"
"The sharpest minds often wear the softest smiles — because they have already calculated the cost of every battle they choose not to fight."
Unknown
That's not possible," I counter, not believing for a minute that the old man could have found his way to the ranch to kill the minister . "There has to be a mistake."
Yusuf shrugs. "Officer mark says the guy just came to the station to make the confession. They'll keep him overnight and tomorrow morning we'll go there to see what's happening for ourselves," he pauses, deliberating his next words. "You should come with us, zeynep. Don't let my brothers, or anyone at all, relegate you to a corner. He was your husband."
I nod, completely agreeing with him. By staying on the sidelines and not being aware of every development in the unfolding case, I run the risk of being thrown under the bus. "I'll be there."
The next morning, I woke up on my bed, which is a relief to me as I was too tired the previous night to take any measures to avert the sleepwalking.
As I get ready for the day's activities, I think of Jacobi and kick myself again for not having the foresight to have saved his phone number when I had the chance.
Now that I have a phone at my disposal, I can't even put it to good use.
I opt to wear a simple black dress with a black scarf, knowing fully well that once the dust settles, I will have to commence the traditional Indian widowhood rites.
I shudder when I remember what I will have to go through, and I am resentful that I will have to do that for this man, but in my case for a man who was never even really a husband to me. But then I remind myself of the silver lining.
Yes, I might have to be subject to all sorts of unnecessary torture…but none of that will change the fact that I am free. I am finally free.
"Do you really need to come?" Ibrahim asks, as I walk out of the house to join the car conveying him and his siblings to the police station.
"I'm his widow. If I shouldn't be there, then who should?" is my curt answer as I walk to the front of the car, getting into the passenger seat, daring anyone to stop me.
Thankfully, none of them do.
As I exchange greetings with Ali and yusuf, and a strained one with Kamsir, Ibrahim finally gets into the car, and we are soon on our way to see for ourselves the minster confessed killer. The police station is in the heart of the city and a 30-minute drive from the house.
As we journey there, driving through the streets of Boston, I am struck by the fact that this is a place I have called home for the better part of my life. I remember arriving at the town as a young and innocent girl, struggling to make sense of this new environment.
But over the years, I have grown accustomed to the security, the thick garden that interspersed few estates, and the natives who never appear to be in any hurry and go about their business in a leisurely manner.
A far cry from the mad, frenetic pace of life I was used to in indian.
But my love for the town is not enough to make me stay.
The nightmare of a life I have lived in the four corners of the estate more than overshadows whatever affection I have for the quiet, sleepy city.
The very moment I am able to, I will leave.
The police station is a bungalow that looked recently furnished. I had imagined it to be brimming with activity, with criminals and their sympathisers filing in and out, but this is far from the case.
Apart from a young man, whose age I can't even tell, sitting apathetically on a slab, the place is a ghost town.
"Ah, you have come. Welcome!" officer mark says as we walk in. He is talking to one of his junior officers behind the counter and looks like he hasn't slept all night.
"Where is the murderer?" Ibrahim demands, not even bothering with any pleasantries.
"Good morning, officer"officer greets. "Did you keep him in the cell overnight?"
"Cell? We don't have money to treat or bury an old man." officer mark answers. "He stayed in my office. He's still there now."
"But he's a murderer!" kamsir shouts. "Why are you concerned with making a man who has confessed to killing my father comfortable?"
Officer Mark grunts, obviously doing everything he can to keep his temper in check. "When you see him, you can make your inference. Come with me."
We follow him to his office, where Ahmed is sitting. He is eating a small loaf of bread and looking like a man without a care in the world.
"He is eating?" kamsir exclaims, rushing to grab the snack from the poor man, throwing it to the floor. "You killed my father, and you're here eating bread and you dirty old man?"
"kamsir, was that really necessary?" Yusuf exclaims, exasperated.
I also feel saddened by his behaviour, ashamed that we have deprived the old man of what could possibly be the first meal he has had in God knows how long.
But he doesn't even look disturbed and remains seated on the chair, a cheeky smile on his face, very different from the bitter and angry man I remember.
"Please sit down," officer mark says, beckoning us to the other chairs in the office, unable to hide his irritation and making no attempt to make additional seating arrangements, as the two other chairs in his office will clearly not accommodate four people.
Yusuf and Ibrahim remained standing, leaving the chairs to kamsir and I.
I make sure to take the chair separating my stepson from the suspected murderer, lest we have another murder on our hands.
"When I got back to the station last night, I met him here," officer mark says. "My officer on duty says he walked in a few hours before, confessed to the murder, and took a seat. Immediately I heard, I called to inform you, after which I proceeded to interrogate him," he shakes his head. "You people need to hear this for yourselves," then turned to Ahmed. "sir, tell them exactly what you told me."
The old man turns to us and beats his chest. "I was the one who killed your wicked father. I killed him the same way he killed my family."
Four of us just stare at him, speechless for a while, nobody knowing what to say.
