by Liz Mistry
‘It stands up to scrutiny, doesn’t it? All Compo’s stuff?’
Gus nodded. All he wanted to do was nip in to see Lewis, his fellow officer, before they were both flown back to Bradford in the lull of the storm. Then sleep, sleep and more sleep. He’d tried to put the look on Katie’s face as she dragged Gabriella from Daniel’s room to the back of his mind, but it kept coming back to him. They’d made huge strides forward in their relationship since Gabriella and Katie’s betrayal – most of it down to his mum’s tenacious insistence. Now, he couldn’t see a way forward for him and his sister. Not after this. What else could he have done though? Let a murdering scumbag go scot free? No chance. He’d seen enough coppers get off with corruption and even atrocities and it sickened him. No, he’d done the right thing and he’d rather live without his sister than with a knife slicing his soul for the rest of his life.
TUESDAY
68
05:15 Marriner’s Drive, Bradford
Patti had assumed Gus would sleep well, however experience had taught him that sheer exhaustion, emotional and physical trauma and a body that was slowly turning into a bruised rainbow, would not secure him the respite he needed. He was right. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, trying not to wake Patti. With Zarqa in the spare room, in the early hours of the morning, he’d had no choice but to take his demons and Bingo downstairs to the living room couch. At least here he had Greg to talk to share the things he could never burden Patti with.
Huddled in a fleece, watching the flames in the stove, Gus tried to block out the recurring images that troubled him. Alice – all venom and hatred, Izzie Dimou and Marcia Beaumont’s tortured bodies, Missy Beaumont’s empty staring eyes when he’d studied her through the window at North Manchester General, the two dead Romanians, Vulcan Narkis’ shocked expression when he’d killed his brother, the crazed expression on Furkan Narkis’ face as he raised his machete in the air, ready to strike Gus down, Lewis Gore motionless and bleeding out, Daniel Farrier, shivering and vulnerable and later, arrogant and taunting. Gabriella and Katie’s expressions, Compo’s disappointment, Taffy’s optimism.
So many people all relying on him. Expecting him to make it okay, to do the right thing. Sometimes it’s just too much, Greg – too fucking much! Sometimes I get it wrong – like I did with you and then… people end up dead! He looked up at Greg’s painting above the fireplace. The reptiles so intricately laced through Bob Marley’s dreads put him in mind of his life. So many things interweaving, complicating things… and so much grief – sometimes too much to bear. He couldn’t get comfortable on the sofa. His leg was giving him gyp. Every bruise throbbed, his ribs hurt – he was a wreck and what’s more he looked like one too. When he’d seen his swollen face staring back at him from the bathroom mirror earlier, it had given him a jolt. God knows how mum will react when she sees me. Huge bags hung like pendulums beneath faded blue eyes – where has the spark gone? The parts where Gabriella had punched him were turning an angry mauve and his lip was split. He’d let Patti assume it was the Narkis’ who were responsible for that – no point in fuelling an already-over-ignited fire. His nose was still swollen from before and he looked like he should be locked up – maybe he should. Maybe everyone would be safer that way. Maybe he could do an exchange for Alice?
According to Nancy, MI6 had received all of Compo’s encrypted intelligence implicating Daniel Farrier in everything from Izzie Dimou’s abduction and subsequent death to stealing the bio-weapon Sevket Abaci had been developing for the Syrians, in order to sell it to the Russians. With that end in mind, MI6 had pulled rank and demanded to ‘deal’ with Daniel Farrier. Under orders from Number Ten, Nancy had no choice but to comply. ‘Truth is,’ she’d said, ‘it would be more bother than its worth for us to prosecute him. This way we’re distanced from it all.’
Gus had to agree. Compo had worked hard and dug deep. The last thing Gus wanted was for Comps to be held accountable. Best rid of Farrier. Then he’d only have to deal with the aftermath of Gabriella and Katie’s accusations. They didn’t even have to worry about Vulcan Narkis as MI6 had swept him off to London too – Gus didn’t fancy Vulcan’s chances at the hands of the spooks.
