Comply or Die

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘I knew it,’ Sam said, slapping the desk.

  ‘I told him we’ll get up there,’ Ed said. ‘We don’t want him arresting her by himself and be wide open to false allegations.’

  ‘And they’ll definitely go on the attack,’ Sam agreed. ‘What times are the trains coming in?’

  ‘There was a train out at 11.35 that gets in just before three,’ Ed answered. ‘After that they’re about every hour.’

  Sam looked at the wall clock – 1.30pm. ‘Plenty of time. Interpreter?’

  ‘We’ll set that in motion as soon as we get her,’ Ed said.

  Sam was playing out the arrest sequence in her mind.

  ‘Everything changes now,’ she said. ‘If we arrest mother, we have to get father and son. That means we need to see the guy who sold them the settee.’

  Sam knew it wasn’t ideal. She hated being rushed. Now there was no choice if they wanted to get Aisha’s mother in possession of the bank card.

  ‘What about Darlington station?’ Ed asked.

  Sam shook her head.

  ‘We haven’t got the staff to cover that. She got on at Newcastle, so it’s a fair bet she’ll get off there… hopefully.’

  Newcastle railway station – all Victorian arches and amber stonework – has a dozen platforms and two footbridges crossing multiple sets of track, but the London trains invariably stop at the platforms nearest the entrance, platforms directly underneath the first of the bridges.

  Sam and Ed were on the bridge with a good view of the main entrance, watching for any family coming to meet Mrs Bhandal, but the next London train came and went without her or anyone else showing up.

  ‘Coffee?’ Sam said. ‘We’ve got an hour to kill.’

  Sam bought Americanos from one of the platform cafes.

  ‘Jesus,’ Ed said, shaking his head and smacking his lips. ‘Do you think they just let the water sniff the coffee beans?’

  ‘Stop moaning. You didn’t pay for it.’

  ‘Just as well at the price,’ Ed moaned. ‘At least Dick Turpin wore a mask.’

  Sam was fishing for her cigarettes. ‘Let’s get outside. I need a smoke.’

  The road in front of the station was busy with stags and hens arriving for the weekend; some would get no nearer to their hotel than the Irish bar directly opposite.

  Ed walked away when his phone rang.

  Sam inhaled on the cigarette and watched a group of young men with strong Yorkshire accents walk past, all wearing American Indian costumes, all drinking cans of cheap lager, and with the groom-to-be in the middle dressed as a squaw.

  She blew smoke and smiled as the squaw started talking to a group of unlikely ballerinas, all in pink tutus, the bride-to-be sporting L-plates and her bridesmaids, mother and future mother-in-law, wearing pink sashes identifying them as such.

  All fun for now but for some, she knew, the long weekend would no doubt end in tears.

  ‘The prints are Baljit’s,’ Ed said, back at her side.

  ‘Get in!’ Sam did a solo fist-pump. ‘Come on then. Let’s get back on the bridge. I don’t want to be spotted. The family sees us here and they’ll ring her and tell her to stop on the train. Next stop Berwick, then Edinburgh Waverley.’

  Joey ‘Fatty’ Sanderson was deep in conversation with the man Bev presumed was the proprietor when she walked into the back-street furniture shop. Sanderson turned around when he heard the bell above the door tinkle.

  ‘They’re popping up everywhere this week,’ he said with eyebrow’s rising.

  ‘Alright Fatty?’ Bev nodded.

  ‘Not really. You still working with Whelan?’

  Bev nodded some more as he walked towards her.

  ‘Give him my best, won’t you,’ Sanderson grumbled. ‘Thanks to him I’m in here buying a new sofa for that psycho Wilson.’

  He looked over his shoulder.

  ‘See you later, Karan.’ Sanderson’s pronunciation made the man’s name sound like a girl’s. ‘Watch this one... CID.’

  He yanked open the door and strode out, the bell rattling behind him.

  ‘Mr Singh, my name is Bev Summers. I’m from the CID. I need to speak to you about a sofa you sold.’

