City of Sinners

by A. A. Dhand

  ‘What’s it like, fucking a Paki?’ said Kash. ‘You got to wash afterwards or what?’

  Harry removed his police identification. He stepped closer to Kash, waved it in front of his face then dropped it on the floor.

  Kash watched it fall and as soon as his eyes were distracted, Harry brought his elbow into Kash’s nose, breaking it. As he fell backwards, Harry grabbed hold of him and pushed him towards the wall.

  Kash tried to struggle but Harry held him firm and pushed his nose into the wall, smearing blood across it. He cuffed his hands behind his back, turned him around and shoved him on to the couch.

  Kash was screaming, yelling he was going to do Harry in.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Harry, raising his foot and pushing it into Kash’s crotch, keeping him pinned in the chair.

  ‘You’re done! Fucking done!’ shouted Kash.

  ‘Really?’ said Harry, waving away Palmer, who had arrived by his side, face drawn.

  ‘I’ll have your job for this!’ said Kash.

  ‘Funny,’ said Harry, keeping his foot firmly between Kash’s legs. ‘You’ve got two senior officers whose statements will say you threatened me. Then headbutted the wall to try to pin the blame on me.’

  Kash shook his head, blood streaming down his face. ‘It’ll never wash.’

  Harry pointed to the wall. ‘There’s the blood.’

  ‘He saw what you did,’ said Kash, nodding towards Palmer.

  ‘You see anything, Simon?’ asked Harry, turning his face to the side.

  ‘Saw him headbutt the wall,’ replied Palmer.

  Harry pushed his foot a little harder into Kash’s crotch, making him wince.

  ‘The thing with you and your brother – the thing which pisses me off the most – is your double standards. Getting girls over from India, treating them like shit and expecting them to conform to some out-of-touch idea of traditional values while you hook up with whichever white girl has taken your fancy.’

  Harry leaned a little closer, applying more pressure, his mood darkening. ‘Too chicken-shit to just live your life. Too afraid to say no to Mummy, who needs to keep up appearances in the community. You’re a pussy and you know it.’

  Harry grabbed Kash’s face, constricting his cheeks firmly between his fingers. ‘You want to cross me? Go right ahead.’

  He dropped his voice, whispering now in Kash’s ear so Palmer couldn’t hear. ‘Either of you goes near Indy again, you of all people know I’ve got no problem crossing the line.’

  Harry dug his fingers harder into Kash’s face and made sure he was looking at him. ‘Unlike you, I’m not all talk. Now, you tell your dipshit brother that we’re looking for him.’

  Harry let go, backed off and handed Palmer a key to the cuffs. ‘We’re done here.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE DRIVE BACK to Trafalgar House was strained.

  ‘Go on. Say it,’ said Harry, stopping at a set of traffic lights on Manningham Lane. He lowered the window to let some much-needed air into the car.

  ‘You’re my boss. And you know I’ve always got your back, Harry, but shit, sometimes you take it too far.’

  ‘I know,’ said Harry. He didn’t regret what he had done to Kash. Truthfully, had Palmer not been there, Harry might have taken it a step further. In his opinion, brown-on-brown racism was as toxic as it got. Harry had suffered enough of that from within his own family. He couldn’t tolerate a lowlife like Kash talking shit about his wife.

  Palmer shook his head. ‘I’ll never quite understand it. He’s Asian. You’re Asian. Yet he feels he can call your wife a Paki and immediately this rage comes over you. It puts everything you’ve worked for at risk. You want to explain that to me?’

  Harry edged the car forwards as the lights changed. ‘I wish I could. Just some age-old bullshit. It’s not just what he said about Saima. It’s the way he reckons he’s better than me – a higher class of ethnic because he toes the line when it comes to sticking with your own. He got a freshie—’

  ‘Freshie?’

  ‘Traditional girl from some village back in India. Marriage lasted about as long as he would in a dark alley with me. He ships her back home, screws a different white girl every night and nobody in the community says shit about it. Yet I marry the woman I love, stay loyal to her, raise a family and I’m the social leper. Double standards. Pisses me right off.’

