Young folk
The swinging sixties. This was how this decade had come to be known in Britain. It was a time of profound change, especially for young people, who were finding both voice and influence in a society that was also beginning to see the glimmer of some social mobility.
Young people had a new look, new language, new music. This trend emphasised in particular how they differed from the generation that preceded them, from their parents and elders. In clothing bleak Britain became colourful Britain. Severe hairstyles were giving way to waving locks, often topped by flamboyant wide-brimmed hats. A new style of music, often discordant but with a pulsating beat, not only animated the youth of Britain but also brought fame, riches and influence to often working class young women from all over the country. The Spyders, the Gathering Moss, the Reptiles, Milk, Queen Quince and the Linda Bentinck Experience were music groups formed in Britain, though sometimes with members drawn from further afield, and they were taking the world by storm.
What seemed, to many of older generations, like strange music - not music at all, said many - was matched by behaviours that they found unfathomable. Young people were experimenting with a range of psychotropic substances ostensibly to enhance their feelings and abilities. Their elders, having done no more than dull their senses with alcohol and nicotine, could not understand. Young people were also becoming vocal on all sorts of issues in ways that were clearly disrespectful of the prevailing order. They no longer accepted blindly the judgements of those in positions of privilege and with greater life experience.
They demanded, and obtained in 1969, a lowering of the voting age from 21 to 18, though this never came into effect until 1970. University students became especially politically active, in movements that seemed to span Western Europe and North America. They protested wars being pursued in the Far East, as they did injustices nearer home, including rampant racial discrimination and attempts to undermine workers’ protections. They were internationalist in outlook, seeking in particular to advance European integration.
This was the national picture regularly portrayed by the BBC and ITV on television news, also propagated widely in musical form on the broadcasts of the new BBC Radio One. Even in sleepy rural Silbury these trends had some effect. Parents found that their children were less likely to listen to them and more likely to be hanging around the Autobar, where Diouf Lane enters the High Street. There they would be playing pinball, drinking pop, and listening to the latest sounds. They would also likely ignore any older passers-by that may have the temerity to wish them a good day.
The youth of Silbury were not particularly politically aware, as were their cousins in the big cities of London, Brigstow, Oldcastle and so on. They were not engaged in protest movements, though some may have wished that they could be. There were though the odd incidents of vandalism. They did not by and large engage in drug use. Many did though frequent some of the local pubs, or purchase beer and spirits from the off license in the High Street. Though illegal, they would get away with this either because they appeared to be eighteen years of age or older, or because business owners were less interested in the letter of the law and more in maximising their profits. Drunkenness often led to rowdyism and other perceived antisocial behaviours.
Most adults in Silbury were very tolerant of the so-called youth revolution. It was just young people letting their hair down, and they would grow up soon enough. Once faced with the real responsibilities of providing for themselves and others, their views would change, and their behaviour, and looks, and perhaps even their taste in music, would revert to the societal norm. Most of these adults actually didn’t even feel the need to voice any opinion of what was going on among the youth of the town. There were more important things to do and to think about.
Some, however, were vehemently opposed to what was going on, as they called it, and they were highly frustrated that the present Labour government seemed to be giving license to the irresponsible youth of the country, not doing something to rein them in. One such was the longstanding Conservative Member of Parliament for Shoatshire Northeast, a constituency of which Silbury was roughly at the centre. Lady Kenza Zidane was a local landowner, who portrayed herself as a yeowoman farmer, salt of the earth. Actually, her land was parcelled out into a series of managed units, for which the real farmers and labourers were paid poorly and frequently threatened with eviction, if they did not maintain required levels of profitability. She also claimed to be a champion of the armed forces, frequently having her picture taken together with real soldiers on tanks on manoeuvres on Sarum Plain or next to jet fighters at RAF Horsemoor. She strongly advocated the return of national service, as a panacea for all that is wrong with our young people. Known only to very few, she herself had avoided national service through the intervention of a bogus medical report.
Against this backdrop there occurred in Silbury a series of incidents involving youth vandalism, along with some collateral injuries.
The first took place in Kabeya Square on the night of Wednesday the 26th of March. As well as the primary school located at the far end of the square, and some businesses, there are a number of dwellings along the sides of the square, which is actually more of a triangle. These are cottages built mostly in the 18th century and originally occupied by small traders. Ownership had passed over the years to more affluent families, who appreciated the beauty of their properties but were faced with the inconvenience of lacking garages. Fortunately, however, there was ample parking space in the middle of the square, and this is where they would leave their cars overnight.
On this night person or persons unknown had slashed every tyre of every car parked in the centre of the square. As the women heads of household had come out one by one to start their day by driving to their places of work, they saw what had happened and immediately returned to their homes to telephone the police. Their calls were taken by Constable Hiranthi Senanayake, who was that morning at the reception desk of Silbury police station, where the switchboard was also located. After listening to three irate citizens, she went in search of Sergeant Joyce Banda, as she was beginning to feel overwhelmed. Banda accepted the next four telephone calls and then went herself to report the incident to Inspector Fatima Dieng, Silbury’s chief police officer.
Fatima decided it was high time to go and see the complainants themselves and set off, with Sergeant Banda and Constable Senanayake in tow, along the footpath opposite the police station that led from Mabel Lane to Kabeya Square. Once there, they were faced with a group of some ten extremely irate women, who all began to talk at once.
Fatima put up her hand: “Ladies, I appreciate that you have all suffered unwarranted damage to your property, and this is a major inconvenience for you. The police would like to help get to the bottom of what has happened. We need to do that in an orderly fashion. I am going to ask Sergeant Banda and Constable Senanayake here to take your individual statements, which we shall need in order to proceed. Before that though, does anyone here have any idea who may have done this?”
“I do,” said a tall, thin woman wearing a smart black business suit. “Clearly this is the work of one of those lazy young people we see hanging around the recreation ground and the Autobar, no doubt from the Cherry Orchard estate, where laziness and incivility are bred into the young people that live there.”
Fatima recognised the woman who was speaking as the General Secretary of the local Conservative Association, Mrs Yang Gon-suk. Its offices were located above the Conservative Club in the High Street, just ten minutes' walk away. She wondered why Mrs Yang would need her car to get to work that morning.
“And do you have any evidence for your assertion, Madam?” Fatima asked.
