by A. A. Dhand
‘Couldn’t, even if I wanted to.’
‘You seem to think that to help you I might have to break a few more rules. So – not that I am saying I have any idea what you’re talking about – how does this help me exactly?’
‘You need to think like a politician. Just for once, remove that “hard justice” hat you wear so proudly and think about the media. If you manage to bring me Lucas Dwight, you’ve solved the brutal murder of Bradford’s most-loved son. A high-flying politician. MBE. Community warhorse. You will be in the spotlight. Those IPCC bastards will think a lot harder before signing off your P45. They will look for anything which might put a different spin on what happened. And like I said, the footage is borderline.’
‘What does your gut say?’
‘You bring me Lucas Dwight, you walk.’
‘No offence, sir, but you know who you’re looking for. After all the earache I’ve had from you, why this request to work off-line? What’s different this time?’
‘Me,’ said Simpson coldly. ‘Bradford has worn me down. We’re losing the fight. And with Lucas Dwight as the perp, we’ve got a disaster on the horizon. My horizon. I won’t have my final act smeared in the city’s blood. There is only one person, in my experience, who can manipulate these streets better than Lucas Dwight.’ He fixed Harry with another stare. ‘And I need his help. I won’t retire with the city taken back a decade; to the carnage of two thousand and one.’
‘It hasn’t changed in a decade, sir.’ Harry crossed his arms defensively. ‘Earlier, when you said I’m not designed to be in law enforcement, what did you mean?’
‘I meant exactly that.’
‘This isn’t really the ideal way to get me on board, sir. Telling me I’m not fit for purpose.’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘What did you mean?’
‘People get into this job for all sorts of reasons. Make the world a better place? Stability? Maybe money? And then there are those who do it to compensate.’ Simpson put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘I’m only saying this because in five days’ time I won’t be here to say it to you. And you need to change, Harry. You need to start figuring out some way to deal with . . . your situation. You’re about to become a father, which means you need to calm down. You asked me what I meant before. I meant that being a detective doesn’t suit you because when things don’t go your way, you dish out your own justice. And that’s not how this world works.’
‘Until now?’ Harry removed Simpson’s hand from his shoulder.
‘Yes. Until now.’
‘What do I have in terms of assistance?’
‘Me. You need something, you pick up the phone. No red tape. These . . . these . . . avenues you have, the ones which get you information before anyone else, I need you to tap them. And quickly. Very quickly.’
‘How long before the media get Lucas’s name?’
Simpson shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe noon? I’m going to have to use them to get all eyes looking for him.’ He brushed water from his raincoat. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time, Harry. I’m not asking as your boss. I’m asking as a friend who wants to retire peacefully.’ He turned away towards the Mughal Gardens. ‘And,’ he added, ‘what do you really have to lose?’
‘Let me help you—’
‘I can manage.’ Simpson raised his hand defiantly before walking away.
Lucas Dwight.
The name was echoing through Harry’s mind.
Simpson had him. He was a crafty old man. He knew Harry couldn’t let something like this go. He’d planted the seed and knew what would grow. Much like Simpson, Harry loved the city. Bradford may have become a relic of its former glory days but it was still home. He had spent his years cleaning up the streets, one arsehole at a time. He wasn’t about to let the ex-leader of the BNP wreak havoc. Fourteen years in jail clearly hadn’t rehabilitated Lucas Dwight.
Harry pulled out his iPhone and accessed his favourites menu, hitting the top entry. Mixed emotions as the phone rang. Hesitation. A little anxiety.
‘Harry?’ came the rough male voice.
‘We need to meet. Right now.’
FIVE
THE FIRST THING Harry saw when he opened his front door was a pair of old slippers resting on top of a small table. It was a familiar sight. They were the only thing Harry’s mother had given him before he left her house for ever.
He wasn’t superstitious, but every morning for three decades Harry had touched his mother’s feet before leaving the house and again on his return. It was a sign of respect within his community. His former community. His former life.
