by Liz Mistry
Agitated, the need for fresh air and space to think had Nikki grabbing her bag.
‘You okay, Nik?’
Nikki’s smile was tight, but she nodded. Saj was aware that things were tense between her and her mother at the moment and although he didn’t know the reason behind that tension, he was worried about them. No way was Nikki about to confide that her mum had clammed up when she’d asked her about Peggy. She’d refused point-blank, in a way that was uncharacteristic of her mum, to discuss her past with Peggy. Even when Nikki had mentioned that Jemmy had suggested Peggy was waiting for her kids to contact her, Nikki’s mum had tightened her lips and yelled at Nikki to quit interrogating her like a common criminal.
In response Nikki had stormed out of her mum’s house and the two hadn’t spoken since. Nikki’s mum was like a second mother to Saj, particularly since he was recently estranged from his own family.
She waved a hand in Saj’s direction, and made her escape.
Chapter 8
Despite the late September sun beating down on her back as she walked from Trafalgar House police station to the Lazy Bites café, Nikki had a deep frown on her forehead. Although she wouldn’t admit it to anyone, she kept a more than usual alertness about her as she walked. The anonymity of the letters unsettled her, whether or not that had been their intention. Every passing stranger could be her letter writer and the thought made Nikki more vigilant than ever.
It wasn’t only Sajid’s banter that had driven her from the station. It was the letter she’d received that morning. It was the third of its kind and she’d been reluctant to discuss it with her partner until she’d had a chance to make some sense of it. Until today she’d seen no reason to – with only an online newspaper article from the local rag in an envelope, followed by a completely unrelated one about a national investigation, it seemed irrelevant. However, the news report she’d just heard, combined with the strange mail that arrived today, made it more imperative that she share it with Saj. So, she’d vacated the open-plan office on pretence of visiting the loo and hotfooted it over to the café.
Lazy Bites had only been open a few months but was fast becoming popular with the locals and the employees of Trafalgar House alike. It was run by a charitable trust and its main aim was to provide apprenticeship-type experiences for young adults with learning disabilities to help them into employment in the hospitality industry. One of the trainee chefs, a lad called Thasavar, who rarely spoke but was a dab hand at making curries, had already been snapped up by the Trafalgar House canteen.
Nikki loved the relaxed atmosphere, the variety of tables with hard-back chairs, comfy corners and some more private booths. A few tasteful paintings of cobbled Bradford streets and old tramlines were interspersed with vividly coloured paintings of chameleons and butterflies. As she entered the café, the jaunty bell tinkled, and before she’d even closed the door, Elaine the waitress hurried back over to the serving counter, leaving her cleaning spray and cloth on the table she’d been cleaning. Dressed all in pink down to the two bobbles that held her hair in pigtails, Elaine was a breath of fresh air, always ready with a smile. Nikki’s frown faded as she grinned in response to Elaine’s enthusiastic greeting.
‘Usual is it, Nikki?’
Nikki grinned. Grayson, one of the tutors, had warned her that Elaine used this phrase in lieu of a greeting whether she knew your “usual” or not. ‘Yeah. A large cappuccino and …’ Nikki moved along the counter, studying the array of scones, brownies and cakes displayed behind a glass case. ‘Ooh, who made the scones?’
A voice from near the cooker, which could be seen beyond the counter area, chimed up. ‘Me. It was me. I learned today; Grayson showed me. They’re good. Have two.’
Nikki nodded. ‘They do look good, Billy. Tell you what, since you made them, I’ll have one now and four to go. Marcus and the kids will love these.’
Billy’s round face lit up and he turned to Grayson and high-fived him. ‘Best scones in Bradford, eh, Gray?’
Grayson grinned and winked at Nikki. ‘Better than mine, Billy, better than mine. I’ll have to keep an eye on you or you’ll be the next one being poached to Trafalgar House.’
Billy sniggered, clearly pleased with himself as Elaine rang up Nikki’s order and counted out her change precisely, checking it twice. ‘I’ll bring it over to you, Nikki. Have a seat. But not at that table – I’m still wiping it.’
Looking round, Nikki settled on the furthermost corner booth, where she could slide close to the window and hopefully not be seen by anyone coming into the café. She waited till her coffee and scone arrived and chatted with Elaine for a few minutes before being left alone. Sighing, she took the A4 envelope from her bag and pulled the first photocopied item out.
Then, the following week, another envelope arrived. This time it contained an online newspaper article with a photograph, again without a note. The envelope, a bog-standard white A5-size one, carried a Manchester postmark, and was addressed to DS Nikita Parekh at Trafalgar House. Nikki photocopied it and placed the original and the envelope it came in into an evidence bag, which she then placed in her desk with the first note and pushed it to the back of her mind, still convinced it was just the work of somebody trying to yank her chain … until today.
