Something to Hide: A Lynley Novel Page 2

  The walk to Mayville Estate after work hours followed a zigzag pattern north through the streets. Late afternoon and there were pedestrians and cars and buses and bicycles everywhere as inhabitants of the area headed home. Among a very few Nigerians in this part of town, in a mixed-race community that was transitioning from African to West Indian, the Bankoles lived on the grounds of Mayville Estate in Bronte House, a building that comprised five floors of the undecorated London brick that was ubiquitous on the housing estate. The structure had the distinction of being directly across the lane from an asphalt play area, shaded from the scorching sun by enormous London plane trees. There were basketball hoops and goalposts at either end of it, and it was fenced to keep children chasing balls from going into the street.

  Concrete steps led up to the doors of the ground-floor flats in Bronte House, while outdoor corridors marked the route to those on the upper four storeys, which were accessed by a stairway or a lift. Nearly every door was open in the futile hope of catching a breeze that was, at least for now, nonexistent. So from gaping windows television noises and dance music along with rap issued forth, accompanied by the fragrance of a multitude of meals being prepared.

  Inside the Bankole flat, the temperature made the place feel like an overheated sauna. Tani felt blanketed by a pall of nearly liquid air that forced him to squint against his own sweat. There were fans running, but they did nothing to mitigate the roasting air. They merely moved it around like sluggish swamp water. One could breathe, but it wasn’t pleasant to do so.

  Tani caught the scent almost at once, and he glanced at his father. Pa’s expression showed that he wasn’t pleased.

  It was Monifa Bankole’s job to anticipate many things. At this time of day, she was to anticipate not only the hour that her husband would walk into the flat, but also the meal that her husband would prefer. He usually told her neither. In his head, they had been married for twenty years, so he should not have to broadcast information to her like a newlywed. During their first years together, he’d made her well aware of many things, among them his requirement that his tea be ready no more than ten minutes after his return from the day’s labour. This day, Tani saw, things were looking good for the time of tea if not for the substance. His sister, Simisola, was laying the table for all of them, which meant the meal was imminent.

  Simi bobbed a hello instead of speaking, but she shot Tani a grin when he said, “You baffed up cos your boyfriend’s coming to tea, Squeak?” She quickly covered her grin with her hand. This hid the appealing little gap between her front teeth, but it did nothing to stifle her giggle. She was eight years old, ten years Tani’s junior. His principal interaction with her was defined by teasing.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend,” she declared.

  “No? Why?” he asked her. “In Nigeria you’d be married by now.”

  “Would not!” she said.

  “Would too. Tha’s what happens, innit, Pa.”

  Abeo ignored him to say to Simi, “Tell your mother we are home,” as if this were necessary.

  The girl swirled round, danced past one of the nearly useless fans, and called out, “Mummy! They’re here!” And then to her father and brother and just as her mother would, “Sit, sit, sit. You want a beer, Papa? Tani?”

  “Water for him,” Abeo said.

  Simi shot Tanimola a look and swirled round again. It came to Tani that she was doing all the swirling in order to show off a skirt. It was an old one, looking like an Oxfam special, but she’d decorated it with sequins and sparkles and her headband—from which her short dark hair sprang up in twists—she had decorated as well. It sported more sequins, and she’d added a feather. She dashed into the kitchen, nearly knocking into their mother, who was emerging with the gbegiri soup Tani had smelled. Steam rose from it, fogging her specs, beading moisture on Monifa’s forehead and cheeks.

  He couldn’t imagine even trying gbegiri soup in this heat, but he knew what mentioning that would trigger. Abeo would embark upon another saga of how things were when he was a boy. He’d been in England for forty of his sixty-two years, but when he spoke of his native Nigeria, one would think he’d arrived at Heathrow only last week. How things were “back home” had long been his preferred topic, whether he was holding forth about the schools, the living conditions, the weather, or the customs . . . all of which seemed to exist in a fantasy African homeland born from watching Black Panther at least five times. It was Pa’s favourite film.

  As Monifa placed the serving bowl in the centre of the table, Abeo frowned. “This is not efo riro,” he said.

