by A. A. Dhand
Few people realized which circles Shakeel had really moved in. He’d been a great advocate for Bradford, building three mosques and setting up several charitable foundations. Ahmed was a shining pillar of the community. But even pillars started off as rough pieces of stone. Shakeel hadn’t reached such an esteemed position without getting his hands dirty. And Bashir knew, more than anyone, that bad deeds eventually caught up with you.
Karma was a bitch.
The radio crackled. It was Rachel, his dispatch co-ordinator. ‘Bashir, where the hell are you? Pick up your damn radio! Over.’
Rachel irritated him. She was a middle-aged former alcoholic. Her struggle to kick the habit had turned her into a bad-tempered bitch.
Bashir switched off the radio. He was taking a few hours off.
He didn’t drive taxis for money but to get away from his miserable wife, whose mind was broken by depression. If she spoke five words a day, Bashir was lucky. She was a statue, frozen by a dark past she couldn’t forgive Bashir for. It was all Bashir ever thought about.
And now, with Shakeel’s death, Bashir was free. The leash was broken.
Bashir was going to right a wrong he’d suffered for forty years. Nobody but Shakeel knew about Bashir’s need to draw blood. They were friends from decades before; both had grown up in the same region of Pakistan. In the seventies they had moved to Bradford, but whilst Shakeel had been driven to earn money and forge a legacy, Bashir hadn’t the same hunger. He was driven by a darker force. Shakeel had seen that Bashir would be of more use in the shadows. Until the day came when all things would be put right.
Now? That day had arrived. Bashir had learned many things from Shakeel. He had watched as Shakeel masterfully manipulated Bradford. Tonight was Bashir’s chance to put that knowledge to use.
He drove slowly through Thornton, past the derelict buildings which stood squalid and decaying. The alleys and abandoned yards provided ample cover for the whores to make their money.
It was Friday, which meant afternoon prayers at the mosques. Bashir wasn’t religious – he hadn’t even bought his wife an Eid gift – but he tried to make Friday prayers. It kept his community from whispering.
There were many like him. Mostly taxi drivers who drank at night, smoked marijuana in the day and didn’t give a damn about anything else. The guys Bashir worked with used their taxis as cover, all of them members of a club which supported an underground world nobody spoke about.
Since today was Eid, attendance at the mosque was mandatory – to Bashir’s dismay, because he didn’t like making conversation at the best of times. But there would be special prayers today to mourn for Shakeel and if he didn’t attend, it would be noticed. If Bashir’s wife hadn’t been such a wreck, she might have done this for him, kept his name high within the community. Bashir had often thought about ending her life. But he couldn’t.
She fed his bitterness.
People within his community mocked Bashir. He had no children, a tiny maisonette in Thornbury and little money. Shakeel had offered him plenty; but Bashir had no need for it. No appetite to be rich. There was only one thing which kept him alive.
The image of slicing his cut-throat razor across a carotid artery and watching a life ebb away.
Bashir wasn’t going to Friday prayers.
Not today.
Because within the melodrama and outrage of what had happened to Shakeel, something had dawned on Bashir.
Opportunity.
Bashir was supposed to be attending the Bradford Mela tonight, with the rest of his colleagues, but he wouldn’t be there. His focus would be elsewhere.
The lights were on in the enormous detached Victorian house. Bashir knew it well; he’d watched it for years. He knew it was fifteen steps from the gate to the front door. Once inside, it was forty-two steps from there to the back door and thirty steps to the conservatory. He thought about the locks. The front and back doors were robust. The lower windows were out – too small for Bashir to squeeze through – but the conservatory was vulnerable. The crowbar slotted nicely between the doors.
Bashir thought about what was happening in Bradford. It had the feel of instability. Exactly what he needed.
Bashir clenched the steering wheel and gritted his teeth. ‘Benchauds,’ he whispered, cursing in Urdu. The time was near. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, allowing his rage to build.
Bashir opened his eyes and looked towards the darkening clouds.
Six hours before sunset. Tonight was the night.
