Uncommon Cruelty (a DI Gus McGuire case Book 4)

by Liz Mistry

  The girl’s dance became more explicit until she kicked her shoes into the crowd and then raising both arms up she crossed them and in a single sweep pulled her T-shirt right off.

  ‘More, More, More!’

  She stepped to the edge of the table and raising her arms into a dive position she fell forward onto the eagerly mauling hands of the teenage boys. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a figure in a dark hoodie pushed a path through the boys and angrily thrust them aside. A glimpse of long dark hair and the unmistakeable swell of breasts were the only indication of the rescuer’s sex. She finally reached the giggling, supine girl. Snarling and shoving at the lads who fought half-heartedly through a drink- and drug-fuelled stupor, she hoisted the girl to her feet, covered her with a coat and dragged her unceremoniously from the crowd of drunk jeering boys.

  Gus glanced at Alice who glared at the screen speechless with horror.

  ‘Okay, Tayyub, pause it there for now.’

  Tayyub obliged, leaving a sea of contorted male faces on the screen.

  ‘Uggh. That was awful. Fucking little turds.’

  Gus glanced at Tayyub who had kept his eyes averted the whole time. ‘What do you think of that, Tayyub?’

  He shrugged. ‘Pissed, weren’t they? And Mrs Proctor’s table’s fucked, innit?’

  ‘Who were they, Tayyub? The blonde girl?’

  Tayyub frowned. ‘Goes to our school. Don’t know her name. She’s younger than us.’

  ‘What about the other girl, who was she?’

  Tayyub shook his head and then shrugged. ‘Don’t know all the boys, either. I’ll write down the names of the few I know.’

  ‘You do that Tayyub. Em, how much more footage have you got of the party?’

  ‘Couple of hours. Maybe a bit more, maybe three. I just wandered round taking it as and when, some of Si and the lads pissing around like, and some other stuff.’

  ‘Any footage of the two biker guys?’

  ‘Yeah, loads of them. They were playing a game with the girls they had with them.’ He screwed up his face. ‘Doing blow jobs on Mrs Proctor’s couch and stuff. I didn’t like them.’ He shook his head. ‘She’ll kill Si, when he gets back.’

  ‘Alright, Tayyub.’ I think we’ve seen enough for now. Any chance you can give us all your footage so we can study it at the station. We’ll need you to sit down with our computer expert to ID as many people as we can from this.’

  Tayyub looked vaguely surprised. ‘Well, okay, I suppose so. Does this mean Mrs Proctor is really, really mad about her scratched table?’

  Gus opened his mouth to reply and then shut it again. ‘Look, Tayyub, the reason we need all this stuff is that two bodies were found at the Proctor’s house on Sunday night and Simon has gone missing.’

  Tayyub looked at them, his face worried. ‘Bodies? You mean dead bodies?’

  Gus inclined his head in silent agreement.

  ‘I didn’t see no dead bodies, DI McGuire. I’d have told Tracey if I had.’

  Gus saw the boy was worried. ‘No, no, we know you didn’t see any dead bodies, however, maybe you taped some people who might have done it.’

  Tayyub relaxed. ‘Oh yeah, you’re right, I might have. There were some well dodgy gits there on Saturday.’

  ‘Look Tayyub, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll get a police car to pick you and any equipment you need in an hour. It’ll take you and Tracey to the station and you can help Compo, our expert, to identify and maybe create mug shots of each person there on Saturday, okay?’

  Tayyub began pressing buttons and taking discs out of sleeves.

  37

  16:50 Unknown Location

  Must have dozed off again. Nowt else to do in here. Still no sounds from outside. Sometimes I think I can hear traffic. Might be my imagination. Hear those fucking rats though… think they’re real. Scampering about. Bet there’s spiders too. Big fuckers. Hairy too. Hate spiders, hate rats, hate this fucking smelly dungeon.

  ‘Incy wincy spider… up the fucking spout.’

  ‘AAAAAAAhhhhh! Anybody hear me? Can you fucking hear me? I’m here in a bloody freezing old, smelly old pit!’

