Streets of Darkness (D.I. Harry Virdee)

by A. A. Dhand

  Davis put his hand reluctantly around the handle of the zanjeer. It was slippery with Bashir’s blood. The weight of it was considerable and Davis’s hand was shaking.

  Perhaps it was the terror of the zanjeer in his hand, but suddenly, Colin Reed’s name came screaming to mind. In the chaos of the past hour, Davis hadn’t had time to think about what had happened. And while he wasn’t responsible and had no real knowledge of Shakeel Ahmed’s murder, that morning’s covert meeting almost certainly had something to do with it.

  Give them Reed. Save your ass.

  Bashir could tell that Davis was sizing up information. The weight of the zanjeer usually helped jog people’s memories.

  Martin Davis didn’t want to die. Especially in these circumstances. At the hands of a barbaric psychopath.

  He raised his head and looked at Bashir. ‘What guarantee do I have that you’ll let me go?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Then why should I tell you anything?’

  ‘You speak now or later. But you speak.’

  Davis paused. Dropped his head. Gripped the zanjeer harder. He was trapped. If he told them what he knew, which wasn’t a great deal, they were apt to beat him or murder him anyway. ‘Call in the other guy.’

  ‘First you are taking one hit.’ Bashir pointed at the zanjeer.

  ‘Please – just call in the other guy and I’ll tell you—’

  Bashir stepped forward to grab the zanjeer but Davis snatched it away.

  ‘OK – OK. I’ll do it!’

  Bashir backed off. ‘Hard,’ he growled.

  Davis lowered the zanjeer to his left side and heard the blades scrape along the floor. He was hyperventilating, trying desperately to muster some courage. His breathing became quicker and shorter until he saw Bashir’s feet shifting impatiently towards him.

  Davis yelled in fear and, with as much force as he dared, lashed the zanjeer over his shoulder and down against his back. There was a crash of metal and an immediate shock of pain as the knives tore open his skin, cutting into him like butter.

  Davis dropped the zanjeer and started to cry.

  Bashir’s expression didn’t change. Davis was broken. Co-operation would come freely. Bashir had demeaned him sufficiently that escaping would be Davis’s only priority.

  Bashir picked up his shirt and dressed. Then he lifted the bloodied zanjeer, cradled it carefully and placed it back in the holdall. He closed the bag and left Davis sobbing, cowering in the chair, his cuts exposed, and walked to the door.

  Bashir unlocked it but didn’t open it. He went back over to Davis and sat down on the edge of the desk in front of him.

  After a brief pause, Zain entered the room. He had heard the sound of the zanjeer but hadn’t been able to determine what it was. He had also heard Davis pleading and then yelling in pain, but when he saw the bizarre way Davis was doubled over in the chair with his clothes torn open and deep, angry wounds on his back, he couldn’t understand what had taken place. ‘He ready?’ Zain asked uncertainly.

  Bashir nodded.

  Davis continued to weep in the chair. Bashir thought it was mostly because he’d been broken and not from the pain of the cuts.

  Zain wheeled his father’s leather chair from behind the desk to face Davis. He took a seat and clapped his hands to get Davis’s attention. ‘Less crying and more talking. What do you know?’

  Davis kept his head bowed, unable to look at them. He spoke slowly, through clenched teeth. ‘I got a call this morning from somebody I do business with. Early call, six a.m.’

  ‘Louder,’ Zain said arrogantly, ‘so I can fucking hear you. Give me a name.’

  Davis hesitated, but only for a moment.

  ‘Colin Reed.’

  ‘Colin Reed? Never heard of him.’

  ‘Neither had I until a few years ago.’

  ‘Details?’

  Davis’s mind was racing. He’d given his word that his members would march through Bradford tonight and he wasn’t certain of surviving his current predicament. ‘He told me to get out of the city. Get somewhere public where I had an alibi.’

  Davis was trying to buy some time. For what – he wasn’t sure. But he wasn’t about to let them in on the potential for a riot in the city. Bashir had humiliated him. It was more than politics now. If Davis died in this chair, he wanted to do so believing Bradford would fall. That some small measure of compensation might result from his death.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t be sure. Plausible deniability maybe. I didn’t need to know. But he spoke about Lucas Dwight and about your father’s murder. He didn’t say he was responsible, but he didn’t say he wasn’t either.’ Davis raised his head and finally looked at Zain. ‘On my life, I swear, that’s all I know.’

