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Authors: Patricia Hall

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“Your prime suspect, then, is she?”
“I suppose she has to be, for lack of any alternative,” Thackeray said. “If there really is a girlfriend and she knows he's dead, what innocent reason is there for not getting in touch?”
“Perhaps she doesn't know he's dead yet,” Longley said. “Perhaps she's away somewhere. The university's only just started up after the holidays, hasn't it?”
“Maybe, though judging by the phone messages some young woman seems to have been getting very anxious to contact him. Anyway, today we're working our way round everyone at the university who knew Simon Earnshaw and we're launching another appeal in the
Gazette
and on local radio tomorrow for any friends of his who haven't been interviewed to come forward. Something has to flush this woman out, unless she's out of the country. I suppose she could have been trying to contact him by phone from abroad. We've not heard from the phone company yet about tracing the calls a woman made to Earnshaw's flat or his parents' place, and I don't suppose we will now till next week. But if they come from the pay-as-you-go phone that appears on his statements we'll be no further forward anyway.”
“Keep me informed, Michael,” Longley said. “I've still got Ellison breathing down my neck on this one.”
“Sir,” Thackeray said without enthusiasm.
Back in his own office he finished off some paperwork, which had begun to pile up since the murder inquiry had been launched, called Laura to say that he would not be home until late and then set off on a journey which he had been anticipating through a dark cloud all day. He retrieved his car from the car-park and joined the stream of Sunday shopping traffic which was heading north out of Bradfield to the suburbs and commuter villages in the Dales. Once past the bustling Asian shops of Aysgarth Lane and the quieter suburbs beyond, the road to Arnedale followed the twisting river valley and driving nose-to-tail took concentration which all but blotted out thought. But once on the dual carriageway which ate up the last ten miles of the journey Thackeray let his mind wander. He had not told Laura that he was going to see his father, and was not even sure that he would tell her he had been. It depended, he thought, on the
old man's reaction to the news he was bringing him, although he could not imagine that there would be any surprise there. This was not by any stretch of the imagination a visit to seek a father's blessing, rather an attempt to blunt the edge of a father's anger.
Joe Thackeray was a survivor from another world, Thackeray thought grimly. He had spent a life-time farming sheep on the bleak hills above Arnedale, only to find himself driven out by modern economics from the holding where he had thought he would end his days. Retirement was too bland a word for the bitter enforced idleness Joe experienced in his small retirement home in the market town at the head of the Maze valley. And Thackeray knew that his uncompromising Catholicism would make it impossible for Joe to take any pleasure in the news that his son planned to remarry. In Joe's book, while Michael had a first wife living, no one could take her place in the eyes of God or her father-in-law. And Aileen, locked by brain damage into a world of unknowing, sometimes seemed to Thackeray physically fit enough to outlast them all. If there was a sin involved in all this, he thought bitterly, it was not his wish to free himself legally from Aileen but his desire of a dozen years' duration to see her as dead as the baby son she had drowned.
“Damnation,” he muttered as he finally pulled up outside his father's bungalow and found himself parking behind another car he recognised. For a second he considered driving away again but then he shrugged wearily. He might as well be hung for a sheep, he thought, and got out, raising a hand in greeting to the parish priest who had watched his arrival from his father's front window.
The two older men quickly settled themselves back into their armchairs, one on each side of the flickering gas fire, like two prosecuting lawyers, and he guessed they both knew
very well why he had come. Joe was an increasingly wizened figure, his face grey and lined under what remained of iron hair, one hand on the head of the elderly sheep dog who now kept as close to her master as she had once kept close to his flock. Father Frank Rafferty was an altogether bigger character, running to fat beneath his extensive cassock, and with a shock of white hair above a face veined with red. But both men were sharp enough of eye, both held glasses of amber whisky in their hands, and both watched expectantly as Thackeray made himself a cup of tea in his father's tiny kitchen and returned slowly, mug in hand, to take the third chair and face the jury in the chilly living room again.
“How are you, Michael?” Rafferty asked. “Policing still suiting you, is it?” Rafferty had never lost his Irish brogue although his ministry in Amedale went back to Thackeray's boyhood when his father had woken him at dawn on a Sunday morning and driven him down to the town, fasting, to serve Mass.
“Crime shows no sign of going away,” Thackeray said sharply. “Nor sin either, I guess.” Rafferty nodded, with a faint smile.
“Sure, I suppose you could say we're in a similar line of business,” he said.
“But my lot get no absolution from me,” Thackeray said.
“Nor many excuses made, I dare say,” Rafferty said, who knew his man.
Thackeray glanced away for a moment before turning to his father.
“How are you?” he asked quietly. “I see you've still got this old girl with you.” He reached forward to fondle the dog's ears and avoid his father's accusing eyes.
