Читать книгу Dishonour - Helen Black, Black Helen Cecelia - Страница 7

September 2005

‘Our words are dead until we give them life with our blood.’

I’m frozen in my place in front of the television, the breath literally sucked out of me.

The man on the screen is so angry, as if he can barely control it. His eyes shine with fury, not fear, despite the fact that he filmed himself making this speech just hours before he strapped explosives to himself and led the most devastating attack upon London since the Second World War.

The newspapers have spent every day since 7 July reviling this man: evil, murderous, insane. Now his picture stares out from every broadsheet, every tabloid. His words ring out from every TV and radio station.

He is dressed in an Arab keffiyeh, an AK-47 slung, almost casually, over his shoulder. He spits his death message out, each syllable a poisonous bullet.

‘Until you stop the bombing, gassing, imprisonment and torture of my people, we will not stop this fight.’

But it’s not what he is saying that cuts me to the quick but his accent. Thick and strong, as Yorkshire as coal dust. This is a lad from Leeds. Born in this country. Died in this country.

Yet each toss of his head, each challenge in his face, tells me this man did not consider himself British. He is a stranger here. Unloved. Unwelcome.

His words ring so true, he could be me. It feels like coming home.

‘You’ve got to be having a laugh.’

Lilly pointed at Sam’s plate piled high with chocolate digestives.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘That is not a proper breakfast,’ said Lilly. ‘Get some cereal.’

‘I don’t want cereal.’

Lilly raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t slept well and her feet were still swollen. ‘I don’t have the energy to fight, big man.’

‘Then don’t.’

She reached for a packet of Cheerios. ‘For me?’

He licked the chocolate from a biscuit.

‘Just a few spoonfuls for your poor old mother.’

Sam ignored her.

‘Your poor old pregnant mother?’ She emptied a handful into a bowl. ‘A mother who worries about her son all day if he hasn’t a decent meal inside of him.’

Sam poked the box. ‘That’s hardly a decent meal.’

‘Better than that.’ She nodded to the biscuits.

Sam grabbed the bowl, the dry hoops rattling around the bottom, then yanked the milk from the fridge.

‘You, Sam Valentine, are an angel,’ Lilly laughed.

‘Whatever.’

Something was going on with Sam. He was sullen and uncooperative. The child whom every school report described as ‘sunny’ had morphed into a shadow.

When his face first darkened, Lilly had assumed it was the baby troubling him and had taken every opportunity to assure him that he wouldn’t be pushed out.

‘There’ll still be lots of time for you,’ she’d said.

‘There’s no time now,’ he’d moaned.

Lilly had acknowledged the truth of this. She was always busy, pushed for time, trying to juggle everything. Poor Sam often got pushed to the sidelines.

And yet something told her now that it wasn’t the arrival of a new baby brother or sister that was bothering him.

‘Is everything all right at school?’ she fished.

Sam rolled his eyes theatrically.

‘If there were any problems, you know I’d go straight up there,’ she said.

‘Everything’s fine,’ he mumbled.

She watched her son drag himself and his breakfast up the stairs. She certainly didn’t have the strength to follow up the ‘no eating in the bedrooms’ rule. No doubt she’d find the remnants stuck to the windowsill, the discarded bowl making a perfect white circle on the freshly glossed wood.

After a fire in the cottage had left every room blackened by smoke, the insurance company had agreed to cover the cost of redecoration. For three weeks two handsome Polish men filled the cottage with their indecipherable chatter and the smell of undercoat.

The place hadn’t looked this good in years. The walls were still uneven and the hall filled with bags for recycling, but everything seemed much less shabby. Although Lilly had been terrified by the fire she had to admit that there had been this one small silver lining.

Penny had suggested she invite some of the Manor Park mums over for a coffee morning. ‘Show the place off,’ she said.

Hmm. The lining wasn’t that bloody metallic.

Lilly fingered her new kitchen curtains. They were gingham and wonderfully kitch. They made her smile.

‘I never took you for a woman so interested in soft furnishings.’

Lilly turned to Jack, who had slipped into a chair.

‘Think of the hours you could while away in John Lewis picking some cushions to match,’ he said.

Lilly threw a dishcloth at him. It landed on his lap with a wet thump.

‘And there was me going to make you a bacon butty,’ she said. ‘But you can whistle for it now.’

Jack laughed and threw the cloth back. It hit the window behind her.

‘Fried pig,’ he patted his stomach, ‘I don’t think so.’

Lilly had to admit that Jack’s current regime of running ten clicks a day had paid off and he was looking pretty buff, but his refusal to eat anything remotely bad for him was bloody irritating. She had always loved to cook and he had always loved to eat. A match made in heaven. Now all he would countenance was salad and soup.

He grabbed a banana and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Get plenty of rest today.’

Lilly waved him away. His healthy lifestyle was unattractive enough without his constant worrying.

‘I’m not ill, Jack.’

‘Don’t be so defensive, woman. I just thought that since you’ve no work to do you may as well put your feet up.’ He peered at them, spilling over the sides of her slippers. ‘They look like they need it.’

She knew full well he was just trying to be nice but as she watched Jack peel the banana and take a bite, her annoyance rose.

‘I do have work to do,’ she said.

‘Is that right?’ Jack’s mouth was full of fruit.

‘The family in Luton I told you about want me to pursue matters with the police.’

Jack swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple dancing. ‘I thought you said they just wanted a bit of advice.’

‘They did,’ said Lilly, ‘and now they need some more.’

Before Jack could give his opinion Lilly picked up the phone and dialled.

‘I’ll be going then,’ he said, and left the room.

When Lilly heard the front door slam she felt a pang of guilt. She’d been hard on Jack and she knew it. She was the one making difficulties, refusing to play happy families. He was making her brain hurt at the moment—but he meant well, so why was she railing against him? She considered going after him but on the fifth ring, DI Bell answered.

‘It’s Lilly Valentine here,’ she said, ‘the Khans’ solicitor.’

‘Ah,’ he said.

‘We agreed to review the situation in two days.’

‘I recall that’s what you said, not necessarily what we agreed.’

Lilly gave a polite laugh. ‘So can I tell the family you’ll release the body today?’

Bell paused. Lilly had been around enough barristers, judges and senior police officers to know that they liked to milk the moment. She knew that the best way to get what she wanted was to allow them their dramatic tension. But the baby was lying heavily on her pelvis and she desperately needed to pee.

‘DI Bell?’ she prodded.

He gave a small humph, disappointed not to be allowed his moment in the sun. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said.

Lilly crossed her legs. ‘Oh, come on, Inspector, you’ve had enough time to make a decision.’

‘Yes I have.’

‘What?’

‘You’re absolutely right, I’ve come to a decision,’ he said.

‘Then you have to give this girl back to her poor family.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

Lilly shook her head. What was he going on about? He may be a pretentious jobsworth but he wouldn’t risk a legal action against him, would he? Unless…Lilly felt a heaviness settle on her. She gulped.

‘And the reason?’

DI Bell cleared his throat. Lilly could almost see him straightening himself up to full height. ‘It is my considered opinion that Yasmeen Khan was murdered.’

Jack’s desk was buried in paperwork: forms to be filled, statements to be drafted, information to be forwarded to the courts.

He flicked one of the larger piles with his nail. Being a copper these days was like being a civil servant.

He took a violent gulp of coffee and checked his email.

