by A. A. Dhand
Harry quickened his run, darting between the main street and the gulleys in case anyone was following.
On Manningham Lane, the fog exploded into blue lights, helicopters and anarchy. Youths were running amok, towards Lister Park. Gangs of Asians were hunting like wolves.
Focus, Harry. Focus.
He kept his head down and merged into the many pounding the streets. Harry covered the mile and a half to Thornton Road in ten minutes. His lungs were screaming and the wound in his side felt as though it was splitting open.
Thornton Road was a red-light district. Several alleyways leading off it were engulfed in darkness. A necessary darkness for the work done there.
He checked the time.
Eight thirty.
Half an hour gone.
At the end of an alley, Harry disappeared into the shadows and crouched behind a pile of scrap metal. In spite of what was raging in the city, the hookers still needed their cash and their punters still needed a fix.
It wasn’t an easy wait.
Harry tensed his jaw and focused on the end of the street like a hawk stalking its prey.
It was the longest twelve minutes of Harry Virdee’s life, each one painful to suffer.
Tick tock.
Just as he was about to choose a different alley, a Mercedes crawled along the cobbles. It lit up the alleyway for a moment but then killed its lights. Harry kept his head down, concealed in the shadows.
The car had its engine running. Harry waited a few minutes until the windows started to steam and then made his move. He walked urgently to the front passenger door.
Prostitutes always kept it unlocked in case they needed a quick exit.
Harry opened it and got inside.
The hooker was straddling the driver. She stopped fucking him and screamed as Harry took a seat. The driver, a balding middle-aged white man, was dumbfounded.
‘What . . . what the hell are you doing?’
‘Stealing your car,’ Harry snapped. He looked at the young blonde, who had her blouse open. She looked about eighteen but her eyes were street-hardened. The man had his hand on one of her breasts.
‘Get your shit together and leave. Punt’s over.’
The girl slipped her hand to the side of her skirt and produced a knife, brandishing it towards Harry. He grabbed her hand mid-air, twisted her wrist and disarmed her.
‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ he said and threw the knife on the floor, by his feet. ‘I’m not here for you.’
Her lower lip trembled as she nodded and hurriedly fastened her shirt.
‘Wait,’ Harry said before she got out. ‘You been paid?’
‘Yes.’
‘On your way then.’
She snatched her underwear from the driver’s hands and exited awkwardly, flashing Harry her arse.
Harry focused on the driver. Gave him a dead stare.
‘Please—’ the man begged.
‘Shut up. You drive an E-class Merc and need a crack-addicted street girl? Dickhead.’
‘I . . . It’s my first—’
‘Save it.’
‘Give me your wallet.’
‘But I—’
Harry slapped him suddenly. A full palm-rich strike which caught him square. The man started to whimper.
‘Wallet,’ Harry repeated. ‘And put your cock away.’
The man zipped up his trousers and struggled with his wallet.
‘Reginald Wade?’ Harry said, checking his identification. ‘You married?’
The man nodded.
‘I’m guessing if your wife found out about this, she’d be none too happy?’
‘Look,’ Reginald said, ‘take the money, and take whatever you want, just don’t hurt me.’
Harry nodded. ‘That’s the kind of co-operation I’m looking for, Reg. Let me tell you how this is going to work.’ Harry fished his badge out of his pocket.
‘Oh Jesus.’
Harry nodded. ‘As it happens, today is your lucky day. Because I’m undercover and someone stole my ride. I’m taking your car to finish my work and tomorrow night, or maybe Sunday morning, I’m going to return this car to . . .’ Harry checked the address on the driving licence: ‘624 Woodcroft Place. Agreed?’
Reginald started to protest.
Harry slapped him again. Harder. ‘Reg, listen to your cock. Right now it’s about as shrivelled as it’s ever going to get. You need to follow suit. Get the fuck out of the car. You’re not going to report this car stolen. You’re not going to tell anyone. Because I’m deep undercover and I can’t afford to be discovered. You do that and this . . . indiscretion of yours is forgotten.’
