Streets of Darkness (D.I. Harry Virdee)

by A. A. Dhand

Broad Yorkshire accent. Softly spoken.

  ‘What? Why?’ Davis’s voice rose with panic.

  ‘I’m kidding. But I wouldn’t rule out a little torture. Ripping off your toenails – shit like that.’

  Bashir was sitting out of sight in a dark corner of the room watching Zain’s attempt at intimidation. Zain had insisted he would break Davis and extract the information. Already, Bashir knew his tactics were wrong. He was talking too much, telling instead of showing. With his first contact, Zain should have instilled the fear of God. It was a skill Bashir was proficient in.

  ‘Please—’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of time for pleading,’ Zain replied.

  Bashir grimaced. Did this kid only watch bad movies?

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Shakeel Ahmed’s son.’

  Zain walked past the chair and took a seat at his father’s desk. He placed his feet on it, darted his gaze momentarily towards Bashir and crossed his legs. Zain took a slow sip of bronze-coloured liquid from a crystal tumbler and stared blankly at Davis.

  ‘It’s quite a coup to have the leader of the BNP sitting in my office. Feels like when you get your first hooker and realize that even though it might be wrong, for the next sixty minutes you can fuck her brains out whether she wants it or not. Ever experienced that?’

  Davis shook his head.

  ‘I’d recommend it.’ Zain chuckled. ‘And depending on how we get on, you might still get the chance.’ He took another sip of his drink.

  ‘Look – I don’t know what happened to your father—’

  Zain smirked and raised his eyebrows dismissively. ‘Standard opening line.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘I’m not buying.’

  ‘Where’s my driver?’

  ‘Which part of him?’

  Davis opened his mouth to reply, and then stopped.

  ‘I’m kidding.’ Zain smirked again. ‘He’s taken a vacation for a couple of days. I’d say someplace warm, but it’s more likely to be cold and damp. Still, it’s a couple of days off work.’

  Bashir stood up to leave. He hated small talk. He worked the old-fashioned way and only spoke at the end. He was going to give Zain an hour with Davis. After that, Zain would lose interest. He spoke softly in Urdu to tell Zain he would be outside and to call him when he was needed. He didn’t give Zain a chance to reply.

  ‘Who was that?’ Davis asked, alarmed.

  ‘The man who brought you here. The man I’m trying to keep from you. You’ve heard of good cop, bad cop, right?’

  Davis nodded.

  ‘I’m bad cop, and him? He’s something else entirely. You want to know an interesting fact about my colleague?’

  Davis shook his head. ‘No, I don’t want to know anything. I just want to leave.’

  ‘And you can. As soon as you tell me who murdered my father.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know—’

  Zain wagged his finger, as if he was scolding a small child. ‘Like I was saying, something interesting about my colleague. I don’t know if it’s true or not; he’s not exactly the kind of guy you ask.’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘If you keep interrupting me I’ll have to get started with you sooner than I intended,’ snapped Zain.

  Davis closed his mouth.

  ‘So my friend outside . . .’ Zain continued, regaining his previous calmness. ‘Rumour has it he’s obsessed with blood. Fucked up, right?’ He laughed. ‘I don’t know: stuff people say? I’ve even heard that he sweats blood – now come on, you have to admit that sounds pretty messed up?’

  Zain removed his feet from the desk and stood up. He raised his arms and performed a full-body stretch, cracking his spine. Then he made his way towards Davis and perched on the end of the desk. ‘Thing is, Martin – you don’t mind if I call you that?’

  Davis shook his head.

  ‘If you don’t play nice with me, I won’t be here when he comes back. So I guess you’ll just have to let me know if it’s true. Yeah?’

  Davis shook his head vehemently. ‘I didn’t kill your father.’

  ‘Rumour has it Lucas Dwight did. You remember him? Old pal of yours?’

  ‘He’s not my pal.’

  Zain removed his jacket to reveal a thin, wiry frame. ‘My father taught me one thing really well,’ he said, folding the jacket neatly and placing it in the middle of the desk. ‘He taught me the only way to get the truth from somebody is to beat it out of them. How do I know this? Because . . .’ Zain removed a brass knuckle-duster from his pocket. ‘. . . this was my father’s.’