To: Sergeant Jack McNally

From : The desk of the Chief Superintendent

Subject : A Meeting

Please see me at your earliest convenience.

Jack scowled. The super was a total prat. He couldn’t just pick up the phone, could he? No doubt he wanted to go over a list of dead cases for archiving or review the latest figures for youth offending. Ticking boxes was something the man revelled in.

Jack refused to hightail it up to the super’s office. He’d finish his coffee first.

To be fair, Jack knew full well it wasn’t the email that was making him cranky. It was Lilly. The woman was beyond infuriating.

He’d be the first to admit that her pregnancy had come as a bit of a shock. Becoming a dad was never something he’d wanted. He couldn’t look after himself, never mind a kid. All those years living alone and he still never managed to have fresh milk in the fridge or pay his gas bill on time. How on earth would he remember all the stuff you had to do for a baby? The poor wee fella would probably starve if it were left to Jack. But after a couple of months he’d settled into the idea. The two of them, with Sam and now a baby, seemed somehow right. A family.

It should be a time of joy, shouldn’t it? Anticipating the big day, buying prams, choosing a crib. He’d even bought one of those baby names books. So why was Lilly so determined to carry on as usual?

Setting up a new office, taking on cases, were not what women ought to be doing at a time like this. She should be taking care of herself, letting him take care of her. Maybe he didn’t put it across well but he only ever wanted to look out for her.

He took another sip of his now cold decaf and pulled out his phone to call her.

‘It’s Jack,’ he said.

‘Right.’ She sounded distracted.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘Just right in the middle of something.’

‘Sounds important.’

‘Yes,’ she said.

Jack knew he should leave it there but he just couldn’t help himself.

‘Have you taken your folic acid?’

‘What?’

‘Have you taken your folic acid? It’s very important for a growing baby.’

There was a small silence.

‘I put the tablets next to the kettle,’ he said. When she didn’t answer he added, ‘In the kitchen.’

‘I know where the kettle is, Jack.’

‘Of course you do. I’m just saying.’

Lilly heaved a sigh down the phone. ‘I have to go.’

Jack stared at the phone for a few seconds after Lilly hung up. He could picture the brown bottle of tablets, untouched, exactly where he’d left them. Lilly couldn’t possibly have missed them. He slapped his mobile back in his pocket. It made him so angry that Lilly wasn’t prepared to do such a small thing for their child.

Today was not looking good and a meeting with the biggest penpusher of them all would just about finish him off. Sometimes he was tempted to walk out of the door and never come back.

‘Take a seat, Jack.’ The chief super pointed to the chair at the opposite side of the desk.

Jack slipped silently into his place. Something about the chief super’s office, with its clean lines and heavy paperweights, made Jack uncomfortable. Every visit increased his discomfort.

‘I won’t beat around the bush,’ said the chief super.

That’ll be a first, thought Jack.

‘You’ll have heard about the death of Yasmeen Khan.’

Of course Jack had heard about it. Every copper in Luton knew there were rumblings that the girl’s suicide wasn’t all it seemed. A short-arse called Bell had been swanning around making sure everyone knew just how big this was going to be.

‘I understand DI Bell is heading the investigation,’ said Jack.

The chief super nodded. ‘I’d hoped—well, we’d all hoped—that this could be sorted out.’

‘And can’t it?’

‘It seems not.’ The chief super steepled his fingers. ‘It seems that the girl was murdered.’

Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Who’s in the frame?’

‘I’m not at liberty to divulge that at this stage, Jack,’ said the chief super, ‘but believe me when I say this situation is going to need to be handled with the upmost care.’

Jack nodded. He thought the tragic death of any young woman merited the upmost care, whatever the current political situation, but he knew this was not something the senior officer wanted to hear.

‘And this is where you come in, Jack.’

Jack was stunned. The chief super wanted him to assist on a murder case. He’d been involved in only one other—when a young girl in care was accused of killing her mother. That case hadn’t exactly gone to plan. Still, he couldn’t help feel a warm glow of satisfaction. Perhaps his talents were being recognised after all these years.

‘I’ll do whatever I can to help,’ he said.

The chief super touched the bridge of his nose with his forefingers. ‘What’s needed here is someone with a delicate touch. We can’t go stamping around with size tens.’

‘You can count on me,’ Jack beamed.

‘Excellent.’

The chief super tapped his keyboard and the printer sprung into life. He motioned for Jack to collect the printed document. Jack read it.

Bury Park Community High

Denleigh Secondary

Lealands

St Joseph’s Roman Catholic High.

It was a list of the local secondary schools. Jack nodded in what he hoped looked like a thoughtful way.

‘Didn’t the Khan girl attend Beech Hall?’

‘Two of her siblings still do,’ said the chief super.

‘It’s not on the list,’ Jack pointed out.

‘Like I say, Jack, this is all very sensitive. Which is why you need to steer clear, for the present time at least.’

Jack wasn’t so sure. If he was being tasked to talk to people who knew Yasmeen then Beech Hall was the obvious place to start. He didn’t want to argue with the chief but wasn’t convinced the other schools would prove anywhere near as useful.

‘I wouldn’t want to leave it too long, sir,’ he ventured.

‘A couple of months should do it.’

‘A couple of months?’ Jack couldn’t disguise his surprise. ‘That would normally be considered far too late in the day to start gathering evidence.’

The chief super frowned. ‘What evidence?’

‘It’s difficult to say, sir.’ Jack shrugged. ‘Maybe her fellow pupils know something. Maybe she said something to her friends.’

The chief super pursed his lips. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jack.’

Jack felt heat seep around his collar in embarrassment. He didn’t consider himself the most articulate of men, he wouldn’t win a debate with Stephen Fry, but most people could understand him.

‘I think, sir, that in a murder case it would be fairly standard procedure to speak to everyone who came into regular contact with the victim,’ said Jack, ‘and in this instance that would be the pupils and teachers at Beech Hall.’

The light of recognition came on in the chief super’s face. ‘Of course, of course.’

Jack heaved a secret sigh of relief. He was beginning to think he was going mad.

‘DI Bell and his team have already got that underway,’ said the chief. ‘The Head has already set up an impromptu interviewing room in one of the science labs.’

‘I see,’ said Jack, but he didn’t.

If they didn’t want him to gather evidence in the schools then what on earth did they want him to do? He didn’t want to flag up his lack of experience in serious offences but he needed some help here.

‘And you want me to do the same at these other schools?’

‘Good God, man, no. We don’t have the manpower to do that,’ said the chief super. ‘Can you imagine the expense?’

‘I hadn’t given it much thought, to be fair,’ said Jack.

The chief super’s smile was nothing short of patronising. ‘Which is why you’re so good at the sort of thing I’m talking about.’

Jack reread the list of schools. He had no alternative but to admit defeat.

‘And what sort of thing is it I’m good at, sir? What is it you actually want me to do?’

The chief opened his arms as if the answer were obvious. ‘I need you to visit those schools and chat with the staff.’

‘To find out what?’

‘Nothing in particular, Jack,’ said the chief. ‘What we need at this delicate time is a calm and friendly presence among the young Asian community.’

It hit Jack like a truck on the M1.

‘You’re asking me to be a schools liaison officer.’

‘Oh, nothing as official as that, Jack. For one thing we can’t afford to create an actual post,’ said the chief. ‘A one-off visit to a couple of schools with a high proportion of Asian students should suffice.’

Jack felt disappointment swell in his chest, crushing his ribcage.