She reread the article. It was about the disappearance of the Cambridge student Liam Flynn originally from Ashton-under-Lyne near Manchester, whose body had been discovered in Cambridgeshire that morning. It was short and to the point:
“The brother of Manchester man Liam Flynn, who has been doing ground-breaking research in genetics at Cambridge University, makes an impassioned plea for anyone who has seen his brother or knows of his whereabouts to contact Cambridgeshire police. Flynn left the flat he shared with his partner Daniel Lammie to go into university at his usual time and was last seen getting into a black van with covered number plates. Reports that Liam was estranged from his parents, pictured above, are being fuelled by their refusal to comment. According to our source, both parents were interviewed by Cambridgeshire police in Manchester. The police have declined to comment on whether they suspect foul play, but the lengthy interview with Liam’s parents indicates they are no further forward in their investigation.”
Nikki scrutinised the photo. A man and a woman had been caught on camera exiting the police station. The couple, who looked to be in their forties, had startled expressions. They were dark-haired, the man a foot or so taller than the woman, of average weight and height, and both looked nondescript.
Nikki’s curiosity was piqued because now, it seemed, Liam Flynn had been murdered. So why would anyone anonymously send her a newspaper article with no note or indication of its significance? At the time she received the communication, she had racked her brain to see if she recognised either of them. She was sure she didn’t. Of course, she’d gone online and checked it out, but had come up empty. There was nothing – just nothing – to indicate why she’d received it. The family themselves seemed to be private people.
Over the next few days, Nikki had followed the reports in the local Cambridgeshire online paper, the Cambridge Independent, as well as those of the national papers, and whilst the local and national newspapers had stuck to the investigation, the Manchester Gazette had focused on the parents. With seemingly little of note to report, the papers had concentrated their efforts into digging for filth and seeking out interviews with neighbours who described the parents as “secretive and rude”, or who cited their son’s sexuality as the cause of their estrangement between Mr and Mrs Flynn.
The article itself carried no further information, so Nikki put it away and pulled out the contents of the letter that had arrived that morning. As with the newspaper article, Nikki had again copied the sheets of paper and both envelopes. She’d bagged the originals, but hadn’t yet decided what to do with them. It seemed too coincidental for her to receive three anonymous missives so closely together from two separate senders, and particularly on the day they found Liam Flynn�
�s body. This morning’s letter had been especially intriguing by its difference from the previous two. In all her time in the police, Nikki had never received an anonymous letter or email. She’d been threatened plenty of times, but these letters weren’t overt threats – were they? They seemed more like clues to Nikki – but clues to what? Besides, the envelopes were similar and the handwriting on the front was to Nikki’s unpractised eye a match. She might have put it down to coincidence if the postmark on the second envelope hadn’t been Cambridgeshire. The Cambridge/Manchester link plus the content of the first letter were too pointed to be arbitrary.
However, the contents of the third anonymous letter were somehow more insidious – or at least strange – depending on who the sender was. The pages were diary entries written in what Nikki considered to be a young person’s handwriting, on lined paper and photocopied. Each entry looked like it had been ripped from a book, as clearly visible in the copy were a tattered edge down one side and a raggedy edge where the page had been ripped crossways, as if only allowing Nikki access to part of the content.
The account seemed to indicate a younger teenager and the format of the diary entries was too similar to be from different hands. Although in the latter two extracts, the paper, judging by the shadows around the copy, was from a slightly wider book:
Wednesday 8th December
When I see him it’s like I can’t even breathe. He’s ugly – ugly and mean and fat and I hate him – hate him so much. Hate what he does to me. Hate his smell, his filth, the way he touches me. Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate him!!!!!!
Each of the “hates” was in a slightly darker colour, as if the author had pressed harder on each subsequent one. Nikki traced a finger over the words. Initially, she’d wondered if they’d been written the previous year – but when she’d checked, 8th December 2019 had been a Sunday, not a Wednesday. So, when had the diary entry been written and by whom? Was it the anonymous sender? Although she was inclined to think the writing belonged to a girl, she knew she couldn’t count on it. Was it some sort of cry for help – from a young person being abused? She turned the page to the next entry:
Thursday 24th June
It was so sore … couldn’t have done it without D. Was like I was being split in two. Don’t know what I think when I look at him. Sometimes I hate him so much I want to suffocate him and then that breathing thing starts again and I can’t breathe. I never can. All the time I’m barely breathing … barely living. When will he let me go outside again? When will I escape? I hate it. I hate all of them. Hate hate hate hate hate!
Again, when she checked, the dates didn’t make sense. The 24th of June this year had landed on a Wednesday and in 2019 the 24th had been a Monday, so she’d no idea when this last entry had been written either. Still, it was ominous. All of Nikki’s instincts made her almost a hundred per cent sure that the diary writer was a girl and that that poor girl was describing childbirth. Nikki’s stomach clenched. The writing looked so young – loose-looped and – just young. A bit like Charlie or Ruby’s writing. Thinking of her daughters made Nikki want to connect with them, so she took a sip of her cappuccino and fired off an I love you text to both of them, complete with teddy bear hugging GIFs. Who said she was too damn old to keep up with new technology, eh?
Monday 14th February
Valentine’s Day! What a load of old crock! He noticed. Knew he would. That old bastard opposite said something – I know he did. Now I’ve got a black eye to thank him for and I’m grounded. D put his window through and that serves him right. Interfering old git.
