Enough Rope: A Hakim and Arnold Mystery (Hakim & Arnold Mystery)

by Barbara Nadel

‘You seen her since?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So how’d you get paid?’

  ‘In advance.’

  ‘How much?’

  Now there was a long pause.

  Losing patience, Thorpe said, ‘Come on Zafar. Fess up.’

  ‘Two hundred pounds.’

  ‘Two hundred to deliver seven parcels to somewhere in Bethnal Green.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Knowing Zafar Bhatti of old, Thorpe knew that he was lying about the amount. He always knocked at least a few quid off whatever people were supposed to have paid for anything.

  ‘Well then Zafar, I think we ought to go and talk with Imran Ullah, your boy.’

  ‘If it was that idiot who told you . . .’

  ‘Imran Ullah told me nothing,’ Thorpe said. ‘And just to be clear, Zafar, you’re not to breathe a word of this to anyone, comprende?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Because if I hear you’ve spoken about any of this, even to Jabbar, I will make sure that your little sideline closes for good. I’ll also make sure that all your mates at the mosque find out about it. Now get on your phone and tell your boy to come in and do a rush job for you.’

  *

  They propped him up against a wall. Still covered in shit, they put a sheet down on the floor before they thrust the camera in his face. Both their faces had changed. Now they were grotesque, but still silent. When they came to get him they were always silent now. And even when they put him back all he could hear was a sort of booming muffled sound. Was the film for his parents? Had they asked to see some proof that he was still alive? How much money had been asked for this time?

  They made him swallow more tablets. He could have hidden them in his mouth and then spat them out later, but he knew that without them he would go mad.

  *

  Imran Ullah wouldn’t stop crying. Even when Mr Bhatti yelled at him to ‘Bloody stop it or I’ll bloody kill you!’ he just kept on.

  In the end Thorpe had to yell over him.

  ‘I just want to know where you took those parcels for Mr Shaw on the fourth,’ he said. ‘That’s all. God almighty, you’re not in trouble, but you will be if you don’t shut up soon.’

  The boy, shaking on one of Mr Bhatti’s knackered high stools, tried but failed to get his sobs under control.

  ‘Jesus!’

  It was a good job he liked Vi Collins and Lee Arnold, because he didn’t give too much of a toss about Paul Venus even if he felt sorry for his kid.

  ‘I need to know where you took the parcels and who you gave them to,’ Thorpe said. ‘You ain’t gonna lose your job . . .’ He looked at Bhatti, who shook his head, ‘. . . honest.’

  Snot and water ran down the boy’s face. He wasn’t the brightest button in the box, but to have to make a living conveying smutty messages between people when their spouses were out was pretty desperate. And Bhatti probably paid him a pittance.

  ‘Imran . . .’

  ‘I took them to a shop called Veg, like vegetables,’ he said.

  ‘Veg?’

  ‘Yes,’ he gulped.

  Thorpe hunkered down beside him. ‘That’s good, now we can find it. Who did you give the parcels to, Imran? Was it a man? A woman?’

  The boy, whose sobs were calming now, said, ‘A boy.’

  ‘A boy. How old?’

  He shrugged. ‘My age . . . He was Asian, but he had blond hair.’

  ‘And what was his name?’

  Imran looked at Bhatti and said, ‘Zafar-ji told me to ask for Danish.’

  ‘Danish?’ Thorpe said. ‘As in Danish pastry?’

  ‘I didn’t remember that name until now, DI Thorpe,’ Mr Bhatti said. ‘I swear on the grave of my mother . . .’

  ‘Your mother’s still alive, I see her all the time in Tesco,’ Thorpe said.

  ‘DI . . .’

  ‘Shut up, Bhatti. Imran – what happened with, er, Danish?’

  ‘They called him Dan,’ he said.

  ‘Dan. The people in shop called him Dan.’

  ‘Yes. I gave him the parcels and he gave me an envelope of money for Zafar-ji.’

  Thorpe looked up at the shop owner. ‘Thought you said some girl give you cash up front?’

  ‘She did, DI Thorpe, she did.’

  ‘But then this “Danish” give you more on delivery, yes?’

  ‘Well, yes, it was a complete surprise . . .’

