24

A Wife’s Secret Joy

Bombay, February 1921

Fatima was washing the carved marble baseboard running along the hallway when Perveen came out to visit Mumtaz’s room. Bending down, Perveen said, “I’m on my way to see Mumtaz-begum, but I’ve got a question. Did your father leave anything with you before the police took him away?”

“No.” Fatima put down the rag she’d been using. “What should he have given me?”

“I thought you might have the attar he bought for Sakina-begum. But never mind.”

Fatima lowered her voice. “Did you hear Amina’s missing?”

Perveen nodded. “Do you think she went to Oudh?”

Fatima picked up the rag again and squeezed it hard. “But how could she go? She’s just a girl. And she was my friend. She wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

“Is there a chance she’s hiding?”

Fatima scrubbed away at the baseboard. “She hides because she listens to people—not because she’s playing. Maybe she cannot be found because”—she took several deep breaths—“the killer came back.”

“I pray that’s not the case.”

“It’s so frightening now, with Abba away. Zeid and I were alone in our hut last night. We put a rice bag against the door, so we would hear if someone was coming for us. And Iqbal gave us a knife from the kitchen for our protection. Zeid said he’d use it to save the two of us, but he’s so small!”

A voice moaned from the other side of Mumtaz’s door. Perveen’s first instinct was panic, but she controlled the reaction. “Is that Mumtaz?”

“Yes. She must have heard us,” Fatima said, putting down the rag and standing up. “I’ll go in with you. She’s not well in the morning.”

Fatima tiptoed ahead of Perveen into the dark room to touch Mumtaz on the shoulder.

“Sorry,” Mumtaz murmured as she pulled herself up from the bed.

“No, I apologize for disturbing you again,” Perveen said while the maidservant pulled open the long curtains covering the jalis.

“Mumtaz-begum, shall I bring your special tea?” Fatima asked. There was a note of tenderness in the girl’s voice that showed her obvious affection for the outsider wife.

“Not yet.” Mumtaz groped at the bedside table, knocking over a brass tumbler of water. Perveen rushed to pick up the tumbler as Mumtaz hurriedly used the previous day’s sari to wipe at the spilled water. As Mumtaz moved, dressed in a blouse and petticoat, her rounded figure was revealed. Perveen looked away, trying to give the disheveled woman a bit of privacy as she covered up again with the sheet.

Mumtaz sleepily rubbed her eyes. “Is there any news of Amina?”

“The begums believe she went off to go to Razia’s family home in Oudh. Does that strike you as likely?” Perveen added, “Whatever you tell me can remain private.”

“Amina is so interested in going places; she’s not fearful like the begums,” Mumtaz commented. “Many times she has told me about her trips to Oudh. But this is not good. How could a child like that get out of our gate and know what to do?”

“I can’t imagine it,” Perveen agreed. “But if she had gone out, the neighboring durwans would probably have seen her—or someone else in the neighborhood would have told them.”

“How would they know to recognize her? She’s always stayed behind the property wall.”

“You’re right,” Perveen said, feeling stupid.

“Bombay is a hard city for girls. Everywhere, there is a villain—oh!” Mumtaz put a hand over her mouth.

“Do you feel sick again?”

“The bucket—” Mumtaz gestured to the floor, and Perveen saw a small bucket that she quickly grabbed and brought to Mumtaz. Mumtaz bent her head and vomited a watery stream into the bucket.

The sickly-sweet odor curled inside Perveen’s nose, and she adjusted the fan’s speed.

Putting the bucket aside, Mumtaz said, “Get Fatima again. This is too dirty for you.”

“No, it is not.”

Things were coming together in Perveen’s mind. Mumtaz’s weakness—her rounded figure. She had spent many months living with Omar Farid. Perveen would have thought him too weak for sexual activity—but she could be wrong.

“Have you seen a doctor recently?” Perveen asked.

“No, because it is still iddat.” She paused. “If I tell you something, will you tell the others?”

“I promised your privacy,” Perveen said, her suspicion growing.

Mumtaz gave a half smile. “I’m going to have a baby.”

“That is a most blessed event.” Perveen was shocked, trying to do the calculations in her head. “You must see a doctor. He can tell you when your baby will be born.”

“I know that myself, based on when my husband and I came together,” she said.

Perveen nodded, thinking again about the two glasses in Mr. Mukri’s room. Perhaps Mr. Farid wasn’t the father. “How many months until the birth?”