“Evidence is something we expect our police to unearth. I’m only telling you what I know you will find, if you take the time to look,” Mrs Yang responded somewhat angrily before turning rudely to talk with her neighbours.
“Very well then,” Fatima continued, speaking now to the whole group. “As I said, Sergeant Banda and Constable Senanayake will now take your individual statements. And we shall do our best to get to the bottom of this. Meanwhile please do let us know of any leads that you feel we should follow.”
An hour later, back at the police station, Fatima sat down with Sergeant Banda and Constable Senanayake to review the statements they had taken. They were joined by Constable Nguyen Chi Man, the one member of the police team who was a local Silburian.
“Ma’am, there were eleven cars parked in the centre of Kabeya Square last night,” Sergeant Banda began, looking closely at her notebook. “Two of them were estates, eight were saloons, and one was a transit van. They all belonged to people living in the cottages in the square, except for the transit van. The owner of the van lives in a flat above the ironmongers at the corner of London Road. She also owns the ironmongers.
“All of them had all of their tyres slashed. In every case there was a single long gash, which must have been made by a very sharp knife with quite a long blade. It wouldn’t be possible to repair the tyres, given the amount of damage caused. The owners will have to replace them completely, and probably their insurance will not cover that. That’s a lot of money to fork out all at once.
“Senanayake and I took the statements of the eleven owners, except for Mrs Yang Gon-suk, the one who had spoken up this morning when you were there. She refused, saying it would be a complete waste of time.
“They had parked their cars there between approximately eight and ten o’clock. After that they had all remained at home, it being a Tuesday night, when none of them has any activities outside their home. Not one of them recalls hearing anything suspicious during the night.
“This morning they left their homes at various times between six o’clock and half past seven. When they saw the condition of their cars, they mostly went back to their homes and telephoned the police. Some dialled 999, and others used the direct number to our switchboard, which they found in the telephone directory. Two of them didn’t ring us, as we had already arrived at the scene before they could do so.
“No one could give us any information that might lead to identifying the culprits. Senanayake and I looked at the tyres again, but we couldn’t see any possible fingerprints. And anyway, it’s unlikely that the people that did this would have a criminal record. It’s not the sort of thing that they would do, is it?”
Banda paused looking at her boss. As usual her report had been detailed, thorough and almost completely lacking in any insight, except for the last point that she had made about tyre slashing and criminals.
“That was a very comprehensive report, Sergeant,” said Fatima, knowing that she needed to keep encouraging her number two. “Thank you very much.
“Was there anything you wanted to add, Constable Senanayake?”
Senanayake didn’t say anything but just shook her head looking not at Fatima but at Banda, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Well then,” Fatima continued, “there doesn’t seem to be much we can do about this at the moment, unless anyone has other ideas.”
There was a moment of complete silence, which was broken by Constable Nguyen.
“Ma’am, you did say earlier that Mrs Yang reckon the culprits do come from Cherry Orchard. I don’t see how she can know that, when there don’t be any evidence, but people what live there could know something. I do know who to ask, if you agrees.”
As usual, Nguyen had managed to combine completely mangled grammar with a brilliant idea. Fatima immediately agreed to her suggestion and sent her off to begin her inquiries. They would meet again the following morning to see what they might have learned.
Fatima herself had another line of inquiry that she wanted to pursue. That took her to the Red Cow public house in School Lane just off of Kabeya Square and to her friend the publican, Anna Kaboré. Anna was also a Borough Councillor. Fatima went around to the back of the pub and let herself into the kitchen, where she found Anna’s husband, Paramanga, preparing some lunch orders for the bar.
“Hello, Fatima,” he said. “Did the smells of my cooking bring you in here? Should I make one of these for you too?”
“Thanks, Para. I came for a chat with Anna. And I have my own packed lunch at the station, so I’ll have to pass on your offer today, however much I would have preferred your food to mine.”
“I promise I shan’t tell Adama what you just said,” Paramanga Kaboré responded, referring to Fatima’s husband, who would have prepared her packed lunch. “Give me a minute to finish these, and then I’ll take them through to the bar and let Anna know that you’re here.”
A couple of minutes later Anna came back into the kitchen and greeted her friend in her usual fashion.
“Good morning, Inspector, or rather good afternoon; I see we are now past midday. What brings you to my humble place of business?”
“I wanted to pick your brains,” said Fatima. “It’s about the incident last night in the square. Did you hear about it?”
“Hear about it?” Anna responded. “We were woken up by all the shouting from our near - too near, if you ask me - neighbours, as they came out of their houses to discover their cars would not be taking them anywhere in a hurry. What did you want from me about that?”
“Mrs Yang Gon-suk, who is one of your neighbours, and who, as you know, is the General Secretary of the local Conservative Association, is blaming youths from the Cherry Orchard estate. Do you think that’s credible? Have you, or any of your customers, heard anything that might lend credence to Mrs Yang’s assertion?”
Anna thought for a moment and then said: “No, Fatima, I haven’t heard anything from my customers about the goings on of youths in Silbury. As you know, my regulars are all horse racing folk. The only time they mention any youths is talk of which apprentice jockey might be one to look out for in a particular race, or which stable girl might be open to offers of money to doctor a particular horse’s feed, and so on. They all live here in Silbury, but it’s as if the town and its people don’t exist for them, only the stables around the town and the tracks on which their horses race.
“I do though have an opinion of my own. It’s very possible that some youths in the town, whether from Cherry Orchard or elsewhere, could have done something stupid like what happened last night. They’re bored to death, and there aren’t many places for them to go, at least not places where they can use their time productively. I’m sure you’ve seen them all wasting their time playing pinball and drinking pop at the Autobar. A good few of them can be seen most nights just across the road, where my fellow publican doesn’t seem to care that much of his clientele is underage.
“Since I’ve been on the Borough Council, I’ve been trying to get a proper youth centre built and staffed. It’s been really difficult to get the other Councillors to give their backing. Two things they hate are actually doing any work and making productive use of the Council’s budget. They also think that young people are wasteful, lazy and not worthy of any investment. Well just by keeping on pushing them, I have got the Council to agree to budget for staff for a youth centre starting from next year and to allocate land for its construction. But we have to raise funds from the public for the actual cost of putting up the building. We’ve got a group of committed people together, and we have some ideas for events and so on, but it’s an uphill struggle.
“Anyway, sorry for being so long winded about the little that I actually know.”
