City of Sinners

by A. A. Dhand

  The girls left the store, muttering in annoyance.

  Harry stepped forward.

  ‘Does that happen often? Girls not wanting to buy the morning-after pill from a male pharmacist?’

  ‘Asian girls rarely want to speak to the men about anything,’ said the assistant, taking the prescription from him, placing it in a red basket and passing it behind to a second counter.

  ‘It’ll take five minutes,’ she said.

  Harry took a seat. He was thinking about the girls who’d left the store.

  What was it that was irking him?

  Were the girls worried about being judged? Found out?

  In the Asian community, sex was strictly an after-marriage sort of deal.

  What connects these girls, Harry?

  They were all having sex.

  They were all … sinning.

  Harry knew the murder victims’ medical records had been checked; a routine, first-line enquiry. None of them had visited the student medical practice since they’d been enrolled.

  No contraceptives.

  Nothing on file anyway.

  ‘Virdee?’

  Harry approached the counter, his mind racing. The pharmacist handed over Aaron’s antibiotics, providing instructions on how to administer them.

  ‘Great,’ said Harry, and pointed to a consultation room. ‘Could I have a word?’

  ‘Sure.’

  The two men entered the privacy of the side room.

  Harry showed his identification.

  Sinner.

  The word was playing loudly in his mind.

  ‘Two girls just came in here. They left because they didn’t want to speak to a bloke. Is that common?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Very.’ He nodded solemnly.

  ‘So what do they do now? Keep trying pharmacies until they find a woman on shift?’

  ‘Pretty much. I work across a few pharmacies and I’ve seen women travel miles from their local pharmacy to get the pill. I’m guessing they’re afraid they’ll be found out or recognized if they go too close to home.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s not just Asian women, but it’s more common with them. There are a lot of Asian pharmacists in this area and it’s a small community. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that. So, they go elsewhere. Look for a white pharmacist, preferably a woman.’

  ‘Can’t the boyfriends buy it for them?’

  ‘No. The pharmacist has to speak to the person taking it.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Absolutely. It’s illegal to supply it otherwise.’

  ‘Do the girls get it for free or have to buy it?’

  ‘If they’re under twenty-five, it’s free – but only in selected pharmacies.’

  ‘Right.’

  Harry’s mind was racing.

  ‘Is there a trail? Paperwork?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Only if they’ve got it for free from one of the pharmacies on that scheme. If they pay, there’s nothing on record.’

  ‘Computer or paper?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘If I wanted to know if a girl had taken the morning-after pill, could you tell me? Even if it wasn’t supplied at this pharmacy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In your experience, what’s the split of girls who get it for free and those who pay?’

  ‘It’s twenty-five quid. Under twenty-fives usually find a pharmacy where it’s free, in my experience.’

  ‘Do you have a list of pharmacies on the scheme?’

  ‘I can print one.’

  ‘Perfect. One other thing,’ said Harry, waving the prescription bag at him. ‘Says on the door you do free deliveries here? Could you get this to my kid? I’ve got an urgent case I need to attend to.’

  The pharmacist took it from him and smiled. ‘Sure.’

  While he waited for the list of pharmacies on the scheme, Harry called each of the victims’ boyfriends in turn.

  One by one they confirmed that their girlfriends had all sought the morning-after pill.

  Each girl had insisted on visiting a pharmacy out of town, one which provided it for free.

  Crucially, they’d all visited the same one.

  Harry gripped his hand into a fist.

  He’d found it.

  The clue that linked them all.

  SIXTY-NINE

  HARRY PULLED UP outside Pudsey Midnight Pharmacy, dismayed that the heavy snow which had been threatening all week had finally started to fall.

  The pharmacy was only a couple of miles from where he had met with Ronnie earlier, in a predominantly white area on the border between Leeds and Bradford.