“Six months. Insha’Allah, my baby will be born during the rainy season.”

So it was likely that Mr. Farid was the baby’s father. She would not automatically doubt Mumtaz. On the other hand, Perveen remembered how Sakina had spoken dismissively of Mumtaz’s knowing Mr. Mukri from Falkland Road. He could believe Mumtaz owed him something for introducing her to Omar Farid.

“What are you thinking? Are you displeased there will be another baby?” Mumtaz sounded aggrieved.

“I’m happy for you,” Perveen said, trying to hide all the worries she felt. “I was only thinking you probably should tell Sakina-begum and Razia-begum, who may have guessed already. They were pregnant before. They know the signs, and they’ll make you feel better.”

Gingerly, she lay back down in bed. “I would fear that kind of assistance.”

“Why?”

Lowering her voice to a whisper, Mumtaz put a hand on her stomach. “Imagine if I’m carrying the household’s next son. Another heir. They will be jealous—Sakina-begum because she has a son and Razia-begum because she doesn’t. They might say it’s Mukri-sahib’s child and throw me out.”

She’d addressed what Perveen had been thinking about. Given Mukri’s power, his abuse of any of the wives was a possibility. And Mumtaz was lowest in the hierarchy.

For now, Perveen would not jump to that assumption. Mumtaz had shared a bedroom with Omar Farid for the five months leading to his death. “Your husband was still alive ten weeks ago. If the baby comes in August, there should not be any doubt.”

“It is many months until then. They could make my life very hard. I could lose the child or even my own life. How can I not feel endangered after the evil deed that occurred?”

Feeling a chill, Perveen pressed her arms around herself for comfort. If Faisal Mukri was the only one who could contradict Mumtaz’s claim of impregnation by her husband, she’d had reason to kill him.

“You are looking so angry,” Mumtaz said. “What are you thinking?”

Perveen loosened her grip on herself and forced a smile. “Sorry. I’m not angry; I’m thinking about many things. You have the worry for your growing baby. Razia has the sorrow of a missing child. And Sakina . . .” she trailed off, thinking. “Sakina is worried for everyone in the house. And her children are at risk, too.”

“Things will change for everyone after iddat finishes,” Mumtaz said. “Once the mourning time has passed, a widow can remarry. Probably both of them will do that. I shan’t, because my son will keep me too busy. As long as I can stay in this house, I don’t need a man’s support. And that could make those two very angry.”

Perveen tried to caution her. “You are just guessing that—”

“How will it be for Sakina, watching me all these months and wondering if I have a boy to compete with hers? And Razia-begum counts every paisa. There are four children now—a fifth would cause great expense. Better to get rid of me.” Mumtaz pressed a hand to her brow as if she were a film actress showing great agony.

“They cannot throw you out,” Perveen said. “Legally, you have the same rights as they do.”

In a trembling voice, Mumtaz said, “I could fall down the stairs in a terrible accident. I might die from eating bad food. This is the reason I keep to myself. They know that Fatima tastes everything for me before I eat it.”

“I offered to help you find a place to live when we spoke yesterday,” Perveen said, feeling wary of Mumtaz’s sudden show of desperation. “You fear for your life, but you want to remain here.”

“If I leave, my child’s claim on the estate becomes harder to prove; so I must endure.” Mumtaz’s voice was shaky. “I want him to grow up here, a Farid with wealth just like the others.”

It seemed clear Mumtaz had a plan for the rest of her life and wouldn’t be swayed. Perveen sighed. “Take care of yourself, Mumtaz-begum. I wasn’t able to give you my card yesterday, but here it is now. Telephone if you need me.”

The young wife nodded glumly. “I will do that. And I will make a prayer today for dear little Amina. May Allah protect her, just as I hope he protects me.”

25

The Scent of Rose

Bombay, February 1921

Before leaving, Perveen stopped in at the cooking hut to meet Iqbal, the elderly household cook. He had been at the market when the terrible event had occurred; he also had no idea about Amina’s disappearance. He was anxious to know how he could buy food for the house now that Mukri wasn’t providing any money. Perveen gave him ten rupees to cover the next few weeks’ expenses, asking him to write down what was bought. He smiled at the money but did not offer any more information.

