City of Sinners

by A. A. Dhand

  This was father-and-son time.

  For the next twenty minutes, Harry carried out his nightly routine of bathing his son, listening to Aaron’s incoherent chatter and allowing his ghastly day to slowly be replaced by the only thing he really cared about.

  His family.

  ‘Are you staying home tonight?’ called Saima from the kitchen. She’d seen that Harry had not changed out of his suit after putting Aaron to bed. He hated to disappoint her, which was why he always tried to come home of an evening to bathe his son and have dinner with his wife, giving them a sense of normality even if he did have to go back out again afterwards.

  Harry was setting the table in the living room. ‘Not sure, yet. Bad case at work.’

  ‘You’re on HMET. Are there ever any good ones?’

  ‘Sometimes we get a suicide.’

  ‘Harry.’ Saima frowned over at him.

  The angry black wasp flashed in front of Harry’s eyes.

  ‘Anyway, you know we don’t discuss work at home. Rule five, isn’t it?’ said Saima.

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Too many rules.’

  ‘You can count them on one hand.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s rule five,’ insisted Saima.

  Harry walked over to a small frame on the mantelpiece.

  No lies. Ever.

  Family first. Everything else later.

  Religious melodrama loses out to wedding rings.

  Dinner together every night (unless working night shifts).

  No police or hospital talk at home.

  ‘You’re right. Rule five it is,’ said Harry. ‘Four is having dinner together.’

  ‘Are you honouring that?’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

  ‘Are you here, here? Or am I having dinner with one-word answers while you obsess about whatever hit your desk today?’

  Harry smiled, taking his jacket off and draping it over a chair. ‘Cynic. Anyway, you look like you had a shittier day than me, which would be a bloody miracle.’

  In the kitchen, Saima thought about Harry’s father lying in hospital and the promise she had made her mother-in-law.

  Rule number one: No lies. Ever.

  She wasn’t lying, technically.

  Saima convinced herself it wasn’t a lie not to mention the truth.

  Her appetite now gone, she picked up the dinner plates loaded with chicken, rice and yoghurt, and brought them into the living room.

  Putting the plates on the table, she pushed her chair back to sit down.

  ‘What’s this? You having an affair?’ Harry muttered as he bent down beside her.

  ‘What?’ said Saima.

  She stopped dead when she saw what Harry had picked up.

  ‘This just fell out of your jacket,’ said Harry, waving a man’s wallet at her.

  Harry’s father’s. The one Saima had picked up from the floor outside the ambulance.

  ‘Who is it? Could I kick his ass?’ Harry smiled.

  Saima was momentarily lost for words. She adjusted her cutlery, racking her brains for something smart to say but finding only the truth.

  ‘Fell out of a patient’s pocket when they lifted him out of the ambulance. He was flatlining. I stuck it in my pocket. Totally forgot.’

  Harry thumbed the wallet. ‘Expensive leather.’

  He started to open it, but Saima clicked her fingers sternly and held out her hand.

  ‘Excuse me, mate,’ she said. ‘Patient confidentiality?’

  ‘Hmmm … depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Did he make it? Do the dead benefit from patient confidentiality too?’

  Saima nodded.

  ‘If you open that, I’ll have to report you,’ she said. ‘Call the police. Fill out forms. All that stuff you love.’

  Harry smiled and handed it back. ‘Nobody wants that.’

  Saima returned the wallet to her jacket pocket, zipping it shut.

  ‘Do you want to start without me?’ she asked.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I just …’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I just want to pray before we eat.’

  She saw Harry’s eyes narrow.

  ‘Wow. Really must have been some day,’ he said.

  Saima sighed. ‘It was. But you know me, if I spend ten minutes praying, it’ll clear my mind.’

  ‘Take all the time you need. I’ll wait.’

  ‘Dinner will get cold.’

  ‘We’ve got a microwave.’

  She saw the way Harry was looking at her. ‘You’re too good to me, you know that?’

