Girl Zero

by A. A. Dhand

  He slipped on a tight-fitting hoodie, as snug as a second skin, carefully drawing the hood secure across his face. Then he pulled a larger hoodie over the top, making sure its hood was tight over the first. He put on black combat pants; in each oversized pocket was a mirror, these ones intact. Finally, he walked back into the hallway, pausing outside the door to his cellar.

  He smiled; it wasn’t something he did often and it didn’t suit him. Ali unlocked the first of three padlocks, feeling a surge of blood to his groin. His smile widened, make-up cracking around his lips.

  Arriving at the bottom of the staircase, he turned on the light and looked towards the bed where a girl, his girl, lay peacefully, her back towards him, blonde peroxide curls falling down her shoulders.

  He walked towards her, sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand on her naked body. Feeling its smoothness, Ali became more aroused, grabbing his crotch and slipping his hand inside his pants.

  ‘You’re so beautiful, Gori,’ he whispered. ‘So beautiful.’

  He had renamed her ‘Gori’; it was the Urdu word for ‘white’.

  Ali moved his hand from her body to her hair, feeling its silkiness.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said.

  But she didn’t. She remained perfectly still.

  ‘We’re nearly there, you know. Forty-eight hours from now? She’ll be here.’

  Ali leaned closer to her and ran his lips down her smooth, white body, momentarily allowing his rasping tongue to taste her.

  ‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered, paused, then added, ‘but she’s perfect.’

  He walked to the other side of the room where a black silk scarf was covering a shelf which held a glass jar and an ageing bottle of chloroform. He slid his hand underneath the scarf, feeling the bottom of the hidden jar, and recoiled.

  Not yet.

  Not for another forty-eight hours.

  He lifted an old Walkman from the shelf and slipped on the earphones but didn’t press ‘play’. He heard the faint memory of schoolgirls jeering and remembered them in a circle around his cowering body:

  ‘Ring-a-ring-a-roses, Ali’s face exploded.’

  He walked back to the bed where Gori didn’t resist, allowing him to turn her over and secure her wrists to the rickety metal bed frame. Ali undid his trousers and climbed on top of her, parting her legs, keeping his face to the side of hers so she couldn’t clearly see it.

  He pressed play on his Walkman and in the dim light of the cellar, Ali Kamran descended to the darkest of places, listening to the harrowing cries of a woman screaming.

  THREE

  WAPPING SCHOOL WAS bustling with the sort of activity Harry was accustomed to as a DI, but not as one of the victim’s family members.

  Family? Could he even call himself that any more?

  He hadn’t seen Tara for four years. He remembered her laughing face as he crammed a large piece of cake into her mouth while Ronnie took pictures. Her sixteenth birthday: their last celebration as a family, before Harry’s decision to marry Saima had put him on the outside.

  Now Tara had been murdered on the streets of a city he was supposed to defend. A city Tara’s father was supposed to run.

  From a bench at the edge of the pool, Harry looked on as the area forensic manager liaised with the senior SOCO, their white suits in stark contrast to the surrounding gloom. A photographer was taking dozens of shots. Every time the flash went off, Harry saw Tara’s bloodstained shirt. As he blinked the fluorescence from his eyes, he pictured Ronnie’s face fracturing with an anger Harry knew he would be the one to counter.

  Harry was squeezing his car keys, forcing them to bite into his skin as he watched the team erect a tent over Tara’s body. The old school roof had more gaps than it did tiles and they needed to ensure the crime scene was protected.

  He looked away as a dull anger started to set in.

  That morning, when he’d received the call, he had thought about the family soon to be irretrievably damaged by the news.

  His family. A family he was now a stranger to because he had chosen to marry a Muslim. The last time he’d seen his father, the old man had flown into a violent rage, forcing his mother to intervene. If she hadn’t? Harry closed his eyes and tried to focus on the present.

  He had always envisaged returning one day to open arms. Somehow. Anyhow.

  Now he knew he would be returning to deliver the worst possible news.

