This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Including any resemblance to the author or the use of the author’s name.
"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."
— Sherlock Holmes as told by the character of Dr Watson, a figment of the imagination of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, ‘The Boscombe Valley Mystery’
PRESENT DAY: LONDON CONFESSIONS
Ayaz Majid taps his foot on the marble floor of the greenroom and listens to the rising murmur of the audience gathering in the Queen Elizabeth Auditorium. He pulls out his phone, half-expecting to see a message from Evelyn wishing him luck — there isn’t one, of course. He ignores stray thoughts of his ex, and scrolls through news updates on his phone. A headline of a death in Pakistan startles him. A familiar name stares back at him.
Ayaz’s thoughts are interrupted by the interviewer calling for “James Holmes”; Ayaz leaps up and strides onto the stage to thunderous applause.
Ayaz stares past the oppressive stage lights into the darkness of the packed auditorium, and reflexively looks for Evelyn in the front row but it’s full of strangers. His collar digs into his neck. He shifts in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position but the chair seems to be designed for neither function nor form. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and counts to ten. He has given countless interviews over his career so why is he so nervous? Perhaps it’s because in those interviews, he never revealed himself. He spoke for other writers and directors. Here, it is his work and his story—disguised of course— but still undeniably his, that is on display. For the first time in an interview, Ayaz feels naked.
Across the stage sits his interviewer, Osman Haneef, an obscure writer who Ayaz had never heard of prior to the event, and who doesn’t seem to own a comb or a suit that fits him. Osman smiles brightly, makes an obligatory comment about the London weather, and reads out an introduction pre-approved by Ayaz’s publicist.
‘My guest really needs no introduction. James Holmes is an Oscar and BAFTA winning actor who has been entertaining us for almost two decades with his chameleon-like ability to disappear into his roles. Alongside his critically acclaimed roles, such as Oscar Wilde and Abraham Lincoln, James has also been an action hero, performing his own stunts on the Mission Impossible films, and remakes of Sherlock Holmes.
And today, we are here because James has written an impressive debut mystery novel – though it is so much more than that. At its heart, it’s really a story of friendship – of young adults, sixteen years old, coming of age in Pakistan. It’s already garnered quite a lot of buzz and critical praise. James, am I right that the film rights have already been sold?’
Ayaz, who has worn the mask of James for most of his adult life, nods.
‘Yes, though you shouldn’t sound so surprised. All the critics agree that it’s the best novel I have ever written,’ Ayaz says. The audience laughs.
‘Fabulous. James, now would you like to begin with a reading of the novel?’
‘Yes, why don’t I start, unusually enough with the first chapter…’ Ayaz says.
THE GREAT PRETENDER
JAMES HOLMES
This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Including any resemblance to the author or the use of the author’s name.
JAMES HOLMES is an acclaimed British actor. He won an Oscar and BAFTA for his roles as Oscar Wilde and Abraham Lincoln. He read English literature at Keble College, Oxford before studying at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts. He lives in Surrey with his family of ten rescue dogs. THE GREAT PRETENDER is his debut novel.
Praise for the Great Pretender
‘A heartrending tale’ -- The Times
‘A drama of childhood that is as wild as it is intimate’ -- Deepa Anaparra, author of Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line.
‘The perfect nail-biting mystery.’ -- Lucy Atkins, bestselling author
‘Gripping.’ -- E! News Online
‘If you love murder mysteries, this is the perfect easy-read cozy crime.’ -- Business Insider
‘A knockout.’ -- The Nerd Daily
‘An instant shocker that will leave you on the edge of your seat.’ -- Los Angeles Times High School Insider
‘This is a great, twisty read for fans of YA.’ -- Book Riot
‘A taut, compulsively readable, elegantly plotted mystery.’ -- The Guardian
‘A fun, gripping, and skillfully constructed novel of suspense.’-- Kirkus Reviews
‘Fans of murder mysteries will be hooked by the hunt for a killer, but there's more to this novel than just a whodunit. It's a story of families, community, and Pakistan’ -- BookPage
CHAPTER 1: THE CASE OF THE MISSING HOUND
‘He was tied to that?’ Sher asked. I nodded. He pointed to a giant Simbil tree, blossoming bright red next to our house at the edge of my family’s garden.
The sun beat down on us. Sher lowered the visor of his Sherlock Holmes deerhunter hat over his thick black hair. I felt a drop of sweat slide down my lower back under my T-shirt. It had not rained all week, and the sweltering summer had broken all previous heat records in Islamabad. Though it was coming to an end, and in a couple of weeks we would be back at school.
Anaya emerged out of the main house and marched towards us. I should have warned her that Sher was coming.
‘Hello Anaya, it has been a long time,’ Sher waved at her.
‘I’m surprised to see you here.’ Anaya crossed her arms.
‘Buster is missing...’
‘I know he’s missing. He’s my dog.’
‘I wanted to help Ayaz find him,’ Sher said as he pointed at me. Buster was my dog too after all. Anaya and I got him almost seven years ago for our ninth birthday. He had been the cutest little pup I had ever seen; I still remember how he smiled and licked my face the first time I held him in my arms.