Bashir was comforted with the knowledge that soon a story forty years in the making would finally end.
They would scream. And that was fine.
It was the soundtrack of his dreams.
TEN
HOLME WOOD WAS known as the white Bronx of Bradford, the largest council estate in the city, infested with crime. Simpson had sent Harry the last known location for Lucas: temporary council housing before they relocated him. The place was a shit-hole where drug addicts released from prison with nowhere else to go ended up.
Harry was fidgeting nervously with the gearstick. Holme Wood brought back memories of his youth. His father’s corner shop was on the outskirts of the estate. Harry and Ronnie had done paper rounds for years and Harry would always remember one specific incident: it was etched on his memory. They had entered one of the tower blocks and were heading for the fifth floor but never got past the third. The discovery of a dead junkie, sprawled on the floor with a needle still in his arm, had forced Ronnie to pull them out. The guy had clearly been robbed; his wallet was lying across his chest and his pockets had been turned out.
Only in Holme Wood.
Harry entered the north of the estate. To his left were neglected fields, with several malnourished horses roaming next to an abandoned gypsy cart.
Harry had learned to judge an estate by the appearance of the local corner shop. Shutters across the windows when it was closed were the norm. Metal grilles across them when it was open suggested a high-crime area. And no windows because they were bricked up meant the area should be avoided at all costs. Holme Wood’s shop fell into the third category.
But the local store was also the best place to gain local information. Anything a corner shopkeeper didn’t know wasn’t worth knowing.
JJ SINGH CONVENIENCE STORE.
Harry knew the owner. He had gone to the Sikh gurdwara for Saturday prayers with Mr Singh’s daughter, Gurpreet, who, unlike Harry, had followed convention and married a well-respected Sikh pharmacist.
Harry was a rabid dog in his community: talked about; pointed at; mocked for dating a Muslim. For getting caught in her web and never wanting to break free.
Harry needed to start somewhere and Singh was the best person to ask. He would be nosy, perhaps throw in a few barbs about Harry’s life choices but without ever being openly offensive. The moment Harry left, he would surely discuss Harry’s brazen attitude with his wife, who would modify it, magnify it and spread it around the temple where Harry’s mother would eventually get an exaggerated version.
Fuck, he hated Asian gossips. Asian gossips were the worst kind. They played a sort of brutal Chinese whispers.
Harry left his car and approached the decaying store. The pointing in the brickwork had eroded, giving the building a lopsided appearance. The blue off-licence sign was cracked, exposing wiring beneath. Exterior CCTV cameras tracked his movements as he approached the front door.
It was closed.
There was a hastily written note on the front door: ‘Gone Cash & Carry. Back one hour.’
The note wasn’t timed, so Harry had no idea when the hour expired. He had a wry smile on his face as he got back to his car. Tacky notes taped to the front door. Just like old times.
Harry drove down the road to where Lucas had been staying. The hostel looked more like a prison, a whole row of terraced houses which had been merged into bedsits. There were bars across ground-floor windows, and power cables dangling perilously by the side of the
building. A live-in warden called Bernard was supposed to help the residents with paperwork and liaise with the council about moving them into more permanent accommodation.
Harry spoke with him and was told HMET detectives had already visited. By all accounts detectives were parked close by, watching the hostel. Harry hadn’t noticed any of his colleagues and assumed they’d pissed off somewhere for a coffee. He was their usual gaffer and without him at the helm, they were sure to slack off. He knew what they were like.
Bernard repeated what he had already told other detectives. That Lucas hadn’t returned the previous night and that he had filled out an incident report. Harry dismissed the report; he wasn’t interested in Bernard’s procedures.
Harry was led to Lucas’s room on the second floor. The smell of marijuana was patently obvious in the corridor. The warden left Harry inside and told him to return the master key before he left.
Lucas’s room was bleak. Dismal light filtering through dirty windows made it feel gloomy and magnified the isolation.