  Do your job like you’ve never done it before. For Tara. For them.

  But his job had complications, and one of them was heading his way.

  A slow, hesitant walk. Polished shoes. The hint of heels.

  Smart grey suit. Blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail.

  ‘Harry.’ It was Detective Superintendent Clare Conway.

  ‘Clare,’ replied Harry. Everyone else called her ‘Ma’am’.

  Harry was her best detective, closing more cases than all her other DIs put together.

  He knew she wondered how he did it. They all did.

  The truth was that he and his brother made a formidable team, controlling the streets of Bradford from opposite ends. Ronnie was the only member of Harry’s family who hadn’t disowned him.

  It made for a tense partnership. There were rules. Both of them knew if one burned the other, he would ultimately burn himself.

  How are you going to control Ronnie once this breaks?

  How are you going to control yourself?

  Conway took a seat on the bench next to Harry. They watched the SOCOs carry a body-bag into the tent, Harry clenching his teeth as he imagined them zipping Tara’s body inside.

  ‘Can’t find the words?’ he asked, pushing the image from his mind.

  She put a hand on his arm and turned to face him. ‘This isn’t just another murder case. We’ll get whoever did it.’

  We.

  ‘This is my case,’ said Harry.

  She squeezed his arm a little harder. ‘Harry—’

  ‘I’m not stepping aside.’

  She sighed. Harry had known this would happen. It would be classed as a conflict of interest because the victim was family and Conway couldn’t afford to have his judgement called into question.

  ‘Don’t make this any harder. You know—’

  ‘I know I’m the best detective you’ve got. We both know that. Nothing’s changed because it’s Tara under that tent.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t assign this away from you.’

  ‘And I won’t sleep at night until I get the bastard. Whether you like it or not, I’m working it.’

  She removed her hand from his arm and they were momentarily blinded by a flash from the forensic photographer’s camera. ‘I’m giving it to Palmer,’ she said, paused, then added, ‘officially.’

  Harry didn’t reply. It was as good as a nod.

  Palmer worshipped the ground Harry walked on, he wouldn’t be a nuisance.

  ‘I’ll tell him to keep you updated,’ she said, and stood up. Harry grabbed her arm.

  ‘One thing.’

  She turned to face him.

  Harry got to his feet, towering above her. ‘My family. Let me.’

  She fixed him with intense blue eyes.

  ‘Absolutely not. Not even the great Hardeep Virdee is immune from that kind of hurt.’

  ‘I know.’ Harry folded his arms across his chest. ‘But he’s my brother. Nobody knows better than I do how to handle this.’

  ‘Are you two close?’

  The answer was far from simple. He and Ronnie were dangerously close, now more out of necessity than anything else. Harry knew that if his brother’s underground activities were exposed, it would destroy what remained of his family.

  ‘Close enough that I want to do this,’ said Harry.

  Conway hesitated. ‘I’m sending someone with you.’

  ‘I don’t need—’

  ‘I wasn’t asking. Look, do you want to take some compassionate leave?’

  ‘Yes,
’ said Harry, already starting to formulate his own investigation in his mind. Once he broke the news to Ronnie, his only hope would be to get to the killer first, before the whole thing exploded. ‘I’ll need to help with … arrangements.’

  ‘Don’t make life difficult for Palmer. He’s a good guy. Give him space. I don’t want to have to make this harder for you than it already is.’ It was a warning that she’d be putting protocol first if push came to shove.

  ‘Give me a week?’ said Harry.

  She nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Harry. Truly I am.’

  Harry left the crime scene in the early evening, after a long day overseeing the removal of Tara’s body and ensuring that DI Palmer followed protocol to the last detail. He was en route to Ronnie’s house in Thornton, a predominantly white middle-class village in Bradford West, isolated from the rest of the city by countryside. It was a different world out in the suburbs.

  Harry turned into a winding gravel driveway but came to a halt ten metres short of Ronnie’s Range Rover. Parked beside it was a Volvo Estate with a distinctive licence plate: R4 NJT.

