Up in Flames (23 page)

Mark Farrell’s alibi had checked out. Farrell, it became clear, was something of an
entrepreneur and, as he had said, he had been on a business trip to the continent during the relevant time. Several of the business acquaintances he had met had vouched for him.

             
And as Casey headed wearily and unwillingly for home, after enduring another of Brown-Smith’s PC homilies, he supposed he should be grateful that another suspect was now firmly removed from their list of suspects. The trouble was, of course, that all the eliminated suspects had been white. And in spite of his brave rhetoric to Catt about making sure justice was done, he was aware of the possible implications for his future career should the winding trail lead back to one of the super’s less preferred suspects. And as, currently, Asians were the only ones remaining on the suspects’ list, that seemed only too likely.

             
He longed for some solitude and the return of his home to its previous peaceful austerity. His home had always been his haven, his retreat from the world and its problems. It was where he did most of his thinking. But since the outside world in the shape of his parents had taken up residence, he found himself increasingly reluctant to go home. Instead, he had begun to work later and later, unwilling to face whatever further damage his parents had inflicted on his house. So far, between them, they had put his hob out of action, stained and ripped his kitchen vinyl and damaged his sound system with their scratchy old 60s records.

             
Unfortunately, working late every night was turning out to be counter-productive. There was only so much information the human brain could absorb before it stopped functioning efficiently. Tiredness and the consequential increased irritability didn’t help, either. No doubt it was that which had prompted his earlier outburst that had so surprised Catt.

             
He needed his quiet home back, his retreat. Only then would he begin to fire on all cylinders again. But there was little hope of that yet. His credit cards were up to their limit. He could of course increase the limits as the bank had so helpfully suggested, but, after years spent sorting out his parents’ financial muddles, he felt that was the sticky slope. He had never been keen on credit cards, anyway, nor credit of any sort. The puritan in him felt that if you couldn’t afford to pay cash you should do without. He’d only given in and applied for credit cards because they were so convenient, but he had strictly regulated his use of them. If he should start loosening his high standards now who knew where he would end up? Confessing all to a meeting of Debtors’ Anonymous was a distinct possibility, given his family’s propensity for addiction. And every addiction started with that one first step...

             
Casey reached home and put his key in his front door. At least he could get on his computer and do a bit of internet research on India. With Gough, Linklater and Mark Farrell definitely out of the running and no other possible white fire-setters on the horizon, it was time to dig a little deeper into the Asian community and their cultural backgrounds.

             
Just before he shut the front door behind him, he heard the sound of breaking glass from the living room.

             
What now? he wondered as he dumped his briefcase in the hall and called out, ‘Who’s breaking up the happy home?’

             
He had striven for lightness, but as he walked into his living room he couldn’t help but wonder what else would need expensive replacement or repair by the time his parents left. He soon found out.

             
‘Hi, Willow, babe,’ his mother smiled. ‘What do you think? Looks good, hey?’ She gestured behind her at the two fireplace alcoves.

             
This morning, they had held his cherished scripophily collection. Now, his glass-framed old share certificates, some with beautiful artwork, were stacked anyhow against the wall. No doubt that explained the breaking glass. In their place were his mother’s Indian bazaar bargains, most of which had seen better days; assorted beads, his father’s old sitar with its still broken strings, and tatty old wall-hangings their once rich colours now sadly faded.

             
His austere but comfortable living room now bore more than a passing resemblance to an eastern market. A very downmarket market. As well as most of their gear gradually  spreading outwards from the spare room and into his living room with the consequent mess and muddle, he was now expected to gaze admiringly at broken musical instruments and tatty old rugs.

             
Really, on top of everything else, it was too much and Casey opened his mouth to protest, but his mother forestalled him.

             
‘I knew you wouldn’t mind, hon. You did tell me to make myself at home and as the Guru Manesh Yogi said, creating the right ambiance around one is so important’

             
This from a woman who had lived over half her life to the pleasant ambiance of bailiffs hammering on the door.

             
‘Besides, I found those symbols of capitalism you collect oppressive. Those railway ones gave me bad vibes every time I looked at them.’

             
These two — The Stockton & Darlington and Liverpool & Manchester Railways — were only the most prized part of his collection. Two cherries on the cake, they were early 19th century, very rare and quite valuable. And as Casey leaned down to check the stack of frames, he was horrified to realise that the first of his prized cherries was the one with the broken glass. Quickly, he checked the certificate for damage, all the while muttering under his breath.

             
‘Did you know how many men died during the construction of those railways?’ his mother asked.

             
As it happened, he did. He liked to learn about the historical backgrounds to the shares he bought. Though he doubted his mother could supply the answer to her own  question. To Casey, his old shares were an interesting collection of social and industrial history, not a paean to capitalist worker exploitation as his mother claimed. Some had become quite valuable since he had bought them. His favourites weren’t even beautifully coloured like many of the foreign share certificates; old British shares tended to be on the plain side. It was probably why he liked them best of all.

             
He went in search of bubble wrap and brown paper, carefully removed the rest of the broken glass from the frame and wrapped the whole with its precious contents. He would have to get it repaired.

             
Perhaps he should put aside his qualms and get his credit raised on all of his cards. If he got that organised and could get the bailiffs to agree a cash payment, his parents might be back home as early as the end of the week. And he would have his haven restored. For Casey, his home and the Bansi investigation, it couldn’t come a moment too soon.

