by Liz Mistry
It is warm inside the car. Too warm. I open the window to let a quick blast of air in but then I have to shut it again, pronto, before the stench of Paki food gets in. Is it too much to ask they don’t cook their stinking curries in the chip shops? Polluting the environment, the clean Bradford air, that’s what they’ve done over the years. Building their mosques and restaurants. Makes me want to puke. Feel sick at the very thought of the garbage they shovel down their throats. They act all holier than thou, too, as if they, with their Islam and their burkas, have some sort of access to God’s heavenly sanctum.
I was right to think Ul Haq wouldn’t be the last to need tattooing. It’s easy to find them … too easy! Once I’ve chosen them, it’s not rocket science to find out where they go. They thought they’d been discreet, and this one is no different. Getting blow jobs from some crack whore off Thornton Road for a tenner, whilst his wife is laid up, ready to drop. Funny how it is so easy to find them. Funny how it is always the blacks and Pakis. Makes my skin crawl looking at them, watching them in the darkness, hearing them moaning for their cheap thrills, seeing them pervert God’s will. Makes me sick.
This one though, he is special … special and so, so easy to snare. He’ll be the simplest catch yet. The only question is when and, of course, where to dump the body. Would it be better to go along with the stupid journo’s ‘H’ tag and choose the dump site accordingly? Or should I just do my own thing? No, this time, I’ll make a stance. Make sure they all sit up and take notice.
There is time still, though. Time to make a final decision. I lay my head back, resting it on the headrest and wait, blocking out the jabber of Paki voices and the drone of their music and the rotting stench of their existence. After all, patience is a virtue!
Chapter 29
12:30 Hawthorn Drive, Eccleshill
Parked in front of the chippie along from the Weston’s street, Gus stared in amazement at Alice as she stuffed ketchup-covered chips into her mouth – as if they hadn’t, less than an hour previously, witnessed Razaul Ul Haq’s post-mortem. What was it with the woman? Gus could still feel his stomach churning, and he couldn’t shake the images of the tattoo that had been inflicted, somewhat inexpertly, on Ul Haq’s shaven groin. The familiar watering at the back of his throat that preceded the act of throwing up, had him thrusting open the car door and breathing in deep breaths of not so fresh air. The coolness seemed to do the trick, for his nausea waned. Trust Alice to insist on fish and chips. The greasy smell had made his stomach roll, and he was not looking forward to re-entering the car.
The sound of the passenger window whirring down made him turn. Alice, still cheerfully stuffing her face, pushed a bottle of water in his direction. He took it, grateful for the chance to wash away the near sick taste from his mouth. ‘You nearly finished, Al?’
Stuffing her last chip into her mouth, she balled up the wrapper and handed it to him through the window. Tutting, Gus accepted it, his lip curled downwards as he held it at arm’s length and deposited it in the nearby bin. ‘I’m going to walk round to the Weston’s, Al. You drive, but can you keep all the windows open to get rid of that stink?’
Gus thought he heard the word ‘wuss,’ as Alice shimmied over into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Grinning, he chose to ignore it and set off at a brisk pace. Eccleshill had once been a predominantly white area of Bradford, however now it was becoming increasingly culturally diverse. The Westons lived in the posh part, in a small street of newly built houses selling for in the region of three quarters of a million pounds. The building and property development trade must be soaring. The Weston’s house was about halfway down the street and was a five-bedroomed detached with a double garage and, according to Google maps, had sizeable gardens to the front and the rear. The front garden was pristine with flowerbeds surrounding an immaculate, if wet lawn. Gus suspected they employed a gardener to keep it so. He couldn’t imagine Christine Weston getting her hands dirty, and he guessed at this point in his career, Graeme Weston was a hands-off kind of guy. The sort who issued orders to his minions and expected everyone else to jump. Gus had been surprised when he’d phoned Weston on his mobile and was told to come to their home address rather than his works one in Bingley.
As he drew parallel to the house, Alice got out of the car and met him on the pavement before they both walked up the terracotta tiled path to the front door. The previous evening, Gus hadn’t paid a lot of attention when he’d rung the bell, but today, the metallic tones of ‘Rule, Britannia!’ drifted through the door. Gus raised an eyebrow. How predictable!
