Untainted Blood

by Liz Mistry

  Leaning forward, Naila placed her hand on Neha’s arm. When the girl turned to her, Naila shook her head with a gentle smile. The girl gave an almost indiscernible nod and pulled her hands out from her sleeves, resting them on her knees, where they kept up their earlier momentum, this time kneading together as she continued to watch her sister.

  Sham, on the other hand, was sprawled in her chair, smiling as Alice continued her relentless chatter. Gus cleared his throat and waited until Alice stopped speaking. Sham sat up and leaned closer to her sister, her stare warning him that he had better not upset Neha. Smiling, Gus nodded in silent acknowledgement, before beginning.

  ‘First of all, I want to say how sorry I am for your loss.’

  Sham snorted and said nothing. Neha, on the other hand, made no sound. Instead, she increased the intensity of her kneading. Both Naila and Sham reached out to stop her, Naila withdrawing her hand when Sham scowled at her.

  Still holding her sister’s arm, Sham turned to Gus. ‘My father’s death is actually no loss to either of us, DI McGuire. He was a selfish, arrogant bastard, and we’re well rid of him.’

  Neha gasped. ‘Sham, don’t say that. Please don’t say that. I know he was never there for us, but you can’t say that.’

  Patting her sister’s arm, Shamshad said, ‘Come on, Neha. You need to be strong. Really strong. You can’t make him out to be something he wasn’t just because he’s dead.’

  ‘He’s not just dead, though, is he, Sham? He’s been murdered.’ And she broke down completely, her frail shoulders heaving, as great gulping sobs engulfed her.

  Jumping to her feet, Shamshad bent over to hold her sister, while murmuring soothingly in Bangla. When at last, her sister was quiet, she pulled away, revealing a darker patch on her T-shirt, where Neha’s tears had soaked through the fabric. She turned to them. ‘Look, I know you’ve got to ask us stuff about him. The truth is, we really didn’t know him. We haven’t seen him for years. Clearly, my sister is upset.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not, so I’ll answer your questions. Only, let her go. She’s getting anxious because she’s missing her physics lesson.’

  Gus had seen Neha flinch as her sister spoke. I wonder what she’s hiding from her sister. He glanced at Alice. ‘You know, Al, I wouldn’t mind a drink. Maybe Neha could take you to the drinks machine on her way to her class.’ He smiled at Neha. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  The girl jumped to her feet, clearly relieved by the prospect of escaping. Shaking her head, she pulled open the door before Alice had got up from her chair.

  Shamshad, her face screwed into scornful disgust, glowered at Gus. ‘What the fff …? Did you really need to do that? Typical bloody pig bullying tactics.’ She folded her arms across her chest and flung her legs over the arms of the chair. ‘Divide and rule, that’s what this is.’

  As Naila made to intervene, Gus shook his head. ‘Really …? You really think DS Cooper is going to bully your sister? Don’t be daft! I sent them together because I didn’t want Neha going on her own, when she’s clearly so upset. I would much rather have sent you, but,’ he shrugged, ‘you volunteered to talk to me.’ He waited. Sham refused to look at him.

  ‘Ok, let’s crack on. You say you haven’t seen your dad for years? Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Probably about three years, yeah, three years ago. At Eid time. We saw him a couple of times after Mum was put in the hospital, and half the time, he didn’t turn up when he were supposed to, so we said we wanted nowt to do wi’ him.’

  ‘Any other contact? Letters, email, phone calls, anything like that?’

  Sham shook her head. ‘He tried off and on for a while, but we didn’t respond, so he gave up. Bloody bastard couldn’t even be there for his own kids. Too busy shagging white bitches.’

  Now that was interesting. ‘What do you mean by ‘shagging white bitches’?’

  ‘Duh? Do I need to draw a diagram?’

  Stifling a grin, Gus said, ‘No, I think the mechanics of your statement are pretty self-explanatory. I was meaning more, how do you know he was ‘shagging white bitches,’ and do you know which ‘white bitches’?’

  With a grin, Sham said, ‘I suppose I deserved that … you know, the sarcasm and all.’

  Gus returned her smile with a nod. ‘And?’

