Streets of Darkness (D.I. Harry Virdee)

by A. A. Dhand

  Harry nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘Police – they never doing anything,’ Singh protested. ‘They come, they arrest and peoples are back here within few weeks. I don’t understand.’

  Everyone said it. The tag of ‘Gotham City’ had drawn media attention, with the local papers running articles about lawlessness in Bradford. It didn’t make for attractive reading but the newspapers weren’t far wrong. The police were losing the war on drugs. Heroin was flooding into the city on a scale they hadn’t seen before and all they could get a hold on were the low-level dealers, not the major players.

  ‘Thanks, uncle,’ said Harry. ‘It was nice seeing you.’

  Singh opened his mouth to say something else and then reconsidered. ‘Good luck, Hardeep.’ Harry wondered momentarily what he was referring to.

  Back in the car, he opened the magazine at the page Lucas had removed. ‘Always the minor details,’ he said, and turned the key.

  ELEVEN

  BRADFORD HAD BECOME the cesspit of Yorkshire, cowering next to the thriving rival cities of Leeds and Harrogate. You could buy a three-bedroom house in the centre for sixty grand. That wouldn’t even get you a shed in Leeds.

  For over a decade, Bradford town centre had decayed and regeneration had dwindled. False promises, a crippling recession and poor planning had ruined the city. It had become known locally as ‘the hole in the ground’, with half-arsed projects that came to nothing and derelict buildings with no plans for how to redevelop them. Now, finally, ‘the hole in the ground’ was a soon-to-open brash new shopping centre. Harry thought it was unlikely to succeed. Bradford was more suited to pound shops than designer stores.

  Harry parked down a cobbled street just off Upper Piccadilly, opposite the Russian Restaurant. The place had closed down a year earlier after suffering two arson attacks in the same week. The owner had subsequently relocated to Shipley; not smart by any means but most areas were better than the centre. Dereliction was the norm here. Huge Victorian buildings from the industrial era were covered in black soot. They stood abandoned and ashamed.

  It felt like foreign territory for Harry to be working alone, but when he thought about it he realized he was fooling himself. He had always preferred working this way. Rules and regulations were the death of progress.

  Upper Piccadilly was the portal which connected the old world with the new at the heart of the city centre. It gave access to the antiquated John Street market and also led down into Centenary Square, which was the new home for bars, restaurants and even an art gallery.

  Harry turned off the engine. A lazy drizzle started to mist on his windscreen. He looked at the article in his hand: ‘Boxing in Yorkshire – a profile of Arthur Dwight’s academy’.

  Back in the eighties when Yorkshire boxing was booming Lucas’s grandfather had been a trainer. Harry was unaware of the gym but he figured with Lucas coming back and removing the page from the magazine, it was a fair bet he might be holed up there. According to the magazine, Arthur Dwight had died in the nineties and the gym had closed.

  Harry got out of his car and took an umbrella from the boot. He threw on his raincoat.

  The immediate area was deserted and Harry had no idea where the boxing gym was. He spied Mamma Mia, Bradford’s oldest Italian restaurant and certainly the best pizza in Yorkshire. The article mentioned the restaurant, how the owner used to give leftover pizzas to the boxers, much to the annoyance of Arthur Dwight. His boxers were always sluggish after a twelve-inch Margherita.

  Like the rest of the city, time had stood still for Mamma Mia. Its eighties décor was somehow part of the charm. He checked the time. It was just before twelve and the staff inside were preparing tables.

  Harry tapped on the door and one of the waiters shook his head and pointed at his watch. Harry knocked incessantly until the waiter approached, shaking his head in annoyance and tapping his wrist.

  ‘Is eleven forty. We open in twenty minutes,’ he said in a strong Italian accent.

  Harry showed him his badge, retracted his umbrella and stepped inside without waiting for an invite.

  ‘Detective Inspector Virdee. Is your boss in, Franc?’ The waiter’s name badge was faded and Harry corrected himself on closer inspection. ‘Sorry. Franco.’

  ‘The boss? Matteo?’ replied the waiter.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Problema?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘I need his help.’