At her direction, Arman drove her down Malabar Hill and back into the heart of Bombay. Their first stop in town was the Telegraph Building, where she dictated the telegram for Razia and requested that it be delivered to her family estate in Oudh. Next, Arman drove to the Zaveri Bazaar. A. H. Attarwala’s shop was one in a line selling attars: the alcohol-free essences of the most fragrant and healthful flowers, shrubs, and trees. Even though the vials and bottles were closed, the shop was heavy in scent. Perveen stopped breathing for a moment as she thought that these myriad fragrances, just like the secrets at the Farid house, couldn’t be completely suppressed.

Mr. Attarwala, the shop owner, was a small man in his eighties who wore a tall, stiff tarboosh that made him eight inches taller. He had a genial air and listened carefully to what she said.

Perveen introduced herself as the Farid family’s lawyer and asked about Mohsen.

“I know the fellow you speak of. His full name is Mohsen Dawai. He serves a gentleman who recently passed to paradise,” said Mr. Attarwala, stroking his long, flowing white beard. “Farid-sahib was a righteous man with good wives. Over the years, Mohsen has come to buy attar for the household members.”

“Did Mohsen shop here yesterday?”

“Yes, he arrived just after our late afternoon prayers. He purchased a vial of sandalwood attar.”

Perveen recalled Sakina talking about needing a rose attar to calm her nerves. “Are you sure it wasn’t rose oil? Rose is the attar that brings sleep and relieves anxiety, isn’t it?”

“I am an old man with an imperfect memory. Let me check that.” Mr. Attarwala invited her to follow him to a long counter crowded with bottles. From underneath, he brought up a large ledger book. “Here, here. Read it yourself.”

He pointed to a line. He had sold sandalwood attar, one bottle for two annas. She could see listed next to it Omar Farid, 22 Sea View Road. Sighing, he said, “I will add this to the tally. Every month, I send a bill to the Farid house. Mohsen said that once a lawyer fixes the estate, the account will be paid.”

Perveen went on alert. “Do you mean to say that Mohsen didn’t pay you yesterday?”

“He has not paid in six months. He tells me to add the charge to the running household bill. He asked me if I could recommend a good jeweler, too; but I cannot imagine a jeweler would accept his promise of credit,” the merchant added with a frown.

Mohsen’s interest in jewelry was significant; what if he’d robbed Sakina? In any case, if he was taking attar without paying, it might mean that he’d pocketed the money Sakina had given him for the errand. If this type of behavior had gone on for months, and bills were coming to the house, surely Mr. Mukri had known. Perhaps he’d confronted Mohsen about it—and this had led to the killing. “What is the exact amount you’re waiting for the Farid household to pay for all the past perfume expenses?”

“Let me go to the back of the book for that.” He turned pages of the book until he reached the right place, stabbing a finger at a line. “Yes. Last payment to us was made in October. The household owes four rupees sixty paise. And not just for attar: for skin oils and incense, too. If you are able to pay today, I will be pleased to give a receipt.”

Perveen looked down the line of expenses. There had been several bottles of rosewater attar purchased in the past, but it looked as if in the past six months the choice had been sandalwood—an oil more often used for erotic purposes.

Perveen opened her purse, examined what was left, and asked if he could please write a receipt for her in Hindi or English. Given the alacrity of his response, she suspected he might have been able to present a bill in German. She also requested him to write a statement detailing the time of Mohsen’s visit the day before, which he signed with a flourish.

“I am grateful to you, madam. This is a small gift for your kindness.” Mr. Attarwala put a tiny vial of pinkish liquid into her hand.

“What is it?”

“The rose scent. Once you smell it, I’m sure you will come back to buy more.”

Perveen hadn’t worn scent since she’d left her marriage—and that had been sandalwood. However, she thanked him for the attar and tucked it into her bag.

From the Zaveri Bazaar, it was only twenty minutes around the bay to the Malabar Hill Police Station on Ridge Road. The tile-roofed, yellow-stucco station looked very modern next to its elderly neighbor, a stone Jain temple dating from the early 1820s. A steady throng of barefoot Jains was coursing around the temple, not giving way for the constables. It was as if the fellows didn’t even exist. Perveen couldn’t help smiling at the sight.

Perveen stopped at the temple’s bakery window and bought a box of caraway-butter biscuits. Namkeen biscuits would be a practical item to give Mohsen, because they wouldn’t quickly spoil.

