by Dhand, A. A.
‘Of course,’ replied Saima, pouring him a cup and handing it to him, their hands meeting momentarily.
Ranjit took a sip.
‘How is it?’ asked Saima.
He smiled again. ‘The Indian tea I never forget is the one I first had when I came to England fifty years ago. I had been tasting “English tea” with just a weak teabag for weeks. Finally, when my mother arrived from India, bringing with her everything she needed to make the first Indian tea I ever had in this country, it was like being reborn. I spent an hour drinking it because inside that tea, it felt like she had brought home back with her.’
Ranjit took another sip and closed his eyes. ‘Your tea,’ he said, ‘tastes just like that.’
SEVENTEEN
ON HIS WAY to meet Xavier Cross, Harry had received a text message from the pathologist, wanting to see him urgently. He’d quickly turned the car around.
Harry parked outside the Bierley mortuary and made his way inside.
At Wendy’s office, Harry knocked and waited. When she didn’t invite him inside, he knocked again and tried the handle.
Locked.
Harry wandered down to the lab where Ingrid was busy eating her lunch. She told him Wendy was outside having a cigarette.
Harry had never taken her for a smoker. He was usually so good at picking up on that.
Outside, he walked around the back and found Wendy sitting on a bench, a thick brown suede coat wrapped around her, woolly hat pulled down past her ears. A cigarette burned brightly in her hand.
‘Thought you would have seen enough tar-filled lungs to avoid cigarettes,’ said Harry, taking a seat next to her.
‘Everyone needs a guilty pleasure. For Ingrid, it’s sugar. I prefer nicotine.’
Wendy offered Harry one from a red packet of Dunhill International.
‘No thanks. But glad to see you’re not a cheap-and-cheerful Richmond King Size sort of girl.’
‘If something’s worth doing,’ she said and let the statement hang.
‘Don’t think I’ve ever shared an informal bench with you, Doc.’
‘Doesn’t mean I’ve changed my opinion on you calling me Doc.’
Harry smiled.
‘When I’m in there, it’s always about the victim. Anything. Everything. I don’t like to let informality creep in. Too easy for it to become a habit.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Harry, playing with the packet of Dunhill International in his hand. ‘How much do these retail at now.’
‘Eleven pounds thirty.’
Harry whistled. ‘Damn. Things have changed.’
She looked at him, confused.
Harry put them back on the bench. ‘Used to work in my old man’s corner shop. We had a guy who bought these. Posh so-and-so, always drove the latest model Jaguar. Always red. I wondered why he bought the Dunhills, always so much more expensive than any other brand.’ Harry looked down at his hands.
‘Is there an end to that story?’ Wendy asked.
He looked up quickly.
‘So, you smoke and you’re nosy?’
She smiled. ‘Don’t try your pop-psychology on me. What’s next – handing me a stick of gum?’
Harry frowned at her.
‘You don’t know the gum technique?’
‘Should I?’
‘Amateur,’ she whispered under her breath.
‘Go on.’ Harry bristled at the word amateur.
She took a drag on her cigarette. ‘The chewing-gum technique is offering somebody a stick and, when they refuse, keeping your hand outstretched, the gum hanging between you, until they accept it. If they do, they’re more likely to crack under pressure.’
‘No shit,’ said Harry.
‘Try it some time.’
Harry nodded. ‘The guy with the Dunhills always bought them because they were red and matched the colour of his car.’
Wendy shrugged. ‘Nowhere near as interesting as the gum.’
‘Never suggested it was.’
They would have fallen into an easy silence if they hadn’t been working a murder case.
‘So you wanted to see me?’
‘The girl. Usma. It’s confirmed, she didn’t die of asphyxiation. She died of anaphylactic shock.’
‘An allergy? Like you said?’
‘Yes. A massive one.’
‘To what?’
She narrowed her eyes at him.
‘Shit, the wasps?’