‘You don’t want me on the murder team.’

The chief super looked embarrassed. ‘Best to leave that to the detectives, don’t you think?’

Jack didn’t answer.

‘Anyway,’ said the chief, ‘you have a huge conflict of interests.’

‘I do?’

‘Lilly Valentine,’ answered the chief. ‘She’s representing the Khan family.’

Lilly chewed her lip. She headed over to Bury Park with the intention of telling the Khans what DI Bell had said. Their beautiful daughter and sister had not killed herself. Someone had murdered her.

She couldn’t imagine how they would react.

She’d been racing over in her Mini Cooper when Jack had called to moan about some vitamin or other. The man had no sense that there was anything else going on in the world apart from her pregnancy. She knew she should be flattered, grateful even, but she just couldn’t stand it. She could well guess what his reaction would be to the current turn of events and so she’d hung up. Getting involved with Raffy Khan would be seen as foolishness. Like forgetting those bloody pills. Right now she just didn’t have the time to explain things to him; to make him understand.

She pulled up outside the Khans’ house and rang the bell.

Deema opened the door. She held her shawl against one cheek, dark circles under her eyes.

‘Mrs Khan,’ said Lilly, ‘may I come in?’

The older woman didn’t answer but looked over her shoulder to her elder son, who was hurrying down the hallway, wiping his hands on a piece of kitchen roll.

‘Thank goodness it’s you.’ Anwar ushered Lilly through to the living room. ‘Mum’s been desperate for news.’

Lilly cast a glance at Deema. She seemed devoid of any emotion, let alone desperation.

‘We’ve all been very anxious.’ Anwar was gabbling, his hands shaking as he dried between his fingers furiously. ‘I’m sure you can imagine.’

Lilly smiled calmly, determined not to be infected by Anwar’s anxiety. She needed to deliver her news in a composed manner.

When he opened the sitting-room door she was greeted by a sea of faces. The Khans had already congregated. Raffy sat at one end of the sofa, his legs apart, his arms folded. Mohamed had taken one of the chairs and was tapping the arm with his thumbnail. Deema slid into the other like a trickle of water.

Saira appeared from the kitchen. ‘Can I get you some tea, Miss Valentine?’

‘Thank you, no,’ said Lilly.

Saira nodded and took her place on the sofa next to Raffy. She tucked her feet under her.

Anwar pulled over a kitchen chair and beckoned Lilly to sit. He stood at his mother’s side.

They were all waiting expectantly. Lilly gulped down her panic.

‘I thought the younger members of the family might be in school.’

Raffy tossed his head like an angry colt. ‘We ain’t kids, you know. Saira’s seventeen and I’m fifteen.’

Lilly made the mental calculation. If Anwar was nineteen and Yasmeen had been sixteen, Mrs Khan had had her gaggle of children one after the other.

Her eyes flicked to a family photograph taking pride of place on the wall. The young Khans smiled up at their handsome father. Anwar’s hair was neatly parted at the side and Raffy’s front teeth were missing. Even Deema had a lightness to her and held Saira and Yasmeen close. The girls were laughing, sharing a private joke.

Anwar followed Lilly’s eye line to the photo.

‘Happier days,’ he said. ‘Eid, two thousand.’

‘Two thousand and one,’ Saira corrected him. ‘Just before Dad died.’

Anwar nodded sadly.

‘Yasmeen was very beautiful,’ said Lilly.

‘Oh, yes, everybody said so,’ Anwar agreed. ‘She had the reddest lips I’ve ever seen.’

‘I can see that,’ said Lilly.

‘When you two have finished your little chat maybe we could get back to the important stuff,’ Raffy snarled. ‘Like our sister being dead and the police harassing us.’

‘Please remain civilised, Raffy,’ said Anwar. ‘Miss Valentine is our guest.’

‘Guests are people we invite over, brother.’ He pointed at Lilly. ‘She works for us.’

Lilly gave a tight smile. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re all here because I have some important information.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Raffy,‘you found the police station.’

Anwar ignored his younger brother and leaned towards Lilly like an excited puppy. ‘They’re sending Yasmeen home to us?’

Lilly looked into his expectant face. How was this man-child going to cope with what she was about to say? She put her hand over his.

‘I’m so sorry, Anwar, but that’s not going to happen.’

Lilly didn’t know which was worse, the cacophony of abuse from Raffy or the look of quiet horror in Anwar’s eyes.

‘I told you we should have instructed one of our own.’ Raffy leaped to his feet. ‘What does someone like her care for a bunch of Pakis?’

Lilly snapped back her hand from Anwar and whipped her head towards Raffy. ‘Oh, sit down, you stupid boy.’

Raffy was momentarily silenced but he remained standing. ‘What did you say to me?’

Lilly hauled herself to her feet and looked the teenager straight in the eye. ‘I told you to sit down.’ Her voice was ice.

Raffy opened his mouth to speak but Lilly waved away the words before they had the chance to leave his brain.

‘What I’m about to say is pretty shocking so I’d prefer it if everyone in this room behaved with dignity.’

At last Raffy snorted his disgust and flopped back onto the sofa.

‘As you know, I agreed with DI Bell that he would have until today to conclude his investigations,’ said Lilly.

‘You’ve spoken to him?’ asked Anwar.

‘That’s why I’m here. I’m afraid the police won’t release Yasmeen’s body because they believe she was murdered.’

There were a few seconds’ silence punctuated by the sound of Lilly’s pulse in her ears.

‘Murdered?’ Anwar whispered.

Lilly nodded. ‘That’s what they believe.’

There was more silence until Raffy let out a shocking roar. He pulled back his leg and kicked over the coffee table. Cups, plates and books scattered across the carpet. Saira screamed.

‘That can’t be right.’ Mohamed was also on his feet.

‘Of course it’s not right, Uncle,’ Raffy shouted. ‘Those racist bastards just want to torture us.’

Anwar had his head in his hands. ‘This cannot be happening.’

‘Wake up, brother,’ Raffy screamed. ‘They hate us.’

Saira had begun to weep, deep racking sobs from the depths of her belly.

‘You can’t let them get away with this,’ Mohamed said to Lilly.

‘I can’t stop a murder investigation,’ she replied.

‘Look at what they’re doing to this family.’ Mohamed opened his arms to encompass all the Khans.

Lilly looked around her. Raffy was stalking from one end of the room to the other, crunching through the broken crockery. Saira continued to sob. Anwar sat with his face in his hands. Only Deema remained unmoved and untouched by the chaos around her.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Anwar, tears coursing down his cheeks. ‘Why would they do this to us?’

‘Because we are Muslims,’ screamed Raffy. ‘We’re the enemy.’

Saira, still sobbing, got down on her knees and began to collect up the pieces of broken china.

‘For goodness’ sake, leave that, sis,’ said Raffy.

‘Someone might hurt themselves,’ she murmured, and continued to clear the shards.

‘I said fucking leave it,’ he snapped.

Lilly tried to clear her head. This was all wrong. She’d feared the family would be devastated but not like this.

‘I truly don’t believe your religion has any bearing on this matter,’ she said.

‘Religion has a bearing on every matter,’ said Mohamed, a dangerous darkness in his tone.

‘Miss Valentine’s correct, of course.’

Everyone turned to see a man in the doorway, his waspish frame incongruous in a charcoal pinstripe suit.

He held out his police badge in front of him. ‘DI Bell,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you could hear me knocking.’

Anwar stood to offer his hand. ‘I’m sorry for that.’

