by A. A. Dhand
‘Like you were thieving?’ Saima whispered.
‘My dad was so mad.’
‘Why didn’t you tell him?’
Harry shrugged. ‘I looked guilty. I never thought he’d believe me. I’d dug my own grave.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Took off his belt.’ Harry held up his hand to show her the story was over. ‘When I saw Lucas today . . . I don’t know, I just had that same feeling. That there’s more to this. Can you understand that?’
Saima took his hands and squeezed them gently. ‘I’ll always trust you, Harry Virdee.’
Harry thanked her and got up.
‘Before you bring him in,’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘Tell me about the case. About Lucas.’
‘We don’t discuss my work at home—’
‘Technically’ – she turned her head to the side to look at him – ‘you’re not at work. You’re suspended, remember? So tell me.’
Harry retook his seat. ‘First, I am sorry about what I did last week.’ He sighed and put his hand on her face. ‘It wasn’t smart.’
She nodded. ‘As long as we’re in this city, knowing when and when not to defend your wife is going to be central to making our relationship work.’
‘If I had more of your patience and less of my temper, we’d be formidable.’
‘We are formidable,’ she replied. ‘That’s the point. No matter what people say, no matter how racist they are or how much hate they throw at us, we, Harry and Saima Virdee, are formidable.’ She removed his hand from her face and put it on her stomach. ‘And when our daughter, Aliyah, arrives and is thrust into a world where her identity is questioned and poked fun at, she will also be formidable. Because that’s who we are. Who we need to be. Who we have to be.’
‘This is why I married you. Exactly why.’
‘So, tell me about this case. Let me see if I can help you.’
‘OK, but firstly, I’m vetoing Aliyah.’
‘Had to try.’
Harry told her. Her green eyes were flickering like the lights on a hard drive, absorbing data. When he had finished, she took a few moments, chewed her bottom lip again, and then spoke calmly and authoritatively.
‘Pretending to convert to Islam might be the best alibi he could get. Like that movie where a woman writes about killing someone, then a guy ends up dead in exactly the fashion described in her novel.’
Harry nodded. ‘The prayers looked and sounded authentic enough to me. I’ve seen you do it enough times.’
‘What you see and what you feel are two different things.’
‘Agreed. But he had more than one chance to escape. He wants my help and, to be fair, he had floored me with a killer punch to my liver. I was out. At his mercy. And he retreated.’
Saima took a few deep breaths.
‘Baby?’ asked Harry.
‘Kicking. Somersaulting. Cartwheeling. The usual.’
‘Don’t give birth today.’ Harry tried to sound jovial but he was deadly serious.
‘It’s Eid and Karva Chauth. That hasn’t happened in centuries. She would be blessed to be born today. Fuses two worlds perfectly.’
Harry smiled. ‘Even so, not helpful today. So, what do you think?’
‘I think I need to speak with Mr Dwight.’
‘About what?’
‘His conversion to Islam. Whether it’s authentic or not.’
Harry grinned. ‘You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, you know that?’
‘You’re going to tell me that I saved you again?’
‘It was I who saved you. If I hadn’t rescued you, you’d be married to some dude called Abdul, wearing a burka and tripping over your own feet whilst cooking for his seventeen family members.’
‘Massaging oil into his balding scalp and combing his three strands of hair?’
‘You got it. I saved you from that.’
‘And me? What did I save you from?’
‘Myself,’ Harry replied. ‘I was tired of dating all those non-descript Asian girls. All style and no substance.’
‘How many were there again?’
‘Less than three, more than one.’
‘Liar. You are such a liar,’ she said. Although Harry was Saima’s first relationship, Harry left his colourful history open to speculation.
‘We’re getting off radar here. Shall I go and get Lucas or not?’
‘First tell me, how many women there were? Or else I’m not helping.’
Harry stood up. ‘Prince Charming had to kiss a few frogs before he found his princess.’
Saima nodded grimly. ‘Go. Go and get him, but the cuffs stay on.’