Harry touched the slippers and then ran his hand through his hair, a symbolic act of respect, acknowledging these were slippers which had walked many hard paths and made difficult sacrifices.
Above them, on the wall, was an Islamic painting on which the word ‘Welcome’ was transcribed in Arabic, the first sign of many in this house of two worlds colliding.
Harry’s house in Manningham, on Oak Lane, was only a few hundred yards from Lister Park. The area should have been the heartbeat of the city. Instead it was a flat-line, and no amount of resuscitation could get it breathing again.
Manningham hadn’t been Harry’s first choice but Bradford Royal Infirmary, Saima’s place of work, was close by and Harry’s post at HMET only a few miles away. A century before, it had been the richest part of Bradford, with textile mills and wool merchants’ houses. It was historically an exclusive Jewish area.
Now, Manningham was notorious as the setting for two race riots, in 1995 and again in 2001. They called it ‘the Asian ghetto’. It resulted in cheap house prices but, even so, generously sized Victorian homes often accommodated several generations of the same family. It was a traditional arrangement: elderly parents living with their children.
Not in Harry and Saima’s case. They were alone. Through necessity more than desire. The melodrama from their inter-faith marriage knew no boundaries. After trying to appease hostile families, Harry and Saima had made their choice: each other. They had chosen exile.
Harry’s Sikh upbringing had taught him about reincarnation and his mother had often preached that if he lived a good life now, in his next one he would return as something better. That was fine with Harry. He often joked that he wanted to return as somebody white. Life seemed a little easier on that side of the fence. He could make his peace with the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and Santa. Navigating the minefield of Asian religious politics was damn near impossible.
Harry slipped off his running shoes and made his way into the living room. It was half past eight and he thought Saima might have been awake but the room was undisturbed. He made his way into the kitchen where he found evidence of an early-morning raid. There were leftovers from fried eggs, toast, beans and hash browns on a plate. A kitchen knife was stained red from the slicing of strawberries, and the only milk carton was empty. Harry shook his head. His pregnant wife seemed to be consuming everything in the house these days. She was going to give birth to a record-breaker.
Harry made his way upstairs. On the landing he stripped off sweaty running clothes and threw them in the laundry basket. In the bathroom, he took a quick shower and then made his way into the bedroom, a towel wrapped tightly around his waist. Saima’s body was hidden under the duvet.
Today was Eid, the most important day in the Islamic calendar, and they should have been making plans. It meant little to Harry but Saima would have been expecting a day out, maybe a meal on Leeds Road before ending their day at the Mela. In order to change those plans, Harry was going to have to tell her something credible.
The only thing he had was the truth. That he was suspended.
And the reason why.
He made his way to her side of the bed and sat down next to her. Sunlight was creeping through a gap between the curtains, throwing a solitary ray across the bed.
Saima stirred and stared at him with oval-shaped green eyes. They had first caugh
t his attention six years ago. Eyes you couldn’t ignore. There was a scar on the side of her face from ear to jaw. It was a permanent reminder of the darker times when she had abandoned her family to be with him. Saima often curled her hair down the side of her face to hide it or masked it with make-up. Harry placed his hand on it and let his finger run down the ridges. Saima moved her head discreetly. Purposefully.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Zara,’ she replied, yawning.
‘Veto,’ he said. ‘My child isn’t a fashion shop.’
She frowned. ‘Jaan, we are never going to name this baby if you keep vetoing everything.’
Jaan: that was what she called him. It meant ‘life’ in Urdu. Saima had picked it up after they’d been to see a cheesy Bollywood movie on their second date. Harry sometimes wished he’d taken her to watch Rocky or Rambo. He might have acquired a manlier nickname.
‘Zara doesn’t work for me,’ he said and gently kissed her forehead. ‘You getting up?’
Saima shrugged. ‘She’s awake,’ she said, throwing off the duvet to reveal her enormous belly. ‘Flipping cartwheels.’
‘Gymnast?’
‘More like a protest at my early-morning feast.’
