Dishonour. Helen Black

remember being like this when she was pregnant with Sam. Then again, that was over ten years ago and she hadn’t yet hit thirty.

      When the door opened she remained in the same undignified position. What the hell did the phone guy need now?

      ‘Are you open?’

      A young Asian man looked at her doughy toes.

      ‘Not exactly,’ said Lilly, and struggled to get upright.

      ‘Oh,’ he said, but didn’t move.

      ‘Can I make an appointment for you?’

      Lilly scrabbled around for the diary she’d bought especially. It was leather-bound with gold lettering and had a whole page for each day. Her plan was to colour-code clients. She’d promised herself faithfully to avoid criminal and childcare cases: there was no money in either. Red for family, green for property. It was her first step to getting organised. Now, where had she put the damn thing?

      She grabbed a biro and a ticket for the dry cleaner’s.

      ‘Next Tuesday?’ she asked.

      The young man stroked his goatee. Lilly could see now that he was in his late teens, nineteen at most. A boy really.

      ‘Thing is, I’ve got my mum in the car,’ he said, ‘and we really need to talk to someone.’

      ‘I don’t want to be unhelpful,’ Lilly smiled, and opened her arms to encompass the chaos, ‘but as you can see we’re not quite up to speed.’

      He ignored the telephone wires that crisscrossed the floor and levelled Lilly in his gaze.

      ‘My sister killed herself and we need to know what to say to the police.’

      Lilly watched the woman sitting opposite. Her body was frail, lost in the folds of her plain brown shalwar-kameez. Her eyes were downcast to arthritic fingers that lay gnarled and motionless in her lap.

      ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

      The other woman didn’t acknowledge Lilly’s words but continued staring down at her hands.

      Lilly moved two phone directories, a box of manila envelopes and a broken laptop from her desk.

      ‘Sorry for the mess,’ she muttered. ‘Like I said, we’re not really open yet.’

      The boy gave a perfunctory nod and drew himself up. Lilly could see he was barely able to contain his tears.

      She opened a drawer for a legal pad. Amazingly there was one inside.

      ‘Can I start with your name?’

      ‘Anwar Khan,’ he said.

      ‘And your mum?’

      Anwar’s eyes darted towards the woman beside him. She looked old enough to his grandmother. Strings of thin grey hair escaped from the woollen shawl draped loosely over her head. Her face was lined and worn.

      ‘Deema Khan,’ he said.

      Even at her name Mrs Khan remained impassive. Lilly assumed she must be in shock.

      ‘And you say your sister died recently?’

      ‘Yes…’ Anwar coughed to clear his throat. ‘She took an overdose.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      Anwar took a deep breath as if to steady himself. ‘It’s very important to us that she’s buried as soon as possible.’

      ‘I see,’ said Lilly.

      ‘Mum is devastated.’

      Lilly cast a glance at Mrs Khan, who continued to contemplate her lap. If it were Lilly, and her son had topped himself, she was sure she’d be screaming and wailing. But then grief did strange things to people, didn’t it?

      ‘And what can I do to help?’ asked Lilly.

      Anwar cleared his throat again. Lilly’s heart went out to this young man, so evidently forced to take control of what must be a terrible situation.

      ‘The police still have Yasmeen.’ He paused. ‘You know, her body.’

      ‘When did she die?’ Lilly asked.

      ‘Two days ago.’

      Lilly smiled kindly. Two days wasn’t very long in the circumstances, though she understood it must seem like for ever to the family.

      ‘Have they given you any indication when they will release it?’

      Anwar shook his head. ‘That’s why we’re here. We want someone to speak to them, make them understand how important this is.’

      Lilly looked from Anwar’s poor stricken face to his mother, who seemed oblivious to her surroundings. Her heart sank. She had promised Jack that there would be no more stress. No more clients needing to lean on her. She had to think of the baby.

      ‘I’m not sure you actually need a solicitor,’ said Lilly. ‘Can another family member not help?’

      Anwar pushed the heels of his hands into his forehead. ‘Mum can’t deal with this, Miss Valentine.’

      A cursory glance told Lilly he was right. Deema Khan was nothing more than a shell.

      ‘What about your father?’

      ‘He’s dead,’ said Anwar. ‘I’m the head of the family so it falls to me to ensure my sister has a proper Islamic funeral.’

      Lilly saw that the burden of responsibility was physically weighing the boy down, and sighed.

      ‘Give me the officer’s details and I’ll see what I can do.’

      Lilly parked in a side road and walked towards the police station, wondering why the Khans hadn’t chosen a local solicitor. Perhaps they thought she might have more sway with the police. The idea made her laugh out loud. Still, there were plenty of others she could have redirected them to.

      She swallowed down her guilt, telling herself this wasn’t going to be a difficult case. It wasn’t even a proper case. Just a chat with a copper. Absolutely nothing stressful. She knew Jack wouldn’t be pleased but if he’d seen the look on Anwar’s face he’d understand.

      The High Street in Bury Park was throbbing with shoppers laden with carrier bags and trolleys. Grocers piled their stalls high with melons, oranges and custard apples, their skins covered with indentations like a thousand dirty fingerprints. Lilly stopped to smell a plastic container of lemons, their leaves still attached.

      ‘A pound a bowl,’ the shopkeeper called from inside.

      A woman reached past Lilly for a handful of okra. She was enshrouded in black, even her eyes covered. Only her toes were naked, brown and soft, peeping out from under her burka, in leather flip-flops.

      Behind her, a girl of about sixteen rattled into her phone in Urdu. The startling cerise of her hijab matched her nail varnish and handbag. She handed over a pound and took her fruit without stopping for breath.

      The traffic crawled to a standstill as drivers stopped on double yellow lines to collect waiting relatives or chat to friends in the street. The smell of incense wafted through the air.

      After the stuffy environment of Manor Park it made Lilly smile. It made her feel alive.

      ‘Saag, very good for baby,’ the shopkeeper shouted, waving a bunch of spinach at Lilly.

      He wore a beige Afghan-style hat that Lilly was sure he didn’t need in the May sunshine.

      ‘How can I resist charm like that?’ Lilly laughed.

      By the time she arrived at the station she had spinach, ginger, a can of coconut water and an interesting fruit called a pow pow. And it had taken a lot of willpower not to buy a jewelled sari in peacock blue.

      At the front desk she looked at the notes she had taken