“How's Aileen?” Joe Thackeray asked, as he always did,
almost giving the impression that Thackeray's wife might be sitting contentedly at home after washing up the supper dishes.
“She's the same, Dad,” Thackeray said irritably. “She's always the same. She's never going to be any different.”
“I remember you both in my prayers,” Joe said. “And your mother. It's her anniversary next month. We'll be having a Mass said.” Thackeray's mother had died of MS several years before, after decades of declining health. He nodded dumbly, his mind whirling between anger and humiliation at being assailed by this tidal wave of emotion. Perhaps recognising his distress, Rafferty put a hand on Thackeray's knee as if to calm him. Thackeray shook him off.
“Joe still finds it hard to accept everything that happened,” the priest said.
“D'you think I don't?” Thackeray muttered between gritted teeth.
“But you were good enough to come up to see him after a long time,” Rafferty said, a half question that Thackeray knew he could no longer avoid.
“I've begun divorce proceedings,” he said. “Laura and I are hoping to marry later this year — perhaps in the summer …”
Joe contented himself with a snort of disgust but Thackeray was surprised to find a hint of sympathy in the priest's eyes.
“I recall the young woman. Haven't you met her yourself, Joe? Is she not a fine girl, with the red hair and the green eyes? She puts me in mind of a girl I used to know in Dublin.”
“I'll not come to a register office,” Joe said.
Rafferty smiled faintly.
“If you're going to cause a commotion, Joe, chance of an
invitation would be a fine thing,” he said. “Which is a pity. You know as well as I do that Michael and his young woman are doing the right thing, whatever my lords and masters say about it. There's enough anguish in the world without creating more where none's required. Aileen's long past being hurt any more. Why should Michael go on paying for what's finished? D'you not think he's been punished enough?”
“The Church …” Joe began, but Rafferty would not let him finish.
“The Church makes general rules,” he said. “Just as Parliament makes general laws. But hard cases make bad law. There are always exceptions. I dare say this will be a wedding Our Lord will smile on, whatever the Pope thinks.”
“You'll be getting yourself defrocked, Frank, or whatever it is they do to renegade priests these days,” Thackeray said, feeling some of the weight lifting from his shoulders. “But thank you, anyway.” He glanced at his father, who was staring stubbornly into the flickering gas.
“They've left it a bit late,” Rafferty said comfortably. “They keep trying to retire me but so far I've stalled the bastards.” He glanced at Joe. “I can't say I'd relish retirement much.”
“A registry office, then, is it? Not a Protestant church?” Joe asked, as if every word was being wrung from his lips by the inquisition.
“Not a church of any kind,” Thackeray said, trying to hide his distaste for the question. His own faith had been crushed out of him long ago by the events which had taken his son's life and almost destroyed him as well as Aileen. As far as he knew Laura had never been to church in her life except for weddings and funerals.
“And my grandchildren? Will they be little heathens too?” Joe spat the words out and both Thackeray and Rafferty flinched. Thackeray got to his feet.
“I'm sorry this is so hard for you,” he said. “But I thought I should tell you myself. It's the best I can do.” Rafferty got to his feet and put a hand on his shoulder while Joe remained gazing into the simulacrum of a fire which was all that warmed the bleak little room.
“Let us know when the arrangements are made,” he said quietly as they made their way to the door. “I'll talk to him. He'll come round, you'll see. Especially if you're blessed with children.”
“You can't imagine how that terrifies me,” Thackeray said quietly.
“Oh, I think I can, Michael. I think I can.”
From behind them there was a final thrust from Joe which Thackeray only half caught. He turned back reluctantly.
“Go and tell Aileen's parents what you're doing,” Joe said. “See what they think about it.”
Laura sat at her desk the next morning poring over a file of newspaper cuttings which filled her with a mixture of dread and anger. The
Gazette'
s library was not an extensive one, but even so it had accumulated a large enough bundle of articles on the problems of young Muslim girls caught between the traditional demands of their families and the customs of the western society they lived in to make her wonder if Saira Khan was safe. She knew that most of the towns around Bradfield had refuges for the handful of Asian girls who ran away from home each year, usually to escape the marriages their families wished to impose on them or, more rarely, to pursue relationships outside their community. She knew that in many cases these disputes were eventually resolved amicably enough.
But it was also clear from what she was reading that if they were not resolved — if for instance a Muslim girl ran away with an ‘unsuitable' boyfriend — then there were groups of young men in the shadows who would seek out the offending couple and a few fathers and brothers who were happier to see a young woman dead than living in a relationship they disapproved of. It was, she thought, a culture clash of immense proportions, rare maybe, but devastating for all involved when it got out of hand. She had written about it before and would no doubt write about it again and she was still hoping that she would be able to set up some sort of discussion for her radio programmes if she could persuade someone in the Muslim community to break the code of silence which surrounded these issues for most of the time.
