by A. A. Dhand
TWENTY
HARRY WAS SURE Saima and Lucas had heard the door go, but neither reacted. They continued praying and Harry was caught in limbo. They wouldn’t stop now they’d started. It was forbidden.
‘Bloody religious people,’ Harry muttered and closed the living-room door quickly.
Simpson knocked again and Harry knew it was more than just a social call. His boss never visited him at home.
Did he know?
Harry didn’t like it. Cornered in his own home. As though he was under surveillance.
Harry could see the silhouette of Simpson through the frosted glass. Harry fidgeted with his keys, buying precious seconds. To do what with, he wasn’t sure.
He glanced towards the living room and then looked at his watch. Prayers didn’t last long. Maybe another few minutes. Lucas was alone with Saima. Harry felt confident she wouldn’t come to any harm but he was taking chances.
Unnecessary ones.
‘Sir,’ Harry said, opening the door.
Simpson didn’t hesitate. He pushed past Harry into the hallway.
Harry closed the door. Simpson took three long paces towards the living room. He hadn’t been invited in, paused to remove his shoes or exchanged any conversation with Harry.
‘You can’t go in there, sir,’ Harry said, louder and more forcefully than he intended.
Hoping that Lucas and Saima could hear.
Simpson paused but didn’t turn around. ‘Why not?’
‘Sir, my wife is praying,’ Harry replied loudly, thankful for once that he was able to play the race card. Simpson wouldn’t disrespect it. ‘Can’t let you in there until she’s finished her Friday prayers.’ He pointed across the road towards where the mosque was still relaying a sermon.
Simpson hesitated and turned around slowly. ‘I understand.’ Something had changed since that morning. He was looking at Harry differently. Not quite suspicion but certainly distrust.
‘What’s going on, sir?’ Harry asked. ‘Why have you come storming into my house?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I think you do.’
‘Sir, am I missing something?’ Harry put on his best blank stare.
Simpson moved closer, away from the living room, and dropped his voice. ‘Are you hiding something from me, Hardeep? Because I reached out to you this morning. I offered you a chance to put things right.’
‘And I appreciate it, sir. I’m making inquiries like you asked.’ Unlike Simpson, Harry didn’t drop his voice.
‘I have it on good authority that you found him. Lucas.’
Harry shook his head and took his boss’s arm, leading him almost to the front door. ‘Are you kidding me? My wife’s a week overdue, I’m facing a disciplinary and you think I’m keeping him all to myself? Can you hear yourself?’
‘Where were you this morning?’ Simpson was suddenly less sure of himself.
Harry filled him in quickly, feeling more and more apprehensive that Lucas was alone in the living room with Saima. He could still hear Saima’s voice, which had got louder.
Clever girl.
She was keeping Simpson out. Prayers hadn’t finished. But they couldn’t last much longer.
Harry wanted to tell Simpson, but there was something wrong. Simpson wasn’t himself.
‘I’ve had a report that Lucas was seen with you,’ Simpson said.
‘Where?’
Simpson put his hand in his pocket and handed Harry his wallet. ‘Care to explain?’ The living room had gone quiet. Simpson didn’t wait. He pushed past Harry, ignoring his request for his boss to stop.
Simpson opened the living-room door and stormed inside.
Saima was on her knees, struggling to get up. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at both men. ‘This is a surprise,’ she said innocently and beamed Simpson her warmest smile. ‘Come to wish me a happy Eid?’
Simpson forced a smile and nodded. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I . . . er . . . just had some urgent business with Harry.’
She nodded and held out her hand to Harry. ‘Help me up, Jaan?’
Harry stepped forward, desperately scanning the room. There was no sign of Lucas. The second prayer mat had disappeared, as had the cuffs and the key.
He’s gone, thought Harry.
Shit, he’s gone.
You hid this from your boss. Now you can’t tell him because it will land you in more trouble. You’ve lost the only man who could have saved you.