  ‘And he said that if I opened up the money Mr Shaw’d come for me and cut my fingers off,’ Imran said.

  Thorpe said, ‘Did you know the kid was threatened, Bhatti?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I never told anyone,’ Imran said. ‘I was too scared. I’m only telling you because you’re a copper and I’m scared of you too.’

  Thorpe said, ‘Mr Bhatti, do you have the envelope you got your little extra payment from Mr Shaw in?’

  ‘The envelope?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well can you look? Or rather, look or I will.’

  ‘OK.’

  Mr Bhatti scuttled out of the shop and into the small space that passed for his office. When he’d gone, the boy said, ‘Did Baharat-ji tell you about this?’

  Strictly he hadn’t, so Thorpe said, ‘No.’

  ‘What sort of serious is this?’

  ‘It’s bad, Imran,’ Thorpe said. ‘But don’t worry about getting into trouble, ’cause you won’t. Anything you can tell me . . .’

  ‘If it’s so serious then why aren’t we at the police station?’

  The kid was supposed to be thick, but it was a good question.

  ‘Imran, you know this is very serious, so we can’t take it down the nick.’

  ‘Like a secret.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a secret I need you to keep, Imran,’ Thorpe said. ‘You haven’t even seen me. Right?’

  Bhatti came back into the shop holding aloft an envelope. ‘It is amazing what one can find in that office,’ he said.

  He’d either just grabbed the first envelope he’d come across or he’d known exactly where to lay his hand on the right one.

  ‘You sure that’s it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He went to put it in Thorpe’s hand, but the policeman took it only when he’d got a handkerchief out of his pocket.

  ‘Ah, to preserve prints,’ Bhatti said. Probably relieved that his little sideline wasn’t at risk, he was now putting on a great act of helpful bonhomie.

  Thorpe shook his head. ‘No, they’ll all’ve gone long ago.’

  ‘So, DNA?’

  ‘Don’t try to guess, Bhatti, I’m doing what I’m doing, all right?’

  ‘Oh, of course.’

  Thorpe stood. ‘Now, like I’ve just told Imran here, you tell no one what’s happened here tonight. Not your wife, your kids or even your dead mum. Got it?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘If I find out you’ve not done as I’ve told you, there’ll be consequences.’

  *

  Venus jumped. Something had hit the window in the front door, and when he went to look he saw that the glass was cracked.

  Tony Bracci pushed in front of him. ‘Keep back.’

  They couldn’t station a copper on the front door, or even across the road, in case they were twigged.

  Tony approached the door slowly.

  ‘Sometimes kids throw things. I’ve had several broken windows in the past,’ Venus said.

  But Tony Bracci insisted upon treating what had happened as a suspicious incident.

  ‘These people know you live here, sir.’

  But when he opened the door, no one was there. What had cracked the window had clearly bounced off elsewhere. But there was something. Catching the light from the hallway it was a disc – a CD or DVD – and it had been very carefully placed on Venus’s front path.

  16

  ‘Thorpe says the boy’s called Dan,’ Vi said.

  She was wearing a very skimpy summer dress, which made her look ten years younger.
>
  ‘But we can’t move in until we know where he’s going and what he’s doing. We know he took Venus’s money from Imran Ullah, but whether Dan knew what he had, we don’t know. That name doesn’t ring a bell as one of Harry’s friends from school. But I’ll text it to Mumtaz.’ He took his phone out of his pocket. ‘Her dad might know of an Asian kid called Dan who works in Veg.’

  ‘Henry Grogan reckoned his brother had a friend called Danny,’ Vi said. ‘Don’t know if it’s the same one. Seems likely.’

  Lee shrugged.

  Alone with Vi in her office, Lee felt the absence of Tony Bracci’s avuncular presence. He’d gone home to rest after a night at Venus’s flat, much of which had been spent watching a DVD of Harry Venus propped up against a wall.

  ‘With all these limits on us because of the situation, if you could carry on obboing Veg for the moment, that’d be good,’ she continued.

  ‘Venus is still paying me.’ Lee finished his text and put his phone away.

  ‘Yeah, but I know you, Arnold. Know what a soft touch you can be.’

  ‘Not these days.’