‘Don’t apologise to him,’ spat Raffy.

DI Bell slid his badge into his breast pocket and looked Raffy up and down. A lone wolf, eyeing up his supper.

‘How can we help you, Inspector?’ asked Anwar.

‘I came to inform you that Yasmeen was murdered but I see Miss Valentine got here first.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Mohamed asked Bell.

‘The only thing he’s sure of is that he wants to make our lives a misery,’ said Raffy.

Bell’s lips formed a slight smile. ‘I can’t go into the evidence at this time.’

‘Because you don’t have any,’ said Raffy.

Lilly could see that Raffy was pushing it too far. She might be able to excuse an angry grieving young man but DI Bell would not. If she didn’t defuse the situation he might get himself arrested for threatening behaviour.

‘Do you have a suspect?’ she asked.

The inspector turned to her with unconcealed satisfaction. ‘Indeed I do.’

‘Who?’ demanded Raffy.

DI Bell licked his lips, the proverbial cat who had got the cream.

‘Raffique Khan, I am arresting you for the murder of Yasmeen Khan. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court…’

Jack parked outside Denleigh Secondary School. He drained a bottle of Evian and threw the empty plastic bottle over his shoulder. It landed on the back seat of his car amid fourteen others. Lilly kept nagging him to recycle them.

He snorted. Lilly recycled everything. Bottles, tins, cereal packets—you couldn’t get into the cottage for bags and boxes of the stuff piled up in the hallway.

‘It’s like one of those strikes in the seventies,’ he’d complained one evening when he’d nearly broken his ankle trying to leap over a month’s worth of newspapers.

‘I’m just trying to make sure this baby has a planet left to live on,’ she’d said, pointing at her swelling belly.

He’d laughed, like he always did. Said she was right, like he always did.

He thought about all those Coke cans, milk cartons and unwanted Christmas cards being collected, crushed, cleaned and used again. Maybe more than once, maybe lots of times. Maybe the same tin got used again and again and again, each time filled with something different, last time beans, this time peas, next time, who knows? But it was the same tin going round and round.

He knew how it felt. He’d been doing the same job for over ten years, living in the same flat, drinking in the same pubs. It was like Groundhog Day.

He had tried so hard to change things and thought Lilly’s pregnancy might be just the catalyst. A fresh start for them both, a proper relationship. But no. He and Lilly were dancing the same dance they had always done.

He’d met her years ago, when one of her clients had been caught nicking tins of sweets in Woolies. He’d thought she was gorgeous and had impressed her by giving the lad a fiver and letting him go. Her smile had been worth the bollocking he’d got from the shop manager and it had kept him warm throughout a Christmas dinner of beans on toast. Lilly’s admiration of Jack seemed to have gone the same way as Woolworths since then.

She did what she felt she had to do, regardless of the consequences to him or his career. He wasn’t so stupid to think that if it wasn’t for Lilly he’d be in the murder team now, but she hadn’t helped.

During his last review, which had taken place, unhelpfully, a week after he and Lilly had ‘lost’ one of her clients on the way to the immigration authorities, the chief super had confirmed what Jack already knew.

‘Your choice of girlfriend is not especially helpful.’

And here they were again.

Jack scratched his scalp and tried to remind himself that Lilly’s commitment to her work was one of the things that he had always admired. The children she represented had no one else. Often she was all that stood between them and Armageddon. A lone voice in the chaos. Had he really thought she’d stay quiet just because she was pregnant?

He looked up at the sign at the school gate.

No man is an Island.

Together we are strong

‘Try telling that to Lilly bloody Valentine,’ he said aloud.

The secretary’s hair was cropped so short, Jack could see patches of pink scalp peeping through. In fact, the hairs on her chin were longer.

‘Sign, here, here and here.’ She pointed at three spidery crosses.

‘Jesus,’ said Jack, ‘you’ve more security than the nick.’

‘We had a lot of trouble a year ago.’

‘Oh, aye?’

She leaned towards Jack so that her beard was inches from his nose. ‘Some of the Asian pupils have difficult family members.’

‘Difficult how?’

‘Storming into the classrooms, dragging the girls out of their lessons,’ said the secretary.

Jack scratched his signature across the form. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’

A voice came from behind. ‘Ancient history.’

The secretary blushed and filed her paperwork.

Jack turned and got to his feet.

A tall blonde with long tanned legs strode towards him.

‘Mara Blake,’ she smiled. ‘Head Teacher.’ Her accent was South African, clipped.

Jack smiled back. Jesus, teachers had never looked this good when he was at school.

‘Sergeant Jack McNally,’ he said. ‘I made an appointment to discuss race relations.’

‘Indeed you did. Shall we walk while we talk?’ She had already set off, leaving Jack to trot after her firm thighs.

The corridors were strewn with rucksacks and footballs but Mara picked her way through in dangerously high heels without a second’s pause.

‘We pride ourselves on discipline,’ she said. ‘You get caught with drugs, you’re out. The same goes for weapons.’

Jack stifled a laugh. Zero tolerance or not, he would bet that a random spot check of the students’ pockets would furnish enough flick knives and bags of weed to send the Daily Mail into meltdown.

‘The children are here to learn and they know it,’ she said.

Again Jack smiled. Denleigh Secondary School had one of the worst academic records in the country. In the League Tables the government insisted on publishing each year it usually came somewhere between West Brom and Sunderland.

Mara gave him a hard look. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘You do?’

‘That our results are terrible.’

Jack shrugged. He could scarcely deny it.

‘Just bear in mind that some of these children are incredibly disadvantaged. Over a quarter don’t have English as their first language, the rate of divorce within families is high, as is unemployment,’ she said.

He passed through to the art rooms and was hit by the familiar smell of acrylic paint. He scanned the walls covered in batik prints of Chinese dragons.

‘We try to incorporate as many cultures as possible into the curriculum,’ said Mara. ‘Art is a great way to express mutual respect.’

Jack hovered next to a particularly well-crafted design. The dragon’s eyes narrowed menacingly, his teeth appeared ready to bite.

‘Over half the kids here are Muslim, right?’

Mara joined him with a smile. ‘At least.’

‘Is there any racial tension?’ Jack asked.

She rattled her answer like a gun. ‘We don’t tolerate any form of discrimination.’

Jack put up his hand. ‘I know the policy. What I’m asking is if there’s an undercurrent. Your secretary mentioned some problems with parents.’

Mara sighed, her breath escaping in a minty rush. ‘Not parents so much,’ she said. ‘Older brothers.’

Jack raised an eyebrow for her to continue.

‘We tried to put on a musical last year, Grease.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Jack, ‘there were riots over who was going to play Sandy.’

Mara laughed and put her hand on his arm. ‘I wish. To begin with none of the Asian pupils would take part and we knew we couldn’t go ahead with half the school unrepresented in the cast.’

‘So what did you do?’ asked Jack.

‘We had a chat with some of the more integrated students, made them see how great it would be.’

‘Something tells me it didn’t end up being that great.’

Mara removed her hand from his arm. It immediately felt cold.

‘Two of the girls involved didn’t tell their families and when they found out they were not happy,’ she said. ‘Certain brothers and uncles arrived en masse and made a scene.’

‘Did you call the police?’

Mara shook her head. ‘To be honest, I felt we’d caused the girls involved enough stress without making matters official.’

‘And no more musicals?’

Mara laughed again. ‘Definitely not.’

