City of Sinners

by Dhand, A. A.

  You’re going to lose this one.

  He’s holding all the cards.

  Behind him, Harry could hear the SOCO team ripping apart Aisha Islam’s penthouse apartment.

  This was the calm before the storm.

  And a storm was exactly what it was going to be.

  The Home Secretary’s daughter.

  It didn’t get any bigger.

  Harry envisaged crews from every major newspaper and TV channel descending on Bradford, the world’s media putting his city under their powerful microscopes.

  MI5, counter-terrorism, all four HMET teams and almost every uniformed officer would now be working what was looking like the highest profile kidnap case their force had ever encountered.

  Yet another change in MO.

  This guy was throwing all the rules out of the window. This had meaning. Purpose. It was about more than just the body count.

  The killer had three girls on his record.

  Why would he spare Aisha? Especially since she was the one girl who guaranteed him column inches?

  How was any of this connected to Harry?

  It was getting harder and harder to see Gurpal in this. But they had nothing else to go on.

  Harry felt sick.

  If this was on him …

  He pushed the thoughts from his mind. He couldn’t think about that now.

  With only a few hours’ sleep in the past forty-eight hours and no let-up in the case, Harry could feel the tiredness creeping in. He was going to nail this bastard. Bradford was not about to let another national headline tarnish its history. At least they’d get the resources now.

  Harry’s boss, Conway, arrived by his side. Five a.m. was too early for posh heels and a designer suit. She was dressed casually in trainers and a grey fleece jumper.

  Conway placed her hands on the stone balcony, looking out over Bradford with Harry. The sleeping city had no idea what it would be waking up to.

  ‘Why don’t you go home, Harry? You can’t do another all-nighter.’

  ‘What’s going on with all this?’

  ‘Frost has organized a GOLD meeting. He’s standing you down as SIO and appointing me to take over.’

  Harry nodded. Standard operating procedure.

  ‘He’s also asked me to remove your team from your command so you can focus on what it is that makes this so specifically about you. We need that puzzle piece, Harry.’

  Harry also expected that.

  ‘Don’t cut me off completely, Clare.’

  ‘We won’t. But this guy has contacted you twice now. We need to look into why. We’re pulling Gurpal’s brother in. He’s lawyered up already. Says you broke his nose and that you are trying to fit his brother up again, just like before. Did you assault him, Harry?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘It’s bollocks.’

  They shared a look. Conway didn’t look convinced.

  ‘So what happens next?’ asked Harry.

  ‘There’s a DCI from Greater Manchester being drafted in to look into your ongoing cases and review any previous cases which had any … grey areas. Whilst Gurpal Singh is our main focus, we need to look further and harder into anyone you’ve put away who has recently been released and has a grievance with you.’

  ‘You’re going to need more than one DCI team on that,’ said Harry cynically.

  Conway looked away.

  ‘What you’re saying is, you’re investigating me,’ said Harry, dreading what the next few days held in store. ‘Bullshit. You don’t trust me any more?’ he added bitterly.

  ‘Watch yourself, Harry. I’m here to make sure nothing distracts us from finding Aisha. Her father is the goddamn Home Secretary, in charge of every police force in England, and he’s due into Leeds–Bradford this morning. We need to be on point. This goes wrong because of something we’ve done? It’s everyone’s heads.’

  ‘So, my role is what?’

  ‘Assisting.’ She paused and added, ‘When we need you.’

  ‘You need me. You all know it. This guy likes to play and God knows why he wants to play with me.’ Harry stopped for a moment. Took a breath. ‘He knows we’re going to catch him. He wants attention, to make us look foolish. He wants to make me look foolish.’

  ‘You’re right. Most likely, he’s going to call you again. And we’ll be ready. So go home. Get some rest. We’ve a major incident briefing at ten.’ Conway checked her watch. ‘Get four hours’ sleep. You’re going to need it.’

  Harry turned to leave. She put a hand on his arm.

  ‘One thing?’

