by Liz Mistry
Just then a knock signalled the arrival of Mo with the samosas. Gus was amused to see the look of consternation that crossed Compo’s face, as he jumped from one foot to the other, leaning over his PC at an awkward angle, his chair pushed to the side, clearly torn between finishing the task in hand and grabbing a samosa. Taking pity on him, Gus popped two meat and a veg samosa on a plate with a dollop of raita and a squirt of chilli sauce and deposited the plate, accompanied by a handful of napkins, next to Compo. To be fair, Compo barely glanced at the food as he continued to type, eyes on the screen as he worked. Gus hoped whatever he was doing would bring some results, for they were getting nowhere fast.
Before Gus helped himself to a samosa, Mo grabbed his arm and, head to one side, said, ‘Well?’
Gus was stumped. ‘Well, what?’
With an exaggerated sigh, Mo rolled his eyes at Alice and said, ‘Can you believe this one?’
Alice bit into the flaky pastry and shook her head. ‘I know. He’s useless. I’ve had to remind him all day.’
Puzzled, Gus splayed his arms. ‘Done what? What have I not done?’
Like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, Mo, with a flourish, produced a small light blue and white tube from his pocket and presented it to Gus. He was like an excited jeweller displaying a ring to his would-be fiancée. ‘Voila!’ he said in an accent that made Gus cringe.
‘Okay, okay, I’ve been a bit remiss in the Bepanthen department today. Thanks for setting me up, by the way, Al.’
Alice helped herself to another samosa and shrugged. ‘No probs, Gus. Always a pleasure.’
Glowering, Gus grabbed the tube from Mo, shrugged off his jumper and began to unscrew the lid. He nearly jumped when Mo shouted, ‘NO!’
‘Shit, Mo! What’s wrong with you?’
Mo grabbed the Bepanthen tube back. ‘Go and wash your hands first, Angus McGuire. Right this minute!’
Eyes narrowed, Gus studied him, then, as Mo pointed to the sink, he slunk over, ignoring the laughter that accompanied him. After drying his hands, he pushed his T-shirt sleeve back revealing the scabbed tattoo and put out his hand for the tube. Whilst Sampson, and Taffy gathered round to admire his tattoo, Gus applied the cream, making sure he didn’t blow his street cred by wincing.
However, moments later, when a high, sweet voice broke over their conversation, Gus did jump. The colour drained from his face as he tried to pull his sleeve over the tattoo, but he was too late.
In what could have been a parody of Mo’s earlier tone, Corrine McGuire spoke, ‘What exactly have we here, Angus?’
Gus hung his head and extended his arm, knowing from his mum’s tone any arguing would be futile. Next to him, Mo stood looking equally shame-faced. Corrine McGuire moved over and with a frown stood on tiptoes to fully consider the tattoo on her son’s arm. ‘Hmm.’ She glanced at Mo, her lips tight. ‘Your idea, I suppose?’
Mo and Gus responded at the same time. ‘Yes, Ma McGuire, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.’
‘No, Mum, it wasn’t Mo’s fault. It was all my idea.’
Corrine, hands on hips, glared from one to the other, shaking her head, ‘Look at you both. Grown men, and you still behave like a couple of naughty school boys. What am I going to do with you?’ She homed her steely gaze on Mo. ‘Does Naila know about this?’
Gus glanced at his friend and saw he, too, had paled.
Mo’s brow wrinkled, and he shook his head from side to side like an adamant toddler. ‘No, No. Naila doesn’t know. Please don’t tell her, please don’t.’
Aware of his team trying to cover up their amusement, Gus pulled his sleeve down and began to put his jumper back on. ‘Can we talk about this later, Ma?’
Corrine reached out a hand and stopped him. With soft hands, she pushed his T-shirt back up and studied the tattoo again. ‘This is Greg’s painting, isn’t it? The one in your living room?’
Gus nodded.
His mother’s lips twitched, and with gentle fingers, she pulled his T-shirt sleeve down, being careful not to smudge the cream. ‘Hmmm! It’s quite lovely.’ She turned to Mo, whose face had broken into a big grin. ‘I’m still not sure I’m going to keep this secret from Naila. Maybe you should confess before I bump into her next.’
