Streets of Darkness (D.I. Harry Virdee)

by A. A. Dhand

  ‘You.’

  The two men locked eyes, assessing each other.

  ‘And you’re here to deliver me?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘I’m here because now I need your help.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m supposed to hand you over by midnight.’ Harry checked his watch. ‘That’s three hours from now.’

  Lucas sighed and cracked his knuckles.

  Harry continued. ‘The only clue I have – the only one that makes sense – is this nurse who I’m damn near certain lifted your blood a few days ago. It’s too coincidental to be chance.’

  ‘Nurse Steele?’

  ‘Karen Steele. Lives on Brompton Road. Thornbury.’

  ‘You found her?’

  Harry nodded. ‘I’m suspended from work – doesn’t mean I can’t use their facilities to track people.’ He waved his mobile at Lucas. ‘She’s got a case file.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Suicide. Tried to kill herself in two thousand and four. Police had to break down her door.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Say why?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Let’s pay her a visit.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Right now.’

  ‘How do we know she’s in?’

  ‘Already called her. Pretended I was British Gas. She told me she wasn’t interested and hung up.’

  Harry checked his phone. ‘That was nineteen minutes ago. We need to move.’

  Lucas stared at Harry, trying to read between the lines, cracking his knuckles and attempting to figure out how far Harry would go.

  Harry knew what he was thinking.

  Do I need this? Why shouldn’t I just bolt? This isn’t my fight.

  ‘And if we can’t find Saima before midnight?’ Lucas asked.

  It was a question Harry didn’t want to contemplate. ‘We’ll find her.’

  Harry made as if to leave.

  ‘But . . .’ said Lucas, grabbing his arm. ‘If we don’t find her, you’re going to want to restrain me, Harry. Save your wife even if it means putting my life on the line?’

  Harry’s silence needed no explanation.

  Lucas sighed. ‘The last thing I want is to go up against you. But a man will defend his right to survive. I’m not anybody’s bait.’

  ‘Understood.’ But deep down, Harry was thinking only one thing: If I had to go up against you – could I take you down?

  He thought about the incident in the gym. The fluidity in Lucas’s movement and the ease with which Harry had fallen. ‘Lucas, we’ve got time. We need to crack this nurse. She’s the key. Let’s do one thing at a time.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t talk? How far are you willing to go? You’ve been lecturing me all day about crossing the line.’

  Harry removed his police badge. ‘This morning when I stumbled across you, this’ – he spun the badge in his fingers – ‘meant something.’ Harry put it away. ‘Not any more. I will do whatever it takes to get Saima back. You’ve no idea what we’ve been through and I’ll be damned if some punk is going to take her from me. I’m prepared for the possibility that Karen Steele won’t break easily. I’m a husband and a father first, a copper second.’

  ‘Survival doesn’t have any boundaries,’ Lucas replied. ‘Whether you’re a lone man in the jungle or living in civilized society, when it comes to it: there are no rules.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘I’m speaking for myself as well.’ Lucas stepped closer. ‘The first sign you try to fuck me over, I’m going to pop your liver till it bursts. We clear?’

  ‘Clear. Now tell me, what’s the best way to force somebody to do something?’

  ‘Put someone they care about in danger. Humans can self-sacrifice but we don’t like making those choices for others.’

  ‘Exactly. In order to make sure we leave no stone unturned, I’m going to have to break her. If she lives alone, that means we only have her.’

  ‘Fear is a better motivator than pain.’

  ‘I can make her fear me.’ An iciness came across Harry’s face which Lucas hadn’t seen before. ‘There is a way – a sure-fire way – to break her.’ Harry reached out and lifted Lucas’s sleeve. ‘I need something from you. And I’m in no mood for rejection.’

  ‘What is it?’ Lucas glanced at the bulging veins on his arm. They were dark blue against his pale skin.

  ‘I need your blood.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  SAIMA VIRDEE WAS in a warehouse full of car parts and tyres. It was freezing cold. She was alone. In the corner there was a scuffling which might have been rats. She was too petrified to look.

