by Liz Mistry
Alice’s eyes narrowed, and then, she shrugged. ‘Looks like DCI Chalmers pulled some strings with Doc Mahmood.’
Gus’ shoulders tightened, and he glared at her, his eyes narrowed. ‘What the fuck do you mean, she pulled some strings with the Doc? I’m not happy with that, Al. You need to recover fully before you come back to work.’
Alice waved a dismissive hand. ‘You can talk, Gus. Wasn’t so long ago she did the exact same thing for you, didn’t she?’
Her words hit home. Gus couldn’t deny it; Nancy had pulled strings to get him back to work the Matchmaker Case.
‘You and me are the same, Gus,’ she said, ‘We need our work to get us through this shit. You know it, and I know it. I need to be here. It’s the best therapy for me. I’m physically fit too. More to the point, you need me.’ She stared at him long and hard, her eyes serious for a change. ‘I saw how you were at Sadia’s dad’s funeral, and I saw how she ignored you. Your dad says you’re grieving, and your mum says you’re wracked with guilt over what happened to me. Well, you can stop that bloody nonsense right now, okay?’ She prodded him twice in the chest.
Gus shook his head. ‘Ouch Al … that hurt!’ And, thankful she hadn’t opted to hit him on the arm where his new tattoo was, he rubbed his chest.
She snorted. ‘That’s because it was meant to. You need to get on top of this stupid, self-pitying guilt shit.’
Aware Compo and Sampson were grinning like a pair of Cheshire cats, he walked over to pour himself more coffee. His gurgling stomach and the caffeine headache that throbbed at his temples, told him more coffee was the last thing he needed … still. Alice was right. He was a mess. Losing Sadia, on top of nearly losing Al, had almost broken him. It was easy for her to tell him to get over it, though.
Following him, she placed her hands on her hips and glared. To Gus, she appeared like a more fragile, yet equally assertive version of her old self. Her tone was scathing. ‘You’re in denial, Gus. You barely visited me in hospital. I didn’t want your damn flowers or chocolates; I wanted you. You, of all people, should have known that, especially after what happened with Greg and Billy.’
Gus bowed his head with a curt nod, however, Alice wasn’t finished.
‘You never even spoke to me at that bloody funeral.’
Gus’ head jerked up, and his eyes flashed, betraying his annoyance. ‘I wasn’t exactly welcome there, Al. Sadia made that perfectly clear, so although I had to toe the police line and be there, there was no way I was going to hang around for the social niceties.’
He took a slug of coffee and scalded his mouth, cursing as he swallowed it, feeling it burn every inch of his throat on the way down, before continuing, in a quieter voice, ‘You’re right, though, Al. I should have been there for you. Should have visited you, should’ve been your friend. Truth is, I did feel guilty. It was my fault. We should have waited for back-up.’
Alice exhaled. ‘Aw, get a grip. What’s it with you? The only one to blame was the bastard who pulled the trigger, and if my memory serves me right, he’s been dealt with. So, man the fuck up, Gus, and let’s get on with this case.’
Gus held her steady gaze for a second more and then smiled. It was so good to have her back. So good to see that she hadn’t changed … not inside anyway. He knew she’d be fine. With a glance at Compo and Sampson, both of whom were trying to look as if they weren’t listening, he sighed and, with a shrug, said, ‘Looks like DS Cooper’s back. Bring her up to speed please, Sampson.’
And as Sampson updated Alice, he turned to Compo. ‘Looks like you’re off the hook, too. Might be better if I take a woman to interview the Ul Haq girls.’
Compo whooped and did a dance around the room, high-fiving Sampson and Alice as he went. Gus, a slight smile on his lips, said, ‘Don’t think you’ve escaped this, though. You do need to extend your skill set at some point.’
Chapter 14
12:35 Weston Property Development, Becks Road, Bingley
With a mega-sized mug of strong Yorkshire tea steaming on his office desk and the morning’s Bradford Chronicle laid out in front of him, Graeme Weston was happy. His grin showed it. Not only had the announcement that he was Albion First’s candidate for the upcoming Bradford Central constituency by-election made the headlines, but Jez Hopkins’ article also spanned over pages two and three. He was in the spotlight, and so were Albion First.