Mo nodded. ‘I will, Ma McGuire, I promise.’ Then, as if to himself, he said, ‘Don’t see why everyone’s so protective of him. Naila never moaned when I got my sleeves done.’
Mrs McGuire patted Mo’s arm and said, ‘That’s because we all know Angus is a wuss and can’t stand anything remotely medical. You did well to get him to do it.’
She turned to Gus and studied him. Seemingly satisfied with what she saw, she exhaled. ‘I only came to make sure you were okay after what happened in City Park. I did tell Nancy to get you to phone, but I know what you’re like when you’re busy.’
Gus’ shoulders slumped. ‘Sorry, Ma.’
Mrs McGuire snorted and, depositing a box of, probably inedible, home-made cookies on the table, headed out. ‘Take care of yourself, Angus.’
Compo ambled over, gazing towards the door that was just sliding shut, his expression disappointed. Around a mouth filled with samosa, he said, ‘Did I hear your mum’s voice, Gus?’
Laughing, Alice nudged him and pointed to the tub of cookies. ‘Don’t worry, Comps, she left you some snacks.’
Visibly brightening, Compo swallowed his mouthful and pulled the tub towards him. ‘Great, choc chip, my favourite.’
Glancing into the box, Gus said, ‘I think you’ll find the ‘chips’ are just burnt bits.’
Nonetheless, Compo took a bit and chewed. ‘Nah, definitely choc chip. Shall I share my brainwave now?’
Feeling tiredness wash over him, Gus plonked down behind his desk, and in an effort to stave off his fatigue, he swivelled his chair back and forth with his foot whilst Compo explained what he’d been doing.
‘I remembered you saying maybe the killer stalked the victims … so, I thought if that was the case, the killer may have paid multiple visits to the vicinity of each of the victims’ homes in the weeks prior to their deaths. You with me?’
Gus wasn’t completely sure where this was going, but rather than interrupt Compo’s flow, he nodded.
‘So, because we’ve got no witnesses to any of the snatches, I thought we should track any vehicles that frequented the areas around each victim’s home, and see if we can place any of them at or around the snatch and dump sites.’
Gus frowned. ‘That’s good logic, Compo, but how on earth can we do that? We’ve no make or colour or reg number or anything?’
Compo grinned. ‘Well, you know Bradford has one of the most widespread distribution of active cameras and that over one hundred thousand images are taken per day?’
Nodding, Gus crossed his arms and, leaning back against his desk, waited. He had complete faith in Compo and was happy to let him come to the punchline in his own time.
Pausing, Compo dragged his samosa through the raita and the chilli sauce before transferring the dripping pastry to his mouth. Seeming not to notice the dot of yogurt sauce on his nose, he chewed briefly before swallowing. A quick glug of Pepsi, and he continued, ‘That’s why I’ll write a programme that will collate the Automated Number Plate Recognition records for vehicles returning more than once, to a within a two-mile radius of the victims’ homes in the month prior to their deaths. I’ve set the programme, in the first instance, to eliminate any cars registered to family members, close friends and neighbours as per our working hypothesis that these are stranger killings. I’ve also set it to eliminate any vehicles registered to black or Asian owners, by linking it up to the DVLA database.’
Taffy, who’d been listening intently, said, ‘But how will your computer programme know who’s black or Asian?’
Not taking offence at being questioned by the younger man, Compo said, ‘All our driving licences have photo images, don’t they, Taffy? Facial recognition will do it for us, if I set the parameters.’
Compo grinned. ‘That’s where things get all fancy. Each locality and timeframe will generate, as you say, thousands of hits. These will be narrowed using the criteria I’ve already outlined, but will still be in the thousands, I reckon. I’ve then put in a filter to get rid of vehicles registered to addresses outside Bradford and those that only make the ANPR once in the given time frame.’
A bubble of excitement rose in Gus’ chest. He could see that – by the second –Compo’s programme was narrowing things down. He glanced at the rest of the team and saw they were equally riveted. ‘Go on, then. What else?’
Taking another bite from a cookie and wafting his hand around, Compo sent a sprinkle of crumbs down his front and over the desk. Words slightly muffled by the contents of his mouth, he continued, ‘Well, after the programme has completed that for each of the victims, we can cross-reference for vehicles that have popped up at every locality … again, narrowing the list.’