  She huddled into herself, arms wrapped protectively around her belly. There was a rickety stool nearby but when Saima examined it, she found one of the legs was rotten. It certainly wouldn’t hold a pregnant woman.

  Water dripped through a crack in the ceiling on to the floor. Out of desperation, Saima walked towards it and put her face underneath. Dirty rainwater dripped slowly into her mouth. Her tongue felt like cardboard, each single drop making it a little softer. She’d had only half a glass of water all day and hadn’t had the chance to eat before she had been taken.

  There was a locked door at the back of the room with a barred window next to it. Through it, she could see a gap of a few feet with stairs leading down into a darkness which was absolute.

  Saima could hear sirens outside, ambulances mostly. She thought she might be close to Bradford Royal Infirmary. The car journey hadn’t taken long. Saima had counted the seconds, from when the car had started moving until she arrived, to gain some perspective of the distance. Harry had told her about the technique. Once in the car, Saima had switched into survival mode, desperate for any clue she might be able to give Harry if she got the chance.

  Six hundred seconds, give or take. Only ten minutes from home.

  Still in Bradford.

  Still close to Harry.

  She was only six hundred seconds away. He could narrow down the search grid.

  Saima had no idea who had taken her or why. But she was comforted by the thought of Harry. He would be turning Bradford upside down. She knew.

  She touched the scar on the side of her face. Harry wouldn’t let her down. He never did. Amidst the drama of her abduction, Saima felt comforted that the rage she knew blighted Harry’s life would, today, be used to find her.

  And he would find her. And protect her.

  Because he always did.

  Her captors had given her a choice. Come quietly and unharmed. Or struggle and risk brutality. She had fought them when they had entered her home but only briefly. They showed no mercy and a knife to her stomach had rendered her mute.

  Her baby wasn’t content either, sensing her mother’s distress.

  ‘Shhh,’ Saima whispered and stroked her stomach.

  With a few drops of grimy water in her mouth, Saima moved back towards the front door. She leaned against it and slumped to the ground. She could hear movement outside but couldn’t make out the voices. More than one though.

  She felt foolish in her wedding outfit and wished she’d changed out of it. A fat frump draped in yards of tassels and shiny pink material. She had made the effort for Harry. To remind him that she had once been beautiful.

  She had fasted all day for him, prayed to the moon and done everything right.

  Saima glanced at the slippers on her feet.

  Harry’s mother’s.

  Lucky slippers, Harry always said. Because his mother had thrown them at him in his teens, almost daily, and missed every time.

  Magical slippers because nobody could miss that often.

  Saima clicked them against each other three times and made a wish.

  ‘Dorothy had red slippers, stupid,’ she whispered. But with them on her feet, she felt comforted. And right now, any morsel of comfort would do.

  Saima felt momentarily unsteady. The room seemed to elongate and then rush at her, as thou
gh she were dreaming.

  A spasm, in her hips. The urgency to pass water.

  There was a sudden burst of warm liquid down her thighs. It made Saima cry out.

  ‘Oh God,’ she whispered, ‘please not now.’

  Saima straightened her legs and put them together as if it might stop the inevitable.

  Then it hit her.

  Her baby hadn’t been flipping somersaults in her stomach.

  They had been contractions.

  Fairly far apart, but she had been so distracted, she hadn’t realized.

  Saima struggled to her feet. She hit the door, hysterically, begging somebody to help. She banged on the metal until her hands were numb.

  There was the sudden sound of two locks opening and then the door was ajar. An Asian man, unshaven, with bloodshot eyes, was standing there.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Please,’ Saima said, smelling marijuana on his breath. ‘I’m . . . I’m . . . in labour – my baby is coming! Please, you have to get me to a hospital.’

  ‘You staying here,’ he replied in broken English. ‘No going anywhere.’

  Saima lunged towards him, grabbing his shirt. ‘I beg you!’ she screamed. ‘Please!’

