by A. A. Dhand
‘No, you don’t. That was a long time ago. Trust is something you can’t afford. I’m not risking the streets swallowing you up. Don’t forget, you’re my investment.’
‘Odd way to look at it. It’s not a risk taking me into your home. Give me a quiet corner, maybe a little food and I’ll be silent.’
Harry thought of Saima. He’d have to tell her the truth.
No lies in our house, Jaan. Not ever.
‘I’ll take you to mine on one condition.’
‘Go on.’
‘You’re going there in cuffs. I don’t fuck about in my home. My wife’s overdue and my tolerance for bullshit is zero.’
Lucas sprawled his body across the back seat. ‘This is next-level crazy. Years ago, you put me in cuffs and sent me down. Now you’re putting me in cuffs to take me home?’
‘Exactly. Agreed?’
Lucas nodded and closed his eyes. ‘I’ll trust you. Know why?’
‘Because it will keep you safe.’
‘No. I’ll trust you because if you double-crossed me at your place, you’d spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder.’
Harry looked at him in the mirror again. They held each other’s stare for a beat before Harry looked away. He removed the handcuffs from his pocket and passed them over his shoulder.
SEVENTEEN
GEORGE SIMPSON WAS on his way to meet the informant he knew only as Colin. He’d finished the media briefing and released Lucas Dwight’s name to the public.
Lucas was now the most hunted man in Yorkshire.
Meeting Colin wasn’t difficult from a time perspective. The journey was a ten-minute walk from Trafalgar House and he’d excused himself for an hour following the briefing. Getting there unnoticed, however, was challenging.
Colin usually had information which Simpson needed to hear. And today he was in the mood to listen. Simpson couldn’t walk out of the headquarters unnoticed so he was forced to drive. He pulled out of Trafalgar House and headed towards the Bradford Hotel, a quarter-mile away, bang in the centre of the city. Up until recently it had been a Hilton, but their patience at Bradford’s inability to regenerate had finally run out.
Simpson paused at the traffic lights outside the hotel’s multi-storey car park. City Hall was to the left and a sudden rare block of sunshine escaped darkening clouds, lighting up the side of the mammoth Victorian building. Statues of former Kings and Queens of England were placed high on the exterior, polluted by hundreds of years of industrial soot. Simpson’s eyes were drawn to the only statue who wasn’t royalty: Oliver Cromwell. A fitting political figure to guard over Bradford, he thought. A man constantly defeating the odds to survive, usually after heavy bloodshed.
Simpson parked his Audi in the hotel car park and laboured towards Sunbridgewells. It was only around the corner but it took some effort. Simpson was convinced that he didn’t need his Parkinson’s medications, but he couldn’t deny that everyday activities like a simple walk were taking more and more effort.
On the street, Simpson took another moment and observed the calmness of Centenary Square, Bradford’s fightback against decay. It contained a four-thousand-square-metre mirror pool with more than a hundred fountains, including the tallest in the UK. Watching over it was the City Hall clock tower, rising 220 feet above ground level and inspired by the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence. It was the old world watching over the new and, for the briefest of moments, Simpson found hope for Bradford.
Sunbridgewells was a development of underground tunnels located under Sunbridge Road. A private investor was throwing a million pounds at the project to turn the ancient Victorian tunnel systems into quirky subterranean markets. Yet further attempts at change. Innovation.
Simpson approached the ancient wooden doors. Finding them ajar, he slipped inside and turned on his torch. Light bounced off exposed brickwork covered in white chalk.
The tunnels were spread over a huge area and Simpson had read that, to date, three hundred tonnes of dirt had been excavated in preparation for the underground plaza to be built. It was an ambitious project, but it seemed there were those in the city who believed that ‘Gotham’ could be rehabilitated.
‘Over here,’ a voice said.
Simpson pointed the torch to his far right and saw the broad outline of Colin.
‘Of all the places we could have met,’ Simpson said.
‘Discretion. You won’t get any better.’
‘I believe discretion is what you insist on.’
