by A. A. Dhand
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You will. Cuff yourself and hand me the key. As you do so I will put the knife in your hands. An even exchange?’
Harry considered his options.
‘You’re not even slightly curious? I’m going to hand you the knife.’
‘Surrender it first.’
‘And you’ll do as I say?’
Harry didn’t reply.
‘Didn’t think so.’
‘Call it a gesture of good faith. I’ll consider your request a hell of a lot more seriously.’
Both men measured each other suspiciously. Then, apparently making a decision about Harry, Lucas put the switchblade on the floor and kicked it towards him. ‘There.’
Harry remained steadfast.
‘I’m asking you to give me one opportunity.’ Lucas’s patience was starting to fracture. ‘You can’t even do that? I’m unarmed. I could have killed you fifteen minutes ago.’
There was a fundamental difference to the man Harry had arrested fourteen years before. And Lucas was right. If he had wanted to hurt Harry, the chance had been there.
‘OK.’ Harry covered his hand with his sleeve and lifted the knife from the floor. He put it in his pocket. Then he removed the cuffs and walked over to the ring-post. Harry secured his wrist to it and threw the key on the floor, by Lucas’s feet.
‘Show me they’re fastened.’
Harry tensed the handcuffs and Lucas nodded.
‘Your move.’
‘Thank you.’ Lucas didn’t pick up the key but left it on the floor, five feet away from Harry. He walked away to a sink in the corner of the room where he washed his hands, face, then removed his shoes and washed his feet.
He made his way back towards Harry and picked up an exercise mat from the floor. Lucas placed it carefully a few feet away from Harry but within clear line of sight and got on his knees. He then did the one thing which proved without question he had changed. Harry stood open-mouthed and astonished as Lucas Dwight, ex-leader of the BNP, put his hands behind his head and started praying towards Mecca.
FOURTEEN
‘ASH-HADU AN LA ilaha illa Allah. Wa ash-hadu ana Muham-madun rasul Allah.’
It was the most bizarre thing Harry had ever witnessed. The words, even the rhythm, were authentic. Lucas was reciting an Islamic prayer. Harry had witnessed Saima worshipping many times and recognized every gesture.
Lucas Dwight had converted to Islam?
It sounded too far-fetched.
Harry slipped his hand underneath his shirt and massaged the area around his liver. The dull ache was still pulsing. He glanced to his right at the mirrors. His reflection was whispering.
You were brought up hating Muslims, yet you married one.
Harry looked away. But the voice continued.
You’re a hypocrite if you believe Lucas is incapable of change. He doesn’t look the same. Doesn’t sound the same.
Harry touched his pocket where the switchblade was.
Weapon surrendered. On his knees. Praying.
Saima’s voice was in Harry’s head.
People change, Jaan. Promise we won’t ever judge on what we’ve been taught, but on what we see. What we feel.
What we see?
What we feel?
Saima had a way of getting inside his head. Always at the right time.
Harry remained silent, watching Lucas as he raised his body and then bowed it in prayer.
A few minutes later Lucas was done. He remained on his knees, back towards Harry, staring into the darkness.
The silence became awkward.
‘Can’t find the words?’ Lucas said eventually.
Harry was leaning on the side of the boxing ring. He no longer felt vulnerable secured to the post.
‘You’ve converted to Islam? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘Hard to believe?’
‘Yes. It is.’
‘Seemed the only way to prove I’ve changed. You seemed so sure I was incapable.’
‘I put you away, remember? I’ve seen first-hand what you’re about.’
‘So you’ve never met anyone who changed your perceptions of life? Never met anyone who ripped apart the bullshit you’d been fed?’ Lucas might as well have stood Saima in front of them with Harry’s parents burning in the background.
Harry didn’t reply – because Lucas had him. They had fought the same struggle.
‘Go on.’ Harry had thought finding Lucas might be the end of Ahmed’s investigation. An easy ‘in’ back to his job. Clearly not the case.
‘Like I said, prison changes a man.’ Lucas seemed content on his knees, talking into the emptiness of the gymnasium.
