by Liz Mistry
‘Well, you’ve about covered every possibility there, Sadia. Let’s go and see if Jessica can shed any light on possible boyfriends.’
‘Should we mention the pregnancy?’
Gus thought for a minute. ‘No, let’s keep that quiet for a while, see if she tells us. If she’s as close mates as she says she is, then she’ll probably know about it anyway. If she doesn’t already know, it’ll just upset her more and she may be less keen to share names with us if she thinks they may get into trouble.’
Sadia nodded and sliding into gear headed towards Jessica’s flat on Oak Lane in Manningham whilst Gus mulled over the PM results. When he couldn’t come up with anything else concrete, he turned sideways and looked at Sadia. ‘Why didn’t you come back to mine last night?’
‘Don’t know. I just got rattled when I thought you’d told your dad about us and, after this morning’s little episode, it seems he at least guesses.’
Gus sighed and rubbed at his temples. The after effects of too much Vicks was beginning to make itself known. ‘For God’s sake, Sad. My dad wouldn’t go mouthing off to your dad. Anyway, he doesn’t know anything. He’s just trying to make me take someone to this damn Sunday lunch, that’s all.’
Sadia’s lips tightened, but she remained silent.
Gus looked out the window, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm on his knee as he brooded. It was really getting to him that Sadia wouldn’t tell her dad about their relationship. He was twenty-nine years old for goodness sake. The last thing he wanted was to be ducking and diving as if they were doing something wrong. ‘If we told your dad, we could avoid all this subterfuge. He’d have to get used to it, eventually.’
Sadia’s shoulders slumped and she abruptly swerved into a lay-by, earning annoyed hoots and an obscene hand gesture from the car behind. ‘We’ve been over this before Gus. He wouldn’t “get used” to it. That’s the problem. He’s changed over the years, especially since mum died. He’s down the mosque all the time these days and when he comes back he comments on everything. Suddenly my clothes are immodest and suggestive. My make-up too tarty.’ She turned and glared at Gus her eyes blazing. ‘He even suggested I start covering my hair. My mother never covered her hair – he never expected her to, but all of a sudden he’s become so judgemental.’
Tears began to pour down Sadia’s cheeks. Heedless of her mascara running she dragged her palm across her eyes leaving streaks down her cheeks. Gus sighed and reached over for her, smoothing her hair and holding her till at last she settled. Looks like I’m on a roll today. First I upset my dad and now Sadia. What is wrong with me? The truth was he didn’t really understand why Sadia couldn’t just bite the bullet and he was getting more and more impatient with her. After all, what could her dad do? He knew it was hard for her. Equally, he knew his reactions were part of his illness and that sometimes his anger got the better of him.
Finally, Sadia pulled away from him. Flicking down the mirror, she began repairing the damage to her makeup. ‘I know you find it hard to believe, Gus, but I swear, he’s a different man at home. As soon as he comes in, he changes into his shalwar kameez and heads for the mosque. He reads the Qur’an constantly. He’s always interrogating me about where I’ve been and who I’ve been with… and, I suspect he reads my emails. I have to keep my phone with me at all times because I’m sure he’d check my texts.’
Making a conscious effort to be sympathetic Gus said, ‘What’s happened to change him?’
Sadia shrugged. ‘I just don’t know. He’s always been a great dad and when Mum died he tried his best to make sure I didn’t suffer. We don’t have any relatives in the UK. Maybe as I got older and more independent he got lonely and the mosque and the friends he’s made there have filled the gap. I just know he’s not tolerant like he used to be. He wants me to go to Pakistan with him and get married there.’
Gus sat up and turned sideways in his chair to observe. Surely she was joking. Surely in this day and age her father couldn’t have those attitudes. His eyes blazed. ‘What! When did he say this?’
‘He’s been saying it off and on for a while, but he’s started suggesting we go at Christmas.’
‘And what have you said?’ asked Gus, looking her straight in the eyes.
Sadia met his gaze. ‘I’ve told him no, of course, Gus. How could I say anything else when I love you?’
