by Dhand, A. A.
She’d never stood a chance; a devastating terminal wound in her chest.
Next to it, carved into her skin:
SINNER.
FIFTY-NINE
THE BLUE LIGHTS of two squad cars, an ambulance and a SOCO support unit turned the usually peaceful canal-side into a frenetic crime scene.
Harry was sitting by the bridge, on the cold, hard grassy bank. He’d dried off as best he could and wrapped himself in a blanket from the ambulance.
Another dead Asian girl on their hands.
Conway arrived. She was putting in as many late nights as he was at the moment. She sat down next to him.
‘That … was really something,’ she said.
‘I thought it was Aisha.’
‘You’d have done it even if you knew it wasn’t her.’
‘I would.’
Conway paused.
‘I’m sorry, Harry.’
‘So am I.’
‘No, about your father. I dropped Saima home. She told me everything. How are you even functioning with all this going on?’
‘What?’ Harry snapped round to look at her. ‘You left her there?’
‘There’s armed officers outside and a DS in with her.’ Conway laid a hand on his arm. ‘She was terrified, Harry.’
‘I know. I … didn’t know what else to do. Bastard had me by the balls.’
‘You did the right thing.’
‘He said his wife had left him. That he no longer has his family. I tried to get more from him but he wouldn’t give it up. Can I use your phone? He let something slip. I need to call Gurpal’s ex-wife Indy and verify it.’
Conway handed her phone to him.
‘Shit, I don’t have the number. Can you call the station and get it? But let me make the call.’
Conway nodded and moved away from Harry, dialling as she went.
Harry watched as the victim, identified by a credit card in her pocket as Sabrina Salem, was loaded on to a stretcher.
Did she have a white boyfriend too? Or was the bastard just binge-killing anyone now?
Conway returned and handed Harry her phone, the number already punched in.
Harry hit the call button, registering the time as he did so: 03:00.
She’d probably think it was another prank-call and not answer.
‘Hello?’ said an alert voice, a hint of panic to it.
‘Indy, it’s Harry.’
‘Hey, I thought … it was another prank.’
‘Is it still happening?’
‘Nothing for the past couple of nights. I think maybe having the squad car passing my house so frequently and the obvious police-alarm stickers on the windows might have scared him off.’
She sounded hopeful. Harry glanced at the girl’s body being loaded into the ambulance and wished he were.
He asked her about her first date with Gurpal but she couldn’t remember.
‘Might it have been at Mumtaz restaurant?’ he asked, thinking back to what the caller had said.
‘You know what, it might have been. Poshest place in Bradford for a curry. He definitely would have been trying to impress me.’
‘How likely is it that you went there?’ he asked, seeing Conway step closer, hope in her face.
‘I’m not sure, Harry, but we went there a lot.’
Harry thanked her, didn’t answer her questions about why he wanted the information at such an inhospitable hour, and hung up.
He told Conway what he’d learned.
‘It’s something,’ she said.
‘Perhaps,’ said Harry. ‘Thing is, a lot of first dates happen in that place. Like Indy said, you want to impress an Asian girl, you take her there.’
‘I’ll pass it on to the team. Get them to visit her tomorrow and get a statement. Good work, Harry. Now, let me arrange a squad car to take you home.’
‘I’m fine driving.’
She shrugged.
‘I’ll brief the ACC, but he’s going to want to hear about tonight first-hand.’
‘I’ll be at the eight o’clock briefing.’
Harry could tell she wanted him there but she had to ask, ‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’
‘We’ll get him in the next twenty-four hours, Clare. Tonight, we must have got some footage of him. He has to have snatched that girl as an impulse.’
‘I don’t think so, Harry. The whole set-up – sending you the phone? I think he’s been planning every step of this for a long time.’
Harry stood up. ‘Need to get home. Explain to Saima what the hell happened tonight.’
‘Not before a medic checks you over.’
‘She is a medic.’
‘A doctor, Harry.’
