We had arranged to meet for breakfast, but Ayesha did not appear. The heat seemed to have moved up a notch; even the hotel’s powerfully cooled interior was beginning to turn sticky. I had finished eating and was about to ring Ayesha’s room when she walked up to the table and slumped in a chair. She was wearing dark glasses.
‘Sorry. Sorry for keeping you waiting. I see you’ve finished. Anyway, I only want a coffee.’
She clicked her fingers to the waiter, who bowed and went to fetch her order.
‘I’m fine. You don’t need to say anything. What’s Imran got fixed for us?’
She appeared less resentful now, less angry. The suggestion of a possible exoneration for her dead father had attenuated her indignation.
‘ “Good morning, Ayesha . . .” Isn’t that what people usually say when they meet? Don’t they usually ask how we slept and stuff like that?’
‘Very funny. Thanks for reminding me. Why don’t you just answer the question . . .’
Her words were spiked, but there was a hint of a smile.
‘Well, Imran’s already rung,’ I said. ‘He’s arranged for us to meet a senior commander in the Karachi Police Department. Apparently he and Imran were at university in London together. Imran thinks this fellow will be able to persuade – or order – our friend Inspector Iqbal to talk to us.’
Ayesha nodded. ‘Okay. That sounds helpful. And what do you make of the things Imran was saying last night – about my dad’s land purchases? Who is this patwari person he was talking about?’
‘I asked Imran about that when he rang this morning. The patwari is the local official who records land sales. Like a land registrar in the UK, I suppose; but Imran says it’s more complicated here and we need to be on our guard when we’re dealing with him. He’ll explain when he sees us.’
Imran arrived as Ayesha was finishing her coffee. He bade her good morning, asked if she had slept well and looked surprised when I laughed. Imran said his friend, Commander Zaid Alam, would be joining us shortly, but he wanted to explain a few things before we met him.
‘Zaid is a top policeman and I can vouch for his honesty. He is highly educated; he runs a tight ship, but he is beholden to the system of policing that pertains in Pakistan. This is not the UK. Police and politicians work closely here. And this can lead to corruption. Zaid knows full well that cops like Iqbal Hafiz take bribes. It is not ideal, but it has been like that for centuries.’
‘Thank you, Imran,’ Ayesha said. ‘We understand. And we’re grateful to your friend for helping us get to see Inspector Iqbal. Can I just ask about what you were saying last night concerning my father’s land purchases? You said the patwari might be able to help us . . .’
‘I hope so; but again I think it will depend on how we approach things. Like the police, patwaris exercise unchecked power. They alone draw up the records of land sales and transfers, boundaries and legal titles. Civil servants are rarely monitored by the centre, so they are masters in their own kingdoms. Tampering with the records is rampant. Land-grabbing crooks pay patwaris billions of rupees to get property illegally transferred to their names, leaving the real owners bereft. Even feudal lords seek their favour and they escape punishment because of their political connections. The patwari who dealt with your father had great power over him; he could register the land to whomever he wished, and could be bribed or threatened into favouring the most persuasive party. That sort of thing has caused countless feuds and murders. So my first thought was that something of this ilk may be at the root of your father’s troubles. When we go to see the patwari, we need to be very aware of this . . .’
Imran stood up and waved across the lobby. A tall, athletic man in a white shirt with epaulettes was striding towards us accompanied by a retinue of uniformed policemen.
‘Zaid!’ Imran thrust out his hand and the two men embraced. ‘It is good to see you. Thank you for coming . . .’
‘Not a problem, my friend. I am here officially to check on the security of this hotel and its many distinguished Western visitors.’ He smiled in our direction and Imran made the introductions. A representative of the hotel management arrived with two waiters, inviting us to sit at a fresh table on which they spread a selection of snacks and drinks, while the uniformed officers stood guard. Zaid was patently a man of influence.
‘How can I help?’ he said as the waiters fussed. ‘Imran has told me the essentials of your inquiry. I know you have concerns about the conduct of some of my men. Please tell me what I can do.’
I began to explain about Ibrahim Rahman’s murder and our suspicions that the Kahin Nahi police had been bribed to let his killers go free. Zaid listened politely; when he spoke it was clear that he had read the file.
‘Let me say this: Kahin Nahi is probably the most dangerous and crime-ridden neighbourhood of the dangerous, crime-ridden city we call home. Inspector Iqbal Hafiz is a difficult man; he is rude and ruthless, and he is almost certainly corrupt. But his methods keep a lid on the violence, which is an achievement. It is a terrible thing when evil men get away with evil deeds; but sometimes policemen must choose between two evils. In Karachi compromise is a way of life, and the noblest of us are flawed. We are forced to make backroom deals and trade-offs between principle and power—’
‘But this is my father we are talking about!’ Ayesha’s anger had returned. ‘How can you sit there and talk about compromise? How can you defend men like Iqbal who have taken money to cover up for criminals?’
‘I do not defend them,’ Zaid said. ‘I am explaining to you the background against which these events took place. I am aware that corruption happens. If it goes too far, then I intervene. But this is how the system functions; you cannot eradicate it without everything breaking down. I will tell Iqbal that he must speak to you. Then it is up to you to decide where the truth lies.’
Zaid tapped in a number on his mobile phone and was answered immediately. He spoke briefly in Urdu and clicked the phone off.
‘I have told Iqbal. He is expecting you . . .’
Imran laughed. ‘Zaid-ji, how do you do that? I called Iqbal for days and he never answered!’
‘Are you naïve, Imran-ji? All police have two phones – one for the public that they never pick up and one for important calls; I got the second one. Now, how are you planning to get to Kahin Nahi?’
Imran said he would drive us in his car, but Zaid looked dubious.
‘For you and for Ms Rahman, of course, that is fine. The problem is Martin. We are experiencing a spike in carjackings, in which Westerners are prize targets. On that score Martin sahib sticks out like a sore finger . . .’
I began to say I was willing to take the risk, but Zaid raised a hand.
‘I cannot allow you to go unaccompanied. Daniel Pearl was abducted in broad daylight in this city right outside the Metropole Hotel and ended up with his throat being slit on camera. I shall provide a detail of my men to take you to Kahin Nahi.’