Gus cocked his head and smiled. ‘Well then, Sadia, the sooner we tell him about us the better. I can’t have him dragging you off to Pakistan, can I?’
Sadia grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t be so daft Gus. He’d never agree to me marrying you. When I told him I’d make my own choice of husband he grabbed me by the arms really tightly and said, “I’ll only allow you to choose if he is Muslim.”’ Sadia rubbed her arms, as if she could still feel his hands on her.
Seeing her reaction, Gus felt his own hands clench. What the fuck was Husain thinking? He must know he couldn’t force her into marriage against her will. Then the first part of her sentence sunk in. She wanted to marry him? Shit! He ran his fingers through his dreads. Marriage wasn’t something he’d considered. His divorce from Gabriella had only just come through and the last thing he wanted to do was to rush into another marriage. But seeing how upset Sadia was he couldn’t tell her that right now, could he? Gus was glad when she looked away from him. Maybe she wouldn’t see the hesitation in his face.
She continued in almost a whisper, ‘That’s the first time he’s ever threatened me.’ Her brown eyes were swimming with tears as she turned to him and gripped his arm, her look earnest. ‘If you were to revert, he may be persuaded?’
Gus’ heart sank. What the hell was she talking about? Revert? Gus knew that Muslims believed that everyone was born Muslim and that those who came to the faith later in life were considered to ‘revert’ not ‘convert’ to Islam. Dreads bouncing, Gus slammed his hand on the dashboard. ‘Bloody hell, Sad, you know I’m a Humanist. I can’t convert or revert or whatever. No bloody way. You know I can’t.’
‘Well then,’ said Sadia, her voice tight, ‘There’s not much else to say is there?’
Gus turned to stare out the window as Sadia started the car up and headed for Bradford. This had been a complete bolt out of the blue. First the marriage thing and then the conversion thing. Neither of which he was happy with. He loved Sadia, course he did, but it was really early days and he wouldn’t be pushed into something he didn’t want. No damn way. Sadia would just have to get used to it.
10:05 Prossie Palace, Manningham
The Prossie Palace was just off Manningham Lane and it turned out to be a building that Sampson did know. The old Victorian mill owner’s semi had eventually become an auction house. Sampson’s Uncle Pat had been a regular here, often bringing Sampson along for company when he was a lad as he looked out for bargains to sell in his antique shop. Looking up at the imposing, four-storied building, Sampson could almost smell the musty air and hear the familiar rumble of deep voices speaking in a code that only they could decipher.
They moved towards the solid wooden door and Alice rang the bell. When a tinny voice came from the wall speaker, she looked into the video camera and said, ‘Hi, it’s Alice Cooper. Can I speak to Carla?’
There was a buzz and Alice pushed the door open and gestured for Sampson to follow her into the airy hallway beyond.
Sampson looked around him at the colourful paintings of old Bradford on lemon painted walls. ‘Wow! This has changed a bit since I was last here. Not a musty smell around.’
‘Yeah, it’s been renovated since Haines, the auctioneer’s, had it.’ Alice gestured through a doorway. ‘It’s a charitably-funded health centre and refuge for vulnerable women and their families. Amazing what the lottery funds, isn’t it?’ She pointed along a bright narrow corridor. ‘Along there are the medical rooms. Some local doctors volunteer their services on a rota basis to provide routine testing for STIs, HIV and AIDS. They also give contraceptive advice. Once a week there’s a drug service clin
ic and an AA meeting. The working girls find it easier to come here rather than the infirmary when their pimps or a punter have gotten a bit too heavy handed. The agreement is that, whilst any victim here is treated anonymously, the details of their injuries are officially noted and passed on to us. The doctors and counsellors do a good job trying to get the girls to speak with the designated police officer and offer ongoing support and shelter as necessary.’
Sampson nodded, impressed. To his mind, it was a massive improvement on the auction house and a damn sight more useful. It felt to him like it had the right balance between homely and practical. He pointed to a white gloss-painted door that Alice hadn’t mentioned. ‘What’s through that door?’
‘That’s the gym and meeting rooms.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘A gym? Can’t be bad. Very corporate.’
