Up in Flames (5 page)

             
Casey encouraged Mr Khan to sit down on one of the settles before breaking the grim news. He watched him closely, but all he saw was the natural reactions to shock; disbelief, denial, then a dawning realisation of the horror of what he was being told. The man looked sick to his soul.

             
So much for Catt’s cynical suspicions. Casey would reserve judgement till they had something firmer than will-o-the-wisp theories on which to base their conclusions.

             
Once the initial shock was over, Mr Khan became very quiet. Although he was aware that people’s behaviour after bad news could go from dumb at one extreme to voluble at the other, Casey wondered whether there might not be something else behind the silence. But time and the continuing investigation would hopefully reveal that something if it existed at all. For now, as Casey reminded himself, all they knew for certain was that the man had lost his daughter and granddaughter in a particularly horrific way and was bereaved.

             
Gently, Casey asked Mr Khan for the name of his daughter’s dentist. This simple request dragged Mr Khan from his silent reverie and he was able to supply the information without more than a second’s hesitation.

             
‘We’ll need photographs of your daughter and the baby.’ Casey paused before adding, ‘And we’ll need to break the news to your wife, of course.’

             
This seemed to release something pent-up in Mr Khan‘s soul, for he launched into an incomprehensible stream of some sing-song Asian language. Again the memories stirred in Casey’s mind. But he had no time for them now. He glanced at WPC Singh and she nodded to indicate that she could understand. It was a relief to discover she spoke the same language as the family.

             
Rathi Khan‘s torrent of speech had ended as abruptly as it had begun. Now his expression again became closed. When Casey asked if he would like Sergeant Catt to drive his car back to his house, he looked momentarily blank, asked, ‘What?’ before understanding dawned. He nodded and began to dig in his trouser pockets for the keys. Once found, he absently separated his car keys from the house keys and handed them over to Catt. But before he did so, Casey had time to notice another set of keys on the ring, poignantly marked ‘Flat — front door’ and ‘Flat — back door.’ Doubtless, they were spares to Chandra’s flat.

             
‘My car’s in the yard behind the shop. The yellow Yale is the key to the gate.’

             
It took a while to get Mr Khan sufficiently together to get him out to Casey’s car. Even though the day was warm, he insisted on going back for his jacket and putting it on. He said not a word during the short journey to his family home at Great Langley.

             
The house was impressive. Located in an expensive area where the neighbours would be doctors, lawyers and other successful businessmen. As he pulled up and parked away from the garage so as to leave room for Catt to put Mr Khan‘s car away, Casey gained a quick impression of the house. It gave the lie to Catt’s suspicions. There could be no shortage of money here, surely?. A large family house, it was detached, imposing Edwardian in style, though obviously built fairly recently. With all of the attractions of that era, but none of the expense of maintenance that an old building brought. It was a practical compromise. The house stood in its own grounds, and a circular gravel drive enclosed a bricked bed of mixed, low-growing, easy-maintenance evergreens.

             
They got out of the car and Casey guided Mr Khan’s now shaky steps to the front door. Casey heard the sound of a child’s laughter inside the house as Rathi Khan fumbled with his keys. Casey took them and opened the door, ushering the man ahead of him into the hallway. As they entered, Casey heard a car’s tyres scrunch on the gravel behind him. It was Thomas Catt at the wheel of Mr Khan’s Rover.

             
Having seen the house and learned of the chain of shops, Casey was surprised that Rathi Khan drove a four-year-old Rover. He would have expected something more recent and top-of-the-range.

             
It was the first indication that Catt, with his natural cynicism about human nature, might be right and that Mr Khan might not be as comfortably placed as the large house suggested. Maybe there
were
money troubles here. TomCatt’s cynicism was contagious, Casey realised as he found himself thinking again of Catt’s earlier suggestion that he look into Mr Khan‘s finances.