“If you get the youth centre, what do you intend to do there?” asked Fatima.
“It would be a mix of things,” Anna replied. “We want to attract young girls and boys in with activities that they will like, so we’d have billiards and table tennis and so on. I’d also like to see us organise some classes on first aid, talks by those that serve the community - perhaps you could be one of our speakers - and actually do some community projects. The idea is to get the kids interested and engaged in activities that are constructive.”
“Count on my help,” said Fatima, “both for the fundraising and for the operation of the centre once it’s up and running.”
As they had agreed, Silbury’s four police officers came together again the next morning in Fatima’s office. She told them what Anna had said to her. Constable Nguyen nodded as she listened. Sergeant Banda and Constable Senanayake sat with blank expressions. Fatima then asked Nguyen what she had learned from her visit to Cherry Orchard.
“Ma’am, I did talk with a number of people as I knows there. Thing is no one admits to any knowledge of what happened night before last in Kabeya Square, said they haven’t even heard of it. Now I do know that aren’t true, but I can’t get anyone to speak up. If you was to ask me, and I suppose you is now, I should say that they be afraid to talk. Perhaps that’s because they don’t want trouble with the police. Perhaps too, as you would say, Ma’am, there’s more to this than meets the eye.”
Nguyen stopped, looked around, and had a little chuckle at her own joke. Then the telephone started ringing. It was Mrs Yang Gon-suk calling from the Conservative Club. She required Fatima's immediate attendance.
Normally Fatima would have walked to the High Street, but on this occasion she decided it would be politic to go by car, and to take Sergeant Banda with her. Mrs Yang might be mollified with a little obsequiousness. When they arrived, they found her in high dudgeon and with a bandage on her forehead.
"They ran off up there!" she shouted at the two police officers, pointing to a narrow gap between the Conservative Club and the next-door toy shop. The gap was the entrance to one of the many narrow alleyways that run from the High Street up to Front Lane, where there are a number of large houses belonging to the great and the good of Silbury.
"Of course, I ran after them, but, as you can see, they had tied a rope there at ankle height. They hurdled over it, but I didn't see it and tripped hitting my forehead on the flagstones. I want them caught, and I want them punished with the full force of the law!"
Then, seeing that neither Fatima nor Sergeant Banda had moved, she continued: "Well? Aren't you going after them?"
"I suspect," said Fatima, "that they are long gone and far away. The best thing we can do now is to take down the particulars of what exactly happened here this morning, so that the Sergeant and I can plan what our next steps should be. Most police work is done thus through painstaking recording of all the details.
"Could we perhaps go and sit in the lounge here, or in your office?"
"It's not surprising there is so much unsolved crime in Britain," Mrs Yang said half under her breath, a comment that Fatima chose to pretend she hadn't heard. "We'd better go up to my office. You'll see why in a minute.
On entering the Conservative Club, they were hit by a powerful smell.
"What is that stench?" asked Fatima, holding her nose.
Looking down at the floor, Sergeant Banda responded: "It's stink bombs, Ma'am. You can see broken glass here from the vials that contain the malodorous fluid, meant to resemble sewage. I think there were two, and I'd guess they were thrown in here through that open window."
She indicated the large bay window whose frosted glass panels looked out onto the High Street. One of these was ajar, and Banda was clearly correct about the trajectory of the projectiles.
"I've never heard of them before," said Fatima. "Where would you get them?"
"The last time I saw any was when I was a child in Portsea," said Banda, who was apparently an expert. "My parents once took me to a joke and magic shop that sold them, along with doctored packs of cards, false cabinets, whoopee cushions and the like. It was just around the corner from my grandmother's tailoring and outfitters business."
Banda realised she was becoming rather long winded and came back to the point: "I don't think you would find these sold anywhere in Silbury. They'd only be available in a specialised shop in a city."
"Thank you, Sergeant. That was very helpful," said Fatima, whilst Mrs Yang stood scowling. "All the same, we'll check on the availability of these stink bombs in Silbury, for instance, at the toy shop next door.
"Sergeant, can you also have a forensics team look over the scene? I'm afraid, Mrs Yang, that the club will have to remain closed today.
"And now shall we continue to your office, and get away from the smell?"
Once up in the rooms of the Shoatshire Northeast Conservative Association, Sergeant Banda used the telephone on the desk of Mrs Yang's assistant to make arrangements for the forensics team to come to the club below. Then she joined the two other ladies in Mrs Yang's own office.
"Could you please tell us exactly what happened this morning?" asked Fatima, signalling to Banda to take notes. "Start with your departure from home, and try not to omit any details."
Mrs Yang looked annoyed but decided to comply.
"I left home as usual at eight o'clock. Luckily today the brand new tyres on my car were undamaged. I drove up School Lane, turned left into the High Street, and parked in my usual spot in the middle of the street just opposite the Conservative Club."
They had seen the natty little sports car there when they arrived. Fatima had remarked to herself at the time that it was typical of someone like Mrs Yang to have a car designed for people a good deal younger than she was. What was that saying? There's nowt so queer as folk.
"The kitchen and cleaning staff were waiting at the front door, which I unlocked to let them in. I came up to my office, checked through my appointments and read some items in the newspaper - the Daily Telegraph, of course. Then my morning tea and breakfast tray were sent up from the kitchen."
"Do you always have your breakfast here?" asked Fatima, who wondered if Mrs Yang was taking advantage of free meals, something she would definitely decry for the working classes. "And was your assistant also here then?"
"If I may continue," Mrs Yang said testily. "Yes, on working days, Monday to Saturday, I breakfast here. On Sundays I do so at the golf club.
"And no, my assistant doesn't come to the office until nine o'clock. He first passes by the Post Office to collect our mail.
"That was what happened next. He brought in the day's correspondence, registered, stamped and put mostly into the appropriate files; I have to correct him from time to time on this. I looked through these and dictated a few replies.
"Then I went down to the club to have a word with the manager, who by then was on the premises. Our MP is to come here tomorrow to entertain some of our more prominent contributors, though we may now have to change that arrangement. That was when those filthy yobs threw those things through the window, which Mrs Woo had opened to clear out the smells of the products used by the cleaners.
"I ran outside and saw these two youths. They were both dressed in denim slacks and jackets, with white plimsolls. I couldn't see their faces, because they had balaclavas over their heads. As I said before, they ran up the alleyway, and I tripped over the rope they'd tied there. I'm sure they waited for me to give chase just so they could make sure I had this accident. I could hear them laughing as I took my fall.