  ‘How long did you meet for and where?’

  ‘Maybe twenty minutes. Top of Baildon Moor. In a discreet location.’

  ‘Twenty minutes? What else happened at this meeting?’

  ‘We spoke about my losing the election.’

  ‘He a supporter of yours? This Colin Reed?’

  Davis nodded.

  ‘A donor?’

  Another nod.

  ‘How much we talking?’

  Davis hesitated. ‘Maybe ten grand. Twice a year.’

  Zain smiled. ‘Now that was a good, old-fashioned, poorly thought-out lie. In fact, scrap that, it was complete bullshit. How much did this guy give you? Or shall I have my friend here ask?’

  Davis dipped his head again and then shook it. ‘I’m sorry. OK, it was more. He’s offloaded nearly two hundred thousand over the past year.’

  ‘Cash?’

  Davis nodded.

  ‘So he’s no small fish.’

  Davis shrugged.

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Honestly, he’s always sought me out.’

  ‘But you have a way of contacting him?’

  ‘I have his mobile number. That’s all.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘On my phone.’

  Zain spoke quickly to Bashir in a language Davis didn’t understand. The big man nodded.

  ‘I need something else – some other detail that you’re over-looking. In all the times you’ve met this guy, he’s never given you any idea about where he works or lives? I find that hard to believe.’

  Davis looked at Zain angrily. ‘Don’t you think if I knew how to find him, I’d tell you? I’m in self-preservation mode here. Guys who hand you two hundred grand in cash are careful. Not stupid. I don’t know where he lives or how to get hold of him.’

  Bashir reached into his holdall and pulled out a large brown paper bag. Davis stared at it suspiciously.

  ‘What . . . what’s that? What’s he doing?’

  ‘Jogging your memory,’ Zain replied.

  Bashir moved behind Davis, who tried to turn his head to look but Bashir hit him forcefully. The blow thudded into Davis’s jaw and sent his head back the other way.

  Bashir opened the paper bag and dumped a fistful of salt into Davis’s still-bleeding wounds.

  Davis shrieked and Bashir grabbed his neck to keep him firmly in the chair. After a few seconds, just enough for the salt to dissolve, Bashir let Davis go, leaving him to thrash around with the pain.

  Zain shook his head. ‘I bet that hurt.’

  Davis snarled at the men. Fury had replaced fear. He spat at Zain, lashing out with his hands but unable to get close.

  ‘Come,’ said Bashir, patting Zain on the shoulder. ‘We finished.’

  Bashir grabbed Davis’s hands and secured them once more behind his back. ‘When you remember something else, you just let us know,’ Zain called out.

  The men walked out of the room.

  Martin Davis knew they’d be back.

  The nightmare had just started.

  TWENTY-SIX

  HARRY STARED SUSPICIOUSLY at Lucas. The last time he had seen the switchblade was at the gym. Where Harry had left it.

  Luc
as already got to him, Harry. You’ve been played.

  ‘I didn’t do this,’ Lucas said, sensing what Harry was thinking. ‘That knife was left at the gym – you know that. You saw that.’

  Harry didn’t reply. He was looking hard at Lucas. He couldn’t remember seeing him pick up the blade. But he had no idea where he’d been for the last few hours.

  Lucas grabbed Harry’s arm and pointed behind him to the outline of a man who had slithered out from the shadows. He was stalking his way towards them, cutting through the mist like one of the undead.

  Harry fumbled in his pocket for his phone.

  ‘No time for that,’ Lucas whispered. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

  They turned around to run but were stopped by the silhouette of another man calmly sitting on a gravestone. He waved, almost comically, at them.

  The first man approached slowly. He had a cigarette in his mouth. The end of it burned a vivid orange. He removed the cigarette from his lips. His other hand was in his pocket. ‘Phones on the floor.’ Smoke escaped his mouth, curling across his face.

  Harry wasn’t intimidated. He stood up and stepped forward. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Harry Virdee. Stay right where you are.’