  “In this heat, I worried,” Monifa said. “The chicken. The meat. We had none here, just a bit of beef. And I wondered how fresh could the other meats stay if I bought them in the market. So I thought gbegiri soup might be wiser.”

  He looked at her. “You have made no rice, Monifa?”

  “Here, Papa!” Simi had reappeared with the beer. She had a frosty can in one hand and a frosty glass in the other, and she said, “It feels so cool. Feel how cool it is, Papa. C’n I have some? Just a sip?”

  “You cannot,” her mother said. “Sit. I am serving the food. I am sorry about the rice, Abeo.”

  Simi said, “But I’ve not got Tani’s water yet, Mummy.”

  Abeo said sharply, “Do as your mother tells you, Simisola.”

  Simi did so, casting an “I’m sorry” look at Tani, who shrugged.

  She ducked her hands beneath the table and cast a look at Tani, who gave her a wink. She cast one at her mother, who kept her gaze on Abeo. After a long moment of observing Monifa, he gave the sharp nod that indicated his wife could begin serving.

  He said to Monifa, “Your son failed to show up at work on schedule once again. He was able to give the shop only thirty minutes of his valuable time. Zaid had to do nearly everything at closing, and he was not pleased.” And then he said to Tani, “Where were you that you failed in your responsibilities?”

  Monifa murmured, “Abeo . . . ? Perhaps later you and Tani . . . ?”

  “This, what I speak of, is not your concern,” Abeo cut in. “Have you made eba? Yes? Simisola, bring it from the kitchen.”

  Monifa spooned a large portion of gbegiri soup onto a rimmed plate. She passed it to Abeo. She scooped up more and gave it to Tani.

  In a moment, Simi emerged from the kitchen with a large platter of eba. To accompany the swallows and in a bow to “being English,” she’d tucked under her arm a bottle of brown sauce. She placed this in front of Abeo and returned to her seat. Monifa served her last, as was their custom.

  They ate in silence. Noise from outdoors along with the smacking of lips and swallowing of food was the only sound. Halfway through his meal, Abeo paused, shoved back his chair, and performed what Tani thought of as his father’s nightly ritual: He blew his nose mightily into a paper napkin, balled this up, and tossed it to the floor. He told Simi to bring him another. Monifa rose to do this herself, but Abeo said, “Sit, Monifa. You are not Simi.” Simi scampered off, returning only moments later with an ancient tea towel so faded that it was impossible to discern which royal marriage was being celebrated on it. She said to her father, “I couldn’t find any but there’s this. An’ it will work, won’t it, Papa?”

  He took it from her and used it on his face. He placed it on the table and looked at them. He said, “I have news.”

  Instantly, they all became statues.

  “What kind of news?” Monifa asked.

  “Things have been settled well,” was his reply.

  Tani saw his mother shoot a glance in his direction. Her expression alone was a trigger for his anxiety.

  “It’s taken many months,” Abeo said. “The cost has been more than I expected. We start at ten cows. Ten of them. So I ask can she breed if I am to pay ten cows for her? He says she is one of twelve offspring, three of whom are already producing. Thus she comes of breeding
stock. That is of no account, I tell him. Just because her mother and siblings have bred so well, this does not mean she will do the same. So I ask for a guarantee. Ten cows and there is no guarantee? I say this to him. He says, Pah! What sort of man asks another for a guarantee? I say, A man who knows what is important. We go back and forth, and in the end, he says he will settle for six cows. I say it’s still too much. He says, Then she can stay here, because I have other options. Options, he says. I tell him I know he bluffs. But the time is right, her age is right, she will not last long if he puts the word out. So I agree, and the thing is settled.”

  Monifa had lowered her gaze to her plate and had not lifted it again during Abeo’s speech. Simi had stopped chewing her food, her expression telegraphing her confusion. Tani felt lost within his father’s story. Ten cows? Six? Breeding stock? He felt something very bad in the air, a gust of tension flavoured with the scent of dread.

  Abeo turned to him, saying, “Six cows I paid for a virgin of sixteen years. This has been done for you. Soon I will take you to Nigeria where you will meet her.”

  “Why’m I meeting some Nigerian girl?” Tani asked.