  Ranjit: Harry’s father.

  His parents had sold their corner shop a few months earlier and Ronnie had bought an enormous house so they could move in with him and his family. As the eldest child, it was expected of him, and he’d shouldered the cultural responsibility equably.

  There were candles burning in every window and multicoloured lights hanging from the roof.

  Diwali; the Indian festival of light.

  A time for family celebrations.

  A time when good overcomes evil.

  Harry thought about his own home where his wife and son would be waiting for him to light their candles and open Diwali presents together.

  He rubbed his hand across his temple, relieved he had ditched the family liaison officer Conway had appointed. This was a private affair.

  The last thing he wanted was to see his father.

  Or his mother. Harry didn’t have the strength for that right now.

  He gripped the steering wheel, resolve hardening his jawline. He had to go inside; it was the only way to ensure Ronnie wouldn’t do anything stupid.

  Like burn the damn city down.

  There was a distinct possibility this was linked to Ronnie’s business. But Harry was the only one in the family who knew that. Even Ronnie’s wife, Mundeep, had no idea what he really did. Like everyone else, she thought he was a businessman; the boss of sixteen corner shops and a cash-and-carry.

  Harry put the car in gear and crawled forward into the space beside the Volvo. Security lights flooded the area. No going back now.

  He checked his mobile: five missed calls from Saima and a text showing a red, unhappy emoji.

  Harry ignored it. He’d tell her everything when he got home.

  God, he longed to hear her voice.

  He got out of the car and leaned against it, staring at the front door. He had never been inside; Mundeep wouldn’t allow it. Even though Harry and Mundeep – or Mandy, as he called her – had been close when they were younger, his decision to marry Saima had put an end to that instantly.

  Harry now represented a dangerous message for her children; marrying a Muslim was acceptable. No responsible Sikh parent could afford to raise their children to believe that. On that score, Mandy was of the same opinion as Harry’s father.

  Looking up at the imposing farmhouse, it was as if the place was alive, breathing hostility.

  He had done this so many times, broken the news, shown compassion, quietly speaking words no parent should ever have to hear. Keeping still and in control when everything around him fractured.

  It was never easy, but tonight would pain both sides.

  The only thing he could do was to show them that he too was hurting. That he wouldn’t stop until they had justice. That this wasn’t just ‘the job’.

  Harry turned back towards his car, afraid he would be tarnished with delivering toxic news every time he saw his family. Dad, I’ve fallen in love with a Muslim girl and we’re getting married.

  Mundeep, your daughter has been murdered.

  He opened his car door, reached inside, and withdrew a plastic bottle, his hand shaking as he removed the top.

  You’re here to show them you won’t sleep until the bastard is behind bars.

  He took a mouthful of icy water.

  You’re here because you want to feel like you’re their family again. Even if it is like this.

  Harry took a deep breath, steadied himself, and marched towards the front door.

  FOUR

  HARRY STARED AT his feet, waiting for the front door to open, candles flickering in the windows either side of the entrance.

  In spite of the bitter cold, sweat was trickling down his neck.

  Twenty years ago, an officer did this for somebody you murdered.

  Now it’s come full circle and cost you one of your own.

  He heard footsteps behind the door and a light came on in the hallway.

  A glimpse of a face through the side-panel: greying hair, familiar glasses.

  Harry’s heart raced. He turned his face away and held up his badge.

  ‘Police. CID,’ he said, attempting to mask his voice.

  A pause.

  Hesitation before the door was opened.

  For the briefest of moments, Harry forgot why he was here. Instead he remembered how, as a teenager, he’d come home late and try to slip inside without alerting his father, always helped by the woman now standing in front of him.

  Harry’s mother, Joyti, stared at him in disbelief. She spoke softly in Punjabi, almost a whisper. ‘If I am dreaming, I hope never to wake up. If I am awake, this must be a nightmare because,’ she said, shaking her head, eyes welling up, ‘you cannot be here.’

