Blood Wedding (8 page)

The heat was beginning to build up. The ends of González’ droopy moustache were dripping water. González wiped his face and moustache with a handkerchief that had seen better days.

‘León – you pop up to Capa, and sniff around. See what you can get on that lot in the hills.’

‘Before you start questioning people, I have to declare an interest,’ interrupted Max. ‘I have met Leila’s father on several occasions through my police liaison work with the Muslim communities. I met Leila at her father’s house and . . . I invited her out two or three times for a cup of tea to talk about her doctoral thesis.’

‘A cup of tea?’ laughed León.

‘Yes, a cup of tea.’

‘Tea and sympathy, was it?’ said León.

Max tried to maintain his dignity. ‘It was more a case of tea and thesis.’

León could hardly speak with laughter. ‘And she invited you up to see her thesis notes, I suppose. Tell me . . . do these Muslim girls have it in the shape of a crescent moon?’

It was González who pulled the meeting to order. ‘There’s a serious point here. Max has to be a suspect.’

‘Yes,’ interrupted León. ‘He clearly hoped to have it off with her, but he implies he didn’t . . . so it could be a case of sexual frustration and jealousy. I suggest, sir, we ask Max to give us notes on what was said and even happened at these tea meetings, and then if you like I’ll interview him. He of course does have an alibi for the time of her death – he was with her father.’

‘That’s true,’ said González, grinning.

‘Very decent of you to notice my alibi, Teniente,’ said Max. ‘But you do need to know that I recommended Leila to interview my
abuela,
Paula, for her thesis. So she visited our place at the end of the Jola road pretty often, and got to know all the family there.’

‘Hmm,’ said González. ‘That does further complicate things. Guevarra, you’d better interview Doña Paula, and that wife of Juan’s, Isabel, isn’t it? And León – you interview Juan. Anything else to tell us, Max?’

León giggled lasciviously. ‘Perhaps we can get some interesting details when Guevarra isn’t present?’

‘It was only tea,’ protested Max lamely.

There was a knock on the door, and the secretary entered. ‘The lawyer from Granada has arrived, sir.’

‘Okay, bring him in. Sure to be some posh git if he’s working for that guy, what’s his name?’

‘Dr Javeed Dharwish,’ offered Max.

‘Yeah. Javeed. It gets my goat when them foreigners think they’re superior to us poor Spaniards.’

A young lawyer, hair brushed back to silken perfection, pale grey suit, cream shirt with silver cuff links, came in. He looked round the room, placed an expensive leather briefcase on the table, and smiled.

‘Buenos dias.
Gabriel Martín Facarros.’ He handed out a gold printed card to everyone. ‘My client, Dr Javeed Dharwish, telephoned me last night. He explained what has happened. The suspect Hassan Khan, if he is a suspect, is entirely here of his own free will, and is willing to cooperate fully. But if there is any overstepping the legal boundaries, and I will be the judge of that, then cooperation will cease, and a formal complaint will be made. Is that clear?’ And he smiled at everyone again.

González grunted. ‘Bring the lad up.’

Hassan entered the room. He had not slept much.

‘Sit down,’ González said. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘No thanks. I had one not long ago.’

‘We’d like to ask you a few questions. Standard procedure at this stage.’

‘Am I a suspect?’

‘No, no. We just want you to help us with our inquiries. Max here will ask you a few questions.’

‘Okay. You told us yesterday a bit about your walk and tiff with Leila. But could you begin by telling us about yourself, and how you ended up as an assistant to Javeed and on this training course?’ asked Max.

‘Is this really relevant?’ interrupted the lawyer.

‘Just getting some background.’

‘That’s okay,’ said Hassan. ‘I’m British. Dad came over from P—Pakistan to work in Leeds, then moved to London where he married mum. She’s a Londoner. I was six when she left us both, and I lived with my dad.’

Hassan shuffled awkwardly in the chair. Wiped his palms on his shirt. Scratched his ear.

‘Sorry about the heat,’ said Max. ‘Water?’

‘P—please.’

Guevarra left the room to fetch some water. Hassan slowly drank the whole glass. González raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Come on. Come on. We haven’t got all bloody day.’

Hassan cleared his throat. ‘There’s not much to say. I was good at maths at school, good with computers, and then went to Brunel to study computing and electronics. I did a work placement with Dr Dharwish’s consultancy firm. Then Javeed – Dr Dharwish – told me he had this job at the Ibn Rush’d Centre. I needed a break before p—postgrad, and was fortunate to be chosen.’