  The man twisted her hand and tried to prise himself away but Saima had latched on to him desperately. She had strength.

  He cursed in Urdu; then he shoved her stomach aggressively. Saima fell backwards and tripped over her feet, sprawling to her right. She crashed heavily to the floor and cracked her head on the wooden stool, hard enough to flip it over. It somersaulted and landed clumsily a few feet away.

  Saima was unconscious before her head hit the ground, blood seeping from her temple.

  The man slammed the metal door closed, the din echoing around the room. When it passed, there was only one sound to be heard: a terrifying patter of feet.

  It was the rats – scurrying towards the scent of blood.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ON THE DRIVE to Karen Steele’s house, Lucas told Harry everything he knew about her. Which wasn’t a great deal. She had been his nurse for several years and, aside from their last peculiar encounter, Lucas couldn’t pin anything on Steele which suggested she was part of a larger conspiracy. Harry had asked about their final encounter several times and lifted anomalies he thought he could lean on. One in particular.

  Karen Steele lived in Thornbury, the final suburb separating Bradford from Leeds. It was a busy area, home to the headquarters of Morrisons supermarkets and a large entertainment retail park.

  Harry was on Leeds Road when he saw another example of Shakeel Ahmed’s influence within the city. The former tram-sheds and old bus depot, dating back to when Bradford had its own tram and trolleybus service, had been converted into huge food-storage warehouses. Ahmed’s logo dominated the buildings.

  With such a visible presence across the city, Harry was now questioning just which circles Ahmed might have moved in.

  Restaurants had long been associated with laundering money in Bradford. Usually it was the smaller, single outlets. Ahmed controlled a vast empire. Harry was starting to see a picture forming. Transport links, international imports and the manpower to pull it off.

  The sudden shift into politics – was he purposefully moving higher up the scale of influence?

  ‘Where’d you get the car?’ Lucas asked, admiring the leather interior of the Mercedes.

  ‘Borrowed it from a friend.’

  ‘Good friend?’

  ‘Owed a favour.’ Harry checked his watch.

  ‘Stop doing that. It won’t go any slower.’

  ‘Three hours.’ Harry pulled into Brompton Avenue.

  ‘Which number?’ Lucas asked, cracking his knuckles.

  ‘I’ll quit looking at my watch if you stop doing that.’ Harry pointed at Lucas’s fists.

  ‘Been doing it since I was a kid. My pre-fight ritual.’

  ‘Over there.’ Harry pointed to a faded green door. ‘Number eleven.’

  Steele’s home was a Victorian terraced house. The old stonework was stained with black soot. A downstairs light lit up the badly neglected front yard. The grass was overgrown and the gate hung from its hinges.

  ‘How do you want to play this?’ Lucas asked. ‘Shock and awe?’

  Harry shook his head. Checked his watch again. ‘I’m going to try and get her to confess. I can’t torture an innocent woman. I need confirmation of her guilt.’

  ‘If she’s involved, she’s not going to volunteer it.’

  ‘I know. Look, you’ve given me enough to go on. I’m going to lead her into a trap. This is the one part of my job I usually get right.’

  ‘What, cracking suspects?’

  ‘Yes. Sixth sense.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s charged.’

  ‘I’m going in alone,’ Harry said. ‘You head around the back. Keep out of sight. Once I’ve got her reeling, I’ll let you in. Seeing you might scare her into talking.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t?’

  Harry opened the car door. He paused and turned to Lucas. ‘If you don’t want to be a part of this, give me what I need and leave. But if you try and stop me – no amount of liver punches will put me down. We clear?’

  Lucas nodded once, but then shook his head. ‘Shit’s not right, Harry,’ he said. ‘You want to beat her, mess up her face – hell, even decommission her: I get that. But this . . . It’s fucked up.’

  ‘This whole day is fucked up. We have an agreement. Yes?’

  Lucas hesitated.

  ‘Are we going to have to go through this again?’ Harry snatched at Lucas’s top; Lucas slapped his hand away. Both men grabbed each other. Harry had Lucas by the throat and squeezed his trachea. Trapped in his seat, Lucas couldn’t react. He let go of Harry and raised his hands submissively. Harry released him.

