by A. A. Dhand
‘Thanks,’ said Harry, searching for something else which might give him more information.
‘I’m sorry I call you so much.’
‘You do need to trust us, Mr Aziz. We are a specialist dementia care home and know exactly how to care for your mother.’
Harry thanked her for her time and hung up. He thought of the second dusty bedroom in Adnan’s house. Seemed he was having some detachment issues. Harry called Palmer and Trafalgar House again, and again was given the same information.
He hung up.
‘I can’t fucking wait,’ he hissed. ‘Aisha might be dead by then.’
Harry took the crowbar with him and left the car, one final text to Palmer telling him where he was heading.
Lister Mills overlooked the allotments. Even as the snow blizzarded around him, he could see the penthouse pods on top of the mill and the balcony where he’d stood only two nights ago once they’d realized Aisha Islam was missing. They’d been so close, if only they’d known.
Harry passed through a set of stone pillars, into an overgrown wasteland, wishing he had proper walking boots on. The path was treacherous, snow causing his feet to slide. He kept his torch off, not wanting to announce his arrival.
The falling snow created an absence of noise, a tranquillity which seemed out of place in the clear abandonment of the allotment.
Harry reached a row of ramshackle wooden sheds at the bottom of the field. They appeared desolate; ruins of a once thriving allotment community. Hanging on the doorways, decaying numbers marked each one.
Harry stopped outside number eighteen.
Something was wrong.
Something was off.
He’d been so confident he’d find Aisha here, but now he wasn’t so sure.
He pushed at the door, feeling the snow icy on his hands. Flakes of snow dropped on to his neck, icy water now sliding down his back, a welcome relief from the burning sensation in his mind. Harry slipped the key he’d taken from Adnan’s house inside the lock. He backed off, raised the crowbar and pushed the door open. He swung his torch over the room.
Nothing.
It was empty.
Harry had been holding his breath and now let it out.
This had to be it.
Had to be.
Harry took another scan around the allotment, then stepped inside, keeping the crowbar in front of him.
Completely empty.
Cobwebs, broken plant-pots, two bags of soil and a large metal pole.
Dead end.
Harry noticed the shiny tip of the metal pole. The rest was crusted in orange rust but the tip glistened like new.
Harry shone his torch along the floor.
There.
A slab, maybe a metre square. He moved towards it and tried to push his fingers into the crevices surrounding it but couldn’t.
He glanced around the room.
Harry grabbed the pole and pushed the shiny end into one of the corners and leaned on it, using his weight to lift one side several inches. He pushed the pole further, wedging it between the slab and the ground, then used his hands to move it aside.
Damn thing was heavy.
Harry stared down into a dark black pit.
He thought about where he was.
Lister Mills.
The most impressive mill in Bradford. Back in the war, it had an underground network of air-raid shelters built to protect the workers.
He removed his phone, the cheap Nokia burner, to update Conway and force her to pull the bullshit operation in Keighley.
No reception.
Harry turned to go back outside.
That’s when he heard it.
A scream.
Agonized and frightened.
He froze.
Harry shone his torch down into the hole.
He could just make out a passageway.
Another scream.
Harry moved quickly, unthinkingly. He lowered himself into the bunker. Once inside, he raised the crowbar and used the torch to illuminate the way, creeping forwards. He could hear water running down the cracks in the walls and the damp stuck to his skin.
He was more afraid then he had ever been.
He reached a bend in the passageway and suddenly saw Aisha Islam, strapped to a chair, her gag lowered. Harry moved towards her just as she screamed,
‘No!’
Harry hardly had time to register the punishing blow of a steel bar.
He thundered to the ground, unconscious before he hit it.
SEVENTY-TWO
HARRY CAME TO, lying on the floor in the dark, the deafening sound of buzzing in his ears.
Wasps.
The sound was unmistakable. He fucking hated wasps.
In the distance, he could hear a voice, calling his name.
Palmer?
Harry didn’t move, head on the ground, eyes towards the floor. He still held the torch in one hand, crowbar in the other.
The wasps were noisily circling his body. Every so often, he felt one of them brush past the back of his head.
Was he bleeding?
Were they drawn to the blood?
Harry wanted to panic.
Was the bastard here? Watching, waiting for him to make a move so he could pounce?
He felt one land on the back of his neck.
Harry froze. Held his breath.
The tickle of its tiny legs.
He thought about what the entomologist had said: ‘Once they’re born, Harry, they only eat nectar.’
Harry didn’t feel reassured. He stayed perfectly still for as long as he could, relieved when it flew away.
He had to get out of here.
Harry started crawling in the dark, but he had no idea where he was or which direction he’d come from.
He had to use the torch.
Even if this wasn’t a trap, he’d never get out without the torch.
The buzzing was constant, how many of the little bastards were in here?
He could hear shouting from somewhere.
Keeping his face to the floor, Harry let go of the crowbar and covered the torch lens with his free hand. He switched it on, his hand absorbing the light but providing just enough illumination to give him a fleeting glance ahead.
The corridor was there.
Nothing else.
Harry switched the torch off, got on his hands and knees and went for it.
