by Liz Mistry
The woman repeated her previous word, ‘Yes,’ but made no move to open the door.
Hiding his annoyance, Gus smiled, keeping his voice pleasant, ‘And you are …?’ which prompted a different response.
‘None of your business.’
Anticipating she was about to close the door on them, Gus inserted his foot in the gap, and despite the pain of her squashing the door against it, he maintained a neutral expression. ‘We are police officers, Mrs Hogg. I presume that’s who you are, anyway. We have come to speak to your husband. We’ve shown you the necessary ID and would be grateful if you would inform your husband we’re here.’
Gus kept his eyes on her face, refusing to flinch, even when she exerted a final pressure on the door, squashing his foot even more. With a derisive glance, she relented and eased the door open, and in silence, she removed the chain. At last, she opened it wide. Stepping away from them, as if reluctant to share the cramped space with them, she pointed to the matt on the floor. ‘Wipe your mucky feet.’
Taffy and Gus did as she asked, and when they’d done so, she walked down the hallway, leaving them to follow. At the end, they entered a room which proved to be the kitchen. Once inside, Mrs Hogg moved over to the table and stood behind her husband who sat reading the Bradford Chronicle article about Graeme Weston that was on the front page of today’s edition. Michael Hogg, bald and burly, glanced at them, and then, with deliberate slowness, shook the paper at arm’s length before folding it in half and placing it on the table in front of him. He then lifted his thick, tattooed arms over his chest and tucked his hands into the opposite armpit before speaking. ‘In the whole of the Bradford, police couldn’t they find two British officers to come here?’
Refusing to be baited, Gus smiled and inclined his head, hoping the pulse throbbing at Taffy’s temple wasn’t a sign that the lad was about to lose it. ‘Both DC Bhandir and myself are British, Mr Hogg, as I think you well know, because, if we weren’t, we wouldn’t be in the British police now, would we? I suspect that what you’re trying to ascertain is why two non-white officers are knocking on your door, am I right?’
Hogg released a bellow of laughter and flexed his biceps making his swastika tattoo dance as if taunting them. ‘Well, you’ve got spirit, I suppose. Now, let’s get right to it. The sooner this is done, the sooner you can leave, and I can get the air freshener out.’
Clenching his fists inside his pocket, Gus smiled. In his mind’s eye, he imagined slamming his fist into Michael Hogg’s face. The resultant sore knuckles would be worth it, but he wouldn’t give Hogg the satisfaction. Gus was better than that. From the corner of his eye, he saw Taffy extract his notebook from his pocket and flip it open. He hoped he hadn’t overestimated the lad’s ability to hold it together in the face of this sort of provocation. Hogg was an arse. A sudden memory of his dad years ago calling a racist colleague a ‘bawbag’ to his face made Gus’ lips twitch.
‘Something funny, boy?’ said Hogg, eyes narrowed, his face reddening almost as if he could see Gus’ thoughts.
Gus curled his lip. ‘Was thinking how good it would be to get out into the fresh air myself. Now, can we start?’
Thrusting his chest out, Hogg glared at him. ‘This about that Paki, Razaul Ul Haq, is it? Graeme told me you lot might turn up here asking about him. What do you want to know?’
Keeping his tone neutral, he led Michael Hogg through a list of questions that confirmed Graeme Weston’s alibi for the time of Razaul’s abduction. Taffy scribbled frenetically in his notebook, with only the occasional derisive glance at Michael Hogg in response to some racist comment or other.
Finishing up, Gus said, ‘I have a witness who asserts someone matching your description threw the Molotov cocktail that caused the death of one boy and injured many more in Bradford today. Can you confirm your whereabouts during the protest in City Park this afternoon?’
Hogg laughed, his eyes crinkling in amusement. ‘Good luck proving that one. Yeah, I was there. In case you didn’t know, I’m Graeme Weston’s campaign manager. We were both there. We’d planned to try to reason with the protestors, but then, that bomb went off, and after Graeme fulfilled his public duty by speaking to the press, I made sure he was escorted to safety. That’s my job. Countless people will vouch for me.’ He snorted. ‘All of them will tell you I was at Graeme’s side the entire time on the balcony over the café. I suspect there will be plenty of video footage to corroborate that.’