  His English was good but still heavily accented.

  ‘In 30 years in this business, never has one item of furniture caused me so much trouble.’

  He reminded Bev of a serene religious figure; white turban, resplendent white beard, the type of man everybody wanted for a grandfather.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he asked now, arms out wide.

  ‘I need to ask you about two sofas Davinder Bhandal bought from you in December,’ Bev told him. ‘And it’s me who might be able to help you.’

  ‘Help me?’

  Bev smiled. ‘I know the man who just left charges you for security.’

  The train was due in 15 minutes. They were back on the footbridge, one eye on the passengers milling about on the platform, one eye on the main entrance. If she wasn’t on this train, they were stuck another hour.

  Sam gently tapped Ed’s leg with her foot. ‘She’s on this one.’

  Ed looked at the entrance, understood immediately. ‘Jackpot.’

  Standing by the ticket barriers, looking up at the arrivals and departure boards, he could have been just another husband picking up his wife.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  ‘Mr Singh... '

  ‘Please, call me Karan. I was just about to have some tea before Mr Sanderson came in. Would you like some?’

  ‘That would be very nice,’ Bev said.

  She followed him into the storeroom at the back of the shop.

  He flicked on the kettle, spooned loose-leaf Assam tea into the blue patterned Royal Doulton teapot, watched the kettle vibrate as steam came out of the neck, and poured boiling water into the pot.

  He still had his back to Bev as he added milk from a glass bottle.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  He handed a cup to Bev.

  ‘Please take a seat.’ Karan extended his right arm, the cuff of his shirt sliding up towards his elbow, a thin wrist and forearm visible. ‘There’s plenty to choose from.’

  Bev smiled and sat down on a green velour sofa.

  ‘As I said earlier, I’m here to talk about Davinder Bhandal and two sofas he bought from you in quick succession.’

  ‘Yes,’ Karan said. ‘Very strange.’

  He sat on an armchair opposite. ‘Mr Bhandal bought a sofa which my grandsons delivered on the Saturday morning. Then on the Monday morning, first thing, he was waiting outside the shop. He said his wife didn’t like it, she had given it to some relative, and he needed another sofa. He needed it that day because the other one had already been collected the day before, the Sunday. He chose one and my grandsons delivered it about an hour later.’

  ‘Do you have records showing the transactions?’ Bev asked him.

  ‘Yes, of course. I have a book of receipts. Self-carbonating. I’m too old for computers.’

  Karan placed his cup and saucer on the floor and stood up.

  ‘I’ve used the same system since I opened this shop in 1974. The year I started supporting Newcastle.’

  ‘Malcolm Macdonald era.’ Bev smiled.

  ‘Supermac... Kevin Keegan... Shearer,’ Karam rattled off the names. ‘Great players.’

  He walked across to the writing desk and took out a couple of well-used receipt books together with a hard-backed A4 book.

  ‘They got to the Cup Final that year. I thought it would be a good idea to support a team from the region, one that looked destined for years of success. Oh well…’

  Bev puffed out her cheeks. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Closed the shop on Saturday afternoons so I could go the match,’ Karan said, the past flooding the present. ‘My wife hated me being at football when I could have been making money.’

  He paused. ‘I don’t go now. Too old and I can’t sit in those seats. I get stiff.�
�

  He flicked through the books, found two receipts separated by one other, and handed them over.

  ‘There you are officer.’

  ‘Please, call me Bev.’

  Karan dipped his head and tapped the pieces of paper in Bev’s hand.

  ‘As you can see, Bev, the receipts are dated and timed with a description of the sofa and the name and address of the purchaser.’

  She nodded.

  He sat down, turned the pages of the A4 book.

  ‘And here is the record of the two deliveries, one on the Saturday, one on the Monday.’

  ‘Can I take copies of these please,’ Bev asked. ‘I won’t take the documents themselves as I know you’ll need them for your business, but I would ask that you don’t destroy them in case they are ever needed for court.’