‘It’s not like it was your first time inside.’
‘It was my first sentence of so many years.’
There was a brief pause.
‘I’m listening,’ Harry said.
‘For the first couple of years I was reckless. Fights, angry, bitterness. One day I was cornered by a Polish gang. Outnumbered. I took a heavy beating, had my face caved in – probably would have died – but someone intervened. Big guy. Called Abdullah. He ran the boxing academy. He got the Poles to back off and looked out for me. I didn’t appreciate it, but no matter how much shit I gave him, he remained . . . I don’t know . . . calm.’ Lucas turned around and pointed at Harry, who was still massaging his side. Lucas grinned. ‘I can hit you in the ribs so the pain evens out.’
Harry shook his head. ‘Keep on with your story.’
Lucas got up from the prayer mat. ‘There was something different about Abdullah. He knew what I was about, yet he never tried to change me. I got myself in a couple more scraps and he bailed me out. Think he was trying to change my perceptions. Instead of hating me, he showed me something I’ve never experienced.’
‘Compassion?’
Lucas nodded. ‘We became friends. Not quickly. And it wasn’t easy. I didn’t trust him. Takes a long time to figure things out. He didn’t brainwash me. Didn’t preach. He showed me how to channel my anger. Provided a little structure. Truth is, he calmed me down. Don’t get me wrong, there’s still a lot wrong with the policies of this country. But I don’t blanket hate any more. I’ll get to know you and then judge.’
‘When did you convert to Islam?’
‘Few years ago. I’m not going to advertise it, because I’ve learned two things in prison: that religion and politics should never be discussed.’
‘Give me a break,’ Harry whispered, scratching the stubble on his face. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily.
Lucas raised his shirt and pointed to a newly inked tattoo. ‘Can you read the inscription?’
‘No.’
‘It says “change” in Arabic. The language of the Koran. I’ve evolved, detective, the same as this city has.’
‘I’d call it regression.’ Harry didn’t explain whether he meant the city or Lucas’s choices. He removed a spare key to the handcuffs from his pocket and unlocked them.
‘Figures,’ said Lucas. ‘You can’t arrest me. Someone is playing a game I don’t like, which involves me taking the fall for things I didn’t do.’ He said it calmly and with utter conviction. ‘If you take me in, I’ll be the scapegoat. It’s too easy not to look for the truth when you’ve got me gift-wrapped.’
‘I can’t let you walk.’ Harry put away the cuffs. ‘Even if you might be telling the truth.’
‘We have a problem then. Because I don’t want to damage your kidney as well.’
‘There is another option.’ Harry felt a tinge of apprehension. It was more than that. It was the voice of reason, which, as usual, he was ignoring.
‘I’m listening.’
‘What’s your plan if I don’t arrest you? Clearly you have one.’
Lucas nodded. ‘The dealer, Daniel Levy, who supplied me last night. I’m going to find him. Ask who gave the order to put me down.’
‘How do you know it wasn’t a duff batch? Christ, the city
is rife with it.’
Lucas inched towards Harry. ‘Because this guy tracked me down and gave me a freebie. Out of the goodness of his heart,’ he said sarcastically. ‘I didn’t ask questions. Figured he wanted a favour down the line. But now I realize he needed to give me that bag. Pressed me into shooting up with him. Got angry when I didn’t. Weird shit. Didn’t think anything of it at the time. Odd, wouldn’t you say?’
Harry agreed. ‘Odd enough to ask questions.’
‘We’re on the streets. You ask questions, you get lies. You want the truth? You put something on the line.’
‘Such as?’
‘His life.’
‘So you’re a religious man but not a pacifist?’
‘An eye for an eye. That’s my world. Someone takes a shot at you? That gives you right of reply. No more. No less.’
‘I don’t care what he’s pulled. You’re not taking another man’s life. We can, however, make sure he talks.’
‘We?’
Harry nodded.
‘You think I’m going to trust you? I’ve changed but I’m not stupid. What do you have to gain by helping me?’
