‘Is this Qasim Ali?’ Brock asked.
‘Who wants to know?’ This seemed to be Qasim’s habitual greeting.
Brock offered the phone to the women in the back and Fran grabbed it. ‘Qasim? It’s Fran. Are you all right? Is George all right?’
She listened anxiously for a moment, then said, ‘No, no, we’re safe. They were the police. We’re with them. We have to talk with them. We’re all fine. You’re sure about George?’
Brock took back the phone and spoke to the cafe owner. It seemed that Qasim and George were only bruised from their fight, and were currently driving aimlessly through the South London streets trying to find the missing women. Brock told them to go home and wait for him to ring again, then turned and spoke quietly to Kathy. ‘Well, now, we’re almost in Dulwich. Where’s close, private and comfortable, where we can sit down with a nice cup of tea?’
Kathy glanced over at him, eyebrow raised. ‘You’re not thinking. .. Warren Lane?’
‘It did cross my mind.’
‘Is that wise?’
Brock shrugged and checked his watch. ‘I’m sure it isn’t. But time may be short. And I very much want to hear what all this has to do with the deaths of Abu and Springer.’
Kathy said nothing, but turned the car in the direction of Matcham High Street. Within ten minutes they were in the courtyard at Warren Lane. She parked under the horse chestnut tree near Brock’s house.
Brock led the way to his front door, limping on his stick, and led the women inside.
‘Is this what they call a “safe house”?’ Briony asked. She seemed fascinated, scrutinising everything, the pile of mail waiting inside the front door, the titles on the spines of the books lining the upstairs landing, the computer in the living room.
‘Something like that,’ Brock grunted, lighting the gas fire and getting them seated in the armchairs around it.
‘Pretty classy,’ Briony said, studying the little Schwitters collage hanging in one corner. Her eyes were still red and puffy from the tears she had shed at the funeral, and her interest now seemed like a front.
‘Come and sit down, Briony,’ Brock told her. ‘You can make us some toast on the fire, OK?’
He assembled food and tools, Kathy brought in a tray with the tea and they settled themselves, awkward at first, then gradually more relaxed and calm.
‘Well, let’s begin with your names,’ Brock suggested. ‘I know Briony. What about you two?’
‘I’m Fran Said, George is my husband.’
‘George Said,’ Brock said. ‘And he’s a friend of Qasim Ali’s, is he?’
‘They’re cousins. We live with them, in Chandler’s Yard. We’re all part of the same family, see?’ She took a bite of the slice of toast and honey that Briony handed her. She seemed hungry after all the drama.
‘I see.’ Brock frowned, tentative. ‘Forgive me for sounding personal, Fran, but you don’t look… well… Yemeni.’
‘My mum’s from Middlesex, and she says my dad was Irish, but I couldn’t say for sure.’ She said this with a note of defiance, then took another mouthful of toast.
Brock didn’t pursue this, but turned to the pregnant girl. ‘And are you part of the Ali family too?’ he suggested gently, but from the way he said it Kathy guessed he already knew the answer.
The girl lowered her eyes, and for a moment there was silence and her two friends paused in their chewing. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘My name is Nargis Manzoor.’
‘Ah yes. The missing daughter of the man who has the shop in Shadwell Road.’
The girl nodded.
Kathy said, ‘That was him, at the cemetery…’ but everyone else seemed perfectly aware of that.
‘How old are you, Nargis?’ Brock asked.
‘Seventeen,’ she whispered.
‘I’ve heard a little of your story, but I’d like to hear it properly, from you.’
Nargis took a deep breath, the oval of her face all that was visible of her in the black habit.
‘My dad is very old-fashioned,’ she began. ‘It’s not his fault. It’s just the way he is. He grew up in a place called Mirpur, in Kashmir, which is big on dust and religion and not much else. He followed his uncle out here in the seventies, and after a few years he went back and brought my mum out. She’s been here for twenty years, but she doesn’t speak any English. She doesn’t need to, ’cos she never goes outside. Dad takes care of everything. She might as well still be in Mirpur. What dad values more than anything is respect, from his family, and from the people he goes to mosque with and does business with.
‘At school I was good at maths, and at first dad was pleased, ’cos I could help him doing the books in the shop. I got good O levels, and I told him I wanted to become an accountant, or something like that in business. Maybe, if I was good enough at the maths, even an actuary. He didn’t like that. He told me that just wasn’t possible. I was a woman, so my future was to be someone’s wife. That above everything else. Meanwhile I was sixteen, and I wanted the same as all the other girls at school, a boyfriend and clothes and some fun. I was friends with one of the Ali girls from Chandler’s Yard, even though my dad said they were Shia rubbish, which I thought was stupid. Through her I met Qasim and their family, who I liked because they were Muslim but relaxed about it, and then George and Fran, who were at the university, and then Abu.
‘Abu and I became friends because of his computers and my maths. He helped me with my homework, and told me about what he did. He was very gentle and shy and I liked him a lot, although I knew he was too old for me-he was twenty-five then. Despite that, we fell in love. I was very innocent and knew nothing about sex really, and my ideas of love were very romantic and unrealistic.’
Brock guessed she was repeating a phrase her father had used.
‘On my seventeenth birthday my dad told me he had something important to tell me. He said that someone had asked for my hand in marriage. I was surprised, but also thrilled. I thought Abu must have spoken to my father, and although the age difference might worry him, Abu was a devout Muslim boy, and I began to prepare what I would say to persuade him, like how we would wait until I was a bit older or something.
‘Only it wasn’t that at all. Apparently my dad was talking about one of my cousins in Mirpur, who I’d never heard of. He said that he was sending me and mum over there for a few months to meet our family there, and to prepare for my wedding. I tried to argue with him, but he wouldn’t listen. I asked him at least to delay the trip until I’d done my A levels, but he got angry then and told me I wouldn’t be doing any more exams, because there wasn’t any point.’
Nargis paused to take a sip of tea. Although the youngest, it now seemed to Kathy that in some ways she appeared to be the most composed and perhaps the strongest of the three women. Briony had stopped toasting the bread slices in front of the hissing gas fire, their appetites gone as Nargis told her story.
‘So mum and I went to Kashmir. It was like going to the moon, honestly. After two months I was told to prepare myself for my wedding. I was given a present from my future husband, who I’d still not seen. This was a shalwar khameez and scarf embroidered with gold. It was very beautiful, but heavy and it scraped my skin. The wedding ceremony lasted all day, and throughout I had to keep my eyes on the floor and wasn’t allowed to look at my husband who sat beside me, and the heavy veil and jewellery stopped me when I tried. In the evening I was taken to my husband’s house, and when the last of the guests left the other women led me into the bedroom, where I put on pyjamas and sat and waited. Eventually this man came into the room. He had grey hair…’ she glanced apologetically at Brock, ‘… and was quite fat and old. He told me that he was my husband. When I said that I didn’t want to sleep with him he beat me up and forced himself on me.’
Briony had folded her arms tight round her chest and sat forward, hunched, frowning angrily. Fran was expressionless.
‘Later, I told my mother, and she said that it was for a husband and wife to work out how they would live. She said that dad would often take his hand to her, and she accepted his punishment as just.