  ‘Harry Venus is a kid,’ Vi said. ‘And in spite of who his dad is, everyone who’s working on this is a bit bonkers. Thinking what could happen . . .’

  They both looked across at Venus’s office. Behind his desk, shielded only by glass, he looked completely unruffled. Only those who really knew him would occasionally see the left corner of his top lip twitch.

  ‘Kev Thorpe also said that some woman paid the electrical shop owner up front to take delivery of Mr Shaw’s parcels,’ Vi said. ‘Elegant Asian woman. Shopkeeper claims he’d never seen her before. And there could be forensics.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘When the kid gave Dan the parcels for Mr Shaw, he gave him an envelope for this Mr Bhatti the shopkeeper. Kev got it off him.’

  ‘Result.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘So come on, Vi, let’s see this DVD then.’

  She slotted a disc into the laptop and turned it around so that he could see.

  Silent, it lasted less than a minute, although it seemed longer, lingering on a crumpled face that was Harry Venus, but in an altered state.

  ‘Looks drugged.’

  ‘Well done, Sherlock,’ Vi said. ‘Techs reckon they can enhance the background given time.’

  ‘What, a blanket?’

  ‘No! You can see a bit of wall and if you look carefully there’s a darker patch at the top of the image. I dunno if it’s a hiding to nothing, but it has to be worth a shot.’ Then she said, ‘You sure the suit you saw pissing about with the kids in Arnold Circus is George Grogan’s brother?’

  ‘The description you gave me fits,’ he said. ‘He was with George, this Dan, whoever he is, and a boy their teacher seems to rate called Tom de Vries . . .’

  ‘Ah, Henry Grogan told me that Tom de Vries was let off smoking cannabis on school grounds,’ Vi said. ‘Seems like Reeds doesn’t like to upset its boys’ rich parents. What was de Vries doing?’

  ‘Twatting about, talking about champagne.’

  ‘You think they could’ve kidnapped George’s mate?’

  ‘I think if they did, they did so with Harry as a partner in crime,’ Lee said. ‘He’s an unhappy boy who feels out of place with his peer group. He could well blame his parents for that. He might want to punish them.’

  ‘Well, he looks even more unhappy now,’ Vi said. ‘Anyway, I thought that you saw an adult hand behind this. I do. I can see kids running about maybe getting involved for the craic . . .’

  ‘What about George’s brother?’

  ‘The merchant banker? You think? Arnold, he’s already a criminal and it’s bringing in a lot of cash. Why would he risk his career for less than what he gets in bonuses?’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘But, good news is that Kev Thorpe’s chat with the owner of that electrical shop on Brick Lane may bring about some forensics for us.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Her phone rang. ‘Just a minute.’

  She picked up.

  ‘DI Collins, can you come into my office please,’ Venus said. ‘Bring Mr Arnold with you.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  She ended the call. ‘He wants us.’

  *

  Lee narrowed his eyes as he read the email again.

  ‘I know naff-all about tech, Superintendent, I’ll be honest,’ he said. ‘But I can tell you that that address looks well dodgy to me.’

  ‘I’ll have to get the techs to look at it,’ Venus said. He put his head in his hands.

  Lee looked at Vi, who shrugged and pulled a face.

  The email said that whoever had written it knew who had Harry and where. If Venus wanted to see his son alive again, he had to wait for further information, which would come in the form of another email later that evening. But he’d need to pay. A quarter of a million pounds for the information. How had this person, or people, known that Venus’s son was missing and that he was already in the hole for exactly that amount to the kidnappers? Was this the kidnappers again, trying to get their hands on his money more quickly? Or was it just an opportunist? And if it was, then who?

  The Grogan family knew what was going on, and possibly George’s friends. But who else? That teacher, McCullough, had to know something was seriously amiss with Harry by this time. But what else did he know? Then there was Venus himself, who was being bled like a halal lamb by people who knew him – well.

  Lee sat down in front of Venus.

  ‘Now look,’ he said, ‘I know you’re gonna go up the wall, but Mr Venus you have to be honest with me now. This is . . . Look, I’m aware of the fact you always complain that people like DI Collins make assumptions about your personal life . . .’

  ‘I do not have sex with my constables!’

  ‘I never said you did. I want to know about Brian Green,’ Lee said. ‘His missus came to see you.’