Harry helped Saima to her feet. He winked at her and she smiled.
A reassuring smile.
‘Sir.’ Harry turned to face Simpson. ‘You want to come into the kitchen? Have a cuppa?’
Simpson shook his head. ‘Just a word if I may. A few minutes and I’ll be on my way.’
Both men were in the kitchen. Harry told Simpson that he had tried to locate Lucas that morning, leaned on a few leads but nothing had come of it. And then a drug addict had said he had information but wanted a ‘score’ as payment so Harry had taken him down to Lumb Lane to land a hit. They’d got into a little trouble with the junkies and Harry’s wallet had been taken. It turned out the addict was using Harry and had nothing useful to offer.
‘I got played,’ said Harry. ‘Now, you want to tell me what’s going on?’
Simpson put his hands across his face and rubbed his chin. He looked drained. As if he’d aged ten years since that morning.
‘I . . . I got some bad intel.’ Simpson shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think it through.’
Saima was hovering next door in the living room, lighting incense sticks and humming merrily.
Where the fuck was Lucas?
Harry stared past his boss to the shed at the bottom of the garden. ‘If I had Lucas Dwight in my possession, then you would have him in yours. This intel – where did it come from?’
Simpson shook his head. ‘A source. Somebody I trust. Guess the pressure is on for everyone right now.’
‘The scumbag I was helping this morning might have been mistaken for Lucas. Thinking about it, they look kind of similar.’
Simpson stepped to the side and patted Harry on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. You want to close the door for a minute?’
Harry exchanged a strained look with Saima before he closed it.
‘Harry. I don’t expect anything from you, but in the unlikely event that you do hear something – anything at all – I want that first call to be to me. And only me. My ears. Understand?’
‘Is there something else going on that I don’t know about?’ Harry asked.
‘No. I’m just under some pressure. You know?’
Harry nodded. ‘Look, it’s Eid today, sir, and I’ve got to look after Saima. I’m limited to what I can offer you, but I’ve got a couple of feelers out. If anything comes of them I’ll be on the blower.’
Simpson thanked him and opened the kitchen door. He apologized to Saima for intruding and made his way hurriedly to the front door. Harry saw him out and then rushed back to the living room. Saima put her finger to her lips and he followed her into the kitchen.
‘Where is he?’ whispered Harry.
Saima shrugged. ‘He finished praying and then scooped up his prayer mat and the cuffs and sneaked out of the back door.’
‘Argh, crap,’ hissed Harry. ‘Lost him.’
‘For what it’s worth, his conversion isn’t a ploy. He read the namaz prayers perfectly. But more importantly he didn’t break them to escape.’
‘What’s with that? He needed to put himself first.’
‘He—’ Saima corrected herself. ‘We wouldn’t. When you are praying, there is nothing more important.’
‘I think you people need to check your priorities.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘You wouldn’t understand. You never do.’
‘So he’s legit?’ Harry asked, ignoring the dig.
She nodded.
‘I’m hoping that he’
s in that shed but I’m not feeling it. He’s going to think I set him up.’
‘He shouldn’t – you were clearly trying to warn us. Go and check.’
‘Not yet. Too quick. I don’t trust George not to double round and have a nosy. He knows something.’ Harry leaned back against the kitchen worktop, keeping his eyes firmly on the shed. ‘Something’s not right. I’ve not seen him like that before. He was . . . I don’t know. Panicked.’
‘He’s got to be under some pressure. Shakeel Ahmed was a big fish. And a racist murder has to be stirring up trouble right now.’
‘Dead right. Give me something to carry down to the shed. Something plausible.’
Saima hunted around the kitchen. ‘You could take the rubbish out. On your way back, pop into the shed and bring me a sack of potatoes. I need to cook bhajis for tonight.’
Harry grabbed the bin bag and headed out. He glanced casually around the garden, over the neighbours’ fences, towards the road. He didn’t see anything suspicious and doubled back up the path.
