going through with the marriage. I left him one night whilst he was at work and went to stay with a friend — another reporter. He started pestering me with phone calls threatening me so I changed my number. Then he’d turn up at work and security had to intervene. Anyway one night we were celebrating a colleague’s birthday in a bar one evening and he turned up. He started accusing me of having an affair and then just threw the cleaning fluid in my face. Fortunately some quick thinking by my friends prevented me from serious injury — they poured drink all over me and then used water from behind the bar, but it still left me with this.” She smoothed a finger over the scar. “The police arrested him but he was given bail and fled back to Pakistan — to his family. He’s still on the run out there.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I continued my career as a journalist but it was all desk work. My editors didn’t say as much but I realised my career in front of the camera was over and so I persuaded the company to make me redundant and I used the money to come up here where no one knew me and set this place up, so that I could help protect other Asian women from what happened to me.”
“And have you been able to help many?” asked Grace.
“Hundreds over the years. Word of mouth and contacts through solicitors have made this a very popular place for women to turn their lives around.”
“And I gather from what you’ve told Zita that you believe our victim contacted you for help and had made arrangements to come here but never turned up and also that you haven’t been able to get hold of her since?” Hunter said.
“That’s right. I’ve tried her mobile several times since our meeting and there’s no answer. In fact I rang it as late as yesterday and now it appears to be dead. Not only that, but I saw the news the other evening, and the reconstructed face you showed looked exactly like the girl who came to me for help. When we met she called herself Samia.”