‘I looked over the body again and, whilst I can’t be certain it’s a wasp sting, there is a tiny puncture in the skin on her chest. I took a sample of skin and looked at the microscope and found some minor tissue haemorrhage consistent with a syringe puncture or, in this case, a wasp sting. With the swelling of her body, the hives and her bloodwork coming back with massive amounts of mast cell tryptase, it all points to anaphylaxis.’
‘Mast-cell-what?’ asked Harry.
‘Tryptase. It’s a specific enzyme elevated when we’re allergic to something. Usually, in patients with mild allergies – hay fever, say – we might see slightly elevated levels of it. But in patients with life-threatening allergies – peanuts, wasp and bee stings – the levels are vastly exaggerated.’
She pointed to her throat. ‘In Usma’s case, her airways closed and that’s what killed her.’
‘Christ,’ said Harry.
‘So, the hanging and the barbed wire?’
She shrugged. ‘Theatre? Misdirection? Your guess is as good as mine.’
Harry took a breath. ‘Which means the killer knew she was allergic to wasps.’
‘I’d say so.’ She shuddered, and not from the cold.
‘How would he know that?’
‘Some people wear wristbands if they have a serious allergy.’
‘But we didn’t find one on her, right?’
‘Right. Unless the killer took it with him.’
‘Aside from that, who else would have known?’
‘Her doctor. Family. Friends.’
‘Don’t they carry some sort of injection for allergies this severe?’
Wendy took a final puff of her cigarette, put it out on the bench and placed the stub in a bin next to where she was sitting.
‘Adrenaline. Did you find one in her belongings?’
‘I’ll check.’
‘An EpiPen, yellow thing, looks like a big felt-tip.’
Harry pulled out his phone and tapped the details into a note. ‘Got it.’
Wendy got up to leave.
‘One thing,’ said Harry, remaining seated. ‘Those wasps – you ever seen anything like that before?’
She shuddered again. ‘God, no. And seriously, you bring me another body with that sort of stuff going on and I’ll be putting in for a pay rise.’
EIGHTEEN
HARRY PULLED ON to the forecourt of Xtreme Autos on Sticker Lane, wishing he had come here before seeing Wendy. He found the revelation that Usma had been killed by a purposeful wasp sting far more troubling than anything else about the murder. He couldn’t stop it swimming around his brain. Such a fucked-up way to die.
But it taught him one valuable thing. The killer had insight.
Harry had phoned the office as soon as he left Wendy, updated them and asked for Usma’s medical records to be analysed as a priority.
He also wanted a check on whether Gurpal had any connections to Usma.
He kicked himself for not having requested that earlier.
Who knew about her allergy status? Doctor? Pharmacy? Friends and colleagues?
How was Gurpal connected to this?
The case became more complex with each hour that passed.
Xtreme Autos looked just like any other garage – everything shiny out front and the strong smell of oil suggesting there was a messy bit out back. Beside it was Xtreme Carwash, also part of the business.
Harry entered the office, where an attractive redhead greeted him warmly.
‘Are you the two o’clock viewing for the BMW?’ she asked presumptively.
Harry didn’t have time for that.
Fine spray from a powerful jet-wash splattered Harry’s suit as he walked past two men washing a filthy 4x4 Volvo. The men were speaking a foreign language; Polish, Harry thought.
The door of the Portakabin was locked, blinds on the windows drawn. Harry looked at the lock and remembered the key in his pocket from Usma’s locker. He removed it. Looked like it might fit. Harry slipped it inside the lock, turned it discreetly but couldn’t use it to enter without probable cause.
From inside, Harry could hear an unmistakable sound. He turned to see the Polish guys smirking.
Harry waited.
‘Come on,’ he whispered. ‘Come on.’
Finally, a scream from inside.
‘Sounds like a girl’s in danger to me,’ whispered Harry, smiling, and opened the door.
Harry stepped inside. Xavier was kneeling on a couch behind a naked blonde girl on all fours. The girl screamed again, this time not in pleasure. Xavier stopped what he was doing, almost falling off the couch.
‘What the fuck!’ he shouted.
