by A. A. Dhand
If she’d moved on, the only way to get information about her would be by knocking on the neighbours’ doors. That meant Harry had a problem: he wanted to keep this quiet, but that wasn’t going to be possible at Thorpe Edge.
In some parts of Bradford, seeing a white face was the exception rather than the norm. Thorpe Edge was the opposite. The area boasted the only BNP councillor in England. Even Asian taxi drivers wouldn’t go there. Harry would be spotted immediately and the enforcers on the estate who ensured unwelcome visitors didn’t leave with their bones intact would come for him, detective or not.
Thorpe Edge was a no-go.
Harry turned the lamp back on and stared at the map of Bradford. He grabbed some pins from his desk and put one at each location his DC had provided for the four women on the list.
They were all in Bradford West except Lexi Goodwin. Her pin stood alone.
Even Ronnie didn’t have a foothold at Thorpe Edge.
Which was too bad, because it seemed to be Harry’s only option.
FIFTEEN
THORPE EDGE ESTATE was a lawless place.
Residents were mostly unemployed and all three local schools were under Ofsted improvement measures. Recent plans for redevelopment of the tower blocks had been fiercely contested by their occupants. The message came through loud and clear: Thorpe Edge wanted leaving well alone.
Harry had decided against his suit, opting instead for jeans and a hooded top.
He drove in from the south side, the towers rising steeply ahead of him, a hostile and intimidating view – four of them, forming a square, separated by a patchy area of grass.
Crime and drug use here were so ingrained that, short of demolishing the towers, there was little to be done. Government assistance in the city was weighted towards the Asian areas, where it was felt integration should be a priority.
Not Thorpe Edge.
Harry parked his car outside Gerard House. Two years ago, he’d come here to head up a morning drug raid which had gone disastrously wrong. Not quite a full-scale riot, but near enough. It didn’t bring the warmest of memories.
For a few minutes, he sat in the car, mobile in hand, toying with the idea of sending Ronnie a message, deciding against it.
He peered up at the towers but still didn’t get out.
What is it you always drum into your officers about this estate?
Never go in there alone.
He had to fight the voice of reason, stronger since Aaron had been born. Nightfall was the risk – the camouflage of darkness released youths who acted like wild dogs, protecting their turf. Midday was surely the perfect time to go unnoticed.
He put his watch and wedding ring in the glove compartment, double-checked that he had locked the car, then walked briskly towards Gerard House. He passed cars with flat tyres, two bicycles with no wheels, and a vandalized waste-collection area, its door hanging by a solitary hinge. There were dozens of uncollected black bin-bags on the floor; the smell of decay nauseating.
A few metres from the entrance, Harry heard the first whistle.
He quickened his pace, stepping into a walkway smelling of urine.
More whistling. Louder.
There was no lighting, but he could see a staircase at the end. He bounded up the stairs two at a time, keeping to the sides where the darkness felt protective.
When he reached the fifth floor, the smell of marijuana and alcohol was overwhelming. There were empty cans of Skol Super, cigarette butts, and Harry spied at least one discarded syringe.
For now, he was alone. He marched to the end of the balcony, where it split left and right, then hesitated. Curtains were twitching, whistles bouncing around the towers with increasing frequency.
It was his BMW – a strange car attracting attention.
He should have parked it out of sight, but he’d wanted a fast exit strategy.
Don’t take the tyres, you bastards.
Harry veered right, triggering a security light that illuminated the darkness – not ideal. He stopped in front of number fifty-two. There was a small window to the left, glass cracked, curtains drawn.
Harry rapped lightly on the door. He waited impatiently.
He knocked again.
Nothing.
He looked through the letter box, assaulted by the smell of cigarette smoke, and saw nothing but darkness.
This time he hammered on the door, making it rattle on its hinges.
Still nothing.
Harry pressed his elbow to the cracked pane of glass and pushed, forcing it to crumble away.
