by Liz Mistry
‘I didn’t mean Christine Weston’s number, Gus.’
Leaving Gus speechless and ever so slightly embarrassed, she flounced out of the restaurant. The fact was, he had found Patti Copley attractive … and also a bit scary. Alice was the last person he’d confide that to. He’d never hear the end of it. Besides which, it was irrelevant; he wasn’t going to see her again. No, he wasn’t going to go there. It was far too soon after Sadia, and judging by the way he felt right now, that wasn’t going to change anytime soon!
Chapter 21
16:15 Thornbury
Neha Ul Haq had tried her best to hold it together all day. Ever since the police had arrived at the school, she’d been on edge. She was sure Shamshad suspected something was wrong, despite her consistent denials, and in the end, Sham had had no option but to back off.
Now, locked away in the women’s toilets in the small mosque that served the Bangladeshi community in Bradford Three, she peeled back the sleeves of her dress, wincing as the fabric pulled against the bloodied scratches on her arms. Her eyes filled with tears. She plonked herself on the closed toilet, cradling each of her sore arms in the opposite hand and shut her eyes. She wasn’t using a razor anymore and hadn’t done so for ages. However, it seemed her fingernails could do nearly as much damage. Why, oh why, couldn’t she refrain from this self-flagellation?
She wasn’t a Shia Muslim, nor was she male, so she knew she had no business doing this. Her mum had always mocked the Shias in Bangladesh who still practised self- flagellation to mark the Ashura commemoration of Husayn ibn Ali’s death. That was rich, really, because Neha knew there was more than one way to self-flagellate, and her mum had it down to a fine art. On a practical level, Neha knew she did it because she felt out of control and unable to express her emotions; that didn’t help her, though. Sighing, she stood and moved over to the sink, turning the tap on. Using a damp paper towel, she wiped away the clots of dried blood, making her arms sting.
Outside the door, she heard the chatter of the primary school girls who’d arrived for mosque school. In a few minutes, she’d have to go out and settle them down, clear their heads of everything except their purpose in coming to mosque – to be better Muslims by memorising their Sparas. Today, this was the last thing she wanted to do. Normally, this connection to the children through her faith made her stronger, however, the burden of deceit she carried made her feel unworthy of the honour bestowed upon her by the Imam. She was not pure in mind or spirit, so how could she be a role model for these girls? How could she lead them by example in the way of Allah, when she, herself, was not without sin?
Chapter 22
17:30 Hawthorn Drive, Eccleshill
When she opened the door, Gus saw straight away that Christine Weston did indeed have a bruise on her cheekbone underneath her eye. He also saw she was well on her way to being very drunk. He showed his warrant card and introduced himself and Alice. Without waiting for a proper invite, he pushed the door open, forcing her to take a backward step.
In a pleasant voice, he said, ‘Thanks very much for inviting us in, Mrs Weston.’
Not allowing her to gain her equilibrium, he walked through the hallway to the open living room door and stepped through, waiting for her to follow. On a large table in the corner of the room, a teenage boy, with dark hair and brooding eyes, sat with a pile of books open before him. Gus wasn’t an expert at judging children’s ages, but he thought this boy was around thirteen years old.
He smiled at him and said, ‘Can you take your homework up to your room? We need to talk to your mum for a minute or two.’
The boy gave an exaggerated sigh and, stretching out the process, piled his books one on top of the other, before lifting the entire pile and walking towards the door. Meanwhile, his mother stood in silence, wringing her hands in front of her. Gus was unsure whether it was because of the alcohol or whether she was indecisive by nature.
As the boy reached the door, he turned to Gus and, in a voice full of scorn, said, ‘You’ll be lucky to get any sense out of her, ‘cos she’s pissed.’ He hesitated, and then, lip curled in derision, he added, ‘As usual … Good luck!’
His tone, or perhaps his words, seemed to penetrate his mother’s fugue state, and she shook her head, her voice slurred. ‘Stop it, Jacob. You know fine and well I rarely drink.’
The boy snorted and turned to Gus. ‘See what I mean? She can’t even talk properly, and she was supposed to be dropping me at the cinema. Selfish cow!’
