the package that was Jinnah. And it seemed to help him work, in an odd way — rather like his chain-smoking.
“Hakeem, why are you always faking some exotic tropical disease? Why don’t you just say you’ve got flu like the rest of us?”
Jinnah looked surprised and affronted.
“But Ronald — my pains are very real to me!” Jinnah said, popping another mouthful of God-only-knew-what and swallowing them without any water.
“Your only pain is in your wounded pride. I take it Grant has the line story?”
“Not if I can help it, buddy.”
Jinnah grabbed his jacket and his notepad.
“If anyone wants to know where I am, I’ll be at the tropical diseases clinic seeking treatment,” he said.
“Where are you going, really? Just in case Perma-Frost needs to know?”
Jinnah paused at the door.
“Tell him I’m off to see Staff Sergeant Graham about a witness.”
Chapter Two
Staff Sergeant Graham was a veteran of three decades of police work and the closest thing that Jinnah had to a friend on the Vancouver Police Force. Their relationship was a long-standing one with a few knock-down, drag-out fights sprinkled in between. This particular afternoon, the death of Sam Schuster occupied very little of Graham’s consciousness. The Duty NCO had called in sick and so had the Media Liaison Officer. Graham was filling in for both. So when there was a fatal accident downtown at the beginning of rush hour and the news crews descended on the corner of Cambie and Nelson Streets, it was his painful duty to supervise the operation and speak to the media on site. He hated scrumming with television reporters about something as routine as a traffic accident, but Graham knew the TV stations had early afternoon shows to fill up and the radio reporters had hourly and half-hourly deadlines to meet. So the dour Scottish-born officer stood stoically on the corner in the brisk afternoon breeze giving the bare bones of what had happened and hiding behind the phrase “that’s still under investigation,” when he didn’t have an answer. The pack had just dispersed and he was looking forward to a coffee when he caught sight of Jinnah coming towards him.
“Oh, God!” said Graham.
“Pleased to see you as well, Sergeant Graham sir!” beamed Jinnah. “Finished with that pack of ambulance chasers?”
“If you want a statement you’ll have to beg for the tape from one of the radio guys,” said Graham wearily. “I can’t help it if you’re late for —”
“Relax, Sarge,” said Jinnah, stepping up onto the small traffic island where Graham was standing. “I’m not here about any accident. I’m here about a murder.”
“Not Sam Schuster again!” cried Graham. “Look, Jinnah, I’ve told you — I can’t give you anything more on that.”
Jinnah grunted and lit up a cigarette. In front of them, firefighters were prying the twisted remains of a small car from under the front section of a cement truck. Three policemen from the traffic section — two constables and a corporal — were busy measuring the skid marks and recording other details. Jinnah waved to them and the corporal grinned back. Jinnah took in a deep lungful and held it for a moment before letting it out. Graham coughed and waved an angry hand as a cloud of blue smoke burst from Jinnah’s mouth and played around his nostrils.
“I should give you a ticket!” Graham coughed.
“Your anti-smoking bylaw doesn’t cover street corners as yet,” laughed Jinnah. “Besides, is it any worse than all the exhaust you’ve been inhaling this afternoon?”
“It’s not the state of my lungs that concerns me. It’s the state of your ears. Apparently you’ve developed that periodic deafness that afflicts you when I say the words ‘No comment.’”
“Come on, Sarge! Just let me talk to Chan.”
“No.”
“Why not, for God’s sake?”
“I have my reasons.”
“All I want to do is make him a hero.”
“You can do that without talking to him. He’ll probably have a bloody relapse.”
The firefighters had succeeded in freeing the wreckage of the compact car from the cement truck. Jinnah made a face as the jaws of life were brought out.
“Aren’t those a bit academic?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Graham. “But I suspect the victim’s loved ones will want the remains. Now unless you’d like to join him in the beyond —”
“Sergeant Graham, all I’m asking for is five minutes of the man’s time —”
“Forget it, Hakeem. I wish I could comply so you’d harass him instead of me, but I can’t. Orders.”
Jinnah arched an eyebrow.
“Orders from whom?”
“Above. Honestly, I’d like to help, Hakeem, but I can’t.”
Jinnah threw his cigarette down and kicked it to tiny particles of blue, black, brown and white. Graham thought him quite calm for someone who’d been crushed.
“Listen, my friend, you have to give me something. Will you at least say that Robert Chan is a hero? Will you do that?”
“Certainly,” said Graham. “Robert Chan is a hero. You can quote me on that.”
Jinnah took out his notebook and scribbled the quote onto a page. He looked up suddenly at Graham.
“Do you really mean that or are you just being obliging?” he said fiercely.
Graham was somewhat taken aback.
“Of course I mean it! He’s very brave — misguided, perhaps, but brave.”
“Misguided —”
“Don’t put that bit in!”
“Okay. I’m quoting you as saying Robert Chan is a hero and a very brave man. But I doubt your sincerity.”
Sergeant Graham was not used to having his personal word doubted. He was especially unused to having Hakeem Jinnah say so to his face.
“In all honesty, Hakeem —” he started.
Jinnah abruptly held up his notebook, thrusting it and his pen at the policeman.
“Then sign it,” he said.
“Sign it?”
“Your name and rank, so the editor won’t say I made it up,” insisted Jinnah.
“This is ridiculous —”
“I