He crawled quicker than he thought possible, eating up the ground, turning right when he hit a wall.
The sound of wasps didn’t stop.
Claustrophobia started its treacherous assault as Harry hurried down the passageway, he could now clearly hear Palmer’s voice.
At the end of the corridor, Harry looked up to see Palmer, crouching above the hatch, face pained with concern.
A wasp flew towards him. Startled, Palmer moved away, cursing.
Harry got to his feet and hurried up the ladder.
Palmer helped him out of the hatch.
‘Christ, Harry, are you okay?’
Harry pointed to the hatch. ‘Close it,’ he said, patting his body down, paranoid a wasp had become trapped within his clothing. He spied a couple on the snow-covered windows of the hut.
‘Shit, you’re bleeding,’ said Palmer, lowering the hatch.
Harry touched the back of his head and felt warm, sticky blood. The world was spinning in front of his eyes.
He dropped to one knee.
‘Bastard was here. With Aisha. Did you see anything?’
‘Are you all right, boss?’
‘Did you see anything?’ snapped Harry.
‘Just two sets of footprints in the snow, leading away from here to the road.’
Harry checked the time. He’d been out of it for thirty minutes.
‘When did you arrive?’
‘Few minutes ago. Bloody snow played havoc with the roads.’
‘Armed police?’ asked Harry looking up at Palmer.
He shook his head. �
�Still in Keighley. One unit is now en route.’
‘Too fucking late. They got Gurpal?’
Palmer nodded.
‘Wrong guy. I told Conway!’
‘She had to make that call, Harry.’
‘Yeah, she made the wrong one.’
Harry stood up, touching the back of his head again. ‘Have a look, will you?’
Palmer moved behind Harry. ‘Skin’s broken. Wound doesn’t look deep. How’s your head?’
‘Like there’s a fucking wasp inside, attacking my brain.’
Harry headed for the door. ‘Come on, we don’t have much time.’
Inside his car, Harry let Palmer drive. He called Conway, who sounded sheepish and concerned in equal measure.
‘He’s called us, Harry.’
‘What? When?’
‘Few minutes ago. Spoke with me. Told me what happened.’
‘And?’
‘Adnan wants to give himself up and end this. He knows his time is up. It’s happening in the next ninety minutes. In City Park. By the fountains.’
‘What?’ said Harry utterly perplexed.
‘Get down to Trafalgar House. We’ve a briefing set up. It’s all in play, but we need you.’
Harry checked his watch: 21:00.
‘You’re telling me he wants to end all this? Just like that?’
‘Yes. With two specific instructions.’
Harry waited for the sting in the tail.
‘Go on.’
‘He’ll only hand the girl over to you.’
Harry thought about his clash with the killer: he’d been at his mercy.
It didn’t make sense.
‘What’s the second?’ said Harry.
Conway paused. Harry heard her take a breath. ‘He wants the handover televised.’
SEVENTY-THREE
GOLDEN AGE CARE home is not the place I envisaged my mother spending her last days. The dementia she has developed is a result of the shame and dishonour we all suffered. Ever since that fateful day, her mind has tried to erase what happened. For years, I thought of doing what I have done this week. But she would have suffered even more. Now, with her time close to an end, she will not have to endure the consequences of my actions. Her descent into the final stages of this disease has finally released me to unleash a plan years in the making. I am grateful she cannot remember the night which started all this. The night when the guests whispered about what had happened, their tongues like knives, slicing at our misfortune.
We thought when we arrived in this country, things would change.
They did not.
I’ve left the girl bound in the car. In an hour’s time, once I leave, the finale will be in sight.
It won’t be forgotten, as I was.
Instead, my message will be whispered in homes throughout the city: ‘This is what happens to sinners when they stray from the path …’
Fear will replace complacency.
She likes me to put her to bed and I have done so every night since she was admitted.
Tomorrow, I will not.
‘Ma,’ I whisper, lifting her from the wheelchair and placing her into bed, ‘I must go now.’
My grief at leaving is real.
I make sure my mother is comfortable, the pillow behind her head, the duvet underneath her chin and a second bedsheet tucked around her feet so they do not get cold in the middle of the night, because here, unlike when she lived with me, nobody will come to check.
I kiss her forehead, squeeze her hand, knowing it will never happen again, and turn to leave.
The time has arrived.
I am coming for you, Harry.
SEVENTY-FOUR
HARRY HAD NEVER known chaos like it.
The briefing room was in disarray, dozens of micro-conversations taking place.
Harry was outside, speaking discreetly with Conway. With the Chief Constable, the top officer in Yorkshire and all three assistant chief constables now in the building, her decisions were being scrutinized, but she stood firm. She’d made a call based on the intel available to her. And they had been searching for Gurpal Singh as their primary focus of interest.
‘What was his story?’ asked Harry.
‘Gurpal had been with one of the strippers who worked in his brother’s club. An old flame. They were off the grid, coked-up for a few days of debauchery. When she saw the news alert, she contacted us, afraid. Plain sailing after that.’
Harry sighed, observing the drama unfolding in the briefing room. Men in suits flapping around Tariq Islam.
