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‘We don’t know, Meera. His colleagues have nothing but good to say about Azim.’
‘Then why?’ she howled.
Navi, the oldest daughter, pulled her mother close but spoke to Kim. ‘He never hurt anyone.’
‘We don’t believe he did,’ Kim said. ‘We believe it may be connected to his job.’
Meera pulled away from Navi and looked at Kim in horror, obviously wondering how something as trivial as his job could lead to his death. How could she possibly have lost one of her children because of what he did for a living?
‘He hated that job,’ Satya whispered, before burying her face in her mother’s arm.
Navi nodded her agreement. ‘He was only doing it because of his trip.’
‘Trip?’ Kim asked.
‘My brother was saving for a month-long visit to India. My mother and father came to England when Rishi, our older brother, was two. Azim had never been. He worked the night shifts because they paid more money so he could go sooner.’
‘Why did he hate it?’ Bryant asked.
‘He felt bad for some of the people that called in. The call handlers had instruction lists, predictions to follow, what to say. There were different variations depending on the sex and approximate age of the caller. Azim said many of the callers were desperate people. Heartbroken people looking for comfort, reassurance and for someone to listen. Regardless of the reason for the call, the aim was always the same – keep the caller on the line for as long as possible. Azim got told off a couple of times for not stretching calls.’
‘Did he ever mention any specific incidents where someone got irate with him?’
‘Sometimes,’ Navi answered. ‘But the operators were never identifiable.’
‘He was driving his brother’s car?’ Kim asked.
‘Azim couldn’t afford his own car yet,’ Navi explained. ‘Rishi is on holiday so doesn’t need it.’
‘And he doesn’t mind his brother using it while he’s away?’
Navi managed a smile. ‘In our culture we view possessions more communally. Although it belongs to Rishi, he has no use for it while he’s out of the country. It would not sit idle in the street when other family members have no transport.’
‘So it’s like a pool car?’
‘I suppose so but we know no other way.’
With no further questions, Kim didn’t want to intrude on this family’s grief any longer.
‘Meera, a family liaison officer is being appointed to assist—’
‘No strangers please,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘We have each other,’ she added, squeezing her daughters’ hands.
Kim nodded her acceptance of their request. She was guessing that there was no longer a Mr Mahmood senior, as there had been no reference to him. It was understandable that the woman didn’t want strangers traipsing in and out of her home.
‘Is Rishi contactable?’ Kim asked.
Navi nodded. ‘He will be home this evening.’
‘We’ll contact you tomorrow about identifying Azim.’
Navi stood to see them out. Her puzzlement turned to understanding. Kim had deliberately avoided using the word body, and the delay would give them time for the horror to sink in and to decide who was best able to carry out the unenviable task.
As Navi gently closed the door behind them, Kim felt as though the grief of the family had attached itself to every fibre of her being.
She couldn’t give them Azim back, but with every breath in her body, she wanted to give them justice.
THIRTY-ONE
