Ghost Virus

When Jerry arrived at the Wazir house on Rectory Lane, he found three uniformed constables taking down the police line tapes and the last two members of the forensic team packing up their van ready to leave.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked the PCs.

‘Pretty much sorted,’ said one of them. ‘Not sure I need to go for a curry anytime soon, though. I feel like I’ve been breathing in balti for the past two days.’

Mrs Wazir was sitting in the living-room with a short bald Pakistani man in a shiny black suit.

‘This is my husband’s brother Nadeem,’ said Mrs Wazir. ‘Samira’s uncle.’

Nadeem put down his teacup and stood up, holding out a podgy hand with three gold rings on his fingers.

‘How is your investigation progressing?’ he asked.

‘Well, it’s early days yet,’ said Jerry. ‘I’ve just come around to see if I can tie up one or two loose ends.’

‘Samira and my family were very close,’ said Nadeem. ‘My brother has to be away on business in Pakistan sometimes for weeks at a time, so Samira often used to come round to spend the evening with us, and weekends too. I am mortified that she is gone. Truly mortified.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘Late on Saturday afternoon. She had been working at the restaurant and she called in to give us some kebabs. She said she was tired so she didn’t stay long.’

‘How was she, apart from tired? Did she seem upset about anything?’

‘I have to say that she didn’t seem like her normal self. I don’t exactly know how to describe it, but she was very distant. It was like her mind was somewhere else. But maybe that was just because she had been working hard all day. That restaurant can get very busy at weekends.’

‘So… what were the loose ends that you wanted to tie up?’ asked Mrs Wazir. It was obvious that she was keen to get rid of him.

‘Had Samira complained to you at all about skin irritation?’

‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘Did she tell you that she’d been feeling itchy at all, or sore?’

Mrs Wazir shook her head. ‘Nothing like that. She had beautiful skin, like silk.’

‘OK. Another thing was – I saw a coat on top of the coat-stand when I came here yesterday. A short grey overcoat.’

‘Yes, that was Samira’s.’

‘She was wearing it the last time I saw her,’ put in Nadeem.

‘It was hanging on top of the coat-stand when I arrived here, but by the time I left after talking to you and your son, it had disappeared.’

Mrs Wazir frowned. ‘What do you mean? It should still be there. Nobody would have taken it.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs W, but it had gone, and it’s not there now.’

Mrs Wazir stood up, gathering up the folds of her abundant black dress. She went out into the hallway and started to lift the coats off the coat-stand, hanging them one by one over the banisters. After a few moments she came back, frowning.

‘You are right. It isn’t there. I can’t think where it could be. I can’t imagine that anybody would have stolen it. It was only second-hand. She bought it from one of those charity shops.’

‘You’re absolutely sure you didn’t remove it yourself, for any reason?’ Jerry asked her.

‘Why should I? And how could I? All the time that you were here yesterday, I was sitting in this room, with that policewoman, too. And so was Jamal.’

‘Do you know which charity shop she bought it from?’

Mrs Wazir sat down again. ‘I don’t know the name of it, but Samira used to buy several things there, because she said it was always clean, and didn’t smell like some charity shops. And of course everything was very cheap. She bought gloves there, and scarves, and I think once she even bought some boots.’

‘Would you know where it is?’

‘Yes… on the Mitcham Road, in between Kentucky Fried Chicken and Sabina’s, where she used to buy her make-up. But I don’t see how this will help you to find out who killed her.’

‘It’s just routine procedure, Mrs W. We have to follow up every possibility, no matter how remote it might seem. Maybe her assailant saw her wearing that coat and mistook her for somebody else. It does happen.’

Nadeem said, ‘Do you know when her remains will be released for her funeral? We like to bury our dead as soon as possible after death.’

‘I’ll talk to the pathologist and let you know. I believe he’s nearly completed his post-mortem so it’ll probably be Monday at the latest. Meanwhile – that’s about all for now. I may have to get back to you once we have some more information, but now I can leave you in peace.’

‘I will never know peace again,’ said Mrs Wazir. ‘Every time I close my eyes I will see my beloved Samira with her face in ruins.’

*

It started to drizzle as Jerry drove down to the Mitcham Road, so that the pavements were wet and shiny. It was a long straight high street with shops and restaurants on either side, as well as the Tooting Granada cinema, a massive white art deco building which was now a bingo hall. In between KFC and Sabina’s cosmetics he found Little Helpers Charity Shop, and he parked on the red line outside. He could see a traffic warden eyeing him from a distance, but he couldn’t be bothered to walk up and tell him that he was a police detective on duty.

In the front windows of Little Helpers stood three dummies dressed in coats and Puffa jackets, as well as an assortment of dolls and toys and second-hand books. Jerry walked in and realised at once why Samira had said that it didn’t smell like an ordinary charity shop. There were Yankee Candle reed diffusers on the shelves, and through the open back door he could see an elderly volunteer steam-cleaning a pair of corduroy trousers that were hanging up on a rail.

A young woman was standing behind the counter, counting the money in the cash register. She had a short brunette bob and she was wearing a tight blue velvet jacket. She had plum-coloured circles under her eyes but Jerry couldn’t decide if she was tired, or if the circles were make-up.

‘I’m looking for the manager,’ he said. He glanced outside and saw that the traffic warden had already pounced on his car and was taking a photograph of it.

‘That’s me,’ the young woman replied, looking up at him quickly but then going back to counting her handful of £5 notes.

Jerry took out his ID card and held it up in front of her. ‘Detective Pardoe, Tooting CID.’

She looked up again, and it was plain that she was irritated because he had made her lose count. She didn’t say anything but started counting again from the beginning.

‘I’m wondering if you recall a Pakistani girl buying a short grey winter coat from you, not so long ago.’

‘Why? Has something happened to her?’

‘I’m just making some general inquiries, that’s all.’

‘Well, if it’s who I think you’re talking about, then yes. I don’t know what her name is but she comes in here quite often. She’s not missing, is she?’

‘She’s deceased, as a matter of fact.’

The young woman nodded, almost as if that was what she had been expecting to hear. Jerry was surprised that she didn’t ask when Samira had died, or how.

‘It’s her coat I’m interested in,’ he told her.

‘Her coat?’

‘Do you have any record of where it came from? Who brought it in?’

‘Why?’

‘Because it would help us with our inquiries, Miss, that’s all.’

‘I don’t usually ask for names and addresses when people bring in donations. I happen to know who brought that particular coat in, though, because he makes cash donations, too, and I have to keep a record of those for tax. It was Mr Stebbings. His wife died about two months ago and he donated a whole heap of her clothes.’

‘Do you have his address?’

The young woman put down the banknotes that she was holding and took out a black accounts ledger from a shelf underneath the counter, every page stuffed with receipts. Her tightly pursed lips gave Jerry the impression that she felt she was doing him an enormous favour.

‘Here,’ she said. ‘He last made a cash donation on August the twenty-fifth. He makes regular donations because his son had cerebral palsy. That’s why this shop’s called Little Helpers.’

‘Because it helps kids, you mean?’

‘No. It’s because cerebral palsy used to be called “Little’s Disease” after the man who first studied it, William Little.’

‘Well, well. You learn something every day. Are you going to give me Mr Stebbings’ address?’

‘Here. Number fifteen, Furzehill Drive.’

‘Thanks. And can I have your name, please?’

‘Why do you need my name?’

‘In case I have to explain to Mr Stebbings who gave me his address, and for my report.’

‘Sophie – Sophie Marshall. Is that your car outside? You’ve just got a ticket.’