Blood of the Innocents (4 page)

‘Since when did schools start ringing up parents to ask where their kids are?’ Mariner asked, remembering that Ricky had been subject to the same checks.

Millie supplied the response. ‘Since the truancy rates went through the roof and school attendance became a government issue,’ she said.

‘Christ, when I was at school if you wanted to bunk off, you just did it. The teachers were grateful to have fewer kids in the class.’

‘That was before results and league tables got to be so important.’

‘Shanila Akram seemed concerned about her husband’s reaction to involving the police, too,’ Thorne added.

‘Where is he?’

‘Away on business, she said. He’s due back later this afternoon.’

‘Do we know if Yasmin’s ever done this kind of thing before?’ asked Millie.

‘Only the usual. Once when she was smaller, she threatened to run away to her auntie’s, but only got as far as the end of the street.’

‘This auntie has been contacted?’

‘Yes, sir. Mrs Akram has been in touch with all other relevant family members.’ Thorne glanced at his meticulously taken notes. ‘The only thing Yasmin had with her was her school bag. She didn’t even have dinner money.’ He glanced up. ‘The school operates some kind of credit card system so no cash is exchanged. All that we know she had on her was her travel card that covers West Midlands buses and trains.’

‘So theoretically she can’t have gone very far.’

‘Tell us about the family set-up,’ said Millie.

‘The family is Pakistani Muslim. Yasmin’s the second of three children. There’s a sister in her twenties who now lives abroad, and a ten-year-old brother. Paternal grandmother also lives with them. The home language is a mix of Urdu and English but the mother speaks English fluently.’

‘How did she seem?’ asked Mariner.

‘About what you’d expect: pretty distraught.’

Mariner looked over at Millie. ‘So, let’s go and see for ourselves.’

 

Yasmin may have disappeared on their patch, but both the family home and her parents’ school were some distance away. The foundation grammar school system in the city meant that hundreds of kids travelled such journeys every day.

The drive over to the inner city suburb of Sparkhill was about as uncomfortable as it could be. In the mid-afternoon sun Birmingham smouldered, heat shimmering up from the road, melting and splitting the tarmac and condensing the air to a stinking, exhaust-laden smog. In the last few weeks the city had got noisy and overcrowded, too small and cramped for its one million inhabitants, causing more than the usual friction and conflict. There had been a sharp increase in the number of domestic and common assaults and the number of road-rage incidents had risen by a quarter.

Even the trees looked as if they’d had enough, their leaves limp and lacklustre. Traffic on the outer circle route this afternoon had virtually ground to a halt, leaving drivers to stew impatiently in their vehicles. Despite the full-on air conditioning, Mariner could feel his shoulders beginning to prickle and itch and he glanced up in despair at the cloudless blue sky. After five weeks the heat showed no sign of abating. News reports were full of dire warnings about hosepipe bans and forest fires. Ironic, given that spring had been one of the wettest on record, submerging whole areas of the country beneath flood water for days at a time. Impossible to imagine now.

‘What does it mean, Allah T’ala?’ Mariner asked Millie, as they idled at yet another congested junction.

‘Literally it means “God Most High”.’

‘So this is the school of God Most High.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What do you think of segregated schools?’

Millie’s answer was measured. ‘Lots of parents, white and black, choose to send their children to private schools for many different reasons.’

‘But these are primarily religious reasons. What kind of precedent are we setting for these kids? Already in this city we have Catholic schools, Jewish schools and Muslim schools, all telling these children that their religion makes them special and different from others. Then they leave school and we expect them to forget all that and take their place in a multicultural society.’

‘The good schools also teach tolerance and respect for the religious beliefs and customs of others, whatever they may be. I don’t think you’ll find bigotry anywhere on the curriculum.’

