About the Author

Born in Scotland, made in Bradford sums up LIZ MISTRY’s life. Over thirty years ago she moved from a small village in West Lothian to Yorkshire to get her teaching degree. Once here, Liz fell in love with three things; curries, the rich cultural diversity of the city … and her Indian husband (not necessarily in this order). Now thirty years, three children, two cats (Winky and Scumpy) and a huge extended family later, Liz uses her experiences of living and working in the inner city to flavour her writing. Her gritty crime fiction police procedural novels set in Bradford embrace the city she describes as ‘Warm, Rich and Fearless’, whilst exploring the darkness that lurks beneath.

Having struggled with severe clinical depression and anxiety for many years, Liz often includes mental health themes in her writing. She credits the MA in Creative Writing she took at Leeds Trinity University with helping her find a way of using her writing to navigate her ongoing mental health struggles. Being a debut novelist in her fifties was something Liz had only dreamed of and she counts herself lucky, whilst pinching herself regularly to make sure it’s all real.

You can contact liz via her website https://www.lizmistry.com/

Readers Love Last Request

‘I devoured this over two nights, literally not being able to put it down’

‘Amazing … A story so twisted it makes your head spin in a good way’

‘An excellent crime thriller … Entertaining and exciting and a particularly satisfying finale … Engrossing’

‘Gripping from beginning to end, and I enjoyed each and every moment of it!’

‘From the first page to the last it kept you gripped’

‘Great read!’

‘A cracking good read’

Last Request
LIZ MISTRY

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Liz Mistry 2019

Liz Mistry asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008358341

Version: 2019-09-13

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Readers Love Last Request

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: 1983

Monday 15th October 2018

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Tuesday 23rd October

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Wednesday 24th October

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Thursday 25th October

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Friday 26th October

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Epilogue: Three Weeks Later

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

To my family, for all that you do and all that you are.

Prologue
1983

Her hand, scaly and trembling, reaches out. The flash of shocking-pink nail varnish that I’d applied with painstaking care whilst she’d been sleeping is incongruous against her yellowy skin. The stench of death hangs heavy around her, as if she’s rotting from the inside out. I take her hand, careful not to grip too tightly. Every worm-like sinew, every frail tendon, every arid vein a braille pattern against my palm. Still, she flinches, the pain flashing in her milky eyes. A sheen of sweat dapples her forehead. Her nightdress is soaked with perspiration that mingles with fetid pus and piss, creating a cacophony of odours that make me want to retch. Her pink scalp shines through matted hair. Her cheekbones, jutting against paper-thin skin, bear raw scabs.

The room is dire – stinking and filthy. I should clean it, but I don’t know how. That was never one of my jobs – cleaning up, keeping things neat, tidy. That had always been her job. Her eyes look heavy. Soon, once the morphine kicks in, she’ll doze off. The dim light from the bedside lamp illuminates the layer of dust that covers the cabinet top. We don’t use the main light anymore. It hurts her eyes. With the curtains drawn against the outside world, we are cocooned in this hell hole together … slowly disintegrating … decomposing like two worthless corpses thrown on an unlit pyre.

The carpet’s gross. I’ve spilled more piss on there than has made it into the bedpan and that’s not mentioning the stains where she’s thrown up. No matter how much Dettol I use the overwhelming stink of vomit still hangs in the air.

When she drifts off into an uneasy sleep, I switch the television on. Casting anxious glances her way, I wait. Today’s the day. The court hearing. It’s like the entire country is on tenterhooks waiting for the verdict. I’ve tried telling myself I’m imagining things – the looks, the surreptitious glances, the whispers every time I go to the shops – each one a piqueristic experience of both pleasure and pain. Each one grounding me in the reality of what he’s done to us. Deep down I know that everyone – the postman, Mr Anand at the corner shop, Mrs Roberts two doors down – everyone in the entire fucking world is waiting, holding on to their bated breath, with the heightened anticipation of an illicit orgasm.

They barely noticed me before this. Now it’s as if, in the absence of my mother’s presence, I’ve been thrust into minor celebrity status, my every move scrutinised. At least the paparazzi have slung their hooks, for now. Not before Mum had to face them though. When the story first hit the news, she was forced to run the gauntlet, her head hung in shame, her eyes swollen and red, her gait unsteady. It took its toll. Well, that and the shit that he’d infected her with. It all combined to drag her down, drain her.

The recording I’ve seen so many times, the standard one they played on endless repeat when the shit first hit the fan, flits across the screen. He looks so suave, sophisticated. All spruced up in his suit, beard trimmed, sleazy smile playing around his lips. Like he’d done nothing. Like none of this was his fault.

I daren’t put the volume up so I flick to subtitles …

‘Three more students under the care of Professor Graham Earnshaw have come forward, with accusations of rape. This brings the total number of victims to fifteen. Professor Earnshaw’s solicitor still maintains his client is not guilty and as the trial enters its fifth day, the court heard how Professor Earnshaw is alleged to have infected not only his wife, but four of his victims, three male and one female, with the HIV virus. It looks like this case could run into its second week, if not longer.’

The camera flicks to the front of Leeds Court and after a quick glance to make sure Mum is still asleep, I pull forward to hear what the Dean of Social Sciences is about to say about my father.

‘… and the department has responded to student concerns as quickly as possible. We are doing our best to support our …’

A groan from the bed and I press the remote. The screen goes dark and I look round. She’s holding her hand up in front of her, a slight smile tugs her thin lips into a toothless grimace. ‘Thank you. I like pink, always have.’

I lean over, tuck the sheets around her emaciated frame, ignoring the wafts of decay that hit my nostrils. Her frail hand grips my arm and I pause, turning my head towards her. ‘What, Mum? What is it?’

Her smile widens, and I try not to flinch at the bloody cracks at the corner of her mouth and the gaps inside. She nods once and swallows. I go to lift the half-filled glass from the bedside table but she shakes her head – a painful movement that pulls a frown across her forehead. When she speaks her voice is low and raw. ‘Promise me.’

I lean closer, hardly able to hear her words.

‘My last request – you’ve got to promise that you’ll do it. Live your dream. Do everything you always planned to do before this.’

Her hand gestures towards the TV. She saw it. I haven’t been quick enough.

I bow my head and promise her. I’d promise her anything right now, but still, I keep my fingers crossed. I curse my carelessness but there’s no point, for when I glance back her eyes are closed. She is on her final journey and, as if on cue, my entire body responds to the smash of a train hurtling through my core, pummelling me to the ground and, as she gasps her last breath, I cower on the floor hugging my knees tight to my chest. My heart shatters into a jigsaw of fragments that can’t ever reconnect; a sense of relief coddles me like a woollen blanket and guilt and anger swamp me.

*

Days pass with those whose slurs had previously scorched us, now offering platitudes. Each false word drips like acid, as I take in the detritus that is my life from here on in, and all the time her last request plays in my mind like an annoying jingle.

There’s nothing else for it. I’ll have to do something about that.

Monday 15th October 2018

Chapter 1

Dour rain pummelled the cobbles that ran between the two rows of houses on Willowfield Terrace, making them sleek and dangerous underfoot. Except for the oppressive, grey clouds that promised more of the same, the alleyway was deserted. The air hung heavy, waiting to embrace the latest drama involving the Parekh women as Detective Sergeant Nikita Parekh flung open the back door and stormed out. Anger emanating from her every pore, she flew down the steps into the yard and out the gate, followed by her daughter. Leather jacket flying loose, she ignored the spatter of mucky water that her trainers kicked up the back of her jeans. With a plastic bag looped over one wrist, she raked her waist-length hair back into a ponytail and slipped a scrunchie round it. She was on a mission and nothing would deter her.

‘Mum … Mum! Wait up.’ Charlie, a foot taller than her mum, ran behind, hitching her schoolbag onto her shoulder. Unlike her mum, she tried to avoid the puddles created by the worn cobbles.

But Nikki was already pushing open the back gate of the neighbouring house and striding up the steps. Using her fist, she brayed briefly on the door before turning the handle and pushing it open, not waiting for a reply. Entering the kitchen, she glanced at the hijabed woman cooking a fry-up in a huge frying pan on the cooker. ‘Where’s Haqib?’

The woman puffed her cheeks out in a ‘what’s he done now?’ expression and, shaking her head, pointed her spatula towards the kitchen door. ‘Front room.’

Stopping only to grab a bite from a piece of buttered toast on a plate on the worksurface, Nikki marched out of the kitchen, through the small hallway and into the living room. The room was in semi-darkness, with just the light from an Ikea tabletop lamp and the TV illuminating the area. She went straight over to the large bay window and swished the curtains open, allowing the scant light from outside to penetrate.

‘Oi!’ All angles, acne and attitude, Haqib, slouched on a bright red leather sofa, TV blaring, remote control in his hand, bare feet balanced on top of a glass-topped coffee table. ‘What d’ya think you’re doin’? Can’t see the telly, can I?’

Nikki turned with her hands on hips, and glared at him, the spark in her eyes forcing him to back down.

Charlie panted into the room, the knot on the top of her head wobbling as if it might fall off, her cheeks spattered with raindrops. ‘Mum, if you’d just hang on a minute.’

Nikki extended her hand, one index finger raised to her daughter, just like her own mother had always done, ‘Chup kar.’ She rounded the bulky couch and positioned herself right in front of the TV.

Charlie folded her arms under her boobs, one hip extended towards her mum, pure sulk dripping from her pursed lips.

Haqib bobbed his head, first to one side and then to the other, trying to see the TV, his tone a little less confrontational this time. ‘Can’t see.’

Nikki bent over and swiped his feet off the table.

‘Hey.’ He glanced from his aunt to his cousin, his hands splayed before him. ‘What’s up? What’ve I done now? You can’t just come in and do that, you know?’

Nikki snorted before tipping the contents of the plastic bag she was carrying onto the table where Haqib’s feet had been. Haqib stopped, mouth open. If Nikki had been in a better mood she’d have laughed, but right now she was fuming. Really fuming. Haqib’s eyes moved from his aunt’s stern face to the bags filled with multicoloured pills, then up to Charlie. The pills with their smiley faces, love hearts and winky eyes incensed Nikki. Over the past few months she’d seen umpteen cases of kids in the city taking E and landing themselves in Bradford Royal Infirmary. This new batch was potent – three deaths and a brain damaged kid testified to that. It made Nikki’s piss boil. She snatched the remote from her nephew and switched off the racket that boomed from the speakers. ‘Spill!’

Haqib clipped his mouth shut, then opened it, before once more closing it like a minnow about to get swallowed by a shark. That analogy appealed to Nikki. All she wanted to do was to swallow the lad up, chew him till he squealed and spit him out.

‘I … erm, I …’ He looked at Charlie as if expecting her to bail him out.

Nikki moved closer, breathing heavily, her anger exuding from every pore. ‘You selling MDMA to my 14-year-old, are you? Got a death wish, have you?’ Another step and Haqib was trying to mould his body into the leather couch.

‘You all right in there?’ Nikki’s sister, Anika, called from the kitchen.

Nikki glowered at Haqib. ‘You’d better start spilling before your mum comes through.’

‘For God’s sake, Mum.’ Charlie, her face perfectly made up, eyeliner on point and her school skirt too damn short, flounced forward and flung herself onto the sofa beside Haqib, sliding her schoolbag round till it rested on her lap. ‘If you’d give me half a chance to explain. Haqib didn’t sell me it.’

Nikki glared at the lad, eyebrows raised. ‘You gave them to her? You gave your 14-year-old cousin E? That’s no better. In fact, that’s bloody worse.’

He ran the back of his hand across his nose and glanced at Charlie. ‘I didn’t. I wouldn’t – she …’ He glanced at Charlie and shrugged.

Charlie elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Tell her then – you might as well …’

Head bowed, looking like a 2-year-old in trouble for stealing the Easter eggs, he mumbled something.

‘What?’ Nikki’s voice was sharp. She’d thought Haqib knew better than to bring drugs of any sort near her family, near her home or even onto the damn estate. What the hell had he been thinking?

Clearing his throat, Haqib tried again. ‘She’ – he jerked his thumb towards Charlie – ‘confiscated it.’

‘You what?’ Nikki looked at her eldest daughter who was all sulky indignation and ‘I told you so’.

‘What? So, you thought I’d buy Es? I’m not a loser, you know!’

Nikki grinned and scooped the bags up. Charlie wasn’t a loser. Definitely not. Nearing the sofa, she leaned over and kissed the top of her daughter’s top-knot head. ‘No, you’re not.’ She leaned over further and cuffed Haqib’s head. ‘You, on the other hand, will be, if you don’t stop with the damn drugs. Now I’ve got to bail you out, yet again. Not good enough, Haqib – not fucking good enough.’

She could just about put up with the weed that was rife on the estate – turn a blind eye and all that – but this? Once this shit got a grip on the estate it’d spread like wildfire bringing with it crime and violence and despair. She’d seen it all before on other Bradford estates and she was buggered if she’d allow it on hers. But what was she to do about Haqib? She was tempted to turn the little scrote in – let him see what it would be like – but deep down she knew she couldn’t do that to her family or to this runt of a boy.

Haqib rubbed his head. ‘I don’t take them, Auntie. It’s just …’ He sighed.

Charlie broke in. ‘What he’s trying to say is that Deano’s back.’

A talon curled its way round Nikki’s heart and squeezed, hard and sudden. If Deano was back, then that meant his drug lord boss Franco was too … and he was an evil sod. ‘I’ll deal with this.’ She hung the bag back over her wrist and chucked the remote control at Haqib, making sure it whacked his head. ‘Don’t be late for school, you two.’

When she re-entered the kitchen, Anika handed her a mug of steaming coffee. ‘Weed? Again?’

Nikki sighed. Anika took a pragmatic approach to her son’s weed consumption. Personally, Nikki would rather he didn’t smoke the stuff, but then she knew how many alternatives there were out there, so she let it pass. She could tell her sister the truth, but what purpose would that serve? Anika would wail and moan and threaten to ground him and Haqib would do what he always did and ignore her.

She’d deal with it and they’d move on with her keeping a closer eye on the little turd. ‘Yeah, summat like that.’ She shrugged. ‘Deano’s back … and Franco. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it though.’

Anika nodded and went back to the fry-up she was cooking. ‘He’s trouble, that lad, but I’ve heard Franco’s worse. Sort it before it gets out of hand – like last time.’

