Ghost Virus

‘I hope you’ve got a strong stomach,’ said Jamila, as they turned into Rectory Lane.

‘Don’t worry,’ Jerry told her. ‘I only had an egg sandwich for lunch. I think that will probably stay down.’

They reached number 35. Four response cars and two police vans were lined up outside, and an ambulance was waiting around the corner in Southview Close. The pavement in front of the house had been cordoned off, and arc lights had been set up on tripods in the brick-paved front garden.

Jamila found a space to park further up the road, and then they walked back. They ducked under the blue-and-white crime scene tape and entered the house. Three uniformed constables in bulky stab-proof jackets were crowded into the narrow hallway, along with a coat-stand heaped with overcoats, so they had to breathe in and squeeze their way past. Off to the left, in the living-room, a female officer was talking to a plump Pakistani woman in a maroon headscarf and a skinny Pakistani boy of about seventeen or eighteen, with bulbous eyes and a straggly black moustache.

The house stank of fenugreek, and the walls in the hallway were clustered with pictures: traditional illustrations from Pakistani folk stories, family photographs, and landscapes of Peshawar and the Khyber Pass. Jamila peered at one of them and said, ‘The Tale of the Cunning Siddhikari.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Jerry. ‘And what’s a cunning Siddhikari when it’s at home?’

‘The cunning Siddhikari stole a merchant’s treasure, persuaded a thief to hang himself from a tree, and bit the tongue off one of the merchant’s servants.’

‘I see. Just your average day in Pakistan, then.’

‘DI Saunders is up in the bedroom,’ said one of the constables, jerking his thumb towards the staircase.

‘Don’t tell me. Not Smiley.’

The constable said nothing but gave him a wry, sympathetic nod. Jerry had worked with DI ‘Smiley’ Saunders on only one case, a Somalian girl in Tower Hamlets whose boyfriend had stove in her skull with a steam iron. He had never met anyone so consistently miserable as DI Saunders in his life. If he won the jackpot in the lottery, he’d only grumble that he should have won it twenty years earlier, so that he wouldn’t have needed to join the police force at all.

Jamila climbed up the steep hessian-carpeted stairs to the landing and Jerry followed her. In the back bedroom, one forensic officer was standing in the corner taking flash photographs while the other two were crawling around on their hands and knees, shining black light torches on every inch of the carpet. The room was filled with the crispy rustling of their white Tyvek suits.

DI Saunders from the Homicide and Major Crime Command was standing by the window in a putty-coloured windcheater, with his arms folded. He was tall, with slicked-back grey hair, near-together eyes and a sharply hooked nose. His mouth was permanently turned down, so that he looked like a disapproving bird of prey.

‘Oh, you found him, then?’ he said to Jamila. ‘Hallo, Jerry. Long time no see.’

But Jerry didn’t answer – didn’t even hear him. All his attention was fixed on the body of the girl lying on the bed. She was wearing an orange shalwar kameez with a dupatta twisted around her shoulders, and both of her fists were clenched as if she were ready for a fight. She had copious waves of tangled black hair, but almost all the skin had been burned off her face so that it had become a scarlet mask. Her eyes had shrivelled into blind white mothballs inside their sockets and she no longer had a nose, only a triangular hole, so that every time the camera flashed Jerry could see inside the glistening red cavities of her sinuses. Her jaw had dropped open and her tongue was sticking out, a cluster of transparent blisters like bubble-wrap.

‘Gordon Bennett,’ said Jerry, shaking his head. ‘She looks like something out of a bleeding horror film.’

‘I did warn you,’ said Jamila. Then she turned to DI Saunders. ‘Have you talked any more to her mother and her brother?’

‘Not yet,’ admitted DI Saunders. ‘To be honest with you, Jamila, I was waiting for you to come back before I did that. I don’t know any Paki-speak and even when they’re supposed to be talking English I have a job understanding what the eff they’re on about. I don’t know too much about their rituals, either, except that they won’t eat with their left hand because they wipe their arse with it and they treat their women like shit.

‘Besides,’ he added, ‘I think we need to have a much clearer idea of exactly how she died before I started asking questions. Clive – tell DS Patel what you think happened.’

The forensic officer who was kneeling on the opposite side of the bed tugged down his face-mask, revealing a gingery Prince Harry beard. ‘It was concentrated sulphuric acid. The bottle’s still lying on the floor down there and that’s what it says on the label. We’re not taking that for granted, of course, and we’ll be testing what’s left of it, but the trauma to her face and the damage to the bedding – they’re definitely consistent with H2SO4.’

‘Tell DS Patel how it was done, though. It wasn’t thrown at her, was it?’

‘No, not thrown,’ said the forensic officer. ‘I mean, that’s the way they usually do it, isn’t it? – walk right up to them when they’re standing or sitting and splosh it straight into their face. But this young lady, she was lying on her back right here on the bed. You can tell by the pattern of acid discoloration on her hair and the bedspread underneath her that it was poured over her while she was prone.’