  Karan laughed, his dark eyes sparkling.

  ‘My dear, had you wanted a receipt from 1974, I could have given you it. I’m a hoarder. Nothing gets thrown away… am I allowed to ask why the police are so interested in two sofas? Has it something to do with their daughter?’

  Bev looked at Karan’s enquiring eyes, curious and alive.

  ‘Sorry, Karan, but I can’t say. Now... about Mr Sanderson.’

  She stepped off the train, walked slowly towards the ticket barrier, exited and met up with her husband. Sam and Ed hurried off the bridge. The Bhandals had taken less than five steps when they caught up with them. The couple turned around before a word was said, bottom jaws dropping and their mouths wide open. He clamped his shut very quickly but she collapsed on to all fours, her large bag sliding across the floor and coming to rest next to one of the coffee stall’s three metal tables.

  ‘Police brutality!’ Bhandal shouted. ‘My wife has a heart condition. A shock could kill her.’

  People looked but kept on walking as he helped her to her feet, retrieved the bag, and handed it to his shaking wife.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Would you mind stepping into that office over there,’ Sam said.

  She pointed to a glass window on the platform. She had walked into the British Transport Police base as soon as they’d arrived at the station and asked for an office in the event Mrs Bhandal got off a train.

  ‘Why?’ Bhandal demanded, taking his wife’s arm and supporting her.

  ‘We want to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Can’t it wait? My wife’s had a busy day and you’ve just caused her to fall to the ground.’

  ‘We want to ask her about her day,’ Sam said. ‘Specifically, we want to ask her where she’s been and what’s she’s been doing?”

  Bhandal’s face twisted with rage.

  ‘This is outrageous! Harassment, that’s what it is. Harassment. We are peace-loving people.’

  Sam held his glare. ‘Mr Bhandal, can we go into that office please?’

  ‘Racists!’ he shouted, and spat at Sam’s feet.

  Sam leaned in close, bent down a little, and whispered into his ear.

  ‘I’ve asked you nicely, now if you want to make a scene and get arrested for a public order offence, be my guest. Your wife can either come voluntarily, or she can be arrested.’

  He stepped backwards and spoke with aggression, but there was fear drifting like smoke in his voice. ‘On what charge?’

  ‘Suspicion of theft.’

  Mrs Bhandal had not moved or even looked up when her husband shouted. Her head was still bowed and she was still staring at the ground.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Sam said. She took a step forward and everyone followed.

  Bhandal began talking in Punjabi. Under normal circumstances Sam would tell him to use English but knew his wife didn’t speak any. More importantly, she knew Ed spoke enough Punjabi to understand them.

  ‘What did he say?’ Sam whispered, standing in the corridor next to the open door of the office where Aisha’s parents were sitting.

  ‘Told her to say nothing,’ Ed said. ‘He asked her where the card was but she never answered.’

  Sam’s phone rang, a call from Bev. She listened then put the mobile back in her coat pocket.

  ‘Everything Sanderson said about the sofa is true,’ she told Ed. ‘Bhandal bought one on Saturday and another on Monday morning, which he insisted was delivered straight away. Right, let’s arrest him on suspicion of assaulting Aisha and her for theft of the bank card.’

  ‘Do you want another car to take them back separately?’

  ‘Let’s keep them together,’ Sam said after a moment’s thought. ‘If they talk, you’ll know what they’re saying. I’ll drive, you concentrate on them.’

  Sam walked into the room. Both of them had ignored the wooden chairs. ‘Would Mrs Bhandal like a glass of water?’ Sam asked.

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘Mr Bhandal, I am arresting you on suspicion of assault.’

  ‘What?’ His speech was measured. He was back in control of his emotions. ‘How dare you.’

  ‘I dare,’ Sam told him. ‘Interestingly, you never asked who you allegedly assaulted.’

  Bhandal stared at her, lips clenched, his eyes burning into hers. If a portrait artist had wanted to paint raw hostility, Bhandal, in that electric moment, would have been the perfect muse.

