by Conrad Jones
“I’m on it, guv.” Smithy pointed to five of his colleagues with his pen, and they nodded keenly, happy to be on his team. Some detectives got off on forensics, others on interrogation techniques, but it was bank accounts and electronic transactions that did it for Smithy. With the best detectives and some time, he would find something.
“Will, I want you and your team to focus on Shah’s enemies. Find me someone that wants to kill his accountant, cripple his business and is capable of building this device.” Alec pointed to the van wreckage.
“Guv,” Will smiled. He wanted this part of the investigation. It would involve pulling some of the city’s biggest scumbags into the cells and rattling them around an interrogation room for twelve hours or so. Now that was something to look forward to.
“The rest of you work on Malik Shah and Ashwan Pindar. I want to know what they eat for breakfast, dinner and tea, what colour underwear they’re wearing, and I want some hard evidence that they’re criminals. I want these two men off the streets.”
Alec Ramsay looked around the room and made eye contact with as many of his team as he could. Whatever happened with this investigation, Malik Shah was firmly in his sights.
Chapter Eighteen
Malik and Ashwan – Present Day
Malik Shah pulled his cashmere overcoat tighter around himself. The wind from the River Mersey was howling through the railings that lined the front lawn at Ashwan Pindar’s house. The river was half a mile away down the hill, and he watched the dark green waters flowing lazily past into the Irish Sea. White horses tipped the waves, caused by the propellers of the passenger ferries, which crisscrossed the river heading to Ireland. The streetlights reflected from the murky waters like blurred yellow torches. His dark brown eyes were full of anger, and frown lines creased his forehead.
“You have no idea who is doing this?” Malik turned to his colleague. Ashwan looked into his eyes momentarily, but the anger in them frightened him, and he looked down at his black shiny brogues. Malik frightened Ashwan; he had dominated him since school. He had a violent temper, and Ash had witnessed its ferocity on many occasions.
“Get rid of that,” Malik said, kicking the dead body of Abdul Salim. Two bruisers moved in silence, one at the feet and one at the head. They lifted the body into the back of a Renault van. The van was painted with the name of a funeral parlour, one of three in the city owned by Shah’s limited companies. They were very good businesses, and handy for transporting bodies across the city.
“What about the runners?” Ashwan asked. Once he had alerted Malik to the problem, he’d sent men out to find out what was happening. The news wasn’t good.
“Both dead, and both connected to us,” Malik snarled. He spat on the floor in disgust.
“How have we been connected?” Ash asked.
“According to our men, the killers left a note pinned to Rozzo’s forehead, naming us as his employers. The police are all over the place.” Malik punched the garage door and it rattled. The funeral parlour van pulled out of the driveway, and Ashwan noticed Lana watching them from the front bedroom window. Malik followed his gaze. His eyes narrowed. “What has she said?”
“Nothing.” Ash swallowed hard. It was a stupid answer, but he couldn’t think straight.
“One of your dealers is shot and dumped on your lawn, your son is missing, presumed kidnapped, and your wife hasn’t said anything?” Malik shook his head slowly in sarcastic disbelief. “I bet she’s had plenty to say.”
“Fucking hell, Malik!” Ashwan snapped. He took the picture of Mamood out of his pocket. “This is my son tied to a chair, Malik. We are going insane with worry, what do you think she’s been saying?”
“Let’s calm down and go inside,” Malik softened his voice for a moment. He wanted to speak to Lana. He had to speak to Lana. If she telephoned the police, then all hell would break loose. Someone had crossed the line. He was under attack, there was no doubt about it, and he couldn’t for the life of him think who it was.
Both men headed for the front door. Malik wore an expensive designer suit and a long overcoat. Ashwan was still wearing jogging bottoms and an old sweatshirt. Lana was walking down the staircase as they entered the hallway.
“Who was that poor boy?” she asked.
“No one we know,” Malik lied. His face was like stone, his eyes dark and narrow.