Harry opened the shed door and stepped inside.
TWENTY-ONE
‘LUCAS HAS GONE,’ said Harry. He put the prayer mat and cuffs he had found in the shed on the kitchen table.
‘You don’t think he’ll come back?’ asked Saima.
‘Would you?’ replied Harry. ‘The boss turning up on my doorstep isn’t exactly reassuring.’
‘Lucas isn’t guilty. Well, not of a racist murder. He put his faith first. That’s dedication.’
Harry scratched his stubble anxiously. He closed his eyes and thought hard about his next move. ‘I know where he’ll be when it gets dark. He’s going for the guy who tried to put him down. I need to get there first.’ Harry checked his watch and then looked at Saima. A look she knew well.
She shook her head. ‘You need to be here when the moon appears.’
Harry grimaced. Couldn’t hide it. He didn’t have time for superstitious nonsense. ‘Saima—’
‘You promised,’ she snapped, ‘and we are only here because of what you did last week. You can’t put this on me.’
‘Five o’clock? Is that what time we start?’
She nodded. ‘You’ll be free by half past. You promised.’ She poked him in the chest.
‘We can do it outside. We don’t need to—’
‘No, we can’t. We need to go to your parents’.’
‘Saima, they won’t even know we are there—’
‘That’s not the point and you know it.’ She was keeping her emotions in check. ‘You might not hold anything about our culture close but I do. If we don’t do this the right way, we’ll have bad luck. And I’m about to give birth, or had you forgotten? I want to pray for you. I want to see my mother-in-law on the single most important day for married women, even if I can’t talk to her. Why can’t you understand and put that first?’
Harry shook his head. ‘Lunacy,’ he muttered.
‘No!’ she snapped, unable to contain her anger any longer. ‘Lunacy is putting someone who means nothing to us, had no influence over us, in hospital for being an idiot.’ She pushed Harry more firmly in the chest and let her tears flow. ‘You dropped to his level – and what have you always told me? Rise above it. Love overcomes hate. But do you actually believe that any more? Did you ever believe it? Or are you so bitter about what has happened that you’ll look for any opportunity to dish out your own version of justice?’
Harry remained stony-faced. ‘You finished?’
She nodded and wiped the tears from her face.
‘Saima—’
But she turned away from him. ‘You do what you have to. Leave? Stay? We’ll see just what is important to you.’ She walked out of the kitchen and slammed the door.
Harry was sitting at the living-room table on his laptop. He had cancelled his credit cards, fearing they might have been compromised, and was now logged on to chat rooms and websites trying to see if Lucas’s name was trending. He found several key references which confirmed what he had suspected: there was a bounty on Lucas’s head. A big one.
Every dealer and snitch in the city had been told to keep their eyes peeled. Harry was looking desperately for the source of the bounty. The names he found were mostly known to him. Members of street gangs. Drug pushers. High up the chain of command.
If Harry had more time, he might have been able to get an audience with one of them – but time was something he didn’t have.
Harry closed his eyes and tried to put the events into some sort of order.
Lucas’s release from prison, Shakeel’s murder, DNA at the scene, and a street bounty on Lucas’s head, but not originating from Shakeel’s army of followers. Harry expected a possible revenge bounty, which this was not.
It seemed to stem from the streets.
Simpson had been acting strangely. He had a huge case on his hands – a massive headache – yet instead of manning the fort and ensuring all his detectives were working their bollocks off, he was turning up at Harry’s place, obviously believing Harry had Lucas.
How did he find out?
Harry fished his wallet from his pocket and opened it. The drug addicts who had taken it were right at the bottom of the food chain. Harry’s money, driving licence and credit cards were all missing but his gym, casino and national insurance cards were intact.
The wallet was handed in to Simpson.
But not by the low-life who stole it. They wouldn’t have access to the boss.