‘Something funny, miss?’ A boy had entered the studio. He was in his mid-teens, his trainers muddy.

Mara nodded at the batik dragon. ‘We were just admiring your work, Ryan.’

Ryan bounced back and forth on his heels. ‘It’s alright, innit?’

Jack traced the dragon’s tail with his finger. ‘It’s excellent.’

‘You can buy it for a tenner,’ said Ryan.

‘Don’t you need it for your assessment?’ asked Mara.

Ryan shrugged. ‘I’d rather have the tenner.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Jack, ‘do me another just like it and you can have the cash.’

Ryan watched Jack, his slits of eyes mirroring his dragon. ‘You’re on,’ he said, and headed for the door.

‘Don’t you want to know where to find Mr McNally?’ asked Mara.

Ryan gave her a pitying look. ‘Down the nick, innit?’

‘Am I that transparent?’ asked Jack.

Ryan laughed and closed the door behind him.

Jack took a last look at the print. The fire and rage seemed even stronger now he had met the artist.

‘The boy has a real talent.’

Mara smiled but there was a sadness to it.

‘Problem?’ asked Jack.

‘He’s easily our most talented student,’ she said. ‘He should apply for a scholarship to art school.’

‘But he won’t?’

She shook her head. ‘He’s often absent, always scruffy. His attitude will let him down.’

‘Teenagers, eh? They’re all cocky little so-and-sos.’

‘It’s more than that,’ she said. ‘He’s a very angry young man.’

‘What’s the family like?’

‘They’ve never set foot in the place, not even for parents’ evening,’ she sighed. ‘I fear it’s going to end badly for Ryan.’

‘What a waste.’

‘I don’t know what else to do,’ said Mara.

‘If you’re worried, I could make a few enquiries,’ said Jack, ‘discreetly, of course.’

Mara’s face lit up. ‘That’s very, very kind of you.’

Jack nodded. It was totally beyond his remit, but what was the good of being a copper if you could only stick to the script? Jesus, you may as well work for the Inland Revenue.

DI Bell’s office was extraordinarily tidy. Lilly wondered how people did that—put things away, kept papers in files. Every office she had ever worked in ended up like a homeless person’s squat. Her old boss, Rupinder, had occasionally ordered a clear-up on the grounds of health and safety.

Lilly looked down at her scribbled notes. ‘Is that it?’

DI Bell showed his open palms. ‘What more do you need?’

‘How about some evidence?’ she said.

‘You’ll find plenty of evidence in what I’ve told you,’ he said.

She threw her notebook on the table in disgust. ‘You say Yasmeen died from an overdose of OxyContin and Perocet.’

Bell nodded. ‘The pills were ground down and placed in a can of Coke to hide the taste. The can was found by Yasmeen’s bed. The dregs showed traces of both drugs.’

‘Enough to kill her?’

Bell nodded. ‘Even small amounts can prove fatal. Perocet should never be taken with other drugs and OxyContin should never be ground down.’

‘Because?’

‘They’re designed for slow release; crushing them makes the effects far too strong.’

‘Maybe she did that herself.’

DI Bell folded his arms. ‘Why on earth would she do that?’

‘Maybe she didn’t like the taste. Who knows what goes on in someone’s mind before they take their own life?’

‘There was no suicide note and no suggestion that anything was wrong.’ He eyed Lilly coolly. ‘She didn’t kill herself.’

Lilly waved him away with her hand. ‘Perhaps it was an accident.’

‘There’s no evidence she had either drug in her possession,’ said Bell. ‘She wasn’t in receipt of a prescription.’

‘I’ll bet you can buy them on the net,’ said Lilly.

‘Indeed you can. But there’s no record that Yasmeen ever did that and no packaging was found in her room.’

Lilly had to admit it didn’t sound like suicide.

‘That still doesn’t mean that Raffy had anything to do with it,’ she said.

‘There were two sets of prints on that can. Yasmeen’s and your client’s.’

‘That only means he touched the can, not that he put the drugs inside it.’

DI Bell licked his lips. ‘We obtained a warrant to search your client’s school locker and guess what we found?’

Lilly watched Bell open his drawer and pull out a clear evidence bag. Inside were two small boxes. Even before Bell put them on the table between them, Lilly could read the word ‘OxyContin’. Her heart sank.

‘When were you going to tell me about this?’ she asked. ‘Or were you going to spring it on us in the interview?’

DI Bell dazzled Lilly with the whiteness of his smile. ‘I’m telling you now.’

‘Because I’m warning you,’ Lilly pointed at him, ‘I will bring a halt to it if you try any more tricks like this.’

Bell narrowed his eyes but didn’t reply.

‘And think about it,’ said Lilly. ‘If Raffy was guilty, why wouldn’t he cover his tracks, throw the packets away? Why on earth would he put them in his locker?’

DI Bell’s eyes were two dark slits. ‘Who knows what goes on in someone’s mind after they’ve murdered their sister?’

Raffy sat upright in his chair and stared at the wall. Lilly wondered if he was frightened. He certainly was not prepared to show it.

‘The police believe you killed Yasmeen,’ she said.

He didn’t look at her. ‘I’d worked that out myself.’

Lilly glanced at Anwar, who had agreed to attend as his brother’s appropriate adult. Anwar seemed much more frightened than his younger brother and chewed his bottom lip.

Lilly took a deep breath. ‘They say you put Perocet and OxyContin in her drink.’

‘Is that right?’ said Raffy, his eyes locked on the wall behind her.

‘Do you know anything about those drugs?’

‘Nope.’

‘The police searched your school locker,’ she said.

Raffy’s eyes darted to Lilly, then returned to their spot behind her. ‘And?’

‘And they found packets of those drugs.’

Raffy shrugged. ‘Planted.’

Lilly nodded. It was not unheard of for the police conveniently to find evidence, but it was not as common as her clients would have her believe.

‘Right then, let’s do it.’ Lilly stood to let herself out.

‘Is that it?’ asked Raffy. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

‘What were you expecting?’ Lilly’s hand hovered on the door handle. ‘A preprepared statement?’

Raffy grimaced. ‘Some advice might be helpful.’

‘You don’t seem to want my help, Raffy.’

The boy gave a low snort in his throat.

‘Just keep your answers short, say as little as possible.’ She opened the door. ‘Don’t give them any ammunition.’

The interview room was silent as DI Bell ensured the video equipment was working. He was deliberately checking and rechecking the plug, the leads, the angle of the camera, letting the tension ratchet. Certainly Lilly could feel the terror emanating from Anwar but the old police tactic wasn’t working on Raffy, whose every pore radiated unalloyed resentment.

‘OK then,’ said DI Bell, and took his seat.

Raffy lifted his chin and stared at the ceiling.

DI Bell placed his suit jacket on the back of his chair. In just his shirt Lilly could see how slight the man was, his frame almost boyish. Still he puffed out his chest like a robin, enjoying his position.

He cleared his throat. ‘For the sake of the tape let me introduce myself as DI Bell. Also present is Miss Valentine, the suspect’s solicitor.’

‘Correct,’ Lilly nodded.

‘We also have Anwar Khan, the suspect’s brother, acting as his appropriate adult,’ said DI Bell.

Anwar mumbled something.

‘I’m sorry,’ said DI Bell, ‘you’ll have to speak up.’

‘Sorry,’ Anwar coughed, ‘sorry.’