  ‘What?’

  She handed him a digital recording device which connected wirelessly to his phone and recorded conversations.

  ‘If he calls again, we need it.’

  Harry took the device from her, putting it in his pocket and trying again to leave.

  ‘One more thing,’ said Conway, stopping him.

  ‘Yes?’ Harry turned, impatient now.

  ‘Let’s park the fact I’m your boss, just for a moment.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Off the record.’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘Before Bradford wakes up. Before … security agencies we don’t even know exist turn up and start a wholesale examination of our house, right here, right now, are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me? Nothing that might, say, come to light later and put us all in a difficult situation?’

  ‘About Gurpal?’

  ‘About anything, Harry.’

  He smiled and removed her hand from his arm. ‘A politician’s about to arrive and you’re already schooled in the art. Am I dirty? Is this about me? Do I know something which might save that girl’s life and I’m withholding?’

  He stepped a little closer.

  ‘Since we’re off the record? Being mates? Looking out for one another?’

  Conway stepped away, clearly taken aback by Harry’s tone.

  ‘I’ve bent rules. You know that. No one who works these streets can afford the luxury of being a straight-line kind of cop. You want to get shit done in Bradford, you become Bradford. You learn how to tell a silhouette from a threat. But this?’ said Harry, pointing to the penthouse behind them where the SOCOs were working diligently. ‘This is not about me bending a rule or pissing off a nutter on the street. Look at the evidence. The wedding stuff. The effort and detail our guy put into that. This has meaning. It’s personal. So, let’s lose the Harry Virdee angle and put everything into finding Aisha Islam.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  HARRY GOT HOME at six a.m.

  The house was quiet, cold, the heating hadn’t yet cranked into action.

  Harry sat down in the dark of the living room.

  Another night without sleep.

  Was this the plan; to wear him down so he missed something vital?

  Usma and Jaspreet had white boyfriends. Something told Harry that they’d soon discover that Leila and Aisha did too.

  In the city with the largest ethnic population outside of London, there must have been thousands of girls involved in mixed-race relationships. Was that really what this was all about? It felt so much more than that.

  The morning briefing would be intense, all eyes on Harry, wondering the same thing he was.

  Why me?

  More importantly, how would they save Aisha Islam?

  Harry was used to being in control in this city. It was his city, one he knew every corner of.

  Yet suddenly he was faced with an invasion, power-players from Whitehall and MI5 would descend on Bradford.

  For the first time in a long time, Harry felt uncertain.

  He heard Aaron’s voice from upstairs, loud and delighted to be awake.

  ‘Mamma! Mamma!’

  After a minute or so of irritable yelling, Aaron changed his pleas to, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’

  Upstairs, Harry entered Aaron’s room. He heard Saima’s voice, speaking to Aaron through the baby monitor.

  ‘Hello, little man,’ said Harry, picking Aa
ron up from his cot.

  ‘Here go,’ said Aaron removing his dummy.

  ‘Good boy. Too big for a dummy now.’

  ‘Want get down.’

  Harry kissed him, held him close a while and let him go, watching as he ran out of his room, calling for Saima.

  Harry sat on the bed and stared at the cot.

  Three dead girls.

  Three families in a pit they might never recover from.

  Aisha Islam, no ordinary victim, missing.

  They might get an embargo on press-reporting for twenty-four hours, but ultimately Bradford was about to suffer a hateful trial by media.

  Harry saw Saima standing in the hallway, in her pyjamas, Aaron in her arms, looking at him in a way he was used to seeing.

  ‘Another girl?’ she asked, walking towards him.

  He nodded and told her who.

  She sat on the bed beside him and let Aaron wander back into their room.

  ‘At least everyone will be looking for her. Hunting down this … creep.’

  Saima placed her hand on Harry’s and squeezed it. ‘Why don’t you try and sleep an hour?’

  ‘It’ll make me feel worse.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, shaking his head, staring at the cuddly toys in Aaron’s bed.

