The Khan by Saima Mir (read e books online free TXT) 📕

‘Maybe,’ Jia said, ‘but I doubt it. And I’m sure you know more than you are letting on.’

The way the policeman sat in the chair, unapologetic, with his arm sprawled over one side, irked Jia. His voice, nasal and patronising, did not help matters. ‘Ms Khan…I have a dead white bouncer, severely injured white revellers and an eighteen-year-old girl, also white, who may never walk again thanks to these two thugs. You must know something.’

The last words were spat out; he could see that her mind was elsewhere. Reeling from her meeting with Nowak and the damage he and his men had inflicted on her brother, the thoughts running through her head were not pleasant. The problems of one chief of police didn’t figure high on her agenda. But she tried to feign interest, her eyes on his lips as he repeatedly uttered the word ‘white’, his mouth stretching so wide it almost split his cheeks. His face was flushed as though he’d been drinking and Jia wondered if the job was a little too much for him. His annoyance at the situation was apparent. He wasn’t used to having to chase people to get back to him and she had inconvenienced him by making it necessary to seek her out in person.

‘Eyewitnesses describe these thugs as anywhere between five foot eight and six foot, with brown hair and – wait for it – Asian. They took it into their hands to exact mindless revenge in my city, a city that is already at boiling point, and being watched by outsiders, right-wing groups ready to rip it open again and drag its intestines out on to the streets to chants of racial hatred!’

‘I understand, but what can I do? We’re preparing for a funeral here,’ Jia said. She was tired of listening to the sound of his voice.

‘I know, Ms Khan, and I am sorry for your loss.’ Briscoe’s voice suddenly became practised, as if reading from a script. ‘We are doing all we can to find out who was responsible. But we could do with your help in return…’

‘Are there any leads on my father’s death?’ Jia said, substituting his request with her own.

‘Not yet. We’re working our way through the information. But as you know, your father had many enemies…’ His eyebrows furrowed as he spoke, and his eyes disappeared further into his face.

Jia bristled at his words. ‘I’m sure, Chief Constable, that in your line of work you also have many enemies. If you met an untimely death, would you expect to be treated with less respect?’

The policeman looked disappointed. ‘I am not here to mark territory, Ms Khan. I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation. Look, I love this town, but she is not like other cities. This is not a melting pot, it’s a pressure cooker. And unless you help me we will have a riot on our hands of unprecedented proportions!’

‘And how should I do that?’ Jia asked.

Briscoe sat back in his chair. Her lack of emotion vexed him. He was no stranger to bending the law, knowing that there were times when ethics had to be put aside for the greater good, but this privileged brown woman was beneath him, and asking for her help was akin to walking on ground-up glass. But he had little choice in the matter: the order had come from above. The police and crime commissioner himself had called him to a private meeting.

‘By calling in your father’s…associates,’ he said. ‘The Jury, the Jirga. And by telling them to control the streets. They have done it before. They have been doing it for years. Why can’t they do it now?’

Up until that moment, Jia had assumed that the Establishment regarded the Jirga as a myth; that it was known about and actually worked in conjunction with Yorkshire’s police forces took her by surprise. She hadn’t realised how far her father’s network had spread. She decided it would be unwise to let Briscoe know this. ‘Allow people to underestimate you,’ Akbar Khan had advised her. ‘Sabar and salaat. Sabar and salaat – see how “patience” is mentioned before “prayer”?’

‘My father is dead,’ she said to the police chief. ‘And here you are, asking my family to do the job you are paid for? We are an ordinary family, sir. I’m not sure what influence you think we have –’

‘Ordinary, my arse!’ he snapped. ‘Just because I can’t do anything about the Jirga doesn’t mean I’m blind to its existence!’ His anger was obvious now, but he hadn’t risen to his position without the necessary skills, and he quickly pulled his temper back. ‘Look,’ he began, ‘I know you’re a good woman. You’re a smart, sensible, successful woman…’

‘Patronising me won’t help any,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘This thing is out of control, though. And there are enough brown kids in jail from the last time the situation boiled over. They’re only just picking up the pieces of their lives.’ He paused, thinking he was fighting a losing battle, and slumped back in his seat. ‘My son-in-law, he’s one of you. I have no issue with your people. Hell, my grandkids aren’t two shades from you!’

His words had little effect on her. ‘Mr Briscoe…Chief Constable, I’m afraid I have another meeting to attend, so if you’ll excuse me.’ She stood up to show him to the door. He sighed, almost relieved that it was over. He could tell his daughter that he had done his best.

Bazigh Khan escorted Briscoe out. As he opened the front door, the police chief turned to him. ‘We’ve known each other a long time, you and I,’ he said. ‘Your brother’s death… It’s obviously very early on in our investigations, but our forensics experts have pointed to the possibility that Akbar Khan knew his killer. I know that’s not rare in your business. But the way he was found, and