  Don’t know why I bother. No-one’s there. The walls are too thick. Brick all the way round. I started to count them earlier. Got to 552, then I lost count. I started at the door, fucking big wooden thing, hinges the size of a tree trunk. At first, I touched each brick as I counted. They were wet – not just a little bit. They were sodden. So, then I stopped touching them and tried to just use my eyes. Made me dizzy though; moving them up and down. If I hadn’t found the bottles of water I’d have been tempted to lick them like I’ve seen on Bear Grylls… then again, maybe not. Maybe it’s the rats’ piss pouring down the walls. They can give you diseases, can rats. Started the plague… or was that the fleas?

  Fucking fleas again. Shut up thinking about fleas.

  They’re all over the blanket… I’ll die of the plague and when the coppers find me they’ll have to wear them big bird beak masks. They’ll all come in like tossers, flapping their arms. ‘… da da da da. La la la la, Fuck la fuck la, fuck la fuck da.’

  Get a grip, Si, get a fucking grip. You’re losing it, man!

  Must be dark outside by now. I press the light on my watch and it lights up the dial. Nearly five o’clock. Monday night’s fish ’n’ chips night. ‘First day of the week, Simon, we deserve a treat, don’t we?’ Would kill for fish and chips. Mushy peas! Curry sauce! Lister Fisheries or Heaton Chip Shop… don’t care – either’d do. Bigger portions from Heaton. Heaton it is then.

  ‘Vinegar?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please, don’t mind if I do. And ketchup, five sachets please.’

  I can smell it. Fish and chips and vinegar. It’s right there. If I open my eyes I’ll be at the kitchen table– Oh no, stop it, Si! Not the table… the girl… the dancing girl, ‘Off, off, off off!’ The scratch. Fuck, she’ll be angry, will my mum. Loved that fucking table, didn’t she? Now it’s ruined, scratched!

  What time’s it now? Ten past. I shake my watch. Maybe it’s stopped. Maybe the cold’s fucked up the battery. No, the second hand’s moving. Wish it were nine o’clock. Why does it have to pass so slow?

  ‘A little bit of da da da da. A little bit of la la la ladi da di dah.’

  38

  17:45 St Anne’s Road Mosque, Heaton

  Gus drove into the mosque car park on Iqrah Drive, just off Oak Lane, with Alice. It was one of the newer more ornate mosques in Bradford with a golden dome and graceful minarets. The sandstone brick wall that encapsulated the grounds was a creamy yellow, which contrasted with the dingy sandstone of the surrounding terraced houses. It provided a secure parking area and in one corner there was even a small fenced-off playground with swings and a slide. As well as being a place of worship, Iqrah Mosque had community rooms for youth meetings, wedding celebrations and religious festivals – only Muslim festivals. Although forward-thinking, the mosque had yet to open its doors to Bradford’s other faith communities.

  Prayer time had just ended, so the car park was filled with men of all generations in white kameez and prayer hats. Although some of the older generation sported beards, a few dyed streaky red with henna, the younger generation, in the main, were clean shaven. The upper part of the mosque prayer room was dedicated to women and children and so from the side door flowed a steady stream of women, wearing hijabs or burkas or just loose head scarves, which some removed from their heads on exiting the mosque.

  This area of Bradford had mainly Pakistanis from the Mirpur District in Pakistan, meaning that most of the chatter in the car park was in Punjabi, with the occasional flurry of English spoken here and there or the odd word interspersed amid the conversations.

  Gus got out of the car, wondering how many of the crowd would recognise him as a police officer, and how many of those would do so because of their own criminal activities. As he glanced around he heard a familiar voice call his name and within seconds he was engulfed in an embrace.


  ‘You’ve missed prayer time, Gus.’

  Laughing, Gus hugged his friend back. ‘Ah well, you know me, Mo. Not the most religious of folk. I’d probably be struck down in a ball of fire if I attempted to pray in any one of the many religious establishments Bradford has to offer.’

  Mo slapped him on the back, smiling widely and shook his head in overstated disapproval. ‘We’ll make a believer of you, yet.’

  ‘You’ve had twenty-odd years to convince me and you’ve not managed, yet. Can’t you just give me up as a bad job?’ Before his friend could respond, Gus changed the subject. ‘How are Naila and the kids?’