“Why haven’t you called the police?” she asked, looking directly at Ash. He shook his head and bit his bottom lip. The thoughts of his eldest son Mamood were consuming him. The kidnappers had told him where to find a memory stick on the murdered dealer who’d been dumped on his lawn. It contained pictures of his son, bound and gagged, looking terrified, his eyes reddened from crying. The photographs played constantly in his mind, each one worse than the next. Three of his employees had been butchered in order for this message to be sent to him, and he was under no illusions that his son was in grave danger. What he didn’t know was who was responsible, or why he had been targeted specifically. The kidnappers had made contact, but no ransom demands had been received yet.
“We think someone is trying to set us up, Lana,” Malik interrupted before Ash could answer.
“How so, Malik?”
“One of our business rivals is out to cause us trouble.” Malik found it hard to hold her stare. Her eyes were red from crying. She was desperate to call the police and report her son’s kidnap. Ashwan had pleaded with her to wait for Malik to come. He would know what to do.
“Are they the same people that have Mamood?”
“I’m guessing so, Lana.” Malik needed to keep her on side. “I’ve asked Ash to think of someone that has been disgruntled or upset. An ex-employee or a rival that has lost a contract?”
“What type of people do you do business with, Ashwan?” She looked bitter and angry. Her expression was pure contempt. Her son had been kidnapped, a boy had been murdered and dumped on their lawn, and her husband wouldn’t call the police. What type of father was he? What type of husband was he? She didn’t know what to do or think. “What type of businessmen would take your son, kill a teenager and dump him on your lawn, Ashwan?”
“I don’t know, Lana.” Ashwan turned his back and walked away from her.
“Why haven’t you called the police, Ash, or am I missing something?”
“Mamood would be in grave danger if you involve the police, Lana,” said Malik, leaning his back against an oak Welsh dressing table. He was cool, almost cold about it. “The kidnappers said, ‘no police or he dies’, correct?”
“Why haven’t you called the police, Ashwan, what have you got to hide?” Lana ignored Malik. She hated the man with a passion. He was evil, and bullied Ash at every opportunity. Ashwan was his partner in name only. Malik Shah made all the decisions, and Ash was his whipping boy. He made her skin crawl, the way he looked at her sometimes. “Tell me, Ash. What type of business associates would do this to you?”
“Think hard, Ashwan,” Malik grinned. His whitened teeth seemed too straight to be real, but the Hollywood smile looked more like a sneer to Lana.
“I have no idea, Malik. I’ve racked my brains trying to think who could do this, but I haven’t got a clue,” Ashwan shrugged his shoulders and tears filled his eyes. “Mamood has nothing to do with our business, why have they taken him… Why?”
“Get a fucking grip of yourself!” Malik hissed. He couldn’t stand weakness in a man. “There are hundreds of people who would want to hurt you and your family, absolutely hundreds.” He pointed a well-manicured finger towards Ashwan’s Porsche 911, which was parked fifty yards away on the driveway. “Do you think you’d be driving that if we sold newspapers?”
“No, of course not, Malik, but…” Ash mumbled and tried to compose himself.
“What do you do, Malik?” Lana tilted her head slightly.
“Shut up, Lana, you’re not helping,” Ash tried to calm her, but she shrugged him off and stood eye to eye with Malik.
“Tell me what my husba
nd does for you?”
“We import and export commodities,” Malik sneered. His patience was wearing thin. “You should be grateful, Lana, it pays for your nice house.”
“Look, that’s not important now. Mamood is in danger,” Ash walked over to his wife and tried to hold her. She froze and held up her hands.
“Don’t you touch me, Ashwan Pindar.”
“I know you don’t understand, Lana, but –”
“But nothing, Ashwan!” Malik had enough. He grabbed Lana by the upper arms, pinning them to her side. He shouted in her face.
“We sell drugs, we sell whores, and we sell guns and ammunition, Lana!”
Lana looked stunned, as if she had been slapped. Malik had his face inches away from hers; she could smell chilli and tobacco on his breath. His words echoed around her brain. Drugs, whores and guns. Her husband imported drugs, whores, and guns. They were gangsters. Ashwan Pindar, the father of her child, was a drug runner, people trafficker, and arms dealer. She went weak at the knees, only Malik’s grip held her up.