Perveen had visited different police stations around Bombay with her father, so she knew to go straight to the duty sergeant and present her business card. She opened her purse for it to be searched, as well as the small paper box of biscuits.

Taking one biscuit, the constable munched and swallowed before speaking. “He’s in the cell block.”

Perveen longed to tell the man to take his fat, ink-stained fingers out of the box, but she couldn’t. The message was clear; she had to give him something in exchange for service.

All the prisoner cells were in the basement; Mohsen was in a hot, smelly chamber with four men of varying ages. He was the only one in a uniform; the others were in rags. The fact that the durwan still wore the long-sleeved green uniform—the symbol of respectability and the Farid household—struck her as poignant.

Perveen couldn’t possibly speak to Mohsen in such an environment and in the presence of others. She made the point to the constable and a prison guard, who eventually agreed to allow Mohsen to accompany her to a nearby office room, which was better ventilated but had no amenities other than a table and two hard chairs.

As they sat down together, Mohsen looked uneasily at her. It was almost as if she’d come to the gate and he was once again hesitant to admit her.

“Do you remember me?” she asked. “I’m the Farids’ lawyer.”

“I know,” he said gruffly. “Why have you come?”

“Your children are very worried. I wanted to tell them what happened to you.” She handed him the box, which still had some biscuits in it. “You must be hungry.”

Mohsen finished all that was within before he spoke again. “Thank you. They have only given me bread and water.”

“What happened yesterday?” Perveen folded her arms on the table and settled in. There was no need to take notes yet; it might put Mohsen on edge.

“Sakina-begum needed attar from A. H. Attarwala’s shop,” he said in a monotone. “I did not wish to go, because the burra sahib had come home. But then I thought that he was inside for the evening. How would he know if I went off for such a short time? And the begums expect my services.”

And he needed money badly because he was no longer paid. “How did you travel to the bazaar?”

“I walked downhill and then caught a tram.”

“At Attarwala’s, you purchased sandalwood oil costing two annas. Didn’t Sakina-begum ask for rose attar?”

He shook his head vigorously. “She did not say the type, but I know what she wants. It is always sandalwood.”

At times, Perveen could still smell the sandalwood oil from her wedding night. Shaking herself, she asked, “What amount of money did Sakina-begum give you?”

His face became guarded. “One rupee, but some was gone for the tram cost.”

She suspected this was a partial truth. “Tell me—did you avoid telling the police about the errand at first because you wanted this trip to remain unknown?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding with seeming relief. “When they met me at the gate, I thought that Mukri-sahib had complained to them about me. That is why I said I was just away down the street rather than farther away; he would not like me performing duties for the widows. Little did I know the other durwans would be asked and then contradict me.”

“And what reason did the police give for arresting you?”

“They said because I lied about being with the durwans down the street, I must go with them to have my fingerprints checked. I said it was needless. The police made prints five years ago.”

“In what situation were they taken?” she asked, wondering if he had been charged with a crime.

Looking warily at her, he said, “I’d been working at the docks, and Farid-sahib told me I could work at the house. When I started, the police came around and took the prints. Most durwans in Bombay have their prints recorded with the police.”

Taking Mohsen here to be fingerprinted allowed the police to tell the press they had a suspect in custody. Furthermore, keeping him in the cell gave them the opportunity to force a confession if they never found anyone more suitable. “Did you ever tell the police you went to Zaveri Bazaar for Sakina-begum?”

“Yes, when I was questioned here. They looked at the attar I was carrying and said, ‘This means nothing.’”

“What happened to it?”

He hesitated a moment. “They took everything from my pocket and say they’re keeping it for now. Probably it’s gone,” he added glumly.

Recalling the many inconsistencies, Perveen knew it was time to press on. “I visited Attarwala-sahib this morning. He remembers everything about your visit yesterday and wrote an affidavit. That is a sworn statement of the timing and so on.”

“He said I was there?” A hopeful smile appeared on Mohsen’s long face.

“He also shared this long list of purchases you made on behalf of the begums that weren’t paid for with the petty cash they gave you,” she said crisply. “At his request, I settled that bill.”

“I wish I could pay,” he mumbled. “But I cannot.”

It was hard to maintain composure when she wanted to shout at him, demanding that he acknowledge his thieving. “You took money from Sakina-begum yesterday, and I know you have done the same with the others. What are you buying with the begums’ money?”