  ‘Rule number four,’ he replied, pointing to the chart on the wall. ‘Dinner together every night. Or we’ll end up like one of those cliché cop families who never spend any time together.’

  With Saima upstairs, cleansing her mind and spirit, Harry turned on his laptop. Try as he might to forget about work for an hour or so, the discovery of ten thousand pounds in cash hidden under Usma’s mattress was playing on his mind.

  Harry hadn’t asked the family about it, their grief was too raw. Besides, it was clear they knew nothing about it.

  This was money Usma had hidden.

  How did a twenty-year-old student land that kind of cash?

  The search of Usma’s room had also revealed a small bag filled with tiny brushes and nail varnishes, hidden underneath her bed behind boxes of books. Harry thought it likely the two hidden items were connected. He flicked through the photos on his iPhone, stopping when he reached one of Usma’s false nails. At first he had thought that the pattern was printed but now he could see that it was artwork – painted by someone with a very steady hand. Usma’s kit-bag had ‘That Nail Girl’ printed on the side in bold red letters. Harry zoomed in on Usma’s nails and saw a tiny ‘TNG’ logo on the side of one of them.

  A quick Internet search revealed a polished website of a company based in the Tyersal area of Bradford. That Nail Girl was both a salon and an adjoining academy offering nail technician courses. Harry clicked on the Instagram link and saw the account had over seventy thousand followers.

  Harry then accessed a Facebook link and was transferred to a group page for TNG students. The group administrator was listed as Kim Tu. Harry wrote the name down and also the address of her salon. Scrawling down a list of members he found an alias he assumed to be Usma Khan’s, listed as UZI-K. Clicking on her name took Harry to a list of all the threads she had posted on.

  It seemed Usma was Kim’s most prolific nail technician and had moved into teaching as well.

  Saima had her nails done every so often; nothing as fancy as this, but even something simple set his wife back forty quid, and the salons always wanted cash.

  Suddenly the ten thousand pounds hidden under Usma’s mattress didn’t seem so out of place.

  TEN

  RONNIE VIRDEE CAME into the grand living room of his Victorian house to find his mother, Joyti, sitting by a roaring fire, flicking through an album of baby photographs of him and Harry. He closed the door, pleased Mandy was upstairs with their two children, Raj and Kirin, helping them with their homework before the children’s bedtime. This was a sensitive conversation he needed to have with his mother.

  ‘Where did you get that from?’ asked Ronnie, sitting by his mother and pointing to the album in her lap. ‘I thought we’d put them all in the loft?’

  She didn’t reply, instead trailing her hand down a photograph of Harry as a baby.

  ‘They look identical,’ she whispered. ‘Took me back to when he used to fall asleep in my arms.’

  ‘Did you let me do that?’

  Joyti shook her head. ‘I spoiled him, I know that, but he was the baby of the family.’

  Ronnie squeezed her gently. ‘Don’t do this now, Mum.’

  Joyti wiped her face. ‘I do it every night,’ she said, turning to look at him. ‘Our family is cursed with loss. First Harry, then Tara.’

  Ronnie hung his head; he missed his eldest daughter every day. He tried to ta
ke the album from her but she kept a firm hold.

  ‘I cannot continue this way,’ she said.

  Ronnie sighed. He had known the moment he had seen her with Aaron this would happen. If he was being honest, he’d felt it too.

  ‘You never told me why you and Harry stopped speaking. I used to be thankful that he at least had you.’ She turned to face him, her cheeks red, a tear drifting down her skin.

  Ronnie stared into the roaring fire, flames flirting with the air in the room. ‘He wanted me to do something I couldn’t,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Bring us all back together?’

  Ronnie nodded. It wasn’t so far from the truth.

  Four years before, Harry had discovered that Ronnie didn’t just own several cash-and-carries and a large network of convenience stores in Bradford, he also ran the largest distribution network of heroin in the city. The revelation had strained the brothers’ relationship, each waging a constant battle to bring the other over to his side. After Tara had been murdered, Harry and Ronnie had finally given up. Parting ways had seemed the simplest solution. But it was still painful, for them both.