  Franco invited Harry to sit down but he refused. The waiter muttered something in Italian to a dark-haired girl who looked no older than fifteen. She disappeared through a swinging door. Harry remained by the window, looking across the street, wondering where the gym might be.

  Harry had visited Upper Piccadilly many times and was certain he had never seen a boxing academy. The eighteenth-century building opposite housed the Piccadilly Project; a programme to help recovering alcoholics. Harry knew it well; Ronnie had attended meetings there after being released from prison.

  ‘Mr Virdee?’ a voice to his left asked. Harry turned to see a young man approaching, hand outstretched.

  ‘You’re the owner?’

  ‘My father,’ Matteo replied in a broad Yorkshire accent. ‘I’ve been running this place for three years.’

  ‘You’re a little young to be the boss,’ Harry said, shaking his hand, a good solid handshake which Harry thought told you a lot about a man.

  ‘I’m actually thirty-five.’

  ‘Jesus. Same as me but I look like I’ve got ten years on you. Secret?’

  ‘Italian olive oil. The good stuff. How can I help you, Mr Virdee?’

  ‘Call me Harry,’ he replied. ‘And I’m not sure you can. I’m looking for a boxing academy that used to be around here. Maybe thirty years ago? Your father might remember. I think he knew the owner.’

  ‘Boxing academy?’ Matteo shook his head. ‘That’s news to me. I can phone him – ask if he knows anything?’

  ‘Would you mind? I might be searching for hours.’

  Matteo nodded and told Harry he would be back in a few minutes.

  A couple of waitresses were spreading red cloths across the tables. One of them offered Harry a coffee. He declined. Pizza, he would have considered – he’d missed breakfast.

  Matteo returned, looking pleased. ‘He knew even before I finished asking, but is sure it closed down decades ago.’

  Harry nodded. ‘I’m sure. I just need to know where it is.’

  Matteo led Harry to the front door. The rain had turned to hail, thudding across the windows. ‘You see that street there?’

  ‘Behind the Piccadilly Project?’ Harry asked, raising his voice to overcome the drumming of the hailstones.

  Matteo nodded. ‘Exactly. Go down there and . . . my father cannot remember which side of the road it is on – he thinks left – but there are some steps leading down below street level. That is where the gym used to be.’

  Harry thanked him, stepped out into the sheets of hail and raised his umbrella.

  The side street was consumed by shadows from the towering buildings on either side. There were no streetlights and it felt like a sinister step into the unknown. The street was a dead end and looked utterly bereft of life. Harry approached the gloom cautiously, half expecting to bump into Lucas Dwight coming the other way. He made his way down one side, angling the umbrella to protect his face from the hail. The left side of the street revealed nothing so Harry crossed over. The sweep of the right side also proved fruitless.

  Harry cursed the weather and started again. He put the umbrella away, allowing hailstones to hammer into his face so he could get a detailed look at the street.

  Halfway down, he stopped. There was a tiny break between two buildings and a flight of narrow stairs leading into a darkness that was absolute. Harry held the umbrella like a weapon in his right hand. He descended the steps carefully.

  This was the place.

  A pair of metal boxing gloves was welded on to a steel gate which protected a large
wooden door. There was a thick iron padlock and whilst Harry was dismayed at first, on closer inspection he found it wasn’t locked. Harry removed it, feeling his heartbeat quicken. He kept the lock in his hand. It made as good a weapon as any.

  Harry tried to open the gate.

  It didn’t move.

  The hinges had fallen away, lowering the gate on to the concrete. Harry pulled at it and it screeched in protest. The sound was deafening. He stopped immediately. He might as well have announced his arrival with a loudspeaker. He looked at the door behind the gate. It was slightly ajar.

  Harry put the umbrella and padlock to one side and grabbed the steel gate with both hands. He bent his legs and lifted it, groaning quietly. Damn thing must have been twice his body weight. He opened it enough so he could access the door, which mercifully opened without protest.

  The smell of damp was rancid and overpowering.