Christine Weston blinked and took a wobbling step towards her son. Placing her hand on his arm, she said, ‘Stop it, Jacob! Stop it right now! It’s always me who ferries you everywhere, isn’t it? Anyway, neither of us want to go out again today. Not after what your dad’s done. You said so yourself when you came home from school. You told me you’d had an awful day. That your friends aren’t speaking to you.’ She shook him slightly. ‘Well, that makes two of us … and it’s all your father’s fault, so stop taking it out on me!’
Jacob jerked his arm away and, with a tell-tale glisten in his eyes, ran out of the room. His feet thudded as he ran upstairs, and seconds later, they heard the slam of a door followed by subdued sobs.
Christine Weston seemed to be in two minds whether to go after her son or stay and deal with the police, so Gus took the decision from her by settling himself on one of the huge armchairs near the fireplace. Alice followed suit, leaving Mrs Weston no option except to cast a final glance upstairs before settling opposite them on the sofa, a glass coffee table between them.
Now that he had the chance to study her without Jacob to distract him, Gus saw her clothing was dishevelled, as if she’d been sprawled on the sofa for most of the day. Indeed, the sofa cushions were moulded into a body shape. From the black mascara streaks grazing her face, she’d clearly been crying. Her swollen eyelids and puffy cheeks suggested she’d been doing so for most of the afternoon. Gus glanced around the room. On top of the coffee table was one empty and one half-empty wine bottle, a glass with presumably wine dregs in the bottom and an A4 brown envelope.
In a cabinet that stood along the back wall were a series of family photos of Christine with her husband and son. Gus squinted at them, trying to see any trace of the suave, sophisticated woman from the photos in the unkempt heap that sat opposite him. It was hard, but he knew from the Head Teacher’s earlier description, Christine had impeccable taste and was always immaculately turned out with full make-up and well-coiffed hair. What a difference a few hours can make.
In the largest photo, Jacob looked to be about a year younger. Despite his tanned skin, he carried the look of a boy recovering from an illness. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes carried dark shadows beneath them. Gus imagined the arm Christine stretched around him was a protective one, not merely a pose struck for the photo. Graeme Weston, for Gus assumed that’s who the man was, stood erect, with his portly belly bulging over his trousers. Gus imagined when he moved, he’d have the same swagger many small, yet cocky men carried. That almost rolling gait that seemed to inflate the space they occupied, tricking people into thinking them larger and more important than they actually were.
As he watched, Christine leaned forward and lifted the bottle. Before she could pour any into the glass, Gus placed his hand over the top. ‘You’ve had enough, Mrs Weston. I need you to focus, for I have some bad news for you.’
He turned to Alice and handed her the glass and the wine bottle he’d extricated from Mrs Weston’s unprotesting hand. ‘Make some coffee, Al. I know I could do with some, and Mrs Weston certainly needs it.’
Christine’s head jerked up, and for a split second, her glazed expression vanished, replaced by a look of sheer loathing. ‘You’re not going to tell me my husband’s gone and got himself arrested, are you? Because, if that’s why you’re here, you’re at the wrong house, for I couldn’t care less. He can rot in jail, as far as I’m concerned.’
Alice and Gus exchanged a startled glance, and then, Alice made her wa
y to the kitchen, leaving Gus to explore Mrs Weston’s words. Gus hesitated, watching as she hung her head, refusing to meet his gaze, almost as if she were ashamed of her words. Drawing her sleeve across her wet eyes, she sniffed. ‘What is it? Has Graeme got himself into some sort of trouble?’
Then, as if a sudden thought had sprung into her mind, she placed a trembling hand over her mouth, and eyes wide, she whispered, ‘He’s not been attacked, has he?’
Gus shook his head. ‘As far as I’m aware, Christine, can I call you Christine?’ When she nodded, he continued, ‘As far as I know, your husband is fine, although I am interested to know what sort of trouble you think he may have gotten himself into.’
Shaking her head, Christine studied her hands.
Gus tried again. ‘Did you think that maybe the statement he made at City Hall last night or the article in the newspapers this morning may have gotten him into some sort of trouble?’
