I didn’t see Ayesha for over a week after our trip to Burnley. There had been too many instances of her concealing or trying to conceal potentially important information. I understood her desire for her father to be innocent and for any book to portray him in a positive light, but working relationships like these have to be based on trust.
I asked Ayesha for a meeting and she agreed we should have one. I suggested a time but she said she was busy; I suggested another but she wasn’t sure she could make it. I asked her to pick a date and she did so, but texted at the last minute to say she was tied up. The same thing happened again. Ayesha’s excuses became less and less credible.
I told her she would have to make her mind up: if she wanted to be part of the book I was planning, she would have to commit herself. Otherwise I could either drop the whole thing or write a fictionalised version of the story without her input. She rang to invite me to her apartment.
On the way to Maida Vale I resolved that I would not leave without clearing the air, without getting to the bottom of all the hints and half-revelations. Ayesha said she had arranged another conference call with Masood Jilani, the private detective in Kahin Nahi. She hoped I would take my invitation to be present as an indication of her good faith. She apologised for her silence, said she had been feeling particularly sad and thanked me for my patience.
Masood Jilani rang punctually. He had news of the police investigation into Ibrahim’s murder and the news wasn’t good. Inspector Iqbal, the Kahin Nahi Station In-Charge, had released the two miscreants he had been holding on suspicion of poisoning Ayesha’s father.
‘It was a charade from the very start,’ Masood said. ‘Just as I told you, the police were arresting these fellows only for fobbing us off. And look, they succeeded. You have gone to England, Inspector Iqbal has got you off his shoulders and now he can collect more bribes from whomever is paying the cover-up. We are back at number one square.’
I spoke first. ‘Masood, I’m sorry, that sounds ridiculous. If everyone knows the police are on the take and that they’re arresting people and releasing them on a whim – or on payment – why don’t the authorities stop it? Surely the Pakistani government wouldn’t tolerate such blatant corruption . . .’
Masood found my ignorance exasperating. ‘It is very simple, Martin sahib. In rural areas the police have to be self-financing. They don’t get money from the government, or at least not enough to operate on. In the old days they were entitled to food and support from the community; local farmers had to bring them milk and bread. But that has gone. So now they have to find ways to supplement their inadequate salaries. In big cities police skim off the profits from illegal operations like gambling and prostitution. But there is less of that in the countryside, so they need other revenues. And chiefly that means raking in money from crime perpetrators and crime victims. They take bribes from both sides; from criminals wanting to avoid prosecution and victims wanting the criminals prosecuted. The outcome of a case depends very often on who pays biggest bribe.’
I tried to interrupt, but Masood was in full flow.
‘One very common trick of rural police is that they prepare two First Investigation Reports, each implicating different people. So they can tap both sets of suspects for money to get one FIR acted on and other one thrown out. Also they insert as many names as possible in FIR to increase number of people who will pay to get their name taken out. And since actual criminals are usually wealthiest of all, they pay biggest bribes and get excluded from the investigation.’
‘But what about my father, Masood?’ Ayesha asked. ‘What have you discovered about him?’
‘Well, this is what I am trying to tell you, Miss Rahman; but Martin sahib deflected me with somewhat irrelevant questioning. I beg leave to report I have discovered more about those mafia types I was mentioning before, especially about Javed Shafik and those extortion scams I was referring you to. Javed Shafik is kingpin in Kahin Nahi and it appears he is threatening farmers and small landowners until they sell him their land for only just a song, then he makes big profits by selling it onwards. He also has close acquaintanceship with political classes, and in this latest instance I am hearing he got a bogus contract from the government ministry to build some hydro dam freshwater supply scheme near to Kahin Nahi. He would get a very large payment, but the contract and construction are all fictional; payment is just a reward for Javed Shafik’s boys bumping off politicians’ opponents or other such deeds. Well and good. But the problem for Javed is he has to make some steps to actually building this damn dam. At very least he needs to acquire that land on which he has told the political wallahs he would build it. And actually this looks bad for us. Because I have suspicions that your uncle Ahmed was involved in Shafik’s scam dealings and now I fear your father was also. Why? Because that land I mentioned Ibrahim was buying up is slap bang in middle of the territory where this dam is supposed to be built!’
Ayesha’s face fell. ‘So you think my father was in cahoots with Shafik . . . with the land mafia?’
‘At the moment, memsahib, I do not have all the facts; but there is one way of finding out. You remember that tiger I was previously stalking? The Kahin Nahi Police know more about this caboodle than they have been divulging. So I have served notice on our friend Inspector Iqbal. I recently paid a visit to police headquarters and asked them some very relevant questions. The police boys I spoke to were excessively friendly; and that usually means they have something to hide. When they realised I suspected their game, they offered me money. I told them to keep their bribes. They are covering up for someone, memsahib, but Masood Jilani is no shrinking violet. I shall force whoever is behind this to come crawling out of the woodwork!’
When Ayesha put the phone down she looked so distressed that I abandoned my intention to confront her. Three days later she rang to say she needed to see me urgently. She’d had a telegram from Kahin Nahi. Masood Jilani had been shot. He was in hospital with a bullet in his spine.