Honor Role Page 24

  I called back immediately. Benazir picked up. Clearly something was wrong. She spoke softly; said she couldn’t talk then, but could I meet her the following morning at her school? As soon as I agreed Benazir ended the call. No good-bye.

  This time, there was no headmaster in the room with us. Benazir had just turned eighteen. She was about to leave school. She was already in the room, standing, when I entered and closed the door behind me. I expected some warmth from her, if not a hug at least a smile. Instead, she got right to the point.

  “Sit down, please,” she said. I did. “What do you know about my sister?”

  “I’m not sure I understand. Has she been found?”

  “No, Tessa. And I’m certain she is not sending me the emails I get from her. I have not spoken with her in over half a year.”

  “Are your parents back in the UK?” I asked.

  Benazir shook her head. “Ahmed still is, but I don’t think they’re coming back. They want me to come there. They say it’s time I married. They have found a suitable man for me. Of course, they told me it wasn’t easy because of my condition. The dowry will be high. I don’t want any of this!”

  “You don’t have to go, Benazir. You’re an adult now. You get to decide these things, not them.”

  Benazir smiled. “If only it was that easy. Isn’t that what Jabirah thought too?”

  I blushed but didn’t respond. I wasn’t touching that question.

  “You searched our flat, didn’t you? A neighbor saw you. Three of you in a police car. What did you find?”

  “Nothing, Benazir,” I said.

  “You think my brother killed my sister, don’t you?”

  I hesitated.

  “Tell me!” she yelled.

  “I…Benazir, Jabirah has been gone so long now. I checked with our customs people; she wasn’t on the plane with your parents.”

  Softly, Benazir started to cry. She looked so miserable, so alone. It was heartbreaking.

  “I’m so sorry. We found Jabirah’s boyfriend. His name is Hamza. I spoke with him.”

  “What did he say?” she asked in a whisper, slowly, as if dreading the answer.

  “The last time he saw Jabirah was when your father and brother pulled her from Hamza’s car and drove off with her. It was the same day they ran away together.”

  Benazir closed her eyes. I wanted to comfort her, but I didn’t know how. How can one be comforted at a time like this? When the very worst thing has happened?

  Finally, she opened her eyes, wiped her tears, and turned to me. As if defeated, she said softly, “You didn’t answer my question.”

  I held her gaze. “Yes, Benazir, I think Ahmed killed your sister. At the very least he knows who did. I wish I didn’t, but I don’t know what else to think. I’m so sorry.”

  “So do I,” she said.

  Benazir’s words surprised me but gave me permission, somehow, to enfold her, to take her in. I walked to her and put my hand on her trembling shoulder. She stood and embraced me.

  Then I knew. If I never did anything else right again, I was going to make certain Benazir Rahman stayed alive, well, and safe.

  Ahmed had no travel restrictions. He might still be a suspect in his sister’s disappearance, but he’d never be charged. Not unless someone talked. And who was there to talk? Ahmed, his parents in far off Pakistan, and nobody else. And the parents would likely never return to Britain. They knew better. Despite this freedom to go wherever he wanted, Ahmed had chosen to remain in the UK. He didn’t take the flight to Pakistan the next week, but he could easily rebook it. For now, he still worked at Heathrow. Benazir and he still shared a flat, which seemed incredible. A teenage girl living with the man who murdered her sister, and legally, I could do nothing about it.

  Pakistan is GMT plus five hours. The next morning before eight, I made a call. Then, I drove again to Kilburn.

  This time I went alone. Ahmed and I were going to have one more talk. I’d give him one more chance to speak the truth, and then, well, I didn’t know what, but I had to make sure Benazir was safe. I caught Ahmed at home. I’d waited again until Benazir was at school. He opened the door on my knock.

  “Again?” he said. Ahmed held the door open. I walked in.

  “You can easily never see me again, Ahmed. Just tell me where Jabirah is,” I replied.