Harry hesitated. Lucas was quickly on to it.
‘What are you not telling me?’
‘I need this as badly as you do.’
‘For a promotion?’ Lucas mocked.
‘No. I need a bit of redemption too.’
‘Come again?’
‘I’m . . . not on the books at the moment.’
‘They fired you?’
‘Suspended. Pending an investigation.’
‘You’re shitting me.’
‘No. I’m not.’
‘Why should I believe you? Even if it’s true, what would I gain?’
‘Next week, I’m in front of a board that’s going to tear my arse out. And I’ve got sweet FA to counter what I did. Maybe I find Shakeel Ahmed’s killer and maybe they look favourably on me.’
‘That’s a lot of maybes. What did you do?’
‘Broke somebody’s jaw.’
Lucas whistled. ‘I’m not really feeling the trust part of our relationship growing.’
‘I was defending my wife.’
‘That does shed a different light on it. But I still don’t believe you.’
‘OK. Let me prove it.’ Harry removed his mobile phone from his pocket and started to dial.
‘Easy now.’ Lucas closed the gap between them. His breath was stale on Harry’s face. Lucas put his hand across the phone.
‘You dial then.’ Harry handed him the iPhone.
‘Don’t know how to. Don’t get posh phones like this in prison. Who are we calling?’
‘May I? I’m going to call my boss. Reiterate that helping out today might save my job. Put you in the loop. You hold the phone. I say something you don’t like – you hang up.’
‘Even if you are telling the truth, I don’t need you. You’re extra baggage.’
‘Think it through. I’ve got everything at my disposal. Contacts, connections, data. Whoever killed Shakeel Ahmed framed you easily. You’re going to need me.’
Lucas mulled over Harry’s offer. Then he handed him the phone. ‘Put it on speaker. You stray from the script and I’m going to unleash holy hell on you. And this time, you won’t get up. Clear?’
‘Crystal.’
Harry dialled Simpson and let Lucas listen to the conversation. It was brief but Simpson confirmed that finding Lucas and closing the investigation was Harry’s only chance.
‘Satisfied?’
Lucas nodded.
‘I can’t let you leave this gym unless you’re with me,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll buy into the fact you’ve changed. Enough to give you a chance. You have your name to clear and I have a job and a city to save.’
‘Real-life goddamn hero, aren’t you?’
‘Listen,’ Harry snapped, ‘you’re not getting a better offer all fucking year. You’ve got a senior detective offering to help you. Off the books. Why don’t you think this through?’
Lucas raised his hands and backed off. Into the shadows. Cracking his knuckles. ‘The guy I need to find – the dealer.’ Lucas’s voice echoed around the gym. ‘I know where he’ll be once it’s dark.’
‘When we find him, there are rules involved. I don’t have a problem with a shakedown but you cross the line and I’ll slap the cuffs on.’
‘Sounds fair.’ Lucas turned his back towards Harry. ‘Meet me back here at five.’
‘I can’t leave you. I don’t trust you not to disappear.’
‘I’m a man who believes in people’s word.’
‘You’ve got a long way to go to earn my trust.’
‘That goes both ways.’
‘Surrender to me,’ said Harry. ‘We’ll . . . how do I put it, hang out. Hell, I’ll even feed you. God knows you look like you need it.’
‘I have your word that you won’t double-cross me?’
‘Yes.’
Lucas considered it for a moment. ‘Fine.’ He turned around to face Harry. ‘In that case, we have a deal.’
‘Your blood was found at Ahmed’s house,’ said Harry. ‘You can’t fabricate DNA.’
‘My blood?’
‘Yes. How did it get there?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Lucas’s eyes narrowed. ‘Let’s take this one step at a time?’
‘We’ll find this dealer, and if he’s not involved, then I take you down the nick?’
‘He is involved. And I’m not going anywhere with you except to meet Daniel Levy. If he’s not there . . . we can talk about that when and if. No games. No fucking about. Agreed?’