  Bashir was sitting outside the office. He could hear Zain beating Davis, who was groaning in pain. It was a dull, measured, repetitive noise.

  Bashir knew little about Davis. He didn’t need to. He had a unique way of getting people to see reason.

  The call would come. Zain would soon tire. He had the stamina of a child.

  Bashir put his hand under his shirt. He always wore black to mask the bleeding. He removed it and was comforted to see his fingers were covered in fresh blood. He wiped them on his trousers and waited.

  It was twenty minutes before Zain opened the door. He was sweating and looked furious. He threw the brass knuckle-duster on the floor. It clanged noisily on the concrete and came to rest by Bashir’s feet.

  ‘He doesn’t know anything.’

  Bashir nodded. He didn’t get up.

  Zain untucked his shirt from his trousers and fanned himself. ‘You want to have fun? Be my guest, but he’s a tough son of a bitch.’

  This was why Zain couldn’t succeed at the helm of the empire. He thought somebody taking a beating made them ‘tough’. He thought a few punches with a knuckle-duster made him king.

  The kid was pathetic.

  ‘He knows something,’ Bashir replied. ‘It’s in his voice.’

  ‘Please—’ Zain gestured towards the office door. ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘I have rules.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘You give me the key for the room. No matter what you hear from inside, you are not allowed in.’ In English, Bashir was unnerving because of his lack of words. When he spoke Urdu, it was what he said that worried Zain.

  ‘Dramatic, aren’t you?’

  ‘You agree?’

  Zain shrugged. ‘I don’t see how you making him bleed is any different to me doing it.’

  Bashir stood up and stretched out his hand. ‘The key.’

  ‘It’s in the door.’

  Bashir moved past Zain and lifted a black holdall from the floor. There was a jangling of metal.

  ‘What is it that you do?’ asked Zain.

  Bashir didn’t reply.

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘Not long.’ Bashir disappeared into the office. The door clicked shut behind him.

  Bashir stood in the doorway and looked carefully around the room, taking in details he hadn’t noticed before. Davis was slumped in the chair. There was a dome-shaped CCTV camera in the ceiling, far corner. Bashir walked towards it. Halfway across, he dropped his holdall on the floor. There was an audible clang of metal. Bashir could feel Davis’s watchful eyes.

  He pulled up a chair, grabbed the camera and turned it around. Away from Davis.

  Now, he felt comfortable.

  Now, it was time.

  ‘Please . . .’ Davis pleaded. ‘I didn’t kill Shakeel Ahmed.’

  Bashir grabbed the back of Davis’s chair and turned it 180 degrees. He stepped in front of him, ensuring his back was towards Davis. He didn’t want to look at him. Not yet. Not until the anger overcame him. Bashir turned his face towards the painting of Mecca. He was fascinated by it. The details of the Kaaba were breathtaking.

  ‘Fuck you!’ Davis spat. He was becoming more and more agitated in the chair.

  For Bashir, these moments were beautiful. It was the anticipation. The beautiful calm before it started.

  Davis’s behaviour was normal. Denial turned to anger
. But only briefly. Once the mind was broken, information would flow quickly.

  Bashir took a few moments to compose himself. He knelt down and slowly, almost reverentially, removed a chain from his holdall. Attached to it were five heavy steel knives. A zanjeer. An Islamic implement for religious self-flagellation.

  Bashir placed it carefully on the table. He still hadn’t turned around to look at Davis.

  Bashir closed his eyes and started to unbutton his shirt. When it was open, he paused. He thought about the house he would visit tonight. About how he had ended up in England.

  A slave to his past.

  Anger started to build. Slowly at first.

  And then he thought about the girl.

  Ruksa.

  He could still picture the scene. Her body thrashing to escape. Begging for it to stop.

  Bashir dropped his shirt to the floor.

  There was a sharp intake of breath from behind.

  He lifted the zanjeer from the desk, cradling it like a child.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he heard Davis whisper. ‘What the hell are you?’