His gloved hand just fitted through the hole. Harry felt for the latch, and after a couple of failed attempts, unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Abandoned.
Cupboards were open, empty. A pile of mail on the floor. He picked up a brown envelope with a Bradford City Council logo; it was addressed to Lexi Goodwin. Harry opened it. The letter was confirmation that, following her recent notification of an impending move, her housing benefit would be stopped in three days’ time.
Harry quickly checked the rest of the flat.
Lexi had taken any personal items she possessed – clothes, jewellery, photos – but it looked as though all the furniture had been left behind.
The second smaller bedroom was plastered with posters of cartoon characters and Disney princesses.
Olivia’s room?
In the kitchen, four black bags were leaking. He emptied them one at a time across the floor, sifting through the contents with his feet.
Schoolbooks, children’s magazines and a girl’s school uniform. He picked up a crumpled piece of paper filled with the awkward writing of a young child.
… when we gets to londen, uncle billy says we was goin to a big house with a big gardan and I cud get a dog. He says Mum will get better and we will get icecream …
Harry put the note in his pocket.
Billy.
One of the names in Tara’s diary.
He was starting to get nervous about Lexi and Olivia’s move.
Why do girls go missing in Bradford?
Harry took a final sweep of the apartment and left with more urgency than he had arrived.
Outside, the corridor was empty but Thorpe Edge was still whistling.
Harry knocked on the doors of the flats either side, but no one answered.
Somebody must have seen them leaving.
He tried several more flats. He could hear the sound of a television in one, but nobody came to the door.
The noise of the whistles was intensifying; eyes on the stranger on level five. Harry heard shouting and yelling from the courtyard. The pack were gathering for the hunt.
You’re pushing your luck.
The sudden appearance of an elderly man at the window next to him made Harry step back. Wrinkles. Silver hair. Thick black glasses. Harry put his hand in his pocket, removed his police identification, and held it against the glass, tapping on the door urgently.
Had it been a younger man, Harry wouldn’t have revealed his position, but the old-timer was less likely to be a problem.
‘Come on, come on, old man,’ hissed Harry as the pensioner stared at his ID. The towers were closing in, he could hear kids racing up the stairs, yelling ethnic slurs.
He was starting to run out of options.
The old man disappeared from the window and, with him, so did Harry’s chances.
‘Shit,’ he muttered, grabbing the door handle and turning it, but it was locked.
Harry retreated back to Lexi’s flat, entering hurriedly and rushing through it.
The abusive threats grew louder as the voices reached level five.
Harry opened the back door and peered along an abandoned rear corridor. He stepped out. Below, kids were running wildly into the tower. They were children really, but here, kids were more dangerous than adults. They knew the law could only go so far in punishing minors. These bastards knew their rights better than Harry.
To his left, three
doors down, the elderly man stepped out of his back door and waved him into his flat.
‘Shhh,’ he whispered, once they were both inside.
Harry froze, the voices were loud outside. The old man was glaring at Harry. Nothing friendly about it.
The tiny hallway was dimly lit with dark floral wallpaper and dull yellow blinds. It was claustrophobic, neither Harry nor the old man moved. Finally, the kids dispersed, their hunt moving further up the tower block. Harry was beckoned into the living room.
Dread hit Harry full in the gut. A St George’s flag hung large on one wall and on the other – he’d never seen anything like it. The wall was an enormous map of Bradford. Areas were shaded in red, green and yellow. Harry stepped closer.
There were articles from the Telegraph and Argus pinned to the peripheries of the map. One in particular caught his attention: a petition to stop the pubs in Bradford being converted into Islamic religious centres.
‘You stupid?’ the old man finally spoke.
Harry nodded. ‘Trying to change.’
‘Funny man? That what you are?’
Harry put his hands up passively. ‘Look, thanks—’
‘Shut up.’ The old man shook his head. ‘I phoned the police – checked you were real. Otherwise?’ He nodded outside to where the boys had been. ‘Never thought they’d send a coloured fella about my complaints.’