  With a sigh, she whirled her legs around until her feet rested on the floor and took another swig from her opened water bottle. ‘He’s always done it. Well, for as long as I can remember. I think we were around ten when we first realised he wasn’t the perfect dad. Then, when my mum went loopy, she became indiscreet. She told us loads of things normal mums wouldn’t have. S’ppose she’d nobody else to share it with ‘cos she’d come straight from Bangladesh and hardly spoke English. Poor sod. Don’t suppose it was her fault. But …’ Her fierce eyes met Gus’. ‘It was his fault. He shouldn’t have got married to her. Shouldn’t have brought her over here, and he should have kept it in his fucking pants.’

  ‘You’re right, Sham. He should have kept it in his pants, and he shouldn’t have treated your mum or you in the way he has, however ...’ He held her gaze. ‘He’s been murdered, and we need to find out who did it. Whoever is responsible has now killed three men, and they need to be stopped. Anything you can tell us could give us a lead.’

  Sham drained her bottle and, with remarkable accuracy, threw it into the waste paper bin beside the desk. She stood up and walked towards the door. Gus was sure she had something more to tell, yet clearly, she wasn’t ready to confide, and he couldn’t exactly force her.

  He stood up, ready to follow her from the room, when she turned back, one hand on the door handle. With a grim smile, she said, ‘Maybe there’s two folk you should be checking out, Mr DI McGuire. Christine Weston. She’s been screwing my dad for months now, and she works here at the school.’ She clicked the handle down and opened the door an inch. ‘Oh, by the way, her husband’s the fascist bastard who’s standing as MP for the Bradford Central by-election. That gives you something to go on, does it?’

  Chapter 19

  14:45 Bradford City Centre

  What a triumph! Better than I ever could have imagined. They found Razaul Ul Haq. Not that they released his name or anything. PC Plod McGuire probably still has his finger stuck up his behind. Not that anyone would notice a bit of extra brown on the nigger … or even the smell. Dirty wog that he is. They all smell like shit anyway, don’t they?

  They’ve even given me a name. Some dozy bastard, more than likely a Paki, has leaked my MO to the press. The Tattoo Killer! Jez Hopkins has excelled himself this time! I smile as I drive through town, along Sunbridge Road and up past the Interchange. There is something very fulfilling about having your work recognised in the public arena. Something very satisfying indeed. Validation. And it is no more than I deserve. After all, I am performing a public service. Hopkins waxed lyrically in his article about the rise of Nazism and right-wing ideals in Bradford. He condemned the Tattoo Killer as a savage, narcissistic racist. What psychology book has that little idiot swallowed whole before regurgitating onto a bit of tabloid newsprint?

  He is out of touch. Well out of touch. The Brexit referendum clearly expressed the views of Bradfordians, and the Great British Public. No more dipping our caps at the masters of immigration and the sordid defilement they bring to our city. We may be small, but we are great.

  With glee, I lean my fingers on the horn, releasing an ear splitting, elongated paaap. The Paki in his stupid dress and prayer cap, his white beard nearly touching the floor, jumps a good few inches, his duffle coat whirling in the wind. Seeing I have no intention of braking, he speeds up, hobbling to the kerb as I drive past. In my rear-view mirror, I see him waving his walking stick at me. Serves him right, polluting our streets.

  It irritates me that, in the fading light, I can see so many Pakis and niggers. That’s not counting the Polish who came, pissing in their gardens and setting up Polski shops all over. Haven’t they seen an indoor toilet? Scum! The women,
with their dyed red hair and velour tracksuits, jabbering on unintelligibly, their fat bums wobbling like piles of lard as they walk. No wonder the British obesity rates are high. It’s the damn immigrants and their unhealthy lifestyles. They always have a hoard of kids trailing behind, taking up places in our schools, using the resources paid for by our taxes. The men smoking like there’s no tomorrow, covered in tattoos and smelling of cheap aftershave. Without a doubt, I’ll be adding some of them to my list … and they’ll deserve it. I just need to identify which ones.

  Chapter 20

  15:45 City Park

  Despite Alice’s moaning, Gus had parked in his usual ‘free’ parking spot on Vincent Street. The sky was beginning to darken. From the top of Vincent Street, a derelict textile mill and church dominated the landscape with Bradford College buildings cowering beneath.

