City of Sinners

by Dhand, A. A.

  Harry sighed. ‘I’m going to need you to come down to the station. Make a formal statement.’

  ‘Was I the last person to see her?’ Andrew asked, colour draining from his face.

  He was a smart man, he knew his life was about to be picked apart.

  Harry couldn’t answer him.

  Andrew nodded. ‘It wasn’t just a fling,’ he said earnestly to Harry. ‘It wasn’t. I love her. I’ve nothing to hide. Aisha’s more important to me than my job.’

  Harry believed him.

  FIFTY-TWO

  ‘WHAT DID HE say to you?’ said Joyti, closing the door to the family room where Saima had her back towards her, pouring water from a dispenser into a cup.

  Saima steadied herself, determined not to let her exchange with Ranjit sour her new relationship with her mother-in-law. Saima drank the water, feeling it cool and refreshing in her mouth. She turned around and smiled at Joyti, using every bit of strength she had not to show her true emotions.

  ‘I’d like to keep it between us both. It is over. I’ve made my peace and we move on,’ said Saima.

  Joyti analysed Saima’s face.

  A moment of stillness.

  ‘I’ve been behind the counter of a corner shop over thirty years. Served thousands of people. Caught thieves and liars and have more experience of my husband than you realize.’

  Saima refilled her cup. Had another glass.

  ‘I wanted to show him who I really am,’ she said. ‘And he knows.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He made a promise to you to listen to me. I made a promise to keep what was said private,’ she said, hating the lie but unable to tell Joyti the truth of what her husband had said. Of his utter rejection.

  ‘What will you tell my Hardeep?’ said Joyti.

  ‘The truth,’ she replied, Ranjit’s words still slicing at her.

  If you touch my feet, I will be forced to cut them off.

  Such anger.

  Such resentment.

  Saima felt unclean.

  Her beeper sounded, her A&E break over.

  ‘I need to get back,’ she said.

  ‘Hardeep?’ repeated Joyti, arriving at Saima’s side and slipping her arm around her waist. It made Saima’s lip wobble and her cheek twitch.

  ‘I’ll tell him about the operation. The chances. And … after that? I think it is up to him to decide whether he comes or not.’

  ‘Don’t you think he should?

  Saima threw the empty cup in the bin.

  ‘I think he’s suffered enough,’ she said, then nodded towards the corridor. ‘Perhaps they both have.’

  Joyti grasped Saima’s face in her hands just as Saima’s beeper started again.

  ‘What did my husband say to you?’ she asked, her face gentle and full of compassion.

  Saima could see so much of Harry and a little of Aaron in her. She held Joyti’s hands in hers and lowered them. ‘Your grandson woke up this morning asking for an “i-cream” and for “Grandma”. Let that be the thought that I leave you with.’

  Saima embraced Joyti, kissed her forehead and left Joyti alone in the room, her mind immediately turning towards what she was going to tell Harry that evening about his father, about her exchange with him, but more importantly whether she was going to allow Ranjit one last chance to wound him.

  FIFTY-THREE

  RONNIE WAS STANDING in the middle of an enormous disused warehouse on the Euroway Trading Estate just off the M606 motorway. Throwing himself into his work distracted his mind from what was happening with his father and the potential fallout from what Joyti was trying to do with Saima. Ronnie was on board with his mother’s attempts to reunite the family. He had his own agenda when it came to Harry.

  The closest members of his team, seven men Ronnie trusted with his life, were by his side, all of them staring at the far-reaching floor space, exposed metal girders and machinery ghosting in the shadows.

  These were men Ronnie had rescued from the bottomless pit of shitty mental-health programmes for disused army personnel, all SAS-patriots who had put their lives on the line for never-ending wars in the Middle East and, when their time had come to be looked after, had been discarded like the hundreds of corpses they had racked up defending queen and country. Soldiers whose version of ‘norm’ was operating at a level most people couldn’t fathom. Men who Ronnie had meticulously identified as the perfect partners to help him run Bradford.