He was just contemplating grabbing a whisky when the living room door opened and a shadowy figure crept in. In the semi dark, he recognised Zarqa. She wore long sleeved pyjamas and had pulled the sleeves down and was gripping them in the palm of her hands as she sunk into the armchair next to the couch, folding her legs under her, so that she was barely visible. She pulled one of the throws that Patti had dotted around the living room over her. In silence, he watched her hook an arm around a cushion and try to get comfy. ‘Can’t sleep, eh?’
When she jumped, Gus swung his legs round, raked his hands through his dreads and, waving bye-bye to a nice single malt, asked, ‘Hot chocolate?’
Zarqa grinned, ‘I’ll make it though, yours is always crap.’
Gus pressed his palms to his heart and grinned, ‘Ouch.’
Zarqa flicked on a lamp and grimaced, ‘God, Gus. You look rough. Not surprised Patti kicked you out the bed.’
With a laugh catching in his throat, Gus swatted his god-daughter, on the arm – ‘Bitch.’
Limping to the kitchen, he wondered what exactly a good godfather did in these sorts of circumstances. Did he wait for her to talk, or did he plough in and try to mediate? Fuck, I’m so out of touch!
As if aware of his predicament, Zarqa filled a pan with milk and put it on the cooker to boil. ‘I know what went on you know Gus. ‘
Gus, head on one side, quirked an eyebrow. ‘You do?’
She nodded. ‘Yeah, courtesy of some tosser at mosque school.’
Not the time to admonish her language. Instead he watched as she spooned coco powder and sugar into the milk and began to whisk it in the way he’d seen her mother do countless times and waited to find out exactly what Zarqa had found out from a tosser at mosque school. But when he found out who the little scrote was he’d have a thing or two to say to him. When it came, it was worse than Gus had anticipated. Zarqa’s whisking became more agitated as she spoke, tears fell from her eyes and dripped into the droplets of spilt milk.
‘He’s not my fucking dad.’ She glanced at Gus, her mouth screwed up like she was chewing a lime. ‘But of course you knew that, didn’t you?’
Right up his spine and along his shoulders, Gus could feel an army of rats, tails swishing, teeth gnawing and nipping at him as they progressed up to his skull, ready to bite if he put a foot wrong. This was serious godfather stuff. Where the hell are you when we need you eh, Greg? Oh fuck – forgot – I bloody stabbed you to death, didn’t I?’
The sound of the milk hissing as it overflowed and killed the gas, followed by the acrid smell of burning, jolted Gus to his feet. He reached over and switched the knob off and he and Zarqa stared at each other – her dark eyes full of pain and accusation.
Gus closed his eyes momentarily then looked straight into Zarqa’s. ‘Yes, I knew that. You need to talk to your dad.’
A rough little half cough, half cry caught in Zarqa’s throat. ‘Not my dad, remember?’
Gus swallowed, his throat was dry and he really needed that whisky now. Instead he flicked the switch on the kettle. ‘Biologically no… but he is in all the ways that matter.’
Unprepared for Zarqa’s anger, he flinched when – fists clenched – she stepped right up to him and yelled in his face, ‘Don’t give me that crap. He killed my dad, didn’t he?’
Gus froze. Fucking little tosser, I’ll castrate him. This wasn’t his story to tell, what the hell was he supposed to do?
Zarqa flounced away from him spinning on her heel, her hands raking through her straight black hair. ‘It’s true. It’s fucking true.’
She made to storm out of the living room, but Gus grabbed her arm, ignoring the wrenching pain in his thigh as he over stretched. ‘You need to speak to your dad…’ her chin lifted, her lips thinning. God she’s so full of rage. �
�Mo. You need to speak to Mo and your mum. This isn’t my story to tell.’
‘No,’ she said pulling her arm away, ‘It wasn’t fucking Javid at mosque’s story either, was it?’ She raged out of the kitchen, through the living room, slamming the door behind her. Gus heard her thumping upstairs followed by the spare room door slamming, then muffled tears. Fuck I’m not equipped for this godparent shit. He picked up his phone and punched in Mo’s number.
69
11:15 North Park Road, Manningham
‘It wasn’t like that, Zarqa.’ Mo’s voice was low, his hands stretched beseechingly towards his daughter. ‘You’ve only got half the story.’
‘Duh, and whose fault is that?’