  Inside, one elderly patient was waiting for her prescription. The retail section was small, the usual array of goods. Bang in the centre of the wall behind the counter was a black-and-pink poster highlighting free sexual health services in the pharmacy: chlamydia and pregnancy testing and free morning-after pill for under twenty-fives.

  There was nobody serving at the counter but Harry could see two staff in the back, a girl dressed casually standing next to a professional-looking white guy in his late thirties.

  ‘Can I speak to the pharmacist, please? In a private room,’ Harry asked when the assistant had come out and given the old woman her prescription.

  The girl disappeared into the back and returned with the pharmacist, who was wearing a name badge that said ‘Peter’.

  In the consultation room, Peter explained what Harry already knew about the scheme, but was reluctant to share any paperwork.

  ‘Data-protection laws. You’d need a warrant,’ he said.

  Harry sighed.

  ‘Are you the manager here?’

  Peter nodded. ‘The manager and the owner.’

  ‘Are you aware a major murder and abduction investigation is happening in Bradford, right now?’

  ‘The politician’s daughter?’

  ‘Exactly. I’m working on that case, which is why I need to see your paperwork urgently. I’d love to do this by the book but I don’t have the time to get you a warrant. I need to find Aisha before anything happens to her.’

  Peter didn’t know where to look.

  ‘I already know that she obtained the morning-after pill in this pharmacy, along with four other girls, all of whom are now dead. This is the only thing which links them. That’s weird, Peter. It’s the kind of thing that gets alarm bells ringing.’ Harry left the threat hanging in the air between them. The last thing Peter needed was for his business to suffer at the hands of the media.

  ‘I need to see that paperwork and a list of all your staff. Noticed you’ve got CCTV cameras outside. How far do they go back?’

  ‘A month.’

  ‘I might need that data too but, for now – just the paperwork for these pills.’

  Peter took a second, panic clear on his face, mulling over his options.

  Eventually, he turned around and hunted on the shelf behind him. He took a tired-looking blue box-file off the shelf and handed it to Harry.

  ‘This it?’

  Peter nodded. ‘All emergency contraception paperwork has to be kept together. That’s a record of everyone we’ve given the morning-after pill to since I bought this place.’

  ‘You keep confidential paperwork in here? Where staff have their lunches?’ said Harry pointing to a bin in the corner where the remains of a microwave meal were evident.

  ‘They’re all bound by confidentiality agreements,’ replied Peter defensively.

  ‘So, a girl wants to buy the pill discreetly but it’s not so discreet?’

  ‘It is. I do the consultation and fill out the paperwork.’

  ‘Then who sells it to them?’

  ‘Whoever is on the counter. I have to approve the sale, but they process it.’

  ‘You don’t do it yourself?’

  ‘Sometimes I do.’

  Harry rolled his eyes.

  ‘I’ll need a list of all your staff,’ said Harry again, sitting down and opening
the file.

  Peter left the room, quicker than he’d entered. Harry didn’t allow the door to close, instead holding it open by using a heavy box of what appeared to be pharmacy bags lying on the floor. He didn’t want to miss anything Peter might say to his assistant.

  Harry sat at a small table, opened the file and started leafing through an enormous batch of paperwork which contained the names, addresses, GP details, current medications and allergy status of the women wanting the pill. It didn’t take long for Harry to find a form which listed bee stings.

  It was all here. In this blue box.

  Peter returned with a list of staff employees.

  ‘Can I have some privacy?’ Peter turned to go when Harry spoke again. ‘And a coffee?’

  Nothing.

  None of the victims’ names were on any of the forms in the box.

  ‘Explanation?’ Peter had once again joined Harry in the side room.

  ‘Are you sure they got it here?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Then … I … don’t know. Maybe … the paperwork got misplaced.’

  ‘Are you kidding me? That’s a bit convenient, isn’t it?’

  ‘I always complete the paperwork. I … I … don’t get paid otherwise.’

  ‘So, where is it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Had the killer removed the paperwork?

  Harry grabbed the list of staff names.