‘You must have got up just after I left.’
She nodded. ‘Yasmin?’
‘I’m not naming my child after a contraceptive pill.’
‘Rafeena?’
‘That’s got an “eena” in it.’
‘Jaan, come on, it’s—’
‘Against the rules. If you put “eenas” on the table then I’m having “deeps”.’
They had made a pact not to give their child an authentic Asian name but rather to try and find one that somehow fitted both worlds as well as this new world they’d created together. Names ending in ‘eena’ were traditionally Islamic and ones ending in ‘deep’ were Sikh.
‘Sukhdeep? Ramandeep? Jasdeep?’
Saima quickly retracted Rafeena. ‘Well played,’ she said, unable to hide the contempt in her voice. ‘I still like Ruby. There is nothing wrong—’
‘Not naming my daughter after a stripper.’
‘How come you don’t have any suggestions?’
‘I do. I still like Gemima.’
‘With a “J”?’ she said. It put an Islamic slant on it.
‘No, with a “G”.’
‘I hate you.’
‘Come on.’ Harry offered her his hand. ‘Let’s get you both out of bed.’
‘Where are we going today?’ she said hopefully. ‘And where’s my Eid present?’
He pulled her body upright and she shuffled her legs comically to the side of the bed, placing swollen feet on the carpet. Saima put her hands on Harry’s body; his skin was still wet from the shower. She slid her hands around the Maori tattoo wrapped around his right arm and wolf-whistled, which she couldn’t really do. It came out as a forced rush of air.
‘It’s a good job you never tried that one when we met.’ Harry helped her to her feet, standing in front of her in only his towel.
‘Muslim girls aren’t allowed to whistle,’ she said.
‘So don’t.’
‘Look at our situation. I think finally conquering a whistle is the icing on the cake.’
‘Soft lips,’ he replied. ‘Like this.’ Harry looked her up and down suggestively and whistled before sliding his hand down her back and pulling her closer to his body. Saima moved her hands to his chest and winked at him; again, something she couldn’t do. Harry shook his head. ‘Jesus, it’s a good job you’re hot. Can’t whistle. Can’t wink.’
‘Hey, I totally can.’
‘You wink with one eye, not two.’
She frowned. Tried again. And failed.
‘Come on,’ said Harry, ‘let’s go downstairs. We need to talk.’
She was immediately on the defensive. ‘About what?’
‘We’ll start with the fact that you finished all the milk,’ he replied and left the room, whistling as he went.
Downstairs in the living room, Saima brought him a cup of Indian tea with fennel and cardamom seeds still floating on the surface. She placed it on a coaster on the coffee table and took a seat opposite him, perching on the edge of the couch.
Harry took a sip of tea and frowned.
‘Carnation milk,’ she said, finally finding a comfortable position on the sofa.
‘What exactly did you eat this morning?’
‘Everything. I had to.’
‘Why?’
‘You forgot as well. Nearly jinxed the whole day.’
Harry was lost. ‘Eh?’
‘What is today?’
‘Eid,’ Harry replied confidently. He had a gift for her in the car.
‘Yes. But it’s also something else. First full moon of winter? What happens today?’
‘I don’t know. Werewolves come out?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘It’s the twenty-third of October? Ring a bell?’
‘Stop talking in riddles.’
‘Today is Karva Chauth.’
‘Oh.’ Harry sighed again. ‘You’re pregnant, so you don’t need to—’
‘Yes. I do. What if something happens to you? I don’t want that on my conscience.’
‘If you are due to give birth, you are exempt. This is an Indian tradition not a Pakistani one. You’re not familiar with the regulations. In fact, I recall quite vividly that clause four hundred and fifty-seven, paragraph twelve, sub-section C states that all pregnant women are exempt from the lunacy of starvation in the hope it might grant their husbands a long life.’
Another roll of her eyes. She shook her head and placed her hands on her stomach, rubbing it protectively. ‘Don’t be so dismissive. For centuries Asian women have been fasting for the longevity of their husbands.’