Christine shook her head. When she spoke, it was in the precise tones of someone who knew they were drunk, but thought no-one else would notice. ‘It’s a free country, isn’t it? He’s as entitled to stand as anyone else. At least my husband isn’t a dirty paedophile, like the last one was.’
Returning to the living room carrying a tray with three mugs of coffee, milk and sugar on it, Alice said in a quiet voice, ‘No, he’s a dirty racist with a hateful agenda.’
‘Alice!’ Gus’ voice was sharp, but before he could continue, Christine laughed and inclined her head to Alice.
‘Of course, you’re perfectly right, DC …?’ She waved her hand as if Alice’s name and rank were unimportant. ‘My husband is a racist, and within these four walls, I can admit I agree with you. His party’s policies are hateful, and I, for one, will not be voting for him. But he is my husband and, more importantly, the father of my son.’ She tried to push herself to her feet and failed. Seemingly resigning herself to remain seated, she continued, ‘If you have something to tell me about my husband, please spit it out.’
‘Earlier, you said your husband could ‘rot in jail.’ What might he have done that would warrant him being in jail?’
Alice handed a mug of well-sugared black coffee to her and then sat down. Christine sipped the scalding liquid, grimacing as it burned her lips. Setting the mug back down on the table, she sighed and rubbed her hair back from her eyes. ‘I know the Albion First supporters can sometimes go off the rails a bit. Graeme never does. He’s the political face of the party,’ she snorted. ‘Christ, he practises that stupid smile of his in front of the bedroom mirror. If he’s got caught up in something, I’m quite sure he’s innocent. He wouldn’t jeopardise his public image, if he could help it. However, I’m the last person you should be speaking to. The person you need to talk to is his ‘publicity guru,’ Michael Hogg.’
Gus lifted his coffee and took a sip. ‘Actually, Christine, this has nothing at all to do with your husband. This is about Razaul Ul Haq.’
Christine, in the process of lifting her coffee to her lips, jolted and dropped her drink, spilling it all over the white rug. Alice jumped to her feet, grabbed tissues from a box under the coffee table and tried, with little success, to mop up the dark liquid. Christine remained seated, her eyes fixed on the ever-expanding stain. Then, as if someone had remotely activated her ‘on’ switch, she jumped up, ran to the kitchen and returned moments later with a cloth. Sinking to her knees beside Alice, she frantically rubbed at the stain.
A sudden flash of his sister Katie, playing Lady Macbeth in a school play, jumped into Gus’ mind: ‘Out, damn’d spot, out, I say!’
He kneeled beside her and took the cloth from her unresisting hands and handed it to Alice. Christine raised her fingers to her temple and released a long sigh as if trying to focus her blurred mind. With no warning, she turned and fell against him, weeping against his chest. With little option, Gus put his arm around her, and with a glance at Alice, he held her until she was calm. At last, her sobs reduced to the occasional hiccup, he helped her to her feet and guided her back to her spot on the sofa, leaving Alice to finish cleaning the mark.
‘You know Razaul Ul Haq?’ he asked, his tone gentle.
With a deep breath, Christine nodded. ‘Yes, I know him. Has Graeme gone and done something stupid?’ As she spoke, she shook her head from side to side. ‘No, he wouldn’t. Not Graeme. He wouldn’t do anything that would jeopardise his chance at election.’ She frowned and, seeming almost sober now, said, ‘Please tell me what’s happened?’
‘So, you do know Razaul Ul Haq?’
She gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Gus continued, ‘What exactly was his relationship to you?’
Whimpering like a wounded puppy, Christine said, ‘He’s my lover. He’s my lover, and Graeme found out. He told me last night.’
Gus glanced at Alice who’d sat next to Christine and put her arm around her to comfort her. ‘Razaul Ul Haq is your lover?’
Christine nodded, and he continued, ‘When did you last see Mr Ul Haq?’
Sniffing, Christine pulled away from Alice and turned to Gus. ‘I saw him yesterday. We met up. I left him around eight o’clock last night. Is he alright?’
Gus sighed. He hated this part the most. ‘I’m really sorry to tell you, Christine. Early this morning, Razaul was found murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ She frowned, her expression full of disbelief. Then, her hands fluttered up to her neck before falling back onto her lap. ‘Murdered,’ she said again.