  ‘Don’t see you like this often,’ said Saima.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Want to share a burden?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘Always back myself to bring a case home. But this guy? Stuff he’s doing? Doesn’t care that I’m going to catch him. He wants that. Only question is, how much damage is he going to do before that happens? To the girl. To me.’

  FORTY-FIVE

  TRAFALGAR HOUSE WAS the busiest Harry had ever seen it. The morning briefing had been pushed back, first to nine o’clock, then ten, and eventually started closer to eleven, allowing time for all the relevant agencies to assemble.

  In the largest briefing room, a silence fell over the hundred people gathered as Assistant Chief Constable Stephen Frost entered. Game face on.

  All the big names were here, the head of media, external communications, counter-terrorism and rows of other suits Harry didn’t recognize. MI5 maybe.

  His head was throbbing and he dry-swallowed two paracetamols. Tiredness had given way to a chaotic mind, his thoughts were fuzzy, loud, crowded. But for the moment, he had to focus on the briefing, on how they were going to catch this bastard.

  Frost went from the beginning. First, Usma Khan and the discovery of her body in the bookshop. Second, the murder of Jaspreet Mann in Maestro nightclub. Leila Amin at 140 Ashgrove and finally, the abduction of Aisha Islam. When he mentioned Harry’s name, he felt the focus of everyone’s eyes in the room burning into him.

  Scrutiny. His favourite.

  As the ACC was assigning officers in the room, acknowledging Harry’s boss DSU Conway as SIO, the room fell silent as the doors opened and Tariq Islam entered, along with his close-protection team, four men in dark suits.

  Tariq made his way towards the podium, walking at a measured pace, entirely in control. The microphone was moved aside as he shared a few private words with Frost at the front.

  Tariq Islam was far from a career politician. He had served in the army and rumour had it he’d headed up a secretive organization called Group 13, a covert paramilitary group whose existence had always been denied by government, though the Internet was awash with rumours. After losing his wife to breast cancer, he had left the military to look after their only daughter, Aisha. A few years later he had entered politics, where rumours had continued to stalk him; apparently he was a hard-liner who wanted to bring back the death penalty and far tougher sentences for criminals. He had built up a loyal following with his right-wing views. Tariq was all about patriotism; his skin colour and religious background remained very much in the periphery. Harry thought, in different circumstances, the two of them might have got on.

  He looked remarkably composed for a man whose daughter was at the mercy of a serial killer. He was clean-shaven, wearing a fitted black suit with a navy tie, and his hair was slicked back. Truthfully, Tariq looked as if it were any other day in the office.

  Three murdered girls.

  Aisha could be the fourth.

  Yet, as he took a seat on the front row, his security team staying by the door, Tariq was a man in control.

  Frost returned to his briefing but he’d barely begun when the duty officer barrelled into the room, pale-faced, eyes only on Frost. His trembling hand passed a sheet of paper to the ACC.

  There was a moment’s stillness before everything seemed to happen as if it had been rehearsed.

  Frost leaned down towards Conway, whispered in her ear and marched out of the room. Conway, who was sitting right in front of Harry, turned abruptly and ordered him to follow her.

  The room broke into anxious whispers as Harry left, the Home Secretary on his heels, his security team in close pursuit.

  Harry found Frost and Conway waiting in an adjacent office.

  Frost tried to politely ask Tariq Islam to leave but he refused, wanting to know what the emergency was.

  ‘This is my daughter we’re talking about, Mr Frost,’ he reminded him.

  Conway closed the door, ordering the security team to wait outside. She wouldn’t accept their refusal.

  ‘He’s on the phone. He says he wants to speak to Harry and only Harry.’

  ‘What?’ said Harry, thinking he must’ve heard wrong.

  ‘Line one,’ said Frost, pointing to the phone. ‘Put it on speaker.’

  Harry swallowed hard, turning to Tariq.

  ‘Are you sure you want to stay for this?’

  Tariq nodded solemnly.

