The Khan Saima Mir (best short novels TXT) 📖

pass on to her friends and colleagues, especially those who had earned her favour.

She looked up to see Maria coming down the stairs, Ben a few steps behind. He stopped halfway, just as he had the last time the police had come to search their home. His face had healed, his cheekbones returned, and despite having had little sleep, he looked refreshed. Jia loved her brother, but she wished he would make better choices.

‘What’s going on?’ he said, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

‘The police are here to search the house.’ She wanted to add, because of you, but her phone rang. It was Mark.

Maria and Benyamin waited as Jia took the call. She didn’t speak at first, just listened, and then eventually said, ‘I understand. You don’t need to apologise.’ She turned to her brother and sister as she spoke, and smiled. ‘Yes, Mark, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’

‘What do we do?’ asked Benyamin when she’d hung up.

‘Nothing.’

‘But Maria said they want to search the house. We can’t just let them in.’

‘Where were you tonight?’ Jia said, ignoring him. ‘What were you doing that made them think you were kerb-crawling?’ The intercom buzzed loudly before he could answer, and Jia pushed the button to let the visitors in. She looked at Benyamin. ‘This is your mess,’ she said. ‘You should get this.’

A look of uncertainty passed over Benyamin’s face. He walked to the door slowly, turned the handle and stepped outside to find Officer Swan pulling up alone in her unmarked car. There was no sign of her colleagues. She climbed out and walked to the front steps, her face burning up as she approached. Benyamin, confused at first, regained his composure, remembering who he was.

‘Officer Swan,’ said Jia, stepping forward. ‘I believe you have something to say to my brother.’

The policewoman stuttered and stammered her way through an apology. Something about crossed wires, Chief Constable Briscoe, and being more careful next time. Jia watched, her eyes on Benyamin; he seemed rooted to the spot with relief. She hoped that this would go some way to making him whole again. Even though it was Nowak who had inflicted the most recent wounds, Jia knew the trauma ran deeper than that. It had started years earlier with Zan’s brushes with the law. Benyamin had been a child then, but those who had raised him had been coloured by the incident.

Her father had used bribery and corruption to keep the police in his pocket, and now Jia had sweetened the deal with favours and buttoned them in for good.

CHAPTER 42

An elderly man in a tired suit carefully spooned biryani into his mouth, his eyes on the curry house, watching customers order, eat, pay and leave. Despite the late hour the restaurant was filled with families young and old. Children played in between the tables as parents and grandparents folded pieces of naan into morsels and dipped them in sauce for them. Across the other side of the restaurant, Elyas was dining with John.

They’d been eating at Café de Khan for as long as John could remember. The place was a cultural institution, having been around since the sixties. One of the first Pakistani eateries in the country, through the years its clientele had gone from homesick immigrants looking for a taste of home, to Hindi film stars and white middle-class food connoisseurs. Now with branches across the country, its newer establishments were slick, with modern interiors. But the original restaurant maintained its old-fashioned school-canteen feel. Prices were low and service was fast, and alcohol was strictly prohibited, but that didn’t stop the crowds.

‘Will you put that thing down, for God’s sake!’ said John to Elyas. He’d been on his phone since they arrived.

‘What? I’m working! That’s why I am who I am and you are not,’ said Elyas.

‘You’re on that bloody social media site again, aren’t you? What’s it called? Tip-off?’ John found new media irritating, probably because it had sounded the death knell for newspapers.

‘One of these days it’s going to help us find a big story before the police sirens get there,’ said Elyas.

‘I’ll stick to police media lines and tip-offs from real people, thanks,’ John replied.

Elyas looked up. ‘Did you know that South Asians are more likely to take up new technology than their white counterparts? And did you know that the brown pound is stronger than the equivalent white pound?’

‘And did YOU know you’re buying me dinner with that strong brown pound?’ said John. ‘Speaking of money. Did you get anywhere with the “havala” story?’

‘The money-laundering one?’ Elyas had been looking into the money transfer method after a tip-off from the police. ‘Yeah, a little bit. I know that travel agents are involved, and that there’s no paper trail. It’s pretty complicated and I’m not sure anyone really understands it and that’s what makes it such a great way for criminals to hide and move money. Why do you ask?’

‘Just something I’ve been looking into recently,’ answered John. ‘There are lots of hand car-wash places opening up across the city. I’m wondering if they’re dodgy.’

‘Probably,’ said Elyas.

The waiter brought their order and placed it on the table. They began eating even before he’d left, Elyas tearing large chunks off the chapatti and dipping it in the karahi. ‘Who needs plates?’ he said.

It had been a long day. The city had been boiling over with news and they hadn’t had time to eat. When John finally looked up from his plate he saw they were being watched. ‘Why do they let that old homeless man hang around? He’s always stalking the staff, judging the customers.’

‘Maybe because he owns the place?’ said Elyas, smiling.

John looked at the elderly man he’d thought was homeless. His suit was oversized and his grey hair dishevelled, but Elyas was right: he was in charge. He called one of the waiters over and pointed to a table that needed cleaning. The waiter bowed repeatedly, fear written across his face, before rushing to clear