Nikki munched the remains of the toast she’d started on her way in. She enjoyed spending time in her sister’s kitchen. It was homely. Filled with clutter and love. Kids’ schoolbags by the back door, shoes kicked off in a huddle next to them, well-tended plants on the windowsill, a series of sentimental ‘There’s No Place Like Home’ plaques and cutesy pictures of cats. Her own kids were always telling her to get some plants and put some pictures on the walls. Truth was, Nikki was as green-fingered as weed killer and the only plant that had been able to flourish in her home was the cactus Charlie had given her three Christmases ago. As for the sentimental crap? Well, that was so not Nikki. She liked things streamlined – no clutter. That way she knew if her space had been infiltrated. That way she felt safe and in control. As she watched her sister, something niggled at her. Something was different. When she realised what it was, she smiled but her heart sank. Why did Anika have to be so needy? ‘You can’t have it both ways, Anki.’

Anika frowned. ‘What you on about?’

Taking a sip of coffee, Nikki pointed at her sister’s head. ‘You can’t wear the hijab on one hand and fry bloody bacon and sausages on the other, now can you?’

Anika’s face broke into a grin. She flung her head back, laughter bubbling out of her like warm fuzzies on a winter’s day. ‘Just as well I’m not wearing it on my hand then, innit?’

Covering her sigh with a smile, Nikki nursed her coffee, observing the warm flush across her sister’s cheeks. Anika was happy … for now. ‘Take it Yousaf’s back an all.’

‘Aw don’t be like that. I love him. Maybe he’ll stay this time.’

Nikki wanted to shake her. Make her wise up. ‘You know he’ll never leave his Pakistani family. ‘Specially now he’s a “councillor”.’ Nikki made air quotes round the last word and crossed her eyes for effect, pleased that her silly actions seemed to have taken the sting out of her words when Anika laughed.

‘He loves me and he loves Haqib.’

Nikki groaned and stuffed more toast into her mouth, chewed, swallowed and then spoke. ‘Come on! When’s the last time he bought Haqib owt – or you for that matter? Yousaf’s a loser. You keep taking him back every time he turns up for a booty call and he’ll get you up the duff again and leave you. The likes of us – working-class, dual heritage and Hindu to boot – are not good enough for well-off businessmen-cum-councillors and especially not for married ones. He won’t leave her.’

Anika’s eyes welled up and Nikki could have kicked herself. Maybe sometimes she should just learn to shut her big mouth. She jumped to her feet and moved round to put her arms round her sister, hugging her tight. ‘I’m sorry. I know I’m bitter and twisted, but I just don’t want you getting hurt again.’

‘Not everyone’s like you know who, Nikki.’

Nikki sighed. Anika was right. Just because she’d had a bad experience didn’t mean Anika would. But the truth was Yousaf just was not good enough for her sister. She only had to convince Anika of that fact. The sisters hugged until, smelling something beginning to burn, Nikki wheeled round, turned off the cooker and yelled through the house, ‘Breakfast’s ready.’

Haqib and Charlie appeared from the living room as Nikki knocked on the wall that adjoined her house and yelled. ‘You two, Auntie Anika’s got breakfast ready. Shift it.’

Faint yells of, ‘I’m starving’ and ‘Hope it’s a fry-up’ filtered through the walls and within seconds, Nikita’s younger two children, dressed in school uniforms, faces all rosy and clean, ran into the kitchen and plonked themselves down at the table, grabbing their cutlery and looking like they’d never been fed in their lives. As Nikki grabbed another slice of toast, she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. Pulling it out, she saw it was a text from her boss, DCI Archie Hegley. She circled the table to drop kisses on each of the kids’ heads in turn. ‘Work. Gotta run. Be good and, Charlie, change into trousers. Your skirt’s too damn short.’

Driving down Legram’s Lane in her clapped-out Zafira, windscreen wipers going like the clappers, Nikki wondered if she had transferred her wellies from the pool car back to her own. She had a sinking feeling she hadn’t. Every so often a drop of water landed on her head and Nikki cursed. She really needed to get a new car, but the kids seemed to have an endless stream of requests for stuff that was never free. The car would have to wait. A new drip splatted on her head, rolled down her forehead and landed on her nose. She wiped it off with her sleeve. Maybe after she’d done her Inspector’s exam and got a promotion, she could treat herself to a car that didn’t leak – or maybe she’d have to repair the leaky tap in the bathroom and the thermostat on the central heating and double-glaze the kitchen window before its old wooden frame rotted and released the pane.

After taking a right at Thornton Road, Nikki joined the trail of commuters. A few hundred yards and she could already see the telltale police vehicles and crime scene vans. She abruptly took advantage of a gap in the traffic and bounced her car onto the opposite kerb. Ignoring the hoots from cars travelling in the opposite direction, she got out and turned her collar up against the rain. Typical! Weeks without a suspicious death and then you choose the day when it’s pissing down to reveal yourself. She jogged the last few hundred yards, hoping the crime scene tent would be up and she could get some shelter.

Chapter 2

The Odeon building was all domed shapes and scaffolding. It dominated the landscape from City Park where it was situated next to the Alhambra. Work had recently begun on renovating the building with a view to making it a concert venue. Nikki hoped it would be a success. Bradford could do with the revenue a building like this could bring in. She had fond memories of visiting the cinema as a child with her mum and Anika and … but that was a thought for another day. She wasn’t going to go there.

The site behind the Odeon was a disused car park on Quebec Street facing a Cantonese restaurant that served the most delicious buffet Nikki had ever tasted and had occasional karaoke nights. Behind that was the Renault car dealership, outside which she’d parked her car. As she approached, she saw that the old car park and entry to Quebec Street was cordoned off with crime scene tape. Inside the taped area, a series of diggers and cement mixers had signed a deal with the weather to create a quagmire of khaki-coloured slime that looked as runny as slurry and smelled almost as bad.

‘There’s been a leakage,’ a drenched uniformed officer in a police-issue poncho informed her. Lowering his voice as if he feared a bevy of journos would appear in a puff of smoke to nab his quote, the officer added, ‘Sewage.’

You don’t say? Nikki took the proffered clipboard, signed herself into the crime scene and ducked under the tape. There were no stepping stones and the crime scene officers were busy, so Nikki took a moment to survey the area. Towering above the machinery, the green cupolas of the Odeon surrounded by its protective framework looked angry against the hovering rainclouds. Uniformed officers were dotted round the cordon, chatting to passers-by and drinking coffee from takeaway cups. The crime scene van, back doors open, had parked inside the cordon, as close as possible to the site. A few builders in yellow hats and T-shirts and high-vis tabards hovered near the edges. One of the men was talking to a figure in white that Nikki assumed to be Gracie Fells, the crime scene boss. She’d just decided that there was no option but for her to brave the swamp and join them when a hand on her shoulder made her jump. Shrugging it off, she swung round, a sharp retort on her lips. It was Detective Constable Sajid Malik. ‘Fuck’s sake. What you playing at?’

She glared up at the six-foot-two officer, who held his palms up in a placating gesture. Dark gelled hair was splattered across his forehead, with rain pouring down his aquiline nose and dripping off the end. Not right that even in the pissing rain he could look so bloody handsome. Pity he knew it too.

‘Sorry, Nik. Thought you heard me approach.’

Nikki doubted that was true. Saj was nothing if not an annoying little, or rather, big shit who would take great delight in making her jump. But now wasn’t the time to address that. ‘What we got?’

‘Not sure, think the builders found summat.’

‘Duh, you don’t say?’ Nikki belted him sharply on the arm. ‘For God’s sake get a move on, Saj. Let’s see what we got.’

With a quick glance down at her shiny DMs, Nikki stepped into the slurry, ignoring the grin that the DC sent in her direction. Trust him to have his wellies with him. Maybe she’d just have to make sure she splashed a bit of muck on the trousers of his too-bloody-suave suit as she traipsed to the scene. The sludge was like walking through quicksand. Not that Nikki had ever walked through quicksand but, hey – she had an imagination, didn’t she? The rain dribbled down the back of her neck and she wished she’d had the foresight to grab her parka before she left home. Sajid of course was in an ultra-smart raincoat – probably Armani as opposed to her Primani.

Shoving her fists into the pockets of her jacket, she squelched forward, Sajid following behind, like they were on a bloody bear hunt or something. Nikki saw that at last they’d managed to erect a tent. God only knew how that was going to stay upright in this weather. On reaching it, Nikki stuck her head in. ‘Boiler suits? One small, one extra-extra-large with a doubly big hood for Sajid’s over-inflated head.’

Gracie laughed and gestured to a lidded plastic box that stood by the tent flap. ‘Help yourself. Not that I think it’ll do any good. Doubt we’ll find owt forensically usable in this weather. Bloody crime scene nightmare, this is. Body’s in that hole there.’

The hole was about four foot by four – a little shorter than a grave and a little wider. Rivulets of mucky water seemed to be forging into the hole from all directions. That would be a problem for the crime scene techs. A criss-cross of muddy boot prints were rapidly being filled by the rivulets pouring towards the hole.

Gracie grimaced. ‘It’s on a slope – gonna be a nightmare to contain the water. We’ll need to keep everything we drain just in case there’s any evidence. Bloody weather!’

Nikki felt something soft slap her back and turned to see Sajid had thrown a suit to her. ‘Hobbit size – just for you.’

‘Yeah, Troll size for you then or Orc – whichever’s the biggest and ugliest.’

Even before they’d managed to struggle into their suits, Nikki’s was damp with mucky streaks all over the legs. A quick glance told her that, as expected, Sajid had managed to get his on over his dirty wellies and still had only a little bit of muck around the ankles. The man was a bloody contortionist. How the hell could he do that?

As Nikki took a couple of steps towards the hole, Gracie grabbed her arm. ‘It’s slippy. We’re not sure if the sides are going to hold. Don’t get too close.’

Heeding her warning, Nikki stood her ground, but leaned forward and peered into the rapidly filling cavity. Inside she could see the telltale shape of a skull and what might have been an arm, sticking out. ‘It’s a skeleton.’

‘Nobody tell you that? The bloke who found it did say that when he phoned it in.’

Nikki wasn’t surprised that a key detail like that hadn’t made its way to her ears. ‘Who’ve you called?’

‘Langley Campbell’s on his way.’

Beside her, Nikki sensed Sajid tense and then a voice said, ‘No, he’s not, he’s here.’

Nikki turned around to see the pathologist shimmy through the opening, already wearing a Tyvek suit and carrying his bag of tools. Sajid shuffled his feet and edged behind Nikki, avoiding Langley. Ignoring Sajid’s rudeness, Nikki smiled at the pathologist. ‘Don’t think this’ll be yours for long, Langley. It’s a skeleton and it looks like it’s been there for ages. What do you think?’

Langley edged as close to the hole as he could, peered over and then exhaled. ‘Got owt to put down over this bog, Gracie? I’ll lie on my stomach – get a better look that way.’

Gracie and one of her team, with Sajid and Nikki’s help, managed to slide a plastic sheet over the mud and Langley knelt on it before stretching his body along the sheet so he could examine inside. ‘Hold my feet, someone. Last thing I want is to slide into this morass.’

Nikki nudged Sajid, who reluctantly leaned over and held on with his huge hands circling the pathologist’s ankles whilst everyone else waited for Langley’s opinion.

‘Look, visibility is rubbish. But there’s a huge crack in that skull – whether it’s peri or post-mortem, I can’t say for sure yet. But I can tell you that the skull looks to have been there for at least ten years and it’s human and I can see metacarpal bones, an ulna and a radius. You’ll be needing to get in a forensic anthropologist.’

Nikki uttered a silent, ‘Yeah!’ to herself. Thank God! This one was someone else’s business, not hers. They had a cold case team for this sort of thing and she’d be happy to hand this over. She had more important things to deal with on the Listerhill Estate and a decade-old murder, for that’s what it surely must be, wasn’t going to detract from her little discussion with Deano Gilmartin.

Chapter 3

Who’d have thought it? For years they’d been banging on about doing up the Odeon. Years! Now they’ve finally started – and I’ve been waiting, wondering when they’d get round to that car park. Wondering how far down they’d dig, how far they’d need to go. Some days I convinced myself they’d leave the foundations – the ones they put in fifteen years ago. Other days I was certain that they’d pull the lot up. Made sense really. They’d need to go deep if they were going to extend their plumbing and their electrics – stood to reason, didn’t it?

It’s been grand watching them, waiting to see when they’d hit gold. When they started near the building, I knew who they’d find. I nearly pissed myself though when I saw who rolled up from the constabulary. Couldn’t have planned it better if I’d tried. Nikita Parekh! I’ve seen her loads over the years. ’Course I have. Bradford’s not that big a place and of course, she hit the news a few years ago. Got her that jammy promotion on the back of it.

They all mouth off about the Yorkshire Ripper and the Crossbow Cannibal, but they’re amateurs compared to me – abject amateurs. How fucking sick of them to go for women – prostitutes. Disgusting really. Sexual motivation makes me sick, makes me want to vomit. I can feel the hatred surging in my stomach. I knew a man like that once but he’s where he belongs now If you’re gonna rid the world of scum, make it the right sort, eh? Them that deserve it – not just so you can get your rocks off.

Wonder when they’ll realise though. Wonder when they’ll expand their horrid little narrow minds and see what’s really going on here. Don’t think I’ve owt to worry about for now. Don’t think they’ve got the brains. They’ve already let one slip through the crack – bet they’ll do the same this time. They’ve got no imagination, that’s their problem – no imagination at all.

Chapter 4

Listerhills was a strange estate. A combination of terraced houses backing onto one another and worn cobbled alleyways like moats winding between them. Running at either end, like the top and bottom strokes of a capital I, were two Seventies-style ex-council-housing estates. As a whole, the area was known as Listerhills despite the fact there wasn’t a hill in sight and Lister – presumably he of Lister woollen mills fame, Samuel Lister – was long dead. What made Listerhills so notable was that unlike many of the Bradford estates, it was a hotchpotch of races and cultures. Bordering the university and being within spitting distance of the city centre, it was unique. In Bradford, the word estate was often considered a mucky word. Nikki hated it. Folk used it as an insult and, once branded an estate kid, it was a difficult label to shift.

Nikki often wondered which jackass had thought that nobody would notice that Listerhills was missing a botanical garden, a boat pond, a pavilion and a manor house, when they’d categorised it an estate. Did they think snotty-nosed kids forced by economics and unemployment into wearing wellies in summer and sandals in winter would grow up to have high aspirations? Nikki snorted. Who was she kidding? That was her childhood, these kids faced other challenges. Poverty only changed its face, it never went away.