Albion First had distanced themselves from the BNP over the past few years, and this was their first bid for national recognition. Weston was proud his party had seen him as the way forward. He was no Farage, all soft policies and beer swilling. No, Albion First was a legitimate force for change, and he was the figurehead. Fast tracking Article 50 and Brexit were only the first steps in their plan. It would be swiftly followed by the repatriation of all European scroungers, calls for higher tax codes for non-British citizens working in the UK, and ultimately, the repatriation of second and third generation immigrants.
Grinning, he toyed with the idea of reclaiming the term ‘white wash’ as a slogan for his repatriation policies. Maybe he’d run that idea by the Generals. He knew it was a long-term strategy, however, he was convinced the political climate had never been more right for this sort of national cleansing. British ideals were continually being diluted by the rise of the jihadist Islamic extremists. He knew at grass-root level, the voters wanted them gone. At rallies, people told him so. His party had researched it, and with Trump’s ascension in the USA, Britain would fall into line.
His thoughts were interrupted by his office door opening. Marcia Hogg, his PA, slid into the seat opposite his desk, crossed her legs and rested one arm over her knee. He pretended not to notice the length of thigh her actions had revealed. He’d no time for the sort of antics Marcia’s husband Michael was so fascinated by. Although Marcia had a great body, she was his best friend’s wife, and that was that.
An indulgent half-smile on her face, she shook her head. ‘She’s on the phone again, Graeme. I’m getting no work done fielding her calls all the time. You’ve got to speak to her at some point.’
Graeme smiled. He’d been ignoring Christine’s increasingly frantic calls all morning and wasn’t ready to speak to her yet. She’d deserved what she’d got. He hadn’t wanted her to take that job in that bloody school. Neither had he wanted her to go around screwing Pakis. Nevertheless, she’d done that, too … as the photographic evidence he’d found on his desk yesterday evening had proved. If it hadn’t been for that, he’d have given her advance warning of his intentions. The stupid cow only had herself, and her inability to keep her legs shut, to blame. Not that he could confide any of that to Marcia.
Marcia leaned forward, her blouse gaping at the neck. ‘What’s she done this time? You’d think she’d be happy with how successful last night was, wouldn’t you?’
Graeme smiled. He’d never discussed Christine with Marcia, and he’d no intention of starting now. It didn’t matter to him their marriage had long been a sham. The obsession that had tricked him into marrying her had long since abated, however, she was beautiful … a real status wife, and that’s what counted, wasn’t it?
He didn’t actually care she had frequent affairs. All he cared about was she was discreet. Now, her discretion was even more imperative. He wondered who’d put the photos on his desk. One of the builders or a client? Hell, sometimes, the place was like Piccadilly Circus, the number of people who trolled through. Especially recently, when he’d been using it as campaign headquarters and the venue for various caucuses he’d wanted kept secret from the wider Albion First members.
Someone had been following her, and that someone clearly had his back. They didn’t want to go public with the info; they wanted him to stop it before her actions damaged the campaign. Well, that’s what the typed note had said, anyway. That made him wonder if it was Michael Hogg.
Michael was professional, nothing got by him … and he was loyal. He’d do whatever it took to remove any obstacle standing in Graeme’
s way, and he was astute enough to cover his tracks. Michael would see it as his responsibility to make him aware of anything that could threaten the effectiveness of their campaign. Graeme was under no illusion; he’d expect him to deal with it efficiently … even if it was his wife who was the threat. But Michael wouldn’t go in for subterfuge. If he’d found out about Christine’s clandestine bedroom antics, he’d have come straight out and told him. Subtlety wasn’t his strong suit. Thank God Michael wasn’t privy to that other little secret he and Christine were keeping well and truly under wraps. No point prodding a sleeping tiger. Michael would be told only if it became necessary, and Graeme hoped it would never become a necessity.