Lucas Dwight was sitting at the dining table in Harry’s living room. Lucas’s hands were on the table, handcuffs glistening in the overhead light. He looked dishevelled and in need of a wash.
Harry was sitting next to him, watching him carefully as Saima entered the room carrying a large wooden box. She placed it in front of Lucas, who stared at it.
The box was a dark chestnut colour, with an elegant gold plaque inscribed with Arabic writing in the centre.
Saima took a seat opposite Lucas.
‘Open it,’ she said.
He smiled. Warmly. And then shook his head. ‘You’re Muslim?’
Saima nodded.
‘Bismillah hir Rahman nir Raheem.’
‘Subhan Allah,’ Saima replied softly.
Lucas turned his attention to Harry. ‘You married a Muslim woman?’
Harry nodded.
‘But you’re not Muslim?’
‘No.’
Lucas nodded slowly. As though he understood something.
They shared a look. A silent acceptance that they had both perhaps walked a path others would never understand.
Lucas held up his hands. ‘I won’t touch the Koran with these hands.’
Saima smiled. And looked at Harry.
‘However,’ Lucas continued, ‘if you allow me the briefest of washes, I’m happy to pray with you.’ He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s twenty past one. Shall I lead you in Friday prayers?’
‘If my husband doesn’t object,’ Saima replied.
‘Would he object to opening these?’ Lucas said, waving the handcuffs in the air.
‘Yes, he would,’ replied Harry. ‘You can pray with them on.’
‘I’d rather he didn’t,’ Saima said.
‘And I’d rather ensure my wife wasn’t at risk.’
‘I won’t be,’ replied Saima. ‘You’re going to be here, in the room. And I would like to see Lucas read Friday prayers with me.’
Lucas stared at Harry and raised his hands. ‘I had my chance to cause you some harm. I’m not about to cross you. This is a test, no? See if I’m using faith as an alibi?’
‘My wife likes playing detective. And whilst you might be able to fool me with your conversion, she’s a different animal entirely.’
‘Smart,’ Lucas replied. ‘Only somebody Islamic can really judge if I’m playing you. Very smart.’
Harry put his hand underneath Lucas’s arm. ‘Come on, you can wash upstairs. I’ll chaperone.’
The day had started off bizarrely but nothing could have prepared Harry for what he was about to witness.
Saima had laid out two prayer mats on the floor in the living room. A brown one for Lucas and, behind it, a green one for her. Lucas picked up the wooden box, with clean hands, and kissed it before touching his forehead to it. He repeated this three times. Saima watched intently. Harry knew she loved this stuff. Tradition. Religion.
Harry was about as far detached from it as she was involved. He watched in amazement as the ex-leader of the BNP started to lead his wife in Friday prayers. Up the street, the local mosque started its call to prayer.
Only in Bradford.
Harry thought it unlikely he would ever find anything in life so strange again. He was listening to the rhythmic whispers of the prayers, the call f
rom the mosque in the background, when there was a loud knocking on the door.
A complication he hadn’t anticipated.
Harry, still standing in the living-room doorway, glanced nervously to his right.
Another knock.
And now the letter box creaked open. A pair of eyes stared through it, fixing Harry with a look he’d seen hundreds of times before.
It was his boss, Detective Superintendent George Simpson.
NINETEEN
BASHIR IQBAL WAS parked in his taxi outside the Midland Hotel, a grand Victorian building which had played host to every prime minister up to Harold Wilson. It was, of course, where Martin Davis chose to stay. A place steeped in successful history. A place which in the sixties had welcomed the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. A hotel which now perfectly reflected its Bradford surroundings: living off old memories, unable to forge new ones.
The concierge at the hotel was a friend to Zain Ahmed and had told Bashir that Davis was due to check out the next day. They had formulated a hasty extraction plan but the sight of Martin Davis walking down the steps of the hotel, suitcase in hand and getting into a waiting grey Jaguar had not formed part of it. Davis got in the back, behind the driver.