             
After dinner, no longer able to bear the squalor to which his previously austere, but comfortable living room had been reduced, he took himself off to the box-room where he kept his computer, switched on and logged onto the internet. While the search engine was checking out likely sites, he made himself some tea and brought it back upstairs with him.

             
He checked the screen, glancing through the listings, discounting the more obviously touristy sites, he quickly jotted down those he thought might be most informative. He took a gulp of tea, and clicked on the first site.

             
Several hours later, his tea long since gone cold, he sat back, gazed at the pile of printouts and began a more thorough read through. He discovered that his mother and Shazia Singh hadn’t exaggerated. Sati or suttee, wasn’t a thing of history. According to his research there had been over 40 known cases of voluntary or involuntary suttee since India’s independence in 1947.

             
One of the most recent cases was in Rajasthan, that of the young woman in her late teens whom his mother had mentioned. Her husband had died no more than a seven months after their wedding. The young woman had been well-educated by all accounts and had apparently spent most of their brief married life with her parents rather than with her new in-laws. All the more strange then, that at the time of her husband’s death, and briefly living with her in-laws, she had, according to them, elected to commit sati. The evidence as to whether this had been a voluntary act was conflicting. But what didn’t seem in doubt was that after being clad in bridal finery for the meeting with her young husband at the bridal altar in heaven she had led the procession to the funeral pyre, been assisted aloft and burned to death.

             
Several witnesses had claimed the girl’s sati was far from voluntary. In fact, getting an inkling of what was planned for her, the young woman had reportedly fled her in-laws’ home and hidden herself in a barn. She had been found, dragged out, decked out in her bridal finery and led to her death surrounded by sword-brandishing youths. Witnesses said she had appeared drugged. Drugged or not, she had attempted to struggle from the pyre  when it was lit, but had been weighed down by logs and coconuts, hemmed in by the sword-flourishing youths. The fact that she was an educated young woman and from a well-to-do family hadn’t saved her.

             
Nine years later, in 1996, all those accused of murder, of  ‘assisting’ the young widow to commit sati, were acquitted. The case had caused a furore in India.

             
Casey read on and discovered one of the attractions of sati - for the widow’s in-laws, if not for the widow. And now he remembered that Shazia Singh had also mentioned it. A woman committing sati, according to some Hindu beliefs, not only saved her husband’s family and seven generations after the painful cycle of birth and death, it also guaranteed them entry to heaven. Some kind of guarantee, thought Casey. Some kind of motive for murder - if you were a believer. Even if you weren’t, the gaining of an inheritance alone had proved sufficient motive for many murderers.

             
So far, apart from the house-to-house team checking out their alibis, Casey had spared little time on Chandra’s in-laws. Even now, it seemed far-fetched to believe that such reasons would prompt them to murder, even given that in their grief they had blamed her for their son’s death. Far more likely that they had baulked at Chandra inheriting her late husband’s share of their business.

             
But they weren’t alone in that. When it came to arguments - and violence- over inheritances, the British could teach the world a thing or two. Maybe, Casey thought, we didn’t produce social codes that required women to immolate themselves to save their honour, but we had our share of raping, pillaging and plundering invaders. The history of most countries produced a long, depressing catalogue of violence and grisly death.

             
England had had forced marriages aplenty in earlier centuries. History books contained countless episodes of war, family feuds and murder over inheritances. Impossible, then, to adopt a high moral stance and condemn a practise begun from honourable motives during centuries long gone.

             
Yes, in these modern times, sati did seem barbaric, but the First World had had a century or more of wealth and decades of widespread education to discover more sensitive modes of behaviour. India, like much of the Third World, was trying drag itself from its feudal past straight into the technological world; what more natural, that in its struggle towards the 21st century, some practises still lingered?

             
Even in India, a country heaving with assorted religious fervour, there had been scarcely more than forty cases of sati since Independence, a drop in the ocean given the size of the population. It could hardly be said to be endemic. And India wasn’t the only country where young brides suffered mother-in-law problems...

             
That reminded Casey. Rachel was due home from her tour at the weekend. He must ensure his parents had left by then. For a musician, Rachel was very clean living, very keen on order, and like Casey, abhorred clutter. Even though she had met them, she had no idea what his parents were really like. He’d made sure of that. Made sure, too, that his parents were on their best behaviour after issuing dire threats. He’d even demanded they stop calling him Willow for the occasion. He hated to be so censorious, but really, they gave him little choice.

             
He’d bought them new clothes; a conservative blue suit for his father, much to his disgust, and a subdued, grey silk dress for his mother. He’d even prevailed upon her to wear her wild bush of kinky, greying black hair in an elegant French pleat. They had looked so different when he and Rachel arrived at the restaurant they’d booked for the occasion that he hadn’t recognised them and had walked straight past their table. He’d had to be light on his feet to explain that one away. Families really were the very devil.

             
To his amazement Rachel and his parents had got on fine; even discovering a mutual admiration for some musician that Casey had never heard of. They’d had a ball. Well, everyone except Casey had had a ball. After days of anxiety about the occasion he’d ended up sulking and excluded from the conversation while the talk of the other three ranged over musicians they had known, who they’d seen at festivals and in concert and who was the greatest of all time.