‘Why a break?’

‘Oh. Just needed to get my head around things. Find out who I really am, that sort of thing.’

‘Religious?’

‘Muslim of course, and I practise my religion as devoutly as I can. More so now.’

‘Fanatical?’ butted in González.

‘What’s that meant to mean?’ asked Gabriel. ‘Muslim and fanatical are not the same thing.’

‘Okay,’ said Hassan. ‘Javeed said I’m to tell everything to show we have nothing to hide.’

‘Why we?’ continued González.

‘Because we’re Muslims. These days we’re all suspects.’

González grunted.

‘No. Not fanatical, but I am devout,’ continued Hassan.

‘Political?’

‘Voted Labour last time. This time I’ll probably vote Liberal. But I’m not in any group or party.’

Max decided to take over again. ‘How did you get chosen for this job?’

‘I first met Javeed at a Palestine Solidarity Meeting. I was pretty low, and he helped me out. We got to know each other, and I had a work placement in his office. I also used to help him with his charity work, collecting money for a hospital in Gaza.’

‘But didn’t you need references and some qualifications for the Ibn Rush’d job?’

‘Yes. Three references. Also I’m good with IT, and Javeed needed someone to set up systems and help him with the administration. And I had a good project idea, it’s—’

‘Tell us about the girl,’ González butted in.

‘Leila. We met at p—prayers, talked a few times, and sometimes after p—prayers some of us would go to her father’s place for tea. I went out with her a few times. Last Thursday I went for a walk with her, then met her after p—prayers on Friday, and had this silly quarrel.’

Hassan’s voice began to croak.

‘More water?’ asked Guevarra.

‘Please.’

‘Oh bloody hell. Guevarra, get a bloody jug of the stuff,’ interrupted González. ‘We’ll be here all night just to make sure he’s comfortable.’

Max pointedly continued. ‘Quarrelled? Over what?’

‘My fault. I said I couldn’t go out with her again.’

‘Why?’

‘Javeed advised me against it.’

‘Do you do everything Javeed suggests?’

‘No. But he’s helped me a lot, and he said I should concentrate on the job and the course. It’s tough, trying to do both, you know.’

‘Back to the girl. Nothing else to tell us? Nothing happened?’ said González, impatiently.

‘What could happen? It was just a walk, and then a silly quarrel.’

‘You didn’t touch her or anything?

Hassan blushed. ‘Of course not. I respect her.’ His voice broke, and tears clouded his eyes. ‘I mean respected her.’

Gabriel interrupted. ‘There’s no need for that sort of questioning.’

Max felt the questioning was becoming insensitive, but let González continue.

‘On Saturday you met up with her again?’

‘No. I’ve already told you. I went into Diva with Javeed before five to get some things for the centre. I never saw her again after Friday.’

Hassan’s hands shook, and his shoulders slumped.

‘Come on. Expect us to believe that? You met up with her, didn’t you? You grabbed her, and she fell over the ravine.’

‘I told you I never saw her after Friday.’

‘It’ll be easier for you if you just admit it.’

Gabriel again interrupted. ‘If you continue this way I will advise my client not to cooperate any further.’

Max came in again. ‘Could you give us a detailed account of your movements, say between four and six, the evening of last Saturday?’

Hassan controlled his breathing a little. ‘Well, Javeed and I set off for Diva at about three. We drove down the mountain, and got here a bit after four. We were early, so the shops were still all shut, so we went for tea and a game of chess in the Al Andaluz café. They can give you the exact time we got there. It was raining when the shops reopened, so we decided to stay in the café and finish our chess game.’

‘Who won?’

‘I did,’ said Hassan smiling, faintly.

‘What was your winning move?’

‘Oh. Let me see.’ Hassan closed his eyes. ‘Yes. I remember now. Javeed had taken my second white knight, the one on B1. I then moved my bishop to D3 to put him in check, and that won the game because the black king had to move from A4 to B3 leaving the white bishop to take the black queen. Once that happened I was able to advance my pawn on D5 to become a queen.’

‘Come on. Who cares how he fucking won a game of bloody chess?’ interrupted González.

Max gave González a withering stare, and then turned back to Hassan. ‘What did you do next?’