Bashir started his car and moved quickly. He overtook another taxi and swung in behind Davis. There would be the driver to contend with but Bashir wasn’t panicked. He would have the element of surprise, worth far more than another pair of hands.
Traffic was light and they were out of the city centre, on Manchester Road, within a few minutes.
The motorway.
That’s where Davis was heading. If he made it, then he would be lost to Bashir.
The Jaguar was speeding, well over the forty limit. Bashir’s options were few. He felt his blood pressure rising. He took one hand off the steering and quickly placed it inside his shirt collar, on the back of his neck; he picked at a fresh scab and felt the sudden wetness of blood.
The momentary sting was calming. Bashir put his foot down and tailed the Jag.
The dual carriageway was a straight road, a few miles long. There was no time to call in assistance. In roughly five minutes, Davis would reach the M606 and from there he would be out of reach.
Bashir accelerated wildly and overtook the Jaguar. He gained twenty metres and then moved back into the middle lane. There were several sets of traffic lights on Manchester Road and Bashir stopped at the first one. He felt the slow trickle of blood seeping down his neck into the creases of his skin. Bashir stared in his rear-view mirror. The driver looked middle-aged, maybe early forties. Broad shoulders. Wearing a suit. Speaking with Davis.
The lights had changed to green. Bashir hurriedly put the car in gear and moved on.
He kept his speed just under forty; every second he could slow Davis was critical. But the Jaguar simply undercut him and tore past.
Bashir reached across and opened the glovebox, frantically searching for a weapon but there was nothing but an old takeaway wrapper.
His tools.
They were in the boot.
Bashir’s car swerved in the middle lane as he took his eyes off the road. He caught up to Davis and stopped behind the Jag at the next set of lights. The pursuit was back on.
Bashir was leaving the country tomorrow. Of that he was certain, because irrespective of how this played out, he would visit the house tonight and pay off decades’ worth of waiting. So he could afford to take more risks than he usually might. He just needed one opportunity.
They reached a roundabout at the top of Manchester Road – and Bashir caught a break. The driver started to indicate right. And then paused.
A long pause. Normally Bashir would have hit his horn, but there was a discussion going on in the Jaguar. And then the indicator changed. The driver looked over his shoulder and manoeuvred into the left lane, forking away from the motorway.
A last-minute detour.
It was exactly what Bashir needed. Sticker Lane’s a good spot. A place where Bashir had friends. Ones who could help.
Bashir was betting that Davis would head back this way because they had intended to turn right at the roundabout, towards the motorway. Sticker Lane was popular with car showrooms. There were enormous VW, BMW, Mini and Suzuki dealerships, but there were also several smaller, independent garages.
He called a trusted friend, the manager of SL Motors, and gave some hurried instructions. Bashir hung up abruptly, knowing his orders would be followed. Nobody disobeyed him. The penalties were well known.
The Jaguar stopped at the crossroads with Leeds Road. The driver indicated right and Bashir followed him. Davis’s car slowed down, then took a sharp left into Mother Hubbard’s Fish & Chips restaurant. Bashir didn’t follow. Instead he went on a little further, turned right into a disused car wash and parked facing the restaurant.
Martin Davis had been raised a Yorkshire lad. In the eighties, the best place for fish and chips in Bradford had been Mother Hubbard’s. It had been opened by Coronation Street stars in 1972 at a staggering cost of £92,000. The restaurant had been unique, looking like an old fairy-tale cottage, something straight out of ‘Hansel and Gretel’. People had travelled across the county to sample the food. But in the late nineties with the migration towards Indian food and cheap ‘Asian fish and chips’, Mother Hubbard’s had gone out of business.
Now, a decade later, it had reopened right in the centre of Bradford’s premier restaurant district. It was a bold building, commanding an entire corner, with enormous floor-to-ceiling windows and a large illuminating sign. It took Davis back to his youth: greasy chip-shop food, wrapped in newspapers, eaten on a park bench after kicking around a football. Martin Davis was an excited school kid again as he entered the shop. To think he’d nearly left town without visiting this place.
