by Mistry, Liz
More tears ran down her face and she shook her head furiously. ‘No, no of course not Gus. It’s just…’ she wiped her sleeve over her cheek and tried to control her breathing. Gus studied her face and then, stepping back, returned to the sofa and flopped down. ‘Just what, Gaby?’
Her chest heaved, she whispered. ‘I’m sorry, Gus, truly sorry.’
Running fingers through his dreads, he sighed. ‘You and me both Gaby. But fuck, you shouldn’t have done it the way you did.’ He shook his head and smiled sadly. ‘I’m not stupid. I know things weren’t going well with us. I knew it was only a matter of time, but fuck’s sake, what made you do it like that?’
Hands shaking, she walked round the breakfast bar and switched on the kettle. ‘Coffee?’
Knowing how much Gabriella detested the smell of coffee, Gus usually opted for tea. This time though, no longer the dutiful husband, he nodded, adding, ‘and a glass of water.’
She gave him his water and he popped a couple of painkillers from his packet swallowing them with a slug. As she busied herself with the kettle, he studied her. Her head was bowed and tension radiated from her shoulder muscles as she spooned coffee into a cafetière.
Finally, she spoke. ‘Things were complicated Gus, really complicated and…’ she sighed. ‘I panicked when you got hurt and was scared that if I didn’t leave straight away, then I’d never leave.’
‘Thought you’d be too guilt-ridden to leave a cripple, is that it, Gaby?’
She glanced at him over her shoulder. ‘Yes, maybe. It’s not as if things were rosy between us, is it?’ She poured boiling water into the cafetière and took a mug from the wall unit. ‘I’m sorry. I should’ve been in touch, should’ve explained things before now.’
‘Damn right you should. Five years of marriage deserved an explanation at the very least. Not a kick in my already rather painful groin!’
She carefully placed his drink on the coffee table and moved back to her previous position by the breakfast bar, as if in need of its support to hold her upright.
‘I don’t get why you’re here though, in Katie’s flat.’
Exhaling slowly, she bit her lip and looking directly at him, said, ‘Don’t you? Can you really not guess?’
Gus frowned and glanced round the room, knowing he was missing something. Dotted about along the window sill and on the book shelves were a few familiar objects. Ornaments that had once been in his home. Next to a vase of lilies, was a photo frame with two radiant people smiling from the top of The Cow and Calf rocks. He moved his eyes back to her face. She held his gaze as the pieces began to slide together. Then she nodded.
Gus swallowed hard to release the lump that had materialised in his throat. ‘No, Gaby, please, not that.’
Wringing her fingers, Gabriella looked straight at him as she spoke. ‘I’m sorry, Gus. We both are. We didn’t mean it to happen.’ Her gaze fell to the floor. ‘I’m sorry.’
Ignoring the protests from his stiffened muscles, Gus stood up. Swinging his man bag onto his shoulder, he knocked his coffee cup over the cream rug that lay beneath the coffee table. His lips curled in a sneer as he walked towards the door. ‘Fuck you, Gaby, and fuck Katie too!’
He slammed out of the flat and down the stairs, not responding to Frank’s cheerful ‘Goodbye’. Fighting for breath, he stopped when he reached Lilycroft Road and looked up at Katie’s flat. Gabriella watched him from the window. He turned away and dodged through a gap in the traffic and, with a sudden surge of relief, climbed the few steps to The Fort and, ignoring the insistent jabber of the journos, he went back to work.
Chapter 22
Monday 11:30am, Rosalind Street, Bradford
Jamal Asif stood on the top step in front of a house halfway along the row of terraces. His clothes were mucky and he knew he stank. His head had been pounding since the previous morning and he knew it was because of his hangover. He hoped Ishaq wouldn’t smell the alcohol on him.
Driving sleet had emptied the street of all but a few locals determined to buy their cigs or booze from the One Stop at the end of the road, but still, he glanced up and down before pounding on the door with his clenched fist. His entire body shook and veins of dried tears slashed his face; as soon as his half-brother Ishaq opened the door he threw himself into his arms, reassured by his familiar soapy scent.
‘What’s wrong, Jamal?’
