Read Online If Snow Hadn't Fallen (a Lacey Flint short story) by Sharon Bolton - Free Book Online
Authors: Sharon Bolton
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medical textbooks. On the top shelf was something book-shaped wrapped in purple cloth.
‘That’ll be the Koran,’ said Tulloch, who was watching me. ‘There’s also a prayer mat in a bedroom cupboard.
‘Shoplifting incident aside, I’d barely expect someone like Aamir to come on to the radar screen of our five suspects,’ I said. ‘He was educated, a doctor, he obviously had money. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘He spent a lot of time in their neighbourhood,’ said Tulloch. ‘His own family lived close by. A lot of people in the area report seeing him or his car fairly regularly.’
‘Do you burn someone to death because they’ve caught you shoplifting?’
‘Most racist murders I can think of are provoked by much less. Isn’t that the point? It’s about skin colour, not actions.’
I reached the bedroom and paused on the threshold. How exactly, I wondered, had Aamir’s parents felt about the double bed in the room? Weren’t Muslim men supposed to be celibate until marriage? Or, if some level of experimentation were permitted, surely they wouldn’t entertain their partners at home?
‘Anything on the Shahid Karim money-laundering lead?’ I called back over my shoulder.
‘Nothing we can prove so far,’ replied Tulloch. ‘Karim seems to be quite close to Aamir’s older brother. We’re keeping an eye on it.’
On the wall facing me was a large, framed photograph of a modern ballet. Lilac smoke filled a large, empty space in which androgynous figures stretched and twisted their bodies into impossible shapes. In the forefront was a male figure wearing leggings that matched his pale-brown skin so closely he almost looked nude. Both his arms were stretched high, and balanced on his hands in a manner that looked impossible, certainly for any length of time, was a waif-like fair-haired woman with large eyes and a heart-shaped face. There was something about the way she hung in mid-air, head back, hair flowing down, that looked decidedly sensual.
‘That’s unusual,’ said Tulloch, joining me in the doorway. ‘Muslims don’t usually display images of people on their walls. Not even family photographs.’
I remembered the lack of photographs in the Chowdhury home and stepped closer.
‘Obviously a dance fan, though,’ she went on. ‘He had two tickets to see the Rambert Dance Company three days after he died. We have no idea who he was planning to go with.’
‘That’s not the Rambert,’ I said, looking at the printed text in the bottom left-hand corner of the poster, then back up again at the beautiful, slender woman at its centre. ‘London City Ballet. Recent production. Do you think we can find out who she is?’
Tulloch stepped closer and took a photograph of the poster with her phone. ‘I’m sure we can,’ she said.
She turned to leave the room, then looked back at me. ‘What?’ she said.
‘Not sure,’ I replied, still looking at the poster. ‘But there’s been something bothering me about the night Aamir was killed, something I’m missing, and for some reason, being here is making me think of it again.’
‘Something you saw or heard but that didn’t register properly?’
‘Probably. It’s no good, I just can’t think.’
‘So don’t force it.’
I followed her into the living room. ‘Any feminine toiletries in the bathroom?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘Just male stuff.’
‘I still think he had a girlfriend,’ I said.
‘Your mysterious woman in black,’ said Tulloch. ‘Did she show up again?’
I told her about my stake-out the previous evening. When I got to the part about the woman foraging in the bin for food, her face took on a sceptical look.
‘Lacey, she sounds like one of the homeless. She probably found the burka in a dustbin somewhere and is wearing it for warmth.’
‘So why’s she hanging around the park?’
‘Same reason anyone else would,’ said Tulloch. ‘Curiosity. To relieve the boredom. On the off-chance someone leaves
‘That’ll be the Koran,’ said Tulloch, who was watching me. ‘There’s also a prayer mat in a bedroom cupboard.
‘Shoplifting incident aside, I’d barely expect someone like Aamir to come on to the radar screen of our five suspects,’ I said. ‘He was educated, a doctor, he obviously had money. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘He spent a lot of time in their neighbourhood,’ said Tulloch. ‘His own family lived close by. A lot of people in the area report seeing him or his car fairly regularly.’
‘Do you burn someone to death because they’ve caught you shoplifting?’
‘Most racist murders I can think of are provoked by much less. Isn’t that the point? It’s about skin colour, not actions.’
I reached the bedroom and paused on the threshold. How exactly, I wondered, had Aamir’s parents felt about the double bed in the room? Weren’t Muslim men supposed to be celibate until marriage? Or, if some level of experimentation were permitted, surely they wouldn’t entertain their partners at home?
‘Anything on the Shahid Karim money-laundering lead?’ I called back over my shoulder.
‘Nothing we can prove so far,’ replied Tulloch. ‘Karim seems to be quite close to Aamir’s older brother. We’re keeping an eye on it.’
On the wall facing me was a large, framed photograph of a modern ballet. Lilac smoke filled a large, empty space in which androgynous figures stretched and twisted their bodies into impossible shapes. In the forefront was a male figure wearing leggings that matched his pale-brown skin so closely he almost looked nude. Both his arms were stretched high, and balanced on his hands in a manner that looked impossible, certainly for any length of time, was a waif-like fair-haired woman with large eyes and a heart-shaped face. There was something about the way she hung in mid-air, head back, hair flowing down, that looked decidedly sensual.
‘That’s unusual,’ said Tulloch, joining me in the doorway. ‘Muslims don’t usually display images of people on their walls. Not even family photographs.’
I remembered the lack of photographs in the Chowdhury home and stepped closer.
‘Obviously a dance fan, though,’ she went on. ‘He had two tickets to see the Rambert Dance Company three days after he died. We have no idea who he was planning to go with.’
‘That’s not the Rambert,’ I said, looking at the printed text in the bottom left-hand corner of the poster, then back up again at the beautiful, slender woman at its centre. ‘London City Ballet. Recent production. Do you think we can find out who she is?’
Tulloch stepped closer and took a photograph of the poster with her phone. ‘I’m sure we can,’ she said.
She turned to leave the room, then looked back at me. ‘What?’ she said.
‘Not sure,’ I replied, still looking at the poster. ‘But there’s been something bothering me about the night Aamir was killed, something I’m missing, and for some reason, being here is making me think of it again.’
‘Something you saw or heard but that didn’t register properly?’
‘Probably. It’s no good, I just can’t think.’
‘So don’t force it.’
I followed her into the living room. ‘Any feminine toiletries in the bathroom?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘Just male stuff.’
‘I still think he had a girlfriend,’ I said.
‘Your mysterious woman in black,’ said Tulloch. ‘Did she show up again?’
I told her about my stake-out the previous evening. When I got to the part about the woman foraging in the bin for food, her face took on a sceptical look.
‘Lacey, she sounds like one of the homeless. She probably found the burka in a dustbin somewhere and is wearing it for warmth.’
‘So why’s she hanging around the park?’
‘Same reason anyone else would,’ said Tulloch. ‘Curiosity. To relieve the boredom. On the off-chance someone leaves
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