‘I will. Tomorrow. Right now, I need to see my family.’
Clare stood up. ‘Your father, Harry. Do you need some time?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘How could I take time right now? Anyway, we aren’t that close.’
‘I’m going to keep officers at your house, Harry. Until this is over.’
‘I’m sorry, that’s not enough for me.’
‘You want a safe house?’
Harry shook his head. ‘Saima will hate that. I’ll think of something else.’
‘I’m still posting officers outside your home. This … is personal, Harry. Somehow.’
He looked over to the bridge.
‘Just wish I’d saved her.’
‘I know.’
‘All this mess he’s making? I’ve got a horrible feeling he’s got something planned, some sort of apocalyptic finale. How we prepare for that, I don’t know.’
At home, Harry discharged the officer who had been staying with Saima.
He found his wife upstairs, sitting next to Aaron’s cot.
Harry entered, guilt assaulting him like the bitter chill of the canal water.
‘How’s he doing?’ said Harry.
‘Shattered. You could play a drum in here and he wouldn’t wake up.’ She didn’t turn around.
Harry reached for her hand.
‘Don’t,’ she said.
‘I had no choice, Saima. You must know that.’
‘My husband goes to meet with a serial killer and thinks that’s okay?’ Saima glared at him.
‘Did they tell you everything at the station?’
‘No. I was looking after a frightened, hysterical child – unless you’d forgotten.’
‘Please don’t do that. You think it was easy? I did what I had to, so you and Aaron would be safe.’
‘What about you?’ she hissed, slapping him on the arm.
Aaron stirred. Rolled over and stayed asleep.
‘Let’s go downstairs, Saima.’
They sat in the kitchen, all four gas hobs burning to heat up the room.
‘Wow,’ she said, after Harry had told her everything.
‘I know.’
‘How has this not got out yet?’
‘Media blackout. Although now? That’s blown. The Home Office will put out a statement first thing then the ACC will do a press conference. It’s about to go viral.’
‘So, it’s somebody you know?’ Saima asked.
Harry shrugged. He didn’t want to get into it. ‘Maybe. There’s a team looking into my previous cases.’ He shook his head. ‘This guy is something else. He’s … angry.’
‘At what?’
‘I don’t know. But he keeps coming back to the word “sinner”.’
‘Well, what sin have you committed?’
Scissors. Blood. Michael King dying at Harry’s feet. Ronnie going to jail.
‘Unpaid parking ticket?’ he said.
‘Be serious, Harry. What does he want?’
‘To be remembered. That’s what he said to me.’
‘What’s next in the investigation?’
‘He’s got twenty-four hours before we nail him. Thirty-six at most.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He’s binge-killing, spiralling towards something.’
Harry shrugged.
‘Are you happy here with police protection outside?’
Saima shook her head. ‘He knows where we live. I … can’t stay here until you’ve got him.’ She pointed at him. ‘You can’t either.’
‘I have to, Saima. He has to be able to contact me.’
‘What if he tries something?’
‘There’s two armed police outside with machine guns.’
‘What if he takes them out?’
‘He’s not Rambo.’
Harry was thinking of where Saima could go.
‘What about your sister?’ said Harry. ‘Can you stay with her tonight? If this doesn’t wrap up before tomorrow, we’ll reassess.’
‘I’ll call her in a few hours when Aaron gets up. I’m not sending him to nursery, I’m not letting him out of my sight until this is over.’
‘Honestly, I don’t think you or him are part of this guy’s plan. He let me drop you guys at the station, it’s not about my family. It’s about me.’
Harry was about to embrace her when their landline rang. Startled, he grabbed the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Harry? It’s Tariq Islam.’
‘Oh,’ replied Harry, pulling away from Saima and giving her the thumbs-up, displacing the look of panic on her face.
‘Can we talk, Harry?’
‘Sure. How can I help?’
‘Face to face?’
Harry checked his watch: 04:30.
‘I can see you after the eight a.m. briefing?’
‘I was thinking about right now?’