What Laura was seeking as she riffled through the cuttings
was information about young men willing to hunt down those who ran away. But their activities were both illegal and often violent and few reporters had got anywhere near them. The only cases that had got into the newspapers were the most extreme: the mother and father who had murdered their adulterous daughter, the rebellious girl who had been deliberately run down by a car full of young men, the couple who had changed their names and gone into hiding because they had fallen in love across the religious and racial divide and were convinced, even years later, that those bent on retribution would never call off the hunt.
She shuddered and closed the file. She knew she was wandering into dangerous territory but she was sure she had met enough sympathetic Muslims during her career to be able to persuade at least some of them to talk to her about the sensitive issues of culture and tradition she wanted to explore. But first, she thought, she had better not jump the gun. It was quite possible that Saira Khan had returned home by now, or had at least made contact with the friends who were concerned about her. This time she would tackle her brother the lawyer, in the hope that he might be a bit more forthcoming than his sister Amina had been.
Sayeed Khan had agreed to see Laura readily enough, but when she was shown into his office later that morning she soon discovered that the last thing Khan proposed to do was give her information about his missing sister. That, she soon discovered, was a wishful thought too far.
“My sister Amina's already told me about the insinuations you're making about Saira,” he said after he had waved Laura into a chair and refused point blank to allow her to tape-record their discussion.
“I don't remember making any insinuations,” Laura said, trying to keep her temper with this overbearing young man
in his smart suit and Armani tie. “I was merely trying to find out if she was safe because her friends at the university seemed to be very worried about her.”
“They don't need to worry,” Khan said, leaning back in his leather executive chair. “There's no need for anyone to worry. Saira is quite safe.”
“You know where she is then?”
“You know, Miss Ackroyd, I don't think that is any of your or your newspaper's business. No business at all.”
“Has she gone to Pakistan to be married?” Laura persisted, even as Khan's face flushed above his neatly trimmed beard and his eyes hardened.
“You know, you are like most white British people,” he said. “You have this stereotypical image of Muslims. We are either ill-treating our women or threatening to blow up the world. It's extremely offensive to people like me and my father and ninety-nine per cent of the rest of us who do neither of these things.”
“I'm sure it must be,” Laura said. “But if Saira's Muslim friends are worried enough about her to contact me in the first place it really isn't my role to tell them that they're wrong. They evidently have some grounds for their concern as they've not been able to contact her by phone.”
“In my experience mobile telephones are not a very reliable means of communication. The batteries go flat,” Khan said dismissively. “And there are places where they simply don't work.”
“Like Pakistan, for instance,” Laura suggested.
“Miss Ackroyd, I'm not going to tell you anything about my sister. I've told you, it's none of your business. And I would really like you to leave the subject alone.”
“Saira's friends thought it might be my business,” Laura said, her face hardening into a determination which her
friends would have warned Khan to avoid if they had been there. “I'd never heard of your sister until they called me.”
“Saira's friends should have known better. If there are problems in our community, we deal with them ourselves. We don't need to involve outsiders, especially not outsiders who are racist and prejudiced and ignorant of our customs.”
Laura felt her colour rise.
“You're a lawyer, Mr. Khan, and no doubt know very well that the law applies to your community just as much as it does to mine.”
“And do you have a shred of evidence that the law has been broken here?” Khan snapped back.
“Not yet,” Laura said. “But I'd feel much happier about it if you could arrange for me to speak to Saira, wherever she is. Mobile phones may be unreliable but on the whole conventional phones work pretty well anywhere in the world, if a little slowly. Can I speak to her? Then you can set my mind at rest, I'll know she's safe and I'll pass on the message to her college friends if you won't.”
“I'll discuss the matter with my father …”
“You see, if no one can make any contact at all with Saira, then inevitably they're going to draw the wrong conclusions, and maybe very nasty conclusions at that,” Laura pressed on, speaking quickly now and with increasing force. “You know how imaginative people can be, especially if they start from a basis of prejudice and suspicion. I'm not saying I'm like that, Mr. Khan, but I know my editor certainly is, and he's only one …”
“Are you threatening me?” Khan asked angrily.
“Not at all,” Laura said reverting to her most reasonable smile. “I'm just suggesting that the people who are already worried about Saira may take their worries elsewhere if I don't succeed in setting their minds at rest. To the police,
perhaps, or to some newspapers very much nastier than the
Gazette.”
Khan banged his fist on the desk.
“Is it too difficult for you to understand?” he asked. “The most precious thing a Muslim girl has is her honour. If any scandal damages that she has no future, she'll not be able to marry — no man will have her. To suggest in public that she is missing is to suggest the worst. There is no half-way house, don't you see?”