She stood on the corner of Lister’s Front Terrace, leaning against the wall, waiting for Deano to emerge from his mother’s house on Lister’s Avenue. In the shadows, she was barely visible, although the flicker of lights in the houses opposite kept her company. The rain had persisted throughout the day and it seemed that most people had been driven indoors for the road was almost deserted. Cars lined the streets, half of them mounting the kerbs, and standing like sentries along the pavements were a series of wheelie bins. Must remember to put the bins out tonight. On a different day, Nikki would have got out her supply of police notices, to tell people to park properly. Not that it did any good. Within days, they’d be back to their old tricks, blocking the pavements making it impossible for wheelchair users or mums with pushchairs to pass. She’d swapped her leather jacket for a parka and had replaced her mud-soaked Doc Martins for her old pair. She reckoned she’d be lucky to salvage them, but she’d bunged them in the washing machine on a quick low-temp wash, in the hope that she might be able to eke out a few months of wear in them.

Even from across the road she could hear the TV from Deano’s house. Anywhere else there’d be a noise complaint within minutes, but not here and definitely not now Deano was back. Deano’s house was like a cold sore between two perfectly manicured premises. The gate was hanging off its hinges and someone had wrapped a rope round it in an attempt to stop it clattering to the pavement. The garden was more weeds than flowers with an old sofa, its arse hanging out as if it had evacuated a volcano of yellowing foam from its innards. Three old crates, two burst black bin bags and a broken coffee table completed the ensemble. Deano’s wheelie bin lay on its back, lid half detached, and with the house number 38 scrawled across it in black paint. An enormous tabby cat sat on the windowsill observing the proceedings indoors like some sort of feline Gogglebox character.

As she waited, Nikki scrolled through her texts. One from Charlie saying she needed twenty quid for some school trip or other and five, no six texts from Marcus. She responded to Charlie’s, telling her to tidy her room and help the younger two with their homework and maybe she’d consider it. The others she deleted, squashing the pang of guilt that she was becoming more and more used to of late. Marcus sensed she was pulling away and she knew she was. The one thing she didn’t know was why. And that was something she’d analyse sometime in the future when hell froze over.

If the little rat didn’t come out soon, she’d be forced to head over and knock on the door. Last thing she wanted, though, was to stress Margo out. Poor woman had enough on her plate with an abusive husband and now her runt of a son was back. If Nikki turned up on her doorstep, she could guarantee that Margo would be sporting a black eye at the very least, next time she saw her. No, best to get Deano on his own and exert her own kind of threat if his mum got hurt.

The cat stretched its front paws out on the windowsill and yawned. The roof overhang was keeping him dry, unlike Nikki who was beginning to feel like a damn fish. The door clattered open, sending the cat in a yowl of meows skittering over the rubbish and into the next-door neighbour’s garden. Deano, all five-foot-one of sheer unadulterated nastiness, hunched over on the doorstep, lighting his cig. He took a few hard drags before stepping out into the rain, designer hoodie pulled up over his shaved head so that the swastika at his left temple was covered. Nikki was familiar with the artwork on his arm as well: a St George’s cross with the slogan Pakis Out underneath. What made it worse was that the stupid arse was half-Pakistani himself.

When he was younger – hell, he was only 18 now – she’d wondered if his stunted growth had made him a victim. If it was the bullying that had pushed him to the dark side. Now, though, she didn’t care. She just wanted him and his puppet master, Franco McNally, off her estate.

He walked down the path, phone held to his ear. ‘Come on, Kayleigh. For fuck’s sake pick up, will you? Need to know you’re okay.’

He flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the neighbour’s garden and kicked the gate, before dragging it open. It grated against the cement slabs as he walked onto the street, with a quick glance up and down the road.

Watching with interest, Nikki wondered who this ‘Kayleigh’ was, who was causing Deano such stress. If she ever met her, she’d be sure to buy the girl a drink. Stepping forward into the gleam cast by the streetlights, Nikki waited. He stopped, lit another fag, took a quick puff and then, using his thumb and index finger, he flicked it through the drizzle, to land in the gutter in a flicker of orange embers. ‘Aw for fuck’s sake. If it isn’t piggy, piggy, oink, oink.’

‘That the best you got, Deano? Losing your touch?’ She crossed the road, one hand stuffed in her pocket and gestured for him to walk with her. At five-foot-two, Nikki just topped the lad by an inch, but the way he walked, the way he held himself, still had her wary of him. She’d turned her back on him to show him she wasn’t cowed by him, but her entire body was on alert, her shoulders tensed, ears straining for any rush of activity behind her. Inside her pocket she gripped her Mace. In the other hand her car keys protruded from her knuckles ready to blind the little bastard if he chanced his luck. It was the only way to go with thugs like Deano. In fact, it was that same attitude that had earned Deano his reputation. His inability to back down, the way he bulked his small frame up to its maximum – Nikki used the same strategies in her professional life. It was the only way she knew to survive. Sometimes she wondered if she had that same look in her eyes too. The one that made people quickly glance away and cross the road. The one that looked like his soul had been ripped out through his throat and all that was left was a mulch of dark, bloody gore. ‘Having girlfriend trouble, are we?’

‘Eh?’

‘Kayleigh? Giving you a hard time, is she?’

Glancing round, Deano hesitated and then fell into step beside her. ‘You stalking me now, Parekh? Got an obsession with me, eh? Want a bit of my meat, do you?’ He thrust his hips out and cupped his groin with his hand as he walked.

‘Your meat still come with a side helping of chlamydia and crabs, does it? Think I’ll pass, if it’s all the same.’

At the end of the road, she stopped and leaned against the post box that stood on the corner. Cars drove by, their headlights sweeping past them, bouncing off the puddles and sending up a thin spray of water as they passed. On the opposite side of the road a Chicken Cottage was doing a roaring trade and Deano, if his glances in that direction were anything to go by, had been heading there.

‘Say what you gotta say and then fuck off back to your pigsty.’

‘Oh, Deano, Deano, Deano … originality isn’t your strong suit is it?’

‘Eh?’

‘Thing is, you’re not welcome here.’ Her tone was conversational, tired, bored almost. As if she couldn’t quite bring herself to be overly concerned with him. Of course, it was all an act. A squirm of emotions, like maggots on gone-off meat, wriggled inside her chest. Deano was only a kid, yet he was toxic and she would never forgive him for the things he was responsible for. Never. His presence on her estate was a scab that she couldn’t avoid picking.

‘Just visiting me mum. Nowt wrong wi’ that.’

Nikki shook her head and took a deliberate step forward to invade his space. A glance over the road told her Sajid was parked up in his car, as arranged. She relaxed a fraction. Not even Deano would knife a police officer in full view of CCTV and, if he did, Sajid would have him within seconds. ‘Thing is, Deano. That’s where you’re wrong. You being here puts Margo in danger.’

‘Humph, I’ve never hurt me mum.’

‘No, you haven’t, but your stepdad has. He doesn’t like you, does he, Deano? What with you being of dual heritage and all.’

In the streetlights, she saw his face flush, then his bottom lip curled, eyes darkening. Her grip on her Mace tightened and she released her keys from her other hand and pulled her hood down. Sajid would recognise her prearranged signal and be on high alert.

‘I’m not a fucking Paki – not like you, Parekh.’

‘Not sure your stepdad sees it that way, but hey ho, that’s neither here nor there. He’ll take it out on your mum and you know it. So, you need to shimmy back under whatever rock you’ve been living under and stay there. We had a deal, remember?’

‘You can’t make me go. This is my home.’

Nikki took another step forward, her chin jutted up, her face distorted in a scowl that betrayed her feelings. ‘You are a poison that we don’t need here. You will go. And you’ll go tonight. Tell Franco we won’t accommodate him here. Not then, not now and not ever.’

Bluster fading, Deano stepped back off the kerb, landing in a puddle, with a ‘For fuck’s sake.’ He jumped back onto the pavement, his mouth open in a snarl. ‘You can’t do this to me, Parekh. You just fucking can’t. I can’t move till Franco says.’

Nikki stepped back and twisted her mouth into a smile. ‘’Course I can. You know I can. But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you just forgot what I have on you, eh?’

Deano kicked the post box. ‘He’ll kill me. Franco will kill me.’

‘Really? And I care about that because …?’

‘Give us a break.’

‘No bloody way. You had your chance. You blew it when you brought ecstasy and MDMA to our streets. Then you did something even more stupid when you double-crossed Franco. Wonder what he’d do if he found out you’d been skimming off the top, eh? So …’ Nikki smiled. ‘You pay the price. Get off my fucking estate and take your drug-dealing boss with you. This is non-negotiable.’

She turned to cross the road, pulling her hood back up over her sleek dark-brown hair, then, as if in afterthought, she turned back. ‘Or of course I could make sure that package is delivered. Up to you, Deano. Up to you.’

Chapter 5

‘Why do we always need to come here?’ Sajid waved two fingers in the air signalling to Gordon, the owner, that they’d have their usual and followed Nikki over to a booth with worn but clean seating. Nikki grinned. He said this every time they came to The Mannville Arms, but the truth was he loved it – Saj just liked to moan.

The gleam from its buffed wooden walls caught the light from the vintage glass lamp that cast a yellow hue over the equally well-polished table. The faint smell of beeswax contributed to the old-fashioned feel of the pub. Nikki slid into the side facing the doorway. ‘You know you like it here. So stop moaning. It’s one of the few pubs left in Bradford where you can get real ales.’

‘The Fighting Cock, The Sparrow …’ Sajid began counting them off, one by one on his fingers.

‘Yeah, I know. But I’m a creature of habit and Gordon and Nancy need all the trade they can get.’

Apart from Nikki and Sajid there were only five others in the entire bar. Old Stevie who propped up the corner most nights and the regular Monday night dominoes tournament in a table in the snug. As Nikki positioned a beer mat before each of them, Gordon ambled over, a tea towel draped over one shoulder, his rotund belly preceding the rest of him by a good couple of feet and two pint glasses of Cannonball, one in each hand. Nikki often wondered how he maintained balance. Gordon was a man of few words and most of them were unintelligible grunts which seemed to signify anything from, ‘hallo’ to ‘goodbye’ to ‘nice to see you’ to ‘fuck off, you’re barred’. His wife Nancy was his opposite in every respect. Almost as short as Nikki, and skinnier, she could and would, given half a chance, talk the proverbial hind leg off any four-legged creature that deigned to enter her domain. Her saving grace was that she was an expert reader of human nature and seemed able to gauge exactly what each of her customers wanted, whether it was a sympathetic ear, a babble of meaningless tittle-tattle or a serious confab over one of her rare whiskies, reserved only for her favourite customers. Nikki had partaken of said whisky a fair few times in the past.

With a grunt, which Nikki took to mean ‘enjoy your drinks’, Gordon placed both glasses on the mats, took a packet of salt and vinegar crisps out of his pocket and tossed it on the table, before beating a slow and rolling retreat.

Sajid took a long sip, wiped the froth off his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. ‘Can’t stay long. Langley’s got a surprise lined up. It’s our anniversary. A year.’

Nikki’s lips twitched. He looked so damn proud of himself, which was more than he’d looked at the crime scene. ‘Yeah, well, you could’ve fooled me earlier, Saj. Poor Langley, he must be a saint to put up with the huge wedge you drive between the two of you in public.’

Sajid picked up his glass and had another sip. ‘Well, truth is he is getting pissed off with me. Says I’m ashamed of him.’ He looked at Nikki a slight frown marring his forehead. ‘I’m not ashamed of him, no way. It’s just like … complicated.’

Complicated family life was nothing new to Nikki, but she really felt for Sajid. He was clearly in love with Langley – they’d been living together for a year now, but he still kept their relationship secret, in case his family found out. Every so often, the strain of that reared its ugly head. She nudged Saj’s arm. ‘God! Surprised he managed to put up with you for so long. You should be the one treating him.’

‘Ha bloody ha.’ He took another swig of his beer. ‘Langley’s spitting. Springer and her sidekick Bashir caught that skeleton case we were called out to earlier. Turns out it’s a murder, skeleton had its head smashed in. Lang says Springer’s being an arse already.’

Nikki snorted. She’d had run-ins with ‘The Spaniel’ before and always tried to give her a wide berth. Thankfully, cold cases and current investigations rarely overlapped. ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me? The woman’s a bitch.’

‘Yeah, well, they found a passport on the body, so it looks like it’ll be all tied up soon.’

‘Lucky Spaniel. She’ll be wagging her tail at that, won’t she? She doesn’t like to get her hands dirty, that one.’

Stuffing a handful of crisps in his mouth, Sajid studied her. ‘So, you gonna tell me what all that was with Deano?’

Nikki sighed. She trusted Saj. They’d worked together for years now, since before he’d met Langley, and they’d been through a lot together, but this thing with Deano and by extension, Franco, was personal. Of course, Sajid knew about the E on the streets and it was a pretty fair assumption that Franco and his cronies were behind it. Sajid was aware that Nikki had evicted both Franco and Deano from Listerhills the previous year and, if the details were a bit sketchy, he wasn’t going to complain. He probably thought she was just cleaning drugs off the streets.

However, her reasons for keeping schtum about the whole Franco and Deano thing were nothing to do with her job – no, it was personal. This was about her family and she kept family matters close to her chest. Now though, she couldn’t decide whether to trust him with Haqib’s involvement. Maybe that was pushing his loyalty a step too far. By rights, she should have taken Haqib in for carrying the amount of shit he had, but then Charlie had been the one in possession, not Haqib. ‘Got a load of Es and they link back to Deano. Needed to make him aware we didn’t want his shit here. I’ll get a couple of uniforms on him tomorrow, hassle him a bit, make it hard for him to deal.’

‘Franco back too?’

Nikki drained her glass, plonked it down and rolled her shoulders. ‘Yep, looks that way.’

Sajid studied his half-full glass for a few seconds, then, ‘You gonna tell me where the Es came from?’

‘Got a lead. Some local lads, but they ran before I got them. At least they’re off the streets, eh?’ She knew her partner didn’t believe her, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that she didn’t make him complicit in anything dodgy.

Draining his glass, Sajid stood up. ‘When you’re ready to give me the full story, I’ll be here.’

‘Aw piss off, Saj. Go and get wined, dined and laid. It won’t make you any prettier, but it’ll make you better company tomorrow.’

Sajid grinned and with a wave to Gordon and Nancy, he was off.

Nikki stayed where she was, using the time to text Marcus. With everything that had gone on, she needed to touch base with him. He was looking after the kids and she should really have told him she’d be a bit later. Truth was, she was reluctant to go home. Marcus had proposed yet again and just as she’d done every other time, Nikki had refused. Why couldn’t he understand that they were fine the way they were. Their relationship worked. If they moved in together … got married … whatever, it would all go tits up. Nobody knew that better than Nikki.

When Nancy came over ten minutes later, Nikki put out the feelers about the Es. Despite its quietness tonight, when the weekend rolled round, The Mannville Arms perked up with both university and college students as well as locals. Nancy was one of the many eagle-eyed landlords that the Bradford police approached to keep their eyes open for possible dealing. The latest batch of MDMA, or Es as the kids called them, were particularly potent and Nikki wanted everyone on alert.