‘Sorry,’ said Harry, putting the key away and removing his gloves. ‘I heard a girl in distress. Screaming.’
Harry closed the door and turned the lights on. ‘I thought this was a car dealership, not a knocking shop. Come on, Pretty Boy, get your clothes on.’
‘Fuck you,’ spat Xavier, hands still firm on the girl as she squirmed free.
The girl grabbed her clothes from the floor and covered her body.
Harry pointed at her. ‘Get dressed,’ he said. ‘Then get out.’ She didn’t hesitate.
Xavier pulled on some jeans, the muscles on his torso flexing angrily. He came at Harry, his face red, sweat still on his temple, ready for an altercation. Harry kept his hands in his pockets as Xavier grabbed him aggressively. ‘What’s your fucking deal?’ he snapped. ‘Come on! Before I send you to A&E for an X-ray on that nose.’
‘Take your hands off me.’
‘You’ve got five seconds to talk. Or we’ll sort this my way.’
Harry let him count to five. Xavier took a step back, withdrew one hand from Harry and threw a punch, exactly what Harry wanted. Harry caught his fist, twisted his hand behind his back and pinned Xavier against the wall.
‘That’s assault on a police officer,’ he said.
Xavier had calmed down, backed into a corner under the threat of being charged. Harry had told him about Usma’s death – he didn’t seem to care too much.
‘Clearly not an exclusive arrangement, then?’ said Harry, nodding towards the couch where the blonde girl’s underwear lay discarded.
‘We had a thing from time to time. No biggie.’
‘She think that?’
‘She knew the score.’
‘How many women know the score?’
Xavier shrugged. ‘Why? You jealous?’
‘Some piece of work, aren’t you,’ said Harry.
‘Whatever. I like fast cars, fast money and fast women. I ain’t married. If an Asian girl wants a bit of rough to show her what a real man can do, what’s your beef with that?’
Xavier’s shoulders dropped suddenly.
‘Shit, you’re not, like, her family, are you?’
He looked afraid.
Harry shook his head.
‘Thank fuck. She told me her parents would have done her in if they found out. Honour-killing shit.’ His eyes widened and he got off the couch. ‘Hey, is that what this is about? They kill her cos they found out? Am I in danger? Are they coming for me?’
‘Relax,’ said Harry and gestured for Xavier to sit down.
‘So you’re not here to tell me I’m a marked man?’
‘You watch too much TV,’ said Harry, but he hadn’t ruled out the honour-killing angle himself yet.
‘How’d you end up in a … relationship with Usma?’ asked Harry.
‘It weren’t no relationship.’
‘Whatever it was. Tell me how.’
Xavier shrugged. ‘I was screwing some girl from that salon. Saw Usma there once. Always had a thing for Asian chicks – it’s them scarves around their heads. Kinda kinky sluts, if you ask me.’
Harry leaned forward and slapped him around the side of the head, hard enough that it brought Xavier to his feet. ‘Fuck is your problem?’
Harry stood up, now eye to eye with Xavier.
‘How about I put a call in to the HMRC? Ask them to investigate your cash-only carwash and the Polish guys you’ve got working off the books. You see how I can make life difficult for you, X-man?’
Xavier was breathing heavily but he backed off. ‘You touch me again, Detective, and I’m bringing it. You got me?’
‘Sit your ass down,’ said Harry, remaining standing. ‘You might think you’re God’s gift to women because you fuck a different girl every night, but I’ve got a murdered girl on my hands and the only shit I need to hear from you is the truth or I’m going to get pissed off. And that,’ said Harry, crouching now so he was on eye-level with Xavier, ‘is not something you want.’
Xavier was grinding his teeth. Harry wanted to knock them out of his mouth.
‘Ask what you need. I’ve got work to do,’ said Xavier.
Harry backed off and retook his seat on the couch. ‘You can start with your whereabouts on Sunday afternoon.’