  “And once again I can tell you truthfully that I don’t know. Any more questions?”

  “Right; you did say that. Which got me to thinking, why don’t you know? You were the last person seen with her—you and your father.”

  “Uh-huh. If you’re expecting a reaction, I’m sorry to disappoint, Detective Inspector,” he said. He knew he had me. Knowing he knew angered me even more.

  “You told me she was in Pakistan, right?”

  “To my knowledge, yes,” he said.

  “You and I both know that’s not true,” I said. Ahmed didn’t reply. “What sick person kills his sister? That’s what you did, isn’t it? In the name of some nonsense called family honor? What about the sanctity of human life?” I was starting to rant.

  “I haven’t heard from my sister, Detective Inspector; she’s not talking to me.”

  “Your sister Benazir is a British citizen, Ahmed. So are you. If she is threatened or harmed by anyone, including a member of her family, she’s entitled to protection. I’ll make sure she gets it.”

  “Who the hell are you to meddle in the private affairs of our family?! We protect our women. That’s a good thing, not a bad one.”

  “Protect them? So you’re telling me Jabirah is alive and well somewhere?”

  He said nothing.

  “You can’t force someone to marry against her will. Or hurt her for choosing her own partner. Both are against the law.”

  “There’s a difference between an arranged marriage and a forced one, Detective Inspector. Surely you know that,” he said.

  “One involves the consent of those being married, which means either has the right to say no. Do you know that?”

  Ahmed shook his head but didn’t respond.

  “Look, I’ve been patient,” I said, “but it’s over. I’m going do what I can to protect Benazir. To make sure nothing happens to her regardless of how she chooses to live her life.”

  “Benazir is going to Pakistan as soon as she leaves school next month.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I said. “She is now eighteen, I believe. So she can come and go as she pleases.”

  Ahmed laughed, as if he couldn’t believe what I’d said. “Oh my. You need to leave us alone, Detective Inspector. If you’re anti-Muslim, you have no business being a police officer.”

  “Anti-Muslim? The man I’m seeing is Sunni.”

  “He should be ashamed of himself.”

  I laughed. “Ashamed, Ahmed? You’re talking to me about shame? That’s rich.”

  End of conversation. Another slammed door. Legally, I’d been outplayed. Legally.

  It’s not easy for a blind girl in a headscarf to rove around London on her own. I’d gotten Benazir a prepaid phone in case she needed to contact me. She kept it hidden and on silent except when she was certain Ahmed wasn’t near. One Sunday, I waited for her two streets away from her flat and brought her home with me for the day. She had fed Ahmed some lie about studying with a friend.

  The Obinnas were gone, but Jonathan remembered her and greeted Benazir gladly.

  “I miss Jabirah,” he said after hugging Benazir.

  “So do I, young man,” she said. There were tears in her eyes.

  “Okay, you two, this is meant to be a fun day.” I took Benazir’s hand and led her into the kitchen.

  It was a good day. We caught up over coffee in the kitchen. The weather was fine, so we agreed to Jonathan’s wish to eat Italian at a quiet little place a
fifteen-minute walk from the house. Both Jonathan and I held Benazir’s hands. It was easy to tell how much Benazir was enjoying herself. I was too. So was my son. We were comfortable together. All along, I was thinking how Benazir could easily fold into our lives. I could help her financially, should she wish to pursue a university degree or other training. In a way, I wanted to adopt her, even though she was, by then, old enough to be on her own. Now, I can see how silly I was being. As if I could solve all our problems. As if I could save Benazir from the danger of her family. How extraordinary it was to think of it that way, but I did. What I didn’t think about was how Benazir would react to my feelings. We came back to the house mid-afternoon and sat in the back garden. I broached the subject of her future. I told her she had a home with us; all she had to do was accept the offer. Benazir reached out and found my hand, which she held.

  “Tessa, I have a feeling I could be very happy here with you and Jonathan,” she said.

  “Good.” There, I thought, she’ll move in and all will be good.