Gus nodded. ‘And you’ve got nothing to add about either the bombing this afternoon or about the murders of three young Asian men who were forcibly violated with tattoos very similar to the one you have on your arm.’
Hogg snorted. ‘If that’s all you’ve got, good luck. You’d be surprised how many people in Bradford and indeed, the UK, share my views about your sort. A lot of them will have similar tattoos. Don’t make them murderers, though, does it?’
‘No,’ said Gus, ‘Just arseholes!’ And with Taffy struggling to hide his smirk, he turned on his heel and walked towards the door. Mrs Hogg followed on their heels, as if making sure they didn’t steal anything on their way out. Before he opened the door, he turned to face her, aware her husband stood in the kitchen doorway at the end of the corridor. ‘Were you in City Park today, Mrs Hogg?’
Stretching past Gus, she opened the door, swinging it wide open, before standing back to let them pass. ‘Yes, I was there with my husband and Graeme.’
Gus nodded but didn’t move. Instead, he stepped closer to her. ‘Do you share your husband’s political views?’
She tensed and stepped back from Gus, her mouth mangled in a look of distaste. ‘Of course I share my husband’s political views. I work for Graeme Weston, and as far as I’m concerned, Bradford would be a far superior place without immigrants and scroungers.’
‘Well, that’s good to know, Mrs Hogg.’ He glanced back along the hallway and nodded. ‘Mr Hogg.’ He walked outside, where the sudden blast of cold air had never been more welcome.
Chapter 41
21:55 Bradford Royal Infirmary
Shamshad was sweating like the proverbial pig. Her uncle had dropped her at BRI when she got the phone call about her sister. He had stayed with her for a while, but he’d needed to get back to her auntie and the babies. To be honest, she was glad he’d gone, leaving her on her own to think. Sometimes, she felt so much older than her seventeen years, and sometimes, like now, she was ill-equipped to deal with everything life threw at her.
She’d seen the looks they’d given her when she came in demanding to see her sister. Now, looking at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she could understand why. Her hair was mussed, her face covered in small scratches from the explosion earlier, and she hadn’t had a chance to remove her make-up, so there were long streaks of mascara stretching from her eyes down to her chin. She was a mess, and she felt exactly how she looked. Reaching over, she grabbed one of the coarse green paper towels and dampened it before scrubbing her cheeks, ignoring the sting as she reopened the fragile glass cuts on her face.
Neha had still been unconscious when she’d arrived, her face pale against her black hair. The contrast was doubly startling to Shamshad, because she rarely saw her sister without her hijab. Beneath blue-veined lids, Neha’s eyes were in perpetual motion, tormented by who knew what. A drip stand stood like a solitary guard by her bedside. Its clear liquid making its way into Neha’s dehydrated body. Both her arms were bandaged from the wrists to the elbows. The nurse who’d spoken to Shamshad had explained that some of her sister’s wounds had become infected and needed urgent treatment. They’d asked her if she knew her sister self-harmed.
Dazed and confused, Shamshad had nodded, saying in a helpless whimper, ‘But she’d stopped. She told me she’d stopped.’
The nurse had smiled and patted her arm. Then, she’d gone, leaving her alone looking at her sister in her washed-out hospital gown, her skinny arms jutting out, all bone and veins, from jagged shoulders. She hadn’t known
what to do. When the nurse returned, minutes later, with a cup of sugary tea, Shamshad had taken it, grateful for the warmth that suffused her freezing fingers.
The nurse sat beside Shamshad and explained about Neha’s injuries and what they could do for her. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or shocked or even angry that her sister hadn’t used a razor to slash her skin this time. Was it any better she’d used her own fingernails? That she’d been so upset and tortured she’d clawed her skin so much it had become infected? She’d been told it wasn’t only her sister’s forearms but also her thighs.
God, Neha, couldn’t you just have fucking confided in me? I didn’t know you were drowning. Didn’t know you were in such pain.
Neha had been wearing six layers of clothes under her dress. The nurse had shown her. They were piled up in the small cabinet next to her bed. The tools of her deceit. A classic tactic to avoid being questioned about her weight loss. Shamshad knew that. They’d been through it all before, and Neha had got better. She’d helped her get better.