He grinned at Marcia. ‘She can stew for a bit longer. Won’t do her any harm.’
Marcia pursed her lips. ‘Maybe not, though, it’s not you fielding her calls, is it? I’ve better things to be doing with my time. Michael wants me scheduling in some radio and television appearances for you. Of course,’ she tutted, ‘some of the ‘trendy lefties’ are refusing to share a platform with you. So much for freedom of speech, huh?’
Graeme rubbed his hands together. ‘All the better for us, Marcia, all the better for us. It makes them look foolish. The public want to, no, they deserve to hear a frank exchange of ideas. The lefties’ obstinacy will only play in our favour, mark my words. Albion First are cresting a wave, and with you and Michael at the helm, I’d expect no less. Now, off you go. I suppose I better speak to Christine before she pops a blood vessel.’
‘You are incorrigible, do you know that?’ She smoothed her skirt down before standing and walking to the door. Pausing, she turned toward Graeme, her expression serious. ‘Has Christine done anything Michael and I need to know about?’
Graeme flashed a tight-lipped smile in her direction. ‘Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about, Marcia. I’m on top of it.’
Watching her leave the room, Graeme shook his head. Marcia was such an intelligent woman, and yet, she put up with all of Michael’s ‘affairs’ like an obedient lamb. He couldn’t understand it. It wasn’t as if Michael was subtle about it. He laughed. Mind you, he could talk. Look at what he was having to deal with at the minute. Maybe he’d have been better off settling for someone acquiescent, like Marcia. He picked up the phone and steeled himself for the conversation he was about to have with his wife.
Chapter 15
13:30 The Abduction Vehicle
The tattoo equipment really needs moving. Can’t risk it being found. Not now, when discretion is so important. No doubt it won’t be long before someone leaks the existence of the tattoos to the press. The box looks innocuous enough, although there’s no guarantee some nosy parker won’t decide to stick their neb in. There’s always someone on the lookout for something to pilfer. Best to move things out of temptation’s way. Shame it’s so heavy.
The newer machines are so much lighter, so much easier to store and move. This one didn’t look quite so heavy in the second-hand shop – but I wasn’t really thinking about weight when I bought it. Never mind. The back of the car will do for now. With the number plates. Just until I find another hiding place. The problem is, it has to be accessible. You never know when it will be needed again. There is no doubt Ul Haq won’t be the last to need tattooing.
Chapter 16
14:00 City Academy, Manchester Road, Bradford
It had been like turning the clock back for Gus, as he drove Alice from The Fort to City Academy. She sat beside him, singing along to Ed Sheeran and Little Mix in her tuneless yet enthusiastic tones, nodding in time to the music as she looked out the window.
‘Don’t you love City Park in the snow?’ she said, when they pulled up at the Jacob’s Well traffic lights. ‘Pity the Broadway complex has obscured the view of the Cathedral.’
He was so caught up in his own misery he’d barely noticed the Broadway construction taking shape. First, the Matchmaker case … and then, the awful turf war with Dolinski and The Old Man. He glanced at it now and saw Alice was right. City Hall, with its tower illuminated by alternating green, pink and blue lights and snowflakes gently falling, was the perfect backdrop to the well-used City Park. With its Mirror Pool and a variety of eating and drinking establishments circling the busy area, it was becoming ever more popular. Although the fountains were inactive at the minute, it was picturesque.
‘You had a chance to visit the Gin Bar in Sunbridge Wells yet?’ he asked on a whim, as the lights turned green and he exited the roundabout onto Manchester Road.
Shaking her head, Alice said, ‘Aah, the tunnels. No, I’ve not had the chance yet.’
‘Right. After this interview, I’ll take you for tapas followed by a gin. You can catch me up on your recovery without Sampson and Compo waiting for me to snap at them.’
She laughed. ‘Yeah, they told me you’ve been a right miserable old sod since last year.’ As the lights changed to green, and he moved on, she continued, ‘You need to lighten up, Gus. This isn’t like you. You need to let it all go. There’s nothing you could have done about Sadia’s dad or about what happened to me.’