As if to illustrate this crossover, the Allah T’ala turned out to be housed in an imposing ironstone building with white twin spires and a high arched window; a former Anglican parish church that dominated a meandering street of Edwardian townhouses. As they drove up they saw a man scrubbing at an illegible slogan that had been sprayed in red paint along one wall. Approaching from the same direction but on foot were two women in full
burkha
, the black robes leaving only their eyes exposed. A less common sight in the southern suburbs, Mariner was well aware of the connection between the mode of dress and the perceived oppression of women, and was surprised to find himself mildly unsettled by the sight. As the women neared the door marked ‘Entrance’, it swung open as if by magic, just wide enough to admit them, and they were gone.

Mariner hoped that, as a man, he wouldn’t have a problem gaining access. As much as he was prepared to trust Millie he wanted to be there himself to talk to the Akrams. But the school was co-educational, which presumably meant there were male teachers. Vehicles on the forecourt outside the school were of mixed vintage and power.

Despite finding a patch of shade cast by an ancient spreading beech, they stepped out of the car into what felt like a fan-assisted oven and it was with reluctance that Mariner retrieved his jacket from the hook behind the driver’s seat and slipped it on. Millie rapped the door-knocker, simultaneously holding her warrant card up to the peep-hole below. Again, the door opened marginally, sucking them into a dim reception room before closing softly again behind them.

Once Mariner’s eyes had adjusted from the brightness outside he could see that this was the main administration office, crowded with phones, computers and filing cabinets. The walls were decorated with childlike powder-paint creations annotated with quotations, most probably from the Koran. A small, brown-eyed child fidgeted on a chair beneath the proclamation that: ‘In the remembrance of God do hearts find satisfaction.’

Millie offered a greeting
salaam
to the young girl behind the desk. ‘I’m Liaison Officer Millie Khatoon, and this is Detective Inspector Tom Mariner,’ she said. ‘We have come to speak to Mr and Mrs Akram.’

The girl flashed a brief sympathetic smile. ‘Of course. I’ll tell Mrs Akram you’re here.’ Picking up the phone she spoke briefly in what Mariner surmised to be Urdu, before rising from her chair. ‘Please come with me.’

She led them through into a small lobby and up two narrow flights of stairs, gliding with the kind of feminine grace that her flowing robes seemed to induce. Behind closed doors they could hear the insistent chatter of children’s voices. Shanila Akram’s was a more orderly office and lighter, thanks to the broad window that overlooked the street. As they entered, she got to her feet and came towards them, extending a hand. Mariner took it. It was delicate and as cool as marble. Small and slight, she was also dressed all in black, her
hijab
head scarf, wrapped about her face like a nun’s wimple. In ordinary circumstances she would be stunningly beautiful, with flawless olive skin, mahogany eyes and a full mouth, but today those features were clouded with tension and Mariner wondered how she was managing to work.

‘Our school must continue for the children,’ she explained apologetically when introductions had been made, as if she was party to his thoughts. ‘And I felt it better to keep busy.’ Busy was the word. Outwardly in command, she was a bundle of nervous energy, struggling to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds at a time. As the conversation progressed she continually rearranged her robes, moved papers from one side of her desk to the other and then back again. She straightened a stack of books, opened and closed a drawer for no apparent reason, and her eyes rarely settled on anything for long.

The office girl had brought in chairs behind them and Shanila Akram asked them to sit. ‘Would you like tea?’ she asked.

‘Yes, thank you.’ This Mariner had expected from past experience. He was no great fan of the traditional sweet Masala tea, but knew that the atmosphere would be more conducive if the hospitality was accepted. However, when refreshment came, it was served Western style, for which he was grateful.

‘My husband should be back very soon,’ Shanila Akram told them. ‘I haven’t yet been able to contact him.’

Good, thought Mariner, we may be here when the news is broken. We’ll be able to judge the reaction.

‘Perhaps you could start by telling us about yesterday evening,’ Millie began.

‘Of course. I arrived home at a little after seven. It’s a busy time of year, there is much to do here at the school. Preparations for the end of term. The children’s
Amma
, my husband’s mother, is at home all day so is there to welcome Yasmin and her brother. Sanjit was at home at the usual time. I had allowed Yasmin to go and stay with her friend—’ She broke off uncertainly, as if she was going to say more of that but then changed her mind.

‘And the friend’s name?’ Mariner prompted.