Lilly passed him a glass of water, which he gulped loudly.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘It’s just that I’ve never been in a police station before and I’m very nervous.’

‘That’s perfectly understandable,’ said DI Bell. ‘Take your time.’

Anwar set the empty glass down carefully in front of him.

‘I just wanted to confirm that I’m Raffy’s brother.’

DI Bell was a study in calm. ‘Excellent. Now everyone’s been introduced I want to remind Raffique that he’s still under caution. Do you know what that means?’

‘I’m not stupid,’ said Raffy.

Lilly cringed. The last thing anyone should be in an interview was cocky. Frightened, yes. Angry, possibly. Cocky, never. While Lilly understood that bravado was often the refuge of the terrified child, juries imagined only those with lots of experience of the criminal justice system would have the temerity to be cocky.

DI Bell smiled. Lilly wasn’t the only one in the room who knew how juries thought.

She put her hand on Raffy’s thigh hoping to remind him of her advice to say as little as possible; not to give them any ammunition.

‘Do you know why you’re here?’ asked DI Bell.

‘Like I said, I’m not stupid.’

Lilly sighed. Her client was doing nothing except harming his own chances of getting out of here.

‘Then humour me,’ said DI Bell. ‘Tell me in your own words why you’ve been arrested.’

Raffy laughed, the noise travelling upwards.

‘Is something funny?’ asked the inspector.

‘Not really.’

‘Then why don’t you tell me why you’ve been brought here, unless you want to share the joke?’

Raffy licked his lips and nodded. ‘OK then, I’ll tell you what I think.’

DI Bell’s smile stayed in place, his hands crossed on his lap.

‘I think there’s a war going on,’ said Raffy.

‘In Iraq?’

‘In Iraq, Afghanistan, Palestine, you name it.’

Anwar put a hand on Raffy’s shoulder. ‘This is not the time or place.’

‘Brother, this is exactly the place,’ he shrugged Anwar’s hand away, ‘and this is definitely the time.’

‘Powerful is he who controls himself in anger,’ said Anwar.

DI Bell leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the show. Lilly’s mind began to whirr. If she stopped the tape it would look as if she were preventing her client from incriminating himself. If she let him carry on he might alienate everyone who ever saw and heard this tape.

Did Raffy realise he was digging a deep hole for himself? Did he care?

‘Most of all there’s a war going on right here, and you,’ Raffy pointed at DI Bell, ‘are on one side and we are on the other.’

‘Do you see yourself as a soldier then?’ asked Bell.

Lilly had to do something. She couldn’t let Raffy condone any sort of violence. His outburst was as much about Yasmeen as a conflict thousands of miles away. Or at least in any juror’s mind it would be.

‘Could we move away from politics and stick to the matter in hand?’ she said. ‘I suggest you stop playing games, Inspector, and put the charge to my client.’

DI Bell’s disappointment darkened his face. ‘This isn’t a game,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to hear what Raffique had to say for himself.’

Lilly gave the policeman a hard stare. ‘Then put the charge to him.’

Bell paused. No doubt he was hoping the loose cannon opposite would fill the silence. Lilly tightened her grip on Raffy’s thigh, held her breath and hoped it would restrain him.

At last the inspector continued, ‘Raffique, it is my belief that you poisoned your sister. Is that true?’

‘Nope.’

‘So you didn’t crush Perocet and OxyContin tablets and put them in her drink?’

‘Nope.’

‘You didn’t leave Yasmeen to die?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’re a strict Muslim, Raffique,’ said DI Bell.

Raffy shrugged. ‘Not particularly.’

‘You sounded fairly extreme a few moments ago.’

‘There’s nothing extreme about my politics. Every Muslim feels the same.’

‘I don’t believe that.’

Raffy sneered at the police officer. ‘And how many Muslims do you actually know?’

They stared hard at one another. Lilly was surprised it was Bell who was the first to look away.

‘I think you expect your sisters to be good Muslim girls,’ he said.

‘My sisters are good Muslim girls,’ Raffy snapped.

‘I think you discovered Yasmeen had a boyfriend.’

Raffy shook his head furiously. ‘She did not have a boyfriend.’

‘And I think you decided to teach her a lesson.’

‘That’s rubbish.’

‘I think your family honour needed to be avenged,’ said Bell.

Raffy shrugged towards Anwar and laughed. ‘You’ve met my brother. Do you think he gives a shit about family honour?’

‘I can’t speak for Anwar but I think you care very much,’ Bell replied. ‘I think it matters to you that other people see you first and foremost as a Muslim. And your sister carrying on with her boyfriend just didn’t fit.’

‘Why don’t you stop chatting this crap and listen?’ Raffy jabbed his ear. ‘My sister didn’t have no boyfriend.’

DI Bell let the satisfaction slide across his features. What did he know that they didn’t? Lilly tensed her muscles, waiting.

‘Well, I’m not a Catholic, Raffy, and I don’t believe in the Immaculate Conception.’

Raffy pursed his brows but alarm bells were already sounding in Lilly’s brain.

DI Bell slid a folder across the desk to her. ‘Autopsy report,’ he said. ‘It says Yasmeen was ten weeks pregnant.’

Aasha calls in at a café on the way home from school. She tells herself that she’s thirsty and orders some chai but she knows it’s a delaying tactic. She doesn’t want to get home before five when starvation will force her brothers to swallow their pride and help themselves to whatever Mum’s left for them to eat.

Honestly, those boys are going to make terrible husbands. Whenever her mum and dad go out her mum leaves a pan of dahl or something in the fridge. They only have to bung it in the microwave but they moan about that.

‘Aasha will get everything ready,’ her mother assures them.

Well, not tonight. Tonight they can do it themselves.

She takes one of the plastic orange seats in the window and blows over the rim of her mug. She feels satisfied by the small stand she is making.

‘Hello, beautiful.’

Aasha nearly spills her drink when Ryan sits in the chair opposite.

‘Hi,’ she says, hoping she hasn’t turned completely beetroot.

‘What you doing here?’ he asks.

Aasha nods at her mug. ‘Take a guess.’

She immediately regrets her tone. She was trying to be funny but it came out all sarcastic and wrong.

She needn’t have worried because Ryan just laughs. That’s one of the nice things about him, actually: he doesn’t take offence. He’s always easy-going.

When Lailla calls her a geek and laughs at her, Aasha wants to punch her in the face and grinds her teeth to make the feeling go away. Ryan’s not like that. Sometimes, during art, Lailla says horrible things to him about his clothes being scruffy or cheap or whatever, and he just makes a joke of it. Aasha wishes she could do that. One time he drew a cartoon of Lailla’s face and stuck it onto the body of some porn star. He’d got into masses of trouble for that, but it had been funny.

‘So what are you doing here?’ she asks.

‘Following you, innit.’

Before Aasha can work out if he’s teasing her, he grabs the plastic menu and casts his eye along the list of specials.

‘There ain’t no sausage and chips,’ he says.

Aasha giggles and points to the stamp certifying that all meat sold on the premises is halal.

‘So why can’t I get halal sausages?’ he asks.

She shakes her head at him as he orders a doner kebab roll, chips and a can of Lilt. When the heaving plate arrives Ryan pushes the lettuce and tomato into a napkin and tosses it to the other side of the table. He takes an enormous bite of his roll and grins.

‘They don’t feed you at home?’ asks Aasha.

Ryan frowns and she worries she’s offended him but he barks out another laugh.

‘My mum can’t cook for shit.’