             
A child, a little boy of two or three ran towards them as Casey walked into the hall. The boy threw himself at Mr Khan‘s legs with excited squeals. A grandson, Casey guessed. And from his bright, eager chatter and smiles, the way he hugged Mr Khan‘s legs and tried to clamber into his arms it was apparent that he was a much-loved child.

             
Obedient to the toddler’s demands, Mr Khan picked him up, burying his face in the child’s chubby neck as he did so. The little boy continued to chatter away in Hindi, but when he got no response he grabbed Mr Khan‘s ears, pushed his head away from him and began what sounded like an imperious scolding. Mr Khan still said nothing, but merely deposited the child on the floor, and called loudly down the empty hallway.

             
Casey broke the awkward silence. Hunkering down on his haunches till he was at the little boy’s level, he said, ‘Hello. I’m Will. What’s your name?’

             
Shyly the little boy put his thumb in his mouth and stared.

             
Behind him, Shazia Singh broke into a musical flow of Hindi. The little boy mumbled something in reply that Casey couldn’t catch.

             
‘He’s called Kedar, sir.’

             
Casey nodded. ‘Where’s your Grandmother, Kedar? We need to speak to her. I’m afraid your Granddad’s had some bad news.’

             
The little boy turned and pointed down the hall. A plump middle-aged woman appeared at the far end. Dressed in a pale sari, she must have heard the commotion for she stood transfixed and stared at them all, one hand tightly clutched the material of her sari, the other covered her mouth as if to stop herself crying out. Above the clutching hand, her eyes were wide and anxious; the red
bindi
dot on her forehead stood out starkly against the unnaturally waxen skin. Her anxious pallor was natural enough, Casey supposed, in an Asian woman, on finding her home invaded by strange white men and a uniformed Asian policewoman. As he recalled, the
bindi
dot was supposed to signify female energy and was meant to protect a woman and her husband. This dot had failed in both departments.

             
Still, taken together with her husband’s earlier behaviour he wondered whether there might be something more here than the immigrant’s natural mistrust of the police. Wary now, again remembering Catt’s cynical evaluation, he stood up

Upset by the suddenly tense atmosphere, the little boy’s face puckered and he began to cry. Perhaps for the first time in the child’s life, neither of his grandparents attempted to comfort him and it was left to Shazia Singh to gather him in her arms, produce a tissue and try to wipe his tears away.

              Raising his voice over the child’s sobbing, Casey quickly introduced himself, Catt and Shazia Singh to Mrs Khan. ‘Perhaps we could all sit down?’ he suggested to Rathi Khan.

             
Before he could say more, Mr Khan brushed past him, grabbed his wife by her forearms and told her, in English, ‘Chandra is dead. And the baby. They were in a fire at the flat.’

             
Her hand clutched even more tightly at the gathered folds of her sari as she stared at her husband. Casey half-expected her to collapse, which was why he had been keen for them to be seated before he broke the news to her. But Rathi Khan had forestalled him. Mrs Khan appeared dazed as she stared up at her tall husband. And no wonder, was Casey’s thought. As a breaker of bad news, Rathi Khan was in a class of his own. He was certainly  no waster of words or sentiment.

             
‘A fire?’ Mrs Khan repeated, in a voice that was oddly expressionless. ‘They are dead? My Chandra and little Leela?’

             
Rathi Khan nodded and took his wife’s arm. ‘Come. Let us sit down as the inspector suggests. He will tell us more about what has happened.’ Distraught, he spoke to Casey in Hindi. ‘
Kshama kijiye
,’ it sounded like, which Casey seemed to remember was a form of apology, before Mr Khan recollected himself and, with a formal politeness, said in English, ‘Please to come in.’ He led the way across the wide, high-arched hallway to a large and comfortable room with a double aspect to front and rear. Light flooded into the room from the large windows, bathing the room in afternoon sunshine.