  ‘I know exactly who you are, inspector,’ the man replied. ‘You’re a man in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  The man’s attitude surprised Harry. His rank should have had greater impact. ‘I’m placing you under arrest . . .’

  ‘You can’t. Because you’re not on official duty, are you, inspector?’

  These guys had no right to know that.

  ‘Don’t be surprised. You weren’t to know what you were getting suckered into,’ the man said. He reached inside his pocket and removed a brown envelope. He threw it on the ground to land at Harry’s feet. ‘Ten grand. I would surmise that in your current predicament, that kind of cash would go a long way?’

  ‘Fuck you.’ Harry ignored the package. ‘I don’t do blood money.’

  ‘Sure you do,’ the man replied. Harry made out a few details. Heavy-set. Balding. Maybe six-three. A few hundred pounds. Strong Yorkshire accent. Gleaming rings on the hand holding the cigarette.

  ‘Who are you?’ Lucas asked, stepping past Harry. ‘Why’d you kill Levy?’

  ‘We have business with you, Lucas. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.’

  Harry stole a glance behind him. The men had them boxed in the corner of the cemetery. The only escape was for Lucas and Harry to jump off the hill into the undergrowth below. The steep slope was at least fifty feet and although it was obscured by fog, Harry envisaged razor-sharp thorns and ankle-snapping potholes.

  Both men were bulky. Sluggish on their feet. If Harry and Lucas ran, they wouldn’t be caught. But two on two was a fair fight and Harry fancied his chances. Especially knowing that Lucas was more than capable with his fists.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Lucas replied. ‘Who the fuck are you? Man’s got a right to know who’s hunting him.’

  ‘Oh,’ the man replied with enough venom to ensure Lucas realized they were there to inflict damage, ‘you’ll find out. Of that you can be damn sure.’

  Harry was assessing their location. If they could gain twenty metres on the men the mist would provide cover.

  ‘Nobody wants to make this any messier.’ The man took another drag on his cigarette.

  ‘Murder makes this messy,’ Harry replied. ‘And I can still arrest you, irrespective of my current position.’

  The man grunted. ‘Turn around and walk away, inspector,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘This case is beyond you.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid—’

  ‘And I don’t want to add any unnecessary bodies to this place.’

  ‘You’re threatening a cop?’ Harry said, still trying to exert some authority.

  ‘I’m in the disposal business. There’ll be no one to hear your story if you don’t leave.’

  ‘I’m tired of your shit,’ Lucas snapped and made as if to rush the man.

  ‘I wouldn’t try it,’ he said and withdrew a pistol from his pocket, a silencer on its end. ‘Not my preferred choice, but if you force my hand . . .’

  ‘Who are you?’ shouted Lucas. ‘And what do you want?’

  ‘You’ve a debt to repay.’

  Harry raised his hands, trying to defuse the situation. He was fixated on the gun, trying to make out if it was genuine or not. ‘I’m not leaving and if you shoot a policeman – there’ll be no place you can hide.’

  ‘I’ve got ten policemen in my phone,’ the man boasted. ‘You have no idea who you are up against or where we can reach. Now, I’m not going to ask again. Put your phone and car keys on the floor and walk away.’

  Harry stepped in front of Lucas to shield him. Shooting Harry would be the last option these guys would take. He could hear it in the man’s voice. He needed Harry to walk.

  ‘I’ll hand him over and leave if you tell me what this is about.’ Harry put his hands behind him and pointed to his left, inching slowly away from the man – towards the edge of the hill, trusting that Lucas would see what he was thinking.

  The man shook his head. ‘You’re not in the driving seat.’ He waved the gun to his left, beckoning Harry to step aside.

  ‘OK . . . OK.’ Harry raised his hands. He turned around to face Lucas. ‘I’m sorry, Lucas,’ he said loudly. ‘Hit me, then jump,’ he whispered.

  Lucas hesitated but Harry glared at him and darted his eyes to the right.

  Lucas snapped out a right jab and caught Harry on the side of the head, glancing his fist across his scalp. As Lucas turned and leapt down the slope, Harry pretended to crumple to the floor but no sooner had he landed, he rolled over the edge of the hill, scrambling away quickly and jumping to his feet in pursuit of Lucas.