‘Now?’
‘Yes. I’m outside your front door.’
SIXTY
HARRY POURED GENEROUS measures of Jack Daniels into two tumblers and handed one to Tariq Islam.
‘Voters knew about this? I’d lose my ethnic holding,’ said Tariq, spinning the glass of whisky in his hand. ‘Damned if I do. Damned if I don’t.’
‘Diversity in action. Do what everyone in Bradford does. Absolve your sins during Ramadan.’
Tariq smiled weakly and tipped his glass towards Harry before taking a sip.
‘I’m surprised,’ said Harry, sitting opposite Tariq at his dining table, ‘that you’d trust me enough to share a whisky with me. Political careers have ended on less.’
‘Don’t give a damn,’ said Tariq.
Harry analysed him carefully. Tariq looked like he was struggling with something, playing with the glass, unsure whether to offload what he had come here to say.
Harry took a punt. ‘Why are you here? Really?’
‘Shrewd,’ said Tariq, smiling to himself. ‘You’ve heard the rumours about me?’
‘You’ve already told me that Group 13 doesn’t exist, but then again lots of things which don’t exist actually do,’ replied Harry, intrigued.
‘Paramilitary background means I’ve taken lives. And on my way to becoming Home Secretary, I cut some corners. Used my … influence.’
Harry felt like they had reached the edge of a precarious tipping point. ‘This isn’t a protected conversation. Don’t tell me anything I don’t want to know,’ he said, not wanting to become entrenched in Tariq’s political darkness.
‘This guy,’ said Tariq, continuing to play with his glass. ‘Do you think it’s about me?’
Harry sighed. ‘The world isn’t that black and white. I’m sure you have done stuff to get where you are. I’ve viewed the Internet chatter about you. You’re either a coconut or a Jihadi in disguise. But this thing? Not on you.’
‘He’s smart, though. Isn’t he? Not just some loon who woke up and thought, “Shit, I want to create a legacy.”’
‘Yes. He is. And planned this well.’
There was a pause as both men let the other think on their words.
‘I heard what you did tonight,’ said Tariq.
Harry grimaced. ‘Pretty stupid, according to my wife.’
‘She might not be far wrong. But I’m still grateful. You jumped into that canal thinking it was Aisha. For that, I’ll always be in your debt. No matter how this … ends.’
Harry sipped his whisky.
Tariq finished his drink. One aggressive gulp.
‘Refill?’ asked Harry, reaching for the bottle.
Tariq shook his head. ‘When I walk out that door, trial by media starts. They’re all over the hotel. Which is why I came tonight. Tomorrow, we lose control.’
‘He’s creating as much noise as possible. Trying to throw us off our game.’
Tariq grimaced. ‘It’s working.’
‘What did you come here for? Really?’
‘I … heard your father is ill. In hospital.’
‘He is.’
‘Yet, you’re still fighting for my daughter.’
‘I don’t like to lose.’
‘Are you close to him?’
Harry stared at his wedding ring, playing with it in his hands. ‘Since you’ve trusted me with your drinking habits, I’ll tell you that we haven’t spoken for some time. Because of the woman I chose to marry.’
‘Saw the Islamic painting on the wall in the hallway. Your wife is Muslim?’
Harry nodded.
‘Brown-on-brown racism. Worst kind.’
‘Exactly.’
Harry finished his drink, put the glass on the table and asked Tariq again why he was here.
‘I want you to level with me, Harry,’ said Tariq.
‘Okay.’
‘Aisha. She’s not coming back, is she?’
Harry chose his words carefully.
‘You came here to ask me whether tonight was our last shot?’
‘Yes.’
Looking at Tariq, Harry saw a widowed father in the worst of all situations and couldn’t deliver the usual soundbite.
‘Having seen the son of a bitch in action tonight. The effort he went to? The sheer audacity of what he pulled off?’ said Harry, putting his hand on Tariq’s shoulder, one father trying his hardest not to lie to another.