‘How narrow will the list be, Compo?’
Screwing his face up, Compo frowned. ‘That’s the thing, Gus. I won’t know ‘til I get the results how many hits we’ll get. Truth is, it could still be too unmanageable, but my gut tells me it won’t be.’
Tapping his fingers lightly on the desk top, Gus grinned at him. ‘Okay, that’s good enough for me. When will we get the results?’
Again, Compo grimaced. ‘I’m not sure. It’s a new programme. I’ll stick with it through the night, try to speed it up, like, but it’ll run ‘til it’s done.’ His face fell. ‘I’m sorry, Gus.’
Gus stood up and banged him on the back. ‘Don’t be daft, Compo. No need to be sorry. You’ve given us the possibility of a lead we may well never have got. Just do your best. That’s all any of us can do. Here, have another cookie.’
Perking up, Compo accepted the cookie with a smile. ‘If we narrow it down enough, we’ll be able to find the vehicles and their owners pretty quickly, though, Gus, and they may well lead us straight to the kill site.’
At last! It looked like they may be getting somewhere. Not knowing how the killer had lured the victims away, nor how he’d subdued them, had been a major obstacle to their investigations. Thanks to Compo, that obstacle may soon be removed.
He grabbed his coat, ready to leave, when he had a sudden thought. ‘Hey, Compo, can you link your programme to CCTV, too, or would that be stupid?’
Head to one side, Compo considered the suggestion. ‘Right now, I think we stick to the ANPR, then when we’ve narrowed it down, we can link to CCTV to see what that throws up. If you can think of any other parameters to narrow the criteria, that would be good. If we don’t get any hits, we can always play around with it.’
Gus nodded. ‘Come on, Taffy, let’s get to know one another. Come with me to interview the delightful Michael Hogg.’
Taffy’s eyes opened wide, and his jaw slackened, but he jumped to his feet, grabbing his coat and notepad as he did so. ‘Brilliant, thanks for the opportunity, sir.’
‘Drop the ‘sir,’ Taffy. My name’s Gus, and so you know, I only chose you because you’re Indian. Michael Hogg won’t like two ‘brown’ people turning up on his doorstep, will he, eh?’
Rubbing his hands together, Taffy laughed. ‘Great. I’m all for ruffling a few racist feathers.’
Chapter 39
20:05 Gallagher Leisure Park Thornbury
Neha was grateful to her aunt and uncle for taking them in, but they had three children of their own, and the house was crowded. She shared a room with Shamshad, which had its good points … it also had its bad ones. Both sisters studied hard, and they helped each other with that. Sham was messy, and often had run-ins with her very traditional aunt and uncle, who despaired of her fashion sense and lack of piety, which was offset by her devotion to their mother. A devotion Neha could not and did not want to share. Her mother had deserted her when she needed her most, and though Sham seemed able to forgive her, she couldn’t. Not even knowing the teachings of her faith indicated she should forgive her mother as many times as she, herself, expected Allah to forgive her would change her mind. She hoped Allah could forgive her this one lapse.
She knew things Shamshad didn’t know. Things she could never tell Sham. The burden was heavy, but Neha saw it as her duty, and regardless of the emotional strain it placed on her, she would carry it alone. She’d lost weight again. Not that she had much to lose in the first place, but the past few weeks had been difficult, and she’d started to make herself sick again. To cover up, she’d begun to wear extra layers to pad her emaciated body out so no-one would notice. She knew if her arms weren’t so shredded, she’d be able to see the tell-tale signs of added hair growth, one of the side effects of being underweight.
This afternoon at City Park had been the final straw. Shamshad had been so close to the bomb when it exploded and had been lucky to escape with only minor cuts to her face, but she’d been shaken. They both had. It was a sign of the times, and it terrified her. To see her brave, outgoing sister so cowed in a place where they had shared many happy memories hurt Neha. Of course, the backlash from Syria and now Brexit meant that walking down the street had become a major challenge if you were brown or wore a hijab. Worse, still, if you wore the burka.