  A serene smile spread across Mo’s face making him look like a teenager. ‘They’re great. Girls are wondering when Uncle Gus is due a visit.’

  ‘Tell them, soon. Tell them I miss them and give them each a huge kiss from me.’

  Turning to Alice, Mo grinned. ‘Good to see you, Alice. He been behaving himself?’ Mo waved his hand in Gus’ direction, laughing when Alice snorted. ‘Humph, him? Behave? Well I’ll leave you to work that one out.’

  Glancing round the emptying car park, Mo looked at his friend and lowered his voice. ‘You here on official business, Gus? Hope there’s nothing iffy going on at this mosque. It’s been a huge asset to the community and it would be a shame to see its good name tarnished.’

  Gus lowered his voice to match. ‘It is official business. We’re meeting the leaders of a youth group that meet here, The Young Jihadists.’

  Mo exhaled a relieved breath. ‘That’s okay then, they’re good kids.’

  Gus frowned. ‘The name’s a bit inflammatory though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, in this climate, it is a bit. Their angle is that they’ve reclaimed the term ‘jihadist’. Speak to them. I’m sure whatever this is about is nothing to do with them. Zarqa sometimes meets with them. As I say, they’re nice kids.’

  ‘Look Mo, strictly between us, it’s about those two deaths and the missing teenager up in the village. There was a religious message beside one of the bodies and then we found out this jihadist group paid to have the house party recorded.’

  Mo frowned and shook his head. ‘Recorded? You mean videoed? Well, that’s not right good, is it? Wonder why they’d do that?’ His brows knitted together as he continued. ‘Let me know if we need to be worried, Gus. I could have sworn those kids were okay; but in this climate, it’s always hard to be sure.’

  ‘I’ll give you the heads-up, Mo, I promise. In fact, I’ll pop by yours after to collect a mixed batch of samosas for the briefing. It always pays to keep the troops nourished.’

  ‘The ones you bought earlier finished already.’

  ‘Compo! Scoffed them all before anyone else got a look in.’

  ‘Keeps me in business, does your man Compo. How many do you want?’

  Gus shrugged. ‘You better make it thirty. They always demolish them like they’re going out of business.’

  Mo laughed and strode off to his car with a wave.

  Gus and Alice walked round the side of the building to the community rooms and after being cleared in by the security guard they were directed along a corridor. Furnished in the muted pastel colours of most community centres, a faint smell of kebabs and sweet rice lingered in the air. The huge kitchens to the back were presumably catering for a function of some sort; perhaps a wedding or party. Gus’ stomach growled. He wished he’d grabbed a samosa before handing the bag to Compo earlier.

  As they neared the end of the hallway, a teenage boy and girl popped their heads out of the last door. The boy, dark skinned, with an easy smile and stocky stature, showed a set of even teeth as he extended his hand. ‘You must be DI McGuire. I’m Tariq, the chairperson of The Young Jihadists and this is Shamila, the vice-chair, or as we like to say, “the chair of vice”.’ He wiggled his eyebrows comically, whilst Shamila rolled her eyes and, ignoring his joke, extended her hand. She was a slender girl in jeans and jumper, whose ornate hijab was a work of art. Her handshake was firm and she looked Gus in the eyes as she spoke. ‘Ignore Tariq, he’s an idiot.’

  The security guard had clearly let the kids know they were on their way. Gus introduced Alice before the teenagers led them into a comfortable meeting room with red covered comfy chairs, a small library in the corner and a few computer workstations.

  Looking round Gus said, ‘Nice space.’

  Shamila gestured to a group of chairs round a large table. ‘It’s great, we’re lucky to have such wonderful facilities. Do sit down.’

  As Gus and Alice made themselves comfortable, Tariq spoke. ‘We’ve an idea what this is about. It’s all over school about Simon Proctor’s party and the two bodies and him being missing.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a terrible business, it really is, and we’ll do anything we can to help.’

  ‘That’s good to know, Tariq,’ said Gus. ‘First off, can you tell us a bit about your group and its purpose? The word “jihadist” is quite hot in the current political climate, so we need to clear up just what your group is about.’