  ‘He is so alone,’ whispered Joyti, unable to keep her hand from stroking the photograph.

  ‘He has his family. And he’s strong, Mum. Like you.’

  ‘I’m not strong any more,’ said Joyti, removing the picture from the album and holding it close to her face. ‘Same nose, lips, cheeks. With Saima’s green eyes.’ She closed her eyes, allowed the tears to run down her face.

  Ronnie held her tightly. ‘Mum, let’s focus on Dad—’

  ‘No!’ she snapped, shaking her head and breaking free of his grip. She stood up, taking the photograph with her, and walked towards a framed portrait on the wall of her standing beside her husband.

  ‘He made the choice for all of us,’ she spat, pointing at Ranjit, ‘and just like that, I lost a son.’ Her words disappeared into the darkness, flickering silhouettes dancing off the walls. ‘And now I don’t get to watch Aaron grow up. I am forbidden because I have to follow your father’s rules,’ she said, turning back to Ronnie.

  ‘You know Dad will never allow it.’

  Ronnie narrowed his eyes. He saw his mother consider her response.

  ‘He may not survive,’ she said.

  It was what she didn’t say that unnerved Ronnie and set him wondering: Does she want him not to survive? Have we really reached that point?

  ‘You need to be careful, Mum, if you grow closer to Aaron, it means bringing Saima and Harry back into this family. And as far as Dad’s concerned, there is no room for manoeuvre on that.’

  Joyti looked downcast.

  ‘He still touches my slippers every morning. Saima told me.’

  ‘And he will for ever.’

  ‘I’m not dead that he cannot touch my feet,’ she said fiercely.

  Ronnie was surprised at the passion in her voice.

  ‘He really got to you today, didn’t he? Aaron?’

  Joyti swallowed a lump in her throat and switched from English to Punjabi. ‘Perhaps only a mother can understand what I felt today. It was like I had gone back in time. I was young again. I had energy in my bones and my heart felt full of life. When I felt Aaron’s face on my lips, his body in my hands, I woke up from the pain of these past years. I cannot – I will not spend one more day isolated from Harry and his family.’

  Joyti looked at the picture in her hands.

  ‘My little Hardeep has come back to me and this time nothing will keep me from seeing him. Not you. Or Mundeep. Or your father.’

  ELEVEN

  HARRY ARRIVED AT Trafalgar House shortly after nine o’clock and saw that Conway’s office door was open. He stuck his head inside, only to find it empty. The computer was still on, her mobile on the desk and her expensive-looking black heels on the floor next to the desk.

  Harry found her in the kitchen, heating up a microwave dinner.

  ‘Jesus, you made me jump,’ she said.

  Harry held his hands up apologetically.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked him and placed two slices of bread in the toaster.

  ‘Wanted to leaf through the witness statements we took from the staff at Waterstones. You heard about the autopsy?’

  Conway nodded. ‘There’s messed up and then there’s that.’

  ‘Be thankful you weren’t there to see it.’

  Conway couldn’t hide her smile. ‘Heard it got you …’

  Harry’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like the smirk. ‘Exhibits officer?’

  She shook her head. ‘Wendy.’

  He shrugged. ‘Last thing you expect to come out of a victim’s eyes is a bloody wasp.’

  ‘Any leads?’ she asked.

  ‘Give us a chance.’

  ‘That why you’re here?’

  ‘Wanted to check out a few things that are bugging me. Didn’t want to sleep on them.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The note we found. It felt personal.’

  ‘I’ll say,’ she replied. The microwave dinged and she pulled out her dinner. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Worried this is the start of something major. This city has a history of serial killers and that’s where my mind is going. We need to find this freak fast.’

  Harry pointed to the toaster where smoke was rising.

  ‘Shit!’ snapped Conway. ‘Bloody toaster!’

  She tried to force the release button but it wouldn’t move. Harry leaned past her and turned it off at the wall switch. Charred toast popped out.