‘Come. This way.’ Reed turned on an industrial torch which was fixed to the ground. Extremely bright rays of light bounced off the shallow ceiling, hitting rows of steel beams running horizontally from one side of the tunnel to the other. There was construction equipment on the floor and evidence of a crew somewhere at work: bags, tools and boots.
Reed took Simpson gently by the arm and led him further underground, helping him to avoid ditches in the ground. There were more lamps highlighting the route, more evidence of construction. They walked down a narrow set of steps. Simpson didn’t touch the handrail. The iron had rusted long ago and sharp fractured metal looked ready to pierce skin.
They arrived at a wide section of tunnel. Paving slabs on the ground had been recently washed and the smell of damp wasn’t as overpowering. Reed spoke nostalgically of the tunnels. Of memories of the sixties when there had been bars and shops within them. The ancient network of passageways had hosted niche gigs by artists like the Beatles and even Jimi Hendrix. A world nobody knew about. A time long forgotten when Bradford was steeped in success.
‘There.’ Reed pointed to an entrance halfway down the track. He let go of Simpson’s arm now they were in a safe passage and led him to the barren room. Simpson stepped through a doorless opening, into a room no more than six feet square.
‘Used to be a prison cell, this,’ said Reed. ‘Courthouse used to be above.’
‘Fascinating,’ Simpson replied irritably, ‘and when I’ve got time for a history lesson you can give me the grand tour. For now, let’s get to it. What is it that you know?’
Reed towered over Simpson, who was no slouch at six foot. The room seemed to close in around him and for the briefest of moments Simpson felt threatened.
‘I want to feed you some information that will be of interest. That’s the nature of our relationship,’ Reed said.
‘We don’t have a relationship.’ The tunnels were arctic and Simpson was trying to stop his teeth from chattering. ‘Relationships are two-way streets, which this is not.’
‘What are you so antsy about?’ Reed asked. ‘I’ve got a pressing matter which couldn’t wait. I know what’s on your radar.’
‘I dislike meeting this way. It makes me uncomfortable. Like I have things to hide, which I do not.’
‘But I do,’ Reed replied. ‘In my line of work discretion is key so I can’t be seen to be your pet. I offload information and let you take care of the dirty work. Or have the cases I’ve handed you over the past three years not been welcome?’
Simpson didn’t answer. Colin Reed had forced his way into Simpson’s life by offering information about a large ring of paedophiles. Simpson had ignored him initially but underground vigilante gangs had ratcheted the pressure to such a level that, in desperation, Simpson had listened to Reed. His scepticism had been short-lived. Reed was legit and had since proven to be a powerful if elusive ally. He claimed helping Simpson clean up Bradford was in his business interests.
‘I’m a source. A snitch. Call it what you want,’ said Reed. ‘And that means I get to keep my anonymity. You don’t like that – it’s fine. You don’t have to deal with me much longer. What is it? A week left?’
‘What’s the information you want to share?’ Simpson pulled his coat tighter around his body. The chill was unrelenting.
‘Have you arrested Lucas Dwight?’
‘I just gave a press conference half an hour ago,’ Simpson said, unable to hide the contempt in his voice. ‘You think he’s
going to fall out of my arse in that time?’
‘So you’re telling me he’s not been arrested. He’s not in custody?’
‘I just answered that.’
Reed sighed. ‘He’s already been found. Lucas Dwight is currently running around Bradford with one of your detectives. Virdee. Hardeep Virdee, I believe.’
Simpson shook his head. ‘Not possible. I have an understanding with Harry.’
‘He’s suspended, from what I hear.’
The fact that Reed seemed to know everything that happened in the city needled Simpson. Reed was the most connected source he’d ever encountered.
‘I’d love to know which of my guys is on your payroll.’
‘The better question is, which one is not.’
‘So why always come to me then?’
‘I like dealing with the boss. That way I know there are no crossed wires.’
‘Virdee doesn’t have Lucas Dwight,’ Simpson said. ‘He’s about to lose his job. He couldn’t afford not to bring him in.’
‘I’m with you. Which begs the question, why hasn’t he?’
