by Liz Mistry
‘Reality check! You’re fucking not. I’m the one who is alone. I was alone when you nearly starved yourself to death last time. I was alone when you cut yourself, and I was alone last night when you did it all over again, because poor little Neha is in pain. Well, fuck that. I’m in pain, right? Right now, I’m in fucking pain!’
Sham wasn’t aware her voice had escalated to a shout, or even that she’d stood up, or that all the other patients and visitors were looking at them.
She spun on her heel, banging into the nurse who’d come to see what was going on, and had taken two steps from the bed when Neha spoke.
‘I’m sorry, Sham. I really am. I didn’t want to burden you, so I kept it to myself. I’m truly sorry.’
Sham stopped, took a deep breath, and then turned back to her sister who was looking at her, her eyes filled with tears.
‘Please don’t give up on me yet, Sham, please don’t!’
Sham studied Neha’s face; her hollowed cheeks, her sad eyes and the tension lines radiating from her mouth. The nurse, seemingly sensing Sham’s tirade was over, stepped back. Sham walked slowly back to the plastic chair that had been her home since Neha had been admitted. She stretched out her hand and linked her fingers with her sister’s, squeezing gently.
‘We need to talk about these, Neha.’ She pulled the envelope out of her bag and spread the contents over the bed.
Neha scanned them and then nodded. ‘Okay.’
Sham released the breath she’d been holding and allowed her shoulders to slump. At last, she’d get to the bottom of her sister’s secrets.
Neha put her palm on the pile of paperwork and began to talk. ‘When I was really ill, I used to see dad. He’d visit me at the centre during the day when you were at school. Things between him and mum weren’t the way she described, you know, Sham. She was always sick. Even before we were born, she had mental health issues. And, well, the community, being what it was years ago, couldn’t understand it. So, they ignored it, and nobody got her help. Then, we came along, and for a while, she was okay; and then, she got ill again.’ She lifted her face to her sister, pleading, ‘Ask Auntie and Uncle. They’ll tell you I’m speaking the truth.’
Sham nodded for Neha to continue.
‘He had an affair when we were about three. It was someone he’d known since school. His family wouldn’t let him get married to her, so they split up. When they met again years later, she was in an unhappy relationship, and so was he. Mum had begun to hit him, and a few times, he found glass in his food. She said if he didn’t leave, she would hurt us, so he left. Then, she started telling the Imam he’d brought a disease to the home.’
‘The STIs?’ asked Sham.
Neha nodded. ‘Yeah, the STIs … it wasn’t true. She made it up, and she kept making things up until he was ostracised. The only people who believed him were Auntie and Uncle. Then, the school found out about the things she did to us. That was a blessing in disguise, really, because she was diagnosed, and she got the help she needed, and we were safe.’
Sham frowned. ‘She’s ill, Neha. She never wanted to hurt us.’
Neha, suddenly looking older and wiser than Sham had ever seen her before, smiled. ‘I know that. The fact remains, though, she did hurt us. I can’t bear to see her again. Can’t bear to feel that pain again. You’re a better person than me, Sham.’
Sham frowned and studied her sister with sudden understanding. ‘You took most of the beatings, didn’t you? You took the blame for everything to protect me. Sometimes, you even pretended to be me, didn’t you?’ Half-forgotten memories flooded her mind. ‘I couldn’t understand why you always got hit more than me, but that’s why, isn’t it? You were protecting me!’
‘And since then, you’ve protected me, Sham. When I was ill, you fought for me. We look after each other.’
Sham knew whatever had been released from her memory today would continue to haunt her for a while. Right now, though, she couldn’t think about that. Visiting time was nearly over, and they hadn’t discussed the papers.
‘Why do you have this birth certificate and those medical records?’
Quietly, Neha explained to her sister, and by the end of it, the two sisters were clinging to each other like they would never let go.
Chapter 60
13:30 The Fort
Jez Hopkins came across as pissed off when Gus marched into the interview room with Sampson. Sitting down at the table, Gus leaned over towards him, invading his space. He was pleased to see Hopkins lean as far back as he could in his uncomfortable chair, sneaking nervous glances towards the door. Slamming his palm on the table, he grinned. ‘Nobody’s coming to rescue you, so you better give me all your attention.’