Every non-Muslim you passed in the street could be a potential threat or could see you as one. She couldn’t blame them, not really. Syria, terror attacks, trucks mowing people down in the name of Islam. It made her so angry. This wasn’t Islam, but how did you reassure the frightened? The ignorant? Those wanting to place blame? Those wanting to protect their own. The simple fact was, you couldn’t; and the existence of people like Graeme Weston made things worse. His sort created a climate where people got hurt just as much as the terrorists using Allah’s name falsely did. Now, Bradford even had a serial killer targeting Asian men. Where would it all end?
She snuck out whilst Sham was in the shower. Her nerves were frayed. She was tired of thinking three steps ahead so she could keep all her secrets hidden. She hated subterfuge and deceit, but this was necessary and not only for her own sake. Tonight, at least for a little while, she could breathe easy … be herself. Hell, she might even manage to eat some popcorn without throwing up afterwards. She paced back and forth in front of the Odeon building. He was late, but she didn’t mind waiting. It was more difficult for him to get away than it was for her. She was thankful he’d finally managed to contact her.
Car headlights lit the car park up, and for a moment, Neha thought she saw him walking towards her. Then, he was gone, and she realised she’d been mistaken. Her eyes were sore, and the bright lights from the car had momentarily distorted her vision. Even now, she could see black shapes dancing in her peripheral vision. She reached out her hand to steady herself against the wall. Someone walked past her, brushing against her, making her bang her elbow on the concrete, spinning her body around like a weightless ragdoll. She took a deep breath. Maybe it had been a mistake to come out on her own at night in the dark. Maybe the cold air was affecting her … that and the residual shock from City Park. She was dizzy … light-headed, faint. Please, hurry up! Come on. Please, just get here. The automatic doors creaked open behind her, as someone exited the cinema complex. The sound made her jump, and then, she was falling …
Chapter 40
20:35 Canal Lane, Bingley
Gus had let Taffy drive the pool car to Bingley. The earlier snow had melted to nothing, leaving a shimmer of frost as the temperature plummeted for the night. As Taffy manoeuvred down the cobbled street, which as the name suggested was adjacent to the canal, the faint drone of traffic on the by-pass faded. Three large detached sandstone cottages, each with their own large garage attached, stood proud. A sizeable stretch of land separated each from its neighbour. They smelt of privilege. In the one bordering the Hogg’s home, Gus could barely make out the outline of two large horses, tugging on what lo
oked to be a netted bale of hay. So, this was the Hogg’s paddock? Seemed like self-employed, central heating engineers made a buck or two. He made a mental note to get Compo to check out the Hogg’s finances.
Five minutes away, an overcrowded estate with mostly boarded windows and a children’s playground, now locked up against graffiti artists, drug users and the homeless, crawled with activity, whereas here, the silence stretched so deep, it knocked you flat. Sometimes, life just didn’t seem fair.
Gus wasn’t sure if it was his knowledge of Michael Hogg that clouded his impression of this idyllic little area or some deeper introspective inferiority complex. All he knew was he felt uneasy here in the same way he had in school when someone questioned his genetic relationship with his dad. Or when he’d been passed over for something and couldn’t quite quell the persistent thought that his ethnicity was to blame. His common sense told him he was gearing himself up for the coming interview with Hogg. He’d encountered racists before, and he would do again. However, Hogg’s positioning himself at the front of mainstream politics in Bradford, alongside Graeme Weston, had all the symbolism of a changing tide. It seemed Brexit and Trump had validated racist attitudes, and Gus feared for the future of his home city, if hatred won. In one fell swoop, a carpet had been pulled out from under them, and the UK, indeed, the world, still had to stabilise.
‘You okay, Taffy?’
The lad nodded and got out of the car. Gus noticed him straightening his back and holding his chin up and realised he’d done exactly the same. They approached the door, and Gus lifted the heavy copper knocker and let it fall with a clatter. For long seconds, there was silence, and then, the faint shuffling of someone approaching the door made Gus drop his hand before knocking again. The door was opened, and from behind a chain, a pair of blue eyes glowered at them. ‘Yes?’
Gus showed the woman his warrant card and introduced himself and Taffy before asking if Michael Hogg was at home.