Harry switched the light on and took a slow walk around the room. Stained magnolia walls, a single bed, a wardrobe with a missing door, and a tiny sink in the corner. The mirror above it was cracked. The wardrobe was bare, as were the bedside cabinets. Harry got on his knees and checked under the bed.
He stripped the bedding but found nothing. His team were trained well. They would have lifted anything useful. Harry had hoped to gauge something by visiting but there was nothing.
There was a sudden knock on the door. Harry covered the ground in three strides and opened it.
‘Oh,’ the scrawny-looking teenager said. ‘Ma bad. Fort you was Lucas. Heard you movin’ ‘round.’
Harry shook his head. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Virdee.’ He give the kid a once-over. The smell of marijuana hit Harry like a slap. ‘You smoking weed in here, kid?’
The ginger-haired boy’s mouth dropped open and he tried his best attempt at innocence. ‘Nah, not me. I ain’t touched it.’
Harry raised his hand. ‘I’m not bothered if you have. You know Lucas?’
The kid shook his head. ‘Nah. I was just, ya know, wantin’ to chill an’ dat.’
Harry pulled the kid into the room and closed the door, startling the youngster.
‘Hey!’
‘Relax. I just want a few details and I don’t want the whole building to hear. Sit down.’ Harry pointed to the bed.
‘Listen, like . . . I gotta chip, yeah, cos—’
‘Sit. Quicker we talk, quicker you can “chip”.’
Reluctantly the kid sat down.
‘When was the last time you saw Lucas?’
‘Yesterday. Nah, I didn’t see him yesterday,’ the boy corrected, waving his finger in the air as if plucking the answers from an imaginary calendar. ‘It were day before. Wait, what day is it today?’
Harry sighed. ‘Friday.’
‘Yeah, so like, Wednesday. I fink.’
‘You speak with him?’
‘Sorta.’
‘Sorta?’
‘Yeah. He was teachin’ me ‘bout boxin’ and fings.’
‘Boxing?’
‘Yeah, man. Lucas is like, pow, man!’ The boy mimicked an uppercut.
‘Right. He tell you where he was going?’
The kid shook his head. ‘Dem ova guys already been asking me dat.’
Harry nodded. ‘So you don’t know where he went, or any friends or connections he might have had?’
‘Nah.’ The boy tapped his feet on the floor. ‘I just came in to tell him dat I dig his lyrics an’ dat.’
‘Lyrics?’
The kid nodded. He stuffed his hand in his pocket and handed Harry a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Check dem lyrics out, man. I been saying dem to the ovas and shit.’
Harry took the paper.
‘Life is like a boxing ring. Don’t get trapped in the corners. Take the centre and don’t ever wait for the bell to save you . . .’
Harry was surprised at the philosophical tone and read it several times. ‘Lucas wrote this?’
The boy nodded. ‘Lucas is fly wiv boxin’ an’ shit.’
‘I’m going to keep this.’ Harry read it again before putting it in his pocket.
‘“From ma hands to your lips.”’
‘What?’
‘It’s dis lyric on dis track I been bouncin’ to.’
Harry grilled the boy for a few more minutes and then let him go. He scanned the room once more and left, tossing the key to Bernard on his way out.
Harry was driving out of the estate, mulling over Lucas’s note, when he saw Mr Singh unloading his Volvo in front of his store. His grey beard was flapping in the wind and the bright orange turban on his head was in stark contrast to the dreary gloom of Holme Wood. Harry pulled over. He got out and made his way quickly towards Singh, who had dropped a crate of Lucozade and was hurriedly scooping up the bottles.
‘Here.’ Harry crouched to help. ‘Let me.’
Singh looked at him suspiciously, afraid at first, and then registered who he was. ‘Hardeep?’
He nodded. ‘Long time, uncle.’ Everyone was an ‘uncle’ in the Asian community, friend or foe. It was respectful to address them that way.
‘I no see you long time!’ Singh accepted Harry’s help.
‘My timing’s impeccable,’ Harry replied. ‘I used to hate doing this at Dad’s shop.’