‘What are you wearing?’ Anaya wasn’t just referring to his ridiculous deerstalker hat. Sher wore latex gloves, a baggy polo t-shirt, and a pair of khaki trousers with multiple pockets that were never fashionable. Even I had to admit that it was an extremely odd outfit for a sixteen-year-old to wear, but Sher was eccentric.
‘It’s practical,’ he said.
‘You look like a clown.’
‘I prefer function over form,’ he said in his formal way, without the slightest hint of irritation, which only annoyed my sister more.
‘Have you heard about the recent spate of dognappings in Islamabad?’ I asked Sher. ‘Criminal gangs steal dogs, especially good-looking breeds, and then sell them to families who don’t know any better. Do you think one of them could have taken Buster?’
‘I’ve also heard stories of criminals stealing dogs to sell them to dog-fighting rings,’ Sher said. ‘And other stories of restaurateurs looking to manage the high price of meat, by replacing beef with stray dog meat.’
The earth shifted under me as I imagined Buster being cut up and added to a korma sold to an unsuspecting customer.
‘No one is going to kidnap a dog to make a cheap paratha roll,’ Sher said. ‘I only bring it up to illustrate a point. It’s best to avoid speculation until we have all the facts.’
I know he meant to reassure me but all I could think about is poor Buster fending off wild dogs in an underground dog fighting ring or him being chopped up and served in a roadside dhaba somewhere.
Sher bent down on his knees next to the tree and pulled out a magnifying glass from one of his pockets. He brought his face close to the grass, and crawled around. After he examined most of the grass around the tree, he looked up at the branch. He unwrapped the leash tied around it. The leash would normally be attached to Buster’s collar, and gave him a radius of thirty feet to run around. Sher pulled out a plastic bag from another khaki pocket, and lowered the leash carefully into it.
‘Seriously? What else do you have in there?’ Anaya asked.
Sher ignored the question.
‘I’m collecting it for fingerprints. Though I doubt we’ll find any.’
Sher walked past the tree towards the ten-foot-high wall encircling the garden and house. He brought his face and magnifying glass to within an inch of the wall, and felt it with his gloved hand. He shook his head and mumbled to himself. He then continued to walk along the wall, stopping every few feet to examine something that caught his eye.
My grandfather, Dada Abu, had bought the half-acre property and built our home over three decades ago in a government scheme where the unused land had to be turned into productive farmland. He never had any intention of starting a farm, and my family joined several other ‘enterprising’ families who bought government subsidised plots to build their palatial homes a twenty-minute drive from the heart of Islamabad.
‘Why’d you call him?’ Anaya asked me, keeping her voice down though Sher was out of earshot. He had almost reached the marigold patch where the thieves had entered the garden.
‘We need to find Buster as fast as we can. He could be fighting for his life for all we know… they say that the first forty-eight hours is the most important in a missing persons case.’
‘Don’t know if that applies to dogs, Ayaz. Look, I love Buster more than anyone, but Sher isn’t going to be able to find him. He’s just a kid, like us — except he’s weird, and never outgrew his childhood obsession with Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Yes, he’s odd but he’s also brilliant. He notices things and makes connections no one else does. If there’s even a one percent chance he could find Buster, I’m going to take it.’
‘He won’t find him,’ Anaya said, shaking her head. ‘Sher is social kryptonite. What are you going to do, when this is all over, and he wants to spend time with you in school?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
I thought about the days when we all played cricket in the garden together: Anaya, me, Sher, Ijaz, and Buster. Anaya had been a key strike bowler as she delivered unplayable bouncers and deadly in-swinging yorkers. Sher played to pay his dues so that we would agree to some other less physically involved game afterwards. We would force Ijaz to join us; he had worked for my family as a cook/waiter/driver/ does-everything-around-the-house-guy since before I was born, so he couldn’t refuse. Buster rounded out our dream team as the most excitable Cocker Spaniel/twelfth man you ever saw. He dashed around the ground, fielding every shot because he thought we were playing fetch. We even picked him as Man-of-the-Match for a few games because of the run outs he caused.
Sher called us over to him. We jogged to what was formerly a small tuberose and marigold patch, my father’s pride and joy, which had greeted visitors with a rainbow of white, yellow, and orange colours. Now most of the flowers in the patch were broken, and trampled on: a complete mess. Mud covered the side and top of the wall next to the flower patch. The thieves had not worried about concealing their tracks.
‘They obviously came in over the wall here,’ I said. ‘The mud on the wall is probably from them trying to climb up and down. The entire patch is ruined.’
‘When did your dad plant the marigolds?’
‘Three years ago,’ I said. I felt a twinge of guilt. I could not remember the last time I had spent any meaningful time with Sher.
‘When did you last see Buster?’ Sher asked.
‘Well, I left him last night in the garden. Must have been eight in the evening. And when I woke up this morning, he was gone. The gate was wide open so they must have taken him out that way… Do you think it’s the dognapping gang?’
‘Are you heavy sleepers?’ Sher asked, ignoring the question.
‘Nothing wakes me,’ I said.
‘Not me,’ Anaya said. ‘I’m very sensitive to annoying sounds. Like right now, while you’re talking, I feel a headache coming on.’
‘Well I know who took Buster,’ Sher said.