Reginald wiped his face and nodded quickly. He feared another slap. The detective had fire raging behind his eyes. ‘OK,’ he said shakily.
‘I’m going to keep this.’ Harry waved the wallet and then removed the money from it. ‘Here – I don’t need your cash. Get out and find a taxi.’
Reginald looked suspiciously around the alleyway.
‘Now!’ Harry said, raising his voice. ‘You got yourself into this mess – you can find your own way home.’
The punter opened the door and almost fell out. Harry grabbed his shoulder before he left. ‘Remember, whether this story finds its way back to your wife is on you.’
‘I . . . won’t say anything. Just please don’t ruin my car.’
Harry waved him away and moved into the driver’s seat.
‘Nice ride,’ he muttered and reversed the Mercedes out of the alleyway, skidding it across the road. He put his foot down, accelerating recklessly into the fog.
THIRTY-TWO
MARTIN DAVIS WAS alone. He’d been in Ahmed’s office for five hours. Abandoned. Frightened. And now – angry.
He couldn’t rest his back on the chair because the wounds from the zanjeer were still open.
Outside, Davis could hear sirens. Blue lights flashed by the windows, bouncing off the walls. There was drama going on near by.
His supporters were here. They must be. Which meant Davis was close to the action.
If he could just free himself of the restraints.
It had been some time since he tried. Davis mustered his courage and attempted to wriggle his hands free. But the restraints wouldn’t give a millimetre.
Davis’s legs were taped to the chair. He felt he had some leverage but the only way he might break free was by tipping the chair on its back, but that would bring the rear harshly into contact with his wounds.
He wasn’t a supple man. He doubted his ability to turn his body ninety degrees and then get to his feet. But, with time passing agonizingly slowly, he was becoming more and more desperate.
They had left him: taken his mobile phone and done what? Triangulated Colin Reed’s location? Davis knew it could be done. These guys weren’t only in the restaurant business, that was for sure.
Was Zain just a bitter son, out for revenge? Or was he something else entirely? Was he somebody more like Colin Reed?
Davis thought about a television programme he’d seen where a guy in similar circumstances had freed himself by standing and running backwards until the chair legs hit a wall and the chair disintegrated on impact.
Davis’s feet were tied but he could at least stand. And jump. Bring his full weight down on the legs. Sure, the force would make his back even more painful.
Outside, the darkness was banished by passing blue lights.
Davis stood up and felt the cold sensation of wood on his back. There was a fleeting pulse of pain. He steadied himself and took a few breaths. He was over ninety kilos and hoped the force of his body weight would be enough to fracture the seat.
One.
Two.
Three.
Davis jumped up and raised his knees as high as he could.
His weight was transferred through his body, down to his backside which hit the seat of the chair forcefully.
Ninety kilos of inertia thundered into the seat and there was a splintering cr
ack. Davis gritted his teeth as the chair smashed into his back and his wounds oozed fresh blood.
He stifled a scream.
But the chair didn’t break.
Davis was sweating and breathing heavily. He rocked the chair from side to side. Once more was all it would take; he didn’t hesitate.
He was going to get out of this.
This time, as Davis’s weight hit the seat, the chair disintegrated. The back split from the seat and Davis went careering to the floor. His head hit the laminate with a sickening crack. For a moment, the world became hazy and then disappeared.
Nothing but black.
But the sirens were still there on the periphery: Bradford’s desperate cries for help. Davis fought the darkness and after a few moments the colour came back into his vision – long enough to see the office door opening and the hurried approach of Zain and Bashir. They looked blurry as they came up to him and, although he could hear their voices, he couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Davis was lifted from the floor. Zain took his arms and Bashir his feet and they moved him to a couch, throwing him carelessly on to it. Then they sat Davis upright.
‘Oi,’ said Bashir, slapping his face lightly.
Davis smelled marijuana on his breath.