Alice laughed, ‘You sound like bloody Brighton, now. Wait till you see it before you sit in judgement.’
Alice pushed the door open and Sampson followed her along another carpeted corridor that smelled of lavender potpourri. At the end, she held a door open to let him precede her into the room beyond.
Rotating slowly on the spot, Sampson took in the worn wooden floor, dull despite the smell of floor polish that hung in the air. Bright white walls were punctuated by posters about correct usage of equipment, diet and exercise information and aerobic exercise routines. In one corner lay a pile of floor mats that had seen better days. Against the far wall stood an old fashioned mechanical treadmill next to a mechanical rowing machine. Further along in a blue plastic box Sampson could see a handful of mismatched weights next to two red exercise balls that looked like they needed pumping up.
He caught Alice’s eye and grinned. ‘This is the gym?’
Samson walked over to the treadmill and stepped on, using his feet to start the machine moving. It creaked and protested before the mechanism kicked in and momentum urged it on. Within seconds he was panting. ‘Hope they get a discount in their membership in lieu of the danger factor,’ he said, rubbing his back.
Alice laughed. ‘Let’s just say we could use an influx of new and updated equipment but we get by. We use the gym for other things as well, like self-defence and personal safety classes.’
Hearing the enthusiasm in her voice, Sampson said, ‘We?’
‘Well,’ she shrugged. ‘I help out sometimes. Do a bit of self-defence with them. Look for grants to get a really good personal safety instructor I know, to do a few sessions. They’re usually very well attended.’
Feeling miffed that she’d not shared this with him before now, he said, ‘I’ve been working with you for nearly six months, Al, and you’ve never once mentioned that you do this in your spare time.’
She bit her lip and bent to shuffle the weights about in the box. When she blushed Sampson realised she felt embarrassed and changed the subject. ‘What are the other rooms down here used for?’
‘Oh, they’re just the meeting rooms I told you about before.’
Alice was leading him back to the door when it burst open and a middle-aged woman rushed through, carrying an overflowing box of books in her arms.
‘Hey, Al,’ she said.
Sampson watched, grinning at Alice’s discomfort as the woman slipped an arm round her shoulders and squeezed hard. A handful of books fell to the floor and he bent to retrieve them as Alice kissed the woman on the cheek and extricated herself. ‘Hey yourself, Carla. How’s it going, girl?’
When Carla hesitated, Sampson, sensing that he was the cause of her uncertainty, thrust out a hand and introduced himself. Punching him on the arm, Alice added, ‘Sampson’s okay. He’s one of the good ones. Sampson, meet Carla Terrelonge. chief cook, bottle washer and supervisor of the Prossie Palace.’
Sampson grimaced at Alice’s use of the name Prossie Palace. Carla, noticing his expression, grinned. ‘Ah, don’t worry, John. The girls themselves nicknamed it that. It’s a lot easier to say than our official title.’
He waited for her to explain, never imagining what a mouthful it would turn out to be.
‘We’re officially called The Outreach Centre for the Health and Wellbeing of Bradford District’s Alternatively Employed Women. Or, if you prefer T.O.C.W.B.A.E.W. I think some politically-correct jackass had a touch of the verbals when he thought that one up, don’t you?’
John laughed aloud, enjoying the mischievous twinkle in the woman’s eye. The atmosphere in this place was indeed friendly and he reckoned, after some of the things he’d seen on the streets that the working women needed somewhere safe to hang out away from their pimps and the punters.
Alice grabbed the box from Carla, dumped it on Sampson and linking arms with her friend said, ‘Can we go upstairs, Carla. We need to talk.’
Carla, all trace of humour gone from her face, nodded. ‘About Trixie?’
Alice nodded. Carla told Sampson to put the box in the corner and led the two of them back through the hallway and up a flight of stairs to the first floor.
‘These are all offices and storage space’ she said, as they walked. ‘Up the next flight of stairs are the bedsits for those in need of temporary shelter. Not ideal to be so high up if you’ve got a child, as we’ve got no lift, but at least it’s further away from the front door if we get any unwelcome visitors.’ Carla’s grim expression told Sampson she’d seen a few unwelcome visitors in her time.