“We work in a dangerous world, our enemies are always trying to steal our products and take our business. When they do, we kill people and take all their money and drugs from them. It’s the survival of the fittest, Lana. Dog eats dog.” Malik let go of one of her arms, and grabbed her chin. For one awful moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. She felt bile rising in her throat. “Someone has taken your son, and I’ll find them. When I do, I will cut his fucking heart out and bring it to you cooked and stuffed with cheese. The police cannot help you, Lana, but I can.”
Lana slid down the wall slowly as her knees finally gave way. Spittle dribbled down her chin and her lips quivered. She stared at her husband.
“You are a liar!” she shouted at Malik. He stood over her like a boxer stalking his injured opponent. “Tell me that he’s a liar, Ash.”
Ash couldn’t look her in the eye. He rolled his eyes skyward and wished the ground would open up and swallow him.
“Tell me!” she screamed. “Tell me he’s lying!”
Ash walked over to her and moved Malik away with his forearm.
“He’s not lying, Lana, but it’s not as bad as it sounds.” Ash could hear his own words, and he thought they sounded like the words of a desperate man; a drowning man clutching at fresh air.
“It’s not as bad as it seems?” Lana wiped saliva from her face and tried to gather herself together. “There was a dead teenager on my lawn tonight. My husband dragged the body of a dead teenager into my garage, and then telephoned his business partner to come and take it away.” She glared at Malik.
“That’s what you did, isn’t it, Malik?” She stood on shaky legs and looked from Malik to Ash incredulously. “You made the body disappear, didn’t you?”
“We have to do what they say, no police,” Ash pleaded with her. She stared at him wide eyed, shocked and devastated at the revelations she had heard tonight. She walked over to Malik Shah and looked up into his face.
“Do you know who has my son?”
“Not yet.”
“The men that killed that boy have Mamood?”
“Yes, it looks that way.”
“Get my son back.”
“We will, but no police, Lana,” Malik half smiled. “You must let me do what I need to do to get him back. The police will get in the way.”
Ashwan needed to sit down and walked across to the wide sweeping staircase. He plonked his weary body down on the bottom step.
Lana leaned closer to Malik. She whispered in his ear. “You make me sick.” Malik frowned. He didn’t do insults well at all. “I see the way you look at me, Malik. Get my son back and you can have what you want. I’m not sure who disgusts me the most, you or them.”
Malik nodded, and an evil smile crossed his lips as she walked away. He would enjoy doing that bitch, whether Mamood lived or not, and he would make sure she regretted that remark many times over.
“Take your things and get out of my house,” Lana said as she walked by Ashwan.
“What?” Ash stood up and grabbed her arm. “This is a shock, but we’ll fix it.”
“Get your hands off me,” she hissed in his face. “I don’t even know who you are. Get out of my home. Get my son back, you owe me that.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sarah – School Days
The court usher seemed to glide as he walked into the Crown Prosecution chambers, his cloak floating behind him. At the door, he turned and waved his skeletal arm to guide Mr Bernstein and his daughter into the meeting room. They stepped in nervously.
“Take a seat at the back, please, Mr Bernstein,” the prosecution lawyer, Carol Smythe, smiled, trying to make them feel more comfortable. “Sarah, if you could sit here next to me, please.”
Sarah shuffled towards a long wooden bench piled high with manila files and lever arch boxes. Her hands were pulled up inside her coat sleeves, just the tips of her fingers showed. Her face blushed pink and her head was down, her shoulders stooped. The lawyer pulled out a pine chair and patted the red seat pad, indicating for Sarah to sit down. Sarah flopped into the chair and stared at her nails. She looked like a frightened young girl.
“Could we introduce everyone, please, so that Sarah knows what is going to happen today,” a grey-haired woman spoke. Her hair was pulled tightly back into a bun on the back of her head, and rimless spectacles perched on the end of her nose. She peered over the lenses as she spoke. “I’m Louise, and I represent the Crown Prosecution Service.” Her thin lips formed a smile, but there was no warmth in it.