  ‘So, this is the future of our organization,’ said Enzo, walking around the dilapidated building. The others fanned out to explore the ruin.

  ‘It is. Prime location for transport in and out of Bradford. And at the price I got it, a fucking bargain.’

  ‘Too exposed,’ said Enzo.

  ‘That’s the point,’ replied Ronnie.

  The men returned, all of them muttering at how open it felt.

  Ronnie listened to their concerns and told them how he planned to change their organization for the better. They needed to trust him.

  ‘We do,’ said Enzo finally.

  ‘Good. There’s one thing, though, that we all need to get on board with.’

  Ronnie stared at the men, each one in turn.

  ‘My brother, Harry. Things are in place to pull him closer to us.’

  There were murmurs of discontent.

  ‘I’m going to sell him a vision, the same one I’ve managed to get you all on board with. You trust me enough to deliver it and so will he. I know Harry. He’ll be up for this. We clean out the Eastern Europeans, get Bradford back in our control and then we can change the game in this city. And it’s coming, we all know that.’

  ‘Like I told you last night, we’ve tried to play nice with him before,’ said Enzo.

  ‘That was then. This is now. He wants me out of the criminal side of this, and that is where we are heading. No better time to pull him closer to us.’

  ‘You really think you can?’ asked one of the others.

  ‘If you guys back me, I can. We’ve always done things as a team. This, right here, is just as important as Harry.’

  Enzo stepped into the centre of the circle, now opposite his boss.

  ‘We’re making good money. Why change?’

  Murmurs of agreement from the men.

  Ronnie removed a wad of fifty-pound notes from his pocket and dropped it on the floor.

  ‘How much is enough? Is it ever enough? What if we got back to what you guys signed up for in your army days? Protecting queen and country, all that nostalgic crap.’

  ‘Queen never did anything for me,’ replied Enzo. ‘Except the promise of a shitty war pension.’ More murmurs of agreement from the men.

  ‘Do you know why we’ve been untouchable so far? Because there’s a discipline in this room you cannot manufacture. There are brains you cannot replicate. If you guys want to walk away, live off the money we’ve all made, I understand that. But Bradford needs us. Now more than ever. And it starts here. We need to change and I need to know if you are with me.’

  Ronnie moved away, allowing the men to speak amongst themselves. He watched them further explore the dilapidated warehouse.

  Ronnie lit a cigarette and waited.

  Confident they would see his vision.

  They returned and surrounded him, smiling.

  Enzo spoke for them. ‘Every cartel was brought down at one point or another because they got lazy and comfortable. Let’s be the rulers of our own fate. You want to change the game in Bradford, then we’re in. But we need the Europeans out and we need it fast. So far, we’ve come up short finding out who the boss of this new cartel is. How their distribution happens. If you think getting Harry on board helps with that, then we can look past what’s gone on before.’

  Ronnie smiled, finally feeling like everything was coming together.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  WITH ANDREW LIGHTFOOT in for further questioning, Harry hurried to the briefing room. The CCTV footage from Lister Mills on the night of the murder at
Maestro’s was in.

  Conway, Palmer, the ACC and two other DCIs crowded around a screen as one of the tech guys streamed the footage.

  ‘First run-through?’ said Harry, arriving by Conway’s side.

  ‘Yeah.’ When she looked at him, Conway frowned. ‘You look like hell.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he shrugged it off, trying to hide just how jaded he felt.

  The footage was in night mode, so it was grainy black-and-white. They ran it from 22:30, at four times normal speed. At 23:38, a man wearing a beanie, head lowered, face away from the camera came into view.

  ‘There,’ said Harry, pointing at the screen. ‘Timeline fits.’

  The footage was reversed and replayed, this time in slow-motion.

  ‘Can’t see shit,’ said Harry.

  ‘Let’s switch to inside,’ said the techie, playing around with his screen.

  The internal camera caught the side of the man’s face.