The door opened, and there stood Christine Weston, looking a damn sight more groomed than she had the previous day. Gus noticed the dark shadows beneath her eyes and the remains of the swelling on her bruised cheek. Averting her eyes, she clutched the edge of the door, and stammering over her words, she invited them in. She led them through to the same room they were in yesterday, and apart from the absence of wine bottles on the coffee table, it appeared much as it had done then. Graeme Weston, dressed in horse riding gear sat, legs crossed, on one of the armchairs. The TV was tuned to Loose Woman, but on their entry, Weston switched it off. Jacob was curled up on the sofa in a grey faux fur blanket. He was pale and appeared feverish.
Christine stood by the door, glancing alternately between her son and husband. Licking her lips, she said, ‘Can I get you something to drink?’
Before Gus or Alice could reply, Weston interrupted, ‘Don’t be stupid, woman, this isn’t a social call. Why would we entertain them? They’re public servants after all, paid for by our taxes.’
The emphasis on the word ‘servants’ combined with the sneering look he sent Gus showed clearly his opinion of him. Gus put his hands in his pockets to hide the way he’d clenched his fists, and plastering an insincere smile on his face, he moved over and, without being asked, settled himself into the chair opposite Weston. He was pleased to see Weston’s mouth tighten, and responded by widening his smile. He then turned to Christine and said, ‘Could you get a chair for my colleague please, Christine? We wouldn’t want to disturb young Jacob here.’
Christine, bursting into a flurry of activity, ran across the room returning with a high-backed dining chair for Alice, who accepted the chair with polite thanks and a warm smile.
Turning to Weston, Gus said, ‘Wouldn’t have had you down for a horse lover.’
Mouth curling, Weston eyed Gus as if he didn’t really care what the other man’s thoughts were. Then, capitulating, he said, ‘Not that it’s any business of yours, my grandparents owned a stable over Haworth way. Michael was their neighbour. When they died, they left me one of their horses, and Michael is good enough to let it bunk up with his now.’
He sniffed. ‘We’re taking them for a run across Shipley Glen. That is, if you get a bloody move on, of course.’
Christine settled herself in the corner of the couch. After tucking the cover around her son, she ran her hand over his forehead and grimaced. With a sigh, she placed the back of her fingers on his cheek. When he jerked his head, she smiled and removed them.
Thinking the boy was a bit old to be squashed into a couch downstairs, Gus turned back to Weston. ‘Is Jacob poorly?’
From the corner of his eye, he registered Christine flinched and was further intrigued when Weston barked at him, ‘The boy’s medical history is of no concern to you. It’s irrelevant to your investigation, and I’ll thank you to leave him out of it.’
Wow! That was a bit of an overreaction. Even Jacob had stirred at his father’s tone. Inclining his head, Gus watched Christine Weston. She held her hands in her lap, her fingers so tightly clenched, they were white. She kept sending surreptitious glances in her husband’s direction, and a small tic at the side of her eye told Gus how agitated she was. Maintaining a level tone, he said, ‘I wonder why you’re so aggressive about what was a very simple solicitous question regarding the welfare of your son, Graeme.’
The other man tensed, and Gus knew he�
��d hit a raw nerve.
‘Jacob’s welfare is of no concern to the likes of you … and you can address me as Mr Weston.’
Knowing Weston had barely managed to prevent himself from adding the word ‘boy’ to the end of his sentence and realising exactly how rattled the older man was, Gus leaned back and crossed his legs. He was beginning to enjoy himself. Maintaining a mild tone, he asked, ‘When you say the ‘likes of you,’ are you referring to me as a British police officer or me as a black man?’
The colour that suffused Weston’s face was that of an aged Burgundy wine, and Gus watched with amusement as it darkened to a Merlot as he struggled to come up with a response. ‘Take it how you like,’ he said at last, almost spitting the words at Gus. He then turned to his wife. ‘Take the boy upstairs, Christine. Now!’