‘It was still raining when we went to the supermarket where we stocked up, and then b—back up the mountain.’

The secretary knocked at the door. ‘Those chaps from the Centre are here, sir.’

‘Bugger,’ said González. ‘They’re early. Take him away. We’ll continue later.’

‘Only if he agrees,’ said Gabriel.

Hassan turned to Gabriel. ‘It’s fine. I know I’m a suspect, but as I keep saying I’ve nothing to hide.’

‘If you agree, that’s acceptable. But I am not happy with the tone and implications of many of the questions. With your permission, Teniente, I will speak to Dr Dharwish to let him know my doubts.’

‘If you must. We will speak to them all after you’ve spoken with your Don Javeed.’ González said, emphasizing the Don.

Gabriel and Hassan left together. When the cops were alone González exploded.

‘Bloody smart story. Bloody chess game. Alibi all the fucking time. But each other. Just give me ten minutes alone with that young shit and I’ll sort him out.’

‘But sir,’ said Guevarra, ‘he’s just a scared kid. We can check up on the alibi.’

‘Telling me how to do my job now, girlie? Watch yourself.’

González turned to León. ‘I’ll give the Judge a bell, and ask him to question the boy. León, you get the papers ready requesting another forty-eight hours.’

Max butted in. ‘Look, I don’t think you have sufficient grounds at this stage to hold him for another forty-eight hours. He has a decent alibi, and there is nothing to link him to the crime scene. I suggest you leave the request to the judge for the moment.’

González paused and scowled. ‘You’re probably right. Okay, but I tell you he did it.’

The air conditioning hardly worked. They were all sweating.

Gabriel, Javeed and four other men knocked and entered. It was Javeed who spoke.

‘I have all the documents here you asked for. Gabriel has complained to me about your questions. Note we are cooperating fully and voluntarily. But, believe me, if you overstep the mark I shall complain to the highest authorities.’

González said nothing. Javeed pulled out some neat plastic folders from his briefcase, and handed them to González who passed them over to Max.

‘We’ll keep these for a few days if you don’t mind,’ said Max, taking the folders.

‘We’re not going anywhere, so that’s okay.’

‘We’d like to ask you a few more questions,’ said Max, after glancing at the file.

‘Fine. Go ahead,’ replied Javeed.

‘Javeed Dharwish. British passport, I see.’

‘Yes. Originally Palestinian. But I lived for fifteen years or more in London where I still have a flat and consultancy business.’

‘Omar Rahmin? French passport.’

‘Oui.
Parisian. I was born there, but my parents came from Algeria.’

‘Faslur Hashim? And you have a Spanish passport.’

‘I came over from Morocco twelve years ago, and was given Spanish citizenship two years ago.’

‘Rizwan Ahmet? A Belgian passport.’

‘Yes. My father was Algerian, and he married a Belgian girl, my mother, and stayed in Belgium where I was born.’

‘And finally, Hakim Lasnami with a German passport. Don’t tell me your dad also married a local girl?’

‘No, our family emigrated from Iraq. My father’s a doctor, and after taking some exams in Germany he was allowed to stay and practise medicine there.’

‘Quite a collection we have here,’ said González.

‘Yes,’ replied Javeed. ‘The Ibn Rush’d Centre is a European one. We intend to bring young Muslims from all over Europe, and help them become good European businessmen and leaders. We want to show that Muslims can be good Europeans, and also successful ones.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered González.

Max glanced at the Ibn Rush’d brochure, glossy with pictures of the mountains, the centre and the statue of Ibn Rush’d in Cordova. ‘Quite a collection of sponsors you have here.’

‘Yes. We did surprisingly well. Many of our successful Muslim businessmen have contributed, but also interfaith groups and others have agreed to sponsor us. I have here all the documentation on the purchase of the centre, planning permission for alterations, receipts for building work, the CVs of all our applicants, and a daily outline of the courses they follow. I keep a progress report, but that is confidential. I also have letters of support from the Spanish Ministry of Culture and of Foreign Affairs. The Management Centre at the University of Granada is also a co-sponsor, and we attend their lectures. And this is the application we sent to the EU for funding together with their positive response.’

‘Could you leave these with us. We will return them in a few days.’

‘Certainly. If you have any further questions I would be pleased to help. Can we take Hassan back with us?’

‘Okay. Take the lad for now. But he’ll be back.’