  ‘And if he puts in a complaint? Is it worth the hassle?’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘Because?’

  Harry glanced at Palmer. ‘Because he knows I’d make life difficult for him.’

  Palmer sighed. ‘I’ll never understand. In this city, brown versus white is enough hatred for me. Yet from what I’ve learned working alongside you, there’s layers of hate even within that.’

  Harry squeezed his hands around the steering wheel, making the leather squeak, his mind taken back to the memory of his father charging at him with a knife after Harry had told him he was marrying Saima.

  ‘Don’t try to understand. Not worth the headache.’

  Palmer removed another chocolate bar from his pocket and unwrapped it. He offered a piece to Harry, who refused.

  ‘Nice touch, rubbing his nose against the wall,’ said Palmer, grinning and popping a double-piece of chocolate into his mouth.

  Harry scowled. ‘His nose popped like a fucking balloon. Virgin bones. Man hasn’t been in a real fight in his life.’

  Palmer laughed. ‘Virgin bones,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘I wanted to rattle his cage. If his brother has some sort of sick wasp habit, if he is involved in Usma Khan’s murder, he’ll be even more pissed off with me now. That’s all I need; his composure to slip so that when we do pin him down, he’ll break easier than Kash’s nose did.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  HARRY ARRIVED HOME at eight thirty, touched his mother’s slippers in the hallway. He silently muttered that Kash had had it coming, imagining his mother’s disapproval at how his day had panned out.

  Upstairs, Harry found Saima already in bed, reading a book. She peered over the top of it as he entered. Tuesday nights were the only time they broke their rule of always having dinner together. Saima’s new relationship with her sister was important to them both. He felt a tad jealous that his own relationship with Ronnie hadn’t fared as well.

  ‘Little man out?’

  ‘Like a light,’ said Saima, putting the book down. ‘We might need to get a fish tank. Aaron is obsessed with the one at Nadia’s place.’

  ‘No thanks. A dog I can get on board with. Fish are boring.’

  Harry removed his jacket and threw it on to a chair. Saima frowned at him, staring at it.

  ‘Give us a break, woman.’

  ‘I’m not picking it up.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to.’

  Harry sat on the side of the bed and dropped his head on to his chest. ‘Shit day. Knackered. How was Nadia?’

  ‘The same. Just existing.’

  ‘She hasn’t kicked him out yet then?’

  ‘She bloody well should, but it’s what happens when you marry your cousin. Pickled politics.’

  Saima moved closer to him, kneeling behind his body and draping her arms around his neck. ‘Do you want some food?’ she said. ‘Like a big greasy takeaway? We can veg out and be two little fatties on the couch?’

  Harry smiled. ‘Let’s leave it for Saturday night. Think I’m going to fix myself a Jack and Coke and watch some TV. You want to come down?’

  ‘Bollywood TV?’ she said playfully.

  ‘Only if my favourite actress is on. The hot one. What’s she called again?’

  ‘Don’t you say her name,’ said Saima. She hated it when Harry mocked her jealousy.

  ‘Relax. The only woman I would leave you for in the world is—’

  He turned his face and kissed her cheek. ‘Nobody.’

  Saima nuzzled her face into Harry’s neck. ‘Charmer. You go have your Jack Daniels. But pop into
Aaron’s room and give him a kiss first. He missed you tonight.’

  In the living room, Harry fixed himself a drink and brought it back to his computer. He turned off the television, Saima wouldn’t sleep if she could hear it.

  He thought of Gurpal Singh. This felt different to his previous crimes. But Harry had witnessed first-hand with his brother how prison could change a man. Harry made a note to get his team to contact Armley prison the following day and see what they could find about Gurpal’s time inside.

  Harry watched a YouTube video of a spider wasp attacking a tarantula, similar to the one Katrina Schultz had shown him.

  Angry little bastards.

  He used the Internet to search for shops in Bradford where somebody could buy a tarantula. Since these wasps were obviously being bred, it seemed logical that whoever was doing so would need a supply of spiders. He found six shops, made a note of them and gladly clicked away from the images on his screen.

