Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

Henry jumped up and hurried through to an interview room to await the arrival of Khan and his solicitor. He was surprised when only Khan was escorted through by a gaoler. He sat down opposite Henry, clearly crushed and worried.

‘Where’s your brief?’

‘Sacked him.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘I don’t think he was very wise.’

‘What do you want to tell me?’ Henry unwrapped a double-pack of cassette tapes and dropped them into the machine.

Khan took a deep, unsteady breath.

Not even 125 mph was fast enough for Henry Christie. As the early morning Virgin Express Pendolino service left the environs of London and scythed north-west towards Rugby, even his full English breakfast, as good as it was, hardly tickled his taste buds. Once again he read through the twelve-page statement he had painstakingly extracted from Dr Sanjay Khan, the man he had suspected of murdering Sabera Ismat — or, as Khan had corrected him, Sabera Rashid.

On the previous evening Henry had listened with fascination, and then with a chilled heart, as Khan spilled the truth and recounted the story of a beautiful young woman whose hopes of freedom and a decent life had been cruelly terminated.

It took him half an hour to haltingly tell the tale the first time round, after which Henry took him from the suspect interview room and found a more comfortable room in the police station in which he could get Khan to relax and expand on everything whilst Henry recorded the statement on paper.

It was clear that Khan was a man who, underneath his veneer of being a normal GP and police surgeon on the side, lived in fear. He looked desolate, afraid.

‘Yes, we fell in love,’ he said painfully, tears welling in his eyes. ‘It was wrong, but it was also very, very right.’

Henry made a guggling sound to encourage him.

‘All she wanted was freedom, the right to be her own person, to follow her vocation, but that was denied her by a tyrant of a husband who beat and raped her most horribly … we met at university and we were just good friends, though there was a spark.’ He looked desperately at Henry. ‘We knew she would return to get married and that was accepted between us, so nothing happened in those days …’ His story was all over the place at first, but Henry allowed him his ramble before putting structure to it. ‘Then she came back to me out of the blue … I’d never married … and she told me she had left her husband and wanted a new life. God, it was so hard for her … so much pressure on her from inside and outside, but she knew that when she had made that step, returning was out of the question … those photographs you showed me … taken by a private investigator?’

‘I think so.’

‘So she was tracked down, got careless I suppose. Her husband had that sort of money, though. He is quite wealthy, I believe.’ Khan paused. ‘That night, the night of the photographs, was the last night I ever saw her …’

Henry was running these words through his mind when the train began to slow down, then stop … in the middle of nowhere. South of Milton Keynes, he guessed. The regretful announcement was that there would be a short delay whilst a broken down train ahead of them was removed from the lines. Henry cursed, but smiled when the pretty stewardess appeared by his side offering more coffee. There was nothing he could do about any delays. Not as though he could get out and kick the wheels, call the AA or remonstrate with anyone. If a train ain’t going nowhere, it ain’t going nowhere. He held up his cup. The coffee was good.

Dressed in jeans, trainers and leather jacket, he relaxed in the business-class seat. He was at an individual table so he stretched out and thought back to the evening.

‘What happened that night?’ he had asked Khan.

Khan snorted, shaking his head sadly. ‘She had been in London for about six months. She was working hard, doing well, and we were falling in love slowly, at arm’s length, yeah? To leave her husband was one thing for a Muslim girl; to start seeing another man whilst still married, that’s a whole new ball game. Very big stuff for a Muslim female. Monumental, in fact. But it started to happen and the irony was that it happened on that night of all nights.’

‘Meaning?’

Khan sat back, remembering. ‘Romantic meal, romantic stroll across the river, back to my flat where’ — he hesitated with an embarrassed cough — ‘we made love.’

Henry nodded, feeling very sorry for this man. Not that he was going to let him off the hook, though. He’d been spun many a lying sob story by murderers trying to get sympathy and walk free. ‘And after that, you never saw her again?’

Khan nodded.

‘Meaning you killed her? Isn’t that right?’

‘No! Never!’ he protested.

Henry gave him a look of disbelief. ‘Keep talking.’

‘She stayed the night at my flat … and at about four in the morning, something like that, the door was kicked in-’ He stopped abruptly at that point and dropped his head into his hands, beginning to sob. Henry let him get it out of his system.

Finally, when it looked as though he had finished his snivelling, Henry said, ‘The husband?’

‘Him and three other guys. They came in hard and fast and I didn’t do a damn thing to protect her. They put tape over her face, tied her up and rolled her into my duvet and carried her out. And I just watched. I was shitting myself.’

‘You just watched?’

‘Yeah — with one guy holding a knife to my throat.’ He raised his chin and pointed to a small, silvery scar by his windpipe.

‘Ahh,’ said Henry, understanding.

‘Then I was warned off, I guess by Sabera’s husband, although he didn’t introduce himself.’

‘That was it? They warned you off?’ Henry said incredulously.

‘They beat me with canes, just on my body and legs, so no one could see.’

‘Any marks to prove this?’

‘They’re still there.’

Henry sat back. ‘I’m still not sure whether I believe you.’

‘It’s the truth.’

‘When did you next hear from her?’

‘Never.’

‘Did you try to contact her?’

‘I didn’t dare … I was under threat.’

‘Didn’t you wonder what had happened to her? I mean, it all seems a bit thin to me.’

Khan suddenly stood up, knocking his chair over backwards, and leaned on the table, looking down at Henry with something burning in his eyes. ‘I have lived a nightmare every day, Mr Christie.’ His jaw rotated as he spoke. ‘I have not slept a full night’s sleep for six months. I am screwed up with guilt and shame, but at the same time I made myself believe Sabera was OK. Not happy, but OK. Alive and back living the miserable existence she had tried to flee.’ He stood up and stalked across the room, pacing. ‘I am torn up I did nothing on that night, nor have I done anything since because I prove to myself every single day that I am a coward. The fear of her husband has kept me from doing what anyone who’s half a man should have done … but my fear is real, not imaginary.’

With that, he turned to Henry and tore off his shirt.

The train began to move at last.

It was 8 a.m. and Henry had been on the tracks for an hour and a quarter. He should have been much further than this.

He visualized Khan’s back, bearing injuries which were tantamount to torture. He had been beaten like a prisoner in a concentration camp and the marks were still there, alive and glowing like living things.

‘I give myself strong painkillers just to get through the day.’ He pulled the shirt back on and sat down, slowly buttoning it up, not looking at Henry now, a faraway something in his eyes. ‘Don’t think I didn’t want to call the police, I did,’ he said defensively.