The Language of Secrets by Ausma Zehanat Khan

Alia,” she said. “My father-in-law is in the study.”
    So this was Alia Dar, Mohsin Dar’s wife—Mohsin Dar’s widow now. As he followed her through the house, he took note of the fact that she was wearing slacks and a baggy tunic, instead of shalwar kameez , traditional Pakistani clothing. Her headscarf was worn casually, the way a woman of the subcontinent would wear it, with the long tail of her dark braid escaping from the bottom.
    Khattak felt the automatic respect for a hijab-wearing woman that most men of his background and generation did, moderated by the analytical training of a police officer. A headscarf didn’t make him stop thinking, or evaluating or wondering. It was simply something he was comfortable with, just as he was comfortable with its absence. His wife had not worn one, except at the mosque and religious gatherings, and he had always respected her choice.
    A wry smile twisted Khattak’s mouth. As with his sisters, his views on the matter had not been consulted, nor had there been any expectation that they would be, a lesson he had learned from his mild-mannered father. He wondered if the same had been true of Mohsin Dar.
    He knew Andy Dar was an outspoken advocate of assimilation. A vociferous critic of practices he considered outmoded, Dar had sundered his ties with the city’s Muslim communities years ago, reinventing himself in ever more disturbing incarnations, most recently that of broadcast journalist, a go-to source for scathing commentary on Islam.
    Alia Dar knocked on the French doors that led the way into Andy Dar’s study. The knock was hesitant, deferential, at odds with the expression on her face, a fleeting glimpse of her true feelings for her father-in-law, who waved them in.
    Alia motioned Khattak to a chair, setting the heavy stack of folders down. Khattak waited. Dar was on the phone, giving Khattak time to study the photographs that cluttered the walls, a comprehensive list of dignitaries on personal terms with Dar. There was no photo of Nathan Clare, the writer and public intellectual, Khattak’s closest friend.
    The politics of Clare and Dar had never been aligned, even when Dar had been a welcome spokesperson in Toronto’s Muslim communities. There was still a touch of charlatanism that hung about the man, along with the sense of relentless self-promotion. Perhaps reading Khattak’s reluctance to engage with Andy Dar, Clare had kept his distance from Dar, a choice extenuated by time.
    Andy Dar ended his call. The handshake he offered Khattak was brusque to the point of offense, and characteristic of his manner. He faced Khattak with a smirk, ignoring rank and every other indication of Esa Khattak’s success.
    â€œWell? What have you got for me, Khattak?” He noticed his daughter-in-law, sorting through the folders on his desk, moving between the desk and a set of black filing cabinets. “What are you still doing here? Go and bring us some tea. Unless Khattak wants coffee.”
    Khattak looked at Andy Dar steadily. However unpleasant Dar’s attitude toward Khattak, his manner of speaking to his daughter-in-law was much more offensive.
    He declined the offer of tea with a circumspect glance at Alia.
    â€œI expect Mrs. Dar would like to stay and hear about her husband.”
    Andy Dar ignored him. Flipping through his letters, he spoke with the modified British accent prevalent among his generation of well-educated South Asians.
    â€œWhat is it you have to report to me?”
    â€œI wanted to let you know that I’ve taken over the investigation. I’ll be doing everything in my power to bring the person who killed your son to justice.”
    Dar let out a short, sharp bark. “What power do you have? None at all. What you’re best known for is incompetence and inaction. You are letting yourself be used, Khattak. I warned you that this would happen. A Muslim inspector, to head up a faltu unit,