  It was far from clear but certainly better than the exterior footage.

  ‘Do you recognize him, Harry?’ asked Conway.

  ‘Can you zoom in?’ replied Harry.

  The picture distorted.

  ‘That’s as good as it gets, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Nothing obvious,’ said Harry. ‘Christ, that could be anyone.’

  ‘Forward it. See if we can get him leaving. Maybe with Aisha,’ said Conway, then she turned to Harry, pulling him out of the room.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ said Harry as Conway closed the door.

  ‘You need to go home. Get some rest. I need you on point tomorrow, when he calls.’

  ‘If he calls.’

  ‘I can’t have you burning out and fucking things up tomorrow because you were chasing down leads today that other detectives can sort.’

  ‘I found Aisha Islam’s boyfriend,’ said Harry defensively.

  ‘I heard. And that’s great work. More than we expected. But now, you look like hell. It’s approaching four o’clock, Harry, eighteen hours since you took a break, and you’re bound to crash at some point. I can’t let that happen when we need you the most.’

  ‘You think I can just go home, curl up and sleep?’

  ‘You need to try. If anything changes, I will call you. The ACC is camped out here, watching us all. I need you on your best game when it counts,’ she said, digging a finger into his chest. ‘And that isn’t here, now.’

  Harry sighed.

  They were interrupted by one of the DCIs opening the door and calling them back into the room. His face said it all: they had something.

  The same man was now on screen at 00:04 that morning.

  Harry had been there only three hours later with the armed response team.

  ‘This is … today?’ said Harry incredulously, checking the visual time-and-date display was accurate.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Shit,’ he said, watching as the man wheeled an enormous suitcase, more like a trunk, out of the lower-ground lift, down the foyer and out of the building.

  Head down.

  Face covered by a scarf.

  Moving slowly.

  There was obviously something heavy in the case.

  ‘She’s in there,’ whispered Harry. ‘Got to be.’

  There was a murmur of agreement in the room.

  ‘Wait for it,’ said the techie.

  As the man reached the closest point to the camera, he paused, looked directly at it and waved.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ snapped Harry and banged his fist on the table making everyone in the room jump. ‘He’s fucking with us,’ he snapped.

  He felt Conway’s hand on his arm, squeezing, the ACC’s gaze on Harry.

  The techie switched to outside cameras. They watched the man struggle to pull the case up a narrow slope, away from their view, and disappear out of sight.

  ‘Nothing more,’ said the techie.

  ‘He’s going up Patent Street, tell me we’ve got cameras there,’ said Harry.

  The techie looked at him and shook his head.

  ‘What? That’s it? We lost him?’

  Conway turned to one of the other DCIs in the room. ‘Get this information over to Britannia House. See if any cameras pick him up around the area. I want every car in a one-mile radius logged from the time he leaves the mill until sunrise. A suitcase that big; he’s got to use a car to move it.’

  The DCI hurried from the room.

  ‘Can you play the footage inside again?’ Harry said to the techie. ‘And pause it as he’s waving.’

  Harry leaned closer, analysing every inch of the screen.

  Nothing.

  He backed away and left the room, slamming the door as he went.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  THE PLACE HAS two rooms.

  One where I house my wasps, the other where darker things occur.

  Aisha Islam is crying quietly. Her head is bowed, tears dripping on to her exposed body.

  I remove a packaged blood-red sari from the floor and place it in her lap.

  ‘I bought this for my wife. Many years ago, now. A one-of-a-kind piece. Would you like to wear it?’

  She shakes her head. Keeps it bowed.

  Looking at Aisha’s body, legs trembling, I want to know how she will look in it.

  ‘Put it on, Aisha.’

  I unfasten her hands.

  ‘I … I’ve never put a sari on before,’ she says childishly, a noticeable wobble to her voice.

  ‘Try.’

  She doesn’t move for a few minutes, the sari in her hands, knuckles white from her grip. Then slowly, she unfolds it and starts to put it over her flimsy chemise.