It took a few minutes to unload the car. Harry was lifting five crates of bottles at a time, ignoring Singh’s protests that he would hurt his back. With the car emptied, Harry accepted a cold drink and took a seat behind the shop counter.
Like home, he thought.
The interior was dimly lit. Several of the fluorescent tubes on the ceiling had fused. There was an old fourteen-inch television hanging above the counter, playing a Bollywood movie. Singh took a seat behind the till, next to Harry. His turban almost touched the bottom of the TV and his tracksuit was ripped in several places.
‘How’s the family?’ Harry asked, getting the niceties out of the way.
‘Oh, they be doing fine.’ Singh smiled. ‘Gurpreet is having children now and your auntie, she is not well so we are sending her to India for holiday. We are looking to sell the shop.’
‘Really?’ Harry asked, feigning interest.
‘For two years but no one is wanting shop in Holme Wood.’
‘No, I don’t suppose they are.’
‘How are you, beta?’
Beta.
For a moment it took Harry’s breath away.
Son. That’s what he had called Harry and for the briefest of moments he sounded just like his father.
Harry composed himself quickly.
‘Oh, I’m fine, you know, working hard.’ Harry took his time looking around the store before meeting Singh’s gaze again.
‘You . . . you are in hard position,’ Singh replied, acknowledging what Harry’s relationship with Saima had cost. ‘I am seeing your mum and dad sometimes . . .’
‘I’m actually here on business,’ Harry said, as officially as he could, leading the conversation away from the minefield.
Thankfully, Singh didn’t push it. ‘Oh?’
Harry nodded and began talking in Punjabi. It made eliciting information from Singh easier. He asked if he knew who Lucas Dwight was. Singh knew; he read the local newspaper every day. Whilst Lucas’s release this week hadn’t been front-page news, it had made the insides.
‘Have you seen him?’ Harry asked.
Unexpectedly, Singh nodded.
‘Did he come in here?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did you serve him?’
‘Yesterday. About lunchtime.’
‘Did you speak with him?’
‘Not exactly. He wanted credit.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Cigarette papers, a Coke and a magazine. I refused credit so he put them back.’
‘How long was he in here?’
‘Maybe
five, ten minutes?’
‘Why so long?’
‘Reading the bloody magazine.’ Singh shook his head. ‘I told him, this isn’t a library!’
‘Which magazine?’ Harry hoped it wasn’t one of the adult ones on the top shelf. Singh stepped away from the counter to the magazine rack to his left. He handed Harry a copy of Boxing News.
Harry leafed through the pages. ‘He was reading this?’
Singh nodded.
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘He asked me which bus goes into town. I told him, the six thirty.’
Harry stepped away, still flicking through the magazine. There was a page missing. Torn out. Harry picked up another copy and flicked to page sixty-seven. He speed-read the article and then whispered, ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a five-pound note. ‘Here,’ he said, giving it to Singh. ‘I’ll take this.’
‘Oh no.’ Singh switched back to English, pushing Harry’s hand away. ‘You take. Please. You help me unload car. I give you magazine and drink.’
Harry smiled. ‘Thanks, uncle. Anything else you can tell me about Lucas?’
‘Is he doing something bad already?’
Harry shook his head. Clearly the news about Lucas being implicated in Shakeel Ahmed’s disappearance hadn’t gone viral. Harry wondered what today’s edition of the Telegraph & Argus would say. Singh would know by the end of the day exactly why he was here.
‘No. I just need to follow up on a few things. Do these cameras work?’ Harry pointed to several dotted around the ceiling.
Singh laughed. ‘Lights not working. Sometimes fridge not working. Many things not working in my shop, but cameras’, he said, pointing to them, ‘always working.’
‘Figures,’ Harry said. ‘Holme Wood won’t ever change.’
Singh shook his head. ‘People no bother me. Not any more. Too many drugs in this area now. Kids are coming in my shop with bundles of twenty-pound notes. I charge them one pound for can of Coke – they are throwing five pounds at me and saying keep change. So much drugs money is in their hands.’