‘Complaints?’ Harry ignored the word ‘coloured’. The old fool had probably used it for half a century, wasn’t his fault it was no longer acceptable.
‘Complaints about coloureds dealing those damn drugs on my floor. The bottom three floors – that’s where it’s bad. But up here on the fifth? This is the best floor in Thorpe Edge. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it get like them below.’
‘Absolutely,’ Harry wasn’t sure what else to say.
‘You’re not here about my complaints, are you? I’ve lodged one every week for the past three months, but nobody’s bothered visiting me. You’re here about the Goodwin girl. Seen you go in there. You broke the glass.’
Harry nodded. ‘I’m looking for her. What do you know about it?’
‘More than you, by the looks of it. What do you know?’
Harry backed off a step. The old man had made his way into Harry’s personal space. He could smell his breath, stale tea. ‘Can we start over? As you know, I’m Detective Inspector Virdee. You?’
‘Wilson. Alfred Wilson.’
‘Alfred—’
‘Mr Wilson,’ he snapped. ‘Can’t say I take too kindly to casualness in your job.’
‘Sorry, Mr Wilson, why don’t you tell me about your complaints?’
Thorpe Edge, it seemed, had become the site of a turf war and was no longer the white-only area Harry had always known it to be. Asians were now brazenly walking around the estate, clashing with the local hooligans.
Wilson told him there had been frequent late-night visitors to Lexi’s house. The turf wars were her fault; she was a dirty whore, mixing with ‘all sorts’ and inviting the ethnics in.
‘You’re not going to write any of this down? I don’t want that tramp moving back here. This is the fifth floor.’
Harry assured him she wouldn’t be returning.
‘They moved out a few days ago, right?’ Harry’s attention was split between the old man and the steady racket outside in the courtyard.
‘Friday,’ replied Wilson, taking a seat without extending the courtesy of inviting Harry to do the same.
There was another tirade of insults about Lexi before Harry could get a word in.
‘Can you tell me anything else? What time they left? Who they were with?’
For the first time, the old man smiled, smug in his chair. ‘I can tell you everything.’ He moved a pair of binoculars from the armrest and pulled a notebook from the side of the couch. ‘Most folk don’t bother about what happens in these towers, but I’m not one of them. I keep notes about everything.’
‘Mind if I have a look?’
‘Damn right I do,’ snapped Wilson. ‘These notes are mine – I’ve got more in here than what that little tramp was up to.’
Harry nodded. ‘It’s people like you who really look after the community, Mr Wilson.’ He cringed at his own bullshit.
The old man didn’t reply but Harry could see him swelling with pride.
‘Friday …’ Wilson was leafing through the pages.
‘Thank you,’ Harry said. ‘I want to make sure I find her so, firstly, she doesn’t end up back here, and secondly,’ Harry raised his hand when Wilson looked up alarmed at the prospect, ‘to make sure she answers for all the disturbances you’ve reported.’
The old man went back to his book.
‘How detailed are your notes?’ Harry fought the urge to snatch the notepad and run. He needed to get out of here. ‘Can you describe who she left with?’
‘I can do better than that,’ replied Wilson, and grabbed a pen from the side of the pad. He slid it down the page, then looked at Harry arrogantly. ‘I can give you the make and model of the car she got into.’
SIXTEEN
HARRY LEFT WILSON’S apartment via the back door, stepping quickly into shadow, relieved the rear corridors were deserted. The wild shrieks of earlier had dissipated to a low hum of activity.
On the ground floor, gangster-rap music sounded like a prelude to anarchy. Harry kept his head down, hood pulled up, and hurried past a group of teenagers smoking marijuana by the exit.
He almost got away with it. Four teenagers were hanging around his car, one of them sitting cross-legged on the bonnet, smoking a roll-up.
‘Get off,’ said Harry, removing his hoodie.
Three of them shuffled back awkwardly.