  He picked up his bourbon just as a text message arrived on his phone from an unrecognized number.

  Maestro. Bhangra Night. Find what you need there about Usma Khan. Come alone. No drama.

  He frowned at the message and tried to call the number but it was switched off. Harry checked the time: 22:10.

  He tried to call the number again.

  Nothing.

  Harry left his Jack Daniels untouched. He phoned Palmer.

  ‘Boss?’

  Harry could hear a woman singing badly in the background, the racket deafening. ‘Find a quiet spot,’ he said.

  He waited whilst Palmer moved away from the noise.

  ‘Better?’ said Palmer.

  ‘Much. Where the hell are you?’

  ‘Sister’s birthday. Karaoke and piss-up in town.’

  ‘You drunk?’

  ‘I’m driving.’

  Harry filled him in on the cryptic text. ‘Can you get away?’

  ‘Shit, Harry, my sister hates this. I’ll have to play it right. Say, forty minutes?’

  ‘Listen, keep alert to your phone. I’m going to head down to Maestro’s and see what’s what. Put a call in to the duty sergeant and ask if he can get a couple of patrol cars in the vicinity just in case I need it.’

  ‘Sure, Harry. Anything else?’

  Harry thought of the spider and the wasps. It was unlikely, but not impossible he was walking into a trap here. ‘Tell you what, ask him to get the armed patrol somewhere close by too.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  HARRY PARKED ON a side street off Manningham Lane, opposite Maestro nightclub, feeling like this day was never going to end. He read a text from Palmer confirming his backup. He didn’t feel in any danger, the club was going to be crowded, he was hardly going to be ambushed.

  Harry remembered the club from his youth. It had closed many years ago but now, under new ownership, it was trying to infuse some much-needed nightlife back into the Bradford scene. Harry had spent his teenage New Year’s Eves at the club and, unbeknown to his parents, had his first kiss there, with one of the papergirls who did rounds for his dad.

  Tonight, the club was hosting a Bhangra night for students. A queue of Asian kids snaked around the side of the building. Harry got close enough to hear a meaty Asian bouncer shaking his head at a group of four guys.

  ‘Boy/girl only.’

  He veered away from the queue and hung back.

  Harry checked his phone and re-read the anonymous text message.

  No drama.

  Harry didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself. He figured whoever wanted to speak with him wanted privacy and didn’t want the bouncers watching Harry, on edge to see if he was there to check if any laws were being broken.

  Yet without a woman on his arm, he was unlikely to get inside without playing the cop-card.

  Harry checked the queue.

  There were several small groups of young girls.

  Too young for Harry to latch on to.

  ‘Shit,’ he whispered.

  Harry looked up and down Manningham Lane and saw a silhouette hovering in a side street doorway. Most of the hookers had moved on from this area a while ago but a few still remained.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Harry, approaching the scantily dressed prostitute. The orange glow of a cigarette between her lips grew brighter as she took a final drag before throwing the stub to the floor.

  ‘Dawn,’ she replied.

  ‘You want to hang out, Dawn?’

  ‘Always, sweets,’ she said, and turned to face him. Pink lipstick, blonde hair, textbook blue eyeliner. She was wearing tight leather trousers, black stiletto heels and a cheap imitation fur jacket, zipped low enough to leave her breasts on show; both had a tattoo of a devil on display.

  Harry pointed to the club across the road. ‘I need to get in there. It’s boy/girl only.’

  Harry removed his wallet and pinched a twenty-pound note in his fingertips. ‘Easiest money you’ll make all night.’

  ‘What? You just want me to go in there with you?’ she said. The smell of stale smoke on her breath hit Harry like a slap.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I like Bhangra. Can’t get in alone.’

  She smiled. ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Dawn, you’ve got the chance to make twenty quid for standing in that queue with me for ten minutes. You prefer some taxi driver’s cock in your mouth for that?’

  Harry started to put the money away.

  Dawn grasped his arm.

  ‘When we’re inside – I can go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ she replied. ‘Cos I ain’t dancin’ to no Bhangra.’

  The queue moved slowly. Harry had asked Dawn to zip her fur jacket up over her breasts but she’d left a little on show, enough to give the bouncers a cheap thrill and let them inside.