  “Because you are going to marry her when she is seventeen years.” That said, Abeo went back to eating. He broke off a piece of his swallow and used it to scoop up a small piece of beef. This appeared to remind him of something he wished to add, for he addressed Tani with, “You are lucky in this. A girl her age is usually given to a man of forty years or more because of the cost. Never to a boy like you. But you must settle and take up your manhood soon. So we will go, and while we are there, she will cook for you, and you will get to know her. I have seen to that so you do not end up with someone useless. She is called Omorinsola, by the way.”

  Tani folded his hands on the table. The room seemed several degrees hotter than it had been upon their return from Ridley Road. He said, “I’m not doing tha’, Pa.”

  Monifa drew in a deep breath. Simi’s eyes became as round as old pennies. Abeo looked up from his food and said, “What is this that you just said to me, Tanimola?”

  “I’m not doing it is what I said. I’m not meeting some virgin you’ve picked out for me, and I’m definitely not marrying anyone when she turns seventeen.” Tani heard his mother murmur his name, so he faced her. “This isn’t the Middle Ages, Mum.”

  Monifa said, “In Nigeria, Tani, these things are arranged so that—”

  “We don’t live in Nigeria, do we. We live in London and in London people marry who they want to marry when they want to marry them. Or at least I do. I will. No one’s picking out a wife for me. And I’m not getting married anyway. Not now and definitely not to some guaranteed African breeding virgin. Tha’s mad, innit.”

  There was a tight little moment of the kind of silence that echoes round a room. Abeo broke it, saying, “You will do exactly what you are told to do, Tani. You will meet Omorinsola. You are promised to her and she is promised to you, so we will have no more discussion.”

  “You,” Tani said, “are not the ruler of me.”

  Monifa gasped. Tani heard this and said, “No, Mum. I’m not going to Nigeria or to any other place just because he decided it.”

  “I head this family,” Abeo told him. “As a member of it, you will do as I say.”

  “I won’t,” Tani said. “If you thought I would do, then you’re mistaken. You can’t force me to marry anyone.”

  “You will do this, Tani. I will see that you do it.”

  “Really, eh? Tha’s what you think? D’you plan to hold a gun to my head? Tha’ll look good in the wedding photos, innit.”

  “You watch what comes out of your mouth.”

  “Why? What will you do? Beat me up like—”

  Monifa quickly said, “Stop this, Tani. Show your father some respect.” And then, “Simi, go to—”

  “She stays,” Abeo said. And to Tani, “Finish what it is you wish to say.”

  “I’ve said what I wanted to say.” At that he rose from the table, his chair screeching on the lino. His father did the same.

  Abeo’s fist clenched. Tani stood his ground. They stared each other down across the table. Abeo finally said, “Get out of my sight.”

  Tani was happy to do so.

  THE NARROW WAY

  HACKNEY

  NORTH-EAST LONDON

  Detective Chief Superintendent Mark Phinney wasn’t surprised to find his brother waiting for him. Paulie had arranged everything in the first place, so he had a vested interest, more or less, in how Mark liked what he’d found waiting for him inside Massage Dreams. Besides, Massage Dreams wasn’t far from either one of Paulie’s two pawnshops, and well within convenient walking distance of their parents’ house and Paulie’s own. At least, Mark thought, his brother wasn’t lurking inside the damn place, in its tiny lobby. Instead, he’d taken himself the short distance from Mare Street to The Narrow Way, and there he was sitting on one of the benches in the middle of the pedestrian precinct. Mark saw him at once as he rounded the corner. On Paulie’s face was that knowing leer with which he’d always greeted his younger brother whenever—as an adolescent with spots on his face—Mark had returned from what Paulie had assumed was a date but actually was hanging about with a group of mates from school, all of them misfits like Mark himself, three of them girls. Paulie’s words then were always the same when Mark arrived home: “Get any, mate?” to which Mark would reply, “If I did, you’re not hearing about it.”

  Today’s leer, though, had nothing to do with adolescent girls, although it did have to do with getting some in one of the back rooms of the day spa, which happened to be more than a mere day spa if one had the right currency, as they did not give change or accept credit cards when a man purchased this particular service.

