by Bo Brennan
Priti stared up at her defiantly. “I don’t know.”
Bearing down on her, India clenched her jaw. “You must know. Everywhere you go, he’s trying to kill you! Did your sister know him? Did she grass him up as a member of the network?”
Priti turned her face away, huddling into Gray.
Gray frowned. “What network?”
“There’s some shady group of slime balls who search out perceived traitors of Islam. Dishonourable women and the like.” India slumped down on the sofa, her quest to hear birdsong lost. “Apparently they’re everywhere. Feeding information back to . . . whoever.”
“The cabbie.” Gray shook his head. “I knew it,” he gritted out. “The only reason we’re safe here is because Terri brought us.”
India sat up straight. “The cabbie from the hospital?”
“Yeah. I was the only one following him. He was on his phone when he left the Royal South Hants, and again when he left Headbourne Worthy.” Gray turned to Priti. “I thought you’d asked him to wait at the church.”
“I did,” she murmured. “I was going to get the priest to pay.”
“Oh, he paid all right,” India snapped.
Gray glared at her. “This network didn’t kill the priest. Your lot did.”
India leaned forward as Priti dropped her head, anxiously chewing at her nails. “You knew about the network, didn’t you? That’s why your wages went into your sister’s bank account. You even hid among the immigrant workers at that hovel Cantilever Court, because you knew they’d find you if you gave your own details for work.”
Gray frowned. “But they’d have to infiltrate the Inland Revenue to access that sort of information.”
India stared at him. “Or the police.”
They both shifted their gaze back to Priti. “They have,” she whispered. “They’re everywhere.”
India slumped against the cushions, her mind reeling through events as reality set in. Nowhere to turn, no way out, no one to trust. They were on their own. Sitting here like scabs waiting to be picked. Grasping for a lifeline, she cleared her throat. “Gray, could you give us a minute, please? I need to discuss something of a personal nature with Priti.”
Priti’s plaster cast crossed his lap, anchoring him in his seat. “He stays.”
“Fine. Are you a ‘cut’ woman? Have your genitals been mutilated?”
Priti gasped, her plaster cast swiftly returned to her own lap as Gray turned cherry red. India gave him the nod to leave and he did without question. “Where was it done,” India ventured. “Pakistan?”
Priti swallowed hard. “Peckham.”
“Peckham.” India drew a breath, fighting to keep the horror from her voice. “As in Peckham, London?”
Priti kept her eyes on the floor, her nod almost imperceptible. “I was eleven. My mother took me during school half term. My period started the following week, I thought I was bleeding to death.”
India wet her lips, sensing a route in. “You do know you can have it reversed, like Shareen did.”
“An aberration,” Priti muttered. “Against God’s will.”
“Is that what he said, the man she was sleeping with? Is he Malik?”
Priti’s jaw tightened.
So did India’s stomach, she’d called it all wrong. “Why are you protecting him?” she said. “Whoever her lover was, he wasn’t a stand-up guy, Priti. Didn’t come forward when she was killed. Didn’t fight for her. Which makes me wonder if he killed her.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I know your sister had the deinfibulation surgery done when she came to see you at your graduation six months ago. You were happy then. What did she tell you that made you run for your life? Did she tell you who killed Becky Adams? Was it Malik? Is that why you fled?”
Priti remained silent.
“Help me help you,” India pressed. “If you talk to me, I can get you police protection and give you back your life.”
“She doesn’t want to talk.” Gray emerged from the bedroom and stood behind Priti, hands resting protectively on her shoulders. “And she doesn’t want police protection. All she wants is an escape plan, India. You’ve got contacts, you must know how to get false documents.” He squeezed Priti’s shoulder and she smiled up at him. “For both of us,” he added, smiling back.
Chapter 61
The Paedophile Unit, New Scotland Yard, London
Michael Moore looked like he’d gone ten rounds in the ring with Tyson when he dropped into Colt’s office chair, still wearing his robes. “We’re on,” the frazzled Crown Prosecutor said. “Grooming trial restarts a week Monday.”
Colt’s bated breath left on a ragged sigh of relief. “Thank fuck for that.”
“Wasn’t easy,” Michael said, tugging off his wig to scratch his sweaty scalp. “Next on-street grooming gang we’ll try in small batches. Fronting ten headline-hungry defence barristers is akin to facing a firing squad. It was like an all-out military assault in chambers. They tried all the ammo in their arsenal to get the case struck out, even brought a projector and fired up the Primetime Issues’ mosque footage, citing illegal service of documents.”
“We mailed them too,” Colt said, cracking his knuckles. “Court appointed addresses and all other known abodes.” One hundred and ninety-two notices they’d sent in total. All recorded delivery. All returned unsigned for.
Michael Moore winced. “The mosque missile went in our favour. Judge had had enough by then. Turned the Primetime machine gun around and let rip. Said the footage proved beyond doubt the defendants had received the required paperwork.”
Colt’s gaze diverted out to the main unit when Maggie moved to let Doug Henderson in. “Michael, do the name’s Shareen and Priti Patel mean anything to you?”
The Crown Prosecutor shook his head. “Should they?”