  Tariq and Shamila exchanged glances, and as if an unspoken agreement had been reached, Shamila spoke. ‘DI McGuire, we are British. We were born here and some of our parents were too. We visit Pakistan or Bangladesh, but our home is Britain.’

  She looked between the two detectives before continuing, her voice serious, her eyes never wavering from their faces. ‘Sometimes being Muslim and British throws up choices that are difficult to make.’ She placed a slender hand on the table, ‘For instance, do we stay true to our religious and cultural views or do we blend in with white British society? Do we live in two worlds; one at home and one outside the home, and if we do, how do we reconcile the two? These are hard questions for any teenager, but for us it’s doubly hard; hence the existence of the group. It’s to help young Muslims, like us, to find a path through life as a British Pakistani or Bangladeshi or Indian Muslim and to help us make choices based on our own experiences, not those of a culture that is sometimes dated and often has no basis on religion.’ She thought for a moment and added, ‘The experiences of our elders were so different from ours.’

  Gus could see what she was talking about. When he and Mo had grown up together, things had been very different. 9/11 hadn’t happened until they were in their late teens, and on the whole, although he and Mo were from very different backgrounds, they had rubbed along nicely together. Things were very different for these kids and he sympathised with them. It was great to see such mature and responsible teenagers. He hoped they were what they seemed on the face of it. It wouldn’t be the first time teenagers presented as normal, law-abiding citizens, only to perpetrate some awful act at a later date.

  Shamila stopped for a breath and Gus took advantage of the gap to ask a question. ‘Why jihadists? A term usually associated with Muslim terrorism.’

  Tariq leaned forward then, his face intense. ‘That’s just it. They – Daesh, Boko Haram, Al-Qaeda and the rest have no right to call themselves jihadists. In Islam, the jihad is a personal struggle to overcome and surmount your own doubts or weaknesses. It is not carte blanche to annihilate people who do not share your religious beliefs. We chose the name because we are jihadists in the purest form of the word. We are young Muslims trying to live Islamically in a non-Islamic country. Daily, we face challenges from within our faith in the form of ignorance and outdated cultural practices as well as from the temptations of Western society in the form of drugs, alcohol and free sex, et cetera.’

  Shamila pushed a loose strand of dark hair under her hijab and took over. ‘We are educated and we are well aware of the problems within our own community that most of us want to turn a blind eye to. We don’t. We want to address the fact that much of the weed that circulates in Bradford is supplied from within this community. We want to prevent our generation of Muslim boys from using prostitutes, like some of our elders do, and from looking down on the choices that Western non-Muslims make and disrespecting people on the basis of their individual choices. We
want to find a balance. That’s what our jihad is.’

  Gus crossed his legs and thought for a minute. He could think of a few politicians who could benefit from this analytical approach. ‘Okay, so your jihad as young British Muslims is to weave a path through life in a cosmopolitan country. Am I right?’

  Both Shamila and Tariq bobbed their heads up and down like those annoying dashboard dogs.

  Alice shifted in her chair and leaned across the table. ‘You’ve got all the right rhetoric and no doubt you think that you’ve got God on your side, however, it could all be a big cover-up, couldn’t it?’

  Gus repressed a smile. Alice was nothing if not direct. She wanted to get to the bottom of this and her tenacity would ensure she did. Besides, if Zarqa was involved with this group, Gus needed to make sure they were legit.

  The slight smile faded from Shamila’s face, and Tariq, eyes wide, stared at Alice. Shamila glanced at Gus, as he leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and waited. Alice narrowed her eyes. ‘Thing is, we’re living in a world where the word “jihad” has an altogether more threatening meaning than what you’ve just outlined. We’d be foolish to take you at your word. Why should we? Radicalisation is a real problem among teenagers and we’ve got a job to do. Not only are we keen to or find out what you know about Simon Proctor’s party, we also need to discount your involvement – and that’s before we even look at the possible radicalisation issue. This is all about politics, isn’t it?’

  Shamila pushed back her chair and glared at Alice. ‘No, it’s not about politics! Not directly anyway. It’s about identity and modesty and personal choices and living fruitful lives in our country.’

  Alice tapped her long fingers impatiently on the table. ‘Yeah, is that right? Then, why did you pay Tayyub Hussain to video the party at Simon Proctor’s?’