  Sam was speaking again.

  ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of assault on Aisha Bhandal. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  Bhandal’s hands were by his side, fists clenched tight, upper body stiff, the veins running like power lines down his neck.

  ‘Outrageous,’ he said, voice thick with venom. ‘What is the nature of your evidence? Racist, that’s all you are, that’s what your organisation is... honour crimes indeed. We are grief-stricken parents, nothing more. Your actions today will haunt you for the rest of your career.’

  ‘Is your car in a car park?’ Sam asked him, calm and unmoved.

  ‘What? No.’ Bhandal’s voice had dropped in volume. ‘My son brought me. We were going to get the train home.’

  Sam nodded once.

  ‘Tell your wife she is arrested on suspicion of the theft of Aisha’s bank card.’

  Like a Bonfire Night rocket the aggression was back, as was the volume.

  ‘On what grounds?!’

  Sam knew the best way to hold the upper hand with someone shouting the odds was to keep her own voice normal and conversational.

  ‘Just tell her.’

  Bhandal spoke quickly. Ed listened.

  ‘We are being arrested,’ Bhandal told his wife in Punjabi. ‘It’s ridiculous. Say nothing until I get Jill Carver to see you. They will have to get an interpreter. Don’t speak until Carver is there. Have you got the bank card?’

  Her eyes were still fixed on the floor. She shook her head.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Sam hung back as they all walked to the car and rang Bev Summers.

  ‘Get round to the house and arrest the son for theft of a motor vehicle. Take Paul with you. Get the sister to a Place of Safety. See what Social Services can do but good luck with that on a Saturday. We’re bringing the mother and father down. Son dropped father off so you’ll probably have to park up and wait for him.’

  Ed was leaning against the driver’s wing, head turned, watching his rear-seat passengers who were both staring straight ahead, saying nothing.

  ‘You keep an eye on them while I talk to you,’ he told Sam, ‘I don’t want them seeing my lips move.’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘He asked if she had the bank card. She shook her head.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ Ed said. ‘So it’s either in London, on the train, or in this station.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do about the train or London at the minute. Let me go back into the station. You sit with them.’

  Sam walked back into the British Transport Police office, closing
the door behind her. She contacted Technical Support and told them what she wanted, that it had to be done as soon as Bev had the son in custody and the younger daughter out of the way.

  On the platform, she went to the information centre, obtained authority to get through the ticket barriers and walked to Platform 1.

  She stood there, looking up to the bridge. Could Parkash Bhandal have seen her and Ed? Possibly, but she didn’t recall the woman looking up. She walked the route Parkash had walked towards the ticket barrier, kept her eyes on the ground. Nothing.

  She walked to the coffee stall and replayed the fall, the bag sliding across the floor, Bhandal retrieving it for his wife. She remembered Mrs Bhandal had her purse in her hand. Sam closed her eyes and saw her falling, feet nearest her and Ed, her head further away, her hands six feet from the coffee store.

  Sam dropped to lie flat on her stomach, ignoring the stares she was attracting, and switched on the torch in her phone. The beam shot like a laser underneath the stall.

  Bev had her head against the side window staring out of the windscreen. Sitting around was always boring, often futile. People weren’t robots; they had their own thoughts, didn’t always go where you thought they would.

  They’d been there 40 minutes and were now attracting the curtain-twitchers. Another 10 minutes and they’d have to move. Someone was bound to call the police and there was nothing better at drawing attention than a marked police car pulling up alongside.

  ‘Here he comes,’ Paul said, shuffling in his seat, using the steering wheel to haul himself upright.

  Baljit drove into the street and stopped outside the family home.

  Bev and Paul were out of the car before he had switched off the engine off and by his open door before he put a foot on the pavement.

  ‘Baljit Bhandal,’ Bev said, ‘I am arresting you for theft of a motor vehicle.’

  ‘What you on about?’ he said, climbing out of the car.

  She cautioned him. ‘Right, let’s go.’