  “I don’t want to lose my family, you see?” she said.

  “Benazir, I understand how difficult it might be, but if your family actually harmed your sister, how could you possibly go back with them?”

  “It’s their way, Tessa,” she said.

  “What is? Murder? Murder is their way? Seriously, Benazir?”

  “I don’t mean it like that. We’ve had the notion of family honor drummed into us all our lives. My parents got it from their parents, and so on. For centuries. No, I don’t think it’s right. I think it’s terrible. But I still love my family.”

  “I don’t get it. I really don’t,” I said.

  “But you don’t have to, Tessa.” she said as she squeezed my hand. “Do you?”

  “I suppose not. But murder is murder. It’s illegal for a reason, Benazir.”

  “As it should be,” she said. “And it won’t go any further. Maybe I will have children. Maybe Ahmed will. I can make certain this terrible custom stops with us.”

  “How do you do that if Ahmed killed Jabirah?”

  “We don’t know that he did,” Benazir said.

  “Benazir, I know this is difficult, but Jabirah has vanished. We both think the worst. What happened to her?”

  “Do you mean who might have killed her or who’s responsible?” asked Benazir. “That’s really the question, Tessa. I guess you can say my parents are responsible. Or let’s say our very culture is. If Ahmed did the deed, he did it because he was commanded to do it. And if my parents gave the command, it’s because they were taught rules. So was Ahmed. Rules that were not to be broken without grave consequences. Ever. Rules that are more important than blood. You see, crazy as it sounds, the responsibility for what happened to Jabirah goes back many, many years. Centuries.”

  I squeezed Benazir’s hand and let go. I let go of her as well. What choice was there? She wasn’t going to let me rescue her because she didn’t need rescuing. All she needed to do was follow the rules. In a way, she saw my attempt as a kindhearted move to orphan her, to take her family from her. And she wasn’t going to let that happen.

  In a way I understood, but it broke my heart.

  Not long after our talk I drove Benazir home. Ahmed was at work, so we didn’t have to worry about him. When I pulled up to the curb, I reached over to hug her.

  “You’re at the corner just south of your flat,” I said.

  “Yes. I’d know the chip shop anywhere. That sour-smelling fried food.”

  “Benazir, part of me feels like allowing you to go back in that flat could be endangering you. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Just be my friend. I have your email and phone number. If I ever need to, I’ll be in touch.”

  “Be in touch anyway,” I said.

  “I will, Tessa.”

  “I think you’re right about your parents. They probably won’t come back here. I have to tell you, my friend, if I ever get enough evidence, I’d have them arrested. That goes for your brother too.”

  “I know. But we both know you’re not going to get that evidence, don’t we?”

  I paused but nodded, and remembered to say it too. “Yes.”

  “It is what it is. There are worse things than moving back to Pakistan.”

  “If you say so,” I said.

  Benazir laughed. “You’ll have to take my word for it. Tessa, I love you and Jonathan, and I always will. I know Jabirah did too.” She leaned and kissed my cheek, then quickly stepped out of the car, prodding with her white cane. I watched her walk home, to what fate I didn’t know and couldn’t change.

  Word came that Mungo Kenroy had proposed to his girlfriend. That may have been the first step in the disbanding of Freddy’s band. Apparently, the notice of engagement had been published in The Times. Neither I nor anyone I know reads The Times. One thing was certain: David Colfax wouldn’t be in the wedding party. He’d recently commenced a thirty-year sentence as a guest of Her Majesty. I did get an email from Greg Shafer, apologizing if he’d “been rude or unhelpful” and assuring me that he knew “I was only doing my job.” Someday, I told myself, I’d have another look at Shafer’s work. Maybe I’d find something of his to hang in Potential House.