Aasha tries to imagine what would happen if her mum couldn’t cook. Her father and brothers would have to fend for themselves. Unthinkable. That’s something else she likes about Ryan, his independence.

Ryan offers her a chip. She isn’t hungry but she takes one all the same and nibbles the end.

‘So what you up to after this?’ Ryan asks.

‘I’ve got to finish my history assignment,’ she says.

He sucks in his breath. ‘Living dangerously.’

‘Shut up,’ she laughs.

He finishes every last scrap of his food and licks ketchup from his fingers.

‘You need to have some fun,’ he says.

‘I have plenty of fun,’ says Aasha.

‘Like what?’

‘Like…’ Aasha smoothes back her ponytail, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ears, ‘well, I’m not going to tell you, am I?’

Ryan wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and closes it over hers. She can see the greasy streak gleam.

‘Why don’t we do something really bad?’ he says.

Aasha gulps. Her throat feels like she’s swallowed his dirty plate whole. She knows Ryan has had a lot of girlfriends and maybe this is how it is with other girls. Maybe they just speak freely about stuff like sex. She swallows down the dregs of her tea where the sugar has settled. It’s sweet and grainy in her mouth.

He leans in towards her so she can smell the lamb on his breath. ‘Let’s do a runner,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘Let’s have it away on our toes without paying.’

‘Oh.’ She can feel sweat starting to prickle in her armpits. ‘I thought you meant…’

He cocks his head and half closes one of his eyes. ‘You’ve got a dirty mind.’

Aasha feels embarrassment open every pore in her body and she jumps up to leave. There is only one thought in her mind: escape.

‘Come on then,’ she stutters, and heads for the door.

She can feel Ryan following closely behind.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ shouts the owner from behind his counter.

Aasha looks back, hesitates, but Ryan pushes her outside.

‘Run,’ he shouts.

She dashes across the road, hearing the blare of a horn, the screech of brakes and her feet pounding down the pavement. Three Polish girls block her path, chatting and smoking as they compare the waistbands of their skinny jeans. Aasha bursts through them, knocking them sideways in their plastic high heels. They shout after her but she doesn’t miss a beat.

She streaks past Bangla Groceries, the skips outside overflowing with stinking vegetables and bubble-wrap. A group of old men have gathered outside the Holiday Shop next door, pointing at the special offers on flights to Kashmir advertised in the window. They stare as she races past them but she doesn’t care.

She keeps on going, her strides long, until she reaches the other side of Sainsbury’s car park. She pauses at the trolley station, her chest heaving. Ryan arrives seconds later and sinks to a crouch to catch his breath.

‘What kept you?’ she asks.

Ryan is still panting but laughs. ‘I’ve just eaten, you cheeky cow.’

‘Maybe you should change your diet,’ she says.

Ryan stands and pushes his hair out of the sweat on his forehead. ‘Maybe I should kiss you,’ he says.

She looks at him, crippled by embarrassment. She has no idea what to do next.

Ryan cocks his head to one side. ‘So you going to let me then?’

‘OK,’ she says slowly.

Ryan smiles, his eyes greedy.

‘But you’ll have to catch me first.’ Aasha laughs and sets off at a run.

Raffy banged his head against the cell wall.

‘Stop,’ Lilly said.

He didn’t register that she was there, let alone that she had spoken. Instead he continued to headbutt the wall with frightening ferocity.

‘Raffy,’ Lilly shouted, and pulled him by the shoulders.

The grey plaster was smeared with blood, Raffy’s forehead grazed and angry.

‘You need to listen to me.’ Lilly held his shoulders tightly.

His eyes were blurry, his face contorted.

‘They are going to charge you with murder,’ she said. ‘Do you understand?’

Raffy didn’t answer. A drop of blood trickled between his eyes.

‘You must not say anything else,’ she said.

She led Raffy from his cell to the custody sergeant’s desk, where DI Bell was hovering.

The sarge nodded at Raffy’s head. ‘Is that one of them bindi things?’

‘No,’ Lilly sighed. ‘It’s a cut.’

‘How did that happen?’ asked the sarge.

‘Don’t ask.’

The sarge shrugged. If the boy’s solicitor wasn’t worried that was clearly good enough for him.

‘Raffique Khan,’ he said, ‘I am charging you with the murder of Yasmeen Khan.’

He read out the caution and looked towards Lilly. ‘Does your client have any reply?’

She shook her head and was about to sign the documentation when Raffy stuck out his chin.

‘I do not accept the jurisdiction of British law,’ he said.

‘Say what?’ the sarge laughed.

Raffy’s nostrils flared. ‘You asked me if I had anything to say and I replied that I do not accept the jurisdiction of British law.’

Lilly couldn’t believe it. She had advised Raffy to say nothing at all. Didn’t he realise that his answer to the caution was on the record?

‘I am a Muslim and I do not bow to your rules of evidence,’ Raffy continued.

Lilly closed her eyes. This was an utter disaster.

‘Are you having me on?’ asked the sarge.

‘Just write it down,’ Bell instructed, rubbing his hands together.

Smoke hung in the air. Lilly coughed and felt her way down the office stairs to the old cellar where the fuse box was located.

After her hideous day she had decided to set up the espresso machine for a coffee. Jack had stopped drinking caffeine, said that she should try it, that her energy levels and concentration would increase tenfold. Maybe he was right, but Raffy’s performance at the nick had left her with no willpower. A tiny, brutishly strong espresso with at least two sugars was definitely in order. No doubt the pregnancy police would be up in arms but millions of Italian women survived, didn’t they?

Instead there was a fizz, a bang, the fishy smell of wires burning, then the office had been plunged into darkness.

Lilly patted her hand along the cold plaster of the cellar wall. It felt moist and crumbly to the touch. Rising damp. Fantastic. There wasn’t enough money in the kitty to decorate, let alone deal with mould.

Her fingers searched for the control board, hoping against hope that she had simply overloaded the system and tripped it. When she finally found the row of switches she crossed her toes and flicked.

The lights came on.

‘There is a God,’ she muttered and ambled back to the stairs, studiously ignoring the dark wet patches that scaled the cellar walls and the telltale lines of mice droppings that littered the carpet.

Back in the reception she surveyed the complete disarray. What had she been thinking of, setting up her own firm? She had never been any good at organisation. The only reason Rupinder hadn’t sacked her was that she admired Lilly’s unwavering commitment to her clients. And in the end, even that had proved too much, leading to chaos and disaster for all concerned.

When Rupinder retired due to ill health there was no question of the other partners allowing Lilly to continue and she had been left with the choice of getting another job or working for herself.

Now her decision was beginning to look somewhat rash.

She had promised both Jack and Sam that things were going to be different, that she would stay well away from any children who happened to find themselves in the centre of terrible crimes. Hell, she had promised herself that she would no longer put herself on the line. The emotional fallout was simply too great let alone the danger that she seemed to attract.

Yet here she was again with another fifteen-year-old charged with murder. But what was she supposed to do? The kid had no father, and his mother wasn’t exactly a rock. Could she really turn her back so easily?

Lilly sank into a chair, exhausted. What Raffy had said in answer to that charge played through her mind on a loop. Any jury that heard it would conjure up, not a frightened boy devastated by the loss of his sibling, but a cold and arrogant youth, capable of committing a terrible act to uphold his family’s honour. Perhaps that was exactly what he was. In which case he was hardly the vulnerable child she was painting him.