Jamal felt himself being hefted through the door and into the warm house. The familiar smell of pakoras frying made Jamal’s stomach gurgle. He was starving. He’d slept in the village hall doorway the night before because Frankie’s mum wouldn’t let him sleep over on a school night and he hadn’t dared go home. Anyway, it hadn’t been much colder than it was at home and he’d managed to get a newspaper and a smelly blanket in exchange for a blowjob from the old perv that lived near the chippy. He wouldn’t tell Ishaq that though – he wouldn’t understand. He’d just think he was a poof and make him go to the mosque and pray. The Imam would go on and on about upholding the faith and shit. They’d no idea… no idea at all.
As Ishaq released him, Jamal fell to the carpeted floor, curled into the foetal position and all bravado gone, sobbed like the fourteen-year-old boy he was. He heard Ishaq calling in a panicky voice for his wife. Asma ran from the kitchen and then she was on her knees by his side, her cool hand pushing his hair back from his eyes. She looked concerned and the small frown crinkling her forehead made him feel guilty for bringing his troubles to them when they had a new baby to look after. He allowed her to rock him back and forth until his sobs faded to sporadic hiccups and then, when he was spent they helped him through to the small cellar head kitchen at the back of the house. He slid into a chair at the table next to the high chair, dropped his head into his palms and groaned.
‘What’s wrong, beta? Has that bitch done something to you?’ Ishaq raked fingers through his thick black hair and, unable to pace effectively in the small space, he fell into the chair opposite Jamal. ‘I’ll kill her! I bloody will. I’ll kill the bitch!’
Fresh tears rolled down Jamal’s cheeks and he saw Asma direct a stern look at her husband. Ishaq pushed himself away from the table as she spoke to Jamal. ‘Sssh, beta, ssh! Your brother will sort it all out. Just tell us what’s happened. What has she done this time?’
Jamal looked from his brother to his sister-in-law. His head felt heavy and his eyes sore. Exhaustion descended on him like a dark cloud and his shoulders slumped. Then, a cry from upstairs made him sit up. His nephew was awake. What was he thinking of, troubling Asma and Ishaq like this? He grabbed a handful of tissues and scrubbed his face as Asma, with a final quick hug left to tend to her baby.
Jamal, hands clasped on the table waited till she’d gone before speaking. ‘She’s dead, Ishaq! My mum’s dead. They found her yesterday and they’ve taken the kids into care!’ Tears rolled down his cheeks and dropped onto the table as Ishaq stared at him before saying, his tone resigned, ‘Well, it was only a matter of time before she ODed. It’s no loss to us, Jamal. Now you’re free of her and the children will have the chance of a half-decent life.’
Jamal wiped an already grubby sleeve over his snotty nose and glared at his brother. ‘Fuck off Ishaq, just fuck off. I know you hate her but she’s me mam. She was me mam.’ Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks, his fists clenched on top of the table as he stared his brother down for a second before lowering his gaze.
Ishaq moved round and put his arm round Jamal. ‘I’m sorry, Jamal.’
Nodding abruptly, Jamal said, ‘It weren’t drugs, Ishaq – she were murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ said Ishaq, exhaling a long slow breath.
Jamal nodded. ‘She were drunk on Saturday, so I stayed over at Frankie’s in Frizinghall. When I went back this morning the house was all covered in crime scene tape and Mrs Khalifa told me what had happened.’
For a minute or two the only sounds in the small house were the muffled tones of Asma comforting her baby upstairs. Ishaq pushed his chair ba
ck from the table and stood up.
‘You need to get cleaned up. You stink of alcohol and Allah knows what else.’
Jamal, head bowed said ‘I’m sorry, Ishaq. It were Frankie that made me.’
Ishaq tutted. ‘I’ve told you before. You can’t hang out with the white boys, Jamal. There’s too much temptation to stray. Now that woman’s dead you’ll start coming to the mosque with me and learn how to be a proper Muslim.’
Jamal’s heart sank. He loved his brother dearly, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to live the devout life Ishaq did. There was nothing he could do about that now, so he dutifully nodded and headed upstairs to shower.
