Ch Eight

Iraq

Hathaway turned on the tape.

"Alright, Malik. Can you tell us exactly what happened between you and Mr. Blethyn on the evening of the 17th?"

"I already told you it was a private matter and has nothing to do with however he was killed."

"Give us the information so we can make that determination," said Hathaway in a calm voice.

The young man paused, took a sip from a can of orange Fanta and then seemed to come to a decision. "I didn't know he lived here in Oxford until I saw him on tv talking about his book. I was stunned."

"Stunned meaning surprised or stunned meaning angry?" Hathaway asked.

"Both. I vowed there and then to track him down and demand a public confession and apology for what he had done to my sister."

Lewis had a thought. "You said earlier that you had interacted with him several times. How did you contact him?"

"First, I found his email address from a website and sent him a message. I said I knew him in Iraq and wanted to meet. He sent me a message with his phone number. I called him and when he heard my voice, he hung up."

"I think my accent alarmed him. At first he must have thought that I was one of his buddies wanting to reminisce about what fun they had in that stupid desert country." He drank more orange pop.

"So I went to one of his book signings. I got in line with his fans and when I got close enough, I handed him a note. He took it perhaps thinking that I wanted his autograph."

"Very resourceful. What did it say?" prompted Hathaway.

"What I just told you. I said who I was and that I wanted a confession and an apology."

Hathaway asked, "How did Mr. Blethyn react?"

"He read it and at first looked up at me with such anger that I stepped back. Then, he smiled and said, 'Sorry, I'm sure you have a very compelling tale, but I really haven't the time now.' He pretended that I had asked him for help with getting published." He shook his head, remembering.

"He wrote something on the paper and handed it back to me, then turned to the next person in line. I left the table and read what he had written across my note. It said, 'Fuck off stalking me, or I will have you arrested.'"

Lewis leaned forward, giving Hathaway a breather. "So far, you emailed him, called him, saw him at a public event and gave him a message. Is that right?"

"Yes, I think so."

"About when was this going on?"

"Last spring. When his book came out."

"What was your state of mind at this point? Were you angry or frustrated?"

"I—I did not know what to do next. I was right and he was wrong. But he was going to have me arrested! I have been in this country long enough to know whose word would be taken as truth."

He looked up at the older man. "A famous British author, a wealthy man, a white man, against an immigrant, a poor brown man. Who would take the word of a Muslim, a terrorist, a raghead, a Paki. Yes, I have been called all those things. But I thought of Mari and of my family."

"And I decided to follow the advice of the Holy Quran. In Surah 2:153 it states: "Indeed Allah is with those who persevere in adversity." I would go to his home and confront him. If he had me arrested, so be it. I would tell him my truth and let Allah's will be done."

"Even if he killed me, then I would be with Mari and the rest of my family in paradise."

"In paradise? You mean they're dead?" asked Lewis

"Oh, yes. They're dead. I held Mari in my arms as she bled to death. After those dogs had finished with her."

Lewis caught his breath. He had a sudden vision of his own daughter dying in his arms, after, god, no. ….He shook himself mentally. Get a hold, ya stupid sod. Be a copper.

But Hathaway beat him to it. He asked quietly, "Malik, what happened to the rest of your family?"

"My mother never got over Mari's death. Her only daughter's murder. Her gang rape. She….stopped eating. She had diabetes. She went into a coma and died. She went to be with Mari. My older brother disappeared. He went to work one day and never returned."

"My father was killed in a car bomb at the market. Who knows if it was a Sunni or Shia terrorist. Like most Iraqis, my family is Shia, but it doesn't matter. At any rate, they're all gone now. All within a year of Mari's death. Like a curse on our family. All except me."

"I tried to survive alone, but life became very difficult for me. I had an uncle here. He sent for me and I came to England as a refugee."

"Malik. Do you need a break?" asked Lewis.

"No. I want to tell my story."

He looked down and then composed himself again.

"I found Michael Blethyn's home."

Hathaway asked,"How?"

"Simple, I followed him. He had accused me of stalking him. So I did. I waited outside his house and confronted him when he came out one morning. I told him that he had raped and killed my sister in Iraq."

"He denied even being in Iraq, said I had the wrong person. He threatened me again with arrest. I left. I returned a few days later and a few days after that. On my last visit, the evening of July 17th, he had been drinking alcohol.

He allowed me into the house, he said to keep me from making another scene in the street. He said he had not known that 'the girl' had died. He called my sister a prostitute, told me she had been much older than 14."

The young Iraqi looked up at the two men, his eyes glittering with emotion. "Know what he did then? He offered money! Money! The dirty swine."