  What would happen to this gang of merry men Freddy Hayworth had cobbled together and led? After Colfax’s arrest, the Daily Mail ran a story—with photos—of Freddy and friends. They got hold of the snap of the shirtless group on holiday together in Thailand. Happy, boisterous lads having the time of their lives. Except that one of those lads killed one of the others—their ringleader. David Colfax had spent little time in the news since he pled guilty to the murder. In return for sparing the Crown the cost of a trial, the charge was reduced from first- to second-degree, which must have caused a scene at the Hayworth home in Elstree.

  Within six months of Colfax’s arrest, Mungo Kenroy walked down the aisle of stylish St. Peter’s Notting Hill. It seemed a healthy moving-on, although part of me wanted to have a sit-down with Kenroy’s fiancée and give her a stern warning. I wondered if the soon-to-be wife had appeared in any videos and, if so, if she knew she might be a minor celebrity, at least in certain circles? Nevertheless, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her. My task was finished. All of them, save Mr. Colfax, were free to stumble through life at their own pace. Hell, every day I did just that.

  A few days after his sentencing, I got an email from the governor of Mr. Colfax’s new abode saying a certain inmate had asked if I could visit.

  WHY? I typed and sent.

  NO CLUE OTHER THAN MR. COLFAX SAID HE WANTED TO SPEAK WITH YOU. YOU NEEDN’T DO IT. UP TO YOU, the governor replied.

  I went, largely out of curiosity. Peter offered to tag along, but I didn’t accept. Colfax would prefer me alone. That I knew. I’d already been shown to a small room with a scarred table and two uncomfortable chairs when David was brought in. He rallied when he saw me. He’d been slouching, defeated, or so I thought. When he noticed I was already there waiting he must have grown two inches, standing up fully erect. He nodded in greeting and sat across from me.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Why didn’t you let me swallow the pill?” he asked.

  “That’s what you wanted to ask me?”

  “Yes. Look at all the expense you’ve caused. I’m to be here for years. You could have saved the taxpayers a lot of money.”

  “That’s not how it works, David.”

  “Perhaps, but I don’t see why not. Read your history, Tessa. People who have caused offense, as I have, used to be given an honorable way out. Rommel, for example. All those murderous Romans.”

  “I’m not one for playing God. It’s not in the job description,” I said.

  “I don’t regret what I did, you know.”

  “I do know. You
regret not getting away with it, though, don’t you?” I asked.

  He thought about it. “In a way, that’s exactly right. Still, it was always my intention to follow Freddy if I was caught. I have a long habit of following Freddy, as you know.”

  I did indeed. A faint smile came to me but quickly vanished.

  “Think of it; my family would have grieved,” he said, “but they wouldn’t have to suffer this drawn-out infamy.” He lowered his head and rubbed his eyes. Whatever he was thinking, he broke the spell and looked up. “I had the pill as a sort of insurance. It comforted me knowing it was there. Now I have nothing.” He waved a hand around the room.

  Enough. I stood up. “Don’t blame me, David.”

  Tears formed in his eyes. Did I feel for him? No. I felt for the family of the bruised, imperfect Freddy Hayworth.

  I knocked on the door. Immediately, a guard turned a key and pulled it open. “Good-bye,” I said and walked out.

  Isn’t it amazing how some are incapable of taking responsibility for their actions? Incredible but sadly predictable.

  Three weeks later, David Colfax was dead in his cell. He’d used his clothes to make a noose, which he tied to the cell door. Imagine the effort it must have taken to strangle oneself in such a way, the sheer determination of it.

  It may have been the most responsible thing he’d ever done: his own honor killing.

  Ken Larson knocked on my door, a bottle of red in his hand. It was a Thursday evening.

  “I see you got my note,” I said as I let him in.

  Ken nodded. “I’m both hungry and intrigued.”

  “Ideal. Get in here and open that thing.”

  In the kitchen I pulled two wineglasses from the cupboard and passed him a corkscrew. Jonathan, I’d checked en route to the kitchen, was in the gadget room deep into some Netflix nature show.

  “It’s coq au vin tonight,” I said to Ken. “Hope that works.”