Which meant his wallet had travelled quickly up the chain of command, until it hit somebody on the streets who could contact his boss.
Harry needed to know who – but would Simpson give the name up?
He dialled Simpson’s number but it went unanswered. Harry redialled but got the same outcome. He sent a text asking his boss to call him immediately.
Harry wrote down everything he knew so far. He liked to put things down on paper; it made seeing patterns easier. He wrote in capitals, spacing each entry three lines apart.
When he was done, he stood up and stared at the solitary piece of paper from a bird’s eye view. He crossed his arms, read and reread everything. For almost fifteen minutes.
Drugs.
The connection. He drew a line connecting the clues and then circled Shakeel’s name.
Why was he murdered?
Because he was about to become powerful in Bradford.
To the detriment of the streets?
Maybe.
But why was Lucas framed?
Easy target.
And then he struck gold.
Misdirection.
Shit, this wasn’t about race. But somebody was trying to make it look like it was.
Why?
Bradford would turn quickly on race. Lucas Dwight was an easy man to frame. The picture twisted quite easily to show he had motive.
But whoever was pulling the strings had lost control of Lucas, which meant the fall guy was now a loose cannon.
His boss had the clue. Because whoever handed him his wallet knew what was going on.
He needed that man.
Harry really wanted to leave – chase down this link – but he couldn’t let Saima down. He flirted with the idea of calling some of his colleagues but didn’t dial.
He heard his boss’s voice in his ear.
. . . in the unlikely event that you do hear something – anything at all – I want that first call to be to me. And only me. My ears. Understand?
It was so strange. Out of character. At first Harry had thought it was because Simpson only had a few days left in the job. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Misdirection. Mistrust.
Harry put down his phone. Whom could he trust? There was another plan in play here. If apprehending Lucas was the priority for whoever was setting this up, then it meant there was another act yet to come. Otherwise containing him wouldn’t be so important.
Lucas Dwight was the key. Not because he was guilty, but because he wasn’t. Harry thought abou
t what Saima had said. That Lucas hadn’t broken his prayers when Simpson had arrived. That it was no act.
Harry checked his watch again. Four o’clock. He needed to get Saima out of the house quickly and complete the ritual which was important to her. Harry wasn’t going to fight her. She was right. He had taken an opportunity last week to vent his anger at choices he had made. The responsibility was his to deal with.
So he was going to shower, put on his suit and put a smile on his wife’s face so that when he hit the streets, he could do so with a clear mind.
He needed to get to Lucas. Who wasn’t being hunted because he was guilty . . . Lucas was being hunted because he was already a dead man.
TWENTY-TWO
WHEN MARTIN DAVIS regained consciousness, he was in unfamiliar surroundings. His head was pounding. The room came slowly into focus. There was a desk opposite. A grand mahogany desk.
His hands were tied behind his back and his legs secured to a chair. Each small movement of his neck felt as though it was pressing against barbed wire.
‘Hello?’ he called out in a shaky voice.
From behind, he heard the clink of ice cubes in a glass and even though the pain was excruciating, he turned his head but couldn’t see far enough to make an ID.
‘Who’s there?’ he called.
He heard liquid being poured into a glass and then nothing.
The room was dark, save for a brass lamp on the desk giving minimal illumination. Davis gave up trying to see who was behind him. He focused instead on the desk. He saw a fountain-pen holder with a pot of ink next to it, but aside from that, the enormous surface of the desk was bare.
Behind it hung a huge painting of Mecca. An oil canvas, crafted beautifully out of black and white.
I’ve been kidnapped by the Asians. Oh Christ.
‘Mecca,’ a voice said from behind as Davis’s eyes lingered on the picture. ‘Not a place you’ll be familiar with.’
Davis turned his head again and caught a shadow out of the corner of his eye. As quick as it appeared, it was gone.
‘Who are you?’ Davis asked. ‘Why have you brought me here?’
‘To kill you.’