Wexford 22 - The Monster In The Box (32 page)

   'That's one way of putting it,' Scott said.

   'Is there another?'

   'I don't know what I've done to be questioned like this. I've done nothing wrong.' A frightening thought occurred to him. 'She is over sixteen, isn't she?'

   'Of course I bloody am. I don't know how many times I've told you.' Tamima's bravado suddenly left her. Her face turned red and she stuck out her lower lip like a child half her age. 'I want to go home,' she wailed, and turning to her mother, threw herself upon her, clutching her shoulders.

   Yasmin remained stiff and unresponsive for a moment. Then, her expression softening, she slowly put her arms round Tamima, holding the girl's cheek against her own. She stroked the long black hair and began whispering to her in what must have been Urdu. Wexford watched them for a moment. Then he turned his eyes on Ian Scott. The man had been correct to say he had done nothing wrong. His small follies were minor compared to what Tamima's brother had done, what her mother had done. He got up.

   'There's nothing for us to do here,' he said to Burden and together they went down the stairs and out into Glebe Road.

'Jenny will be pleased nothing's happened to her,' Burden said when they were partaking of the lunch that had been long postponed. 'She was worried about a forced marriage if not an honor killing.'

   Hoping for the drama of it, Wexford thought uncharitably.

   'Not that I ever believed in either,' said Burden.

   'I am going to have kedgeree,' said Wexford, 'which I don't believe is Indian at all, let alone Kashmiri. I think we invented it in the days of our supremacy.' They ordered. 'We shall be able to tell Hannah we told her so.'

   'I suppose it was Scott she saw hanging around in the Raja Emporium.'

   'And Scott Targo saw with her which made him think the Rahmans would want her killed.'

   'I'm afraid the kedgeree is off,' said the waitress. 'There has been quite a run on it.'

   'All right. I'll have the chicken tike macula which I believe is another colonial invention.'

   'So will I,' said Burden. 'All this has made me wonder just how common these forced marriages are. Or these honor killings, come to that.'

   'Common enough in Asia, I fear, less so here. I dare say we shall hear no more of them.'

   Some undefined unease took away his appetite. He left half his main course and wanted nothing more. Burden ate heartily as usual, finishing with what he called that well-known Kashmiri specialty, a large slice of apple pie with cream. It was half past two. While they had been in the restaurant the winter's afternoon had turned colder and an icy north wind blew out of every narrow side street and alley. Wexford had no belief in telepathy, premonitions, clairvoyance or portents, yet as he walked along in the bitter cold he was increasingly aware of some foreboding, some horror which lay ahead, and he quickened his pace, prompting Burden to ask what was the hurry.

   The warmth which met them as they passed through the swing doors into the police station foyer was so relieving as for a moment to banish all other sensation. Then Wexford saw Hannah bearing down upon them, phone in hand. Something in her face told him he wouldn't be passing on triumphant news about Tamima that day.

   'I was just calling you, guv,' and as she spoke his phone began to ring.

   'There's been an honor killing. It's really happened. A woman in Stowerton found dead in the room she was renting, her throat cut. She'd left her husband of a year and the husband and her father swore they'd kill her. I'm going there now.'

   'We'll all go there now,' said Wexford and, silently, to himself, at least I know it can't be Targo this time.

   The years passed, two or three of them. As Wexford had predicted, Yasmin Rahman received a suspended sentence for assisting an offender, the offender being her son Ahmed, convicted for the unlawful killing of Eric Targo. Ahmed spent the last year of his sentence in an open prison and was released on license. By that time his family had moved away from Glebe Road, where some of their neighbours, notably Ian Scott – now with a new partner – and the occupants of Burden's old home, had made life uncomfortable for them. Having secured three fairly good A levels at Carisbrooke Sixth Form College, Tamima had just begun a four-year course in Islamic studies at a university in the Midlands.

   The Rahmans now lived in Myringham where Mohammed still worked but inside the office, the head of social services having decided it would be unwise for him to risk catcalls and other abuse from clients. Jasmine's criminal record made very little difference to her life. As for Oman, he had given up nursing and was at University College London, studying for a medical degree.

   It was a Sunday in summer when Ahmed came to Wexford's house. Once more without a gardener, Wexford was at home mowing the lawn, or, rather, after half mowing the lawn, had given up in disgust and was sitting in a deeply cushioned cane chair outside the French windows, reading a novel by Ivy Compton-Burnett. Ahmed hadn't come through the house. He must have entered the front garden on his way to the front door and seen Wexford from there. He walked softly over to within a few feet of him and cleared his throat. Wexford looked up.

   'I'm afraid I'm disturbing you,' Ahmed said.

   'That's all right. How are you?'

   'Not bad. Better than I have been.'

   Wexford laid his book face down on the table beside him. 'What brings you here?'

   'I want to tell you something. A confession really. May I sit down?'

   For a moment the sun seemed to have darkened and someone else, something invisible yet grimly present, appeared to have entered the garden and strutted up on to the paving. No one was there, yet Wexford could see a shadow fall, the stocky muscular figure, the white hair and the thick blue-and-white scarf wound round its neck. Ahmed repeated his last words.

   'May I sit down?'

   'No, Ahmed,' Wexford said, 'I don't think you may because I don't want to hear what you have to say.'

   'I have to tell you. I think you'll be pleased. You hated him too. When my mother was out of the room, I did –'

   Wexford interrupted quietly but with firmness. 'I'm not hearing this,' he said, getting up. 'I'm hearing none of it. I haven't even seen you.' He went into the house by way of the French windows, closing them behind him.

   Ahmed stood outside for a moment, mouthing something, holding up his hands, but the image of Targo, which had never really been visible, had gone. Was he going to say what I think he was? Wexford asked himself. What else could he have been about to confess? But I won't think of it. I will never think of it again but put the monster back in its box and throw the box onto the rubbish heap. The best place, the only place, for him.