More chatter in Urdu. And now water. Being thrown over Davis’s face.
‘Hey,’ he protested and shook his head, which made the crippling pounding in his head worse.
‘Get him focused,’ Zain said. ‘Quickly.’
Bashir grabbed Davis’s face, squeezing his cheeks between rough fingers. ‘Oi,’ he said again.
‘Get off,’ moaned Davis weakly.
Bashir let him go and Zain waited.
Slowly, Davis regrouped and stared at them, puzzled at first and then the reality hit home. ‘Let me go.’
‘We will,’ Zain said. ‘But first, we need you to call your mate Colin Reed.’
‘Why?’
‘We know where he is. Top of Toller Lane. Not far from here. In a car garage.’
‘How?’
‘His mobile phone. Bastard’s had it off all this time, but just as the shit in Bradford kicked off, he switched it on.’
‘Who are you people?’ Davis asked. ‘Not just restaurant owners?’
Zain smirked. ‘No. Much more than that.’
Bashir spoke quickly and harshly to Zain, who stopped talking. The smile disappeared off his face.
‘You,’ Bashir said, leaning forward and pushing a finger into Davis’s forehead. ‘Phone friend. Tell him you need to see him. Alone.’
‘And then you’re free to go,’ added Zain. ‘You’re the messenger and we don’t shoot the messenger. We want the big dog. Putting down his poodle isn’t our end game.’
‘So . . . you’re going to let me go?’
‘Yes,’ Zain said. ‘But we need you to call Reed. Make it sound urgent. Figure out how many people he’s got up there. Tell him you are coming, whether he likes it or not.’
‘And how am I supposed to say I found him?’
‘Tell him you’re connected, just like he is. What? You don’t have any loyal supporters working for the phone companies who can get you information? Keep it brief. It’s not an exam. Get us how many men there are and you walk.’
Davis took his eyes from Zain and looked at Bashir. The big man was brooding. Silently. He had impatience etched across his face and was fidgeting with his shirt, pulling it from his body.
Blood. Sticking to his clothes.
Davis had never been so afraid of anybody. It was Bashir’s aura. The man wanted to hurt Davis. It radiated from everything he did. The stare. The curling of his lip. Even the way he looked at Zain.
‘OK,’ Davis said. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘You need to make it credible. Or, to be blunt,’ Zain said, ‘Bashir’s itching to put somebody down.’
Davis nodded. ‘Give me the phone.’
‘Cut him loose.’ Zain removed a pistol from his pocket.
‘Seriously,’ Davis said, ‘who are you people?’
‘Restaurant owners.’ Zain turned away.
Davis flinched as Bashir came towards him and set him loose. He could smell the man’s sweat.
‘Here.’ Zain threw Davis’s mobile at him. ‘You warn him? You die.’
Bashir sat down next to Davis, who flinched.
‘Call,’ Bashir mumbled and then put a hairy hand on Davis’s knee.
‘I am,’ Davis replied. Bashir’s hand on his leg felt like a cobra’s head about to strike. ‘I want out. I have your word you’ll let me go?’
‘Yes,’ Zain said. ‘Do it.’
Martin Davis took his time and thought about what he needed to say. There would be no coded message. Bashir’s hand on his knee was more than enough to convince him that one wrong move would unleash a monster.
He made the call.
Reed answered immediately. Davis’s phone was on hands free and they could all hear sirens in the background. Davis didn’t need to fake the urgency. He was desperate and made sure Reed knew it.
‘How the fuck do you know where I am?’ Reed asked angrily.
‘You’re not the only one on a leash in this city,’ Davis replied, equally angry. ‘I’m coming to you. There are things you need to know. About today. About Lucas Dwight.’
‘You have him?’ Reed asked suddenly. His attention was immediate. The sirens, which had been noisy, now diminished. Davis assumed he had moved to a quieter spot.
‘Not on the phone. You alone or with people? I cannot be seen,’ Davis said as dramatically as possible. Zain had the pistol aimed not at his head, but at his testicles. It still wasn’t as intimidating as Bashir’s presence.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Reed said. ‘It’s not a good time.’