“There is a lotion for skin—very expensive—made by a doctor. I’ve been putting it on Zeid for a year now. The mark is lightening, so perhaps he will find a paying position somewhere. We will have a better life, Insha’Allah.”

Perveen opened her notebook now and made the notes on Mohsen’s testimony that she had held back from making earlier, while he was talking. Then she read it all back to Mohsen, who nodded along with it.

“That is the truth,” he pronounced gloomily.

“I know you asked Mr. Attarwala about a jeweler. Did you take any jewelry from the house?”

Now he looked incensed. “Certainly not. I am not a thief; I am a house guard!”

Perveen nodded, resolving to ask the women to look through their jewelry collections when she saw them. “Do you know anything about Mukri-sahib that might have led to his death?” She stared at Mohsen, looking for evidence of hesitation. “I know he tried to steal funds from the begums. What kinds of things did you notice?”

His eyes glittered with emotion. “He was a bad man. He only got his place at the factory because of being in the family. He did nothing to earn it.”

This sounded similar to what her father had heard. “Do you know if he was into any type of business outside of work? Did strange men come around or . . . even ladies?”

He shook his head sharply. “Nobody came. He liked keeping that house for himself.”

“Thank you, Mohsen.” Perveen stood and slid her notebook back into her briefcase.

“Will you go back to the bungalow?”

She shook her head. “I’ve got other things to do first. I shall visit them tomorrow.”

“Will the police allow me to place a call to the bungalow? I would like to speak with Sakina-begum.”

She imagined that he’d make a plea for Sakina to tell the police about the errand. “I’ll ask them. I will also show Mr. Attarwala’s statement about your purchase to the police.”

Mohsen had a spring in his step when the guard led him back to his cell. The same guard escorted Perveen upstairs. Taking a breath of good air, she tried to collect her thoughts. She had read Mohsen correctly as a disagreeable man from the minute she’d first pulled up in the car. Taking the money the begums gave him to buy items for them was an example of bad character. However, if it was true that he’d spent the begums’ money on his son’s skin cream, he had some kind of heart.

Upstairs in the Malabar Hill Station, Perveen approached the man she’d dubbed Sergeant Biscuit, who was now enjoying a cup of chai. “Sergeant, I need to speak with an officer,” she said. “I have information regarding the prisoner I visited.”

He smiled as if she were a child asking to see a busy elder. “It is not our investigation. That is the business of CID downtown.”

“But the prisoner is being housed here. Which officer is responsible for him?”

Sergeant Biscuit looked at the closed door behind him. “Chief Fisher is holding a meeting. I don’t know how long it will take.”

She could hear a rumble of voices behind the door.

“I shall wait.” Perveen seated herself on the edge of a wooden bench in the waiting area. She was among an assortment of depressed and anxious-looking people. She imagined many of them had relatives stuck in the cells below.

The door opened, and two Englishmen came out. One was middle-aged and plump, wearing a tight white uniform with some swags of braid across the chest. She guessed he was Chief Fisher. The red-faced, younger man was Inspector Vaughan from the day before. With them was Sub-Inspector Singh, who gaped at the sight of her.

“Good afternoon,” she said, nodding at the group.

Inspector Vaughan’s face was blank—as if he didn’t recognize her. Well, she’d been sweaty and bedraggled the day before; now she felt fresh, in a starched green cotton sari with delicate chikankari stitching and a necklace, bangles, and earrings of Hyderabad pearls.

Chief Fisher gave her a dismissive glance. “If this is related to a family member, please speak with the public defender.”

“No, thank you. I am a solicitor in private practice,” she said crisply. “I have some information relating to the death yesterday at twenty-two Sea View Road.”

At the words “Sea View,” both white men looked at her sharply.

“Madam, who did you say you are?” Chief Fisher demanded.

“She is a lawyeress named Miss Perveen Mistry,” Sub-Inspector Singh said quickly. “Her father represents the late Mr. Farid. The two Mistrys assisted us yesterday.”

“Come into the office.” The Malabar police chief’s voice was curt.

After the door closed the four of them in, Fisher settled into a large chair upholstered in leather behind a wide mahogany desk. There were just two other chairs in the room: slant-backed campaign-style chairs. Vaughan took the one closest to Fisher. That left one chair for either Perveen or Singh. The Sikh glanced at Perveen and gestured for her to take the chair. While Perveen hadn’t liked him calling her a lawyeress, she felt guilty taking the chair; his mannerism made her think he was used to being the one left standing.

