Up in Flames (11 page)
‘You and me both, kiddo. All right! I’m coming!’ This, Casey presumed was not directed at him, but at the orchestral conductor, whose prissy high-pitched tones could be heard even more plainly as he asked in sarcastic tones if Rachel could possible tear herself away from her latest lover and come and do the job she was paid to do.
‘God. He’s such a bitchy old queen,’ Rachel complained
sotto voce.
‘Take no notice of that bit about my lovers. You’re the only one I want or need.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘I’ll ring you later in the week. Bye now.’
‘Bye – .’ The phone cut off.
Half an hour later, after listening to yet more of his parents’ scratchy records, Casey pleaded tiredness at the end of a long day and retired to bed. But not to sleep. He could hear another old Joan Baez record playing none too softly from downstairs, followed by The Mamas and the Papas hit ‘California Dreamin’. The volume rose as the hours passed. Casey sighed, aware he would have to remind his parents of the house rules in the morning.
He only hoped they weren’t still here when Rachel returned from her tour. Rachel was a particular girl, who liked everything spick and span. His semi-detached was too small to contain them all in harmony.
Was Chandra’s mother-in-law’s house small, too? he wondered. In cramped surroundings people couldn’t get away from one another. Proximity, he recognised, as the music thumped from downstairs, brought irritations, resentments. Angers fester and grow. Was that what had happened in Chandra’s case? Had her grief-crazed in-laws decided to consign Chandra to the flames so that, in death, she could perform her wifely duties as she had failed to do in life?
With the music thumping its accompaniment to his thoughts, his mind turned to India and the things he had witnessed there as a child. Although he had found much of the culture and most of the people full of charm, there was one aspect of the Hindu creed that still appalled him. The one that said that if you were old, sick, poor, hungry, it was your own fault; your way of living your previous life or lives had earned you a punishing karma in this one.
Casey had always found that ‘it’s your own fault you’re a cripple’ aspect of Hinduism very hard to take. It was one reason why he had never returned to India even though there were many aspects of the country he had liked. He had met with great kindness and generosity, often from people who had little enough, but who were perfectly willing to share that little with you. It was the sort of place that knocked your socks off — and then offered to wash them for you.
The way that innocent sections of the society were treated, shunned even, was something he found unacceptable. Yet, he acknowledged as he turned over again and tried to get comfortable, theirs wasn’t the only culture guilty of prejudice. In India it was widows and the Untouchables. In England, certainly before they became ‘fashionable’, the section that society treated as pariahs had been homosexuals. Like widows, they, too, and not so long ago, had been shunned by society, their employers, even their families. It was simply a case of different cultures, different mores.
Casey’s father had sailed blithely through all the experiences India had thrown at them, much as he sailed through everything else. But Casey suspected that his mother, too, had been deeply affected by her time in the country.
She had started a charity while she was there, begging and borrowing from wealthy tourists in order to feed some of the street children. Her intentions had been good, but the administration of anything had never been her strong point. Casey put it down to all the drugs she had experimented with in her youth. Having parents who were out of their heads for most of the time had concentrated Casey’s wonderfully. And apart from being more or less force-fed weed in his teens, he had turned away from drugs entirely. After being brought up by parents who excessed on everything on a daily basis, he had a secret fear that this trait might be inherited.
Too tired to think any more, he turned over and thrust a pillow over his ears. He must get some sleep. But, feeling obliged to keep his nose flared to catch the familiar scent of cannabis, Casey passed a restless night.
The morning wasn’t a towering success either. His mother had risen early. She tried to do her Earth Mother bit and get him breakfast, but his complicated modern cooker had defeated her. All he got was burnt scrambled eggs and stewed black tea. She had dropped the milk bottle while trying to rescue his eggs and the floor lay under a slippery seeming-ocean of white.
Casey told her not to worry, that he’d get something at the station, and fled. As he drove off he realised that in the confusion he had forgotten to remind her of the house rules. He hadn’t even found out what their plans were, he realised. This brought a taut smile. What plans? His parents had always believed in going with the flow. They never planned, never worried. What for? they had always asked the earnest, youthful Casey. Worrying changed nothing. All it did was give you wrinkles and constipation. Stay cool, he had been advised. Have a drag.
Maybe he should try the lines on the superintendent when he demanded news on the case’s progress. Casey tried to imagine Brown-Smith’s face if he did so, especially when he passed the weed...
With his parents’ arrival, Casey found himself empathising more and more with Chandra Bansi. She, too, had been caught between two worlds. He wondered what resolution about her life she would have come to if she had lived. But she no longer had a life to resolve. With death, all her problems had become his. His the resolution, too.
In a small act of rebellion, Casey shrugged off his defensively adopted conservatism and tuned from Radio 4 to a station playing defiant heavy metal for the rest of the journey. At least it took his mind off the grim events awaiting him later in the morning when the two post-mortems were scheduled.
Just as they passed reception on the way to the car park and the scheduled post-mortems, they heard raised voices. And when Casey heard a young male voice mention Chandra’s name, he held out a hand to stop Catt in his tracks, pressed his ear to the crack in the door and eavesdropped shamelessly. Curious, Casey lifted his head and stared through the glass panel, easing the door open a little as he did so.
The young man — he could only have been in his early twenties — swept a trembling hand through a thick mane of fair hair. From the way it stood up on end, this was not the first such sweeping. ‘I’ve got to know what happened,’ he repeated. ‘Surely the report in the paper must be wrong? Chandra can’t be dead? My God, surely she can’t be dead?’ His fists clenched and he banged one on the desk. ‘Tell me, you’ve got to tell me what happened.’