"I picked myself up. By that time both my assistant, Mr Mdoe, and Mrs Woo had come out. They helped me back to my office. We didn't stop in the club, because it smelled so bad. I telephoned the police station. Mdoe put the bandage on my wound. We came back down, as you arrived, which clearly took some time.
"Now, what are you going to do about this?"
"Well, Mrs Yang," Fatima began, "we now have your statement, and I'll ask you to read and sign that, once Sergeant Banda has typed it up.
"We have a forensics team coming soon to look at the physical evidence in the club. Once that's completed, by the way, you'll be able to have it cleaned, possibly fumigated, and then you can reopen.
"Now we'll also need to talk to all the other staff. A constable will come to do that. Then we have these two tentative leads: finding out where the stink bombs might have been bought, and by whom; and having all of our officers look out for young women meeting the description you've given.
"Yes, Sergeant, there was something else?"
Banda had been quite agitated.
"Well, Ma'am, I mean Mrs Yang has sustained quite a severe injury. It would be prudent to see a doctor, perhaps also to have a tetanus injection, just in case there's any infection. We wouldn't want you to take a turn for the worse, Ma'am."
"Well I'm pleased to know that one of you has shown some concern for what happened to me," said Mrs Yang.
Sergeant Banda smiled, and so did Fatima.
The following afternoon Sergeant Banda remained extremely pleased with herself. She had spent the morning researching joke and magic shops in the nearby cities. This had been aided by the recent addition to telephone directories of what were known as yellow pages, listing businesses by categories, in addition to their alphabetical listing in the white pages of the directory. Banda had telephoned central police stations in Balneum, Brigstow, Portsea, Sarum and Sowdon. She had found matching businesses in three of these cities and had typed out their names, addresses and telephone numbers on a single sheet of paper, which she then took to show to Inspector Fatima Dieng.
Fatima was delighted that Sergeant Banda had shown this initiative and heaped her with praise.
“My guess,” she told Banda, “is that these stink bombs that were thrown into the Conservative Club were most likely bought at the nearest of these shops. People go almost every day to Sowdon for things they can’t find in Silbury. I think I’ll take a trip there tomorrow. Perhaps too I can find someone to give me a lift, so that I don’t have to burden our police budget with the expense.”
Thus it was that the next morning at twenty past seven Fatima walked from her house eastwards along Mabel Lane to the home of her friend, Kamala Peiris, now the manager of the Western Provincial Bank branch in Bridge Street, Sowdon.
“Thank you so much for giving me a lift,” said Fatima as they drove out of the town.
“It’s my pleasure,” Kamala answered. “We see much less of each other now that I no longer have my work in Silbury. We can catch up whilst we’re driving, and I hope we can also have lunch together. There’s a great place for biryani, which I know you love, just around the corner from my branch. It’s called the Plaza Café. Since you are dressed in civvies, and not your uniform, today, anyone that knows me will at least not get the wrong idea that I’m a person of interest to the police.”
“Oh, but you will always be that,” said Fatima, and they both laughed.
“What brings you to Sowdon, if I’m allowed to ask?” Kamala inquired.
“Actually, I have just one visit to make,” said Fatima, “to Jamila’s Japes, which is a joke and magic shop in Commercial Road, and I understand that is quite close to where your branch is situated. I’m investigating a case of vandalism that occurred the day before yesterday at the Conservative Club in the High Street. A couple of youths, whom we presume to be locals, threw some stink bombs into the lounge there through an open window. Then they put a makeshift booby trap in the entrance to a nearby alleyway, over which the General Secretary of the Conservative Association, Mrs Yang Gon-suk, tripped injuring her forehead as she fell.
“These stink bombs apparently, and according to some really quite thorough research conducted by Sergeant Banda, can only be found in joke and magic shops, and this one in Sowdon is the nearest of those. You don’t know anything about Jamila’s Japes, do you?”
“I’ve not heard of the business,” Kamala answered, “though there are many such that bank with us that I just haven’t yet come across. I’ll take a look at the books, though I can’t promise to tell you anything.”
In Sowdon, Kamala parked her car at a new multi-storey car park that adjoined an equally new department store, part of a chain across the country known as The Souq. From there they walked to the bank, which was only five minutes away.
“Come on in,” said Kamala. “It’s still only eight o’clock, and there are no shops open before nine. You can sit in my office and have a cup of tea, whilst I do my morning rounds in the bank, counting cash from the vault into the cashiers’ drawers, verifying what’s been left in the night safe, and so on. We’ll probably also have time to chat a little more.”
At a quarter past nine Fatima left the bank to take the relatively short walk to Jamila’s Japes. Arriving she saw that it was evidently an old and well-established place of business. At its front were two bay windows, each with multiple small panes of glass, which made it difficult to see the displays behind them. These in turn were almost uniformly of a dark grey colour, and Fatima could not make out at all what they were meant to be. Between the bay windows was a heavy wooden door painted a camel brown colour and with only one small glass panel near the top. She pushed this open and heard a bell tinkling above the door.
Inside the shop it was so dark that it was still very difficult to see any of the goods on display. She walked between two parallel counters that led almost directly from the door towards the back of the shop. Underneath their glass tops she began to discern packs of cards, top hats, magic wands, fake limbs, coloured scarves, and all sorts of other magical paraphernalia. As she passed the mid-point of these displays, what looked like a ventriloquist’s dummy popped up from behind one of the counters grinning maniacally. The grin disappeared as Fatima jumped back, and she saw that it was actually a human being, a woman of extremely small stature but very pronounced features wrapped in an overlarge sari and sporting a pair of spectacles so thick that they significantly magnified the size of the wearer’s deep dark eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” said the apparition. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Anyway, hello. I’m Mrs Jamila Ansari, and this is my house of magic and merriment. I’m here to serve you. How can I do that?”
“Well initially I just wanted to have a look around,” said Fatima. “Some friends and I are organising a little send-off party for someone we know, and we wanted to include a few joke items in the general revelries.”
Mrs Ansari seemed to look suspiciously at Fatima, as she invited her to come to another display counter.
“If that’s really what you were looking for, then you might like to choose from what we have here,” she said, “but I have a feeling you actually wanted something different.
“You know, you seem extraordinarily familiar to me. Have we ever met before?”