Jerry leaned over the bed so that he could examine the young woman’s glistening red face more closely. The flesh on her cheeks was all twisted and knotted, and in places the bones were exposed.

‘If you’re conscious, you’re not just going to lie there and let somebody pour concentrated sulphuric acid all over your mush, are you?’ he said. ‘Maybe she was drugged with Rohypnol, or something like that. Either that, or there was more than one assailant. If she wasn’t drugged, somebody would have had to pin her down.’

‘There’s no apparent bruising on her wrists,’ said the forensic officer. ‘We’ll know more, of course, once she’s been taken to St George’s for a full post-mortem.’

‘All we know about her so far is that her name is Samira Wazir,’ said Jamila. ‘She’s seventeen-and-a-half years old and a former pupil at Al-Risalah Secondary School. Her parents recently took her to Pakistan and judging by her orange shalwar kameez I’d say that they may have taken her there to meet her husband-to-be.’

‘You mean an arranged marriage?’ asked DI Saunders.

‘That’s the usual custom, yes.’

‘So maybe she didn’t like the look of this husband-to-be and said she didn’t want to marry him.’

‘That can be the motive for an honour punishment, yes,’ said Jamila. ‘But it’s far too early to say in this case. We need to find out from her mother and her brother who she was supposed to be marrying, and whether she had any boyfriends here in the UK that her family didn’t approve of. Or maybe she had a Pakistani boyfriend here who was angry that she was going to marry another man, and wanted to ruin her looks.

‘It’s even possible that she was being punished for something that her brother has done. That has happened many times in Pakistan. A man might commit adultery but it will be one of his sisters who gets punished for it. Sometimes she might be forced to marry the cuckolded husband, and often she’ll be gang-raped, too, by all of the male members of his family.’

‘Charming,’ said the ginger forensic officer. ‘I’m bloody glad I don’t have to gang-rape the wife’s sister. I wouldn’t climb on her to hang wallpaper. Mind you, she’d probably enjoy it.’

‘I’ll go down and have a word with this poor girl’s mother and brother. Jerry – come with me. It’s important that I have a man with me, especially when I question her brother.’

‘Where’s her father?’ asked DI Saunders.

‘Still in Peshawar, doing business, so she said. He might have stayed there to arrange the wedding with her prospective husband’s family – sorting out the dowry, maybe. We’ll find out, anyway.’

Jerry and Jamila left the bedroom, but before he went out of the door Jerry took one last look at the girl lying on the bed. He was shocked but also fascinated by that gruesome face, with its wild mane of black hair spread out all around it, and by that blistered tongue poking out as if she were challenging anybody who dared to suggest that she didn’t look beautiful. He had seen plenty of dead bodies during his nine-year career – some crushed, some charred, some bloated from the river – but none as horrifying as this. He would probably have nightmares about her, but he was trying to imagine what kind of sadist could have deliberately mutilated her like that, and wanted her to suffer so much agony. In the name of what? Religion? Or jealousy? Or family honour? How could it be honourable to kill a young woman by melting her face off?

Mrs Wazir was twisting her green dupatta nervously as Jerry and Jamila entered the living-room. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen from crying. Jamal was standing by the window looking at the police cars out in the street and he didn’t turn around when they came in. The young woman constable who had been sitting with them stood up and said, ‘Do you want me to wait outside, ma’am?’

‘No, stay,’ said Jamila. ‘It’ll be good experience for you. Mrs Wazir – this is Detective Pardoe. He’s been seconded from Scotland Yard. He’s very experienced in dealing with domestic incidents so you can be quite open with him.’

‘What do you mean, “domestic incidents”?’ demanded Mrs Wazir, using her dupatta to wipe her eyes. ‘This had nothing at all to do with my family. Like I told you before, my son Jamal and me, we had both been away for two days when this happened, visiting my cousins in Redbridge.’

‘Mrs Wazir, our forensic team have now examined all of the doors and windows in this house, and there is no sign of forced entry. This means one of four things. Either Samira’s assailants possessed a key, or had borrowed one; or Samira knew them and invited them into the house; or they forced their way in once she had opened the door, whether she knew them or not.’

‘That is only three things,’ said Mrs Wazir.

‘Well, I think the fourth is obvious. She was assaulted by a member or members of her family.’

‘That is an outrageous suggestion,’ said Mrs Wazir. ‘If you repeat such a thing I will be forced to call our solicitors.’

‘Please,’ Jamila told her, ‘I’m not trying to be offensive, or make false accusations, but I have to consider every possibility, or else I wouldn’t be doing my job. I’m sure you can understand that.’

‘I can only understand that you are trying to accuse me of burning my own beloved daughter’s face with acid. Can you imagine what it was like for me, to find her like that? I shall never sleep again as long as I live.’

‘She was wearing an orange shalwar kameez, which suggests to me that she was soon to be married,’ said Jamila.