  The rubber soles of his shoes slipped on the concrete. Harry paused, removed his mobile phone and turned on the torch. He picked up the padlock but left the umbrella propping the door open. Harry took several apprehensive steps inside, met only by blackness.

  His phone had only 10 per cent battery left. Harry dismissed the on-screen warning and continued inside. The passageway was narrow – wide enough for only one person. Harry kept his left hand on the wall, using it to pull his body further into the darkness, being careful not to drop the padlock and signal his arrival. The light from his phone only illuminated a few feet.

  At the end of the passageway were two doors. The one on the right had a toilet sign on it, the other a pair of bronzed boxing gloves, identical to the ones outside. Harry covered the torch on his phone. He heard his breathing, heavy and short.

  A voice was telling him to back off and call this in. He knew it well, the voice of reason, something he had repressed for years. This was just how he did things.

  Harry turned the handle and pushed, but the door didn’t give. He put his body against it and gave it a shove. It rattled open and Harry immediately tensed, prepared for an attack. Sweat trickled down his face, in spite of the bitter cold. He couldn’t see a thing. He shuffled inside, keeping his hand firmly over the torch, trying to remain invisible. Harry had been holding his breath and now let it out. Slowly.

  He splayed his fingers and shone some light on the side of the wall. It took him a few seconds to find a light switch. He pulled the cord and waited.

  One fluorescent tube after another powered up in sequence, the room lighting up a few feet at a time.

  There was a large boxing ring in the centre and punch-bags hanging from the ceiling to all four sides. To his right, the entire wall was mirrored, which meant he could see if anyone snuck up behind. It was comforting and Harry stepped boldly into the gymnasium.

  He repressed a sneeze as large amounts of dust swirled around his face. The smell of damp was nauseating and Harry could taste the acidity of sweat on his tongue. The air was saturated with it.

  There were only two obvious places to hide. Either behind the ring or under it. Anywhere else and Harry would have noticed. He walked towards the ring and then slowly around it, keeping his distance. The base was secured to the floor with huge steel bolts.

  Lucas wasn’t here.

  Harry walked towards the mirror. When he reached it, he looked at his reflection, only for a few seconds.

  Here he was again. Alone. Running around Gotham, looking for salvation. Putting himself in dangerous and unnecessary situations.

  And for what purpose?

  So he could prove that all the things his family and the community said about him weren’t true? That he wasn’t a failure?

  Harry dropped his head and stared at the floor.

  This isn’t about proving anything. I need to save my job so I can provide.

  That wasn’t true.

  No, Harry. It’s about that night. About making right what you did. Paying your debts.

  It’s about the blood.

  It was always about the blood. Spraying across his face whilst his victim choked on it. The sound of that final blood-gargle before the silence took over.

  There was a sudden noise from behind. Harry turned and fell to a crouch, backing up against the mirror.

  Lucas Dwight was standing in the doorway, staring at him. He looked so different to the last time they had met. Fourteen years was a long time. Like Bradford, Lucas had decayed. He was lighter – almost anorexic-looking – and so pale. So terribly pale.

  ‘I know you,’ Lucas said. The fluorescence from the tubes caught the blade in his hand and it flickered momentarily. He walked slowly towards Harry, almost a prowl.

  ‘You’re under arrest, Lucas.’

  ‘I’m getting déjà vu here.’ There was no emotion on Lucas’s face. Just a cold blank emptiness.

  Harry gripped the steel padlock. He was calculating whether to throw it and charge or to save it for closer combat.

  ‘Arrest for what?’ said Lucas. ‘Being homeless?’

  ‘Murder.’

  Lucas cocked his head to one side and pointed accusingly at Harry. ‘I haven’t murdered anyone.’

  ‘There is a nice way and a not-so-nice way to do this.’ Harry edged closer. ‘But you already know that.’

  Lucas raised the knife and pointed the blade towards Harry. ‘You want to tell me what this is about? Because someone tried to kill me and now you’re here saying I’m under arrest?’

  ‘You’ll get your chance to tell your story. But if it kicks off now, then it’s resisting arrest.’