‘I think you should prepare yourself for the worst,’ he said.
SIXTY-ONE
SAIMA PLACED TWO large bags on the floor of Nadia’s living room. Harry had dropped her outside, impatient to get to work. He looked shocking and Saima worried his midnight swim in the filthy canal water might have given him a bug.
‘Thanks for this, Sis,’ she said.
‘How bad is the damage?’ asked Nadia, immediately picking Aaron up and taking him to the fish tank in the corner of her living room.
‘Could have been worse,’ said Saima. She had told Nadia they had suffered a burst water-pipe which had badly damaged their home and that she needed to stay for one night while it was repaired. She hadn’t wanted to worry Nadia with the truth. Saima couldn’t quite believe it herself.
Saima started unpacking the bag she had made up for Aaron, who was mesmerized by the fish.
‘I feed them!’ he said, concerned Nadia was going to do it.
‘Okay, okay,’ replied Nadia, handing him a small tub of fish-food.
‘Careful,’ said Saima. ‘Last time he threw the whole lot in.’
‘There’s not a lot left,’ said Nadia, helping Aaron to shower the water in the tank with food.
‘Mamma, look!’ he cried as the fish swam for the surface.
Nadia put him on the floor. Aaron pushed his nose up to the tank, practically hypnotized by the dozen or so fish.
‘Imran here?’ asked Saima, nervously.
‘Upstairs. Still got the flu.’
‘Did you tell him we are staying?’
‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘You’re his cousin too.’
‘I don’t want to cause a scene.’
‘You’re not. Anyway, he owes me. I’ve been waiting on him hand and foot for three days solid. Bloody man-flu. Can’t you give him something?’
‘I’d give him a kick out of this house.’
‘Yeah, well, we
’re not all as feisty as you.’
‘When is he leaving?’
‘Once his bit-on-the-side gets pregnant, he’ll leave. Until then, he’ll drag his heels on the divorce.’
‘And you’re okay with that?’
‘Saima,’ snapped Nadia, loud enough that it startled Aaron, ‘will you just let it be? You’re here for one night, can we just enjoy that? Hasn’t happened in years.’
Saima nodded. She hated that her sister wasn’t as headstrong as she was.
‘Do you want some breakfast? I was going to make samosas,’ said Nadia.
‘This early?’
‘It’s Shabraat tonight. I’m making it for the mosque. Hey, why don’t you come?’ said Nadia excitedly. ‘Be like old times.’
Shabraat happened every year a couple of weeks before Ramadan. Women would get together at the mosque for an all-night praying session. It was a religious occasion but, for the women gathered, it was also a chance to catch up and spend some time together.
Saima had always loved Shabraat. As a teenager, spending a whole night at the mosque had felt so secretive.
‘I … can’t,’ she said, nodding at Aaron.
‘He’ll be asleep. Imran will be home. Oh, come on, you’ll see all the old lot there!’
‘Yeah, and what am I going to say to them?’
‘Nothing. We told everyone you got married and pissed off somewhere. Nobody cares. Everyone’s done worse than you, anyway.’
‘Worse than me?’
Nadia shrugged. ‘Black guys. Gays. Affairs. Divorce. It’s all happening.’
‘In the open?’ said Saima incredulously.
‘Don’t be stupid. Come on, let’s go.’ Nadia smiled conspiratorially.
Saima shared so little with her sister and was working hard to rebuild their relationship. Perhaps this could make a difference for them?
But there would be questions.
And Saima couldn’t leave Aaron with Imran.
‘No,’ said Saima. ‘I can’t. But I’ll help you cook.’
Nadia nodded, frustration clear on her face. Saima hated to disappoint her.
‘Tell you what,’ said Saima smiling.
‘What?’
‘Once the samosas are done, you and I can pick out an outfit for you to wear this evening. Just like we used to do. A full-on fashion show!’
A grin Saima had not seen for years appeared on Nadia’s face, her eyes sparkled and she looked genuinely excited.