‘What ya sellin’?’ the one on the bonnet asked Harry. He hadn’t moved.
Harry considered his position. At least two of them would scarper if it kicked off; they were already backing away, hands in pockets.
‘Night in jail,’ said Harry.
One of the nervier lads whispered to his mate to leave it alone. ‘He’s a cop, Craig.’
‘I know the pigs. Fink I’m stupid? You ain’t the first Paki I’ve run out of here.’
‘Craig, is it?’
Craig clapped sarcastically. ‘Pick up the language quick.’
Harry pushed his sleeves up, took his gloves off. ‘Guess if I showed you my badge, it wouldn’t make a difference.’
‘What ya sellin’?’ Craig asked again.
‘I told you. You need me to write it down? You can read, can’t you, Craig?’
The whistles had started up again, the sound of doors opening and closing, feet on the ground.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ Harry didn’t have time to waste.
‘Ya deal on my patch? I want ya stash and ya fucking money,’ said Craig, leaping off the bonnet and removing a penknife from his pocket.
‘I’m supposed to be afraid of that? My dick’s bigger,’ said Harry.
One of the hangers-on sniggered.
Craig’s eyes were dancing and he was grinning stupidly, clearly off his face.
Harry stepped forward. ‘Craig, some days guys pick fights with the wrong people. Today is one of those days. Do I look afraid of that needle-dick knife?’
Harry glanced past Craig, towards the towers. In a few seconds, there would be more of them, harder to predict.
The knife was loose in Craig’s hand, blade pointing lazily to the floor.
‘Just fuck off, yeah?’ Harry said, glaring at him and shifting his feet ever so slightly, back foot on its toes, front foot turned inwards: fighting position.
Craig looked unsure; the knife had been his big move. Looking into his eyes, Harry saw a playground bully whose bluff had been called, but with his friends watching, he couldn’t back down.
For a moment the stand-off teetered unstably.
Craig’s eyes gave him away, widening slightly.
Before he could raise the knife, Harry grabbe
d the boy’s wrist with his left hand and with his right jammed powerful fingers into Craig’s throat. He collapsed theatrically to the ground and dropped the knife, clawing at his throat where his breath was trapped.
Harry turned aggressively to the others, who were momentarily caught in no-man’s land, unsure whether to engage or retreat.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Harry. ‘You want to go home or you want to go to jail?’
They scarpered, leaving Craig writhing pathetically by Harry’s feet.
‘Relax.’ He used his foot to roll Craig’s body away from the car. ‘You’re not dying.’
Harry drove to the centre of the city and parked behind the Telegraph and Argus building. As he got out of his car, he saw an Asian man remonstrating with a delivery driver. The man would be a shopkeeper whose newspapers hadn’t been delivered, forcing him to come down to the depot.
It was a familiar scene. Harry remembered his father having this argument regularly.
His thoughts were interrupted by his phone ringing. DS Conway. Had his DS ratted him out? He let it go to voicemail; if he was in the shit, she’d be sure to leave a message.
Opposite the newspaper building was Britannia House, home to Bradford council offices. In the basement, the entire city’s CCTV surveillance was monitored. Armed with Wilson’s information about Lexi and Olivia Goodwin getting into a white Audi A4 on Friday night, Harry entered via the main doors.
He made his way to the basement and stopped in front of a plain metal door. There was a short delay after he pressed a buzzer, then a crop of mad-scientist-like white hair appeared in the doorway. The CCTV manager, Charles.
‘Charlie,’ said Harry.
‘How many times? It’s Charles,’ he replied with genuine contempt. ‘It’s been Charles for fifty-three years, ever since I was baptized. If my mother could hear you now, God rest her soul—’
Harry headed to the wall of screens at the end of the room. The entire city was being watched. ‘It’s the hair. If it was, you know, centre-parting, controlled, I’d give you Charles. But you look like you’ve been electrocuted; you nail a Charlie.’
‘You make me sound like I should own a chocolate factory.’