“No,” Fatima answered. “I’m sure I would have remembered.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Mrs Ansari continued, “of course, you’re right. Who could ever forget a meeting with me? Then perhaps we have a common acquaintance?”
“I can’t imagine who that might be,” said Fatima, “unless it’s my friend, Mrs Kamala Peiris, who has recently become the manager of the Western Provincial Bank branch in Bridge Street. I don’t have any other close acquaintances in Sowdon.”
Fatima carefully did not mention the fact that she knew a few of the police officers stationed in Sowdon from their occasional secondments to Silbury to help out with events, such as the Statute Fairs.
“Well I do have my personal bank account there, not my business account, which is with the Northern. I like to keep them completely separate. But it’s not Mrs Peiris. I’ve never met the manager at my bank. I’ve never had the need.”
Mrs Ansari looked intently at Fatima for a couple of minutes, and then said: “Do you know who it is? Yes, you know her very well, although you only see her once or twice a year. It’s the General. She has spoken about you to me a number of times, and she has such a vivid ability of personal description. Plus, once someone has given me such a description, I never forget it.
“You’re Inspector Fatima Dieng of the Silbury Police. I knew there was something wrong about your appearance here today, and it’s that you are here on police business but have decided deliberately not to wear your uniform. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Mrs Ansari looked mightily pleased with herself.
“Guilty as charged,” Fatima laughed, warming towards Mrs Ansari. “But tell me, how do you know the General?”
“As you might have noticed,” Mrs Ansari explained becoming now quite animated, “I’m a dwarf, and people like me suffer from a lot of prejudice when we’re out and about, which I rarely am because of that. I do though have an absolute passion for fairs, much as I have a passion for everything you see around you here.
“We’ve always lived in Sowdon in this very place, though my parents had quite a different business. When they were still alive, this was a shop selling musical instruments and spare parts, like strings and reeds and bows and plectrums and so on. Anyway, my mother would take me every year to the Statute Fairs in Silbury. She thought I would like the rides and so on. I didn’t. They made me feel sick. But I was enthralled by the travellers that run the fair. I would walk around and look at them for hours. I knew that they had magic in their blood, just as I do, even though we come from vastly different backgrounds.
“Even when I was a child, people would make fun of me at school and so on, but at the fair my mother would dress me as if I was a very young child, which fooled almost everyone, all that is, except the travellers. But they didn’t look at me as an oddity. They treated me as a human being, the same as any of them. They knew I was watching them, and they didn’t mind in the least. Over time they would remember me, and some would come and talk. Others didn’t talk, but I had the strong impression that they were looking out for me.
“Eleven years ago, my mother and father both died in a rail accident in London. There was thick fog, and the driver of one train missed a signal running into the train in front, which was carrying my parents. A bridge overhead also fell onto the wreckage of the two trains. I inherited the shop and changed it into what you see today. Sorry this is getting very long winded.”
“Not at all,” Fatima assured her. “I remember that rail crash. Please continue.”
“Well what I was coming to,” Mrs Ansari went on, “is that I now started going alone to the Statute Fairs. And now I could no longer pretend to be a little child. On the first such occasion, in 1959, I got picked on by a group of Teddy Girls. They were making fun of me calling me names, pushing me around, forcing me into one of those alleyways that lead off of the High Street. I was afraid that they would beat me up, or worse, because I could see that they all carried stilettos.
“Then all of a sudden a couple of travellers came to my rescue. They got the Teddy Girls to move away, or else, and then they took me to one of their caravans. I discovered that these women were members of traveller security. I think you know what that is. In the caravan, they introduced themselves, only by their rank, which I learned is how they always identify themselves to outsiders. And they introduced me to their commanding officer, the General.
“Thereafter, every year one of the General’s officers would escort me from here to the Statute Fair and bring me back again. I would spend my time there inside the rides, getting to know all of the travellers and how they worked. And we would talk incessantly about magic. The General herself would always make sure to spend some time with me. She told me about how they carried out their responsibilities, about the difficulties of working with the local police force, until that is you came on the scene in 1964. She was full of praise for you. She even predicted that we should meet one day, and told me I was to help you in any way that I could.
“So now please tell me what you really want.”
Fatima thought for a second and then began: “Two days ago in Silbury we had an incident where a couple of youths, bent on a prank perhaps, decided to throw two stink bombs through the open window of a prominent institution. They also caused indirectly some minor injuries to the individual in charge of that institution. I had never before heard of stink bombs, but one of my fellow officers told me that they are sold in shops such as yours, indeed only in shops such as yours. She gave me a list of such shops in reasonable proximity to Silbury. Yours was the closest, so I thought I would come and have a look. Call it part investigation and part simple curiosity.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Ansari, “the General told me you were a curious one. Come over here.”
She indicated another display counter to which she now walked.
“Here they are. You’ll see that we don’t have many on display, only six in fact, and these are all that I possess. At one time people thought it very funny to break one of these at a function like a wedding or a funeral. I don’t know why, because it isn’t funny at all. Nowadays we seem to have grown up a bit, and I almost never sell any. I just kept the ones I already had here in this dark corner of my humble establishment.”
Fatima pondered on the relativity of dark when referring to any corner of Mrs Ansari’s place of business.
“Indeed,” Mrs Ansari continued, “I hadn’t sold any until about two weeks ago, twelve days to be exact. Two women came into the shop. They didn’t arrive together, and they didn’t look at or speak to one another all the time they were here, but I could tell that they were a pair, if I can put it that way.
“The one who made the purchase - it was three stink bombs that she bought - was of middle height, well dressed but in clothes bought from an emporium, slightly stooped, always with a rather stupid grin on her face. The other was tall and very well turned out. She had an expensive raincoat on, although it was a dry day. Very strangely, she wore sunglasses all the time she was here. I don’t know how she was able to make her way around the place. You might have noticed it’s not exactly brightly lit, which by the way is intentional to give it a mystic air.
“The tall one just browsed apparently absentmindedly. She left the shop as the shorter one was placing her order with me. This one paid the exact amount, counting out the coins from a black leather purse. The stink bombs cost ten pence halfpenny.”
“What about their ages?” asked Fatima.
“Oh, the taller one would have been in her fifties, if you ask me, which you just did, of course,” Mrs Ansari had a little chortle to herself. “That’s my impression anyway, because, as I said, I wasn’t able to see her full face. And the other one, the actual customer as it were, was in her late thirties.”