Then there was Bell. Ambition radiated from him and Raffy was fuelling his fantasies. Did Lilly really want to get into a fight with him?

Lilly poked at the unopened post. How on earth could she take on a high-profile and difficult case when she was incapable of even the smallest of tasks?

‘Impossible,’ she muttered to herself.

‘I was brought up to believe everything is possible.’

Lilly turned to the voice. In the doorway was the face of an angel.

‘Sorry,’ said Lilly, ‘we’re not open.’

The angel smiled. Her caramel skin was so even it was as if she had been dipped in liquid silk. Her features were so perfect, so timeless, it seemed the most natural thing in the world that they were framed by a circle of black chiffon.

‘I can see you’re in a bit of a muddle,’ she said.

Lilly laughed. ‘There are ship wrecks tidier than this place.’

‘You need help,’ said the woman.

‘Have you been talking to my shrink?’

The angel smiled again, her eyes twinkling. She stepped into the reception and Lilly could see she was tiny, no more than five feet. Even the jacket of her black trouser suit, which fell past her thighs, couldn’t disguise her doll-like frame. Not even an angel then, but a cherub.

She looked around the room and nodded as if unpacked boxes were commonplace in solicitors’ offices.

‘You really do need an assistant,’ she said.

She let a surprisingly long finger slide across the pile of envelopes.

‘My name is Taslima.’ She handed her CV to Lilly. ‘I have a degree in law.’

As tempting as it would be to have anyone, let alone this beautiful young woman, helping out, Lilly knew there was no way she could afford another member of staff.

‘I’m in no position to hire anyone,’ she said, and popped the CV in her bag.

‘I can answer the phone and use a computer.’

Lilly shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

Taslima gestured to the espresso machine. ‘I could get that working in a jiffy.’

‘I think I broke it,’ said Lilly.

‘Not at all. You’ve just overloaded this adaptor plug.’

Lilly frowned and tapped the plug. ‘I followed the instructions.’

‘Electrics can be tricky,’ said Taslima.

‘You’re telling me.’ Lilly pushed the adaptor away in disgust.

The office was once again plunged into darkness.

‘Oh dear,’ said Taslima, her voice honey in the shadows.

Lilly took a deep breath. Hadn’t Rupinder said she wouldn’t be able to do everything on her own?

‘When can you start?’ she asked.

Taslima stabbed the button for the lift.

There was no response. It was out of action. Again.

She took a deep breath, picked up her heavy bag and began the six-floor ascent.

She pinched her nose against the smell of urine in the stairwells and tried to ignore the graffiti.

Pakis Go Home.

Taslima shook her head. ‘I’d love to.’

Home. Taslima tried not to think about the house where she grew up on a tree-lined street in West London with a breakfast room where the sun streamed in and a study where the walls were shelved floor to ceiling with books. As a child she would sneak in to sit at her mother’s feet while she prepared her lecture notes, the smell of all those dusty pages filling the air.

She deliberately quickened her pace. All that was behind her. This was her home now.

When she got to her landing the next-door neighbour was waiting for her and scowled. Whoever said Jamaicans were laid-back had never met Evelyn Roberts.

‘You get a job today?’

Taslima smiled and nodded. She was about to give details but Mrs Roberts had already turned away, her ample bottom sashaying down her hall to the kitchen.

Taslima followed her, her heart pumping as she crossed the threshold.

The kitchen was filled with steam as an oversized pan of rice bubbled on the gas ring. Taslima’s stomach growled.

‘How much they going to be paying you?’ asked Mrs Roberts.

‘I don’t know yet,’ Taslima admitted.

Mrs Roberts kissed her teeth.

‘It should be pretty good,’ said Taslima. ‘I’ll be working in a solicitor’s office.’

In fact she hadn’t discussed money but Lilly Valentine had come across as a decent woman. Dizzy and disorganised, but decent.

Mrs Roberts seemed unimpressed.

‘I’ll pay back everything I owe,’ said Taslima.

Mrs Roberts didn’t answer but took a pinch of salt from a bowl and tossed it into the pan.

Taslima could see the white rice studded with kidney beans like glossy, mahogany jewels. She smelled the air appreciatively.

Mrs Roberts pointed an accusing finger at Taslima. ‘You look half starved.’

‘I didn’t get time for lunch,’ Taslima lied.

Mrs Roberts narrowed her eyes. ‘You want some?’

Taslima nodded. ‘Please.’

Mrs Roberts ladled rice and peas into one Tupperware box, curried ackee into another. Taslima could almost taste the spices on her tongue. Mrs Roberts wrapped the boxes of food in a clean tea towel and handed them to Taslima.

‘Things are on the up, Mrs R.’ Taslima gratefully took the boxes. ‘This time they really are.’

Aasha washes the plates without a sigh. The dahl is stuck to the edges like grey cement and she has to pick at it with the edge of her thumbnail. Her brothers have been told a thousand times to run them under the tap when they’ve finished but why should they bother?

As soon as Aasha put her key in the door they were on her case. Why wasn’t she wearing a hijab? Why was she so late?

Aasha could feel her heart in her chest. Had they noticed her sweaty shirt? Her dirty shoes? Her brothers seem to know everyone in Luton, perhaps the owner of the café has called them, told them what she did?

She told them she’d been kept late at school. Described the extra maths session in detail. Even offered to show them her notes. It was a surprise how easily the lies slipped off her tongue. Her brothers soon drifted away to the television, leaving her to the dishes. They don’t care about her life as long as it doesn’t affect theirs.

As she rinses the last plate, Aasha wonders what it would be like to be a boy. She’d be able to come and go freely without anyone checking up on her. She’d sit with Imran and Ismail, have a laugh with them. They’d have to listen to what she has to say. Notice her.

Because they don’t do that. They don’t actually look at her. Aasha is sure that if someone asked them what colour her eyes were, they wouldn’t even know.

Ryan knows. He says they’re beautiful.

She checks her reflection in the back of a spoon.

He says he likes the way they sparkle in the sun, and her long black lashes.

‘What are you smiling about?’

Aasha looks from the spoon to see Imran, leaning lazily against the counter. His hands are in his back pockets, pulling his jeans down so she can see not only the elastic of his Calvin Kleins but most of his hipbone.

Dad is always on about it. ‘Do you need to display your backside?’ he says. ‘Are you a gorilla?’ But he doesn’t actually do anything about it, does he?

Aasha can just imagine what would happen if she went about showing her pants. She’s not even allowed hipsters or skinny jeans.

‘Make us a cup of tea, Ash?’ Imran says.

‘I have to do my homework,’ she sighs.

‘It’ll take you ten seconds.’

Aasha shakes her head but is already filling the kettle. She wishes she could just tell him no. One day she will. One day soon.

‘Me too,’ Ismail calls from the other room.

She makes the chai and takes refuge in her room. As she logs on to her computer she already knows that her English assignment can wait and eagerly dives into MSN.

Within seconds a message arrives.

Ryan says: Are you in training or wot?

Aasha laughs and types her answer.

Aasha says: I’ve always been fast.

She bites her lip as she waits for his next message.

Ryan says: Why did you run away?

Aasha doesn’t want to admit how nervous she was in his company. The thrill of being with him made her heart beat faster than not paying for their food. But she’s not going to just tell him that, is she?

Aasha says: I had to get home.

Ryan says: You won’t get away from me so easily next time.

She bites her lip so hard it hurts.

Aasha says: Maybe I don’t want to.