"He said that the men in our family probably killed her because she was not a virgin. My twin sister. That is when I…I lost my temper and struck at him. We struggled and tore up the room. I believe that I could have killed him—I was that angry. But I didn't.

I have seen enough death and killing. We stopped fighting and shouting. He told me that he had been only 23, the same age as me now, when he took a short-term contract job in Iraq. He just wanted to earn some money so he could write. He had never intended to get involved with the locals."

"That's what he called it—getting involved with the locals. But the men he was with, they called him unmanly names and told him that he had to prove that he was a real man and go with them to find women. I asked him if he would admit to having hurt my sister in Iraq. He said no, it would ruin his life."

"I noticed the small clay tablet on his desk. It was Iraqi, stolen from the national museum. It was proof that he was in Iraq, or had connections there. I thought about taking it but I didn't."

"He asked me what I wanted if not money. I repeated that I wanted a public confession and apology. It was for Mari. He refused. I said I would tell everyone what he had done. He ordered me to get out."

Hathaway made himself ask, "How do we know you are telling us the truth about what happened that night? Mr. Blethyn is not here to defend himself."

"Neither is my sister. Thanks to Mr. Blethyn and his friends."

"But I didn't kill him. The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, taught that "You shall not kill any person - for GOD has made life sacred". Mr. Blethyn's death won't bring Mari back. Won't bring my family back either. I will mourn them forever." Malik Hassan's eyes welled up with tears. He suddenly looked very young and alone.

"We Shia say we are experts at mourning, just like the Jews say they are experts at suffering. We mourn the death of Hussein ibn Ali, peace be upon him, the Holy Prophet's grandson. Do you know when Hussein was martyred at Karbala?"

Lewis shook his head. Hathaway said, "It was in 752 AD." Malik nodded. "Every year we mourn, weep, scourge ourselves in our grief, as if it had happened yesterday. It is called the ritual of Ashura. Every year we do this to remember our fallen brother Hussein. We don't forget. We bleed for him. We bleed for all our people."

"Now, when I observe Ashura, I remember Mari. I bleed for my family."The young man voice choked off. He was weeping freely now.

Lewis blinked back a bit of moisture from his own eyes and looked over at Hathaway.

His hands were folded on the table, blonde head slightly bowed—was he praying? Lewis wondered how many times a day his sergeant prayed. Hathaway lifted his head, stood up and handed Malik a box of tissues. The young man took the box, whispering his thanks.

Hathaway nodded, then said, "Clarify something for me, Malik. You stated several times that you didn't kill Mr. Blethyn. You quoted from a Quranic Sura that forbid killing. But you did not give the complete verse, did you? 'You shall not kill any person, for god has made life sacred, except in the course of justice.'"

Malik stared at the sergeant. "Are you a Muslim, sir?" he asked in wonder, obviously appreciating the distraction.

"No, but I've read the Quran," Hathaway replied.

"In his spare time," Lewis added. Then to himself, bloody hell—is there anything the Boy Wonder doesn't know?

"There's more about killing to avenge an injustice, isn't there?"

"Yes, there is," said the youth, calm and again in control. "The Surah is 17, verse 33. It continues: 'If one is killed unjustly, then we give his heir authority to enforce justice. Thus, he shall not exceed the limits in avenging the murder; he will be helped.'"

"Do you agree, Malik? That a family member is entitled to avenge a relative's murder?"

Lewis was impressed with Hathaway's smooth incorporation of the religious text into the questioning. Maybe a theology background wasn't completely useless for a policeman after all.

"I respect the British government. You may not believe me, but I do. Iraq was originally set up to be secular, without an official religion-unlike this country."

Lewis raised an eyebrow at his sergeant and said, "He's got a point."

The young man smiled and continued. "Besides, the Surah says you may enforce justice. That's all I wanted. I didn't kill him, although he deserved to die. I've seen enough killing to last 10 lifetimes." He slumped back in his chair, emotionally drained.

Lewis knew that Malik was fading-they would not be able to get much more from him. Legally, they could not question him for longer than six hours and it had already been four. They would have to bring charges and detain him, or release him from custody and let him walk out the door. He repeated an earlier question.

"Refresh our memories, Malik. What time did you arrive at the flat?"

"It was about 7:30, still very light outside."

"And when did you leave the flat that night?"

"It was just getting dark, I think around 8:30. I was not there longer than an hour, of that I am sure."

"Did you see anyone else around the house during that time?"

"Only the old woman next door, pretending to work in her garden. I'm afraid I wasn't very polite to her."

Quiet descended. Lewis cleared his throat. "Are we done here, then, sergeant?"

Hathaway looked up, his expression bland and unreadable. "I think so, sir," he said, switching off the recorder. The two police detectives stood.

Malik looked hopeful."Am I free to leave now?"