  Paulie said, “So . . . ?” and when Mark didn’t reply at once, “It took long enough, Boyko. What’d you do? Have more than one go?”

  Mark said, “I had to wait twenty minutes for her. Let’s go. Mum’ll have dinner nearly ready.”

  “That’s it?” Paulie said. “Just ‘I had to wait twenty minutes for her’? I went through a lot of favours to get you an appointment today, lad. That’s how popular the place has become. So was it good? Worth the money? Was she young? Beautiful? Haggard? No teeth? What’d she use? Hand, mouth, tongue, some other body part? I reckon between the tits would do nicely, eh? No? Hmmm. P’rhaps under her arm? Or did you go the full monty with her?”

  Mark tuned him out. He walked in the direction of St. Augustine Tower, the crenellated top of which overlooked The Narrow Way. A group of kids appeared to be playing an imaginative form of kick the can at the base of the tower, a sight he hadn’t seen since mobile phones, texting, gaming, and PlayStations had obliterated the ways children had entertained themselves for generations.

  They entered St. John of Hackney churchyard, just to the right of the ancient tower. They headed east, on a route that would take them along a paved path the distance to Sutton Way. There Paulie and his family lived in a structure unappealingly reminiscent of the hasty architecture that grew out of the 1960s, all angles and picture windows looking onto very little of interest.

  Paulie said, “Well, it was better than internet porn, I wager. More costly, yeah, but it’s the woman’s touch that does it, eh? It’s special, that. Another human being. Warm flesh. Shit, Boyko, if Eileen hasn’t always known what I want before I even want it, I’d’ve been in there with you having my own go.” His voice altered to meditative. “That woman’s a sex machine, our Eileen is. Most days she doesn’t wear knickers, and if the kids aren’t in the room, she lifts her skirt every chance she gets. She’s even done me in one of the shops. Have I told you that? Right behind the counter, this was, three days ago, with the shop full open for business. I’m surprised I wasn’t taken to the bill to answer questions about wife abuse. That’s how much noise the woman was making when I got her going.” r />
  Mark said nothing. He’d heard about Eileen’s sexual antics before. Ad nauseam, in fact. The silence extended until Paulie said, “Pete coming to dinner? Or is it just you?”

  Mark glanced at his brother, who was looking straight ahead as if there were something in the distance that wanted memorising. He said, “Why d’you ask that? You know it’s impossible just now.”

  “What about that Greer person? Isn’t that her name? Greer? Pete’s friend? The one she sees so much of? Greer could stay for an hour or two. She’d know what to do if anything happened.”

  “Pete doesn’t like to leave Lilybet,” Mark told his brother.

  “I know she doesn’t like to. We all know she doesn’t like to, Boyko.”

  Again Mark made no reply. While it was true that his misery was deep, it was not about Pete, who did the best she could, given their circumstances. Instead, his misery was more about what he couldn’t anticipate, and that was what the future was going to look like for all three of them: Pietra, Lilybet, and himself.

  They walked across the lower section of the churchyard. It was mostly empty at this time of day, so close to dinner. A few benches were occupied, but mostly by people who were staring at the screens of their smartphones. There were dog walkers as well, and one woman in a scarlet sundress appeared to be walking a large tabby cat on a lead although the cat’s slinking along a scarce inch from the ground indicated his lack of enthusiasm for the activity.

  As they drew closer to the other side of the churchyard, the smell of frying burgers created a fountain of scent in the air. The source was a small café just to their side of the wall that separated the churchyard from the neighbourhood beyond it. The café catered to the area’s multiracial, multicultural populace, as its posted menu indicated that on offer were not only burgers but also crêpes, samosas, kebabs, chicken shawarma, and various vegetarian dishes. The place appeared to be doing a brisk business. There were people tucking into numerous cartons at the several picnic tables set on the lawn. There was also a long queue waiting to order and another waiting for food to be packed up for takeaway. They wore the martyred expressions so typical of Londoners, most of whom spent their lives waiting in a queue for something: a bus, the underground, a train, a taxi, their turn at the till.