Chapter 6

How many years have they been blind? The thing is, they all think they’re so smart – so damn smart – but they’re not.

Every one of them I killed deserved it. Time and again they proved that they’re not only stupid, but weak too. At first, I wanted them to prove their superior intellect – show me how they were better than me. Show me they deserved what I was denied, that it was more than just privilege. That they’d earned it through hard work and dedication. Then, I wanted them to pay for the way they’d let themselves down. Taken opportunities and then just fucked it all up. One by one, despite my best efforts they failed and at some point – maybe after the fourth or fifth – I realised that this was something in which I excelled. I’d found my forte – my calling, if you will.

I’m not inhuman though, not at all. Despite my social experiment I gave them something before the end. Some little salve as they realised what the end was going to be. Each of them got their last chance – each of them bared their soul and made their last wish. Whether their last request was ever granted though is a different matter. That’s how it is. That’s life.

The police finding the remains has made me a little anxious. Need to soothe myself. I run my hands along the shelf. Which one shall I choose? November 2003? No not that one. That one I’ll save for when I’ve got more time. No, I’ll opt for this one. With the tip of my finger I remove the DVD case and insert it in the player. I settle down with my glass of Glenmorangie on my sofa. I have half an hour. This will be enough time for Day One, more than enough.

The date is 6th March 2008.

Day One and this is the first recording.

The scene is set – a backdrop of fabric, spotlight shining across the stage. Props at the ready. Each knife sharpened – metal glistening as the light bounces over them. A single chair centre stage. A figure waits in the wings, shadowed and grim. My voice rings out over the tape. ‘Bring the captive through,’ I say. ‘Bring the captive through.’

I love listening to my voice narrating as if I am a mere bystander and not an active part of it all. Everything up until that point is enjoyable – of course it is – but it’s doing my David Attenborough bit that really makes my blood fizz. Homing in on small details, analysing the scenes – that’s what I love best. And if I’m right, this one is a particularly well-produced cinematic performance. Here we go …

We see the figure, dressed in black – oh, how spooky! Arms under the captive’s arms, he is dragged through and flopped with all due finesse onto the chair.

In this wide-angled shot, we see the figure exit stage right, returning within seconds. Rope is wrapped round the captive’s arms, legs and chest. Things are hotting up now.

Note how the captive barely reacts – no resistance. No awareness of his surroundings. No understanding of the basic premise of this experiment. His privilege sets him above us mere mortals. His sense of worth lends him an arrogance, an entitlement denied the hordes that flock here. Tonight, as on previous nights, his true worth, his true character, will be ascertained and he will ultimately get his just desserts.

Sound-over – clapping hands and gleeful chuckle.

Now to wake him up – bring him out of his stupor.

The figure slaps our captive – once … twice … three times across the face. Our captive groans, his eyes flicker – open briefly then close, keeping his audience on tenterhooks.

The figure, hooded drape trailing the floor, leaves in silence, returning within seconds carrying a bowl. With an agile twist of the hands, the bowl’s contents are thrown over the captive, eliciting a frenzied jolting movement. It has the desired effect. The ice-cold water wakes the specimen up, makes him focus and … ah – he speaks, in the bewildered tones of a baby deserted by its mama.

‘Wh – what the f …? Where am I?’

Zooming in for the close-up we can see his pupils are dilated – pulse increasing, thrashing around. We’ve got ourselves a lively one. Wonder if he’s as clever as he is lively. Time will tell. We’ll soon see. Now for the main event. Ha ha! Fingers crossed he lives up to expectation.

The figure speaks. ‘Have you earned your place here? Your position? Have you earned it? Or is it all about Daddy’s wealth – privilege – entitlement?’

Do tell. Indeed, do tell.

The captive glances round the space – sees the table and the knife. Begins to struggle against his constraints and, at last, he speaks.

‘What are you doing? Let me go. What the fuck you doing?’

The figure’s response is low but if we strain, we can hear it ‘Ascertaining your worth. I thought that was clear. That’s the purpose of this. Why should you be here with all your privilege and not Joe Bloggs from down the road in Holmewood or Tyresal.’

‘You’re fucking mad – mental. Let me go. Right now – just let me fucking go.’

Note the heightened colour on his face, the flush of rouge over his cheeks as he struggles. His fingers fisted, held tight. Observe the whitening across his knuckles. This one’s a fighter.

Let’s see if he also has a modicum of intelligence.

‘We have rules. Easy rules. Rules an imbecile can follow. I expect you to comply. Will you?’

Alas, our captive continues to struggle, displaying an abject inability to correctly analyse the situation. His head shakes rapidly from side to side; his upper body, though trapped, strains against the rope. With the sad desperation of a failing man, he makes a vain attempt to wrench his tied hands apart. In his increased state of tension, the pitch of his voice rises, higher and higher to a shriek of desperation.

‘Fuck off. Let me go. Fuck off or I’ll kill you.’

Note the figure’s placatory response – soothing, yet with the promise of a reprimand implicit in the delivery. ‘Really? That’s the most intelligent thing you can say?’

Watch closely, for things are going to pick up speed now and you don’t want to miss anything. See how the figure picks up the item from the floor. Did you notice it lying there? Never mind, it was easy to miss in the muted lighting. But wait for this bit.

As the camera pans out, the figure approaches the captive. The long slender metal, glinting beneath the subdued stage lights.

Still, the captive is oblivious to the threat that approaches him so slowly. The figure slaps the bar against the palm of one hand causing the captive to glance up. With lightning speed, the figure strikes, jabbing the cattle prod onto the captive’s thigh.

The captive jerks back and screams.

‘Are you ready to listen to the rules?’ The figure raises the prod, waves it in sight of the captive. The specimen’s eyes water, a single stream of liquid rolls down his right cheek. He nods.

Bravo! Specimen is under control.

Sound-over – clapping and cheering.

Watch now as we find out the rules of play.

‘That’s more like it. Rule one – you must answer every question. Rule two – you may not pass on any question. Rule three – if you get five questions in a row right, you will be released. You will have earned your freedom. Rule four – for each incorrect answer you will be punished. Rule five – your fate is in your own hands. When you have had enough and don’t want to play anymore then we will move onto your last request. Do you understand?’

Ha! Now we see the typical response of a captive in denial. See how he shakes his head.

No matter. That will change. For now, enjoy his simple mistakes.

‘No, no – ’course I don’t. I don’t get it, not at all. Let me go. Let me go.’

You see what he’s done, don’t you? His rookie mistake? Now for the consequences.

‘Wrong answer number one.’

Watch the concentration as the figure picks up a knife, studies it. Runs his finger along the blade and then approaches the captive. It’s all about care and precision …

I hear a sound outside the door and quickly turn off the DVD. Never mind. There will be plenty of time later. Plenty of time.

Chapter 7

‘Oy, Deano, get your arse over here, right now, ya tosser.’

Deano’s heart sank as the Ferrari pulled up to the kerb outside Chicken Cottage. Last thing he needed right now, when he didn’t know if Kayleigh was all right, was to have a convo with her old man. He burped, took a last swig from his Vimto and tossed the can into the gutter, before stuffing the last of his burger into his mouth and throwing the polystyrene food container after the can. Wiping his hands down the front of his joggers, he approached the car. Shoulders hunched, big-man glower on his face, he ignored the passenger and spoke over his head to the driver. In situations like this, the only thing you could do was brazen it out. He’d find out soon enough if Franco knew. ‘Y’aright there, Franco?’

Franco – tall but skinny, cap on backwards, pockmarked face and ice-cold eyes – cast a sideways look at Deano. He shook his head and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel twice. As if on some sort of preordained order, the prick, Big Zee, thrust the passenger door open, crashing it into Deano’s legs and jumped out, quickly repositioning himself in the back seat, beside another one of Franco’s goons. Deano wanted to slam his fist into the idiot’s sneering face, but contented himself with hoiking a gob of phlegm into the gutter. It was pushing it for Franco to come back to Listerhills. Thing was he didn’t get it – too arrogant. Didn’t he realise Parekh would never let him get away with supplying to her nephew?

‘Get in.’ Franco’s words were an order and Deano had no option but to obey. He was in too deep and Franco knew it … but did he know about him and Kayleigh? With a quick glance along the road, Deano wished that Nikki hadn’t disappeared off with that big Paki dick. He slid into the front seat, next to Franco and tried to angle himself to the side, out of arm’s reach of Big Zee and his sidekick in the back. Deano had been in too many similar situations in the past not to be aware of what was coming. How many times had he been the one to move to the back seat, ready to slip a chain round the neck of the idiot Franco was grilling in the front seat if he didn’t deliver the goods?

‘Little bird told me you were talking to that Parekh bint?’

Fuck, word travelled fast! Deano laughed, tried to look nonchalant, hoping his face wasn’t giving owt away. He was caught with his balls between a rapidly closing vice. On the one hand, Parekh had made her threat clear and Deano couldn’t risk Franco finding out about him skimming. No way did he want to end up as pig food on one of them farms in the Dales. He’d seen too many end up there. On the other, Parekh was no pushover. She’d made her intentions clear. The only option open to him was to strike some sort of deal with her. What the hell was he going to do? ‘Yes, frigid bitch. She needs a good seeing to, to loosen her up a bit.’

He sensed Big Zee leaning forward at the ready and, from the corner of his eye, he saw Franco glance into the rear-view mirror. His hands grew damp with sweat and relief swept over him as his next words gushed from his mouth. ‘She wants me to keep an eye on my stepdad. Tosser’s been beating up my mum. Had her in hospital twice. I told her I’d deal with the fucker.’

‘That all?’ Franco’s eyes honed right in to his soul, red hot like a soldering iron.

Deano ignored the sounds from the back of the car – the rattle of metal, the squeak of leather as Big Zee edged forward. Deano could feel the big man’s breath on the side of his face, and the smell of his aftershave made him want to choke. He shrugged. ‘Yeah, that’s all. Cow think’s that cos she’s a copper she’s got the right to sort everyone out. Don’t worry, my man, I’ll keep her sweet. I’ll keep her out of your hair.’

Gaze razoring Deano’s face, Franco leaned towards him, encroaching on his space and then, slapping the steering wheel, he laughed and jerked his head to one side – presumably the signal for Big Zee to step down. ‘You better, D. We don’t need some half-caste whore messing up our plans now, do we? This estate’s gonna be mine this time and you’re gonna help me.’

As Deano watched the streaming rain splatter down the windscreen, every fibre of his being screamed a warning. Franco could give the order and anything could happen inside the car without anyone outside noticing. Even if they did, chances were they’d ignore it. Franco was just that little bit too unpredictable, that little bit too dangerous for folk to risk annoying him. No one here ever volunteered a witness statement! ‘We did all right in Oldham, didn’t we? Ousted them Pakis and took control. Listerhills will be a doddle. Don’t worry, I’m on it. I’ve got my ears to the ground. Like you say – get the kids with us and the rest follows on. Parekh won’t fuck things up this time.’

Franco lifted his hand and angled it palm upwards, finger moving in a ‘gimme it’ gesture to Big Zee and Tyke in the back seat. A bit of rummaging and then a package wrapped in a plastic bag was given to Franco who passed it to Deano. ‘Here, go do your job then.’

Taking the package, Deano stuffed it up the front of his hoodie. No point in advertising what he had to everyone. There was always some tosser waiting to grab your stash, and that wouldn’t go down well with Franco. The man expected returns on his produce and Deano would have to make sure he paid up. ‘Usual rate?’

‘Yeah, keep the cost down, get ’em hooked, then, BOOM!’ Franco laughed like he’d cracked the finest joke ever – head back, furry yellow rabbit teeth on show. ‘Right, piss off then. I’ll be in touch.’

Deano slid out of the car, his legs shaking, and watched as Franco squealed off down the road towards town. Fuck! That had been a close one. All he’d wanted was a lousy Chicken Cottage and what did he end up with? Fucking Nikita Parekh on his case and then Franco. He glanced round. Who the hell had told Franco about his meeting with Parekh? Shit, he’d have to be extra careful now. Seemed like Franco had eyes everywhere.

Huddled over against the rain, Deano retraced his steps back to his house, wondering as he went how long he could keep his secrets hidden from Franco. He suspected it wouldn’t be for much longer. Shit, why did he have to do the dirty on the toughest drug boss in the north? As he neared his mum’s house, he slowed down. There was nothing else for it, he’d have to go to Parekh – cut some sort of deal. What with Franco involving Parekh’s nephew, Deano hoped she’d be only too willing to back him against the psycho. He shuddered, his back prickled as if a million pairs of eyes were scouring it. How the hell could he get to her without Franco finding out?

Tuesday 23rd October

Chapter 8

Sun speckled the walls through the blinds in Nikki’s bedroom and sent little specks of shimmer like a kaleidoscope over the carpet. The room wasn’t spacious, mainly because one corner was stacked with large cardboard boxes, each with a year scrawled in black marker pen on the front, dating from 2000 onwards. A bed, bedside table, wardrobe, chest of drawers and a chair took up most of the remaining space.

The radio blared some funky feel-good song from the Nineties. Nikki didn’t know the title or the name of the band, but she didn’t care. Having the house to herself for once, meant she could prance around and get rid of some of the pent-up energy that had built in her recently. Sajid had suggested she go jogging with him, but she’d made it clear that she’d rather go trekking through Bradford’s rat-infested sewers covered in cheese than do that. He’d laughed, finding it funny that her aversion to any member of the rodent family was compounded by the ongoing battle with her youngest child Sunni who, with his tenth birthday approaching, was adamant that a hamster was all he wanted. Nikki shuddered. The mere thought of their ratty tails and clawy-like feet and gnawy teeth brought her out in hives. Their pittery-pattery scritchy-scratchiness, their scurrying, all made her skin crawl. Sunni was going to be disappointed. Poor kid, he never asked for anything, but this was just too much for her to cope with.

The track changed and, breathless, Nikki flopped on the end of the bed wondering if she maybe should take Sajid up on his offer after all. The only thing was Marcus wouldn’t like it. He was already jealous of Sajid and the last thing she needed to do right now was fuel his stupidity. Of course, she could just tell him Saj was gay, but then that would seal up that escape clause and even after eleven years in some semblance of a relationship with Marcus, she couldn’t quite bring herself to fully commit to him. What is wrong with me? Maybe I should go jogging with Saj. Maybe that would be enough to knock Marcus over the edge and into ex-boyfriend territory, and the best thing was she wouldn’t even have to do a thing. Aw, Nikita, what are you thinking? Marcus was great – the perfect boyfriend: good with the kids, reliable and shit hot in bed. Still, it was too intense for her, too much to handle.