Watching the woman’s reactions with interest, Gus nodded. Christine Weston was either a very accomplished actress, or she was totally thrown by his revelation.
‘No! No! That’s impossible. I was with him only last night. Graeme wouldn’t do this. He just wouldn’t!’
As she spoke, the front door opened, and Graeme Weston walked in. ‘What wouldn’t Graeme do?’
Chapter 23
18:30 The Delius, Leeds Road
Perched on a bar stool, Shahid Khan scowled as, through the mirrored panel above the optics, he watched the expanding group of people gather behind him, high-fiving Imti and chattering in their stupid, chavvy accents. Sensing Serafina was watching him, he glanced up in time to catch her averting her gaze. She was always so nervous of him, and since everything that had happened before Christmas, Shahid was too exhausted, both emotionally and physically, to make any effort with the girl. It wasn’t that he disliked her. She was okay, he supposed. More importantly, Imti loved her, so that should be enough for him. She flicked her eyes back in his direction, her smile shy. Shahid shrugged his shoulders and made a half- hearted attempt to smile back. She made his brother happy, so he should make the effort.
Instead of turning his attention back to his laptop, where he was attempting to bring some sort of order to The Delius accounts, he let his gaze drift back up to the mirrored panel. He didn’t mind Imti hosting these meetings here. He’d rather he was here than somewhere he couldn’t keep an eye on the proceedings. He was being over-protective, but he’d lost a lot in the past year … he was entitled to be over-protective. Imti had been blunt in his accusations of his ‘nannying.’ Tough luck. He was Shahid’s only living relative, and he wasn’t going to let a repeat of last year happen. No bloody way.
Aware his brother cut him some slack because of what had happened to Trixie, Shahid suspected he was beginning to get annoyed. He sighed; he only wanted to protect him, and what with this bloody Weston character putting himself forward for Albion First slap bang in the middle of Bradford, Shahid could sense the natives were restless. He remembered what it was like to be young and impulsive, and he had a bad feeling. He knew the kids weren’t thugs. Sometimes, though, you didn’t need to be a thug to get caught in the crossfire. Imti and his mates just wanted to exercise their right to express their youthful outrage at a fascist candidate standing in inner city Bradford. He got that. Fuck, he was pissed off too. The city was on edge, and tempers were frayed. Then, there were the three Asian men who’d been murdered. Who knew what
that was all about? He snorted, even the police probably didn’t know. Anyway, it all combined to promote a feeling of fragility and an aura of fear.
Sighing, he hit ‘save’ on the laptop and swivelled around on his seat. The door opened, and two girls he’d never seen before walked in. His first impression was they made unlikely friends. One wore a hijab and had the demeanour of a mouse. The other was a goth with all the swagger of the kids that came to his Thursday Teens’ Night. When she’d slipped off her jacket, he was sure he’d seen a tattoo on her arm. He smiled. She reminded him a little of himself: from a Muslim family, but determined to make a mark on the world as his own person. Yeah, and that had worked out so well!
The girls moved nearer, and as Imti moved towards them, they both smiled. Shit! They’re bloody twins. Well, who’d have thought it? Bet the goth one drove their parents wild. He hadn’t seen either of them around the area, and something about their features told Shahid they were probably Bangladeshi. There weren’t too many Bangladeshis in Thornbury, and they tended to stick to their own kind, so it wasn’t surprising he hadn’t seen them before. He wondered how Imti knew them, when Serafina let out one of those girlish squeals that so annoyed him. She rushed over and flung her arms round the goth, before turning, and more gently, hugged the other twin.
Shahid watched as the girl with the hijab tugged on her sister’s arm and whispered something he couldn’t hear above the din from the other kids. He suspected, from the anxious glances she was sending round the room, she wasn’t comfortable being in a place that sold alcohol. Curious, he moved closer, pretending to adjust beer mats on the nearby tables. She was speaking in Bangla to her sister, and he smiled when the sister replied in English. That was something he had frequently done with his stepmother. It was rebellion, pure and simple.
‘Neha, you need to calm down,’ said goth girl. ‘You are doing nothing haram in being here. You’re not drinking alcohol, are you?’