Thing is, I’m scared. Really scared. Scared of what he’ll do if he can’t make money from me. I hate hate hate hate hate all them fuckers.
Nikki took a deep breath. She’d no real idea of the order of these entries. The lack of a year made it possible they were decades old. But then again, they could be recent … and what was the link to that murdered geneticist and his family?
Draining the last of her coffee, she got to her feet and thrust everything back in her bag. Time to spill the beans to Saj and take a trip down to Cambridge.
With a cheerful wave at the workers in the kitchen and Elaine, who had, seeing her leave, scuttled over to clear her table, Nikki opened the door and almost bumped straight into a mother carrying a baby. At once she was transported out of her puzzled mood and straight into grabbing the baby from the mother’s hands. ‘Hi, Stevie, what brings you over to this neck of the woods?’
Turning her attention to the baby who grinned at her from a drooling mouth, Nikki spoke in a baby voice, making faces at the 6-month-old as she did so. ‘Are you teething, Amy? Yes, you are. You’re all rosy-cheeked and drooly, but you’re still the most beautiful baby I know.’
Stevie grinned. ‘It’s Amy-Nikita, Nik. Don’t forget.’
Nikki groaned. ‘You have to just ignore my mum – she can’t help herself.’ Six months earlier, Nikki had saved both Stevie and her baby from certain death and since then Nikki’s mother had insisted on hyphenating the baby’s name to Amy-Nikita … much to the annoyance of Stevie’s partner and Nikki’s colleague DS Felicity Springer.
Nikki was glad Springer wasn’t here. Much as Nikki liked Stevie, she was less fond of her partner, and was always on guard to make sure she didn’t betray her feelings.
‘I’m just dropping Fliss off. She’s got an interview this afternoon.’
Interview? The only one Nikki was aware of was the DI one. How the hell would she cope with Springer as her boss? Whilst Stevie ordered a drink to go, Nikki schooled her face not to betray her dismay. She hadn’t been aware that Stevie’s partner, DS Felicity Springer, was going for the inspector job. She reckoned that Sajid was probably unaware of that fact too or it would have been all over the office by now.
With a sinking heart, Nikki said her goodbyes and trooped back to Trafalgar House with the feeling that everything was conspiring against her.
Chapter 9
Lalita Parekh walked out of Tyersal Library anticipating an enjoyable afternoon spent with a good thriller – despite the fact that her detective daughter Nikita told her they were totally unrealistic. Lalita smiled. Nikita always looked so cross when she argued her case: ‘Yeah, I’d like to see some of those detectives you read doing the job I do. None of them know what it’s like on the streets.’
Lalita partly agreed with Nikki; on the other hand she enjoyed the escapism of a good detective thriller as did the majority of library borrowers, or so it seemed by the lending figures at the library where she worked, and Nikki wasn’t going to make her change her mind.
She loved her job. Loved the community feel of it. This morning they’d had a visiting local author in for coffee and a chat with the library’s reading groups. It was a huge success and Lalita was kept busy.
Now on her half-day, she was happy to anticipate an afternoon of lapping up the late summer sun whilst she still could and watching the kids play on the street in front of her house. Not that many of them were allowed out on the street these days. Things had changed since her two daughters were kids. In those days, the kids ran free on the streets playing football or cricket or whatever and the cars just had to accommodate that. Nowadays it was far too risky with cars zooming up and down the street – even kids on quad bikes. Only last year one of the local kids had revved down the street, hit a bit of black ice and landed up with permanent brain damage because he hadn’t worn a helmet. Those things were a hazard. She was always telling Nikki they should be banned – still, they tore up and down the street at all hours of the day and night.
Thinking about her eldest daughter cast a cloud over Lalita. She and Nikki had had a spat and now they weren’t speaking. Peggy Dyson’s death had been hard for Lalita to cope with, but the added pressure of her daughter wanting her to relive her and Peggy’s shared past was intolerable. Then, when Nikki had asked about Peggy’s children, Lalita had frozen. She couldn’t go there – not now. She couldn’t let all of that poison her current life. So,
she’d yelled. She wasn’t proud of it, but she’d had no option. Since Peggy’s funeral she and Nikita had been circling each other at a watchful distance that tore at Lalita’s heart. She wanted to reach out to Nikita, but she was aware that her daughter needed time to process what she’d learned.
For a long time now, Lalita had wanted to open up to her girls about their childhood, but at the back of her mind she’d always wondered if her desire to get things off her chest was more for her benefit than theirs. Now, she wished she’d bitten the bullet and worked it through. When she looked at Nikita, so strong, so responsible, so serious, she wondered if she’d burdened her too much, treated her more like a support system than a vulnerable child who needed protection. Anika, on the other hand, had been spoiled. Both Nikita and Lalita herself had been at great pains to shield her from everything that went on and, again, Lalita wondered if that had been a mistake for her youngest daughter was quite selfish, far too dependent on Nikita to sort her life out for her, and very prone to make bad choices where men were concerned. She sighed. Approaching her fiftieth birthday, Lalita could no longer use the excuse that she’d been a mere child herself. She had to sort things out like an adult.