“So she is missing?” Laura asked quietly.
“I didn't say that,” Khan came back quickly.
“Talk to your father, Mr. Khan,” Laura said. “You know as well as I do that if a young woman is missing, whatever her race or her religion, she may be in danger. I know your community tries to find people who step out of line …”
“No, nothing like that,” Khan said, his voice hoarse now.
“One way or another she may be in danger,” Laura said. “You need the police to help you.”
“No, not that either,” Khan said. “Please leave us alone, Miss Ackroyd. I assure you we can handle this ourselves. Saira will be home safely very soon, I promise you. Very soon.”
The next stop on Laura's roller-coaster ride of a day took her to the farther extreme of Bradfield opinion and one which she hoped Sayeed Khan might believe she disliked intensely. Ted Grant had evidently been surprised when she had volunteered promptly when he sought out a reporter to get a quote from Ricky Pickles about the rising tide of racist incidents which looked set to destabilise the town. She had already asked the police Press Office about the abortive inquiries into the British Patriotic Party which David Mendelson had mentioned and they had been more than usually dismissive. All incidents were taken seriously, she
had been told with bland assurance, but there was no evidence of a concerted campaign in Bradfield or that things were getting worse. Laura did not believe a word of it but when she asked for statistics she was assured that they would take time to assemble and that the Press Office would get back to her. She would not hold her breath, she had thought as she hung up angrily.
But by the time she had driven up to the BPP's office and persuaded the heavyweight doorkeeper that she was from the
Gazette
and had an appointment she did not have high hopes of fighting her way any further through the blanket of cotton-wool which seemed to surround the subject.
Pickles leaned back in his chair easily as he faced Laura with a complacent smile.
“Our view is quite simple,” he said. “If you put two incompatible groups of people together, you're bound to get trouble. That's what I'll be telling the electorate in May when we'll be putting up ten candidates for the council. And I'm sure we'll get massive support.”
“We're getting quite serious violence on the streets, Mr. Pickles,” Laura said carefully. “Some of it aimed at women and children. What's your party's view on that?”
“We condemn violence on any side,” Pickles said easily. “It's not one-sided, this violence, you know. There's gangs of Paki youths giving as good as they get …”
“Throwing acid at school-girls?” Laura snapped. “I don't think so.”
“A nasty business,” Pickles conceded, without warmth. “A pity resentment is running so high.”
“And you've no idea who might be behind that sort of campaign? There's no connection between your party and street attacks, graffiti at the synagogue, all the rest of it?”
“As I say, we're a legitimate political party …”
“With many members with a history of violence,” Laura hazarded, knowing she was pushing her luck and going much further than Ted Grant wanted her to go.
“Not to my knowledge,” Pickles said, an edge to his voice now. He glanced at his watch. “Now you'll have to excuse me, I've an election campaign meeting to go to at the community centre on the Heights.” Where no doubt, Laura thought, he would do his best to fight fire with torrents of inflammatory abuse.
But with that, as Pickles stood up and put on his jacket, she had to be content.
 
Laura had fallen asleep on the sofa in front of the television by the time Michael Thackeray got home that night. She woke with a start when she heard his key in the lock and was surprised by his appearance as he came into the living room, pulling his coat off wearily.
“What happened?” she said. “You look as if you've been down a coal mine. You're filthy.”
Thackeray ran a hand across his face which merely smeared the dirt more effectively across his brow and into his untidy dark hair.
“Just rummaging around the site of a fire,” he said. “A nasty bit of arson.”
“Don't you have minions to deal with that sort of thing?” Laura asked lightly. “You don't actually have to go digging in the ashes yourself, do you?”
“I do when the building belongs to the local trade union in Aysgarth Lane just at the moment they're planning a strike at Earnshaws mill. Coincidence, d'you think, or what?”
Laura sat up suddenly at that, her mind swinging sharply back into gear. She had come home bubbling with anger at
the end of her frustrating day at work, and suddenly all her rage returned.
“Oh shit,” she said. “That sounds as if it could set light to half the town.”
“The Muslim half, which may be exactly what the arsonists intended,” Thackeray said grimly. “Fortunately the fire brigade was very prompt and the damage isn't too bad. They managed to save most of the papers and files, which was a miracle considering the bastards had poured accelerant through the letter box. And thankfully, Mohamed Iqbal, the convenor at Earnshaws, keeps most of his paperwork locked in metal filing cabinets so it survived — just a bit smoky round the edges. But they've lost a computer and other equipment and they're pretty angry.”
Anger, Thackeray thought, was an under-estimate of the cold fury with which Iqbal had greeted him when he had arrived to meet the police at the smoke-blackened ruin of his office, where water flowed from the doorway into the gutter and firemen were still working to damp down whatever was still smouldering inside the dark interior.

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