Cath Staincliffe - Dead Wrong

I hate throwing plants away so to soften the blow I took some small stem cuttings from the carnations and potted them up. I knew they were probably not worth the effort but it made me feel better. Earlier I had got the sun-lounger out. Faint hope. It was already school-time and I hadn’t paused. I washed my hands and wandered down the road to collect Maddie and Tom.

Someone in the Khan household had a love of antique furniture. The place looked like something out of a stately home; exquisite inlaid bureaux, corner cupboards and a collection of miniatures and cameos on one wall. The air was fragrant with scent from a vase of lilies. A grandfather clock tick-tocked crisply.

At first Dr Khan was impeccably polite and cold as ice. He offered me tea and when I accepted he asked the young woman I’d seen at the end of the hall to bring it for us.

‘My daughter,’ he explained, ‘she has just finished her Finals.’

‘What’s she doing?’

He indicated a chair, Regency I think, stripy anyway. ‘Optometry.’

Oh. I couldn’t think of any useful small talk to make about that; I wasn’t even certain what it was, though I knew it had to do with eyes. ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ I said. ‘I’ve been employed by Mr Wallace, as I explained.’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s convinced of his son’s innocence and, as you know, Luke is pleading not guilty.’

‘There were witnesses,’ he said sharply. The light reflected off his glasses as he straightened in his chair

“Witnesses can make mistakes.’

‘That will be for the jury to decide. This is not pleasant for me. If you will come to the point.’

‘I’m sorry, I realise it must be difficult having to go over it again. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was important. I’m trying to establish exactly what happened. I’ll be talking to everybody I can find, if you can tell me the sequence of events that night?’

He cleared his throat softly. Leant forward, arms resting on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. ‘Ahktar and his friends went to the party at the nightclub.’

‘You knew he was going?’

‘Yes, he was a good boy, he’d been working hard, we were happy to see him have fun too.’ He swallowed.

‘You knew his friends?’

‘Yes, they came here sometimes, they seemed nice enough.’

Our drinks arrived. I’d been half-expecting cups and saucers with all the threat of slops in the saucer and the problem of how to write whilst needing two hands for the crockery, but she’d brought mugs. I took mine thankfully. As she closed the door Dr Khan resumed his story.

‘The hospital rang about half past three. They wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone, they just said Ahktar had been hurt. I imagined that there had been a car crash. I don’t know why, it was my first thought – the taxi home…’ He took a deep breath, pressed his fist to his mouth, released the air slowly through his knuckles.

‘At the hospital I was taken into an anteroom. I knew as soon as I saw the doctor’s face. He was so young, he looked as if he had some guilty secret. “I’m very sorry,” he said, “Ahktar was admitted here earlier this morning, we tried to revive him but we weren’t able to. I’m sorry.” I asked then if it had been a car crash. He told me Ahktar had been stabbed – a single blow. They had no other details but the police had been involved; they wanted to see me after I’d-’ Dr Khan jumped to his feet; he took a couple of steps away, his back to me, and stood facing the gallery of miniatures on the wall.

I concentrated on my notepad. He removed his glasses and wiped at them with a large white handkerchief. When he began to speak again he continued to face the paintings. ‘I must have been over it a hundred times,’ his voice was husky, ‘but still…I had to identify him, my son.’ His voice shrank to a whisper, he pressed the handkerchief to his mouth.

I swallowed hard.

‘The police asked me lots of questions but I have little recollection of them now. They did ask me about Luke Wallace, and I wondered whether he had been hurt too, but they never answered me.’ He turned towards me then, his eyes damp, wide with pain. ‘And then I had to come home and tell my wife,’ he said bitterly, ‘our only son.’ He paused. ‘He was going to study law, you know. Ironic, isn’t it?’

I kept quiet.

‘He wanted justice. Well, now I want justice.’

‘You wouldn’t want the wrong person convicted though?’

He looked at me quizzically.

‘Luke Wallace asked me to tell you that he didn’t hurt Ahktar. He’s devastated by his death.’

‘The court will decide.’

‘But you seem to have made up your mind already.’

‘People saw him do it. The police have statements. There was an argument. What am I supposed to think?’ He raised his voice, anger flashing in his eyes.

‘Luke had no reason-’ I began.

‘Ahktar’s death is senseless!’ he shouted. ‘There can be no reason, it is beyond reason.’ Silence stretched in the wake of his outburst. ‘We may never discover why Ahktar was killed,’ he said, ‘but I will learn how. The facts become terribly important, I’ve noticed this in my own practice, with accidental death, with suicides. The details, the time, the place, the sequence; it helps to know. Please, Miss Kilkenny, I have nothing else to say.’

I put down my mug and got to my feet. ‘You said something about an argument?’

He sighed. Pinched at the bridge of his nose. ‘Zeb, Rangzeb, Ahktar’s cousin was there that night. He saw them arguing. It came out at the committal hearing.’

‘What was it about?’

‘I’ve no idea. Speak to Zeb.’

There are many reasons why people agree to talk to private investigators. A lot of them simply like the attention; they like to be listened to, to have a new audience for their account. It may be that there aren’t very many people they can tell, or those they have told don’t want to hear it again. Someone like me comes along who is passionately interested in what they have to say, and they feel validated, important, responsible again.

If the circumstances were upsetting, the visit from an investigator can be a chance to get it all out in the open once more. Other people don’t realise they have a choice, and some would consider it ill-mannered to refuse.

In Zeb’s case, as I later discovered, he had good reasons for wanting to appear co-operative, since he had something to hide. Like the Siddiqs. Trouble was, he couldn’t quite carry it off. His personality got the better of him.

I’d rung the bell twice and was about to give up when the intercom crackled. I put my face close to the speaker.

‘Sal Kilkenny. I’d like to speak to Zeb Khan.’

The buzzer sounded and I pushed the door and went into the lobby. I was glad to find him awake – if he’d been playing the tables the previous night he might not have got to bed till after sunrise.

The flats, a block of eight, were set in landscaped gardens with parking at the back. Each flat occupied a corner position with picture windows on either side.

Zeb’s flat was on the first floor. He opened his door but didn’t invite me in, ‘What is it?’

‘I’m investigating Ahktar’s death,’ I said, ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

His expression shifted but I couldn’t read it. Embarrassment? Discomfort? Ahktar had been his cousin, after all.

He stood back and let me in. The living room smelt of stale cigarette smoke and fresh coffee. The space was bland; neutral shades for everything, no pictures or ornaments, no plants. Comfortable, clean but impersonal. Zeb obviously didn’t bother making statements with his interior decoration but his clothes were another matter. He wore the latest designer styles, an Armani T shirt and Calvin Klein jeans. It was easy to tell – the labels were on the outside, writ large.