The inside was brightly lit with gleaming white tiles and simple wooden chairs with white tables. The left-hand wall had a huge article describing the history of the restaurant and there were pictures from its grand beginnings in Great Horton back in the seventies.
The restaurant was empty. Davis checked his watch. Before midday. He was pleased to see that all the workers, including the fish-fryer, were white.
Finally, an authentic fish-and-chip shop back in Bradford.
Davis ordered a deluxe portion with mushy peas. It was six quid, a world away from the forty-five pence he remembered paying as a child, but on seeing the size of the cod, Davis couldn’t grumble at the price.
He took his food into the corner of the restaurant and sat down to enjoy his first Mother Hubbard’s meal in over twenty years.
Bashir changed his mind. He had quickly put a haphazard plan together but now, looking around Leeds Road, he realized there would be no better time. Quarter to twelve. The lunch rush hour was fifteen minutes away.
Davis’s car was parked to the side of the building, away from the front, almost in a blind spot. Davis had got out and left the driver inside. In all probability the back doors would be open. Unless the driver had locked them again, which seemed unlikely.
He was sitting absorbed in a newspaper, not expecting to be ambushed.
Bashir pulled his taxi out of the car park and drove across Leeds Road into Mother Hubbard’s. He parked behind the Jaguar and got out of the car.
From the boot, Bashir took a large black sports holdall and rummaged through it until he located his stun gun. It fitted snugly in the palm of his hand.
Bashir headed towards the Jaguar. Without hesitating, he tried the back door, found it unlocked and slipped inside, behind the driver. He jolted electricity into the driver’s neck and, before the man had a chance to react, rendered him comatose. The driver slumped to the side, held upright by his seatbelt so it looked like he was stealing forty winks. Perfect.
Bashir got out of the car. He had left his boot open so that from the street it was blocking the view of the Jaguar. He needed to move the driver’s body into the boot. Bashir glanced towards the street. It was a risky play. For a fe
w brief moments, Bashir was caught in no man’s land. He reconsidered and left the driver at the wheel.
Bashir got back into his car and waited. If Davis was longer than fifteen minutes, Bashir was going to have a problem.
Martin Davis unwrapped his meal and poured mushy peas over his chips. The fish was golden and crispy, and the chips were chunky and glistening with oil. For a few moments, Martin Davis forgot all about losing the by-election and his fraught meeting with Colin Reed.
He sprinkled a generous amount of salt over his food and then shovelled a huge chunk of fish into his mouth.
He opened the leaflet the woman at the counter had given him. It was information about the restaurant and a menu. The prices were certainly high, especially for that part of Bradford, but Davis assumed people would pay for authentically made fish and chips.
And then he stopped chewing and focused on the menu. At the bottom right-hand corner. It carried the word ‘halal’ in Arabic script. Davis recognized it immediately – it was on most Asian restaurant shopfronts in Bradford.
Davis looked suspiciously around the restaurant. It didn’t feel Asian-owned. There was nothing to suggest it was anything other than an authentic British chippy.
Davis looked at the menu more closely. The sausage wasn’t pork. It was chicken. This was not the Mother Hubbard’s he had been hoping for.
Davis felt betrayed. He crumpled up the rest of his meal in its wrapper and forcefully squeezed it together. He left the mess on the table, stood up and stormed out of the restaurant, ignoring the polite goodbyes of the assistants.
Outside, the bitter cold was welcome. Sacrilege to have taken a Yorkshire institution like Mother Hubbard’s and given it to the bloody Asians. Davis’s mind was full of blind fury as he opened the Jaguar’s back door and got in.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ he growled. ‘Place was a shit-hole.’
But his driver didn’t reply. Instead Martin Davis’s door was flung open. He had a brief glimpse of a scruffy-looking Asian man with thick greying stubble before an agonizing pulse tore into his neck.
Davis didn’t even have time to scream.