“Neither one was what you would call a youth then,” said Fatima. “Interesting. And would you recognise either of them if you saw them again?”
“Absolutely.” Mrs Ansari was clearly convinced of that.
“Good,” Fatima continued, “because there might be need to identify one or both of these women in the future.
“Now you told me the exact price of the stink bombs that were bought that day, so what else did she buy?”
“Oh, the General was right. You are sharp.” Mrs Ansari positively beamed. “Yes, she did make some other purchases, all fireworks. Would you like a list?”
“Thank you,” Fatima responded, pleased with herself.
Mrs Ansari quickly wrote down a half a dozen lines on a sheet of paper that she tore from an exercise book and handed this to Fatima.
“Thank you, Jamila, if I may call you that. I may be in touch again quite soon, but, if not, please do get in touch the next time you are in Silbury. It will be my pleasure to see you and to introduce you to my family.”
During the next few days Fatima’s time was taken up with an incident at the Second Row public house, owned by Mrs Ros Saveth, with whom she had had dealings in the past. She thus had little time to devote to this matter of apparent youth vandalism. She was sitting one evening with her husband in their living room, watching an episode of Horizon on the television, when their daughter Hadi came into the room all dressed up.
“Are you going out, dear?” asked Adama Dieng.
“Yes, Dad,” said Hadi. “Don’t you remember there’s a special event at the Town Hall tonight? It’s musical performances by a whole load of local young people, and it will raise money for the youth centre that Auntie Anna has been fighting to get established.
“I’m going to be one of the performers. Michael and I shall be singing three of the folk songs that we’ve composed together.”
Michael Fox was her boyfriend. He came from one of the very few white families in Silbury, and he lived in Cherry Orchard. Fatima and Adama were proud of their daughter as a champion of integration in her school and the town.
“Well break a leg, as they say in the theatre,” said Adama. “What time should we expect to see you back again?”
“Not that you need to worry, Dad, but it will likely be around midnight. Enjoy your own boring evening!”
Hadi laughed as she left the house.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Fatima said to her husband, “but I am concerned, with these recent incidents of vandalism, that something could happen at this concert. I’ll have Constable Nguyen do a little discreet surveillance.”
With that, Fatima left the room to telephone instructions to Nguyen. Then she came back and rejoined her husband, quite looking forward to an evening of utter, and blissful, boredom.
Their peace was shattered two hours later, as they were sitting through the nine o’clock news. First there was a loud sound outside and a flash of light, somewhat similar to a nearby thunderstorm. Then the telephone started ringing, and Fatima got up to answer it. It was Constable Senanayake.
“Ma’am, you should come immediately. There’s been a 999, an explosion of some sort at the London Road Garage.”
“Emergency!” Fatima shouted at her husband and ran out of the house in the direction of the neighbouring police station. Senanayake was sat at the front desk.
“Tell me what happened and what so far has been done,” Fatima barked at Senanayake.
“Ma’am,” Senanayake said and then stopped. She was ever nervous, and crises did not bring out the best in her.
“It’s all right, Constable. You just need to tell me the bare bones. No one is holding you responsible for anything.”
Senanayake took a deep breath and then started to speak.
“Ma’am,” she started again, and Fatima waited. “It’s like I said on the telephone. There has been an explosion at the London Road Garage. I don’t know what caused it or how serious it is. I thought it best to get you here right away. I did also telephone Forest Hospital for them to send an ambulance just in case. And the Fire Brigade told me they will be on the scene.”
“Constable, you’ve done all the right things, exactly as I would have done in your place. Well done. I’m going to go to the scene myself. I want you to telephone Sergeant Banda. She is to go to the Town Hall, where she will find Constable Nguyen. The two of them should join me at the London Road Garage, and we’ll take it from there. I want you to stay here at the switchboard. If there is anything else, I’ll ring you from a public telephone.
“Do you understand what you are to do?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Senanayake, as Fatima ran out of the police station heading in the direction of London Road.
As she got to the London Road Garage, Fatima could see that the Fire Brigade, conveniently located just around the corner, was already in place and had extinguished whatever blaze had broken out. There were also two ambulancewomen in the process of loading a patient on a stretcher into their vehicle. As Fatima approached, one of them called out, having recognised her.
“She appears to be the one that started all of this, Inspector, and she’s been injured in the process. Just a few burns and some sort of shrapnel in one of her legs. But we have to get her to a doctor pronto, so we don’t end up with sepsis or other infections.”
“You go ahead,” Fatima responded. “I’ll have someone come to the hospital to follow up.”
The ambulance left just as Sergeant Banda and Constable Nguyen arrived at the scene.
Fatima immediately issued an order: “Constable, I need you to get up to Forest Hospital. That ambulance is apparently carrying the perpetrator, or one of the perpetrators of this incident. They have to treat her burns and other injuries, but she should be able to talk fairly soon. Get as much out of her as you can. Hold her feet to the fire, as it were. This is our best chance yet to get some real information on this spate of youth vandalism.”
Nguyen chuckled as she ran in the direction of the police office, where she had left her motorbike.
“Now,” said Fatima to Sergeant Banda, “let’s see what we can learn from our Chief Fire Officer.”
They walked over to where Mrs Hakimah Bhutto was standing talking with two of the firewomen, who were on duty that evening.
“Inspector, I suppose you want to know what happened here.”
“Indeed I do,” replied Fatima. “I also need to know whether there is any residual danger.”
“Of course,” Chief Fire Officer Bhutto continued. “The fire’s out, but the garage should be completely cordoned off. We already rang the owner, who is on her way. Meanwhile, if your officers could put up some of that caution tape to deter anyone from driving in, that would be most useful. Naturally, since the garage is closed for the night, the risk of any cars driving in, potentially causing sparks and so on, is not very high. But better safe than sorry.
“Now, what caused all of this? Come on over here. You’ll see that there is a hole in one of the petrol pumps. That was caused by a home-made bomb. You can see there are a number of metal shards all around, including some distinctly cylindrical looking devices here and here. We got the fire out pretty quickly, as luckily there wasn’t any major rupture in the pipes carrying fuel, and we were able rapidly to turn off the supply from the main reservoir. One of our officers happened to know where it was located.