  ‘Okay,’ said Harry. ‘Here we go.’

  He hit line one and the speaker button. ‘DCI Virdee.’

  They could hear breathing, short and shallow. Worried breathing on the other end.

  ‘Daddy? Are you there?’

  Aisha Islam.

  ‘I’m here, baby,’ said Tariq before anyone could stop him, desperation suddenly written across his face. ‘Are you okay, Aisha?’

  She started to cry. ‘I’m okay. I’m not … hurt.’

  There was a noise, a ripping sound, a struggle, a faraway moan.

  ‘Aisha? Aisha?’ said Tariq.

  Harry raised his hand, glared at Tariq.

  ‘You’re on with DCI Harry Virdee.’

  ‘How are you, Detective?’ It was the killer.

  Harry took a breath.

  ‘I want a peaceful end to this situation. So, you’ve got my attention. What is it you want?’

  ‘I want to play a game. Do you like games?’

  ‘We’d like to bring Aisha home safely. Her family—’

  ‘Don’t play your psychological crap with me, Detective.’ The killer’s voice changed, irate. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I think you’re smarter than anyone in this building and I think you know that.’

  A pause.

  ‘That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said all week.’

  ‘So,’ said Harry, glancing at Conway, who was typing frantically on her mobile phone, no doubt trying to get a trace on the number.

  ‘I’d like to see you,’ said the killer.

  ‘Name the place.’

  ‘Right now.’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Tell the father I’m going to Facetime him on his phone.’

  Click.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Shit!’ said Harry, putting the phone down. ‘Your mobile,’ he motioned to Tariq. ‘Where is it?’

  Tariq handed it to Harry, who placed it on the table.

  The video-call came in, from Aisha’s number.

  Harry’s heart sank as a video of Aisha, bound and secured in a chair, appeared on the screen. She was wearing a flimsy nightie, her legs exposed and breasts barely covered. She looked as vulnerable as Harry could imagine.


  He covered the microphone and turned to Tariq. ‘I think you should leave. We’re not in control of this.’

  Tariq stood firm and refused. Harry looked to Frost and Conway but got nothing. ‘Are you sure?’ whispered Harry to Tariq, who nodded.

  ‘We’re here,’ said Harry.

  ‘Show me who is in the room.’

  Harry looked to Frost, who shook his head. ‘Look, we can—’ started Harry.

  The killer, standing out of shot, slapped Aisha, the noise piercing through the small speaker.

  Tariq cried out in alarm.

  ‘I say. You do. That’s how this works,’ snapped the killer.

  Harry picked up the phone and scanned the room quickly.

  ‘The father. Let me see the father.’

  Harry looked at Tariq, who nodded.

  ‘Please,’ he said, as calm as he could. ‘Don’t hurt my Aisha. Please.’

  ‘Harry … Do you mind if I call you that?’ said the killer.

  Harry refocused the camera on himself. Behind him, Conway scribbled a note for Tariq asking him for the phone number Harry was on, his phone number. He wrote it down for her and she left the room. Anything they could do to track Aisha’s phone could make the difference here. The longer Harry kept the killer on the line, the better their chances.

  ‘You can call me Harry. What should I call you?’

  ‘Nothing. You call me nothing. Let me look at you. Closely.’

  Harry raised the phone so it was level with his face. He saw a shadow off to the left side of the screen.

  One wrong move, and I’ll get eyes on you.

  ‘Do we know each other?’ said Harry.

  ‘Do you think we do?’

  Harry took a punt. ‘Gurpal,’ he said, more of a statement than a question.

  Silence.

  Just breathing.

  Harry wanted to repeat the accusation but he waited.

  ‘Is that who you think I am?’ said the killer. He offered nothing more.

  ‘How can I help resolve this?’ asked Harry. He felt like the killer had been surprised at the name.

  ‘What are you willing to do, Harry?’

  ‘Anything.’ He regretted the word as soon as it left his lips.

  ‘What if I asked you to dance around naked in the middle of City Park?’