  ‘Are we really going to have this problem?’ Harry snapped. ‘Are you forgetting what is on the line here? Your life.’ Harry jabbed him in the chest. ‘My wife? My child?’

  Lucas glared murderously at Harry. ‘I don’t like living with things that don’t sit right. There are rules in torturing somebody. This is fucking barbaric.’

  ‘Listen,’ Harry snapped. ‘I don’t have time for this. I’m going to play nice with Steele. But if she turns out to be an obstinate bitch, I’m going to need help and you’d be wise not to cross me.’ Harry slammed the door, composed himself, and hurried towards Karen Steele’s front door.

  The footpath leading to number eleven had a carpet of green moss. Blades of grass from the garden were flopping on to it, brushing Harry’s legs.

  Harry lifted the gold knocker and hammered it against the wooden door. It echoed loudly and he glanced through the bay window to his left. The curtains were drawn but there was a sliver of light leaking through the centre. It didn’t give anything away except a cream wall and the corner of an oak mantelpiece.

  A silhouette approached the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ came the startled voice.

  ‘Bradford CID.’ Harry pushed his badge through the letter box. ‘Could you open the door please, Ms Steele.’

  He saw her bend down to collect his identification. There was a delay as she looked at it.

  ‘Police?’ Shaky voice.

  ‘Yes. Ms Steele, it’s an urgent matter so I’d appreciate your co-operation.’ Harry tried to hide the impatience in his voice. ‘If it makes you feel more secure, you can phone Bradford Police Station and verify my identity.’

  He hoped she wouldn’t. It would waste time Harry couldn’t spare and it probably wouldn’t pay off. Steele was obviously thinking about it. A precious minute trickled away. Harry checked his watch: 21.09.

  He was breathing heavily, using every morsel of patience he possessed not to smash down the door.

  Finally Steele opened it. She had peroxide-blond hair and looked older than Harry although he knew they were the same age. There was the hint of a tattoo escaping her low-cut top, licking towards her neck. Jogging botto
ms completed her outfit. She looked like an ageing Barbie doll.

  Harry’s first impression was that she was frightened. And not because he was on her doorstep.

  Harry followed her through the hallway into the lounge which doubled as a dining room. The room had magnolia walls, a cream carpet and an insanely pink couch.

  ‘You’re dressed kind of casual for CID, aren’t you?’ said Steele, trying to conceal the shakiness in her voice. ‘Thought you guys always wore suits.’

  ‘You watch too many TV shows. May I?’ He pointed at a chair by a dining table.

  ‘Of course. I’m . . . er, sorry about the mess. Wasn’t expecting company.’

  Harry continued to scan the living room. It looked like she lived alone. The photos on the mantelpiece were of her. There was a bottle of wine on the coffee table and only one glass. On his way in, Harry had noticed the shoes by the door were all women’s and all the same size. He had paused by the coat rack and again saw nothing to suggest she had a boyfriend. ‘It’s fine. Could you ask your partner to join us?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘No, I live alone.’

  ‘Sorry, I was assuming—’

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘I’d rather get down to why I’m here. Time is critical.’

  ‘Really? What’s this about?’

  Harry didn’t sit down. Instead he stepped closer towards her.

  ‘Lucas Dwight.’ He searched her face for a response.

  Steele’s expression gave her away. It was the way her eyes narrowed and her mouth dropped open. When she replied, her voice was uncertain. ‘Lucas Dwight?’

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Harry pointed at a chair opposite. ‘This won’t take long.’

  Steele sat down and put her hands in her lap.

  ‘Could you place your palms on the table,’ Harry said. ‘Face down.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Gives me a better read of you.’

  ‘I’m not really comfortable with this, inspector. I—’

  ‘We can do this down the nick,’ Harry snapped. ‘Or you can set me straight and I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I have a solicitor present, if you’re questioning me?’