NINETEEN
SAIMA MET HER mother-in-law outside the Coronary Care Unit once her shift had ended and together they made their way to the canteen. As they walked, Joyti slipped a hand into the crook of Saima’s arm for support. It was a small gesture but it provided a light in the darkness of this situation for Saima. She’d only ever wanted to be accepted by her husband’s family.
In the canteen, Saima purchased two coffees and brought them across to the table where Joyti was sitting.
‘Here,’ said Joyti, trying to give Saima some money as she placed the coffees on the table.
‘Oh no,’ said Saima sitting down by her side. ‘Don’t be silly.’
Joyti shook her head. ‘I won’t sleep tonight if you don’t. Where I’m from, mothers-in-law don’t take anything from their daughters-in-law.’
‘I really couldn’t—’
‘It’s the custom,’ Joyti insisted, trying to push the money into Saima’s hand.
‘I know the customs,’ said Saima, closing Joyti’s fist around the five-pound note. ‘But this has come from Harry’s house and since he is your son, no rules are being broken.’
Joyti thought about it, smiled and put her money away. ‘I see he has taught you well.’
Saima waved her hand at Joyti. ‘And we’re both trying to teach Aaron.’
Joyti’s expression lifted at the mention of her grandson.
‘Is he coming here today, too?’ she asked, hopeful.
Saima shook her head. ‘Yesterday was an exception. I don’t like him in here. I’m always worried he might catch something.’
‘Yes. I suppose that is fair.’ Joyti looked disappointed.
Both women looked down at their hands, suddenly shy.
Saima opened her mouth to speak, but stopped before she made a sound.
It was only the third time they’d met. The woman opposite her was a stranger really and yet they shared so much. Saima didn’t know where to begin.
‘Ranjit told me about some tea a nice Indian nurse gave him.’
Saima smiled coyly. ‘Ah yes, he’s gone far back through my family tree there. I forget that Pakistan was once part of India. My grandparents were born in India. So that
makes me …’ she thought on it, ‘… a quarter Indian?’
Joyti smiled. ‘Are you always this … happy?’
‘I know our whole situation is hard. But right now, I get to sit and have a coffee with you and if anyone saw us, they would just think a mother and daughter were having a drink. That makes me happy.’
Joyti warmed her hands around the cup. ‘Did you tell my Hardeep?’
Saima chewed her bottom lip. ‘No.’
She told Joyti about the wallet and how she had almost been forced into the truth.
‘Is my husband going to die?’ asked Joyti suddenly. Bluntly.
Saima paused as she thought of a suitable reply.
‘Just tell me the truth,’ said Joyti.
‘It’s a high-risk operation,’ said Saima and saw that Joyti understood that she meant there was significant risk.
‘When will he have it?’
‘This week. I hope.’
Joyti removed a small parcel from her bag and put it on the table in front of Saima.
‘I … I … was looking for some things for my husband last night, packing a bag, and I found these.’ Joyti smiled gently. ‘I’d forgotten all about them.’
Saima unwrapped the packaging and discovered two delicate gold bangles.
‘They’re beautiful,’ she said, her forehead creasing in confusion.
‘I was nineteen when I got married in India. My father had a lot of land and farmed rice and potatoes. We were well off. My mother gave me four gold bangles for my wedding day, two for each arm. I’d always planned to give them to my daughters, but since I had two boys, I decided my daughters-in-law would have them. I gave two to Mundeep on her wedding day and these two were always intended for Hardeep’s wife.’
Joyti nodded at them. ‘It is time you had them.’
Saima held the weighty bangles in her hand, looking at the intricate, criss-cross pattern etched into the gold. ‘I can’t accept these. You never thought you would have to hand them to me this way. You never realized Harry would break with tradition.’
The din inside the canteen became louder as a group of children entered, marshalled by two despondent adults. Joyti waited until they had passed through.
‘I never realized lots of things. But I want you to have them. I’ve seen what’s inside your heart. I’ve seen my grandson and I know how Hardeep feels about you. It’s all I need, I just wish I could say the same for my husband.’