“I don’t know,” Colt admitted. “Are you aware of any hidden or protected witnesses involved in this case?”
Michael puffed his cheeks. “I just get what I’m given. This is your case, Colt. If you didn’t give it, I didn’t get it.”
“I didn’t give you Kylie Jones to put on the stand, Michael, but you did it anyway.”
With a sigh, Michael stood up. “I succumbed to pressure. It won’t happen again.”
“Glad to hear it,” Colt said, walking him to the door. “Because either they go down or we do, there’s no in-between. If you lose this case, the Home Office will use it as an excuse to fold the unit and centralise operations.”
“And you won’t work for the Home Secretary,” Michael said flatly. “You’ll only work for the victims.”
“And you’ll be prosecuting shoplifters for the rest of your life.” Colt opened the door and patted the prosecutor’s shoulder. “No pressure.”
“Pressure’s his middle name,” Doug chirped from his perch on the end of Maggie’s desk. “How’d the judicial junket go this morning, you get a result or what?”
“Trial restarts a week Monday.” The prosecutor grimaced as the unit took in the good news, congratulations flying.
The stakes never higher, Colt ushered him through the security door with jubilation in his ears and anxiety in his guts. “Go give the commander the good news. We’ll go over the finer details next week.”
“Keep it brief, Mickey,” Doug said, tapping his watch. “Commander Hussein and yours truly are off to the mosque to partake in a spot of public prayers shortly.”
Colt frowned as he locked the door. “Not the mosque.”
“Uh-huh. No such thing as a burnt bridge when it comes to community relations.” Doug rolled his eyes and lifted a booted foot. “Just in case our fan club turns up again. No laces. No messing.”
And no doubt locked and loaded, Colt thought. “He’s like a shitty stick that just keeps poking,” he murmured.
Behind him, Clorindar cleared her throat. “On the subject of mosques, sir,” she said. “I took the liberty of talking to an imam from Southampton last night.
His mosque supports various community projects and outreach programmes. He’d like to meet with you to discuss the possibility of funding counselling services for the girls.”
Colt gave her a weary smile when she handed him a pile of leaflets. “I appreciate the effort, Clorindar, I really do, but I’m not interested in giving anybody else the opportunity to ride the religion gravy train. If he wants soundbites, he can get them elsewhere. It’s support services for Councillor Cooper’s victims we need.”
“It’s funding for Councillor Cooper’s victims he wants to discuss, sir.”
“Blimey, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Doug said, taking a leaflet from Colt’s hand. “If the Muslims want to mop up the fascist’s mess, let ‘em. You’ll get to breach the divide and grab some good headlines for a change.”
“There won’t be any headlines,” Clorindar hastened. “The imam requires a private arrangement with the DCI. Strictly no publicity. And no strings,” she added when Colt raised a brow.
Maggie tapped her keyboard, checking his online diary. “You’ve got a window free Monday morning, guv.”
“Keep it free,” Colt said. “I’ve got personal business to attend to.”
“What kind of business?” Maggie said.
Colt frowned. “The personal kind.”
Maggie’s cheeks flushed. “I wasn’t prying, I meant our end or yours. Southampton isn’t far from where you live. Thought if your PB was your end, we could do a workaround, squeeze the mosque meeting in.”
Colt tutted as his phone rang in his pocket. When he pulled it out, India flashed on the screen. “I’m interested,” he said to Clorindar, backing into his office. “We’ll definitely do it Monday. I’ll let you know what time over the weekend.”
He closed the door as he took India’s call, hoping she’d had a change of heart and was ready to turn their houseguests over to witness protection.
“You said you’d do anything I want,” she said. “Did you mean it?”
Colt watched Doug through the window, knowing he could save him from the imminent mosque massacre with just one word. “Yes.”
India’s sigh filled the line, like she’d been holding her breath for hours. “Okay. I need you to do two things for me.”
Please let those two things be Gray and Priti, moving into protection. “Whatever you need, babe. Just say the word and it’s done.” Colt’s fingers curled around his office door handle as Doug Henderson readied to leave.
“Get home early and get Gray laid,” she said.
Chapter 62
Park Gate, Hampshire
Colt dropped the holdall at her feet. “You sure about this? Once these wheels start turning, they’re not going to stop.”
India tutted. “Make your mind up. This morning you wanted them gone.”
“Safe, India. I want them safe.” Colt grabbed her shoulders as she reached for the holdall he’d brought home from Gray’s house. “Above all else, I want you to be sure.”
Exasperated, she flopped down on his sofa. “We discussed this. You said you’d do it.”
Colt crouched in front of her. “Babe, I’m here, I’m doing it. But he’s not going to like it. Can you live with that?”
India chewed at the inside of her cheek. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. “I’ll have to. I can’t live without him.”
Colt nodded in quiet understanding, kissed her forehead, and said, “All right. I’ll grab a shower. Set the wheels in motion.”
Gray opened the door before they’d even reached the deck, his eyes anxiously scanning Colt’s over India’s head. “You’re home early.”
“It’s POETS day,” Colt said, ducking inside, holdall in hand.
Priti’s face lit up. “As in Byron and Keats?”