Sham lifted her eyes to the mirror, and for a split second, she wanted to smash her fist through it. That’s when she knew she needed help. Someone she could trust to sit with her, before all the professionals came and told her they’d need to take her sister away from her again. She took her phone from her jacket and dialled.
Chapter 42
22:15 The Delius
The Delius was almost empty, which wasn’t unusual for a Tuesday night. Shahid, however, made it policy to remain open, regardless of how many punters graced his bar with their presence. Tonight, only a couple sitting in one of the booths and a few lads playing pool in the back room were present. Fluted, easy listening music played at a low volume. This gave the couple in the booth a semblance of privacy for the low-level argument their tense bodies and flashing eyes told Shahid they were having. Turning his gaze back to his brother, he nodded and continued to dry the few glasses he’d just washed.
‘Look, I’m telling you, Shahid,’ said Imti, his face serious, ‘it wasn’t one of our lot who threw the bottle. I saw it with my own eyes, and I’ve told Gus too. It was a deliberate move to sabotage our peaceful protest. It was one of Weston’s crew, I reckon. I mean, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? Who else could it have been?’
Imti turned to Serafina, who nodded and laid her hand on his arm. ‘I believe you, Imti, but what good is knowing this if we can’t prove it? DI McGuire said the fire investigators will examine the crime scene, and that they will measure up angles and things. Your story will be corroborated and …’ she splayed her hands, ‘then we’ll go to the press and expose Weston for what he is. A devious man with an agenda.’
‘That’s just it, Serafina, if the fire investigator proves it was thrown from the middle of our group, Weston will say ‘I told you so.’ Unless I can find the bloke who threw it and prove he was planted by Albion First to discredit us, Weston will win.’ He paced back and forth in front of the bar, his voice loud and indignant. ‘I’d recognise him again, you know? I’m certain I would.’
Shahid had been tidying up, drinking whisky and listening to the two kids discussing it for hours now. He wanted to tell Imti to forget it, to be grateful he and Serafina had escaped unhurt, but he knew his words would fall on deaf ears. Imti was incensed, and to be honest, a slow burn rose in Shahid’s gut too. It was a strange feeling for him. He’d not felt much of anything for months now. And he’d certainly never been political before, but something had changed. Imti had grown up and was forcing Shahid to confront his narrow-mindedness, his blindness to what was going on around him. Working beside Gus McGuire in City park earlier had been strange. A mere few months ago, they’d been on opposite sides. Now, after everything that had happened they were, if not friends, then at least not enemies.
Okay, he was never going to get citizen of the year award, but at least he was trying to be a better person, to live up to Imti’s expectations. Maybe the fact he’d very nearly become a father the previous year had changed his outlook. People said fatherhood changed you. Maybe the prospect of it, even if had been wrenched away from you, did too. From left field, his chest tightened, as if someone had gripped it and was squeezing the life out of him. Shit, not this again. He recognised it for the grief it was and hated his own weakness.
Turning to replace the dried glasses on the shelves, he took a few deep breaths. Thank God, Imti was too involved in his discussion to notice, but a quick glance told him his temporary show of emotion had not gone unnoticed by Serafina. She smiled and nodded, letting him know his secret was safe with her. He inclined his head in acknowledgement, slid back into the seat behind the bar, picked up his glass and focussed on his brother.
They kept going around and around in circles. Personally, at that precise moment, Shahid couldn’t have cared less who’d thrown the damn bomb. He’d been relieved Imti was okay. For a good few minutes, until he heard Gus McGuire calling his name and looked up to see him with Imti, he’d thought he’d lost his brother. And that sense of loss was an all-too-familiar feeling for him.
Sensing Imti was all for trying to find the bloke on his own, Shahid intervened. The need to protect his brother was strong, and the easiest way to do that was to placate him. ‘Look, Imti, I agree with you. We need to find the bastard who threw the bottle-bomb. But rather than you go off half-arsed trying to find him, why don’t you ask McGuire if you can watch the police footage of the protest? McGuire said although you saw his face after he threw the bomb, he took care to angle his face away from the City Park cameras. That tells me it was deliberate. Maybe earlier on, he wasn’t so careful. He might have slipped up.’