  The men didn’t react in time, affording Harry and Lucas precious seconds. They crunched through thick spiky brambles, gaining speed with each metre. Harry tucked his chin into his chest and raised his elbows to shield his face. Even so, piercing scratches sliced across his cheeks.

  At the bottom of the hill was a low brick wall which Harry and Lucas vaulted. Beyond it was a narrow cobbled street with back-to-back houses on either side. Harry felt an agonizing pulse in his liver where Lucas had struck him at the gym earlier. He grabbed his side and tried to slow down. The street was on a steep decline and his momentum was making him unsteady.

  Lucas lost his balance and went sprawling to the ground, sliding five metres on his side. He was up quickly and Harry caught up, grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side of an alleyway, into a concealed snicket. They crouched to their knees and looked at the hill.

  Nothing.

  No pursuit.

  Just a smokescreen of mist.

  ‘You OK?’ Harry asked, panting heavily.

  Lucas nodded. ‘You?’ He pointed to where Harry was massaging his side.

  Harry grimaced. ‘Where you hit me at the gym,’ he whispered. ‘Caught it on a bastard branch on the way down.’ Harry removed his hand. It was smeared with blood.

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘Flesh wound,’ Harry said, but he was clearly struggling. ‘We need to keep moving.’

  ‘Who were those guys?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Let’s get safe. Can’t get back to the car. They’ll have it covered.’ He took out his phone.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ Lucas asked.

  ‘Friends. Down the nick.’

  ‘No!’ Lucas snatched the phone. ‘We don’t have any friends. I don’t trust the police – these guys have eyes everywhere. He just told us that.’

  ‘Not my guys. Look—’

  ‘You make that call and I walk.’

  ‘I know you’re not involved. I can vouch for that. We just—’

  ‘Listen.’ Lucas handed back the phone. ‘It’s me and you or I’m gone.’

  Harry put away the phone begrudgingly. ‘Come on.’

  They walked hurrie
dly down from the road and followed it until they reached an adjoining street. The fog was dense enough to keep them hidden.

  ‘Barkerend Road is just down there – we can get a taxi,’ Lucas said.

  They jogged to the bottom of the street and paused. Harry was breathing heavily. The pulse in his side was getting worse. They scanned the area for signs of hostility, and, satisfied they were clear, crept on to the main road.

  ‘There.’ Lucas pointed to the yellow glow of Barkerend Fisheries. There were three taxis loitering outside.

  ‘Pull your hoodie tight.’ Harry put his bloodstained hand in his pocket and approached the first taxi. The driver had a large container on his lap filled with kebab meat and chips. Harry tapped on the window but the man waved them away and pointed at the car behind.

  The second driver was also eating but welcomed them into the cab.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked when Lucas and Harry were in the back. The car reeked of fish and chips. The Asian taxi driver licked oily fingers and scrunched up the white papers he was eating from.

  Harry hesitated. He didn’t want to take Lucas home. It was too dangerous.

  ‘St Peter’s Church. Top of Leeds Road,’ Lucas replied quickly.

  ‘Is only half-mile, other side of road,’ the driver said disapprovingly. ‘Minimum fare is four fifty.’

  ‘Fine.’ Harry turned to Lucas. ‘Church?’

  Lucas dropped his voice to barely a whisper. ‘Can’t go back to yours. They know who you are.’

  Harry nodded. ‘You got friends at this church?’

  ‘One,’ Lucas replied hesitantly. ‘But we need to keep her out of this.’ He grasped Harry’s wrist. ‘Understand?’

  Harry nodded. ‘Got it.’ He removed his mobile. ‘I need to tell Saima to get out of the house. She’s not safe any more.’

  ‘Where are you going to send her?’

  ‘To A & E. She works there. No place safer, especially in her current state.’

  ‘Do it.’

  ‘Any idea who or what we’re up against?’ Harry asked as he heard a busy tone on the phone.

  Lucas nodded slowly. He met Harry’s eyes, his face burning brightly. ‘What he said about me having a debt to repay? Found out about you? Police in their pocket? A reach that knows no boundaries? There is only one organization that gets intelligence that quickly and crosses so many agencies.’