‘Because he doesn’t have him. What makes you so sure?’
‘Somebody told me.’
‘Who?’
‘A drug addict.’
‘A drug addict?’ Simpson sneered.
‘Yes. Virdee and Dwight scored some methadone about an hour ago off Lumb Lane. While they were busy, one of the addicts broke into their car and stole Inspector Virdee’s wallet.’ Reed put his hand in his pocket and handed a brown leather case to Simpson. ‘How else would I have got this?’
Simpson opened it up and pulled out the credit cards: ‘Hardeep S. Virdee’.
‘How did your addict know to contact you? With this?’
‘Because I have a bounty on Lucas Dwight’s head. It’s in my interest he’s apprehended.’
‘How so?’
‘The people I represent have business interests in this city.’ Reed nodded at the tunnel systems they were in. ‘They’re afraid this case might create instability in Bradford.’ He paused and added, ‘And we all know what that looks like.’
Everything sounded inconceivable. But Simpson couldn’t argue with the fact that he was holding Virdee’s wallet. ‘I’ll look into it.’ He slipped the wallet into his pocket.
‘Good,’ replied Reed. ‘There’s one more thing, though.’
‘Go on.’
‘I need a favour in return this time.’
‘You want a favour?’
Reed nodded. ‘Just this time and since it’s our last rendezvous, I think it’s time to cash in.’
‘Cash in?’ Simpson replied, unhappy with the inference. ‘We don’t have a financial relationship, Colin.’
‘It’s delicate, this situation. I’m hoping that in light of everything I’ve told you over the past three years and the good work we’ve done together, you’ll trust me.’
‘What is it you want?’ Simpson asked, tiring of the cloak-and-dagger act. The cold was starting to bite and his joints were beginning to seize.
‘When you apprehend Lucas, I need you to hand him over to me.’
‘What? Are you crazy?’
‘Not indefinitely. I just need to ask him a few questions.’
‘Last time I checked you weren’t on my payroll.’
‘After everything I’ve given—’
‘It was never a reciprocal arrangement. Never.’
‘That’s true, and if this wasn’t vitally important, I wouldn’t ask. But it is. There’s a right way and a wrong way to do this and I’m trying to be . . . well, nice.’ Reed let the statement hang in the air for a moment and fixed Simpson with a venomous stare.
‘Is that . . . Are you threatening me?’ Simpson said.
‘Yes,’ Reed replied brazenly. ‘I am, because I really have no choice if you won’t give me five minutes with Lucas.’
Simpson withdrew his hands from his pockets and folded his arms defensively. The cold had vanished and an adrenaline heat started to permeate through his body. ‘Do you know who you are threatening? I could arrest you right now.’
‘But you won’t, because if you do . . . let’s just say that people might become aware of several large payments made to your wife’s bank account by a subsidiary I represent, which . . . on closer inspection might prove to be not so . . . clean.’
‘What? I have no idea what you are talking about.’
‘Three years ago, you were contacted by a solicitor who told you that a distant relative of your wife had died and left instructions in her will to deposit fifteen thousand pounds a year into your wife’s account for four years, which, by my reckoning, ends next July.’
Simpson felt his face flush. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find any words.
‘Insurance,’ Reed continued. ‘Don’t worry – it’s not blood money. Just some pounds the taxman didn’t get. From what I gather, it’s given you a nice little conservatory.’
‘What the hell are you?’ Simpson asked. ‘A snitch or a spy? Have you been playing me all these years? Drip-feeding me snippets—’
‘They weren’t snippets. They were career-making cases,’ Reed said fiercely. ‘Listen, George. My interest is to protect my clients. And sometimes that means I’ve got to turn black and white into grey. Work between the lines. All I’m asking you for is a few minutes alone with Lucas Dwight. And you will do this for me or, to be frank, you’ll see a side of me you’d rather not. And I don’t want to play that game with you. I respect what you’ve done for this city.’
‘You’re a treacherous piece of work.’
