Roman. Zain let out a shaky sigh. He wished he didn’t like the guy. He shouldn’t like him. Almost everything about Roman was wrong, the way he blew hot and cold, but somehow that just made Zain want to put him right. Was that even possible? Easier to stitch a cut or re-inflate a lung than sort out someone’s head, especially when they didn’t think they needed it sorted. He wished he knew how Roman thought this was going to end. You’re safe now. Goodbye. Was that what Zain would hear?
Roman emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, his sleek, wet hair dripping down his neck. He slid open the door of his closet and pulled out his clothes.
“Is there anything you want me to do?” Zain asked.
“No.”
“Is there something wrong?”
“No.”
Fuck you. But Zain tried again. “Would you like a coffee?”
“No thanks.”
“Ooh. Two words. Your people skills are getting better and better. I’m thinking you should write a book. Let everyone into the secret.”
“Shut up.”
“Not a morning person then.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Zain watched him dress. Roman was sexy in and out of clothes but in a dark grey suit, crisp white shirt and blue tie, he took Zain’s breath away and restored a wilting erection. His cock had less sense than his brain. Zain lay on his side to hide what was happening in his groin.
Roman tossed him his phone. “Put your number in under the letter T.”
“Your spelling needs work. Zain begins with a Z.”
“T for trouble.”
Fuck you. Zain entered his number and tossed the phone back.
“Maybe T for temptation.” Roman gave him a small smile. Enough to lighten Zain’s heart.
“I’ll call you,” Roman said.
Zain’s phone was still in his bag under the stairs. He heard it faintly.
“A warning that you need to keep it on silent. Be careful if you call me. If you need me to come back, just say the word temptation. If I use your name, then I’m not being listened to and you’re safe to talk.”
Zain almost rolled his eyes but the look on Roman’s face stopped him.
“Don’t leave the flat. You’ll risk my safety as well as yours. Hide if you’re at all worried. Neither Arkady nor Dima has a key to this place but that doesn’t mean they can’t get in if they want to. Don’t go into my study. Help yourself to what you like from the fridge and cupboards. Watch TV. Take a bath. Read a book. The Wi-Fi is Skybolt 352. The password 66093.”
Kiss me.
But Roman didn’t.
Tell me you want me here.
He didn’t.
Zain waited until he was sure Roman had gone before he got up. He showered, exchanged his clothes for fresh ones, pocketed his phone and made the bed. After a struggle, he worked out how to make himself a coffee with the machine. There was a variety of food in the fridge, but Zain wasn’t hungry.
He sat at the counter, cradling his drink, staring at the door of the room Roman had said was his study. He was tempted. Just one look to check for shelves groaning under the weight of jars filled with body parts. Zain smiled. Actually, all he wanted to know was more about Roman, what he liked, what his interests were. But the instruction to stay out had been clear.
One look. He finished his coffee, then washed and dried the mug before putting it away. If someone did come to the flat, seeing two of anything, two mugs, two plates, two toothbrushes, could give him away. It was important to keep the place as it looked when he’d arrived.
One look. As he walked across the room, his phone vibrated. Zain pulled it from his pocket. Roman’s number. Zain accepted the call but didn’t speak.
“Zain,” Roman said.
“Is not here right now. Please leave a message after the beep… Beep.”
“Stay out of my study.”
Zain swallowed as Roman cut off the call. That had to be a guess. Didn’t it? But he turned and headed in the opposite direction. He retrieved his laptop from his bag and took it to the room on the roof, closing the closet door behind him. Once he had a connection he started to google.
There was nothing on Qashim. He found a few entries for Dima, who owned a fashion chain called Zapies. There were pictures of him at Henley, Ascot and Annabel’s—boats, horses and nightclub as far as Zain could make out. Dima was with a different woman in each picture though they all looked the same type. Long hair, slim and beautiful.
Arkady Grekov appeared to be a successful businessman. There were lots of images of him at charity events. He didn’t look like someone who wanted Zain dead. Zain gave a short laugh. This whole thing was crazy.
Glen Foley worked for a company with casinos in six cities in the UK. In photos of him and his wife, they were never touching and she looked miserable. The guy was an idiot whether he was gay or bi. Come out or stay in but don’t hover and let men like Arkady get their claws in you.
Artur Sheripov’s murder was an ongoing investigation. Zain learnt nothing more than Roman had already told him. The police were asking for people to come forward if they recognised him or had been in the area on the night he’d died.
There was nothing on Roman. Not one entry.
Nor on me. Zain went back down to get more coffee and a couple of pieces of toast before going back up to the room. He decided to rewrite his statement for his university application, the only part of the form he’d not yet filled in. Four thousand characters or around five hundred words to describe his ambitions, skills and experience in a way that made someone think he’d be a great doctor.
It took a while to get a version he felt worked, though he wished he had someone to show it to. Did he want Roman to read it?
His phone rang and Zain chuckled.
“Zain,” Roman said.
“Please hold. You are number 865 in the queue. Oh 864.”
Roman laughed. “Are you okay?”
“Yep.”
“Good.”
And he was gone again. Zain sighed and reread his statement.