Chapter 23
Monday 11:30pm, Bradford
There’s an odour that pervades most police stations and Lilycroft police station, home of Bradford’s CID, was no exception. It was a mixture of sweat, disinfectant, urine and hard work. Gus breathed it in eagerly as he walked through the doors. He’d missed this smell. It signified purpose and justice to him. The place where, above all others, he felt at home, felt that he, personally, made a difference. He was damn glad to be back. Regardless of Dr Mahmood’s reservations, Gus knew this was the one place capable of healing him.
With the same single-mindedness that had always been a bone of contention between him and Gabriella, he put their earlier encounter to the back of his mind. Walking unnoticed into the incident room he took a moment to devour the scene before him. Without warning his eyes welled up and with an angry shrug he blinked the tears away. Compo, surrounded by a complicated system of IT equipment, drink cans, mugs, a variety of food containers ranging from Chaat’s cafe sandwich bags to Tupperware containers, rocked to whatever beat thrummed from his earphones. He was casually dressed, as per usual, in jeans and a retro band t-shirt – today’s was Bowie’s Aladdin Sane. The beanie hat, which, combined with his unusual computer talent had earned him his nickname, sat firmly on his head.
DS Alice Cooper, unfortunately named by parents who lived a sheltered existence in the labs of academia at Oxford University and had no idea that another more famous Alice Cooper existed, had her head immersed in reports and interviews. She was his right-hand woman and he had utmost faith in her abilities; a faith she occasionally lacked. Clad in gothic black from her black skin tight polo neck jumper down past her black dress trousers to her black kick ’em in the head bovver boots, sat in front of the crime board. His gaze was drawn to the twenty pairs of bruised eyes that looked back at him. Momentarily, he was reminded of the confused look in little Billy’s eyes, before they’d fluttered closed forever, but he quickly shut the thought down. This was work, no time for sentiment.
The new addition, DC John Sampson, recently recruited to CID and requested by Gus for the team months ago, was typing rapidly on his computer in the corner. Suddenly, a scuffle of chairs, a high pitched screech and a hug that squashed his sore arm, told him he’d been spotted. Gently, he pulled away from Compo’s limpet embrace, smiling as Alice and Sampson jumped up to greet him in a clatter of enthusiastic chatter
Practically stammering in excitement, Alice jumped up and down. ‘You’re back. Great. We weren’t expecting you till tomorrow.’
Grabbing Alice in a one-armed hug, he said, ‘It’s good to be back, Al. Hope you’ve got everything under control.’
Her face clouded and she tapped the floor impatiently with her foot. ‘Don’t know about that, Gus. This one’s bloody bad.’
Shaking hands with Sampson, Gus, itching to crack on, flicked a glance at the children on the board and nodded. ‘I can see that, Al. Come on, get me a coffee and fill me in.’
Alice pouted. ‘Get your own bloody coffee, Gus. I’ve got a murder and a paedophile ring to investigate and I’m expecting some VIPs, at DCI Chalmers’ request.’ She paused and grinned at him. ‘Of course, you’re perfectly welcome to sit in. It’ll bring you up to speed and then you can take over, ok?’
‘Who are the VIPs?’
‘Well, the first one is an Inspector Detectivee Jankowski from Poland who was investigating the disappearance of three of the children we’ve discovered.’ She pointed to three faces on the wall. ‘He’s bringing the parents with him. One set of parents will be identifying their dead child.’
She bit her lip and then turned back to Gus. ‘The second guest is an ex-colleague of Nancy’s from Cambridge, a DCI Wentworth who specialises in this sort of thing. Nancy’s got it into her head that there are similarities to a case she worked in 2003. They should be here any minute.’
Gus walked over to the coffeemaker, poured himself a coffee and depositing his bag on the floor next to his chair, slouched out of his jacket and flung it across the back of the chair as he listened carefully to Alice’s update, the PM findings and the actions she’d initiated. When she finished he said, ‘Good job, Al. I think you’ve covered everything for now.’
He walked over to the children’s photos and, reciting each name silently to himself he committed their ages, details and images to memory. His responsibility was to them now.
Chapter 24
Monday 12:30pm, Rosalind Street, Bradford
‘At least there’s usually two pigs in the car when they’re staking out a house,’ thought The Distributor, fidgeting in his seat. He was desperate to piss and wasn’t sure there was enough room left in the coke bottle he’d brought with him for that purpose. He’d been here for over an hour now and despite his bulky coat, gloves and hat, he was freezing. He didn’t dare risk putting the engine on. Didn’t want to attract attention, even if the car was stolen. No doubt some nosy git would question what he was doing and the last thing he needed was to be noticed.