  ‘I’m going to resist all right. I intend to find out who is stitching me up – even if I have to go through you to do it.’

  ‘You don’t want to take me on, Lucas. Look at you – you’re barely forty kilos in those rags. You look sick. Do the smart thing. Put down the knife and get on your knees.’

  ‘This is my gym,’ Lucas snapped, ‘and I’m undefeated here. Now get lost, Detective Virdee. This isn’t two thousand and one. The rules have changed.’

  ‘I’m here to bring you in, Lucas. Same as always.’

  ‘No, this is different.’ Lucas was becoming more and more agitated. ‘This time, I’m in the right and you . . .’ He waved the blade at Harry. ‘. . . are in the wrong.’

  Lucas flipped the knife in his hands a couple of times whilst staring at Harry. Then he closed the switchblade and put it in his pocket. ‘You don’t use a weapon in a boxing gym. You use these.’ He clenched his fists. ‘I’m not going to disrespect my grandfather by using a knife in here. It’s not how we do things.’

  Harry looked carefully at him. Taking in every detail.

  Wilting. Pale. Sick.

  Slowly, Harry put the padlock on the floor. ‘You’re forcing my hand?’

  ‘You’re forcing your own.’

  ‘I’m leaving this place with you, Lucas.’ Harry removed his coat. ‘It’s up to you to decide in how many pieces.’

  TWELVE

  FOR ZAIN AHMED, his father’s death had come as something of a relief. For years he had thought about taking the old man’s life so he could finally assume control of the family empire.

  But the fact his father had been brutally murdered by someone else did bother Zain. In fact it bothered him more than he could have anticipated. Because in their line of work, allowing such an act to go unanswered made them look impotent.

  Zain needed to find the culprit and send a message: a clear signal the new boss wasn’t soft. That he wasn’t nearly as useless as his father had suggested.

  Shakeel Ahmed’s flagship restaurant on Great Horton Road was silent. They had closed all eleven restaurants as a sign of respect. It was unnerving: usually there would have been staff charging around the premises in preparation for the 5 p.m. opening, but today there was just Zain, sitting at his father’s desk, with his feet on it, twirling his father’s golden fountain pen through his fingers. The pen his father had used to sign his first restaurant lease and all subsequent deals.

  A pen
with a razor-sharp tip: Zain had once seen his father stab it into somebody’s eye and then simply wipe off the blood on a piece of blotting paper. Zain stared at the pen and thought he might use it the same way when he apprehended his father’s killer – a fitting start to his own reign. He felt his father would have approved – something Zain had seldom experienced.

  Zain switched his attention to the CCTV monitors. The man he had summoned for today’s work had arrived. He watched him open the back door of the restaurant and waited the few minutes it took him to make his way through the enormous kitchen to the rear office. The man knocked on the door, paused, and then entered without waiting for a reply.

  Bashir Iqbal wasn’t surprised to see Zain Ahmed sitting comfortably in his father’s chair. But he was irked at the disrespectful way Zain had his feet on the mahogany desk.

  The two men acknowledged each other with a nod. Zain made no effort to get up and Bashir felt no need to extend his condolences.

  ‘Do you know where that desk came from?’ Bashir asked in Urdu, sitting down. The leather chair creaked at the size of his frame.

  ‘Pakistan,’ Zain replied and continued to rotate the pen in his hand like a helicopter blade.

  ‘Islamabad, to be precise. Majlis-e-Shoora, the Pakistan parliament. President Jinnah signed the creation of our country on that desk.’

  ‘Would you like me to remove my feet from it?’

  ‘No. It is not for me to give you orders, Zain. I am simply pointing out its history.’

  The two men stared at each other for a few seconds.

  ‘Do you know what I would like, Bashirji?’ Zain asked, adding the ‘ji’ to his name as a sign of respect for an elder. There was another, covert reason: Zain knew Bashir’s real role within the company. He needed to get the old man on-side.

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘I would like to get hold of the man who killed my father and pin him to this desk. Then I would like to use this pen, my father’s pen, his favourite pen, to stab out his eyes.’