  Gus was standing on top of a hill surveying the place he called home. The old sandstone spoke to him of hard work and grit. Despite his parentage, he’d spent his formative years in Bradford. With all its rich history, and despite being Leeds’s poor neighbour, this was his home in the same way that West Calder, in Scotland, was home to his old man. He was proud of it. Loved the brooding architecture that mixed with the newer builds to create a unique feel. He loved its hills and its dips. He loved the fact that a five-minute drive could take him into the Dales, and he loved the diversity of the people. In the great tradition of Yorkshire hospitality, Bradford embraced its children.

  He frowned. It still puzzled him Bradford had voted for Brexit. He glanced at Alice who stood next to him, impatiently pulling her coat around herself to ward off the evening chill. She was muttering about how tight-fisted he was with references to moths and wallets.

  He nudged her and said, ‘Come on, the tapas bar in Sunbridge Wells closes at 4pm. If we’re quick, they’ll still serve us.’ Still whingeing, she followed as he set off at a brisk march.

  ‘You do know I’m newly back after a severe injury, don’t you?’

  He laughed. ‘Yeah, thought you were done playing that. Hope I don’t have to report to my superior officers that you’re not fit enough to walk a couple of hundred yards downhill?’ Seeing the dirty look she sent his way, he stopped, and when she’d caught up with him, he linked his arm through hers. ‘The tapas are on me, Al, despite being, em … what was it? Oh, yeah, that’s it. ‘Tight as a camel’s arse in a sand storm.’’

  Keeping pace with him, she said, ‘Oh, well, I was only joking about that. If you’re buying, that’s fine then. Let’s go.’

  Entering by The Little Shop of Soaps entrance off Sunbridge Road, Gus was kept waiting for a few minutes as Alice explored bath bombs and scented soaps, before coming out in a cloud of rose scent, clutching a paper bag. Opening the bag, she thrust it under Gus’ nose, before snatching it back and burying her own nose in its depths. ‘Isn’t this gorgeous?’

  Gus shrugged and marched off towards the steel stairs that would lead to the upper part of the tunnels. What did he know about smelly bath stuff? As Alice followed, he could hear her oohing and aahing at each new discovery. He couldn’t blame her. The tunnels were a delight. He’d been a few times now and had still to explore all the nooks and crannies. Mind you, he had spent an inordinate amount of time in the Sunbridge Lounge and The Gin Bar.

  Leading her into the tapas bar with its solid pine tables and views over Sunbridge Road, they spent ages perusing the menu before Alice finally decided what she wanted. Fed up with the length of time it had taken her to decide, Gus got straight to the point. ‘What did you get from Neha Ul Haq?’

  ‘Well, that was a turn-up for the books, wasn’t it?’ said Alice, sipping her drink. ‘At first glance, you’d think Shamshad was the unstable one. On the contrary, it’s definitely Neha. Poor kid was jumpy as anything. Seems like, apart from her sister, the only thing that keeps her sane is her studies. She refuses to visit her mother, yet despite all the bad press her dad has got, she was visibly upset by his death. More so than Shamshad, I’d say.’

  ‘Hmm, difficult to say, Al. People have strange ways of dealing with grief. I suspect Shamshad Ul Haq isn’t as blasé about it as she makes out. She carries a heavy load, that kid … main support for her sister, seems she visits Mum regularly, and she’s an A student to boot. Lot of pressure on her. Maybe that’s why she rebels in other ways.’

  Alice grinned. ‘Oh, so you reckon her being a goth is a rebellion, do you?’

  Gus inclined his head to Alice’s dark clothing and her barely subdued black eye make-up. ‘Well, isn’t it?’

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe it once was. Maybe when I was a kid at school trying to fit in and being shut out because I was the one with no phone or laptop or trendy clothes, it was my defence mechanism. Not now, though.’ She preened. ‘Now, I choose my image because I look hot!’ She clicked her fingers like some rap artist gone wrong.

  ‘Yeah, okay, if you say so.’

  ‘I do say so, and you needn’t think I’ve forgotten about your tattoo. Let’s have a look.’

  ‘Here?’ Gus glanced around the near-empty restaurant as if expecting a paparazzi attack.