Harry gave it some thought. He was agreeing to a deal with the devil. And no matter the outcome, he was going to lose. ‘Shake on it?’
Lucas made his way over and accepted Harry’s outstretched hand. ‘Sure,’ he said, shaking it firmly.
‘Wouldn’t have thought such a skeletal-looking bugger could drop me so easily.’
‘I doubt we’ll have to go there again, partner,’ Lucas replied with just enough bite.
‘Partner? I suppose. But, Lucas, we’re doing this on my terms. Don’t cross the line.’
‘Let’s just track Daniel Levy. Then we’ll see just exactly where the line is.’
FIFTEEN
DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT GEORGE Simpson was at Trafalgar House, Divisional Headquarters and temporary home of the Homicide and Major Enquiry Team. There was a frantic rush of detectives outside his office. The door was closed and the blinds were drawn.
Just five minutes of peace.
An incident room had been set up and every detective at his disposal was on the Shakeel Ahmed murder case.
Of all the cases to hit his desk five days before retirement, why this one?
Lucas Dwight’s name was out. It was inevitable. Public-sector pay was at an all-time low and morale was always boosted by a few quid from savvy journalists. Leaks happened. Once upon a time, George Simpson had been in the same boat. But as seniority replaced ambition, it was easy to forget those struggles.
Lucas Dwight.
He picked up a crystal glass. Nothing but water inside, even though he had a bottle of Dalmore in his top drawer.
Not today.
Maybe tonight.
Definitely tonight.
His hand was shaking. Others wouldn’t have seen the tremor, such was its slightness. But for Simpson, Parkinson’s was now a friend who would take him to the grave. He took a sip of water and put the glass back on his desk.
He swivelled in his leather chair to face the window behind. It gave a view across the town centre.
Gotham City.
Ever since that article had gone viral, there was graffiti all across the city, embedding the name across communities.
Gotham – where hope didn’t exist.
Where fictitious heroes were needed to save the city.
Bradford was perhaps as close to Gotham as it got. The article had wounded Simpson, because for all his candour
and hard work, he was losing the battle. Drugs had flooded the city over the past decade on a scale never seen before. Government cutbacks were crippling, and uniformed presence on the streets was minimal.
Bradford didn’t stand a bloody chance.
It was becoming more polarized. The Asian communities were closing rank and mistrust was now traded like currency.
Shakeel Ahmed’s death, a racist assault on the city, would go down badly – unless they nailed Lucas Dwight quickly. Demonstrated the very definition of swift justice.
George Simpson didn’t want his legacy to be a ruined city. He glanced to his right. The calendar on the wall had a large black circle around today’s date: ‘Friday 23 October. Bradford Mela. Eid.’
Simpson sighed and the unease in his chest made the Parkinson’s seem like a children’s ride at the fair.
Need to settle this quickly.
Need to find the bastard.
There was a knock at the door and then it opened.
Simpson didn’t turn around.
There was only one person who would enter without permission.
‘George?’ she said and closed the door.
‘Hmm,’ he replied. He was looking out of the window at darkening clouds and the first falls of hail.
‘Have you taken your medication?’
‘Mavis,’ he replied without turning to face her, ‘I’m not a child.’
He felt her close, at his shoulder.
‘I’m worried about you,’ she said. ‘You might be the chief in this place, but right now, you’re just my husband and I’m worried.’
‘Don’t be,’ he said. ‘Whatever will be, will be.’
She placed a hand on his arm. ‘Why don’t you pass this on to someone—’
‘Because there is no one else,’ he snapped. ‘I didn’t get here by choosing the soft options. We’ll sort this.’
He glanced again at the calendar. He had hundreds of officers covering the Mela. The planning had been going on for months and all of Bradford’s Asian community leaders had been emphasizing the importance of a peaceful event. So why did he feel so uneasy? Why wouldn’t the ache in his chest go away?
‘Your medicine,’ Mavis whispered again. ‘Just tell me you’ve taken it.’
Simpson crossed his body with his left hand and put it over hers. ‘See,’ he said. ‘Not shaking.’