  Venus looked up at Vi.

  ‘We have to know everything, sir,’ she said.

  ‘As I told you four days ago, DI Collins, Green is an old friend of my wife,’ Venus told her. ‘Yes, he has a criminal past, but I have never had any involvement with him in my capacity as a police officer. All this is documented. There is nothing more to know. I contacted Brian Green because he is my wife’s friend. He put some feelers out amongst some old contacts . . .’

  ‘So a load of old crims know that Harry’s missing.’

  ‘No! Mr Green made discreet enquiries, Mr Arnold.’

  ‘Maybe I need to see about that myself,’ Lee said. ‘You know, Brian’s an old mate of mine too, Mr Venus, but only since I left the job and only when I need him. He’s as bent as a nine-bob note, and when I was a young copper I heard things about Brian that’d make your toes curl.’

  ‘Mr Green would not have put Harry’s life at risk,’ Venus said. ‘He likes him.’

  Vi Collins leaned down onto Venus’s desk and said, ‘Your boy knows Brian Green?’

  His face reddened. ‘Through my wife,’ he said. ‘Since I left . . .’

  Vi looked at Lee and then back at Venus. ‘Strange company for a public schoolboy to keep, if you don’t mind my saying.’

  ‘I don’t live with my wife, Mr Arnold, as well you know. I can’t tell her who to see.’

  ‘No. But I’ll have to speak to Brian, Superintendent. Just to make sure.’

  Venus paled. Brian, it was rumoured, was not a happy bunny these days. Lee didn’t know why, but he was keen to find out. Because when Brian Green was unhappy, people tended to get hurt.

  *

  Mumtaz read Lee’s text and put her phone away. ‘We can talk for as long as you like, Alison,’ she said.

  The woman she had been due to see in East Ham had seemed happy to meet the following day.

  ‘This doctor was sure that he didn’t know my father?’ Alison said.

  ‘You can speak to Dr Chitty yourself if you want to. He’s happy to meet you. But no,’ Mumtaz said, �
�he is certain that he doesn’t know your father. Alison, he may be dead by now. What we do know is the identity of your mother.’

  ‘And where my illness came from.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She shook her head. ‘So I’m touched by fame.’

  ‘I’m sorry it’s in such a negative fashion,’ Mumtaz said. ‘And I’m so sorry I’ve not been able to find any of your relatives. Your mother was an only child and we are a long way from Argentina. But you now know where your Native American blood comes from.’

  ‘A dictator.’

  She looked out into her garden. She’d not cried or exhibited any outward signs of great emotion. In spite of the heat, she looked pale and cold.

  ‘My son Charlie, he’s very dark,’ she said. ‘My husband’s mother was Indian, a Parsee. You know them?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mumtaz said.

  ‘We thought he took after her.’ She pointed to a photograph above the fireplace. ‘That’s my son.’

  Mumtaz walked over and looked at an image of a smiling boy who could have come from Dhaka, Mumbai or Islamabad. Slim, with delicate features, he bore no resemblance she could see to the stout, full-lipped pictures of Juan Perón she had googled on the internet.

  ‘He’s a handsome boy. You must be proud.’ She sat down again.

  ‘I’m just grateful he doesn’t have Huntington’s,’ Alison said. Then she closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Mrs Hakim, do you think that Perón had my mother killed?’

  Mumtaz didn’t know. ‘Those were violent times in Argentina.’

  ‘How could anyone kill their own child?’

  ‘No one knows whether Perón had a hand in Rosa’s death or not,’ Mumtaz said. ‘We probably won’t find out. Not now.’

  ‘He raped her mother, he wanted his grandchild aborted. He must have been capable of anything.’

  Mumtaz saw the first, very slight, shake of Alison’s head.

  ‘Where is Charlie?’

  A shake became a pronounced twitch. ‘Oh, er, he has a little summer job . . .’

  ‘Would you like me to call him? Do you want . . .?’

  ‘No!’ She began to cry. ‘How can I tell him about this? I can’t!’

  It was like watching herself. A woman holding herself up with great difficulty in the face of a secret. In this case it had only just come to light, but Mumtaz knew that, for a while at least, Alison would keep it to herself. Or try to.