  One Asian name.

  Adnan Aziz.

  ‘This guy,’ said Harry, pointing at the name. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘My driver. He delivers prescriptions.’

  ‘How long’s he worked for you?’

  ‘Since the start.’

  ‘Full time?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Does he have his lunch in here?’

  Peter nodded.

  ‘What’s he like, Adnan?’

  ‘Adi’s a good worker; quiet, keeps himself to himself.’

  Adi, the name the killer had given on the radio.

  ‘He been at work today?’ asked Harry.

  ‘No. He’s been off sick all week.’

  Harry’s eyes widened.

  ‘Really? Usual for him?’

  ‘No. First time.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  Peter shrugged. Harry could sense he’d alerted him to the fact Adnan was a person of interest. ‘He’s quiet. Works hard.’

  ‘Get on with everyone?’

  ‘Keeps himself to himself.’

  ‘Anything unusual about him? Extreme views?’

  ‘Like terrorism?’

  ‘Anything that strikes you as odd.’

  ‘No. He … he’s just a regular bloke. He listens to music, he’s into gardening.’

  Harry started to collect the papers he’d looked through.

  ‘I guess there’s one …’

  ‘What?’ Harry asked, alert.

  ‘Well, he has a strange hobby.’

  Harry waited, expectant.

  ‘He keeps wasps as pets.’

  SEVENTY

  EN ROUTE TO Adnan’s address, Harry called Conway. When she didn’t answer, he tried Palmer.

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘We’ve got him!’ said Harry, focusing hard on the road where snow was starting to set. He informed Palmer of what he had discovered.

  ‘Get armed police there, liaise with—’

  ‘Whoa, whoa, Harry, we’re on our way to pick up Gurpal Singh. Got concrete intel where he is. Conway has everyone on it.’

  ‘She’s wrong! Is she there?’

  There was a muffled noise on the phone, then Conway’s voice.

  Harry repeated what he had just told Palmer.

  ‘You need to pull it, Clare. This is our guy. I need armed—’

  ‘Harry, you know that we need Gurpal. We have to make this arrest.’

  ‘Fine,’ snapped Harry, ‘but send me a squad too. I’m telling you, this is our guy. I’m certain.’

  Conway dropped her voice, steely as ever. ‘I cannot pull an operation like this when we’ve been looking for this guy for ninety-six hours, Harry. You know that. If you’re wrong—’

  ‘Goddamn it, Clare, I’m not!’ shouted Harry and slammed his hand on the steering wheel, the car losing traction in the snow.

  ‘Both armed response teams are in Keighley, Harry. Even if I dispatched one to you now, in this weather it would take them easily over an hour. We’re all set to take Gurpal down.’

  ‘Send me my team at least then,’ said Harry. ‘I’m going after this guy, with or without backup.’

  Another muffled noise on the phone, then Palmer’s voice, strained, under duress.

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Leave. She’s got enough men on this.’

  Harry gave Palmer the address.

  ‘How quick can you make it?’

  ‘Shit, I don’t know. In this weather? I’m on my way to you, Conway’s released me. But it’s just me, Harry.’

  Harry gave him the address, told him to get a couple of squad cars there too and hung up the phone.

  Harry parked two hundred yards from Adnan’s home, the snow now blizzard-like. He was on Folkestone Street, off Killinghall Road, a densely populated Asian area of the city. Opposite the house, the grand Madni Jamia mosque’s towering green dome watched over Harry as he exited the car, opened his boot and grabbed his crowbar.

  Harry slipped the crowbar up his sleeve, the curve of the metal U-bend concealed in his palm.

  He paused.

  Don’t do this alone.

  Wait for Palmer.

  Four dead girls.

  Aisha’s life at stake.

  Harry walked towards the house.

  It was an end-of-terrace with a snicket running down the side. Harry went around the back. All the curtains were drawn.