My journey to being a doctor started when I was four years old. I lived in Aleppo, Syria, with my family and my father let me listen to his heart through his stethoscope. I checked the heart of my mother and my baby sisters and for one of them, I heard a whooshing noise. My father told me Rima had a heart murmur and what I could hear was the sound of blood negotiating its way around the tight bends in her heart. From that moment, I developed a deep curiosity about the human body and wanted to know exactly how it worked.
My father trained in London to be a doctor and my dream is to do the same. But this has been a long and difficult journey. My education was disrupted by war. Each day was a struggle to survive. My mother and sisters died in a bomb blast when I was seventeen years old. All I had left in the world was my father. He took me with him to the field hospital and I worked at his side. I held the hands of those who were dying from blast injuries, comforted those who’d been gassed, helped those who’d been shot. I put IVs into the arms of babies and adults. I pulled out shrapnel and stitched wounds. I assisted in operations. I stopped blood spurting from arteries with my fingers. But I could never do enough.
Then my father was killed and my future lay elsewhere. I travelled on foot, by bus, train and boat across Europe. It took me two long years to get to Britain where I was granted asylum.
Life was still hard. I had little money and knew no one. I saved up to buy textbooks and studied privately for A levels. While I studied, I worked in a car wash, stacked shelves in a supermarket, washed dishes. I’ve had a lot of jobs. People think I was born in England because I speak the language so well. I worked hard to make sure I did.
I’ve been a ward volunteer at the NHNN for two years, chatting to patients who have few visitors, reading to them and playing games with them. I understand the importance of caring for emotional needs as well as physical ones. The bravery of people continues to amaze me.
All my
life, I’ve worked hard. In spite of sometimes terrifying conditions, I’ve maintained my enthusiasm and commitment to my goal. I find medicine endlessly fascinating. I don’t want to stop learning.
When I’m a doctor, I’ll be able to breathe again. I want to make a difference to people’s lives. My father will never know I’ve succeeded but I’m sure he would be proud of me.
Thank you for giving me a chance. I won’t let you down.
It wasn’t quite right yet, but it was getting there.
Roman parked outside Zain’s old building and gave a deep sigh. It was frustrating having to go through the motions of looking for him but he couldn’t risk not doing it. He locked his vehicle and went up the steps to press the first buzzer.
“Yeah?” asked a man.
“I’m looking for Zain Nasry. He used to live on the second floor, flat 2A.”
“Never saw him. Didn’t know him.”
Only one person buzzed Roman in, an old woman who lived on the first floor.
“I don’t just let anyone into my flat,” she said. “I didn’t let that other one in, but you look a smart young man.”
Roman wanted to tell her not to trust smart men in suits and he wasn’t that young, but he didn’t. “Did this other man want to know about Zain too?”
“Yes, but I told him to go away.”
Fuck. Roman walked into her flat. Her place was as different to Zain’s as it could be. Bigger, cluttered, cosy, clean.
“When did this man come?” Roman asked.
“This morning.”
“What did he look like?”
“Not smart like you. He was big, with dark hair, scruffy. He wore a leather jacket.”
“Foreign?”
“Yes.”
He shouldn’t be surprised Qash was doing the same as him.
“I’m trying to find Zain. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“I saw you come to see him.”
Roman nodded.
“He’s a lovely boy. Kind. Polite. He speaks English so beautifully. He helped me with my shopping. I had no idea he was planning to move out.”
“Your rent collector mistakenly concluded he was bringing men back here who were paying him for sex.”
She made a sound of disgust. “Zain would never do that. Winston should have asked me. I’ve never seen Zain with anyone but you. Zain’s flat is right above my living room. There was never any noise, no music, nothing.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Saturday night. He was going out. In a new coat. I found it on the doorstep on Sunday. I put it in the hall and it’s gone. I thought maybe he’d dropped it. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“That’s very kind but no thank you.”
Roman was as sure as he could be that she’d not seen Zain’s attackers, nor him and Zain outside, nor Zain leaving the next morning. He was relieved she’d said nothing to Qash.
“The other man who was asking about Zain is someone Zain is trying to avoid. Don’t talk about Zain to any strangers, especially that man. Don’t let any strangers into your flat. You shouldn’t have let me in. A suit doesn’t make me a good man.”
“But I knew I could trust you.” She smiled at him and Roman made himself smile back.
He asked for the rent collector’s number and returned to his car to phone him. As Roman already knew, the guy had no idea where Zain had gone and clearly thought Roman was Zain’s customer. Roman didn’t have the energy to argue. He sat for a while wondering how far he needed to take this. Should he ring the buzzers of the flats opposite? Is that what Qash had done?
He got out of the car and crossed the road. Fewer people were in but unfortunately one man said he’d seen a young guy with bags get into a car on Sunday morning. Now Roman was wishing he hadn’t asked. The only good news was that no one else had asked about Zain. But maybe Qash hadn’t been here yet or not caught the same guy at home. Roman couldn’t be sure if anyone had seen him or Zain that morning.