Christine jumped to her feet and shook her sons shoulder, gently rousing him. The boy was pale, and if Christine hadn’t inserted her arm under his armpits, Gus was sure Jacob would have fallen. As he left the room, each step seemed to drain the boy even more. A flash of rage surged through Gus, as Weston leaned back and watched his wife struggle with their son. What sort of man would behave like that? Fair enough, he was angry with his wife … who wouldn’t be? His own experience made it easy to imagine how Weston felt; however, to allow his wife to struggle on like that was plain nasty. Seemed like this politician didn’t necessarily possess the manners to go with his aspirations.
Barely concealing his emotions, Gus said, ‘Do you have any tattoos, Mr Weston?’
Clearly put off balance by the question, Weston gawped, ‘What?’
Enunciating each word with care, Gus repeated the question.
Weston frowned. ‘Well, yes, I do, although I don’t see the relevance.’ Then, as if a light had gone on, he nodded his head and laughed. ‘Oh, you’re asking because of that lunatic who tattooed Razaul Ul Haq. Saw it on the news. Well, I hate to tell you, despite having tattoos, I’ve never applied any. You need an expert for that.’
Gus continued to smile. ‘Yes, I know that. I merely wondered if you had a tattoo like his one.’ He flung a close-up photograph of the swastika applied to Razaul Ul Haq onto the table. It had been taken at such an angle the area of the body it was applied to was unclear.
Weston gave the photo a cursory glance and shook his head.
Christine Weston, who’d returned from escorting her son upstairs, gave an audible gasp and averted her eyes at once. Covering her mouth with trembling fingers, tears sprung to her eyes. Gus was sorry he’d had to inflict this pain on her in order to provoke a response from her husband.
Alice leaned over, and resting her hand on Christine’s arm, she squeezed. Christine exhaled and then eyed the photo again. Gus studied Weston, who was watching the byplay with a smirk on his face. He tapped the photo. ‘Well?’
Weston screwed up his mouth and rolled his eyes. ‘No, I don’t.’
Christine gasped again, and Gus swung his gaze to her. ‘Do you disagree with your husband?’
For a moment, Christine’s eyes drifted towards her husband, and Gus was certain she was going to denounce him. Then, she glanced away shaking her head. ‘No, he hasn’t.’
Gus stood up and walked out of the room, Alice following.
Weston stood and called after him, ‘Is that it then? Are you done with us?’
Gus waited until he reached the front door before responding, ‘Not by a long chalk, Graeme. Enjoy your ride.’
Chapter 30
13:30 Hawthorn Drive, Eccleshill
Graeme Weston paced up and down in front of the fireplace whilst Christine cowered on the sofa. She was distraught. She could hardly believe Razaul was dead. How could he be? She’d only been with him on Sunday night. During the last two days, she’d lost her lover, and now, it seemed, she was in danger of losing both her husband and her son.
Graeme knelt in front of her and clasped her hands in his. ‘You understand what’s at stake, Christine, don’t you?’
Feeling numb, she nodded. What else could she do? Graeme smiled and patted her hand. ‘That’s my girl. All we need to do is keep quiet, and make sure that nobody finds out about the lad.’ He stood up and slid onto the sofa next to her and put his arm around her. ‘We’ve kept it on the QT all this time, we can manage a few more years. At least until I’m elected, yeah?’
Tired of the lies and deceit, but too exhausted to protest, Christine nodded again. Smiling, he pulled her closer and began nuzzling her hair. The insistent pressure of his erection pushed hard against her thigh, and when he thrust his tongue into her mouth and his hand up her skirt, she thought she would vomit.
Chapter 31
14:40 The Fort
Sampson felt like he was drowning in a never-ending pile of paperwork. He was going stir crazy and had even snapped at Compo twice in the past hour for singing ‘People are Strange’ by The Doors. It wasn’t like him. Normally, he’d join in, even if he didn’t know the words, which was the case, in this instance. He glanced over at Compo, who every so often allowed a few words to escape his lips before, seemingly conscious of upsetting his colleague, clamped his mouth shut and resorted to miming the lyrics instead. Sampson had never been able to fathom why Compo put one or sometimes two tracks on repeat and listened solely to them for hours on end. It would drive him crazy, but Compo said he chose the track that fitted the job in hand and stuck with it until the task was complete. Whatever task matched the ‘People are Strange’ song was taking him a substantial amount of time.