“May I explain?” Perveen asked, giving her attention to Chief Fisher. After he nodded, she said, “I’ve spoken with two people regarding the activities of Mohsen Dawai, the Farids’ durwan, who is in custody downstairs. What I’ve learned is important for you to know.”

“We’ve reported the facts already,” Vaughan said with a sneer. “First Mohsen said he was chatting with the boys down the street, and then he claimed he went shopping. What’s the latest lie?”

Perveen would not respond to his slur. In a steady voice, she said, “I spoke to Mrs. Sakina Farid, who’d asked Mohsen to buy a vial of attar around three-thirty yesterday, which was the reason he was missing from his post. Just like you gentlemen, I had no reason to believe this was the truth. Therefore, I traveled to the shop in the Zaveri Bazaar where Sakina-begum had sent him. Mr. Attarwala confirmed Mohsen’s arrival shortly after four-thirty and submitted an affidavit about the purchase and the time Mohsen was in the shop.”

“A nice excuse for a trip to a perfume shop,” Inspector Vaughan said with a laugh. “Did you get something for yourself?”

He was dismissing her, just like the men had at the Government Law School. Perveen felt anger rising but remembered how her father’s smooth approach tended to serve him well. “My point is, Attarwala gave Mohsen the product he purchased. Mohsen said that the police who checked him in at this station removed his possessions for safekeeping. Do you still have the attar he bought, or did it somehow disappear?”

Chief Fisher spoke up. “I was the officer present when he was taken into custody. There was only the vial and a bag containing his other purchase.”

Instead of saying what she really wanted to say—why didn’t you let him go?—she asked, “What is it?”

The three men exchanged glances.

“Might it be a skin cream?” Perveen asked.

“Yes,” Inspector Vaughan said.

“A medical treatment for his son. Mohsen had to go to the apothecary, also in the bazaar, for it. I’m sure you could check up on that, if you think it’s necessary.”

Inspector Vaughan cleared his throat. Roughly, he said, “Is there a reason you wish the fellow downstairs to be freed? I met your father, and he didn’t mention anyone was representing the durwan.”

“As the family’s solicitors, we are invested in making sure that the household is protected by someone. My father and I left twenty-two Sea View Road yesterday with an assurance of round-the-clock police protection for three secluded widows and their small children. But the police left the place before night fell and still haven’t returned.”

“They didn’t stay because I didn’t put in a request,” Inspector Vaughan said icily. “A suspect was taken into custody. There was no continuing threat.”

“In any case, police are assigned duty at my discretion. The sub-inspector should never have told you there would be coverage without his superior’s request to me.” Chief Fisher glowered at Singh.

The fact that they’d left the women unprotected with a murderer on the loose caused Perveen’s temper to spark.

“Perhaps you think this is trivial because it wasn’t a European household that was attacked,” she said. “The problem is, this is an Indian city. If you want law and order in the town, you need to protect all people.”

If only she could tell them that their negligence had caused a young girl from the household to vanish.

Sub-Inspector Singh had such a look of tension on his face that Perveen almost wished she hadn’t made the comment. She imagined he might agree with her, but in the hierarchy, he was powerless.

“Why would you want that watchman back? He’s not much of a watchman if he wandered off and allowed a murderer to enter!” Inspector Vaughan said defensively.

“Just like your policemen, he had to respect a direct order.” Perveen gathered up the receipt and affidavit she’d placed on the desk. “Thank you for the chance to directly provide this information on the watchman’s whereabouts. I shall not waste any more of my time.”

Chief Fisher coughed. “Actually—before you go, let the sergeant make a copy of that affidavit.”

Perveen paused, keeping the paper in hand. “I will certainly oblige, but in exchange, I was wondering if you might allow Mohsen Dawai to make a telephone call. He wishes to speak with Mrs. Sakina Farid.”

Sub-Inspector Singh looked at his superior. “Sir, if the begum is on the telephone, we can speak to her as well. Perhaps we’ll learn more than we did yesterday.”

“All right, then.” Vaughan shot Perveen a poisonous look. She had embarrassed him in front of his colleague.

“I have the number,” Perveen said, writing it down. She was careful to keep her face expressionless, though she hardly felt that way. She was outraged the police would have kept Mohsen Dawai locked up without real evidence. And for the first time, she’d realized what her power as a lawyer really meant.