“What can I tell you, detective?” Christa asked as they settled with their coffees at a table in the hospital cafeteria.
Devon had already realized that Mrs Shaw’s daughter didn’t have much use for the social niceties. She wasted little time on preliminaries but dove straight into the reason they were here, sharing a wonky table and coffees in the hospital cafeteria.
“Were you close to your mother, Ms Shaw?”
She shrugged. “Close enough. I don’t see her as much as I’d like, what with touring and publicity junkets. But we get on well, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Did she interact much with her neighbours?”
“I don’t know,” Christa said truthfully. “Perhaps. I don’t think so, though. She mostly keeps to herself. Mum’s a very private person.”
“What about your cousin, Adesh Patel, and his family? Is she close with them?”
“She and my aunt had a falling out when Mum married my father. He wasn’t Goan, and he was a Catholic. So he had two strikes against him.” She glanced at him. “He drank, and he beat my mother. But she stayed with him until he left, when I was twelve. He never returned.”
“I see. And was your father English?”
“Irish,” she said. “He kept her from her family. I don’t know why, exactly. I suspect he was embarrassed by them. He didn’t like India and he despised Mumbai.”
“I’m sorry.” Devon met her clear turquoise gaze.
“Don’t be.” She reached for her handbag. “My father was a shit, detective, and we were far better off without him than with him. To answer your question, my mum and her sister patched things up, eventually. Mum is very fond of Adesh.”
“What about you? You grew up in Bethnal Green.”
“Yes.”
“Do you still live there?”
“No. Now, if there’s nothing else…” she pushed back her chair and stood “I need to find my mother’s new room.”
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem.” Devon stood as well and crumpled his cup, then lobbed it into a nearby bin. “Time I was off. I’ll let you know if anything comes to light in your mother’s case.”
Her smile was tired but kind. “Thank you. You’ve been very…considerate.”
“Considerate?” he echoed. “That’s not one I normally hear. I’m glad you’ll be here when your mother wakes up.”
She nodded. “You have my number?”
“Yes, I got it from Dr Abrams.”
“All right then. Call me if you have any more questions. Good night, detective.”
“Good night, Ms Shaw.”
Early the next morning, a nurse drew the curtains back from Deepa Shaw’s bed with a rattle of rings. “You have a visitor,” she announced. “Your daughter is here to see you.”
Christa nodded her thanks to the nurse and approached the hospital bed. She’d slept – badly – in a cot in the anteroom just outside. Her mother looked frail, and smaller than she remembered, propped against the pillows in a semi-reclining position. Her hands fluttered stop the sheet like small brown birds.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Deepa murmured.
“Of course I’m here! Where else would I be?” Christa leaned in to kiss her mother’s cheek, then picked up her hand and squeezed it gently. “I spent the night on a cot outside your door. How are you feeling?”
“I don’t feel like dancing,” she admitted, and her smile turned into a grimace. “Why are you here?” she added. “You should be singing somewhere, or doing your interviews.”
“Never mind all that. What happened, Mum?” Christa asked quietly as she dragged a chair next to the bed and sat down. “Tell me.”
“There isn’t much to tell.” Mrs Shaw folded her hands together against the sheets. “Mena called and said she was making her daal and needed fenugreek, and the local market was closed, so I told her to send Adesh to fetch it.”
“And he did,” Christa pointed out. “He drove to your house with his girlfriend, Mum, but you weren’t there.”
Her mother sighed. “Yes, yes, I know. After I checked the cupboards, I discovered I didn’t have any. So I decided to walk to the market myself. It isn’t far.”
“No,” Christa agreed sharply, “but you shouldn’t go out alone at dusk – or during the day, for that matter. What were you thinking? Why didn’t you wait for Adesh and send him out to get it? Never mind that,” she said, hushing her mother’s protests, “just tell me what happened.”
Deepa lapsed back against the pillows. “I was nearly to the market when I heard popping sounds. They were loud, and close by.”
“Gunshots,” Christa said grimly.
Her mother nodded. “Yes, although I didn’t realize it at the time. It happened so fast…” She paused. “Two men ran towards me, out of breath. They seemed agitated. They had on jackets, with hoods, and I couldn’t see their faces. They saw me, and I froze. One of them said something to the other, and then…” Deepa twisted her hands together. “Then I heard another loud pop, when one of them shot me.”
Rage suffused Christa’s face. How could anyone fire on a defenceless woman? Who would do such a terrible thing? She gripped the sides of her chair with white-tipped knuckles to contain her fury.
“I felt a burning pain in my hip, and I fell to the pavement. The last thing I remember was the sound of their feet as they ran past me.”
“What did they say?” Christa demanded. “You said one of them spoke just before they shot you. What did he say?”
Her mother shook her head. “I don’t know. I couldn’t understand him. He spoke another language.” She hesitated. “I am not sure, but I think it might have been Turkish.”