Turn a Blind Eye: A gripping and tense crime thriller with a brand new detective for 2018. Vicky Newham
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He checked his watch. ‘Unlikely I’ll get it done this afternoon. I’ve got two others to do tomorrow morning but I’ll bump yours up the queue. I’ll call you when I’ve finished.’
I returned my attention to Linda. On her back on the sofa, her petite frame and height made her resemble a young girl. Slender limbs and tiny hands created an impression of vulnerability that, in the flesh, was at odds with the vitality that exuded from the photographs and the school video.
‘Poor woman,’ I said to no-one in particular. Protectiveness had begun to stir in me. Who had crept into this woman’s office and strangled her while the staff were having lunch? What had Dr Clark said? Chopped off in her prime. The only way we could help her now was to find her killer, and try to soften the blow for her family and friends.
By Linda’s desk a CSI was documenting the photographs, which had been flung round the room. These were the first hint of Linda Gibson’s personal life. They showed her with a man, both swathed in hats, woolly scarves and padded mountaineering jackets, smiling together on a hill, arms round each other.
‘Presumably this is her husband?’ I turned to Dan. ‘How is he?’ It wasn’t just the greying hair. The man’s clothes and mottled skin tone suggested he was a good ten years older than Linda. Next to this was a close-up of the same man. Kindness emanated from his features. Soft, intelligent eyes and a warm demeanour.
‘Still in the Royal London Hospital. They’re monitoring his heart and blood pressure. He hasn’t taken the news well. Not long retired, apparently. Medical grounds.’
I took a closer look at the man in the photographs. Perhaps ill health accounted for him seeming older? It was hard to tell when Linda radiated so much energy and strength.
I was keen to get cracking with the investigation. Lines of enquiry were settling into place in my mind. The writing on the card was likely to be the killer’s signature, and it was a good place to start while the forensic data were being processed.
Beside me, Dan was swiping at his smartphone.
‘What d’you reckon that writing is?’
‘I can tell you.’ He enlarged the text and showed it to me. ‘It’s Pali. Part of a system of ethics. From a set of five ancient Buddhist precepts.’ His pale face was alight. ‘This one is the second precept and translates as: I shall abstain from taking the ungiven, whatever that means.’ He screwed up his face, clearly no wiser than me.
Buddhist precepts? Bound wrists and strangulation? It looked like this was a ritualised killing – and rituals always held enormous significance for the murderer. They also involved careful thought and planning.
What was Linda’s killer trying to tell us?
The precept says:
adinnadanna veramani sikkhapadam samadyani
I shall abstain from taking the ungiven
A Buddhist would say that where coercion is used, whatever is obtained hasn’t been freely given. That includes manipulation and exploitation. Instead, we are encouraged to do the opposite of taking: to give without any desire for thanks or benefit.
I know you believed that your role gave you the right to make decisions, but surely someone in your position should have exercised discernment? Shouldn’t you have put the needs of the vulnerable before your own selfish desires?
Mile End High School, 1989 – Maya
All summer I’ve been wondering how this moment would feel. With each step along the corridor the knot in my stomach tightens. Lockers line the walls ahead like a metal tunnel, so much bigger than the ones at primary. All the classroom doors are closed. Everyone else has arrived on time and they’ve started without me.
A tired ceiling light flickers. The corridor of scuffed linoleum yawns ahead. Today it’s the rush and hurry that I feel in the small of my back, pushing me on, but for a moment it reminds me of Heathrow airport, the day we arrived. Of being herded along endless tunnels with the others from our plane, in the wrong season’s clothes. Past faceless officials shouting things we couldn’t understand, as we left one world behind and were jostled into another.
Muffled voices bring me back to the present.
Giggles ricochet off the metal lockers and excitement bubbles up. New things to learn, new people. But anxiety soon dampens my eagerness: I knew my class at primary school but I’m not going to know anyone here.
Sabbir is a few steps ahead of me, his gangly legs striding forwards. He tugs the arm of my hand-me-down blazer with one hand, carrying my bag in the other.
‘Come on,’ he keeps urging. ‘You aren’t the only one that’s late.’
I’m glad my brother’s with me. Not Mum, whose spokesperson I always have to be. Or Jasmina, whose poise and beauty means I may as well be invisible.
‘Here we are,’ Sabbir announces finally when we arrive outside one of the closed doors. He checks the room number, peers in and hands me my bag. ‘I’ll meet you at the front entrance at 3.45 p.m. Okay?’
My guts crunch again, and I screw up my face to say don’t leave me, attempting to swallow down the panic that’s creeping into my chest. ‘How do I know what subject they’re doing?’ It’s a croak. My throat has dried out on the silent walk to school.
Taller than me, he ruffles my hair with his hand.
‘Don’t.’ I dodge out of reach, smoothing the everywhere hair that I’d brushed and brushed this morning to try and get under control.
The classroom door opens inwards, and suddenly a frowning face is in front of us, all lipstick and powdery skin. ‘Can I help you?’ The woman glances from Sabbir to me and looks me up and down.
She’s seen the pins in my skirt. The floor draws my gaze like a magnet.
‘Sorry she’s late,’ Sabbir mumbles. ‘Our mother isn’t . . .’ His voice dies out.
Inside the room I hear chatter swirl. And giddy, first-day-of-term laughter. The sounds are amplified like when we go to the public baths to have our showers.
‘And you are?’ The voice has an accent.
Sabbir nudges me and I raise my head.
She’s peering at me, as if she’s used to having her questions answered immediately.
And now I wish Jasmina was here and then the woman would look at my sister and not me, and ask her questions instead of me. I swallow hard. You’ve practised this. Come on. ‘Rahman.’ Then louder, ‘Maya Rahman.’
‘Oh yes.’ The frown’s still there beneath a thick fringe. ‘The Bangladeshi girl. I wasn’t sure whether to expect you.’ She steps back. ‘You’d better come in.’ She leads me into the classroom with a swish of her patterned skirt, and Sabbir fades away as I’m swept in front of a cascade of faces, and rows of tables, not like the individual desks at primary school.
Everyone freezes the moment they see me, halting their conversations and their carefree laughter to stare.
‘Now, year seven,’ the woman announces, with a chirpy lilt, ‘this is Maya Rarrrman.’ She presents me with a flourish of her hand, like I’m a stage act.
There I stand, weighed down by dread, swamped by my sister’s old uniform, with my raggedy hair and my funny surname. And the fear leans in: you aren’t the same as them.
On the giant pull-down board there’s writing. I can’t read it. It’s not English and it’s not Maths.
‘We’ve