‘Suzanne. Suzanne Perry. The arrangement was that Yasmin would phone from Suzanne’s house to let me know that she was safe, but when I got home she hadn’t yet phoned.’

‘Did that concern you?’

Almost immediately Mariner regretted the insinuation. Shanila Akram’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Not unduly. I thought that perhaps Yasmin had forgotten, that she was having a good time. I tried to phone her friend’s parents but that’s when I discovered that their number isn’t listed. By this time it was getting late and I just thought . . . Of course I know now that I should have persisted, but at the time I had no reason to think that anything was wrong.’ She was on the verge of tears, but with effort of will she looked Mariner in the eye. ‘It was a mistake. Of course I realise that now. I was ready to scold Yasmin for not keeping in touch, but I was shocked when the school contacted me this morning to say that she had not arrived and that her friends had not seen her since yesterday afternoon.’

‘She she didn’t go to stay with Suzanne?’

‘No. At the last minute she changed her mind and told her friends that she was coming home instead.’

‘But she didn’t.’

‘No.’ The woman’s voice had dropped to a whisper. Through the open window they heard a car pulling up on to the forecourt below. Shanila Akram turned to look out. ‘My husband,’ she said. But her body language conveyed anything but relief.

They heard voices below and moments later Mohammed Akram burst into the room, his face a mixture of anxiousness and bewilderment. In his mid to late forties he was unexpectedly dressed in a dark business suit with a crisp white shirt and striped tie.

Shanila Akram jumped to her feet. ‘Moshi, this is Inspector Mariner and Constable Khatoon. They are from the police.’

Akram shook their hands. ‘Fakhra told me you were here.What’s happened now? Have there been more letters?’ As he spoke Akram pulled up a seat beside his wife and they both sat.

‘It’s Yasmin,’ Shanila said, a tremor in her voice.

‘What about her?’

‘She has disappeared.’

‘What?’

Something subtly changed in the atmosphere. Something Mariner couldn’t identify. Shanila Akram’s fragile confidence had deserted her altogether and she seemed to shrink back from her husband, as if he might be angry with her. Perhaps he would. She had been left in charge of the family.

‘It appears your daughter changed her mind about going to stay with her friend yesterday evening, but didn’t return home either,’ Mariner said. Now Akram seemed confused.

‘Yasmin was to go and stay with Suzanne last night,’ his wife reminded him.

‘She—’

‘They had to finish their project, the presentation they were doing together. Yasmin was desperate to go,’ Shanila pressed on. ‘But she must have decided against it after all.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The school telephoned me this morning to say that Yasmin hadn’t arrived there. That’s when I called the police.’

Akram’s full attention was on his wife, Mariner noticed. He seemed to have forgotten that they were there. ‘Why didn’t you wait - Never mind.’ Mohammed Akram’s eyes narrowed as he tried to make sense of what his wife had told him, and Mariner tried to read the emotion. Shanila Akram’s demeanour had completely transformed. No mistaking who was the dominant person in this partnership. Only, it seemed, when he had swallowed his anger did Akram think to ask, ‘Where has she gone? Have you spoken to her friends, to the rest of the family?’ He reeled off a list of names.

His wife shook her head. ‘I’ve tried them all. No one knows where she is.’

‘It seems the last people to see her were her friends, yesterday afternoon,’ said Mariner.

‘So I’m to understand that she’s been out all night?’ Akram’s anxiety was beginning to gain momentum, but again Mariner felt that there was more to it than that. ‘How has this happened?’ The demand was made of Shanila, who visibly flinched.

‘I understand your concern, Mr Akram,’ Mariner said, in an attempt to diffuse the tension. ‘But the fact remains that it has happened, so we need to ask you some questions about Yasmin so that we can find her as quickly as possible. ’

At that, Akram seemed to get a grip. ‘Yes. Yes of course,’ he shook his head slowly. ‘It’s just so hard to take in. I can’t believe it. What is it that you need to know?’

‘Your wife was talking us through the events of yesterday evening.’

‘Well, as I’m sure she has told you, I have been away on business since yesterday afternoon.’