“The presumption, of both our own officers and the ambulancewomen, is that the youngster you saw being carted off to Forest Hospital set off the device. Her injuries, bearing in mind that I’m no forensic expert, seem consistent with a bomb going off before she had time to retire after lighting the blue touch paper, as they say. But, in this case, I suspect it was another kind of fuse, and it wasn’t long enough.
“Any other questions?”
“No, not for now,” said Fatima. “Thank you, Chief. That was most helpful.
“Sergeant, you heard the Chief. Could you please arrange to cordon off the garage and be here when the owner arrives? I’m going back to the police station to await Constable Nguyen’s report. I’m also sure that the telephone must be ringing off the hook.”
There were indeed quite a number of callers that evening, some from prominent Silburians demanding to know just what was happening and whether the Third World War had broken out. Much to Constable Senanayake’s relief, Fatima volunteered to watch the switchboard herself and personally reassure the great and the good that Britain was at peace, at least in the West Country, the troubles of Northern Ireland being still far away.
She asked Senanayake to go and assist Sergeant Banda in placing police tape all around the London Road Garage. And, in between the incoming calls, she arranged for a forensics team to be deployed to the garage the following morning.
It was not until the next day that Constable Nguyen was able to report back on her visit to Forest Hospital. The young woman injured in the blast at London Road Garage had had to be given a general anaesthetic for her treatment and had not come out of it until three o’clock in the morning. Nguyen had to stay at the hospital all night in order to get any kind of coherent statement from her.
“Luckily I had a good book with me: Treasure Island by Riantsola Ratolojanahary. I did read the whole book last night.”
“But you did get the opportunity to speak to the youth in question?” Fatima asked.
“I did, Ma’am,” Nguyen affirmed. “She were in a lot of pain and would fall asleep at times before waking up again, but she did want to tell me her story. She do feel let down in what she had to suffer.”
“Explain please,” prompted Fatima.
“Let me start at the beginning,” said Nguyen taking out her notebook. “First her name do be Miss Prahi Mahane. Her age is 16 years and 4 months. She do live at number 37 Cherry Orchard with her parents, one sister and one brother, also a cousin who are adopted by the family, her parents being disappeared.
“She do admit to being responsible for the explosion at London Road Garage, also the stink bomb attack of the Conservative Club and the tyre slashings in Kabeya Square. In two of these - explosion and stink bomb - she were abetted by her close friend, Miss Mata Sane, 15 years and 10 months, of 54 Cherry Orchard. And in one - tyres - they was aided by Miss Natcha Suwannarat, 16 years and 7 months, of 2 Cherry Orchard.
“She did not have much to add to what we already knows about how the first two crimes was committed. In the case of London Road Garage, Miss Mahane and Miss Sane did go there with a sort of bomb that were an aluminium cylinder made out of pea shooters with the mouthpiece detached, the ends soldered and rolled up, and a small hole drilled in the middle for the fuse. Miss Sane were lookout, while Miss Mahane went to set the bomb next to one of the petrol pumps. The fuse were supposed to give her five minutes to get away, but it burned right down as soon as she did light it, and there was an immediate explosion. She fell backward right away and felt one of her legs suddenly sting. Also she had some petrol on one of her arms that did get set alight. Even though she could only stand on one leg, she did hop off to where there were a tap and put out the fire on her with the water. At that point she did pass out due to pain and came to only when the ambulancewomen was lifting her onto their stretcher.”
“That corroborates what the Chief Fire Officer told us last night, at least as concerns the cause of the explosion,” Fatima interjected. “Did she say anything else?”
“Oh yes! According to her own account, these was not youthful pranks at all. They was directed by a woman what gave them money for their deeds. They did meet her first time about three weeks ago at the Autobar. They was just hanging about after spending all the money they had on pinball games, and this woman come in. At first they did think she were come to move them on or something like that. They started calling her names, but she just laugh.
“She says she know they got nothing to do and no money to spend, but she can solve all that problem for them. Just do a little job, she says, and they’ll all have enough cash in their pockets for games, drinks, whatever they wants. That’s when she did tell them to slash the tyres on those cars in Kabeya Square, and she even give them the stilettos for the job. Next day they meets in a corner of the recreation ground between Sarum Road and Cherry Orchard, and she gives them each a fiver. That be more money than they has ever seen in their lives.
“Now, she say she have another little job for them. Take these little glass vials and throw them into the Conservative Club. Make sure they break, and make sure no one gets caught doing it. They has to disguise themselves, at least cover their faces. At this point Miss Natcha become scared and say she can’t do it. The other two says they can do with the extra cash, so they’ll do it without her. But she better keep her mouth shut, or they’ll shut it for her.
“Well they does that, and they’re a tenner richer each. Now with that kind of money, you could even buy yourself an old motorcycle or scooter. With a bit more you could get one that also won’t break down half way to Sowdon or wherever. Then the woman asks them to do something she says will get more attention. They asks why, and she just says that there is someone as needs a wake up call. That’s all. And then she gives them the bomb, even gives them a box of matches to light it, and tells them where to put it.
“That, as you do know, Ma’am, goes wrong with Miss Mahane getting badly injured. The thing is, she do be convinced that it were intentional, her injury, maybe even that it were meant to be fatal. She say that the fuse seemed to her to be awful short, and she did say as much to the woman what gave her the bomb. Not to worry, says she, it be a slow burning fuse, and anyway the explosion will only be a little flash, just enough to set some petrol alight and cause a minor fire.
“Not what happened, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” said Fatima, once Constable Nguyen had finished her long and very interesting story. “Now was Miss Mahane able to give you a description of this woman, who orchestrated and paid for all these little jobs, as she called them?”
“No, Ma’am, she aren’t good at describing people, though she do remember what they say, almost verbatim,” Nguyen answered, snickering a little at Fatima’s joke. “But Miss Sane do be a artist, have won prizes at school for her work and wanted to go to art school, but her mother did not agree. Miss Mahane do reckon she could draw a very accurate picture of the woman what paid them for what they did.”
“Then we must get her here, along with a parent, of course, as she’s still a minor. We’ll go together, along with Sergeant Banda. You two go to Miss Sane’s house and bring her and mother or father to the station. I shall go and speak to Miss Mahane’s parents. They need to know that she is helping us with our inquiries.”
Later that morning at the police station, Sergeant Banda knocked at Fatima’s office door and came in with Constable Nguyen. They laid on her desk a pencil drawing of the face and torso of a woman, who looked like she was well healed and probably in her late thirties or early forties.
