Read If Snow Hadn't Fallen (a Lacey Flint short story) for Free Online

face I didn’t think I’d seen before. Then he flicked photographs to a profile shot and started drawing again.
    ‘You’ll now have perfect classical proportions,’ he said. ‘Before, you were a tiny bit snubbed. Now, perfect.’
    As I left the hospital, I realized I had to talk to Aamir Chowdhury’s sister, if indeed it had been her in the park the previous night. And also that I’d just agreed to spending several thousands of pounds of taxpayers’ money on giving myself a bigger nose.

9
    ‘I’M NOT SURE , Lacey. Any suggestion that we’re being insensitive could reflect very badly on us right now.’
    ‘I know. Which is why I need something from you. Something new to talk to them about. And I was with him when he died. It’s natural I would want to visit them at some stage, isn’t it?’
    ‘We’re on a real knife-edge with this one. Maybe I’d better come with you.’
    I hadn’t told DI Tulloch that I was in my car at the end of the street where Aamir Chowdhury’s family lived, that I was seconds away from knocking on their door. I wasn’t even sure what I hoped to gain. I just knew there was something odd about the woman in the park and that odd things were always worth following up. Tulloch had agreed with me that it was unusual, but was nervous about my going to visit them alone.
    ‘Ma’am, no disrespect, but you can be a bit scary at times. And this girl could be very young. No one’s scared of me.’
    ‘Well, I’m a long way from agreeing with you on that one. OK, it’s worth a go. What are you wearing?’
    Shit, I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Trousers,’ I admitted, ‘but otherwise pretty respectable. Shirt, sweater. Do I need a headscarf?’
    ‘No, you’ll be fine. Just be modest and respectful. Can you manage that?’
    Given that she was on the end of a phone line and couldn’t see me, I allowed myself to bristle. ‘It’ll be a push, but I’ll give it my best shot.’
    ‘Ring me the minute you’re done.’
    An evening meal was being prepared as I was led along the narrow hall of the Chowdhury house. I’d removed my shoes just inside the front door; one of Tulloch’s last-minute pieces of advice had been that domestic cleanliness is very important to Muslims. The young man in his twenties who’d answered my knock had taken my coat.
    Somewhere in the house I could hear a television set, then silence and the opening of an upstairs door. I had a sense of the house coming together, of it focusing on one common point of attention. Me.
    I followed the man, who I assumed was Aamir’s younger brother, into a large open-plan kitchen that was largely Western in décor and awash with floral prints. There was one painting on the wall, of a scene that I thought was probably Mecca, and several framed verses in Islamic calligraphy. Otherwise, only the bookshelves which covered the wall around the fireplace hinted at the Asian ancestry of the room’s occupants. And the occupants themselves, of course.
    There were no photographs anywhere.
    As I appeared, a man in his fifties rose to meet me. He’d been sitting in a chair by an open fire, reading a newspaper. He folded it carefully and inclined his head before stepping forward and holding out his hand for me to shake.
    ‘I’m Hassam Chowdhury,’ he told me. ‘Detective Flint, is that right?’
    I would hardly have known him for the semi-crazed, grief-stricken man I remembered from the park. This man was traditionally dressed in loose cotton trousers and a long pale-brown tunic. He wore a knitted cardigan in deference to the cold, but it didn’t seem at odds with the rest of the outfit. His hair was cut short, his hairline receding, but there was no grey in his beard. He was tall and well-built, and every movement he made seemed considered and precise.
    I heard a sound behind me and turned to see another man enter the room. Early thirties. Traditionally dressed. Bearded. This would be the eldest son. Aamir had been the second