  ‘What’s the deal then?’ said Dawn, noticing the rest of the people queuing all looked to be in their late teens or early twenties. ‘Daughter inside?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Honour crap, is it? She hooked up with the wrong sort and you wanna get her an arranged marriage?’ She laughed.

  Harry shook his head. ‘Less dramatic than that.’

  When they were near the front, Dawn turned to Harry and asked him for another twenty. They were close enough that, if Harry refused, it might cause a scene and she knew it.

  Dawn smiled, then winked at Harry. She leaned closer. ‘How bad do you wanna get in there, sweets?’

  Harry put his hand in his pocket, removed another twenty and held it in his hand. Dawn tried to take it.

  ‘When we get to the front – you can take it then.’

  She shrugged and nodded as the couple in front disappeared inside. They stepped forward and the bouncer didn’t even give them a once-over, simply waving them inside. Dawn snatched the twenty-pound note from Harry’s hand.

  Inside, they stopped at a desk. Harry sighed at the entrance fee. Fifteen quid each.

  Harry paid the money. Dawn leaned in close.

  ‘You must really want to get in here,’ she said.

  The boom of a powerful Bhangra beat reverberated through Harry’s feet, as if the floor were shaking. An Asian dance group were onstage, whipping the crowd on the dance floor into a frenzy.

  ‘Mine’s a double vodka and Coke,’ Dawn shouted over the noise.

  ‘One drink,’ replied Harry.

  He hated nightclubs. The noise, the sweat, the people. He also hated feeling like a lemon at the edge of the dance floor and queueing for a drink gave him a natural opportunity to scan the room, and with it the crowd.

  The club hadn’t changed one bit since Harry had last been here twenty years before. The centre of the room was an enormous dance space. A large torch in the ceiling powerfully illuminated a central mirror ball which sent thousands of sparkling lights across the heaving dance floor. Artificial mist obscured the edges of the room.

  Harry was served quickly at the bar. He ordered
a Coke for himself, and a Coke and double vodka for Dawn. Looking at the crowd inside the club, Harry saw girls in vibrant, multicoloured Asian suits, most of them with drinks in hand. Guys and girls checked each other out; smiles exchanged, prolonged glances and the unsubtle brushing of hands on bodies.

  When he returned, Dawn was being chatted up by a slick-looking Asian playboy, clean-shaven, wearing shades and boasting more than one gold chain around his neck.

  Harry handed Dawn her drink. The hero smiled at Harry and skulked away. Harry briefly wondered if he might be a person of interest, but when he was welcomed back into a boisterous crowd of other teens, Harry’s interest in him waned and he turned back to Dawn.

  ‘He wanted a piece of the white girl,’ said Dawn, taking the drink from Harry. She seemed to be enjoying herself, tapping her feet on the floor and moving her head side to side. ‘Shagged an Asian fella for a while. He loved this shit.’

  Harry sipped his drink and observed the frenetic dance floor. Girls’ bodies gyrated against guys’ torsos.

  Dawn necked her drink, placed the empty glass on a table and turned to Harry. ‘We good?’

  Harry nodded.

  She pointed towards the dance floor. ‘When you find her – don’t be too hard on her. We were all kids once, remember?’

  She winked at Harry, thanked him for the drink and waltzed away.

  Harry looked out over the dance floor. It was impossible to make anything out beyond the mass of bodies and the arms waving in the air. There was a raised balcony wrapped around the perimeter of the club. Harry went upstairs and took a slow walk around, looking down on to the dance floor. It was easier to make out the people below him now.

  He could see the effortless, gorgeous Asian girls who knew they were desirable and moved their bodies easily with the beat. They were the ones the boys were watching. They were surrounded by an outer ring of wannabes, glad to be included in the cool crew but nowhere near effortless. They were clearly hoping some of the guys might notice them too.

  The guys were also split into two camps. Those who had Bhangra in their blood, whose bodies moved like liquid, and the ones who’d got pissed in the hope it might trigger some deep-rooted sense of rhythm, which never surfaced.