She studied her face in the mirror opposite. She was in her early thirties with three kids by two different dads. Didn’t that tell her she was no good at relationships – that she was better on her own? Her face was smooth, her mix of Indian and Scottish genes giving her a healthy bronze complexion. Her eyes were like her Indian mother’s; dark brown and intense, like thunder on a balmy day. Her cheekbones were high, her nose bent from when that drunk had broken it when she was in uniform three years earlier and then there was the scar – five inches long, ropey, fading right across her throat. She didn’t hide it. Kept it exposed to remind her that she was a survivor and, if she was honest, to make her look scarier on the streets. Most women would cover it up with makeup and shit, but not Nikki. When she was stressed or anxious, she stroked it, getting reassurance from its raised uneven surface. It was a reminder that she was strong – she’d always been strong.

‘Breaking news on Capital Radio Yorkshire. Whilst police in Bradford have identified the skeletonised remains discovered last week in the Odeon car park, the shocking revelation that the remains are more recent than was previously thought and the nature of the death has led them to announce an active historic case investigation. Relatives have been notified, but as yet the victim’s name hasn’t been publicly released.

‘And on another front, schools in Bradford are getting set for the October break …’

It looked like the Cold Case Unit were going to have their work cut out. She was glad to be well rid of that case. Nikki much preferred current investigations. They were always a bit easier to coordinate. She yanked her heavy wardrobe doors open. What to wear? Like she had a lot of choice. Jeans, jeans and more jeans. Half a dozen T-shirts in a variety of colours and a couple of crewneck jumpers. Three pairs of DMs and a single pair of strappy flat sandals were lined up along the bottom shelf. Then there was that one black suit for interviews and the like and her uniform, both in crinkly plastic clothes bags. On a shelf to the side were a rainbow of saris, again in clear bags.

Nikki couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn one. Probably for her cousin Reena’s wedding last year. That had been an affair and a half. All posh, with more gold and sparkle than Liberace, she’d hated it. Her Gujarati was rubbish, but everybody had insisted on speaking to her and Anika and the kids in mother tongue. Anika had been on edge and whilst Nikki tried her best to convince her sister that nobody was talking about her, she knew fine and well that they were. The sidelong glances and mumbled conversations that stopped abruptly as soon as she and Anika came near testified to that. They’d committed two of the biggest faux pas they ever could have done. They’d both had a child out of wedlock … with Muslims. Hai hoi! Not content with that, Anika had chosen to give her son a Muslim name. Despite her uncles’ pleas and her aunties’ tears, Anika had dug her heels in. Nikki had never been prouder of her than at that moment. Not that she liked Haqib’s dad, Yousaf, she didn’t – but it took a lot for Anika, the shy one of the two sisters, to assert herself. Nikki and their mum took her side and protected her from the worst of the gossipmongers.

‘Weather in the north set to remain sunny if cold, with winds of forty …’

It wasn’t often that she had a late start and she was determined to take advantage of it. She’d pampered herself for once. She looked down at the boxes scattered on her floor; her ongoing hobby – the ‘Stalk the Stalker’ project as she liked to call it – could wait. The last three weeks had been hectic, with three murders and a suspicious death to contend with, and now she needed to unwind and recharge her batteries. So, instead of her usual quick shower, she soaked in a bubble bath, turned the radio up full volume and used some of the smellies Charlie had given her for Christmas. She got dressed in her usual jeans and T-shirt – an upmarket whore with downmarket tastes! – and was just beginning to brush her still-damp hair when the faint echo of the doorbell disturbed her. She rolled her eyes at herself in the mirror and ignored it, studying her split ends. Maybe a trip to the hairdresser’s was in order.

There it was again, the damn doorbell. Couldn’t they take a damn hint? She stood up and walked over to the window, parting the blinds with her fingers and straining to see who was at the door, but the angle was wrong. Whoever was ringing the bell with such persistence was standing too close to the door. She backed away from the window and waited. If they didn’t ring again, then she’d ignore them. She didn’t want her valuable time eaten up by one of her neighbours with their never-ending problems or one of the men from the mosque wanting donations to some Islamic charity or another. She’d just about decided that her would-be visitor had given up, when the ringing started again – longer and louder and more insistent. Gonna have to disconnect the damn thing!

She ran down the stairs, nearly tripping on a pair of trainers placed halfway up. Ruby! That child was going to be the death of her. Reaching the bottom, she could see a male shadow behind the frosted glass of her front door. Not recognising the figure, she hesitated. Maybe he’d give up now. But no. The buzzing was really doing her head in. In two strides she was at the door, wrenching it open, not bothering with the safety chain, her mouth open to tell her visitor to take his damn finger off the bell.

Gripping the door handle, she glared at the man. Pale skinned. Middle Eastern? In an instant, she was transported back fifteen years. Her breath caught in her throat. This couldn’t be. Nikki blinked, her mouth closed, her words dried up, ashes in her throat. Her fingers left the handle and flitted up to her scar, fluttering over it briefly, before re-establishing their grip on the door. She tried to swallow but couldn’t. Heart thudding like a stampede of wildebeests, she eyed the intruder. How long had she waited for this? How many years? The plastic edge of the door dug into her hands, sharp and real. It was like seeing a ghost, an apparition. She wanted to yell, to rage, to raise her fists and hit him. All the frustration she’d experienced before incapacitated her again now and she hated herself for it. Just for a second, she’d tricked herself into seeing what she wanted to see.

A gaggle of thoughts drifted through her head, trying to make sense of this situation. And then it hit her. Khalid! Something had happened to him.

With eyes the colour of a burnished chestnut, the man on the doorstep held her gaze. His brow furrowed, creases spreading out from the corners of his eyes like a shattered window. His skin, wizened, his body hunched and skinny. He leaned with both hands on a walking stick, positioned between his feet. The urge to jump to her feet and push him backwards down the three steps was strong. Ignoring the prickles all over her skin and her sweaty palms, she returned his stare.

The old man took one hand off the walking stick and wobbled a little as he rummaged in his pocket. Nikki’s hand went out to steady him and then she snatched it back, her shoulders tensing. She needed to be on her guard. Khalid had always told her how devious and manipulative his dad could be.

Pulling out a cloth handkerchief, he raised it to his face with a liver-spotted hand and wiped his eyes, one at a time.

For fuck’s sake, is he crying? Nikki exhaled, long and slow. Whatever he wanted, this meeting was not going to go his way. Ignoring her wobbly stomach, she straightened her back and pursed her lips. Was it her imagination or had it got darker, chillier? She was being fanciful, yet her entire body was reacting.

‘I am surprised you weren’t expecting me, Nikita.’ His voice was weak, but his English was good. Almost as good as Khalid’s had been, but still there was that telltale accent. The slight hesitancy over some of the consonants. ‘Especially when what you did all those years ago has come to light. You didn’t expect that, did you? Well, you’ve been caught out.’

Nikki strained to catch the words. It was as if they floated on a puff of air that snatched them away as soon as they left his lips. Each word seemed to be delivered on vibrato – shaky and tremulous. What was he on about? What she’d done all those years ago? His frailty should have softened Nikki’s heart, but she wasn’t giving an inch. After what he did, what he plotted … He could say his piece here on her doorstep and then be gone. It would be as if she’d never seen him. She’d push it to the farthest, darkest corners of her mind and leave it there to fester beside the memories of his son.

‘I’m in a rush. Say what you have to and then go and never, ever come back.’ Her voice barely wobbled, her words clipped. Saying them gave her a surge of power. She had this. It would be over soon, but she was in control.

The old man’s lips trembled and he wiped his eyes again. For God’s sake, he was crying. It must be something bad. Her resolve splintered. Did she really want to deal with this on her doorstep with Mrs Shah earwigging from her garden next door and Mr Khalifa from opposite twitching at his curtains? She stepped back from the door, pulling it wide. ‘Come in.’

Her voice couldn’t have been any more unwelcoming if she tried, yet the old man lifted his stick and placed it on the doormat, using his other hand to grip the door jamb as he manoeuvred himself inside. Nikita, wanting to avoid touching him, pressed herself against the wall until he had moved far enough into the cramped hallway for her to close the door, with a little wave to each of her nosy neighbours. It’d be all round Listerhills by lunchtime that Nikki Parekh had entertained a strange man in her house whilst the kids were at school.

Aware that he was looking at her home – judging it too, no doubt – Nikki turned and slipped past him. Why did the kids have to leave all their shoes heaped at the bottom of the stairs and why hadn’t she spent five minutes hoovering instead of spreading smelly lotion over her feet?

Without uttering a word, she marched down the hallway and into the kitchen, leaving the door open for him to follow. She walked straight over to the sink and filled a glass of cold water. As she gulped it down, she heard the tap, tap of his stick on the wooden floor. She turned and leaned against the sink, cradling her glass in both hands. Again, his eyes flitted round the room, taking in everything, scouring her life. At least the breakfast dishes were done. Nikki followed him with her eyes as he edged closer to the table and, with an enquiring glance in her direction, pulled out a chair and flopped into it, a heavy sigh leaving his mouth as he took the weight off his feet. He seemed in no hurry to speak, his eyes continuing their survey, until they landed on the fridge.

Nikki’s heart sputtered. The photos!

He pulled himself to his feet again and stepped over to study the magnetic photos that hung on the fridge door. He reached out a hand and with one finger traced Charlie’s face. ‘She’s his, isn’t she? Khalid’s? She’s got his eyes. How could you do that to him when he has a daughter? How could you?’

Do what? Nikki wanted to snatch the photo away from him, hide all evidence of her daughter and send the old man away. ‘She’s mine.’

Favouring his right leg, he hobbled back to his chair. He was so much older than he’d looked in the photos Khal had shared with her. Older, shrunken and somehow diminished.

‘Can I have some water?’ He nodded to the glass she was holding.

Nikki grabbed a glass from the drainer, filled it with water, plonked it down on the table and pushed it towards him, spilling some as she did so. ‘Look, Burhan, you don’t want to be here and I certainly don’t want you here, so why don’t you just say whatever it is you’ve flown over two and a half thousand miles to say and then go.’

Khalid’s dad lifted the glass and took a long drink, gulping the liquid down as if it would give him strength. Was he playing for time? Was Khal poorly? Didn’t matter to her, she couldn’t care less. He could be dead for all she cared. Fifteen years and no word from him. Barely married and then he fucked off back home to Palestine. No, Khalid Abadi, meant nothing to her.

‘I’ve come about what you did to Khalid.’ His voice was strong as he spoke, each word staccato. ‘I want you to know that I will personally make you pay for what you did. If your British courts won’t provide justice, then my promise to you is that you will still pay and I will take your daughter. You don’t deserve her.’

What was the old man talking about? What she’d done to Khal? He was the one that had left her. Her breathing was beginning to hitch in her chest and a flutter at her temple told her that her eye was twitching so she took refuge in anger. How dare he come into her home and start accusing her of doing something to Khal when she hadn’t even seen him for years? ‘Oh, sod off – you can’t come in here and talk to me like this.’

The old man’s eyes sparked and the hand on the top of his cane shook. ‘You killed him. You killed my son and you will pay. Like the worthless whore you are, you took my boy and then when he wanted to come back to us, you killed him.’

The words hammered into Nikki’s chest. Was he deranged? What was he talking about? Khal wasn’t dead. She thought her heart would stop. Was he saying Khal … her Khal … was dead? Was he saying he’d died because she’d driven him away? None of it made sense … none of it.

‘Khal’s dead?’

‘Hmph … you know he is. Don’t pretend.’

Dead … Khal … dead. For all she’d told herself she didn’t care, it was still a shock. Khal had always been so alive, so full of fun, so vital and now he was dead. She was a widow? She turned around, stretched her arms out and leaned on the sink, head bowed. Burhan was still speaking, but she couldn’t hear his words. Her brain was filled with buzzing, her vision distorted. She’d gone through hell when Khal left. She’d moved on, put him to the back of her mind – except when she looked at Charlie who was so like Khal. The last thing she’d expected was to feel this scorching pain, this squeezing, wrenching agony … but none of what the old man was saying made sense. Was grief making him insane?

His other words filtered into her consciousness. He was saying she’d killed him? How could she have? He’d left Bradford fifteen years ago. Khal’s dad was acting as if she’d murdered him.

Her phone rang, breaking through the fuzz. Still not looking at Burhan, she slipped it from her pocket – the boss, Hegley – and silenced it before tossing it onto the table. No sooner had it landed than it started ringing again. Fuck’s sake, can’t it wait? Then the doorbell was ringing, echoing through the house. She lifted her hands to her head and covered her ears. Shut up, just shut the fuck up!

‘Nikki, Nikki, open up, come on, let me in. It’s important.’

Sajid! Just go away, let me think.

Her phone started ringing again, DCI Hegley flashed on the screen. It rang a few times and went to voicemail. They must have caught a case. Why now?

Burhan, with effort, pushed himself upright and made to approach her but Nikki extended her hand, palm up. ‘NO! Just go.’

The voice from the door came again. ‘Nikki, Nikki. Open up, Come on. I can hear you’re in there.’

Fuck off, Saj!

The phone started going again. Nikki wanted to smash it through the kitchen window. Just let me think!

Almost conversationally, Burhan continued as if they were completely alone. ‘Khalid had responsibilities at home, but he was adamant he would stay here with you. We thought when he stopped contacting us, answering our calls, that he’d divorced himself from us.’

Nikki frowned. What was the old idiot talking about, Khal divorcing himself from them? It was Nikki he’d left.

Straightening his spine, Burhan slammed his palm on the table and yelled at her. ‘Did you not think they could identify him from his remains. You should have taken his passport.’ Spittle flew from his lips and his frail body shook. ‘They told me how you went there, saw my son excavated. How you never gave a hint about what you’d done. Cold as ice. They’ve come to arrest you. You will either rot in a British prison cell or I will kill you.’

Nikki stilled. Anger tinged with sadness flashed in his eyes and her shoulders slumped.

‘They contacted me. You see all they found to identify him was his passport, with me as next of kin.’

What? Nikki reached out her hand to the worktop. What is he talking about?

‘All these years we thought he was with you and all these years he’s been dead … murdered. We will have our revenge. You will suffer for this. How could you discard him so thoughtlessly – like rubbish – in a car park?’

The Odeon car park.

The skeleton?

Khalid?

Fifteen years.

Like an electric shock, it all slotted into place. He’d been here all along. He’d not left them … he’d not left her.

With everything ringing in her ears, Nikki turned and vomited into the sink.