  ‘Every time,’ he muttered. ‘Open the purse strings would you and authorize a new one?’

  Conway binned the toast and sighed at the sad crust left in the bread bag.

  ‘You want me to pop to the 7-Eleven for you?’ asked Harry.

  ‘No, no, don’t be silly. Shouldn’t be having carbs after nine o’clock anyway.’

  ‘How long are you around for?’ he asked, handing her a plate to put her meal on.

  ‘Thanks,’ she replied, taking it from him. ‘Cinderella clocks out at midnight.’

  Harry pointed to her feet where red trainers had replaced her heels. ‘If I don’t come back to you before then, don’t leave me one of those to find.’

  At his desk, with only a lamp illuminating the space around it, Harry flicked through the witness statements his team had collected.

  Amongst the usual mundane details, he was looking for one specific clue.

  It took him half an hour but he found it. One of the part-time members of staff who had often shared a shift with Usma had said she thought Usma had a boyfriend. A white guy, no less, but she didn’t know his name or any details.

  Harry sighed.

  Something had been niggling him ever since he had seen the note.

  This is only the beginning, Harry.

  He logged into the computer database and started to search through old cases he had been in charge of. Bradford had one of the highest incidences of homicide outside of Greater London. For a moment, Harry was surprised at just how many cases he had closed.

  Most murderers were sloppy bastards, leaving enough clues to make his job easy. It wasn’t often that he came across a killer like this one, who made the aftermath of the murder almost as bad as the crime itself.

  This guy wanted an audience, and that rarely meant one murder. Harry was concerned more bodies would follow.

  The planning it must have taken to have pulled this off.

  Harry stopped at a case file.

  He didn’t need to click on it. It was ten years old but he knew the details as if it had only happened the day before.

  Gurpal Singh had battered his wife, Inderjeet Kaur, and killed her boyfriend Tony Casper. He’d gone to jail for ABH and manslaughter.

  He had been released on probation nine weeks ago.

  ‘Shit,’ he whispered.

  Harry printed off a copy of the report and took it with him to Conway’s office. He knocked and opened the door,
finding his boss at her desk, the microwave dinner untouched on the plate.

  ‘No good?’ asked Harry, pointing towards it.

  She turned her nose up at the cheesy mess. ‘At least now I know why they were on offer at two for a fiver.’

  Harry handed her the piece of paper he had brought with him. ‘Remember this case?’

  She stared at it. A moment passed before her eyes widened in recognition. ‘Everyone remembers this case. It was a bloody mess.’

  ‘No argument there.’

  ‘He got off on murder, didn’t he?’

  Harry nodded. ‘Travesty.’

  ‘Said you’d set him up.’

  ‘Don’t they all.’

  ‘This guy meant it, though, didn’t he?’ said Conway. There was no suspicion in her voice, merely the recollection of how vehemently Gurpal Singh had insisted that Harry had concealed evidence which would have proved his innocence.

  ‘He’s out on parole,’ said Harry. ‘Got out nine weeks ago.’

  ‘What does this have to do with the Usma Khan case?’

  ‘I’ll pull the transcripts from Sheffield tomorrow, but in court, after he was sentenced, I remember what he screamed at me. Security had to hold him back.’

  Conway put the piece of paper down. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘He told me it wasn’t over. In fact, I think his precise words to me were, “This isn’t over, Harry. This is the fucking beginning.”’

  TWELVE

  IT IS DARK here. But the light from the wasp tanks creates a calming glow.

  Inside one of them are Usma Khan’s eyes, but the wasps haven’t taken to them.

  Eyes that knew sin.

  It is time for the queen to lay her eggs. So I’ve lowered a beastly-looking tarantula into her tank.

  It‘s no contest.

  The spider knows, as soon as he senses her presence, that his time is over.

  He retreats into a corner, raises two of his legs and bares his fangs as the wasp hovers, just out of reach.

  The first time I saw this I was a boy, eleven years old.

  Up until that point, I had believed that size and strength were all that mattered.