  ‘For goodness sake, show me the damn thing.’

  Peeling his sleeve back, Gus revealed his tattoo and watched to see Alice’s reaction.

  For long seconds, she said nothing and then, ‘Wow, Gus. It really is good. Such a nice tattoo and a lovely tribute to Greg, too.’

  Pulling his sleeve back down, Gus said, ‘Yeah, it was Mo’s idea … one of his better ones, I have to say.’

  Changing the subject, Alice said, ‘I think you’re right, though, with Sham. It’s definitely her coping mechanism. Her sticking two fingers up to the world.’

  ‘Exactly! Did you see the way Neha flinched when Sham said they’d had no contact with their dad for years?’

  Alice nodded, her eyes lighting up as the waitress arrived with plates of sweet potato bhajis, spicy chicken meatballs and stuffed peppers, which she placed on the hardwood tables. Alice pushed her glass of non-alcoholic beer to the side, making Gus smile at her eagerness to start eating.

  Talking around a mouthful of meatball, she continued, ‘She’d definitely had some contact with her dad, though when I tried to broach it, she became quite agitated, flapping her hands and breathing from her chest, like you do before you have a panic attack.’

  Gus raised an eyebrow. He’d always thought he’d managed to either escape to privacy or to cover up the palpitations and tightness, when the first warning signs of a panic attack hit him. He thought nobody else had ever noticed. Apparently not, it seemed. However, now wasn’t the time to explore this. He was more interested in Neha’s reaction. ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘No. Whatever she’s not telling us, I think she’d also keeping it secret from her sister. Maybe she and her dad were in contact via Facebook or some other social media. I think if we give her time, she may open up. She’s clearly working through some really tough issues. Anyhow, how about you? How did you get on with Sham?’

  Gus filled Alice in on what Sham had shared with him about the Westons, ending with, ‘Like her sister, I’m convinced she knows more. She may not think it’s important, however we need to get as much info from her as possible.’

  Looking thoughtful, Alice wiped her fingers on a napkin and sipped her beer. ‘So, I suppose we better head over to the Westons then?’

  Gus pierced a meatball with his fork and traversed it to his mouth. He chewed before swallowing it. ‘Before I met with you in the hallway, I went back to speak to the Head Teacher.’

  Alice sucked her cheek in and nodded in an ‘I’ve got the measure of you’ sort of way.

  Gus, knowing exactly what she was inferring, chose to ignore her. ‘I asked her about this Christine Weston.’

  Alice cocked her head and waited until Gus had eaten a chunk of stuffed pepper.

  ‘Turns out, she, Christine Weston, turned up at school this morning completely unaware her husband had done the press release last nigh
t or, in fact, that he was running for office. Apparently, after chatting, Patti convinced her it would best for her to make herself scarce ‘til things had died down a bit. Seemingly, a lot of the staff and a sizeable proportion of the students were angry and didn’t feel she should be in the school.’

  Alice made an ‘Eeks!’ expression with her mouth. ‘Shit! City Academy is a multi-ethnic school, so if Weston’s husband is standing as an Albion First candidate, that’s clearly going to impact on her relations with other staff members and the kids and parents. What does she teach?’

  ‘She’s a teaching assistant. However, what’s interesting, Al, is two things. First, Patti had no idea Weston’s husband is a racist. Secondly, she’d heard vague rumours Christine was having an affair, although she wasn’t aware it was with one of her pupil’s, or in this case, two of her pupils’ parent. Thirdly, and this is very interesting, she told me Christine Weston had a recent bruise under her eye which she’d clearly tried to disguise. However, because she’d been crying, the make-up had washed away. Patti didn’t ask her about it. She did say it looked recent and was also swollen.’

  ‘Phew,’ said Alice, excitement lighting her face. ‘This could be the lead we need, Gus. Three Asian or black men killed, a racist candidate singing his vitriol from rooftops in City Park, and meanwhile, his wife’s screwing the latest victim.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly. We need to interview them both. The wife first, I think. Patti gave me her address.’

  Gus signalled for the bill and was reaching for his coat, as Alice said, ‘Did you get her phone number?’

  ‘Yeah, her address and phone number. She lives in Eccleshill.’