  Reflexively, Harry stooped and touched her feet; a sign of respect, something he had done throughout his childhood and continued to do now at his own home with an old pair of his mother’s slippers; the last thing she had given him before he left.

  Joyti instinctively acknowledged the gesture, touching his head gently before grabbing his shoulders, pulling him upright and embracing him, kissing Harry wherever she could.

  Harry wrapped his arms around her slight body and inhaled the scent of her hair – the nostalgic fragrance of coconut oil – before glancing nervously down the hallway where dozens of tea-lights glowed a Diwali warmth.

  He could smell the sweet aroma of halva, the traditional Indian semolina dessert made for special occasions. It brought him back to reality.

  Today was not a special occasion.

  Harry placed his hands on his mother’s shoulders.

  ‘Ma—’

  Before he could say more, she gestured for him to stop and glanced nervously over her shoulder.

  ‘Go,’ she whispered, wiping tears from her face. ‘Please, go.’

  ‘I’m not here as your son,’ he replied. ‘I’m here to see Ronnie.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, concerned.

  ‘Ma, please. Get Ronnie. I need to speak to him.’

  She kept her hands on his chest, unwilling to let go of a son she hadn’t seen for four years.

  Harry could tell it hadn’t become easier.

  Ronnie appeared suddenly in the hallway, dressed in a red sherwani, decorated with hundreds of sparkling sequins for the occasion. He stared disbelievingly at Harry, then he too glanced edgily down the hall for their father.

  Harry stepped past his mother into the hallway.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ hissed Ronnie, storming towards Harry and gripping him hard. ‘What’s got into you?’

  Ronnie was trying to push Harry back towards the front door, but he stood firm.

  ‘I’m here on duty, Ronnie. I need you and Mandy to give me a few minutes.’ Harry’s tone made Ronnie back off.

  ‘Where are the twins?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Upstairs,’ replied Ronnie.

  ‘Keep them there.’

  ‘Beta.’ Ha
rry heard his mother’s voice behind him. The word meant ‘son’ in Punjabi. He hadn’t heard it for years and turned his face to the side. ‘Ma, please. I need you to give us five minutes.’

  Harry’s father, Ranjit, strode across the end of the hallway, his bright orange turban and sparkling regal sherwani catching Harry’s attention. The men locked eyes. As the smile on Ranjit’s face faded, his hands balled into fists until the knuckles cracked.

  Harry dropped his eyes to the floor.

  ‘This morning, when I woke up, it was a good day. If I had known I would have to suffer seeing your face, in this house, on this day, I would have wished my own death.’ His father’s words cut as sharply as ever, like knives finding their target.

  Harry exhaled slowly, keeping his eyes on the floor, his voice reduced to no more than a whisper. ‘Ronnie. We need some privacy. Call Mandy.’

  Ranjit marched towards them. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ he snapped, and swore a terrible curse in Punjabi upon Harry’s marriage. It may have been Diwali, the night to make new wishes for the coming year, but for the Virdee family it simply meant carrying forward a familiar hurt.

  Harry’s mother stepped in front of Ranjit, putting herself between him and Harry with the resilience of a woman who had weathered this storm before.

  ‘Not now,’ she pleaded with her husband. ‘Whatever it is, not today. I don’t want to go back there. I cannot.’

  Visions of the past. Harry’s father lashing out with his fists after he had told him he was marrying Saima and finally drawing his kirpan, the sacred sword carried by devout Sikhs, and charging at Harry. He would have killed him if Joyti hadn’t put herself in the way.

  Harry couldn’t look at his father. Not because he was afraid or ashamed, but because he wasn’t; that would be the ultimate red flag to the raging bull. So he turned his back on him.

  Behind him, Harry heard his mother cry out in alarm. As Ranjit went to move past her, Ronnie stepped forward.

  ‘Not today,’ said Ronnie to his father sternly. ‘Not today. I’ll deal with this, Dad. Turn around and walk away.’

  Ranjit didn’t move.