Sampson grinned. It was surprising Compo didn’t use that track every week bearing in mind the sort of people they came into contact with. He rummaged in the bottom of his drawer, found what he was looking for, and laid his findings on the desk in front of Compo. Compo stilled. A moment later, he looked up at Sampson, his round face breaking into a grin, as he grabbed the Mars Bar and ripped the wrapper off. ‘Thanks, Sampson. Was nearly dying without my sugar rush.’
Sampson laid a hand on Compo’s shoulder and smothered his smile, aware Compo had, only a few minutes earlier, devoured a bag of crisps and a Creme Egg. Having had enough of computer work, Sampson took a note of Asim Farooq and Manish Parmar’s friends’ addresses and was about to head out, when the door opened, and a head poked around.
‘DI Gus McGuire?’
‘He’s not in. Can I help?’ asked Sampson, as the young man entered the room. To Sampson, he seemed about fifteen, with barely a shadow of a moustache on his baby-soft face. He was one of those lads who were short but burly. He slouched into the room, his arms bent at the elbows and grinned. His eyes sparked with good humour, and Sampson was instantly drawn to his understated charm.
Flashing a set of perfect, white teeth, the lad held out his hand. ‘I’m Talvinder Bhandir. People call me Taffy.’
Sampson shook his hand. ‘You don’t sound Welsh’
‘Nah, I’m not. I’m Yorkshire,’ said Taffy, his tone serious, the slight frown on his forehead telling Sampson he’d missed the joke.
‘Yeah,’ said Sampson, drawing out the word, ‘I got that. I was joking. Welsh folk are sometimes called Taffy.’
The frown disappeared. ‘Oh, well, it’s my nickname, ‘stead of Talvinder, like.’
Sampson grinned. All Taffy needed to do was to wipe his sleeve over his nose and he’d look exactly like one of Sampson’s many nephews. Introductions over, Sampson saw Taffy look at the crime boards with rather more interest than he was comfortable with. Wary of confidentiality, he asked, ‘Was DI McGuire expecting you?’
‘Oh, yeah, I’m the new DC. First day on the job. Can’t wait to get cracking, like. Done six months as a PC after my degree and got fast-tracked here. Shall I get doing summat?’
Remembering Gus had told him to expect a DC, Sampson nodded. He’d expected someone a bit older. Bearing in mind Alice had thought he looked young when he’d first joined the team, he decided to give the lad the benefit of the doubt. At least he seemed eager and had no airs and graces like some of the fast
-tracked DCs he’d come across. It was unfortunate he’d missed the briefing, but Sampson reckoned he could fill him in on their way to interview the victims’ friends. He checked Taffy’s warrant card and phoned through to DCI Nancy Chalmers for the go-ahead before leaving the incident room in Compo’s capable, if extremely sticky, hands.
The first of Asim Farooq’s friends available to chat was a friend from university who worked at the Yorkshire Building Society in Bradford and could spare them a few minutes. Sharon Kelly was tall, with flaming red hair and a wide smile. She wore a whopping engagement ring and mentioned her fiancé at least five times during their conversation. Turned out, she’d known Asim’s wife more than she’d known him. Her impression was he was a nice guy, despite the current rumours. Asim had met her friend Humairah at university, and they’d dated throughout their time there. When pushed to expand on the rumours, she shrugged looking embarrassed, and in the end, all she would commit to was the news reports after his death backed up some of the rumours from their time at university. Not, she hastened to add, that she could confirm anything.
Sampson came away feeling as if his questions had only served to fuel the already over-worked gossip mills. With Taffy in tow, he persevered, and by the end of the afternoon, had managed to pinpoint two men who admitted to having sex with Asim Farooq and one woman who told him she knew Manish Parmar was into S&M in a big way, but purely heterosexual. Sampson got the impression she was his dominatrix, and that’s why she was saved in his phone under the name Dom.
‘What do you make of all this, Taffy?’ he asked. He’d soon realised although he considered Taffy to be younger than himself, they were actually the same age. The only difference was Sampson had joined the police straight from school, and Taffy had gone to university to study criminology first.