Chapter 9

The wind whistled lifting empty crisp packets and yellow takeaway containers, dancing them further down the weed-ridden alley which skirted the recreation ground. On the one side was the rear of a row of shops, their backyards fenced off with black painted metal topped with barbed wire. An old settee wobbled on top of a skip. Rain-swollen grease-spattered worktops and a dozen metal ghee cans stood next to a line of industrial-sized bins. The stench of decaying meat hung strong in the air. On the other side was a six-foot concrete wall sectioning off the kids’ playground. Overgrown grass skirted the bottom of the wall – a coarse browny-green fringe that stank of piss and hid a conglomeration of syringes and bent spoons. The alley was a shortcut between the terraced houses at one end and the main road. It was rarely used now, except by drug dealers, prostitutes and the occasional rough sleeper.

The lad, in his school uniform, spotty and ghostly pale, was sprawled on the wet ground, a rolled-up sock in his mouth, one foot bare. His gelled hair rippled in the breeze, the contents of his schoolbag scattered all around him. Textbooks soaked up the damp from the floor, a few pages fluttering, making a strange whirring sound in the air. Pencils and pens, trampled on, jotters covered in blood and muddy footprints surrounded him. His shoe floated in another puddle, laces dangling in the water. One hand, held away from his body, trailed through a mucky pool of water, his fingers twitching. Blood trickled down the back of his hand and dripped into the slurry, sending small waves over the surface. Beside it, on the cobbles by the watery rut, lay his little finger, blood oozing from the stump.

With his two mates, Tyke and Big Zee, standing behind him, Franco glowered down at the boy, a satisfied smirk on his face. Tyke had his phone out, taking photos of their handiwork – moving around, getting the angle just right – whilst Big Zee snapped the pliers open and shut, his gaze fixed on their victim as if daring him to provoke more action from the pliers.

‘You deal with me, you make sure you get your payments in on time. This was a warning, okay?’ Franco kicked the lad on his leg. ‘I said, okay?’

Whimpering, the lad nodded. His lower lip trembling, his eyes wide and staring. Tyke had held him down whilst Big Zee did the deed. He’d tried to yell but all that had come out was a muffled noise.

‘You take my stuff, you sell it and you pay me. Them’s the rules. You fuck up, you pay the consequences.’

The boy moved his head a little to see the damage and groaned, spitting the sock from his mouth as he did so. A stream of vomit flooded from his lips, mingling with the stagnant water on the path. With his good hand he wiped his mouth, his chest heaving. As Franco moved closer, the boy curled his legs up, to his stomach, preparing himself for more pain.

Franco kicked him on the thigh once more for good measure and then jerked his head to his mates, ‘Come on. Let’s go before someone sees us.’

As they passed, Tyke and Big Zee too kicked the boy. Big Zee snapped the bloody pliers in front of the lad’s nose, laughing as he whimpered and tried to push himself away from them.

They walked up the alley towards the main road and then paused. Franco yelled back down the alley. ‘Get up to BRI with that – you never know, they might be able to re-attach it.’

*

Haqib waited till their voices faded into the distance followed by the sound of a souped-up car engine as they roared off, before moving. His hand throbbed and when he looked at his severed finger more bile gushed into his mouth. Weeping, he pulled his phone from his pocket with his good hand and dialled. Relief surged over him when it was answered and great sobs rent the air as he told Charlie what had happened and where to find him. Keeping his eyes averted from his injured hand he shoogled himself into a sitting position and leaned against one of the wheelie bins.

Why the hell had he been so stupid? He should have known better than to trust Deano, but it seemed easy. Deano had promised it would be easy. Just sell a few pills. Set up a supply in Listerhills and he’d be quids in. And it had been easy till Charlie had swiped his stash so he couldn’t sell it. She’d been going to give it back to him on pay day so he could return it to Franco. Trust his aunt to find it. It was all Auntie fucking Nikita’s fault. She should’ve minded her own damn business and he could’ve returned it and everything would be sorted.

He heard Charlie before he saw her, ‘Fuck’s sake, Haqib. What did I tell you about getting mixed up with that lot? Bloody stupid you are.’

As she got closer and saw his hand held out away from his body, she gasped. ‘Shit. They cut your finger off?’

‘Nowt like stating the obvious, Charlie. Just help me up. I need to get it sewed back on.’

Galvanised into action, Charlie rummaged around in her schoolbag for tissues, before loosely wrapping his stub. Displaying less aversion than Haqib, she picked up his pinkie with two fingers and after placing it in another tissue, she put it in her bag and helped her cousin to his feet. ‘You know you’re a damn idiot, don’t you?’

Every bone in Haqib’s body seemed to protest as he shuffled along the alleyway to the waiting taxi, his injured hand held out to his right so he didn’t have to look at it. ‘Gimme a break. I’m in agony here. Need to get this fixed before Mam finds out.’

Charlie stopped and stared at him. ‘You what? You think you can hide this from your mam? Don’t be a dick, ’course she’s gonna notice. Anyway, I’m phoning my mum soon as we get to BRI. I’m not risking being grounded till I’m thirty just cos you’re a knob.’

Chapter 10

So, they’ve identified the remains – fools! Sheer negligence, lack of attention to detail. They don’t know what’s ahead of them and when they find out they’ll be the laughing stock again. I wonder when they’ll release the name. Can hardly wait. That’s when the shit will hit the fan. Until then I’ll have to content myself with reminiscing. I flit through the DVDs. Which one shall I choose? Who is worthy of my attention today? Ah yes 8th May 2010. Yes, that’s the one!

I fast forward the first bits to get to the main event. It’s always the last bit that shows their mettle. I could watch them all again and again – makes binge watching take on a whole new meaning. I settle into my routine, whisky in hand, settled on the only comfy chair in the room and watch as the scene unfolds. My voiceover begins.

Time in captivity: six days, one hour and twenty-five minutes. Note how our captive has deteriorated.

The past days have not been kind to her. Her own fault, of course. If she’d been worthy, she’d have been allowed to proceed with her life. Observe as the shadowy figure enters from the gloom and hovers behind the specimen. It’s the captive’s reactions that are so intriguing. Her hands are tied and clasped in her lap, with rope binding her chest to the death chair, so her responses are restricted. However, take note of how her right leg judders up and down, up and down. As she nears the end, she holds her head high, stares at the blinking light, eyes dull, yet focused. A fascinating study of the human meeting his maker.

Note how the wounds across her chest have scabbed and crusted. Each one at a different stage of repair, each bearing testament to her valiant struggle to prove her worth. She lasted well. Tried so hard – harder perhaps than the rest. She has surpassed all the others before her – yet still she has failed. More than seventy cuts – one for each failure. So many opportunities, so many failures. If it wasn’t so necessary, I’d almost feel sorry for her. Note how she, unlike those who have gone before, has carried herself with dignity. Pride – spirit even. We’re in the home stretch. Watch and learn. Bear witness, for you are privileged to be party to this.

As the camera zooms in, focusing on the captive’s face before cutting away to sweep downwards, we see despair etched across her forehead in rivulets of blood and sweat. Visible as we pan down over her body are each of the punishments she has endured and yet, still, she is unable to justify her entitlement … or indeed her inability to fulfil her potential. One is bad enough, the two together are unforgivable.

Watch as the figure, like a bird of prey, circles the captive female, prodding her on the thigh with a live cattle prod. The captive’s response is sluggish, her groan half-hearted, a sure indication that her strength is dwindling. Alas, my dear audience, I feel her time with us will be short. However, pay attention to her final moments, as she is challenged for one last time. I guarantee, you will not regret your dedication.

‘Look at the camera. You have proven time and time again that your privilege is stronger than your brains. That you are lacking – undeserving of the opportunities that have been offered you at the expense of those more deserving. You have one last thing you can do. One last thing you can leave behind – a last chance, if you will – to redeem yourself in the eyes of those who matter to you. A chance to prove that there is more to you than unearned advantage.’

The detail we are privy to has never before been recorded. You, my dear audience, are witnessing history in the making. As we zoom in, we can focus on her open eyes with their pinprick pupils. Panning down, we see the pulse at her neck, weak and erratic. Ha! Observe her stare. I wonder if she too senses the importance of what is about to unfold. These last few special moments have a significance all of their own. Let them not be in vain as the captive is released to her death aware that her last request is recorded for posterity. Closure at the end of a long struggle which so nearly ends in victory.

‘Are you ready to relinquish your privilege and admit your shortcomings?’

Ouch! As the cattle prod engages with her thigh, she barely reacts – a single jolt of the head, no more.

Oh dear, don’t judge the figure, after all his hard work indulge him his enjoyment. It’s good to be happy in your work. After all, this is what all of this is about – a commitment, a dedication to your life choices.

‘You can do better than this? No? Show your audience some strength.’

Despite his plea, and the added incentive of the cattle prod, you can see our captive refuses to respond. Look at the way her mouth tightens. Her defiance is admirable, if ill placed. Let’s see if she can be tempted.

‘Right. The floor is yours. Your chance – your final chance – what is your last request? Make it count. This time you won’t get a re-take.’

Look how our figure moves into position behind our captive, lifting her almost lifeless head, making sure you, his captive audience, miss nothing.

The figure’s words ring out. ‘Your turn. Make it good – make it clear. You only have one shot at this. It’s your final-night production. What is your last request?’

See how her eyes flicker. Her mouth opens, her tongue flicks out, licking her lips. I’m sure you agree. Her final performance – her swan song has, to date, been inspirational. Let’s hope she makes it count. I can feel you willing her on, wishing her the strength to complete her last request. But only a gurgle of unintelligible words reaches our ears.

‘Noo … my … mmm …’

You can see how much she’s trying. How much she wants to do this. This is her legacy. Her final chance. I’m sure we’ve all got our fingers crossed that she doesn’t stumble at the last hurdle. She’s tried all the way along the trial – given a stellar, almost successful performance. Let’s give her a round of applause to spur her on. Come on now, don’t be mean. Applaud her efforts.

Sound-over: raucous applauding.

Our figure leads the clapping and the sound of our encouragement seems to have the desired effect. Our captive starts, and her eyes flicker again.

Come on, you can do this, lass. You can do this. You need to do this. You know you do.

‘My mum – love my mum – tell her – love her.’

Didn’t she do well? Her last request duly recorded. Now for the finale. Focus now. Watch as with all the gravitas fitting such an auspicious occasion, our figure lifts the hammer above her head.

Game over – last request denied.

Last request recorded and denied: Julie Katch 03.22.

Chapter 11

Nikki stumbled to the front door and yanked it open, leaving Khalid’s father standing in her kitchen. She had a vague recollection of Sajid marching in and directing both her and Burhan into the front room. At some point he must have made tea, for she was cradling a comforting mug that smelled sugary enough to cause instant tooth decay. She took a tentative sip and looked over at the old man – Khalid’s dad. Sitting in her oversized favourite chair next to the fire, he looked to have shrunk in this short space of time and he was shivering. Sajid must have given him a fleece because Charlie’s leopard skin one was draped round his shoulders and Burhan was pinching it beneath his chin. She wanted to speak, but no words would come. What could she say? She was still trying to make sense of it. How could the bones under the Odeon car park belong to Khal? Plonking her mug on the coffee table, Nikki began plucking at the elastic band she wore round her wrist. It soothed her, calmed her, made her feel a little more in control.

Sitting beside her on the sofa, Saj angled his huge frame towards her, the slight frown across his forehead the only indication that he wanted answers from her. Nikki closed her eyes and sighed. Of course, he’d expect an explanation. Why wouldn’t he? They’d been partners for nearly three years and she’d never mentioned Khal to him. Not even once. She’d never told him she’d been married. Never told him about Charlie’s dad. Now that it appeared to be out in the open, he’d expect her to confide. But Nikki was determined to closet her emotions away. Nobody would ever know just how deep the scars from Khalid’s disappearance had gone. Few people would ever see the emotional wounds that stayed with her and she was not going to bare all to a work colleague – not even one who was a friend.

Steeling herself, she placed her cup on the stained old coffee table next to the sofa, folded one leg under her bottom and willed herself to ignore the dull ache that mangled her heart. If she stopped to analyse her feelings too closely, she’d be lost. That was something for later. Removing all emotion from her face, she gestured towards her father-in-law. ‘How did they find him?’

Sajid shrugged and settled himself more comfortably in the chair, making it dip with his weight as he moved. ‘They found Khalid’s passport in with his remains. It had his father’s contact details and the Cold Case lot contacted Mr Abadi here. He flew straight over and it was only when he mentioned you, that DS Springer realised that Khalid was your husband. Thank God she passed that onto Archie or …’

Yes, Abadi had said that earlier, hadn’t he? Nikki knew exactly how things would have panned out had Springer been the first to land on her doorstep. No doubt Springer would be en route on her broomstick. God only knew what she made of Abadi’s accusations against her. She was glad Saj had got here first. She could do with a friendly face in her camp. She risked a quick glance at her friend. The look in his eyes told Nikki that Sajid was upset that she hadn’t shared this with him. Why should I though? It’s private. When Khalid had gone off, everyone assumed he’d gone home to his family – chosen them instead of her. She hadn’t talked about Charlie’s dad to anyone outside her immediate family.

That’s why Sajid was here. That’s why Archie had been phoning her. Then, the real reason for Sajid’s presence hit her. She wasn’t being treated as a grieving widow, she was a suspect and she guessed Abadi had been only too keen to fuel that speculation. He’d already accused her, hadn’t he?

‘They’re coming for me?’

Sajid had the grace to avert his eyes as he nodded. ‘Yes, Hegley wanted to give you a heads-up, but bearing in mind Mr Abadi hasn’t left Ramallah for the past twenty years, you’re their next best suspect.’

Her phone started to ring – Charlie’s ringtone. She answered, keeping her voice low, hoping Charlie wouldn’t pick up on her distress. ‘Yep.’

As Charlie explained what had happened to Haqib, Nikki stood up and walked into the hallway, closing the door behind her. Once sure that she couldn’t be overheard, she said, ‘Charlie, wait there. I’m coming. Don’t move and don’t let that stupid little turd do owt else daft.’

She crept along the hallway. Sajid’s jacket was on top of her leather one, so, with all the dexterity of the Artful Dodger, she rummaged in his pocket and took his car keys. Her car was parked on the main street, so she hoped they’d assume she’d left in it and she’d be able to buy herself some time. Shuffling into her trainers, she grabbed her leather jacket and eased the front door open. Closing it gently behind her, she stepped outside. If they wanted to interview her about Khalid, they’d have to wait – she’d family things to deal with first. You’ve waited this long, Khal, you can wait another few hours.