‘How fucking many?’ Davis asked. ‘Are we secure or not? I have to see you.’
‘Three,’ Reed replied. ‘All secure. Thirty minutes. Flash your lights on the front shutters three times.’ He hung up.
Davis threw the phone at Zain, who caught it.
Bashir got up, pressing his hand against Davis’s knee.
‘I did what you said. Now let me—’ He didn’t finish his sentence.
Bashir turned suddenly and unleashed a vicious backhanded blow into Davis’s jaw. It knocked him unconscious and his body rolled off the couch on to the floor.
Zain stepped back, momentarily startled.
Bashir was breathing heavily. ‘I need to go.’ He pointed to the window. ‘Now – is my time.’
Zain nodded slowly. He could see Bashir was at breaking point. ‘You don’t want to come with me?’ he asked, trying softly to engage Bashir’s help.
‘No. You must go alone. Make name for yourself. Three men is a good start, you can send a message. Shoot the first two quickly.’ Bashir raised his hand and poked Zain hard in the chest. ‘No talking – understand? No games. Then . . . with last one. Reed. Put bullets in his knees. Leave him blind. Deaf. Dumb. But leave him alive. Send a message. Make sure people remember. You cross Zain Ahmed? You cross the devil.’
‘And you?’
‘My money? Get it.’
Zain was still holding the gun, pointed at Bashir. For a moment they both stared at it but then Zain put it away. ‘I’ll honour my kasam. I wish you luck, my friend.’
‘No luck,’ Bashir replied. ‘This my kismet. This is – his kismet,’ he said, referring to the man he was going to kill.
‘And him?’ Zain nodded towards Davis.
‘Send message. You decide how written.’
‘You want to start your killing now? Be my guest.’
Bashir shook his head. ‘You avenge your father.’ He looked away, at the window, across a city under siege. ‘I’ll find my own vengeance.’
THIRTY-THREE
HARRY ARRIVED BACK at the church in the stolen Mercedes. He told Sister Clarke her car had broken down and he would return it the following day. He didn’t mention the broken wing mirror.
&nbs
p; Outside, Lucas and Harry disappeared into the shadows by the side of the church.
‘Your wife’s been taken?’ Lucas asked.
Harry looked at him solemnly. ‘Yes.’
‘Who the hell are these people? How did they know where to find you?’
Harry spoke quietly, his breath forming a white mist in the plummeting temperatures. The fog smothering the city was starting to freeze. ‘I’ve been asking myself the same thing. Two ways. One, you were right and they have connections down the nick. But I don’t think one of my own gave me up.’
‘Which leaves?’
‘My wallet. When it was stolen this morning. Had all my details. It found its way quickly from the street to my boss. I reckon somewhere along the way we have our main players. This isn’t about race, Lucas. This is about drugs.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘All this time, I’ve been thinking about this the wrong way. The murder – the race riot? It’s all a distraction. Something bigger is going down but it won’t register amongst the madness.’
‘This is all a decoy? That what you’re saying?’
‘Yes. From that low-life pusher this morning – this has unravelled. And the only connection is drugs. It’s how they nearly killed you.’
‘But to take your wife – it must mean—’
‘That somebody has something on the line worth risking everything for. Because when they lost you, they lost control. They don’t have someone to blame for Ahmed’s murder. It’s making them desperate – they want you at any cost so their plan isn’t exposed.’
‘What’s the play?’ Lucas asked. ‘Can you even function with what’s going on inside your head?’
‘Have to. And it’s forcing me to think clearly.’
‘Fucked up – that’s what this is,’ said Lucas bitterly. ‘Taking a pregnant woman hostage? There are rules in warfare: lines you don’t cross.’
‘Agreed, but they’re not interested. And it also means neither am I.’
‘What do they want?’ Lucas’s eyes were bloodshot and he looked shattered.