‘Yes. This is true. The reason we took her to Peshawar in September was to meet her husband-to-be. He is a very fine upstanding young man from a good family, and Samira liked him and was very happy that she was going to be his bride.’

‘Does she have any boyfriends here in Tooting?’ asked Jerry.

‘She has friends who are boys but not what you would call a boyfriend. She was a virgin.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘How about her brother here – Jamal, is it? Do you know if your sister had any boyfriends?’

‘My sister did what she was told,’ said Jamal, without turning around.

‘That’s not what I asked you.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know any of her friends.’

‘Can you think of anybody who might have wanted to harm Samira for any reason at all? Had she upset one of her girlfriends, maybe?’

‘You will have to ask them,’ said Mrs Wazir. ‘Her best friend is Aqeelah Abdali. She lives in Streatham somewhere. I expect you will be able to find her address from Samira’s telephone book.’

‘Was Samira planning on further education?’ asked Jamila. ‘Going on to college maybe, or university?’

‘What do you mean?’ said Mrs Wazir. ‘She was going to be married.’

Jerry was tempted to ask Mrs Wazir why being a wife meant that she couldn’t continue her studies, but he decided to keep his mouth shut.

‘What has she been doing since she left school?’ he asked her.

‘Helping me in the house mostly. Sometimes to make herself a little money she worked in the evenings at Saravanna Bhavan restaurant in the High Street.’

Jamila noted that down, and then she said, ‘How about Samira’s health? Had she said anything to you about being worried or depressed or not feeling well?’

Mrs Wazir thought about that, and then shrugged. ‘I will say that for the past week she was very quiet, and I didn’t see much of her. In fact she went out almost every day and she would come back late and go straight up to her room.’

‘Did you ask her if there was anything wrong?’

‘I knocked at her door, yes, and asked her if she was all right, but she said everything was fine.’

‘She didn’t join you for meals, or come downstairs and watch television with you?’

‘No. When I told her that supper was on the table she said that she had already eaten at the restaurant.’

Jamal came away from the window. His black hair was brushed up into a point and his moustache looked false, although he had the beginnings of a curly beard, too. He was wearing a dark green zip-up fleece with the nickname Pak Shaheens on it for the Pakistani national football team, and skinny black jeggings.

‘Come on, Mum,’ he said, in a strong South London accent, ‘why don’t you tell them that you and Sam was always shouting at each other anyway? You was always arguing and slamming doors.’

‘Is that true, Mrs Wazir?’ said Jamila. ‘You and Samira weren’t getting on?’

Mrs Wazir threw up her hands and said, ‘Pfff! What do you expect? Mothers and daughters always argue. And Samira could be very stubborn. That was why we thought it was time that she was married. To be married would teach her to be obedient, like a woman should be. But my heart still bleeds for her, I can tell you. I cannot believe that I will never see her again. I cannot believe it!’

She pressed her dupatta to her eyes, and shook her head in disbelief and grief.

At that moment DI Saunders appeared in the doorway and looked around the living-room in his bird-of-prey way, left and right, as if he expected to see mice scurrying along the skirting-boards that he could pounce on.

‘How’s it going, sergeant?’

‘I think we’re done for tonight, sir,’ said Jamila. ‘We’ll come around again in a day or two, Mrs Wazir, when you’ve had more time to get over the shock, and we’ve had time to talk to Samira’s friends and assess exactly what happened to her. If you like, I can arrange for a volunteer from Victim Support to come and visit you.’

Mrs Wazir raised one hand to acknowledge that she had heard her. Jamal just stood there with his hands in the pockets of his fleece and a bored expression on his face, as if he couldn’t wait for Jerry and Jamila and the young woman police officer to leave.

They had to wait for a moment while two paramedics carried a stretcher past the living-room and up the stairs. As they stood in the doorway, Jerry said, ‘Where’s that coat gone?’

‘What coat?’ asked Jamila.

‘There was a grey coat on that coat-stand, on top of all of those other coats. It’s not there any more. There’s a red coat on top now.’

‘I can’t say that I noticed it.’

‘No, there was definitely a grey coat on top. I remember it because it was just like a coat I used to have when I got my first motorbike.’

‘I can’t seriously see anybody half-inching it,’ said DI Saunders. ‘It probably dropped off and they’ve hung it up somewhere else.’

The police officers who had been standing in the hallway had stepped out into the front garden so that the paramedics could get past, and were chatting and stamping their feet to keep warm.

‘Did any of you see what happened to that grey coat?’ Jerry asked them, as he and Jamila came outside.

They all shook their heads. ‘What grey coat?’

‘There was a grey—’ Jerry began, but then he said, ‘Never mind.’

‘Not suffering from optical illusions, are we, Jerry?’ asked DI Saunders, as they walked back up the road to their cars.

Jerry was strongly tempted to say, ‘You actually smiled when you said that, “Smiley”,’ but he decided against it. He was becoming quite proud of his self-restraint these days. But he was still convinced that he had seen a grey coat on top of that coat-stand, and if nobody had taken it, where had it gone?