A Sentimental Traitor (38 page)

‘Jem, I don’t think they’re planning to let me get as far as a prison cell.’

Yet even as he spoke it was too late. From the other end of the phone came the sounds of scuffling, a cry of pain, and protest, and the wail of an angry cat.

They would catch up with him, too, and very soon, he knew that. Even now there would be helicopters in the sky, every policeman in the county would be on alert. They would
search for him and eventually get him. The police car was probably tagged and transmitting his location to within a mean yard. How long did he have?

He couldn’t outrun them, but he might just outwit them for long enough to do what he had to. And in the middle of the silage that life had poured over him in unbelievable quantities, there
was one fragment of good news. Andover, where Mrs Maneckjee lived, was close at hand, but first he would have to dump the car. This he did in the car park of the nearest train station, Grateley,
deliberately blocking the access, causing an obstruction, making sure it wouldn’t go unnoticed for long. Then with most of the money he had left he bought a single ticket to London. The
watching eye of a CCTV camera caught it all. Another crumb of good fortune; the train arrived immediately, he even had to scamper across the bridge to catch it. Every minute would count.

As soon as he was on board he made a further point of seeking out the conductor, questioning him about the arrival time in London, looking at his watch, expressing muttered doubts about whether
he would get there in time. Yet, at the next stop, which was Andover, he slipped quietly from the train, trying to avoid being seen by either conductor or station staff, walking out through the car
park rather than going through the ticket barrier. It was a small ruse, an attempt to trick them into believing he was headed for London, but it might keep them off his back for a little while
longer. Then he started walking.

It took him more than an hour before he reached Mrs Maneckjee’s street. She lived in a small red-brick semi on a residential estate. As he walked up to the front door he noticed that
unlike most of her neighbours’ houses that were fronted by hard, utilitarian parking areas, her house still retained its front garden, carefully manicured, bursting with colour instead of oil
stains. He rang the bell, and felt a surge of anxiety as he saw a figure looming behind the door. He knew this might be the end of it. The door was opened by a diminutive Indian woman dressed in a
bright orange sari, with bangles on her wrist and greying hair tied neatly in a bun.

‘Mrs Maneckjee, my name is Harry Jones. A friend of mine called you to ask about your son, Farrokh. Mrs Maneckjee, I’ve been looking at the crash that killed him and I think
something very strange and extremely wicked has been going on. I don’t believe your son was killed by accident, and I’m hoping you will help me find the truth.’

She studied him through careful, cautious eyes that had flecks of ochre and hazel. ‘He was a good boy, my Farrokh,’ she said in an accent as thick as treacle.

‘He was important, too. Because of what he was doing in Russia.’

‘That is true.’ She nodded her head sadly.

‘Mrs Maneckjee, there is absolutely no reason why you should trust me, but if you don’t mind I’d like to come in and talk to you about Farrokh. You haven’t been given the
truth.’

She held his eye. ‘I know that. And you are the first to agree with me. So I don’t mind at all if you come in, Mr Jones. You look hot. Would you like some tea?’

‘Yes. Very much.’

‘Then, please.’ She stepped back and ushered him through. The house was bright and immaculately kept, in the Indian style. As she led Harry through to the sitting room at the rear,
he saw a small shrine to Farrokh that had been placed beneath an old stone tree of life. The light from several small candles shone onto a portrait. His graduation photo.

‘He graduated with first-class honours, you know, Mr Jones, in geographical sciences. From Bristol University.’ Her head was shaking back and forth as she spoke, in the manner of the
sub-continent, and a light had crept into her face, a mixture of pride and defiance, as if at last someone was ready to listen to her about her son. She seated him on the sofa with a view out to
the rear garden, and with the tea served him tiny cakes of almond that she placed upon a small end table with legs carved in the form of elephant heads.

He looked around for other photographs of her family, but could find none. ‘Farrokh – was he your only son?’

She nodded and gazed into her cup as though it were a sea of troubles.

‘I am so sorry. And your husband?’

‘Away on family business in India.’

‘Forgive me, but you are very brave to allow me into your home, Mrs Maneckjee.’

‘I am probably a foolish old woman to let someone like you into my home, Mr Jones – oh, indeed, I know what is being said about you. But you are the first person who has shown any
interest in the truth about my son.’

He leaned forward. ‘You will need to be very brave when you hear what I have to tell you.’

‘It could not be any worse than what has already been told to me. That he died for nothing.’

‘Tell me, what was Farrokh doing in Russia?’

And as he listened, all Harry’s pain and weariness seemed to drift away from him, replaced by understanding and irresistible anger.

‘My son was a trained hydrologist and environmental expert. Young but very accomplished, you understand?’ Her head wobbled; he smiled in encouragement. ‘He was leading a small
team that had spent several months making observations in the Caspian Sea.’

‘Why were they doing that, Mrs Maneckjee?’

‘Oh, because of the pipeline.’

Harry put his tea aside, concerned it might fall from his fingers. ‘What pipeline is that?’