Maybe it was safer to assume Qash had the same information as him. Not hard to guess a car that wasn’t a taxi might well be an Uber. Hacking into their site to find out which car picked Zain up and where he was taken would be difficult, even for Roman, but doable. As far as he knew, Qash wasn’t a computer expert but he could always find someone who was. Tracking the route of the Uber would lead to the hotel near Paddington and possibly to the clerk Roman had paid off. Shit.
There was no reason for Arkady or Dima to distrust what Roman told them but even if Roman said he couldn’t hack into Uber, they might look for someone who could. Better to lie and say there was no Uber link and believe Qash would keep quiet too.
He phoned Zain before he drove to the car wash, wondering what he’d say this time.
“Zaaain,” Roman whispered.
“I need your help right now. When you’re defusing a bomb, is it the green wire you need to cut or the red? Tell me quickly.”
Roman half gulped, half laughed and ended the call. Zain didn’t know what had happened to his father. He hadn’t realised that comment had brought a stab of pain to Roman’s heart.
He parked as close to the car wash as he could. As far as he could tell, he wasn’t being followed. There were no cars being washed. The guys were hanging about smoking and chatting. Musa sat in the portacabin drinking coffee and clattered his mug onto the desk when Roman walked in.
“I’m looking for Zain,” Roman said.
“I gave you his address.”
“Sold me his address. When did you last see him?”
“When I sacked him on Friday.”
“Why did you sack him?”
“He wasn’t doing a good job.”
You lying shit. “Know where he might be?”
“You have his address.” Musa glared at him.
“He’s not living there anymore. Any idea why?”
Musa shrugged. “No.”
“Okay if I ask the others?”
“They won’t know.”
Of course they didn’t. But the questions were asked and Roman had done what he was supposed to do. Now he was going to do a little bit more. He pulled Latif to one side, then slightly changed focus when an idea occurred to him.
“I already told you. I don’t know where he is.” Latif jerked free of his hold.
“You were seen attacking him.”
The guy’s jaw dropped.
“Not my idea. Musa wanted him scared. Zain owed him money.”
“What did you do?” Roman kept his anger hidden.
“Just kicked him around a bit. Musa was the one with the knife.”
“You were the one with the acid.”
Latif swallowed. “I wouldn’t have hurt him.”
“The acid’s okay on skin then?”
“No, but…”
Roman reached down for the spray and grabbed Latif’s wrist. “Sure you don’t know where Zain is?”
Latif squeaked. “I swear. The police were coming and we ran. I haven’t seen him since.”
“You left him lying on the ground, stabbed and sprayed with acid.”
Latif didn’t speak. His gaze was fixed on the bottle in Roman’s hand.
“Why didn’t you like him?”
“He’s not one of us. Didn’t speak our language. Did job too fast. Worked too hard. Made us look bad.”
The temptation to spray the guy in the face… Roman settled for a blast on Latif’s hand. He shrieked and Roman let him go. As the guy ran for a hose, Roman walked back to his car. At least he knew neither Arkady nor Dima had been responsible for the attack on Zain. But now Roman had revealed his cards. He had to assume Latif and the others wouldn’t admit to what they’d done or Roman’s lies were going to be exposed.
He almost faltered when he saw Dima and Qash were parked a few vehicles behind his, sitting in the newly repaired Lexus. Roman carried on walking until he reached them. Dima’s window slid down.
“You find him?” Dima asked.
“
No.” He didn’t bother making any comment about the two of them checking up on him, or Qash working alone.
“What did Musa say?” Dima asked.
“That he sacked him and had no idea where he was. But I was told Zain was attacked on Saturday night. Know anything about that?”
“No.” Dima frowned.
“Attacked?” Qash asked.
The look on Qash’s face alarmed Roman. “With a knife and with acid.”
“Khara.” Qash spat the word. “Who did it?”
“Musa, Latif. Maybe others. I just gave Latif a taste of what acid feels like.”
Oh God. Roman did not like being smiled at by Qash.
“Zain left his flat with his belongings on Sunday morning,” Roman said. “Got into a car. Maybe a taxi. I’ll check up on that.”
“Let this go,” Qash said and the comment wasn’t addressed to Roman.
Dima spun round. “What if this Zain isn’t your old friend? One word from him and all three of us are in the shit. I’m not letting it go.”
“There may not be much choice.” Roman shrugged. “If Zain gets a cash-in-hand job, he won’t even use his national insurance number. That cuts off a way of tracing him.”
“Use your geeky skills to look at his bank account,” Dima snapped. “That might give us some clues.”
“I already have. There’s very little action. No indication of where he might be.”
Dima’s fingers tightened around the wheel.
“He not going to say anything,” Qash said. “Would have said before now. It all over news about Sheripov.”
“You don’t even know it’s fucking him!” Dima snapped.
“It is.” Qash turned his gaze on Roman who found it difficult to not flinch.
Did Qash know for sure? Had he seen Zain?
Dima gave a heavy sigh and turned to Roman. “Keep looking.”
Roman walked back to his car. He was worried that Qash didn’t want to keep looking. That didn’t sound like the guy Zain had described. He couldn’t help wondering if Qash had thought of a way to trace Zain, or if he already knew he was in Roman’s flat. He didn’t want to believe that was possible. But…
Whatever It Takes Page 16