Mo glanced at Naila who sat at the kitchen table, tears teeming down her face, her hands clenched together in her lap. What must she be feeling right now? This must be hell for her. Their daughter dragging up the past, throwing it in her face, like she was some sort of whore. His voice was sharper when he next spoke, ‘Apologise! Apologise to your mum right now.’
Zarqa’s face reddened, her lips curled in an ugly snarl. ‘Apologise? To her? What for? For saying it like it is? For calling her a whore? Fuck’s sake Mo, let’s call a spade a spade, huh? She was fifteen when she had me – fifteen. That’s younger than I am now. She trapped my dad and you killed him.’
Mo exhaled. Her calling him Mo instead of Dad drove a stake straight through his heart. On the one hand he itched to slap her, on the other he wanted to sweep her up, cocoon her in his love and absorb all the hurt and venom. How had she become this monster? Where was the sweet baby he’d held in his arms minutes after she was born? The toddler who used to make him give her piggy back rides all over the house, the big sister who loved teaching her siblings new things and reading them bedtime stories? This wasn’t her. If he believed in Jinns, he’d assume she was possessed by a malignant one, however he knew it was anger, rage and hurt that drove her – that made her lash out. He wanted to put his arms round Naila, stand in front of her, fend off every poison dart Zarqa fired at her. However, they’d agreed earlier they’d show a united front, but they would not create a physical barrier; a wall that would exclude Zarqa, make her feel outside their love. So he stayed where he was feeling increasingly helpless.
Naila, stood up, arms stretched to embrace their daughter. ‘He was never your Dad – Never. He was a paedophile, a rapist and an abuser. Your dad – your real dad, the one that matters – this one,’ she pointed to Mo, ‘all he ever did was defend me.’
Zarqa brushed off Naila’s arms. ‘So, I’m just the cuckoo in the nest – the fucking cuckoo. The one nobody wants. The one you keep trying to replace with all your other brats.’
‘No, No, Zarqa. That’s not true. We love you. You’re our daughter and we love you.’ Mo could see his words were having no impact on his daughter. With every passing second he could feel her pulling away from them, erecting barriers, hating them. As Naila pleaded with her, trying to explain about her forced marriage to her forty-year-old cousin Waseem, how Waseem had raped her, how he – Mo – had tried to protect her, how the community; her parents, her family, had turned their backs on them.
A vision from his past crashed into his head. The events of that day played like a silent film in his mind, eerily detached from sound or emotions.
Lister Park! – the bandstand – autumn wind howling, rain thrashing, he and Naila trying to find shelter, Naila pregnant with Zarqa. Mo desperate to protect the love of his life, – both of them kids – too young, yet unable to let their love die – sixteen and scared. Waseem had turned up with Naila’s brothers and her father. Screaming, yelling, grabbing at Naila, tears streaking her face, her mouth open, one arm cupping her bump, pleading, begging Mo for help. He’d stepped forward, grabbed her and let go with a fist from the second step of the bandstand. Waseem on the step below him – slipped – maybe wet leaves? Feet cycling out of control. CRAAAASH! For a second, everyone stood looking at him as his white prayer hat turned red.
Mo had grabbed Naila and they’d run, her brothers in pursuit. Together they had run down the steps into the Mughal Gardens. Naila stumbled, fell to her knees and then they were on her, her brother Majid, grabbing her by the scruff of the neck, dragging her over to the water pools, thrusting her head in, holding her down. Splashing. Yanking her back up. Gasping for air. Crying for Mo. Thrusting her back under. Meanwhile, Mo curled in a foetal position. Daanish and Jaffer kicking; kicking his head, his ribs, his legs. The knife – Daanish? Jaffer? Sirens, paramedics and all the time Naila screaming, crying.
Zarqa screamed, her face a screwed-up ball of venom as she pushed past her mum, firing daggers at Mo. ‘I don’t believe you. I hate you both. You’re not my fucking dad and I’ll never forgive you.’