Perching on a bar stool, Imti grinned at Shahid. ‘You’re not as daft as you look, big bro. I’ll text Gus now and head into The Fort tomorrow. We need to catch this bloke.’
Relieved he’d diverted Imti from going off like an avenging angel, Shahid poured himself another whisky. ‘You know, I bet somewhere in The Fort, they keep images of extreme right and left-wing activists. Maybe if you find the bloke on the footage, that computer geek, Compo, might be able to match it to those photos.’ Maybe all that stuff the previous year with Dolinski hadn’t been entirely in vain after all. At least they’d made a few acquaintances – ‘friends’ would be too strong a word to describe them – up at The Fort now.
Thumbs flying over his phone screen, Imti sent off a text to Gus. Seconds later, he looked up triumphant. ‘Gus says to come in tomorrow.’
He put up his hand to fist bump his brother, whooping ‘Result,’ as their knuckles met. Whistling to himself, Imti moved round the bar to get a coke for Serafina and himself.
Shahid saw Serafina glance at her boyfriend before speaking in a low tone. ‘I know you worry about him, Shahid, but he was worried about you too. He thought he’d lost you today. You should have seen him when he saw the banner you’d been holding near the explosion. Gus could barely restrain him.’
Shahid, trying to keep things light, winked at her. ‘Thanks, Serafina. Good to know’
She grinned and, leaning over, took his glass away, ‘And so, knowing that your brother worries about you too, you should stop drinking for tonight. You’ve had more than enough.’
Shahid opened his mouth to protest, then seeing the way her fingers caressed the cross she always wore round her neck, he realised she was nervous. Speaking to him like that had taken a lot of courage. He grinned, and then, when her phone vibrated on the table top, he said, ‘You better get that, love. I’m off to bed. Make sure you two lock up after yourselves, when that lot have gone.’
Serafina smiled and picked up her phone.
‘Is that your mum?’ asked Imti, pushing a glass over the bar towards her.
Serafina bit her lip. ‘No, it’s Shamshad. I’ve got to go.’
Chapter 43
22:55 Bradford Royal Infirmary
Shamshad was slouched in a chair in the empty waiting room, when Serafina, accompanied by Imti, walked in. The contents of Neha’s
bag were strewn in a messy heap at her feet. One look at the other girl’s face told Serafina she was in shock. If there was one thing Serafina had been used to dealing with over the past few months, it was people in shock. She turned to Imti and pushed him out the door. ‘Find somewhere to buy a drink for us all. Make her one with lots of sugar.’
Then, she turned and sat beside Shamshad, trying to ignore the tingling in her limbs and the churning stomach that being back in hospital triggered. Taking a deep breath, she relaxed her shoulders and told herself, right now, her friend’s need was greater than hers. ‘What happened? How is Neha?’
Shamshad blinked and then exhaled. ‘Right, well, em, yeah … Neha will be okay physically …’ She explained about her sister’s condition. She added she hadn’t yet had a chance to talk to her. Pointing a trembling finger at the bundle of things on the floor, Shamshad said, ‘That’s her stuff.’
Serafina recognised Neha’s bag and had assumed the items on the floor were also hers. She took in the conglomeration of pens, rubbers, notebooks and tissue packs that were scattered at Sham’s feet. What had Sham been looking for in her sister’s bag? Unless, of course, she’d tipped it over by accident, although to Serafina it didn’t appear that way. Kneeling down, she began to pick the things up and put them back into the bag.
‘I found this,’ said Sham, her tone abrupt.
Alerted by her friend’s strained voice, Serafina stopped what she was doing and looked up at what Sham held in her hands. The other girl pushed it towards her, and with a puzzled glance, Serafina took it. ‘What is this, Sham?’
Shrugging, Sham bit her lip, and a tear rolled down her cheek. With an impatient hand, she brushed it away. ‘Open it. Look.’
The other girl was clearly distressed, and Serafina couldn’t begin to imagine what was in the envelope Shamshad pushed so insistently towards her. This was so unlike Sham. Her friend was a rock. Strong and indestructible, and it frightened Serafina to see her so upset, so fragile. Her mouth dry, she moved back into the seat beside Sham and turned the envelope over. There was no name on it, and it was grubby and creased in places, as if it had been handled on many occasions. The flap had no stick left, so she knew it had been opened previously.