Without considering the consequences of her actions, she ran down the stairs, vaulted over the neighbour’s fence to keep herself out of sight of the living-room window and headed down the path. Taking a second to remove the battery from her phone, she placed it behind a plant pot in Mrs Shah’s garden. Sajid’s Jaguar was parked a few hundred yards up the street and without hesitating she opened it and started up the engine, savouring the roar as it sprung to life … She was off, hotfooting it to Bradford Royal Infirmary. Her boss and Sajid would both be pissed off, but sometimes you just had to crack on with life. Khalid would still be dead in a few hours, but Haqib was alive and she needed to make sure the stupid little sod stayed that way.

Chapter 12

‘I don’t know how she managed it. Her daughter rang and she went into the hallway to take the call.’ Sajid grimaced and held the phone away from his ear as Archie Hegley yelled at him.

‘You were supposed to get her side of things before Springer pounced. For fuck’s sake, Sajid, couldn’t you keep her in sight for five minutes?’

Hegley was all bluster and fat rolls and Sajid could imagine them wobbling as he paced the office, his face becoming redder and redder with each step. The man was a heart attack waiting to happen. What Sajid had told him wasn’t exactly true either. He did know how Nikki had managed it. She’d managed it because he’d cut her some slack. He’d let her have privacy to take a phone call and had compounded his error by being slow to notice she’d gone. But in fairness, sometimes those calls with Charlie could go on for half an hour or more. Besides, he’d been sent to break the news about her husband’s death – the husband nobody had realised she even had until a few hours ago – not to apprehend her.

It was suspicious that when Khalid Abadi had disappeared off the face of the earth, Nikki hadn’t even registered a missing persons report. ’Course it was, but hell, they were talking about Nikki. She was no murderer. At least he hoped she wasn’t. ‘Yes, yes, I’ve sent out a BOLO, first thing I did, Sir. No sightings of her car yet.’

‘And the father-in-law?’

‘Well, in the circumstances I thought it best to have him taken back to his hotel. He’s at the Midland Hotel in town, so I got a uniform to drop him off and stay with him. He’s been mouthing off, accusing Nikki. Didn’t want him here when Springer landed.’

‘The Cold Case lot not there yet?’

‘CCU are on their way.’

‘Keep me updated.’

Sajid took a deep breath. Hegley’s bark was worse than his bite, but hell, it was ferocious nonetheless. What the hell, Nikita? What are you playing at? Picking his phone up, he dialled Charlie’s number, but it went straight to voicemail. Pissed off now, he brought up the tracking app he and Nikki had on their phones. Nikki’s app was inactive, but the last registered position was right here. Shit, she’d clearly ditched her phone in the street. What the hell was she up to? She needed to get her ass back here pronto before Hegley burst a gut.

The back door opened and a small Indian woman in jeans and a T-shirt, black hair falling to her shoulders, came in. Aw no, why did Nikki’s mum have to turn up right then? Hoping she’d leave before the CCU officers arrived, he smiled. ‘Hallo, Mrs Parekh, you all right?’

Lalita Parekh had her daughter’s height and her down-to-earth Yorkshire accent. The two women were clearly mother and daughter. ‘Don’t you Mrs Parekh me, Sajid. I’ve told you before, it’s Lalita. Nikita nipped out, has she?’

Pleased that she’d provided her own reason for her daughter’s absence, Sajid nodded, ‘Yeah, something like that. She’ll be back in a bit.’ Well, he hoped she damn well would.

Lalita proceeded to dump a couple of Morrisons’ bags-for-life on the table and began putting groceries into cupboards. ‘Pop the kettle on, love. I’m gasping for a tea.’

Sajid hesitated. What was he supposed to do? If he could, he’d rush Lalita out of the kitchen and into her own house down the street, but that was out of the question. This wasn’t his story to tell. Nikki would kill him if he told her mum, but what other option did he have? He shrugged his shoulders, trying to shake the tension out of them.

If that’s what she wanted, then she shouldn’t have pissed off like she was guilty of something, then should she? Picking up the kettle, he walked to the tap and filled it. ‘Lalita, something’s come up. Maybe you should sit down. Leave the shopping for now. We need to talk.’

Lalita froze, her dark eyes studying his face, and then without saying another word, she put the tins she was holding on the worksurface and sat down at the kitchen table, resting her clasped hands on the brightly coloured plastic table cover. ‘What’s she done this time? Is she okay?’

Sajid put the kettle on, flung a tea bag in one mug and a spoonful of coffee in another before replying. ‘She got some …’ He frowned, trying to think of a suitable word to describe the information his colleague had been confronted with a couple of hours earlier and settled with ‘… troubling news.’

A small frown pulled Lalita’s eyebrows down. Unlike Nikki who was full of anger and passion and activity, Lalita possessed a calm stillness that instantly reassured. The pressure across his back diminished a little. Lalita Parekh had not had an easy life, but here she was exuding soothing vibes, ready to face whatever he had to tell her. He filled the mugs, stuck a teaspoon in Lalita’s tea and took a carton of milk from the fridge. Before he had a chance to pour it into his coffee, Lalita stretched out her hand, a smile teasing her lips. ‘I wouldn’t risk that. Knowing Nikki, it’s three weeks out of date. There’s some fresh in the bag.’

Sajid sniffed the milk, grimaced and poured it down the sink. He settled opposite the older woman and studied her face. Nikki hadn’t told him anything about her mother’s past, but police stations were notorious for gossip and Trafalgar House was no different. It was funny how the fact that Nikki had been married and somehow misplaced her husband, had passed the gossipmongers by completely.

According to the rumour mill, Lalita Parekh had been through a lot and yet, despite her own trials and tribulations, she’d raised two daughters single-handedly. Okay, Anika was a bit loopy and Nikki carried a chip the size of Concord on her shoulders but, all in all, she’d done all right. Shame neither of the girls had inherited her serenity.

Conscious that time was running out, Sajid blew on his coffee and then told Nikki’s mother about the Odeon remains, the passport identifying them as belonging to Khalid Abadi, and his dad flying over from Ramallah and accusing Nikki of killing his son.

As he spoke, Lalita’s grip on her mug tightened. Her face paled, her frown deepened and a tear trickled from the corner of her eye. He wanted to put his arm round her shoulders and hug her, take away the pain that had dulled her eyes. Sniffing, she wiped the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand and wiggled her nose as if that would stop the onset of more tears.

‘Fifteen years.’ Her voice was a whisper. ‘We thought he’d left her, gone back to his family. His dad put pressure on him, you see? We thought he’d chosen his family, the business, everything they could offer and … all the while …’ Her breath hitched in her throat and she stood up, scraping the chair back and began pacing the room. ‘Oh, my poor beti, my poor Nikita. How is she?’ As if noticing her daughter’s absence for the first time, she looked round the room, apparently expecting her to materialise.

Sajid wished to hell she would! Time was running out. Springer would be here soon and there was no love lost between her and Nikki. The last thing Nikki needed, was to give the other woman more ammunition.

‘Where is she? Is she next door with Anika?’

This was the tricky bit. How could he explain to Nikita’s mum that her daughter was a suspect in her husband’s death and that instead of waiting to be interviewed, she’d run? For fuck’s sake, Nikki! ‘That’s just it. I don’t actually know where she is. But that’s not all. Khalid’s dad’s accusing her of having something to do with his son’s death. She’s a person of interest.’

‘Phuh! Person of interest indeed.’ Lalita, her eyes reproachful, glared at him. ‘If you’d seen her when Khalid disappeared you wouldn’t be standing there telling me that. She was devastated – broken.’

‘Aw, hell. I don’t think she did it, Lalita. But I’m not the one investigating. She never filed a missing persons report – it looks suspicious. The Cold Case Unit will be all over her till they can prove either way. She dumped her phone and took off. We’ve no idea where she is, none at all.’

Lalita moved over to the sink and began washing up her mug. ‘Well, she can’t have gone far, can she? Her car’s up the street.’

Sajid paused, processed that thought, then it dawned on him. This was Nikki they were talking about. She’d have been one step ahead of him. Slamming his cup on the table, he ran to his coat, rummaged in the pockets. ‘Aaaagh.’

He wrenched the front door open, jumped down the steps and onto the pavement. The space that had been filled by his Jag was occupied by a bashed-up Mini Cooper. Fucking hell, Nikki. You better not have damaged my car!

Chapter 13

Nikki parked Sajid’s car on Toller Lane and jogged down the hill to BRI, pausing only to nip into the hardware shop that, for some reason, also sold cheap mobiles. At least now she’d be able to contact Charlie and possibly Sajid, under the radar. Mind you, she might leave Saj for later, he was prone to being a bit possessive about his Jag and she’d enough to worry about without getting beef from him.

Every so often, a sharp pain, like lightening, jabbed her heart. Khal! How many times had she parked in that car park? Passed by? Visited the Chinese buffet? And all that time Khal was there … buried under there. What had happened to him? How had he ended up there? Everybody loved Khal. There was just no explanation for it. Unless, of course, his dad had orchestrated something from Ramallah. He’d plenty of money – more than enough to order a hit on his only son. The question was, would he? If the stories Khal had shared with her were true, then she would put nothing past the old bastard. Of course, if he was guilty, what better way to exert a little more revenge than to point the finger at Nikki. But he had seemed upset, hadn’t he?

If she thought about it, her breath started to clog up her throat, and her heart hammered. She had to keep it under control, had to sort out Haqib and then she could go back and talk to them about Khalid. That old bastard had told them she’d done it to stop Khal returning to his family. Surely they wouldn’t believe that. She was a police officer. Niggling at the back of her mind was the fact that she hadn’t reported Khal missing. That would play against her big time. However, she’d known he was conflicted. Known he was anguished by the pressure from his family. That was why she hadn’t told him she was pregnant.

Turning into BRI, she steered clear of the ambulances, pulled her hoodie up over her hair and the collar of her leather jacket over her lower face. Keeping an eye out for any officers accompanying those with drink- or drug-related injuries, she skirted the Accident and Emergency Department and entered the hospital. Despite it being early in the day, the corridors were bustling with patients, visitors and staff. Hopefully, she’d blend in.

Haqib, according to Charlie, was on Ward Two and Nikki made her way there as quickly as possible. She couldn’t blame Charlie for contacting her instead of Haqib’s mum. Anika had always been useless in an emergency. Nikki had lost count of the times she’d had to break off from work in order to sort out something to do with Anika’s kids – broken arms, split heads. Anika had deferred responsibility to her older sister and Nikki had, as usual, taken it on. She owed Anika a lot. It was because of Anika and her mum’s childcare that she’d been able to focus on her work. Sometimes though, an aching tiredness suffused her body. Sometimes, all she wanted was to curl up in her huge double bed, wrap the duvet around her and block out everything for a week. But she also realised that that was a luxury she couldn’t afford. If she stopped for a minute, let her control slip for even a nanosecond, then perhaps she wouldn’t be able to bring herself back from the brink.

To survive, like a well-trained soldier, she compartmentalised things. Put Khal in his box – the big dusky grey one towards the back of her mind. That one was slightly in front of the ridged black one with the lock and hasp that contained her dad, but behind the rainbow-coloured one that stood, lid ajar, with all her family stuff spilling out, its colourful entrails intertwining in a buzz of love and exasperation and responsibility.

She entered the ward, giving Haqib’s name and identifying herself feloniously as his mother to the busy nurse on the desk. As she moved towards the bed where Haqib lay, all his usual bravado dissipated, face pale and right arm elevated, Charlie got up to meet her. Her beautiful Charlie. Her heart contracted. So like her father, her skin a lighter brown than her own, her eyes the exact same shade as Khal’s, more than a touch of her mother’s drive but tempered with Khal’s patience and ability to reason. She’d protected Charlie from the moment she was conceived, but nothing could protect her from the fallout surrounding the discovery of her father’s remains. How could it? Charlie thought he’d deserted them before she was born and, in self-preservation, Nikki had pretended not to have known him well – a one-night stand. For nearly fifteen years she’d deprived her eldest child of being acquainted with the essence of her dad. His humour, his loyalty, his care and joy. How could she ever square this with Charlie? Feeling the unwelcome tickle at the back of her eyes, Nikki swallowed hard and smiled. ‘You all right, Charlie?’

‘FFS mum, what’s with all the cloak and dagger stuff? “Take your battery out, don’t phone me back” and all that shit?’

Nikki shrugged. ‘Less of the “shit”, Charlie.’

Charlie, lips pursed, hand on hip, harrumphed. ‘Like you don’t swear.’

‘Do as I say, not as I do.’ Nikki mimicked her mum’s words making Charlie grin.

‘Now you’re here I can go get a drink or summat, yeah? This bloody radio station is doing my head in.’

Nikki became aware of the muted sounds of some dated music drifting from the next bed. ‘Don’t be so mean, Charlie. The radio’s keeping the old bloke company.’

With an exaggerated sigh, Charlie plopped herself on the side of Haqib’s bed eliciting a ‘watch my bloody hand, Charl,’ from her cousin.

‘… Now, here on Bradford Radio Royal we have a news update. It seems that the skeletonised remains found in the Odeon car …’

Nikki held her breath. Now, she too wished the old man would switch off the damn radio. Would they release Khal’s name – or worse still link it to her? She glanced at Charlie and wondered if she should take the time to tell her what was going on now.

‘The police have not released a name, although the victim has been identified …’

Thank God for that! It would take far too long to explain everything to Charlie, and she couldn’t just rush off, leaving her daughter to process everything on her own. No, they hadn’t released a name so she’d sit her daughter down later, just the two of them, and take the time to make her understand. Why the hell was there always so much drama in her life? Bloody Haqib and his eye on making a fast buck. Idiot!

She turned her attention to her nephew. His pupils were dilated and his bandaged hand was held at an angle as if he didn’t want to have to look at it. Nikki would have hugged him, but suspected that would make the tears shimmering in his eyes start. This had all the hallmarks of a Franco hit on it. He was a heartless thug and he had it in for the Parekh family. Yet another reason that Nikki wanted to keep her sister out of the picture for now. Not that she’d be able to keep it from her for long. Anika would need to be told about Haqib’s stupidity and Franco’s part in it. But she’d deal with that when she had to. Instead, she hardened her tone. ‘For God’s sake, what the hell did you not understand last week when I told you to steer clear of Franco and Deano? You really are a stupid little turd, you know that?’

‘Mum!’ Charlie’s tone was sharp.