‘But you must have heard of it, Mr Jones,’ she scolded gently, ‘it is very large. It will carry huge amounts of gas to Europe. It is called Babylon.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’

‘Before the EU can sign contracts for such a thing, it has to undertake an environmental audit. That is its own law. And that’s what Farrokh and his team were doing. Very important
work, very secret. But you see, Mr Jones, there are bad people out there, very bad. As soon as Farrokh and his team began their work, he found his office was being broken into, his papers being
stolen, his records copied. Then as they got closer to the end of their work they were threatened, several times, their vehicles and equipment sabotaged. Wicked men trying to stop them.’

‘Who was doing that, who was trying to stop them?’

‘Farrokh did not know, not for certain. He never saw them face to face, it was always in the shadows, in the dark, you know? But I think there is very much at stake with this pipeline, so
my son and his team decided to expedite their work, to finish their report as quickly as possible. And even as they were trying to complete their task, their offices were once again ransacked and
all their computer equipment stolen or destroyed.’

‘So all the work was lost.’

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘My Farrokh was a clever boy, he knew there was such wickedness afoot. He made a copy, you see, of the most important pieces of the research. On his
laptop. And he kept it with him so that whatever happened he would be able to complete his report. But he told me he was very worried, Mr Jones. I think a little afraid for his people. So he sent
them home. None of them knew what was in the report, except for my Farrokh. And at the first opportunity he flew back to Brussels to present his findings.’

She poured fresh cups of tea; Harry was desperate to urge her on, but he knew she must do this in her own way.

‘Would you care for some more biscuits, Mr Jones? You seem to enjoy them.’

He glanced down at his plate; it was empty. He had eaten automatically, both his mind and his manners adrift two thousand miles away on the shores of the Caspian Sea. ‘Forgive me. That was
rude.’

‘Not at all. I regard it as a considerable compliment to my poor cooking skills. But I suspect that most of all you would like me to finish my story.’

‘Yes. Please.’

‘When he arrived in Brussels he waited to present his report. And he waited, and he waited. He kept being told that his superiors on the Commission would see him the following day. Always
the following day. It was Christmas, you see, and eventually he was told that everyone had left and he should come back after the New Year. Farrokh was very angry, but there was no one to whom he
could protest. And he was more than a little frightened by this time. He thought he had – how do we say it? – covered his tracks on his journey from Russia, but one night he found his
hotel room had been broken into, and his luggage was searched.’

‘The laptop?’

‘He had kept it with him. He was such a clever and careful boy, Mr Jones, everyone used to say so. He called me the morning before he left, saying he was coming back home.’

‘On Speedbird 235.’

‘Precisely. With his laptop.’ Suddenly tears began to fall, making tiny dark spots on her sari; she fought to control them.

‘But I don’t understand, Mrs Maneckjee. Why did you not tell all this to the police?’

‘But I did!’ she protested, the tears wiped by a flash of anger. ‘I called, they said they would come, but it was many, many days. They complained that they had so many
relatives to see. And when I told them, they looked at each other, closed their notebooks, and said I must be mistaken. The plane had been shot down by the Egyptians, they said, because of the
children, not because of my Farrokh. I insisted they make enquiries, they said they would, but nothing happened. I telephoned many people, wrote many letters, but you know how it is. They concluded
I was simply a disturbed old lady, an immigrant with a foreign accent, and it is the truth that nowadays unless you think in the accent of Essex, they believe you cannot think at all. No one took
any notice, Mr Jones. Until you.’ She smiled, even though it hurt, while he felt a little ashamed about his countrymen. ‘So you see, Mr Jones, I don’t have to be brave about what
you came to tell me. I already know.’

‘Then you are even braver than I thought.’

‘No. It was Farrokh who was the brave one.’ She got up and went to his shrine, picked up his photograph. Harry stood beside her as she showed it off with pride. ‘Such a
wonderful son,’ she whispered, and kissed his image. She set about making tiny, entirely unnecessary adjustments to the immaculate shrine, wanting still to do something for her son,
repositioning the candles, adjusting its garland of small white flowers. Then she turned to Harry. ‘Is there anything else you would like to know, Mr Jones?’

Much, but he didn’t think Mrs Maneckjee would be able to tell him. ‘I don’t think so. You have been very kind.’

‘What will you do now?’

‘I’m not sure. I wish I could promise that I was in a position to reveal all this and get you a little justice – but justice isn’t being very kind to either of us right
now.’

She nodded in acceptance. ‘At least I have been able to share my feelings with someone who understands. Who believes. Not even my husband . . . Thank you for coming. And for caring, Mr
Jones.’ She led him slowly towards the door. ‘He was such an intelligent boy, wrote such clever things. But I think I have already said that several times. You must forgive a
mother’s pride.’

‘Such a pity we couldn’t read his last report.’

She stopped, her hand on the door latch. ‘Oh, but you can. He emailed me a copy before he left from Brussels. In case they stole his laptop.’

‘What was in that report?’

‘I do not know. It is far too technical for me.’

‘May I see it?’

‘If you would like.’ And once again Harry was invited into her home. This time she took him to a small side room filled with books and files. A comfortable chair sat in one corner
with sewing paraphernalia around it. In the other was a computer. ‘Please make yourself comfortable. And I have some food prepared. Would you like a plate, while you read?’

‘That isn’t necessary, thank you.’

‘Not necessary, perhaps, but my very great pleasure, Mr Jones.’

So he ate, while he read, and began to understand.