Rip Tide

Fontana had clearly thought about this before. He said, ‘I think they go through a sort of identity crisis. All this Western culture is only skin-deep with them; a lot of these kids don’t feel they can ever truly be English, and once they realise that, they feel alienated both from their parents and from this country and Western culture as a whole. Most of them don’t share the same work ethic as their parents; without that, they’re very vulnerable to the concept of a cause. Enter the extremist imams.’

They turned off the Stratford Road, on to a residential avenue that led gently uphill. ‘This used to be all Irish a century ago,’ said Fontana. ‘Then after the war immigrants from the Caribbean lived here. But for the last thirty years it’s been Asian. Lots of small businesses – people like the Khans, just trying to get ahead.’

He turned the car again, and they drove up a street of small Victorian terraced houses with little front gardens behind low walls. The street looked to be in good order – the houses freshly painted, the windows clean, dustbins neatly lined up in the front gardens – but when Fontana pulled over to park outside a house in the middle of the terrace, Liz was surprised.

He saw her expression and laughed. ‘Don’t be fooled. Mr Khan could buy half this street, but it’s not his style. He’d never want to leave this neighbourhood – most of his extended family live within a quarter of a mile of here, and all his friends. You’ll never find him in a mock-Tudor villa out in the suburbs.’

Fontana’s knock on the half-glazed front door was answered by a small fierce-looking man, who seemed to be in his sixties. His hair was white, and his black, sharply trimmed moustache was speckled with grey. His self-important demeanour made it clear that he was the lord of this particular manor.

‘Hello, Mr Khan, very nice to see you again. This is Miss Forrester from the Home Office. I told you she’d be coming along.’

Khan nodded curtly, and led them into the front room. The heavy gold curtains were pulled back, but the windows facing the street were covered by dense lace nets. A small woman was sitting, slightly hunched, on a maroon sofa. ‘My wife,’ said Khan, waving a hand towards her. She nodded but did not get up. Mrs Khan was wearing a brown salwar kameez and a woollen cardigan; her head was almost covered by an embroidered shawl.

Liz and Fontana sat down in the pair of armchairs that faced the sofa. Mr Khan remained standing, and said to Fontana, ‘Now, officer, what is all this about?’

Liz replied, ‘I’ve come to see you about your son.’

‘Which son?’ asked Khan sharply.

‘Amir,’ said Liz. ‘I want to talk to you about Amir.’

Mrs Khan lifted up her head and looked at Liz, her face a mask of concern. ‘Is Amir…?’

‘He’s fine,’ said Liz soothingly. ‘I’ve seen him myself. He’s in good health.’

Mr Khan was now sitting on the sofa beside his wife. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded, looking pointedly at Fontana. This is a man constantly on the brink of losing his temper, thought Liz. And he’s not used to being questioned by a woman.

She continued, ‘I am afraid that he is being held by the French authorities in a prison in Paris. He may be extradited to the UK – or possibly not. That’s still up in the air.’

‘What has he done?’

‘He was part of an attempt to hijack a cargo ship off the Horn of Africa. We believe he had been living in Somalia.’

For the first time Mr Khan seemed at a loss for words. He sank back against the sofa cushions and exhaled noisily. Liz said, ‘When I talked to him, he said that he’d ended up there by accident, that he’d been press-ganged into helping a crew of pirates. He’s being held in France because the French Navy arrested him – they stopped the pirates from seizing the ship.’

Mr Khan latched on to his son’s explanation greedily. ‘He’s a good boy. I would believe him if I were you.’

‘We’re not sure what to think, Mr Khan. The first thing we’d like to establish is how your son got to Somalia.’

Mr Khan was silent. Liz noticed he didn’t look at his wife.

‘When did you last hear from Amir, Mr Khan?’ Fontana interjected gently.

He said stiffly, ‘Amir went to Pakistan last year. He was working for a relation of my wife’s. The last letter we had from him was in…’ He paused, and for the first time looked over at his wife, as if asking for confirmation. He’s lying, Liz suddenly sensed.

The door to the sitting room opened then and a young woman appeared. She looked to be about twenty or so and was strikingly beautiful, with thick black hair that flowed over the shoulders of the rose-pink embroidered kameez she wore over wide white trousers.

Mr Khan looked up angrily. ‘Tahira, why aren’t you at the shop?’

‘You know we close early on Tuesdays, Papa,’ she said. ‘Besides, when Mama said the police were coming, I wanted to hear if there was news of Amir.’ Seeing her mother’s expression, she hesitated. ‘Is he…?’