What do you say to a statement as blunt and direct as that?
"You're the one who killed him?" Yusuf repeats, and I hear the doubt in his voice. "How did you
manage it? How did you get into the house?"
"I didn't have to go to his house to kill him," he declares with unmistakable pride in his face. "All I had to do was talk to my allah, and He did it. My God fights for me. I didn't have to lift a finger. All I did was tell Him that I wanted the man dead, HE killed him for me! My God is a wonderful God!"
Ibrahim hisses and walks out of the office.
"Your God killed him for you?" kamsir repeats, before turning to officer mark. "Is the man crazy or something?"
"I'm not crazy! I'm of sound mind. My body might no longer be strong, but my mind is as sharp as a razor," Amhed answers, before pointing in my direction. "She knows I'm telling the truth. She heard me tell him allah would avenge me. Or didn't you hear? The day I saw you both in the mosque, didn't you hear me tell him?"
"Honestly, I only kept him overnight so he would still be here when you people arrived," officer mark says, his voice tired, clearly fed up with the situation. "Left to me, I would have let him go since last night. I blame that imbecile out there who didn't bother to interrogate him before calling to give me false news."
"No, no, no!" Ahmed protests. "No! I killed the man. I got vengeance for what he did to me. Now, you need to handcuff me and put me in your cell."
"Sir please, go home. Go home and sleep. Leave us to do our job without distraction," officer mark says, handing the man a hundred dollar note.
" Get yourself something to eat. Leave this place please."
When Ahmed continues to protest, officer mark summons one of the officers who proceeds to escort the old man out of the premises.
Ibrahim walks back in, looking anything but pleased.
"I think this case is beyond you, Officer," he says with disdain. "We have wasted one half of the day on an old man who thinks God is his hitman, when you should be out there pursuing other leads. For one thing, you should be in india, interrogating her brother, who I'm told was seen hovering near the house only days ago, whispering and looking suspicious with her," he ends by pointing at me.
"Her brother? Zeynep and her brother?" kamsir exclaims, looking at me in astonishment. "You and your brother were seen plotting to kill my dad? You killed him? After everything he did for you?"
"Calm down, guys," Yusuf interjects. "Let's not jump to conclusions –"
"My father who brought you out of abject poverty and elevated you to human status? You killed him?" Kamsir continues, refusing to back down.
"Enough, please! Enough!" I shout, well and truly fed up. "Enough from you! You've been there pointing the finger at everyone, whispering in everyone's ears like a rat. Have you pointed the finger at yourself? You have just as much reason as anyone to have killed the man. You forget I heard all the insults he threw at you that night. You have everything to gain with him dead, so as you're suspecting others, you better add yourself to that list. Because God knows, you are top of mine!"
Kamsir is at first taken aback, before he dissolves into tears, much to everyone's surprise. "How can you think I killed my father? The man was everything to me."
"Everything, including his bank account," Ibrahim chortles. "It honestly wouldn't surprise me. His money is your only means of survival, after all."
"And what about you?" kamsir demands tearfully. "You still have not given a believable reason for why you came back to the house so late at night. And those injuries on your hands, how did you get them? You threatened him to the hearing of everyone in the house. I'm surprised the officer hasn't put you behind bars yet!"
"Do you have amnesia or something?" Ibrahim retorts. "You've forgotten that your brother fought me earlier in the day over this harlot over here. You think that left me with heart prints on my hands?"
"But can anyone confirm your whereabouts in the early hours of the morning when he was killed?" Yusuf asked. "I was with him till well past midnight. Is there anyone who can verify that you were asleep all night, as you say?"
"I'm a married man, little brother. The only person able to verify my whereabouts at that time of night is my wife, and we all know I wasn't with her. I was asleep in my old room, alone! So no, I have nobody who can 'verify my whereabouts'!" Ibrahim retorts in response. "What about you? You were the last one with him. Why isn't anyone considering the possibility that you killed him? After all, he married the girl you wanted, and we all know that you have held onto that pain ever since. Or maybe you're just as eager to get a hold of his money as your brother."
"I have no need for the man's money, and you know it!" Yusuf retorts. "And the reason I came back home is because I am in love with another woman whom I am getting married to. Whatever I had with zeynep is history!"
"In your best interest, you all should stop talking," officer mark interjects. "It's like you've forgotten where you are, throwing accusations at each other right here in the police station. In my very presence!There is nothing I won't see in this line of work." Then turning to Ibrahim, "As for your concerns about your step-mother's brother, we have confirmed that the young man is in hospital c for an unrelated offence. And as for all your accusations and counter accusations, trust me when I say we are leaving absolutely no stone unturned to get to the bottom of this matter," he gestures to the door. "You may leave now."
The ride back home is a tense one, everyone lost in their thoughts. I am not convinced by kamsir's tears, and he still remains the person I suspect the most.
Ibrahim has too much to lose with the old man dead, and my heart doesn't believe Yusuf would have done anything so sinister.
To me, kamsir is the obvious culprit.