             
Comfortably furnished with three pale yellow sofas grouped around the empty fireplace, with chintz-covered armchairs scattered in companionable pairs in between, the room revealed little of the origins of its owners. Unlike Chandra’s flat, her parents’ living room had no idol watching over its inhabitants. It seemed to lack ornaments of any sort. Clean, functional, comfortable, but curiously anonymous, it was if its occupants were merely passing through.

             
An elderly couple were seated in two of the armchairs. Chandra’s grandparents over from India on a visit, Casey guessed. The man clutched an Asian language newspaper. He stood up, still clutching his paper, as they entered.

             
Rathi Khan introduced them. ‘My father and mother, Mr and Mrs Ranjit Khan. They’re here on a visit from their home in India.’ He broke the bad news quietly in English.

             
The old man took it stoically, with all the fatalism of India. Tall like his son, and bony, with heavily furrowed features, Casey guessed he was in his late sixties; a generation clearly used to sudden bereavement. His wife remained seated. She had been engaged in cleaning the household brass. It was the first homely touch Casey had observed in the characterless room, and as her gloved hands continued desultorily with her cleaning, he guessed that she spoke little or no English and didn’t understand the reason for the upset; certainly no one had troubled to explain to her what had happened. But although her cleaning continued automatically, her bewildered gaze flickered from face to face. The
bindi
dot she wore was much larger than her daughter-in-law’s, almost like a third eye. Casey found it oddly disconcerting to be the focus for this unblinking red orb.

             
Perhaps intimidated by such a sudden flurry of visitors, Mrs Khan Senior said nothing. But an Asian woman of her generation would have had plenty of practise in keeping her opinions to herself, Casey guessed. He remembered Angela Neerey’s comment that Chandra’s Gran hadn’t been well and he wondered whether the Grandmother, who couldn’t be any older than her late-fifties or early sixties and who looked in reasonable shape, hadn’t invented her ill-health to get out of baby-sitting duties with the ever-bawling Leela.

             
After one, furrowed glance at his wife as if worried she wouldn’t share his stoicism, Ranjit Khan insisted on shaking the hands of the two policemen. He ignored Shazia Singh, much as his wife, after several more troubled glances, ignored them and went quietly back to her slow rubbing. Presumably, she had been well-trained from an early age not to intrude on men’s business.

             
All the conversation so far had been conducted in English, a language it was clear the old lady didn’t speak. It seemed cruel to keep her in ignorance, but if she truly wasn’t well. Casey didn’t want to be the unwitting cause of even more upset. Maybe it was best that her son break the news to her after they had left. And given Rathi Khan’s none too gentle way with bad news, Casey thought it might be kinder if he, Catt and Shazia Singh didn’t form an audience.

             
Although it was a warm day, the windows were closed. Presumably this was for the grandmother’s benefit, as the old lady’s sari was overladen by several thick shawls and a chunky buttoned cardigan. And as he remembered the sweltering heat during parts of the year in India, Casey guessed she felt cold even on what English natives would consider to be a perfect summer’s day.

             
Once they were all seated, the Rathi Khans on one of the long yellow sofas, Catt, Shazia Singh and himself on assorted chintz armchairs, Casey explained as gently as he could, that it didn’t look like an accidental fire.

             
Chandra’s mother stared at him. ‘Not, not accident?’

             
Her husband waved her question aside, as if in reminder that, as the man of the house, it was for him to do the questioning. She subsided meekly enough, but the glance she darted from under her lowered lashes held something more than meekness. ‘What then? Arson, do you mean?’

             
Casey nodded. ‘It looks that way. Had your daughter received threats of any kind? Had she upset anyone recently?’

             
Rathi Khan started to shake his head, then stopped and gazed thoughtfully at him as if the connection had just occurred to him. ‘You’re thinking of those other arson attacks on local Asian families, are you not, Inspector? You think someone did — that, to my daughter and the baby?’ Mr Khan glanced worriedly at his wife and mother and back to Casey.