Gus sighed. ‘Yeah, I know, I know. You’ve made your point. Numerous times, in fact. Now, can we focus on this interview before I regret not bringing Compo instead of you.’
‘As if, Gus, as if!’
After stating his business over the speaker at the entrance to the school’s car park, he was allowed to pull in. Parking up, the two of them sploshed their way through snow that was turning to slush under their feet and mounted the steps leading to the main entrance. Alerted to their visit, the receptionist signed them in and took their photos for their ID badges; Alice in a ridiculous bobble hat she refused to take off, and Gus scowling into the camera.
The receptionist guided them through corridors filled with pupils’ brightly coloured art work and a series of English grammar posters with statements such as ‘I don’t brother to use a grammar checker every dime.’ When the receptionist knocked on the Head Teacher’s door, a curt ‘enter’ made Gus straighten up and glance at Alice, who had responded in a similar way. He knew Alice’s experience of school had been dire, and she hated visiting these establishments, even now.
Expecting to see a dragon of a woman inside, Gus was surprised to be greeted by a tall woman whose skin was the warm brown of a rain-drenched beach. Her eyes sparkled, and her smile was wide. As they walked in, she stood up. With her hand extended, she rounded her desk and walked towards them. Her clothes were stylish and accentuated her slender figure.
After shaking both their hands, she gestured to a quartet of comfy chairs at the side of the room, saying to the woman who’d brought them up, ‘Coffee for three please, Cath.’ Then, she quirked an eyebrow at Gus and Alice and grimaced. ‘Oops, sorry, should have asked. Coffee okay? Or do you prefer tea? I forget not everyone’s as addicted to the stuff as I am.’
Nodding, Alice mumbled, ‘Coffee’s fine.’
Recognising his colleague’s discomfort, Gus cleared his throat and said, ‘I take it Neha and Shamshad Ul Haq’s uncle has contacted you regarding this meeting, Mrs …?’
As soon as the word ‘Mrs’ left his mouth, Gus could have kicked himself. He knew better than that. Knew better than to use gender specific titles when dealing with the public, unless they requested him to. His instincts told him, before she responded, he’d made a huge mistake.
Taking the time to cross her remarkably long legs, she leaned back in her chair. Seemingly relaxed, her brown eyes fastened on him. Gus blushed under her scrutiny, and the desire to squirm in his chair was almost overpowering. He knew he’d offended her as he waited for her wrath to fall. Placing extra emphasis on the first word, she said, ‘Ms, please … Patricia Copley.’
Alice snorted, and Gus’ cheeks reddened even more. Gus saw Cath smirk as she left the room and felt even more of an idiot. This meeting had got off to a bad start, and he was dependent on Ms Copley’s good will to get a sense of the girls’ family situation. He shrugged
and smiled. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Don’t know where that came from. Can we start again? I’ve got three murders to investigate, and I think Razaul Ul Haq’s daughters may be able to give me some information. Anything you can share would be greatly appreciated.’
Ms Copley nodded once and got down to business, a slight smile playing about her lips. ‘No harm done. Let me fill you in on some of the background of the girls before you meet them.’
Pleased that things had turned onto a more business-like footing, Gus smiled and leaned back to listen. Patricia Copley picked up two slim manila folders from the coffee table that sat between them and handed them to Gus. ‘I’ve copied those records I was at liberty to share with you. I’m sure social services will be only too happy to fill in the blanks.’
She clasped her fingers together, rested her wrists on her knees and began, ‘Neha and Shamshad are extremely clever girls who will do very well. I expect them to be amongst our top A-Level achievers when their results come out in August.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘Of course, that’s assuming their father’s murder doesn’t affect them too adversely.’
She bit her lip and hesitated as if gathering her thoughts. ‘The girls have not had it easy. The break-up of their parents’ marriage, prior to them starting secondary school, made their initial adjustment to life at City Academy … shall we say … difficult? They were withdrawn at times, and then, Shamshad became particularly disruptive, leading Neha to follow suit.’