  Bashir didn’t answer. Instead, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  Then, with sudden, devastating ferocity, Bashir threw the zanjeer over his shoulder and lashed the first of many blows against his back.

  The blood splattered across Martin Davis’s face.

  TWENTY-THREE

  SAIMA WAS IN the kitchen. It was half past four and she was preparing a puja thali: a metal worship tray on which she placed a gold bell, a pot of water, incense candles, some butter, some sandalwood paste and a few petals of dried flowers.

  The steel tray and water symbolized purity. The bell was used to alert the gods that worship was about to begin and the incense and flowers were to please the gods with offerings of simple beauty. When the moon showed itself tonight, Saima would pray for the long life of her husband. She rubbed her stomach as her daughter hammered out another kick. ‘I know, I know,’ Saima whispered, ‘we’ll be eating within the hour.’

  Harry opened the door and whistled. Saima didn’t turn around.

  ‘When did you do that?’ he asked, pointing at her outfit.

  ‘It’s traditional to wear your wedding dress. I got the tailor to put in some extra material so I could wear it.’

  ‘I’m ready when you are. And I’m all in. I’m sorry about before.’

  Saima didn’t reply but focused on perfecting her thali.

  ‘Tailor must have thought you were mental,’ Harry continued. Saima’s pink wedding sari was covered in hundreds of sparkling sequins. She had on matching bangles and a gold necklace Harry had given her for a wedding present.

  ‘How do I look?’ she asked, almost nervously.

  ‘Like a big beautiful Christmas tree.’

  She finally turned to look at Harry. ‘I like the James Bond look.’ Harry had known she would appreciate the suit and tie.

  Harry stepped close to her and put his arms around her. ‘I’m sorry. I know this is important to you, so that makes it important to me.’

  Saima pulled away from him and smiled. ‘Come on. We need to be on our way. Don’t want to miss your mum.’

  ‘Sure.’ Harry tried to conceal the tension in his voice. ‘I promise. For the next thirty minutes, all that matters is you.’

  ‘We’re early,’ Harry said. They were in Laisterdyke, by the side of a park in front of Harry’s parents’ corner shop. Even though Ronnie was a millionaire and had tried to get their parents to retire, they insisted on keeping their store. It was all they knew.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Saima shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat adjusting her belt.

  ‘Imagine if you went into labour now? You’d be the best dressed mum they’ve ever had in the delivery room.’ Harry was trying to keep on point, but his mind was circling around the links between drug gangs and Lucas Dwight.

  ‘Let’s not imagine that. Little Zana will not be ruining my wedding outfit.’

  ‘Zana?’

  ‘I was going to text you earlier.’

  Harry shrugged. ‘It’s not so bad, I guess.’

  ‘I hate it.’

  ‘Why do you keep doing that?’

  ‘To see if you’re paying attention.’

  ‘I always pay attention.’

  ‘Jaan, last week when I was asking you which soft toy to buy, Pooh or Tigger, which did we decide on?’

  ‘Pooh,’ he replied confidently.

  How did Lucas’s blood turn up at Shakeel Ahmed’s residence?

  ‘The choice was Minnie or Mickey. You see?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions. My brain has a screening process.’

  Was this an inside job? Are Ahmed’s family the ones to look at? Power. Influence. Wealth.

  ‘Tell me the story of Karva Chauth while we wait,’ Saima said.

  Harry wasn’t paying attention. A handful of teenagers stood smoking outside his parents’ store. One of them was holding a bottle of cider. Harry hoped his parents hadn’t sold it. When Ronnie and Harry had been there, his parents had been strict with the law, but they were elderly now and living alone. Harry wondered just how lenient they were with pushy teenagers.

  ‘Jaan?’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘It’s not a bad evening. The rain has stopped. Even the fog has lifted. Do we have to hide in the car like criminals?’

  ‘Huh?’

  Saima shifted in her seat again. ‘We’ve got at least fifteen minutes. Let’s go to the park.’ She pointed to the playground.