‘I’m a friend. But the line between friend and foe is five minutes with Lucas Dwight. Go see Inspector Virdee. Pick up Lucas and bring him back here. To me. You take a little walk, I ask my questions, you take him in. Everybody goes home happy.’
‘How did I not see that money was tainted?’ Simpson asked, more of himself than of Reed.
‘Because when you offer people a windfall, they usually take it without digging too deeply. It’s human nature. Don’t be too hard on yourself. And, like I said, it’s unaccounted-for tax money. There are worse things it could be.’
Simpson was seething. Five days from retirement and he had a murder, a restless city and now a blackmail attempt. ‘It’s not going to happen. You drag me wherever you want. I’m clean. Always have been.’
There was a pause of a few seconds; then Reed stepped closer, so Simpson could feel his breath on his face. ‘Let me put this another way . . .’ Reed dropped his voice. ‘I’m a man who walks a path between you and a side of Bradford even you don’t know exists. The people I work for know I’m here. They know what I know. And after they leak details of the “improper” payments, life is likely to become very difficult for you.’
‘I don’t take kindly to threats.’
‘Of course you don’t. You didn’t get where you are by caving at the first sign of trouble. But . . .’ Reed put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a Polaroid photograph. ‘. . . can you say that your wife is as strong?’
Reed handed it to Simpson. The photo was of Mavis entering Trafalgar House that morning.
‘You son of a—’
‘Hey!’ Reed backed off a step. ‘I like you. And for Christ’s sake, look at what I’ve given you over the past three years. I’m the good guy, the go-between, the deal-maker. You think I want this shit on my head? I want five minutes alone with a guy who is wanted for the most controversial murder this city has ever seen. Or, quite frankly, some things are going to slot into play which neither of us want.’
‘We’re done here.’ Simpson put the photograph of his wife in his pocket.
Reed offered him a cheap mobile phone. ‘There’s one number in the call list. When you have Lucas, call me.’
Simpson snatched the phone. ‘Show me out.’
‘Do we have an understanding?’ Reed asked.
‘If your phone rings and it’s me, then you can assume we do.’
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‘Don’t make me go places I don’t want to go, George.’
Simpson turned his back and walked out the room, his face darkening.
The cliff-edge Bradford teetered on was beginning to crack.
EIGHTEEN
‘WHERE IS HE?’ Saima asked.
‘Outside. In the shed. Handcuffed to a wheelbarrow,’ Harry replied.
Saima chewed her lip. She was sitting on a dining-room chair with her belly out, rubbing oil into her skin. ‘You’re telling me that we’ve got Bradford’s most wanted in our shed?’
Harry nodded. ‘I know. It’s not ideal.’
‘Ideal? No. It’s far from ideal. I don’t know what’s worse: the fact my husband lied to me about being suspended or having a murderer in my shed?’
She was right. If he could go back . . .?
But that was Harry all over. When the red mist set in, he couldn’t disengage. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time my dad beat me for stealing?’
She looked puzzled and shook her head.
‘When I was eleven, my mum gave me five pounds a month. Pocket money.’ Harry pulled out a chair and sat down opposite his wife, close enough so their knees were touching. Saima continued smearing oil across her stomach.
‘I never spent it,’ Harry continued. ‘I knew we didn’t have much money and I always saved it, thinking one day maybe I’d save enough to get my parents away from the shop. Make things easier. Kids’ dreams.’
‘What happened?’ Saima asked. She finished with the oil and pulled her top over her bump.
‘I can’t remember exactly what the crisis was, but we lost some money. I always remember my mum’s voice. She was panicking about paying my and Ronnie’s school fees and my dad was vexed about the loss.’ Harry screwed his eyes shut.
‘Go on,’ Saima said, and leaned closer towards Harry.
‘Anyway, the next day I snuck into my mum’s room and put the money I’d been saving in her coat pocket. Fifty quid I think – nearly a year’s worth.’ Harry smiled ruefully. ‘Just my bad luck that my dad came into the bedroom at the exact moment my hand was in my mum’s coat pocket, stuffed with money. It looked . . .’ His voice trailed away.