“That’s the drawing done by Miss Sane?” Fatima asked. “Does it say anything to either of you?”
“No,” Banda was as usual the first to respond. “I don’t know this face at all. And yet there’s something about her that seems familiar.”
Nguyen agreed: “There do be a case in the past couple of years in which this woman figure. But which?”
“Got it!” Banda suddenly shouted. “This fits exactly the description of that Mrs Desai that Miss Indah Widodo had described to us. You remember, Ma’am, the young woman that had set fire to the Longbarrow Tea Rooms and tried to the same to the Second Row?”
“Goodness, Sergeant,” Fatima was unable to hide her surprise. “That’s incredible. I didn’t know you would recall such a detail from three years ago. Well done. And, of course, now that you say it, I too see the resemblance.
“We never found her then. But let’s now put out an alert and share this picture with other police stations in the constabulary. Have the Sowdon police show it to Mrs Jamila Ansari at Jamila’s Japes in Commercial Road. That is where I believe our mystery woman purchased the makings for her little bomb. I don’t know what it will bring, but now there are two sets of crimes for which she is wanted.
“And now do we also have Miss Natcha and Miss Mahane here, along with their parents?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Nguyen. “Miss Mahane have been released from hospital, and her parents did want her to be here right away, after they met you earlier this morning. If I might ask, Ma’am, what is you intending to do with them?”
“Well, I have an idea, which I hope you’ll agree with, once we’ve talked it through...”
It was quite cramped in the police station’s interview room. Gathered there were the three youths, each accompanied by their fathers and their mothers, who had taken time off from their jobs. Fatima, Sergeant Banda and Constable Nguyen were also present.
“This is not going to be an interrogation,” Fatima began. “We have all of the information that we need to lay very serious charges against you three girls, charges that, if proven in a court of law, could lead to grave consequences for you all, including possible terms in a juvenile correction facility.”
They all looked very glum. One of the fathers muttered the word borstal under his breath.
“Yes, borstal,” Fatima continued. “However, I am minded to be lenient this one time. I don’t personally believe that a term in borstal will serve to divert you from the path you are now on, a path that would lead you deeper and deeper into a life of crime with only one end in sight, which is prison as an adult. I am not today going to charge with the offences that you have committed. Rather I am warning you. We shall maintain the record of the acts you have committed and the proofs that could be presented before a magistrate. You should all refrain from any antisocial behaviour and work to straighten out your lives. Consider it a sort of informal probation.
“Parents, you must play your part in this, and I shall try to prevail upon the Borough Council to do more to support the young people of Silbury to engage in more productive activity, not to be prey to those that would lead them astray.
“I shall expect your full cooperation in providing detailed statements of your actions, girls, and anything you might know about the woman who provided you with the means to commit your crimes and the recompense for them. I expect you to turn over to the police the stilettos you used to slash tyres in Kabeya Square the other night. I expect you also to turn over the money you received for these ill deeds as contributions to the Borough Council’s fund for the construction of a youth centre in the town, and I expect you to volunteer to help in the Council’s fundraising efforts.
“Do we have an agreement on these points?”
The girls and their parents all nodded their consent. Fatima took a sheet of paper from the folder she was holding and pushed it across the table.
“Our agreement is typewritten here. Parents, please sign on behalf of your children, and you are then free to go. Thank you.”
As they left the room with the signed agreement, and walking back to their offices, Sergeant Banda plucked up the courage to ask a question of Fatima.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. I know we discussed it all before, but do you think it was wise to let those girls go free after what they did? They could reoffend. And won’t people, I mean Councillors and others in positions of importance, say that you’ve been too lenient?”
“Yes, Sergeant, it is a risk,” Fatima responded, “but I think it is worthwhile. In this case, I really don’t believe that harsh punishment would serve any purpose. Incarceration would probably just turn these girls from gullible fools to hardened criminals. Any fine would be a crushing burden on their parents, who are already struggling to make ends meet.
“We also have insurance should they reoffend. They know that they would then be charged with these offences, as well as any others they will have committed. I really do think this is the right course, whatever the consequences personally for me, and I do take full responsibility.”
Nguyen just smiled and offered a big thumbs up. Fatima smiled too, though inside she knew that her decision could bring trouble for her.
One week later there was no word on the whereabouts of the mysterious Mrs Desai. Fatima suspected that, as had happened with the case of the fire at the Longbarrow Tea Rooms, they would not be able to find their suspect, who was protected by powerful interests. She was comforted by the fact that Mrs Desai’s disappearance should bring an end to youth vandalism in Silbury, at least its more egregious examples.
Sitting that evening around the dinner table with her husband and daughter, she asked Hadi if she had known the three girls involved in the recent incidents.
“I don’t know them, Mum,” said Hadi. “Michael does, just because they live on the same estate, but he doesn’t hang around with them. For us young people, Silbury has some pretty rigid class divides. You go to the College or to the Grammar School or to the Secondary Modern, and that defines your world. It’s a pity, though I suppose it’s simply a reflection of Britain as a whole, isn’t it?
“Those girls went to the Secondary Modern. They all left when they were fifteen but didn’t find jobs, and there’s no technical colleges here in Silbury. You’d have to go to Sowdon or elsewhere, and I suppose the bus fares alone would be too much for their families. They’re trapped, aren’t they?”
Fatima nodded, feeling depressed. Adama Dieng decided it would be good to change the subject.
“Hadi dear, you haven’t told us about the concert that happened the same night as the fire at the petrol station. How did your performance go? Did the concert raise much money?”
“Oh that,” said Hadi. “Well, yes, the songs that Michael and I had composed, we enjoyed singing them together, and that’s something I’d like to do more of. There weren’t that many people there though. I don’t think that the organisers did much of a job in advertising the show. Of course, that in itself would have cost money, and people are always reluctant to invest when they are doing something to raise money for the public good.
“Anyway, there would have been little money in terms of gate proceeds, but even that disappeared during the evening. The girls who were supposed to look after it got distracted when they heard the explosion from the London Road Garage. They went outside to see what was happening, and someone walked off with the jar of coins they had collected.”
Great! thought Fatima. That’s another case we’ll now have to investigate, and it’s more headaches for poor Anna, as she tries to get the Council to do something concrete for Silbury’s youth.
“Let’s just turn on the telly and forget the world for a while.”