  He lifted the lid on a black council bin and pulled out the one black bag inside. He carried it down the side of the house, tore it open and emptied the contents on to the floor, spoiling the unbroken snow.

  Charred paper. Torn to shreds, only partially burned.

  BT phone bills.

  Only one number, called repeatedly.

  He sifted through usual household shit, a repugnant mix of eggs, onions and takeaway curries, and found a scrunched-up DIY receipt.

  Harry unravelled it.

  Tornado 2-ply 2mm high tensile barbed wire. 200m. £34.99.

  Harry held his breath.

  He put the scrap of paper in his pocket and hurried to the rear of the property. He texted Palmer what he had found, urged him again to get Conway to send reinforcements and informed him he was going in.

  If Aisha Islam was inside, Harry needed to get to her as soon as he could.

  Harry knocked loudly on the rickety wooden door, both panes of glass were cracked.

  He closed his fist around the crowbar.

  Harry kept looking at the windows, looking for any movement.

  He knocked again.

  When there was still no response, he placed his elbow on to the pane and pushed firmly. The glass crumbled. He slipped his hand carefully into the gap and unlocked the door.

  Inside, Harry crept through the ground floor, crowbar now in hand.

  Empty.

  Nothing remarkable.

  Upstairs was the same.

  Three doors, all open.

  Harry cleared the rooms quickly, two bedrooms and a bathroom.

  Nothing sinister.

  He was alone.

  It didn’t look like Adnan had been here for a few days. He had time.

  Harry hurriedly searched both rooms. The first appeared to belong to Adnan’s mother, although it was heavy with dust. She might have died recently. Had that been the catalyst for all this?

  The other bedroom was Adnan’s. Harry turned it upside down. Wardrobes, desk, bed.

  On the inside of the wardrobe door, Harry was shocked to find photos of an Asian wedding. Two empty bride-and-groom thrones.

  A larg
e marquee in a picturesque garden.

  It didn’t look like England.

  Harry plucked a wedding invitation from among the photos.

  Adnan Aziz & …

  The bride’s name had been torn out.

  The rest of the photos showed hundreds of people in and around the marquee.

  The other side of the door had large stencil-drawings of wasps, their larvae, some calm, others frightening. Looking at them, Harry felt afraid. There was so much anger in them, a dormant rage which was clearly now being explored.

  At the back of the wardrobe, Harry found a key attached to a metal fob.

  All. 18. Spare.

  An allotment key.

  Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

  If found, please return to the warden at Lister Mills allotments.

  Harry closed the wardrobe and hurried back downstairs.

  He knew where Aisha Islam was.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  HARRY PARKED HIS car at the allotments. The journey had been frustrating, traffic backed up for miles, accidents in their dozens, the snow causing chaos.

  He glanced at the thickening layer of snow on the ground.

  Harry couldn’t go charging in, he needed to know as much as possible about this guy first.

  He called Palmer but he was still a good forty minutes away, thanks to the gridlock on the roads.

  Harry phoned the duty sergeant at Trafalgar House demanding two squad cars urgently. Between the major operation to apprehend Gurpal Singh and dozens of accidents dotted around the city, resources were stretched. Yet he heard the urgency in Harry’s voice and told him he would get patrols there as a priority.

  For now, Harry waited. He needed backup. He removed the BT bill from his pocket and dialled the only number Adnan seemed to call.

  ‘Golden Age Care Home, how can I help you?’ said a female voice.

  It caught Harry off-guard.

  ‘Hello?’ repeated the voice.

  ‘Hi,’ said Harry, searching for his best opening to get information without policy and procedure weighing him down.

  ‘This is Adnan Aziz calling,’ said Harry, trying his best to imitate how Adnan spoke.

  ‘Mr Aziz,’ said the voice firmly, and clearly exacerbated, ‘as I have told you several times today, your mother is fine. She ate the food you left for her and as usual, we have washed her, given her some milk and she is ready for bed.’

  Whoever was speaking was not a fan of Adnan’s.