Mike Shevdon - The Road to Bedlam

"I don't want anyone to get hurt," I said, trying to calm everyone.

One of the two young men spoke. "You're the only one who's gonna get hurt. If I were you, I would leave while you still can."

"What is this? What's going on? Ahmed, who is that man?" The voice came from the doorway to the kitchen at the back of the cafe. It should have been Arabic-sounding, but the accent was pure Ravensby. I peeked past the big guy to see who spoke. The headscarf and the long dress did not look out of place, but the face was too pale for the Lebanon. Besides, I recognised her from the photo.

"Hello, Karen," I said.

Karen Hopkins bustled forward. "What are you doing? Ahmed? Who is this man?"

"He's just leaving," said Ahmed, meeting my eyes and nodding towards the door.

"How do you know my name?" she asked.

"I saw your mother this morning," I told her. "I was looking for Zaina, but now I've found you."

"Well, as you can see, I'm not lost. What do you want?"

"Look," I said, "I don't want any trouble. I just want to talk to you for a few minutes."

The young man looked angrily at me. He shook his head. "He was asking about you, poking his nose in."

"And so you threatened him." She walked up to him and straightened his clothes, her distaste for violence plain.

"I didn't threaten anyone. I just wanted him to leave us alone."

"Us"? This was an interesting development.

She turned to the men standing in the narrow aisle. "Please, sit. You're not helping."

They looked at Ahmed and he nodded. They slowly sat down again, watching me all the while as if I might suddenly sprout horns. I tried to look as relaxed and unthreatening as possible.

"I won't keep you long," I said. "I just wanted to ask you a few questions."

"Did my mother put you up to this?"

"No, but I did talk to her. She wants you to call her."

"She said that? Really?"

"She said you'd only have to pick up the phone. You could even reverse the charge."

"Right. That sounds more like her."

"Don't you want to talk with her? You could just let her know you're OK. She's bound to be worried about you."

"She said that as well, did she?" She watched my expression. "I thought not."

I was missing something here. I looked at her again. The headscarf and the long skirt were almost ethnic dress, not so much a fashion statement as a cultural statement.

"I'm sorry, I was only asking about Zaina and your boyfriend here got heavy with me."

"He's not my boyfriend."

Her voice was like her mother's but she had picked up some of his accent. "Whatever you say."

"He's my husband."

It suddenly came into focus. "Of course, you're Zaina. Greg Makepeace told me, 'If you find Zaina, you'll find Karen.'" I mentally kicked myself for being so dim.

"Mum's vicar?" she said. "He came to the cafe one day. We talked for a while. He brought me some things from home, personal things. What's he got to do with this?"

"So your mother knows you're here too?" I said.

"Who are you?" Ahmed said. "Why is this any of your business?"

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm called Neal Dawson. I'm looking into the disappearance of a number of young women from Ravensby. I thought Karen was one of them."

"Do I look like I'm missing?" she asked.

"No, I guess not."

"Then you can cross me off your list." She guided her husband gently towards the counter, turning her back to me.

"Does your father know where you are?"

"I do not discuss my personal affairs in public like a soap opera." She moved towards the door into the back of the cafe.

"Your sister?"

She stopped and turned back.

"Why can't you let it alone?" she said.

"I have my reasons."

She looked up at her husband and he looked back at me. Then she came forward again and pointed at the table next to the window, away from the other customers. "Sit there." She instructed.

I moved slowly past the men who had stood to help Ahmed. They watched me with cold disapproval. Karen spoke with Ahmed behind the counter in low tones until he turned away and picked up his cloth, sulkily continuing to clean out the counter. Then she disappeared into the back for a moment, reappearing with a white cotton apron tied around her waist to serve the men who sat near the counter with hot tea and sweet sticky pastries. When she had spoken to them for a moment she came and placed a glass cup with steaming liquid with a spoon in it on my table.

"Mint tea," she said. "It makes you look more like a customer and less like a bouncer."

I thanked her and she turned back to the older gentleman. She addressed him in a mixture of English and what must have been Arabic. After talking with him for a moment she went back behind the counter, removed the apron and brought her own mint tea to sit opposite me.

"It's normally busier than this," she said, sliding into the seat.

"That must be good for business," I replied.

"We get by." She glanced towards her husband.

"Was that Arabic you were speaking?"

"I'm not very fluent," she said modestly, "but our customers appreciate the attempt."

"It must be hard for someone with your background."

"I need to learn it anyway, in order to study the Qur'an."

"Is that what you're studying at college?"

"No. I converted. It's part of the faith to understand the words of the prophet."

"To Islam?"

"No, Buddhist. Of course to Islam. I converted so that we could get married."

I looked over at the man behind the counter. He was trying to talk to one of the young men and watch us at the same time.

"Jealous type, is he?"

"Jealous? Ahmed? Don't be daft." The way she said Ahmed was soft, like a sigh.

"He hasn't taken his eyes off you since you sat down."

"He thinks you're going to steal me away, take me back to my family." She looked up. "Are you?"

Her eyes were grey, at odds with the Muslim dress and Arab cafe, but they held my gaze, waiting for an answer.

"No. I'm not here to take you back."

"Did Mum hire you?"

"Hire me?"

"You're a private detective, aren't you? That's what people like you do, isn't it? Dig around in other people's business."

It was my turn to laugh. "A detective, me?"

"What then? You're not church and you're not a copper either. They've been and gone. The police won't interfere now that I'm eighteen and the vicar only came to check up on me for Mum. You're not a fisherman and you move like a fighter. Ex-military? Private security?" It was her turn to watch me.

"I have done some security work," I admitted. I liked this girl. She had spirit and intelligence. She knew what she wanted and it sounded as if she was working hard to get it. The contrast between her and the soft resignation of her mother was stark.

"I saw your mother this morning."

"What did she say?"

"Very little. I asked her whether she'd given up hope and she told me she hadn't."

Karen looked back towards the counter.

"She said if you wanted to come back then all you had to do was pick up the phone."

She stirred the mint tea slowly. "Was my sister there?"

"Shelley? Yes."

"She should be at school. What was she doing at home?"

"She said she was ill."

Karen looked up from her tea.

"She didn't look ill," I said. "She looked like she'd blagged a day off."

"She should be at school," she repeated. "But maybe my parents think education is not such a good thing any more, when you can have ideas, friends of your own, people from outside." She looked again at Ahmed. "What did my dad say?"

"Your dad wasn't there."

"Did he call Ahmed a wog again?"

"He wasn't there, Karen. I only met your mother."

"Pity."

"I didn't come to persuade you to come back either. Only to find out what happened to you."