  ‘No,’ I snap. ‘Properly. Make it look nice.’

  She’s trying hard not to cry. Braver than Usma, certainly more fire in this one.

  And now, she does it right. Removes her clothes, stifles the tears and starts to dress.

  As I watch, I remember the time I bought that sari. The effort it took to find the perfect piece. My mood sours, only for a moment, and I remind myself that in a few hours, I will have my revenge. Virdee and I will meet.

  He does not know this yet but he will have his one and only chance to end this.

  A choice is coming for Virdee.

  Stop me.

  Or save Aisha Islam.

  He will not be able to do both.

  FIFTY-SIX

  SAIMA GENTLY STROKED the side of Harry’s face, aggrieved that he’d fallen asleep in his work clothes for the second day running. She’d never seen him like this.

  But she couldn’t delay telling him about his father any longer. That was not how they did things.

  He stirred, then opened his eyes, disorientated.

  ‘Did work call?’ he asked, scrambling to sit up. ‘What time is it?’

  Saima switched the bedside lamp on, forcing Harry to shield his bloodshot eyes. ‘After eight. And no, love,’ she replied. ‘Nobody called.’

  ‘Are you sure? When did you get in?’

  ‘Five.’

  Harry reached for his phone.

  Saima stopped him.

  ‘No,’ she said, a firmness to her voice. She pushed his phone away. ‘I’ve been wanting to speak with you, Harry. I need to speak to you now.’

  As she moved her head in the dim light, Harry saw she’d been crying.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, putting his hand on hers.

  ‘Get dressed, Harry. Come downstairs. Then we’ll talk.’

  ‘No, tell me now. Is it Aaron? Are you okay?’

  Saima tried to get off the bed but he pulled her back.

  ‘Damn it, Saima, tell me what it is,’ he said, alarmed.

  ‘It’s your father, Harry. He’s in hospital. And it’s serious.’

  In the living room, having showered to wake himself up, Harry accepted a cup of Indian tea from Saima. She handed his phone back but told him to leave it on silent. This was a conversation she needed to have with him without interruption. Saima turned the gas fire on, giving
the room a cosy warmth, then told Harry everything.

  She told him about Ranjit’s admission on Monday, how she had helped to save his life. She told him about the flask of tea and the smile on his father’s face.

  About Joyti, the ice cream and her subsequent visit to the house.

  Finally, Saima told Harry that his father was due to undergo a coronary artery bypass graft the following morning and that his chances of survival were, at best, average.

  She stopped talking.

  ‘How was Mum with Aaron?’

  ‘She was besotted. Said he looks like you when you were that age. Spitting image. And he just took to her as though he’d always known her. Must be something genetic in it,’ she said.

  ‘No. Kids can just sense when someone has a good heart. God, I wish I had seen her.’

  ‘I know. But you will now. I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Saima,’ said Harry. ‘My dad can be a cruel son of a bitch.’

  ‘I know,’ she said without thinking, immediately regretting it.

  With those two words, as her eyes dropped to the table, Harry saw it.

  A familiar hurt.

  Harry waited until she looked at him.

  ‘Tell me.’ He reached out a hand to hold hers.

  Saima shook her head, tears in her eyes.

  ‘You’ve withheld something from me, for the first time ever this week. I understand why. But you don’t need to keep anything else from me.’

  Harry could see the pain in her face. The creasing of her eyes, the tremble of her lip.

  ‘You know how, whenever you feel upset or have something difficult to tell me, you stand by the window, looking out on to the street, in the dark?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why do you do that?’

  Harry thought about his answer. He wanted to say that he had learned it from his mother, which was partially true, but it wasn’t the main reason.

  ‘I guess, when I stand there, I feel alone. Like the words can’t hurt anyone except me. And I’m okay with that. Whilst I watch the world go by, some part of me realizes that life goes on. People go on. That my hurt is just that: mine. And since it is mine, I have the power to deal with it. Not sure if that makes any sense.’