Trying to distract himself he peered through the slightly iced windscreen and scowled at a loved-up couple, snuggled together, oblivious to the wet sleet that froze as soon as it landed. Jiggling his leg, he hoiked up a glob of phlegm, cracked the window a slit and gobbed it out onto the slushy road. The lad suddenly stooped, scooped up a handful of snow and shoved it down his girlfriend’s neck, dancing away laughing as she screeched and jumped on the spot trying to dislodge the snow. Then she too started to giggle, scooped up a handful of snow and ran after the lad.
‘Idiots!’ said The Distributor and tilted his head to glare once more at the terraced house with its cheery red door. Nothing, not a bloody thing. He dipped his hand into the gap in the door, grabbed the coke bottle and cracked the window again. Within seconds he’d upended the bottle and a flood of piss cascaded onto the road forming a trickle that froze into a puddle like a discarded lemon ice lolly. Shuffling his hand down his trousers to release his penis, he sighed with relief as he peed into the receptacle. Glancing at his mark, he cursed, jerked upright dislodging his penis and depositing droplets of urine over his hand and trousers.
‘Fuck!’ he quickly screwed the lid back on the bottle and watched as two police officers approached the house he was watching. ‘How the fuck can you have a bloody wog with a turban over his uniform and a bloody Paki bitch in a man suit enforcing law and order? No wonder the country is in a fucking recession if they are depending on the likes of them to keep crime at bay.’
He rested his hand on the steering wheel, hesitated and then reluctantly took his phone out of his pocket and pressed redial on a familiar number. ‘We’ve got trouble,’ he said when his call was answered. ‘Two oink-oinks just went into the kid’s brother’s house. What’ll I do now?’
The silence from the phone filled him with foreboding. The Matchmaker was completely ruthless and he dreaded being told to ‘Off the pigs and the kid.’ He was still holding his breath when The Matchmaker responded. ‘Wait and watch. You might get an opportunity to intervene when the police leave.’ He paused for a second and then continued. ‘I’ve reconsidered by the way. Don’t kill the boy. Bring him to the depot. We may be able to recoup some of our losses.’ He laughed. ‘Some of our clients like a, shall we say, slightly more mature challenge. I’m not averse to that myself.’ He laughed again and hung up.
Chapter 25
Monday 1:30pm, The Fort
The visitor strutted into the incident room like a prize ram suffering from testosterone overload. Gus winked at Alice indicating that she should take the lead. She turned, hand outstretched to greet him. ‘DCI Wentworth?’ So pleased to meet you. We really could do with your help on this one. I’m DS Cooper and this is–’
Wentworth placed his hand momentarily in hers and then, without bothering to disguise his actions, wiped it down his trouser leg, walking away before Alice could introduce Gus. She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Instead, she gestured to the pictures pinned on the crime board. ‘These are the children we found in Sharon Asif’s attic. We’ve already made headway into identifying some of them and repatriation is in process.’
Wentworth nodded dismissively, hoisted his bottom onto the edge of Compo’s desk and, rubbing his chin with one hand, studied the photos. Alice stood by his side until from the corner of her eye she saw Sampson discreetly waving his hand at her. She stepped out of Wentworth’s line of vision and mouthed, ‘What?’
He pointed at DCI Wentworth’s bottom wedged on Compo’s desk. Alice frowned and looked. Then, understanding dawned. Protruding from beneath Wentworth’s expensively suited bottom was the greasy remnants of Compo’s latest bacon butty. Her face tensed and she glared at Compo who didn’t seem overly concerned that his bacon wrapper was now stuck on the arse of a visiting DCI. Her eyes fluttered up in disgust and then she shrugged, plastered an insincere smile on her face and spoke to their guest, ‘Coffee?’
Wentworth grunted and Alice, assuming it meant ‘yes’, gestured to Sampson to get it for him. She glanced at Gus who, with a small shake of his head, indicated he wanted her to continue. Alice cleared her throat. ‘Is there anything else I can get you, DCI Wentworth?’