9
‘I’M NOT SURE, Lacey. Any suggestion that we’re being insensitive could reflect very badly on us right now.’
‘I know. Which is why I need something from you. Something new to talk to them about. And I was with him when he died. It’s natural I would want to visit them at some stage, isn’t it?’
‘We’re on a real knife-edge with this one. Maybe I’d better come with you.’
I hadn’t told DI Tulloch that I was in my car at the end of the street where Aamir Chowdhury’s family lived, that I was seconds away from knocking on their door. I wasn’t even sure what I hoped to gain. I just knew there was something odd about the woman in the park and that odd things were always worth following up. Tulloch had agreed with me that it was unusual, but was nervous about my going to visit them alone.
‘Ma’am, no disrespect, but you can be a bit scary at times. And this girl could be very young. No one’s scared of me.’
‘Well, I’m a long way from agreeing with you on that one. OK, it’s worth a go. What are you wearing?’
Shit, I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Trousers,’ I admitted, ‘but otherwise pretty respectable. Shirt, sweater. Do I need a headscarf?’
‘No, you’ll be fine. Just be modest and respectful. Can you manage that?’
Given that she was on the end of a phone line and couldn’t see me, I allowed myself to bristle. ‘It’ll be a push, but I’ll give it my best shot.’
‘Ring me the minute you’re done.’
An evening meal was being prepared as I was led along the narrow hall of the Chowdhury house. I’d removed my shoes just inside the front door; one of Tulloch’s last-minute pieces of advice had been that domestic cleanliness is very important to Muslims. The young man in his twenties who’d answered my knock had taken my coat.
Somewhere in the house I could hear a television set, then silence and the opening of an upstairs door. I had a sense of the house coming together, of it focusing on one common point of attention. Me.
I followed the man, who I assumed was Aamir’s younger brother, into a large open-plan kitchen that was largely Western in décor and awash with floral prints. There was one painting on the wall, of a scene that I thought was probably Mecca, and several framed verses in Islamic calligraphy. Otherwise, only the bookshelves which covered the wall around the fireplace hinted at the Asian ancestry of the room’s occupants. And the occupants themselves, of course.
There were no photographs anywhere.
As I appeared, a man in his fifties rose to meet me. He’d been sitting in a chair by an open fire, reading a newspaper. He folded it carefully and inclined his head before stepping forward and holding out his hand for me to shake.
‘I’m Hassam Chowdhury,’ he told me. ‘Detective Flint, is that right?’
I would hardly have known him for the semi-crazed, grief-stricken man I remembered from the park. This man was traditionally dressed in loose cotton trousers and a long pale-brown tunic. He wore a knitted cardigan in deference to the cold, but it didn’t seem at odds with the rest of the outfit. His hair was cut short, his hairline receding, but there was no grey in his beard. He was tall and well-built, and every movement he made seemed considered and precise.
I heard a sound behind me and turned to see another man enter the room. Early thirties. Traditionally dressed. Bearded. This would be the eldest son. Aamir had been the second son.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr Chowdhury,’ I said, before turning towards the women in the room. ‘For all your family’s loss.’
The women barely acknowledged me, continuing with their food preparation. I could smell lamb, frying onions and something sharp that was making the insides of my nostrils twitch. The kitchen was a little old-fashioned. Several dozen gleaming copper pans and utensils hanging from the ceiling gave it an exotic appearance, as did the tied bunches of dried herbs interspersed among them.
There were four women. The short, plump lady in her fifties I recognized as Aamir’s mother. Another, who looked much older, was presumably Mrs Chowdhury senior. A woman in her mid twenties was chopping dried apricots, and the youngest, still a schoolgirl, sat at the table, books spread out in front of her.
All four wore traditional Pakistani dress: flowing trousers and embroidered tunics, headscarves that had been allowed to fall loose around their shoulders. I paid particular attention to the two younger women. The one standing might be tall enough to be my woman in black, but I wasn’t sure. She had a thin, proud face and a long, slender nose. Her eyes, when they looked into mine, were black and impossible to read. The younger girl never once looked up.
Mr Chowdhury motioned that I should sit down and I took the armchair on the other side of the fire. All the time he and I were talking, the women carried on with their work. Their movements were slow and quiet. They said nothing to each other. I knew they were aware of every move I made and every word I said.
‘You have something new to tell us?’ Mr Chowdhury asked.
‘It’s only a small thing, but we thought you would appreciate knowing,’ I said. ‘The masks that were found on Union Street, which we believe were worn by your son’s attackers, have been examined by our forensic experts and we’ve just had the report back. On one of the masks, they found very small traces of DNA.’
The reaction was muted but clear. I sensed the two sons moving behind me. Their father seemed to lean a little closer.
‘Unfortunately, it doesn’t take us much further forward at this stage,’ I went on quickly, because Tulloch had drummed it into me that I must not give them false hope. ‘I don’t know how much you know about DNA, but it doesn’t always give the certain answers that people seem to expect.’
One of the sons said something in Urdu to the other.
‘Meaning?’ asked the father.
‘Because the five men we arrested that night are all known to the police,’ I went on, ‘we have their DNA on record. It’s been standard procedure for some time when people are taken into custody. I’m afraid, though, that we haven’t been able to establish a match between any of them and the DNA we found on the mask. We’re sending it back to be examined again. We may find more a second time. On the other hand, it could have come from someone completely unconnected with the attack. The person who sold the masks, for example.’
Mr Chowdhury nodded his head slowly.
‘The reason we wanted you to know,’ I said, ‘is that if news gets out that we’ve found DNA and not brought any charges, people could get very angry. The general public seem to equate DNA with cast-iron proof. Unfortunately, it’s not always that simple.’
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
‘There is another reason why I wanted to come here this evening,’ I said. ‘I was in the park the night your son was killed. I live very close by and I was on my way home when I heard the call from our Control room.’
The man visibly stiffened. ‘You were the off-duty police officer we heard about?’
I agreed that I was. ‘I saw your son’s attackers,’ I went on. ‘As far as we know, I’m the only witness of the attack itself and it’s largely my fault that the police don’t have a better description of them. It was dark and it happened very quickly, but I wanted you to know how sorry I am about that.’
‘Your sorrow does not bring my brother back. And it does not compare to ours.’