70
18:30 The Fort
It was strange to be back in Bradford and even stranger to be back in The Fort, but it felt good. Just like coming home. Gus watched the snow falling outside the window and wondered what Alice was doing. Nancy had told him she was in the clear. Lulu had left a suicide note, saying she couldn’t go on any longer, that she didn’t want to die of cancer in prison and that she’d bought the heroin from Baby Jane. Now, Alice’s parents were heading down to collect their daughter. Gus and Mo had sworn them to secrecy about how they’d ended up at Mo’s and Compo had ‘created’ a legitimate trail logging their journey from Athens to Bradford, starting before any bodies were discovered outside their home. Greek police had put their deaths down to a vendetta type killing.
Gus wasn’t sure he could face her. How could he, when he’d let her down so badly? When he’d given up on her, when she needed him most. He swung his chair away from the window and began shuffling papers around his desk. He’d been doing that for hours and had achieved a big fat zilch. Compo and Taffy were industriously filing and tying up loose ends. And Nancy was no doubt bemoaning the fact that MI6 were refusing to share any information with her about Daniel Farrier. Gus couldn’t care less about that. As far as he was concerned, Daniel Farrier could rot in hell – maybe they’d lock him in the Tower of London.
Taffy began to get ready to go home and Gus smiled. Taffy ad Compo had bonded over the last few days. It was good for both of them. Compo needed someone to take him out of himself, to help him connect to the outside world. And Taffy needed someone who would let him take the lead – someone who would instil confidence in his abilities. Normally, that role fell to Alice but, hell, Compo was doing a grand job of it in her absence. He waved bye to Taffy and picked up yet another file only to be disturbed by Compo clearing his throat. Gus hadn’t heard him cross to his desk and jumped.
‘Boss, gotta say this. Just the once and then it’s forgotten okay?’
Gus frowned, unsure where Compo was going. ‘It’s about Alice.’
Gus nodded, his heart sinking. He deserved to be berated over his lack of faith in Alice, but that didn’t make it any the less painful. ‘Yeah.’
‘It stays between you and me, okay?’
Gus frowned. ‘What stays between you and me?’
Compo wiped the back of his hand over his nose. ‘You know – that stuff the whole Kennedy stuff. We just forget it, right?’
‘Oh, you mean the stuff you dug up on Kennedy, yeah that’s our secret, no probs Comps.’
Compo pulled his beanie off his head and twisted it in his hands. ‘No, not that. The other stuff – you! You not believing in her. You’d a load on. Sampson and all of that – loads of stuff. You didn’t really believe Al had done it. I know you didn’t.’
Gus’ heart contracted. Aw Compo! No matter how easy it would be to accept Compo’s version of events, Gus couldn’t do it. He’d never be able to live with himself if he wasn’t honest. ‘The truth is Comps, at the time I did believe it. I really did. I let her down big time and I’ll never ever forget it. I can’t lie about it, pretend it didn’t happen. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I did believe it.’
Compo frowned, put h
is hat back on and kicked the leg of Gus’ table. ‘Thing is, Gus... Dun’t matter about what you feel. It’s about Al, in’t it? So, you just swallow all that shit you’ve just said to me. She dun’t need to ever hear that, you get me?’ His look was ferocious, his eyes sparking, his lips in a tight line that brooked no argument.
Fuck, this team never ceases to amaze me. He stood up, spat on the palm of his hand and then extended it to Compo. ‘For Alice.’
Compo grinned, spat on his own palm and gripped Gus’ hand and shook. ‘For Alice.’
He turned and walked back to his work station. ‘Wouldn’t mind a Raja’s pizza – just to seal the deal like.’
Gus laughed, picked up the phone and dialled. You got to keep the team fed, after all.
Epilogue
Three Weeks Later
Nab Wood Cemetery
Gus waited outside the crematorium, fingers linked with Patti’s. His thigh was still tight when he moved, but thankfully the relentless cold had abated. Aside from that, he could have done without being here today. Tomorrow he had to give his statement to Internal Affairs regarding his decision not to await backup before entering the farmhouse on Saddleworth Moor. Nancy had assured him it would be a formality, so why were his palms sweating? Why couldn’t he take it all in his stride like Gore? The big man’s stock phrase was ‘what’s done is done. We did what we had to and we’re alright.’
Gus wasn’t entirely sure his friend was alright. Gore had lost weight and his right arm wasn’t functioning quite as well as it had done. He had many months of physiotherapy before him, yet he was persistently upbeat. Gus wished he had some of Gore’s happy pills to keep him going.