  ‘No, Mum and Dad might—’

  She held her hand up. ‘This year, I don’t care. This year I don’t care about anything, other than showing my husband that I love him.’

  ‘Come on then.’ Harry opened his door and pushed thoughts of Lucas’s whereabouts from his mind. ‘Ten minutes in the park.’

  The park was uncharacteristically quiet. The local hooligans must have been causing mischief someplace else.

  Harry and Saima were sitting side by side on the swings. He was staring at the seesaw intensely.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Saima, putting her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I can see it in your face.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Jaan—’

  ‘I used to go on that thing with Mundeep. Best sister-in-law I could have asked for. You know. Before . . .’

  ‘She’ll come round. She—’

  ‘No. She won’t,’ he said coldly and turned to face his wife. ‘You represent the ultimate threat to her sanity. To her family. To her . . . children.’ He looked away and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Doesn’t make me not miss her though. We were close. For a decade. Shit, I wish I hated her.’

  ‘Tell me the story of Karva Chauth,’ said Saima, grabbing his face and turning it back towards her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a nice story. And it will put your focus where it needs to be: here, not with Lucas Dwight.’

  Harry looked at his watch.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘OK. Since we have time to kill.’ It had just turned five. Almost time. ‘I don’t know why we bother. It’s originally a Hindu tradition embraced by Sikhs over time.’

  She nodded. ‘Your lot stole it—’

  ‘Adopted it,’ he corrected. ‘So, about a million years ago . . .’

  ‘Don’t take the piss. Tell it nicely. It’s important.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, trying not to sound patronizing. ‘OK, in the olden days an innocent village girl called . . .?’ He looked at Saima for an answer.

  ‘Veervati,’ she replied.

  ‘Well done. Veervati married a king.’

  ‘Innocent village girl like me,’ Saima whispered.

  ‘Exactly. So, after marriage, she went back to her parents’ house and began observing a strict fast for her husband until the moon came out.’

  ‘What’s the importance of the moon?’

  Harry sh
rugged. ‘Something to do with the lunar calendar pre-empting everything that’s good in the world.’

  ‘You Indians are kind of weird, aren’t you?’

  ‘Says the Islamic girl who’s observing my tradition.’

  ‘Yours? You stole it—’

  ‘You want the story or not?’

  She nodded and blew him an air-kiss.

  ‘Right, so Veervati was fasting but she was finding it hard. She had seven brothers who couldn’t bear to see their sister in distress, so they deceived her by taking a mirror and a light and reflecting it through the trees.’

  Saima gasped theatrically.

  ‘Veervati thought it was the moon and ate something. The moment she did, she received news that her husband, the King, had died. She rushed to the palace and on the way met Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati. They confirmed the King had died because she broke her fast. She begged forgiveness and Parvati granted her wish on the proviso she kept a Karva Chauth fast every year. The Gods revived the King, legend began, and everyone lived happily ever after.’

  ‘That’s a nice story. Didn’t her brothers get into trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know. Lord Shiva probably made them stand on a naughty step for a few hundred years.’

  ‘You shouldn’t take the mick out of these things.’

  ‘Myths and goblins are for kids. The same as fairy-tales.’

  ‘We’re living a fairy-tale.’

  ‘We are? How so?’

  ‘Over there is the castle.’ She pointed to the store. ‘At the moment, the Prince and the Princess are trying to get there to meet the King and the Queen. One day they will and everyone will live happily ever after. See?’

  At exactly four minutes past five, Harry’s father, Ranjit, limped out of the side door of the building. It provided a little privacy from the shop entrance. The overhead security light came on. Ranjit was wearing a dark turban and his shirt was too tight, forcing his stomach out over his waistline. Then Harry’s brother, Ronnie, appeared.

  Of course, it was a family day – they would all be together.

  But not Harry.

  A few moments later, Harry’s mother and Ronnie’s wife, Mundeep, appeared, both dressed in colourful saris. They were carrying silver trays, similar to Saima’s.

  ‘Look,’ Saima whispered excitedly. This was as close to her mother-in-law as she’d ever been.