As he expected, Carla’s office was an extension of her personality; full of bright coloured throws and just enough ornaments to avoid fussiness. As well as a functional desk and chairs, Carla had created a cosy seating arrangement to one side. It was to this that she led her visitors.
As his unsuspecting bottom hit the loose sofa springs, Sampson released a small yelp. ‘Oops, Should’ve warned you.’ said Carla with a grin. ‘It’s all second-hand and this sofa has had a lot of wear and tear.’
Knowing he’d have a bruise on his backside, Sampson eased himself forward until he found a slightly more padded part to perch on. He could tell by the smug look on Alice’s face that she’d known about that particular chair and had chosen not to warn him. He made a mental note to get his own back on her at the first opportunity.
Carla and Alice sat opposite on two old but, judging by the absence of pained yelps, comfy chairs. ‘Carla,’ began Alice, leaning forward. ‘What’s the word on the street about these killings? Anyone mention a sicko punter or anything odd?’
Carla tutted and shook her head. ‘To be honest, the girls from this side of Bradford have been pretty blasé about it all. Well, that is until last night. Now that it’s one of their own they might start talking. The officer I spoke to last week seemed to want to put it down to a turf war, but, I wouldn’t go down the Bazza–Hussain vendetta route. That’s a waste of time.’ She flapped her hands to accentuate her point. ‘They’ve co-existed happily till now and I’ve heard nothing to contradict that.’
Leaning forward, elbows on her knees, her expression serious, Carla continued. ‘As for a sicko? Well, after Camilla’s murder I put the word out and got nothing back, so, when Starlight was killed, I went in hard. I personally questioned every girl that came through those doors last Friday and not one of them reported a pervert. I don’t think they were lying.’
She inhaled and leaned back against the cushions. ‘The only cause for alarm was a report of a couple of new girls, probably underage, on the streets. As required, I passed that info on to Vice.’
Sampson digested her information in silence for a few seconds. ‘You said earlier that you cater for the whole of Bradford district. Don’t you get any of Hussain’s girls in?’
Carla looked at him. ‘Yes we do. Not as many, I have to admit, but I suspect that’s geography rather than a disinterest in the place. Plenty turn up for the medical checks and suchlike, but only a few hang around, whereas the local girls pop in at all hours of the day and night. We’re like a youth club for prossies in that respect.’
She paused, and for a moment Sampson saw a flash o
f sadness dull the vibrancy in her eyes. ‘I knew both of the girls that were killed last week; Camilla and Starlight. They were popular and often came in together. They mixed well with all the girls. They were friendly and happy. I was sad to hear what happened to them. Now word has it that Trixie’s gone?’
She looked to Alice as if for confirmation. Alice nodded. ‘What do you know about her, Carla?’
Carla sighed, ‘Sometimes I wonder what I know about any of them. Trixie, hmm?’
She steepled her fingers in front of her mouth and thought for a minute. ‘Trixie was troubled. She’d clearly suffered some sort of abuse that had led her to run away from home, but she refused all counselling services and refused to discuss her past at all. In the end we backed off rather than lose her. Jessica brought her in and the two became close. When Bazza chose Trixie as his pet,’ she said the words with a shudder, ‘Jessica and Trixie moved into that little flat together. When she came to us two years ago she was an addict – coke and heroin but, recently, over the past couple of months, she’d been seriously trying to quit. She spent a couple of weeks here at the beginning to get her through the cold turkey and then attended regularly for sessions with the drug advisor. Jessica always stayed with her throughout, even when she stayed in. I doubt Trixie could have done it without Jess.’ She threw her hands in the air. ‘Lot of damn good that did her in the long run. Poor child. You’ve got to catch whoever’s doing this, Alice… and soon!’
Whilst Alice assured Carla they would do everything in their power to catch the culprit, Sampson mulled over what they’d learned about Trixie. ‘Any idea what made her want to quit drugs, Carla? It’s unusual for an addict to opt to get clean without some sort of enforced treatment. Had she been compelled by the courts to attend rehab?’