The desk sergeant, Sergeant Allen, a patient, kindly middle-aged man, tried to calm him down. ‘If you’ll just take a few deep breaths and start again, sir, I might be able to help you. Now first things first . Who are you? And what is your connection with the young lady?’ The desk sergeant peered expectantly at his interrogator over his half-spectacles and waited.
After a brief struggle, the young man capitulated. ‘My name’s Mark Farrell. I’m a friend of Chandra’s. Mrs Chandra Bansi,’ he enlarged. ‘The girl the papers say died in a fire at her flat. I’ve known her since we were at infant school.’ Tears filled his eyes and fell in fat globules down his cheeks. He paused, took a deep steadying breath and went on more calmly. ‘I’ve been abroad on business and have just got back. First I heard of it was when I finally got the chance to pick up a newspaper. I want to know exactly what happened.’
After patting the young man’s arm, the Sergeant reached under the desk and found a box of tissues. He handed over a couple, told him, ‘DCI Casey is dealing with this matter. I believe he’ll want to speak to you.’ As he picked up the phone, he added, ‘take a seat and I’ll see if he’s available.’
Casey pushed the door to reception open and walked towards the desk sergeant’s line of view as if he and Catt had just come down the stairs and heard the last few words. ‘No need for that Sergeant Allen. Here I am.’
Five minutes later, Mark Farrell was sitting in the visitor’s chair in Casey’s office. Catt was seated at his corner desk, ready to take notes. Farrell had a cup of tea from the canteen in front of him and had calmed down considerably.
Casey glanced at his watch. They were due to attend the post-mortems in half-an-hour. Casey, who prided himself on his time-keeping, judged they still had plenty of time and could afford to hear what Farrell had to say. Besides, as he had known the dead girl, his information could be important.
‘I’m glad you came in, Mr Farrell,’ Casey told him. ‘I was intending to contact Chandra’s friends. I’d be interested to learn all that you can tell me about Mrs Bansi. It’s often the case that the more you know about a victim the greater your chance of catching whoever’s responsible for their death.’ He paused. ‘What was she like? What was her state of mind before her death?’
Farrell blinked as Casey addressed him. He must have been sunk in his own thoughts because he took a moment to recollect himself. His face seemed to fall in on itself, presumably in remembrance, as fresh grief engulfed him.
Casey sat quietly till it passed, then he repeated his questions.
‘She was very nervy,’ Farrell told him. ‘It wasn’t like her.’ His tissues now a useless soggy mess, he wiped his nose with the back of his hand and sniffed hard. ‘Chandra was always pretty outgoing and confident, even after her marriage.’
‘Did she mention what the problem was? Why she was nervy?’
Farrell shook his head. ‘Not really. We were close, but she just clammed up. I don’t think she liked living on her own with the baby. It’s a bit of a rough neighbourhood. You’d think her father would have more sense than to stick her there. But then she wasn’t keen on returning to her parents’ place, either. I got the impression she was getting a lot of pressure from her family. She told me they wanted her to marry again.’ Farrell’s good looks were marred by a scowl. ‘You’d think one unhappy, arranged marriage would be enough for them.’
‘Was it so unhappy?’ Casey questioned, keen to get confirmation of this from another source.
‘That’s the impression I got. Her husband was the jealous kind. Very possessive. Always checking up on her. Chandra found it irksome. She’d been used to a lot more freedom. Her husband certainly didn’t like her being friendly with me.’ He pulled a face. ‘Neither did her parents. Gave her a lot of grief over it.’ He scowled again. ‘Between the lot of them, I hardly saw her any more. And then they were pushing her to marry some old bloke in India. If they managed to persuade her, I knew I’d never see her again and I valued our friendship too much for that to happen.’
How friendly had they been? Casey wondered. Like most police officers working in multi-ethnic communities, he was only too aware of the violence inter-racial relationships caused. Plenty of Asian girls had had bounty hunters set on them when they ran away after refusing to agree to arranged marriages. Others had been murdered by their families.
Murdered by their families, he repeated to himself. Was this case going to turn out to be yet another domestic tragedy? A case of a thoroughly westernised young woman expected to live up to old-fashioned, increasingly alien ideals and failing? Such marriages were an increasing source of contention in Asian families. He didn’t see any easy solution to it until the younger, westernised generation were raising teenagers themselves.
Casey’s thoughts returned to the young man sitting in front of him. ‘So how friendly were you with Chandra, Mr Farrell? You say her family didn’t approve of her remaining friends with you?’
Mark Farrell nodded. ‘Chandra told me she got a lot of stick from them and from her in-laws. I did my best to cool it. But it was difficult. Hell, I fancied her like mad. I always have. She was a beautiful girl.’ He shrugged. ‘Okay, I admit I wanted more than friendship. I thought maybe—’ Abruptly, he broke off. When he spoke again, Farrell sounded even more sullen. ‘She could be a bit of a tease. She sometimes led me on, let me kiss her and then she’d pull the plug.’
It was clear that Farrell had resented Chandra’s treatment of him. He had openly admitted he had wanted more. As he said, Chandra had been a beautiful girl, outgoing, vivacious. And Mark Farrell was a good-looking young man even with eyes red-rimmed from weeping, a young man likely to be used to getting any girl he wanted.
Could he be the ‘unsuitable’ man her family had feared might entice Chandra from the path of duty? Had he pushed his suit after Chandra’s husband had died and she was in the flat alone but for her baby? Had she rejected him? Or had she, worn down on all fronts, finally capitulated, and then, with time to regret her seduction had she then rejected him again? After tasting that which he had lusted after for so long it was unlikely the handsome, rather petulant Farrell would take such a rejection lightly.