“As in Piss Off Early Tomorrow’s Saturday,” India said, snuffing the light from her eyes. “Got something for you.” She held out the gift, tilting her head when Priti shied away. “Go on, take it. I don’t bite.”
Colt’s lips twisted into a wry smile. That wasn’t strictly true.
Priti tentatively took the flat, slim box and looked to Gray for help as she struggled to open it. Obliging as ever, he took off the lid and folded back the tissue paper, eliciting a small gasp of delight from the recipient. “I don’t know what to say,” Priti said, lifting tear-filled eyes to India.
India shrugged. “Not exactly poetry, but thought you might like it.”
“Oh, I do. I love it.” Priti clutched the copy of the graduation picture, now displayed in a beautifully crafted pewter frame, to her chest. “From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.”
Gray glanced curiously at India. “Is that –”
“Yeah it is,” India said. “Colt dropped by your place and picked you up some bits. You look like crap. Go get yourself cleaned up.”
Colt held out the holdall, a crucial cog in India’s well-oiled machine.
Gray frowned as he rummaged through the contents. “Nothing casual? No sweats or jeans?”
“Sorry, mate. Force of habit.” Colt grimaced apologetically and turned to Priti. “Bet you’ve never seen him looking smart.”
She coyly shook her head.
“Now’s your chance,” India said. “Go on, off you trot.” She impatiently ushered Gray and the holdall towards the bathroom. “Your shaving kit’s in there. Don’t come back looking like Jesus.”
As soon as he was gone, India checked her watch and looked at Colt.
He gave her a reassuring smile. Her brother might be a tart when getting ready for a big night out, but as far as Gray was concerned this was a standard night in. He was completely unaware they were leaving in ten minutes . . . and he wouldn’t want India alone with Priti for one second longer than necessary.
Priti stayed silent, staring at the picture. Colt thought the frame was a nice touch, India had been very specific about its inclusion. “It’s a lovely memento,” he said, opting for small talk to fill the dwindling minutes while India opted for arms.
Priti glanced uneasily over her shoulder at the sound of the gun cabinet being unlocked. “Thanks,” she murmured, eyes following India and the shotgun into the kitchen.
Colt’s eyes followed too. This wasn’t part of the plan.
She took a box of cartridges from the kitchen drawer and meticulously lined them up on the counter. Colt’s attention shifted as vertical shadows flickered across the kitchen, temporarily placing India behind bars. He moved to the window as the approaching vehicle emerged from the tree-lined track to wash the water and houseboats with its headlights.
Gray emerged from the bathroom at exactly the same time. Looking good and smelling fine, fancy shoes carried him swiftly to Colt’s side. “Shit. We’ve got company. Now what?”
Behind them, the shotgun snapped shut. “Now you’re having a boys’ night out, and we’re having a girls’ night in.”
In a state of shock, Gray stared at India. “You called a cab?”
“I called in a favour. Colt will fill you in on the way.”
“What about the network?”
“Unless you’re planning on wearing your crash helmet out, who’s going to recognise you?”
Gray turned to Colt, desperation in his eyes. “You can’t be going along with this. Tell her,” he pleaded. “It’s not safe.”
No one had ever been able to tell India anything, something Gray knew only too well. Her mind made up, she was beyond reasoning. Besides, Colt had already tried. “Priti will be fine, Gray. Nothing’s going to happen to her. No one even knows she’s here. And India’s got her party piece out,” he said, giving her a look that conveyed exactly how unnecessary he felt that currently was.
India’s lips curled as she raised the shotgun. “Course, if anything does happen, you’ll have it all on camera,” she said, running her eye down the barrels as she took aim at Colt. “Get in the cab, boys.”
Chapter 63
Wildcatz, Gunwharf Quays, Portsmouth
Colt didn’t like th
e layout, too many dark corners hiding unknowns. And he didn’t like the music, it made a man’s body throb in places sense didn’t reach. He gestured to a semi-circular leather set-up, where the view was good and the threat from behind limited. A scantily clad busty hostess guided them to the seats, overpriced drinks menu in hand.
After a cursory glance, Colt beckoned her close, whispered what he wanted in her ear, and tucked two hundred notes in her cleavage.
With a seductive smile, she was gone.
Gray watched her leave. “I’ve never been in a lap dancing club before.”
“You’ve never lived,” Colt said. “Keep your wits about you, in a minute everyone in here will know big spenders are in.” Including loitering lowlifes. What cash the dancers didn’t relieve them of, the opportunists would. They’d wait until they left, shitfaced and satiated, then smack them around the back of the head and gleefully rob the rest.
It happened. It had happened to Colt.
Gray watched the hostess return too. More cleavage, more lip gloss. Even the red light couldn’t hide his blush. “Christ, I don’t know where to look,” he mumbled.
Let the games begin, Colt thought, spreading his arms across the back of the seats as the alluring hostess made an offer only a madman would refuse. “Would you like me to pop your cork, sir?”
“Maybe later,” he said, after considerable thought and considerably more leering. “The night’s still young.”
With a heated glint in her eye, and pouty, parted lips, she bowed out gracefully, certain they were on.
Gray lifted the bottle from the ice bucket. “Champagne?”