Haqib’s lower lip trembled and he looked down at the bed sheets. Sighing, Nikki plonked herself down on the seat Charlie had vacated. He was just a kid trying to grow up too damn fast. She blamed the useless piece of shit he called his dad. Yousaf only showed up for the odd booty call and Anika had spent sixteen years kidding herself that he was going to leave his wife to settle down with her. He was the worst sort of role model – all sexist shit and bravado. Nikki couldn’t stand him. Nikki’s kids might have different dads, but Marcus was active in his kids’ lives and he treated Charlie as if she was his own. Okay, so recently Marcus had been getting a bit clingy, a bit too keen on making their arrangement more permanent. That was something to think about another day. Besides, how the hell could she explain about Khal to him? For now, she had Haqib to sort out. ‘What happened?’

Voice shaking, Haqib outlined how he’d been grabbed from a street near school, bundled into Franco’s car and transported to the back alley. As he spoke, Nikki’s heart sank. The school cameras didn’t reach as far as there. Despite their frequent moaning about drugs being sold nearby, the police hadn’t acted on advice to extend their camera footage to cover the streets adjacent to the school. As a result, rather than deal right outside the school, the dealers hung about at the end of the road where they weren’t recorded. So, Haqib’s abduction wouldn’t be recorded and as for the back alley – again no CCTV footage.

‘It weren’t Deano, though. He weren’t there. Just Franco and two of his men.’

Deano might not have been there, but he was the one who’d brought Franco and his little shitbags back into their lives. He’d pay for that – she’d make sure of it. ‘You been given pain relief?’

He nodded once.

‘It working?’

Again, the nod. Nikki turned to Charlie. ‘What are the doctors saying? Can they re-attach?’

‘Yeah, if you sign the consent, they’ll take him up in a bit.’

‘Right, I’ll do that on my way out. You stay with him for now, Charlie.’ She leaned over and ruffled her daughter’s hair, earning herself a grunt. ‘Once he’s in surgery phone Auntie Anika … on second thoughts, phone Aji-ma and let her know what’s happened.’ Having her mum break the news to Anika would make things easier in the long run.

‘What d’ya mean? Are you not staying?

‘No, I’ve got something to do. Get Auntie Anika to come over and get Ajima to watch the other kids.’

She should really go back home and face the music. The longer she left it, the worse things would be and she and DS Springer had history. However, right now, she wanted to find Franco. Nobody did that to one of her own and got away with it. Keen to put distance between the BRI and herself before Sajid got wind of where she was, Nikki got to her feet. ‘Right, I’ll be in touch when I can.’

About to leave, Nikki saw a familiar figure strutting down the ward. And she turned to her daughter, her tone accusing. ‘You called Marcus?’

Charlie rolled her eyes. ‘Duh, ’course I did. You were acting all weird, so I called Marcus. Chillax.’

Chillax? Nikki wanted nothing more than to barge past Marcus, avoid a repeat of last night’s argument. As he approached, she studied his face. Sculpted cheek bones, lashes to die for and a grin that many women, and a lot of men, swooned over. But Nikki wasn’t observing his prettiness, she was more concerned about whether he knew about Khalid. He loped down the ward, all loose-limbed ease, and dropped a kiss on her lips before she could protest. Seemed that, so far, Marcus was out of the loop which meant she really needed to escape before Saj had the bright idea of involving him.

‘Gotta go, Marcus. Work. Glad you’re here. Keep an eye on these two, yeah?’ And with Charlie’s indignant ‘Muuuum!’ ringing in her ears, she was off down the ward, intent on chasing up Deano and Franco. Living family stuff trumps decease husbands every day of the week. Well, at least that’s what she told herself.

Chapter 14

The Midland Hotel might not have been up to Burhan Abadi’s standards, but it was the best hotel in Bradford and was ornate in an old-fashioned English sort of way. As the lift whisked him up to his room, Burhan thought about Nikita Parekh. Why his son had chosen that woman over his family was beyond him. Not only was she an infidel, but she was a police officer – a half-caste police officer at that … and ugly with that scar round her neck. What power had she exerted over Khalid to keep him here in this freezing, dull, drab city? She had seemed shocked to hear about the identity of the body, but she was a police officer and, in his experience, they were prone to lies and deceit when it suited them. He’d been told that she had been the attending officer when they first discovered his son.

Surely, even that cold-hearted bitch would have revealed something had she been responsible. He had wanted to push her. Make her pay for the divide she’d caused between Khalid and his family. Make her pay for Khalid’s death. He was sure she had killed his son – who else could have? She had the perfect motive. Khalid was coming home and rather than allow it, she’d killed him and buried him. And now she had escaped. He should have known better than to trust the police. He should have employed someone to come with him. Someone who could control that whore. Then she wouldn’t have escaped. He suspected that the DC, Sajid Malik, had turned a blind eye – let her go on purpose. So what if he was Muslim? His loyalties clearly lay with Parekh.

Also, there was the daughter, Charlie. There was no doubt she was Khalid’s daughter and although he would have preferred a grandson, he’d make do with a granddaughter. One thing was certain, he would not leave his kin, half-caste or not, with that woman. She was out of control. One of the more gossipy officers had told him that she had three kids and wasn’t even married. No way could he leave his only progeny with a slut. Khalid, what were you thinking?

The lift doors swished open and Burhan exited. Inshallah, they’ve got the central heating on. Limbs throbbing, heavy overcoat slung over one arm, he leaned heavily on his walking stick. An aroma of lavender tickled his nostrils as he dragged himself along the thick carpeted corridor to his room. The cleaners’ metal trollies clanged along the corridors along with their light-hearted chatter as they worked. Eastern European, he supposed.

His luggage had been delivered to his room earlier and when he opened the door, the first thing he saw was the king-sized four-poster bed and immediately an overwhelming desire to lie on it without removing his clothes or showering or praying flooded him. Instead, he crossed the room, his leg dragging slightly as he moved, and tossed his coat onto a cushioned seat near the window and stretched his shoulders, trying to alleviate the tension that coiled his muscles as tightly as a spring. He stood for a moment looking out the window.

The rain speckling it marred his view and was typical of this godforsaken city. Through the raindrops he watched the people on the pavements beneath, huddled under umbrellas, hoods up, scurrying like sewer rats about their business. The buildings opposite were a mismatch of eras from concrete Seventies’ buildings to the older, more traditional sandstone. What attraction had this city held for Khalid? He’d been used to more than this – better than this. A lifestyle with servants and ease. His every whim catered for, the sun, his family, his home … and he wanted this … and that whore?

He loosened his tie and flung it on the bed before undressing and taking a quick shower. He’d ordered a light snack – some eggs and toast. Who knew if the hotel really catered for halal? Ablutions done, he prayed like he’d never prayed before – for the strength to cope with what was before him. The strength to show to these English that he was a better guardian for Khalid’s daughter than a promiscuous whore who’d killed her husband and buried him.

*

Dressed in pyjamas, the hotel’s fluffy robe wrapped round him for warmth, a plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs and coffee discarded beside him, he took out his laptop and started the first of two Skype calls.

Abubhakar Husayni had been recommended to Burhan by his own business solicitor. Husayni dealt with more delicate family issues and was based in London. Not having the time to visit the barrister in person, Burhan preferred Skype. He liked to get the measure of the person on whom he was placing such faith. Husayni was expecting his call. Burhan knew he would be. The amount of money he was offering made that a certainty. First impressions played an important part of Burhan’s business negotiations. He’d been known to pull out of major deals, solely because he took a dislike to one of the negotiators. A lot rested on this for Husayni, although he didn’t realise that … yet.

He was younger than Burhan had expected, but he was courteous and took notes as they talked. Like Burhan’s, his suit was Western and of the highest quality – Armani? Versace?

‘As-Salaam-Alaikum, Mr Husayni.’

‘Wa-Alaikum-Salaam, Mr Abadi. What can I do for you?’

Bhurhan explained about his son’s death and his desire to bring his granddaughter back to Ramallah, no matter the cost.

‘From what you have told me, Mr Abadi, the best legal solution would be for us to prove this Nikita Parekh to be an unfit mother. I think you would have many grounds for this, particularly if she was found guilty of your son’s murder. She has a proven track record of promiscuity which we can play on – three children and not married. Hmph, I understand exactly why you would not wish her to influence your grandchild. I also took the liberty of looking into her background and it seems that this promiscuity runs in her family. Her mother was known for having a countless number of partners and Nikita and her sister are the result of this activity.’

Bhurhan already had an inkling of this. Loose tongues at the police station had told him Parekh, whilst respected by some, was not popular with others. A bit like sheep’s brain curry – you either liked it or you loathed it. Husayni was still talking, so Burhan tuned back in.

‘Then there are the demands of her job, the area she lives in – all in all, I think we can pull this your way.’ He paused and steepling his fingers together, he tapped them on his lips. ‘Of course, there are other options available should you so choose.’

Husayni instinctively understood what his client wanted and was prepared to take great lengths to remove any barriers that stood in Burhan’s way. By the end of this, inshallah, Nikita Parekh would be imprisoned for murder and Khalid’s daughter Charlie would be under his guardianship, where she would learn how to be the heir her father couldn’t be. The knot of anger that had pressed against Burhan’s chest eased. He was happy to pay whatever Husayni needed to gather the evidence. He had his eye on the end goal and cared not a jot about Nikita. She had brought this on herself and if he needed to play dirty further down the line, then so be it.

‘Keep me informed. I want regular updates. At the moment she is “in the wind” as the British say. I suppose even the Bradford police will be able to find one of their own quickly.’

Bhurhan leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out before him. The damp weather made his muscles ache and he desperately needed to sleep. His doctor had advised against the trip, but how could he not come … regardless of his own health. First though, he had to call his wife.

Enaya, scarf covering her head, looked at him, her eyes wide and expectant. Burhan could see the hope still burning in them and hated that he would have to dash it so completely. For years, she had prayed that her only child would return and forsake the infidel. She was a simple woman and Khalid’s betrayal had hit her hard. She, like Burhan, had been sure that when given the ultimatum, Khalid would choose his family, his privileged life in Ramallah over the drudgery of life in a Yorkshire city with a woman who neither understood nor took steps to embrace their religion and culture … but worse than that, was the fact that she was of Hindu descent. Both he and his wife had been severely wounded by Khalid’s actions.

Wishing he was with her to comfort her, Burhan shook his head. ‘It’s him, Enaya. They took DNA and there is no doubt, our Khalid has gone.’

Enaya began to recite Qur’anic script, rocking back and forth as she did so. A wave of tiredness rolled over him, drowning him, pushing him under a suffocating quagmire. He could do nothing but watch as tears flowed down her cheeks, dripping from her chin, unheeded.

‘She killed him, Enaya. That woman killed him to stop him coming back to us.’

Enaya stopped crying, straightened her scarf over her hair and looked straight at her husband. ‘You will deal with this. Make her suffer as I have done for the last fifteen years.’

‘I am working on it. Trust me, she will pay. Now, I have some better news.’ He picked up the photograph he’d taken from Nikita’s fridge and held it to the screen. ‘This is your granddaughter. Khalid’s daughter.’

Enaya’s lip trembled, her hands clutching at a tissue as her eyes scoured the picture. ‘Khalid’s girl?’ Her hand reached out and her fingers touched the screen, stroking the face of the girl. ‘She has his eyes. She looks like him. Her name?’

‘Hmph, Charlie. Her name is Charlie.’

Enaya frowned. ‘When you bring her home to us, we will call her Aadab.’

Burhan smiled ‘Hope. That’s a good choice. Aadab. I like it. Respect and politeness.’ Whilst Burhan suspected the girl would have neither in abundance, he supposed the name was a good omen.

‘You will bring her home, won’t you?’

Burhan nodded. ‘That is the plan. To bring her home and make her mother pay.’

Chapter 15

It is strange to sit here whilst outside the consequences of my choices so long ago are causing chaos to many. Strange, but dare I say it, quite thrilling. Time on my own is always a welcome thing, but time shared with my memories is second to none. In this time of crisis, I find myself eking out more ‘me time’. Not sure that what I do in my ‘me time’ is exactly what they’ve got in mind but nonetheless, I derive great pleasure from it. There’s something particularly satisfying in knowing that whilst I am indulging myself in my homemade production, others, in more clinical surroundings, are trying to work out what happened. Perhaps one day they’ll be able to compare their findings with these recordings. I wonder how well they’ll match up.

I’ve already inserted the DVD and fast-forwarded to near the end. I love the way my voice sounds through the speakers. Many hate their own recorded voices, but for me it is like music. I love seeing myself too. I look powerful, strong, but more importantly dependable. I am dependable! Unlike my targets, I am fully committed to whatever decisions I make. I don’t give up, don’t opt out. No matter how difficult things become, I dig my heels in and crack on. Maybe it’s that Yorkshire grit in me. Off we go …

10th November 2003. Time 00.45. Time in captivity: four days, one hour

As we watch, the shadowy figure looms over the captive man. Hands tied behind the death chair, feet tied to the legs, his head droops. It’s nearly time – time to lose all hope. Time to face his maker. Notice the number of cuts, the frequency of the slashes. Each bears testament to his failure to prove his worth. You won’t be able to count them, but I can assure you there are more than fifty. Fifty chances he had and fifty chances he blew. Note how he fails to flinch now. Resigned to his failure. Just one more indication of his readiness to submit – to admit defeat. We’re in the home stretch. Watch and learn. Bear witness!

As the camera zooms in, the figure circles the captive, prodding him occasionally with a cattle prod. Watch how our captive flinches, half lifts his head and groans. Watch as the figure pulls his head up and directs it towards the camera.

‘Focus! You have proven time and time again that your privilege is stronger than your brains. That you are lacking – undeserving of the opportunities that have been offered you at the expense of those more deserving. You have one last thing you can do. One last thing you can leave behind – a last chance, if you will, to redeem yourself in the eyes of those who matter to you. A chance to prove that there is more to you than privilege and entitlement. Answer the question. Why are you here?’

Note how the captive remains inert. Is he bluffing? I fear not. His exhaustion is clear, his weakness apparent. Take heed how the figure deals with this. Watch how he teases the captive back to consciousness. Smelling salts and an injection of adrenaline, that’s all that’s needed.

See how the captive’s head slumps backwards, his eyes, although open, keep rolling back in his head before refocusing. For now, he is alert. Witness the care taken to make these last few moments special – momentous. The captive can go to his death safe in the knowledge that his last request has been recorded. Closure at the end of a long struggle which has ultimately resulted in the same abject failure that has plagued his life’s choices.

Listen to me. ‘Have you had enough? Can you not answer? Why are you here? Are you ready to relinquish your privilege and admit your shortcomings?’

‘Aaah.’

Is that all he can muster? It is his final opportunity and his only utterance is a strangled pathetic cry. Can you blame the figure for sniggering?

‘Oh, come on now, surely you can do better than this? No?’

The captive’s lack of response necessitates a punishment. I am directing this show, not him. The figure uses the cattle prod and then speaks in a voice both melodious and compelling.

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