‘And for centuries’, Harry said, picking the cardamom seeds from the tea, ‘men have still died on days like today.’
‘Don’t be so morbid. Anyway, I can’t fast on Eid – it’s forbidden. So I’m having water. Maybe a piece of fruit later on. A fusion-fast.’
‘I don’t think Junior will approve.’ Harry pointed to her stomach. ‘Twelve hours without food?’
‘Eleven actually. The moon is visible at five tonight. And I’ve already eaten a day’s worth of calories before sunrise. I’ll be fine.’
‘What about our Eid plans?’ Harry was relieved at the chance to cancel their arrangements. He glanced at the clock on top of the mantelpiece. It was just after nine. He needed to be on his way.
‘We can still go out. We need to buy a baby monitor.’
Harry nodded slowly, trying to find the words. She needed to know. The ticking clock at the back of his mind was getting louder, bringing the pressure to the surface.
‘Saima, there’s something I need to tell you,’ Harry mumbled without looking at her. He placed his tea back on the table and took a deep breath. ‘You’re not going to like it.’
‘What is it?’ Saima raised her voice just enough to show him she was alarmed.
His neck felt weighted to the floor, as though there was a brick tied around it. Harry took a moment before finally looking at his wife. ‘Last week, on Thursday night . . . I lied to you.’
SIX
COLIN REED HAD given the dealer two very clear instructions: Make sure he shoots up with you. Make sure he dies.
Without a body, Reed couldn’t be sure. The doubt was getting to him. And today, of all days, wasn’t the time to fail.
He wasn’t a man who left things to chance. This was a fast-moving operation. The city was vulnerable. He didn’t have time to dwell on a missing body. Once the Asian communities found out about Ahmed’s death, they would be outraged.
It was time to channel that energy. Keep it raw. Make sure the city vented its anger.
Reed was en route to Baildon Moor. Usually it took twenty minutes but the impenetrable fog and constant drizzle stretched it to forty. He headed north towards Baildon Top. Two hundred and eighty metres to
the summit. On a clear summer’s day, it gave a view right across the city. Reed knew it well. He walked the moors regularly: respite from the pressures of his job. It could be stressful being one of the most dangerous men in Bradford.
As the ascent became steeper, fog clung to the windscreen of the Range Rover. Unable to see anything, Reed stopped the car, removed the satnav from the glovebox, punched in the postcode and waited for a GPS signal. It took nearly two minutes to show him that he was still just over a mile from the turn-off. He put the car in gear and crawled up the winding hill, wary of waterlogged trenches by the side of the road.
The unearthly fog and total isolation of the moors comforted Reed. He’d always preferred doing business this way. His partner was the front man; his role was different, behind the scenes.
Isolated. Largely invisible.
He slowed down and peered to his left where the satnav instructed him to go. He took the turn and was swallowed into a hazy void. Branches from overgrown bushes tapped on the windows. Prying, pointing fingers – trying to claw their way into the car. Despite himself, Reed felt a touch of claustrophobia.
A few tense minutes later, he arrived at a small clearing. An abandoned Portakabin blocked the track. The windows were smashed and the door was missing.
As an unfathomable ghost descended on the land, he hoped he wouldn’t be kept waiting.
Reed reached into the glovebox again and removed a green tie. The first two words of Nelson’s semaphore signal were etched on to it: England Expects. To the unsuspecting eye, it was just a tie. But to those who knew, it was an identifier: a symbol of the Trafalgar Club, the sister party of the BNP.
Reed knotted the tie carefully around his twenty-one-inch neck. Suddenly there were headlights behind, cutting through the fog. They flashed twice.
Reed lifted a black holdall from the passenger seat, unlocked the car and got out. He headed towards the grey Jaguar with blacked-out windows. His size-thirteen boots sank effortlessly into the mud.
Inside the Jag sat Martin Davis, the leader of the BNP. Reed got in the passenger side. The suspension creaked. They acknowledged each other with a solid military handshake.