Eyes darting towards him, everyone wondering the same thing: What linked Adnan to Harry? Now they had his details, Adnan’s life was being torn apart.
Nothing – absolutely nothing – linked him to Harry.
‘Nothing triggers with you?’ asked Conway.
Harry shook his head. ‘Never met the guy. Don’t know him.’
Conway kicked at the door of the briefing room, frustrated. Harry could see her remorse at not following his lead. ‘He knows you,’ she said.
‘At least, he thinks he does.’ Harry nodded towards the briefing room. ‘Come on, let’s see what Whitehall and the BBC have agreed.’
‘City Park is being cleared at the moment,’ said Conway to Harry. ‘Armed crime tactical team, complete with snipers, standing by.’
‘So, we’re all set,’ said Harry accepting a blister pack of paracetamol from one of the suits. His head was banging.
‘No,’ said Conway. ‘Whitehall is still in discussion with the BBC.’
‘We cannot televise this exchange,’ said Harry glancing at the power-players in the room. ‘Guy’s a nutjob. Since when has it been policy to allow the kidnapper, or killer in this case, to dictate the terms of a handover?’
‘Since he took my daughter,’ said Tariq.
‘Look,’ said Harry, dry-swallowing two tablets, ‘I know what is at stake. We all do. But there’s no way he gets a global TV audience. It’s unheard of.’
‘It’s not. There is a precedent.’
Harry stared at Tariq, incredulous. ‘This is a serial killer.’
‘Who might kill again, if we don’t comply with his request,’ said Conway.
Harry stared at her in disbelief. ’Request? Or demand?’
The Chief Constable looked like he’d aged a year in the space of a few hours. He didn’t say a word. Beside him, men in suits – MI5, Harry assumed – remained silent, watching the discussion.
‘Whitehall and the BBC will make the call,’ said Conway.
‘It’s not happening,’ said Harry shaking his head.
‘They’re suggesting a six-second delay. We block the broadcast to the rest of the UK. Only West Yorkshire gets the live transmission,’ said Conway.
They were actually considering this.
‘You’re kidding? Right?’ said Harry.
‘These are extraordinary circumstances, Harry,’ said Tariq. ‘The question is, if we get the green light, are you willing to do this?’
Harry looked at the glib faces in the room.
He couldn’t believe this.
‘Run me through it,’ said Harry.
‘Adnan wants Manchester Road cleared. He’ll be driving a white Volvo Estate, approaching via Jacobs Well and taking the right into Hallings, by City Park. If we stop the car, he’ll kill the girl. He said he’ll be streaming BBC iPlayer to check we are live – which is good for us because it makes the transmission delay easier, should Whitehall get the BBC on board. We’ll have snipers at five strategic locations: Town Hall, the court building, the Wool Exchange, Bradford Hotel and St George’s Hall. Armed police units yards from you and two surveillance teams in the vicinity. The exchange is set for ten p.m.’
Harry closed his eyes and massaged his temple.
‘God, you’re really serious,’ he said.
‘We’ve a chance to end this. With no further loss of life,’ said Conway.
‘He said that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you believe him? After what just happened with me?’
‘Especially after what just happened with you. It sounds like he had his chance to kill you and Aisha. Yet, he didn’t. Perhaps you’ve finally made him see his only way out of this is to surrender.’
‘You don’t believe that any more than I do, Clare. We’re handing him a huge card to play here. A sensationalist murder on live TV.’
Tariq came across and put his hands on Harry’s shoulders. ‘I’ve said my piece to the people who will ultimately make this decision. With a six-second delay, snipers and armed police, we have a chance.’
He put his hands together, as if in prayer. ‘If we walk away from this and my daughter dies, we will always ask ourselves …’ Tariq turned and spoke to the whole room: ‘Might we have saved her if we had done what he asked? What if? That is not something I want to live with. Do you?’
Harry closed his eyes, trying to find some clarity in the madness.
The look of terror on Aisha’s face in the moment Harry had seen her.
‘Okay,’ he said, knowing Tariq was right. Harry didn’t want to live with the ‘What if’.
‘I’m in,’ he said.
SEVENTY-FIVE
HARRY WAS STANDING on the top floor of Trafalgar House, staring into the distance where an enormous police presence was clearing City Park and a radius of half a kilometre around it. Flashing lights, barricades, the sweep of a police helicopter, all that activity made a stark contrast to the beautiful, calming allure of snowfall. The ground was white in all directions, now at least half an inch thick.
Harry imagined the two-man sniper teams, positioning themselves on the roof of the five buildings Conway had spoken of. Going through their briefings, all of them wondering if they might have to pull the trigger.
The horrifying splatter of red blood on crisp unbroken snow.
Who’d be making the call to shoot?
The door to the corner office opened and Tariq Islam stepped into the room, closing the door behind.
‘Keep the lights off,’ said Harry, turning back to the window.
Tariq arrived by his side, both of them staring at the snowfall.
‘First snowfall of the year,’ said Tariq. ‘Beautiful.’
‘It should be. But tonight, it isn’t.’
‘How’s your head?’