“Margaret Bangor-Jones, representing the defence,” a crisp, assertive female voice came from the right hand side of the solicitors bench. Sarah stole a glance in that direction. The defence lawyer had jet-black hair tied into a ponytail; it shone as the electric lights reflected from it. She was in her early thirties, stunning, with high cheekbones and full lips. Sarah looked away when she caught her eye. Her eyes seemed to look inside her and read her mind.
“Mr Bernstein. For your benefit I will explain what will happen,” the clerk removed her glasses as she spoke to the victim’s father at the back of the room. He was ten yards away from her at the most. The room was no bigger than a large living room. There was no dark wood panelling in here. The room was windowless but well-lit; the austerity of the court building had been omitted purposely due to the nature of the cases dealt with here. “We will gather the details of the prosecution’s case and Sarah’s statement. Then the defence’s representative will ask questions based on the statements from the accused.” The thin smile returned. “Is that clear to you, Sarah?”
“Yes,” Sarah nodded, staring at her fingernails again.
“This is not a trial, Sarah. We want to establish the facts so that we can make the decision to prosecute your attackers.”
Mr Bernstein shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had not been given access to Sarah’s evidence, and he had a gut-wrenching feeling inside. He couldn’t help but feel anger and revulsion towards his daughter. Sarah had been the apple of his eye when she had been younger, and he struggled to remember at which point she had grown up. One minute she had been playing with dolls, the next she was having consensual sex with one boy and accusing several others of drug-induced rape. He wanted to feel sympathy for his little girl, but he had nothing inside but disgust. As for the pregnancy, it had caused blazing rows in the Bernstein home. Sarah was adamant that she loved Malik, and that the child was his. There was no talking to her about abortion. The shame she had brought on the family amongst the Jewish community was too much to bear. Mr Bernstein was struggling to cope with the situation. It was a never-ending nightmare.
“Ms Smythe, if you could begin, please.” The clerk placed her spectacles on and pushed them up her nose with her index finger.
Carol Smythe shuffled her papers and remained seated as she spoke. “The outline of the case is as follows. Sarah Bernstein is fourteen years old and pregnant. She was involved in a relat
ionship with her boyfriend, Malik Shah. Malik is a sixteen-year-old male from the same school.” The clerk looked down her nose at Sarah as her lawyer detailed the basis of the accusations. “Sarah attended several parties with her boyfriend, and over a period of several months a sexual relationship between them ensued.”
The clerk and the defence lawyer scribbled notes as Carol Smythe spoke. Mr Bernstein felt physically sick listening to her. He wished that there was a window in the room, so that he could look out of it and pretend that this wasn’t happening. After everything he had done to educate his daughter, this was how she had repaid him. She had given her body to a Muslim boy, at the tender age of fourteen. Her grandparents would be turning in their graves.
“It was at one of these parties, February the second, to be precise, that Malik Shah gave drugs to Sarah. Cannabis and LSD. They went into a bedroom and had consensual sexual intercourse. Later on Malik gave her tequila shots. Sarah took them willingly; however, on this occasion she believes that she was spiked, drugged with a sedative such as Rohypnol. The drug is used as a sedative. It can affect both the motor functions and the memory.”
“I think we can skip the medical blurb, Ms Smythe. We are all familiar with this drug, unfortunately,” the clerk interrupted.
“Later Sarah remembers waking up in the bedroom again. There were several males there, and they were carrying out various sexual acts on her, including non-consensual intercourse. Sarah has memories of what happened, but she couldn’t do anything to stop it. The names of the accused are noted in the records. Although we acknowledge that the prior sex with Malik Shah was consensual, he was complicit in the rape because he administered the drug.”
Mr Bernstein wiped his hands against his pinstripe trousers. It was his best suit, and under normal circumstances he wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing. His hands were sweaty, and his stomach felt knotted. The thought of his daughter having sex at fourteen was sickening. Worse still was the fact that she had been drugged and abused by a group of men. He wanted to throw up, scream and kill them all at the same time.