Hopkins bristled, and when he spoke, it was a bluster that was not backed up by the nervous tic under his eye. ‘Don’t know why you’re being so aggressive. I came to you, didn’t I?’
Gus took a deep breath and modulated his voice to a low snarl. ‘Yeah, after the article was released to the entire Bradford population. Good one!’
‘Look, I came here voluntarily to tell you what I know, okay? I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Actually, pillock, you have. You’ve obstructed my investigation by not sharing sensitive information, ASAP.’
Hopkins shrugged, laying his hands out before him in a placatory fashion. ‘Okay, okay, I get it! Let’s just move on from this. We’re on the same side, aren’t we?’
Gus snorted and flicked his eyes in Sampson’s direction. ‘He says we should move on from this. Says we’re on the same side. What do you think, Sampson?’
Sampson leaned back arms across his chest and laughed. ‘Yeah, right. Same side. As if!’ He grinned at Gus, seemingly enjoying his role as a baddy. ‘Or we could just arrest him for endangering the public!’
Gus held out a hand, and they high-fived. ‘Good one, Sampson. We could do that.’
Hopkins threw annoyed glances between them. ‘Aw, come on. Quit the comedy act, and let me show you what I’ve got. They arrived anonymously at work.’
He bent down and began rummaging in his bag. When he straightened, he held an envelope which he upended on the table between himself and the two officers.
Before looking at the photos, Gus snagged an evidence bag from his pocket, took the envelope by the corner and popped it inside. He then took the time to study the writing on the envelope. ‘What do you reckon, Sampson?’
Sampson shrugged. ‘Looks like a kid’s writing to me. Either that or some anally retentive sexual deviant.’
Gus turned to Hopkins and said, ‘We’ll need a handwriting sample from you.’
Hopkins blinked, startled. ‘You think I took these?’
Gus didn’t, but he wasn’t going to tell Hopkins that. He was enjoying having him dangling like the worm he was on the end of his hook. He shrugged. ‘The lab will tell us, won’t it?’ He agreed with Sampson that it looked like kid’s writing. Then again, sometimes, his dad’s writing resembled a ten-year old’s, so who was he to judge? Maybe they’d get some saliva from the envelope, which luckily wasn’t the self-seal type.
‘Hand-delivered, was it?’
Hopkins squirmed on his chair and nodded. ‘Yeah, to the Bradford Chronicle offices at Hall Ings.’
‘External post box?’
Hopkins nodded.
‘CCTV on the box?’
This time, he shrugged. ‘Don’t know, never thought to look.’
Gus nodded to Sampson, who jotted something down.
‘Note?’
‘What?’ said Hopkins, looking visibly rattled now by Gus’ near monosyllabic rapid-fire interview strategy.
Sighing, Gus elaborated. He pronounced each word slowly and precisely, as if he thought Hopkins was lacking mental capacity. ‘Was … there … a note … with … the photos?’
The journalist’s expression cleared. ‘No, no note. Just the photos.’
Taking a pen from his pocket, Gus moved the photos about on the table, his mo
uth turned down, demonstrating his disgust at the violation of privacy.
Hopkins pointed at the date stamp. ‘Dated the night Razaul Ul Haq was abducted.’
Gus glowered at him. ‘You do realise I’m a detective, don’t you?’ He waited for Hopkins’ nod and then added, ‘So shut up with the Miss Marple, if you don’t mind.’
Donning a pair of gloves, Gus gathered the photos together and slid them into an evidence bag. ‘Got your jollies off over them, did you? Before you came in?’
Hopkins’ face reddened, and he shifted his buttocks on the chair making an involuntary squeaking sound as he moved.
Dirty little bastard, thought Gus. Got his rocks off looking at the photos of a dead man being intimate. Turning to Sampson, he said, ‘Ask them to check for evidence of bodily fluids as well as prints.’
Smirking, Gus winked at Hopkins and pulled a cotton bud in a test tube from his pocket. ‘You don’t mind, do you? For elimination purposes, you understand.’
Face paling, Hopkins swallowed hard and, with a brief nod, opened his mouth.
Chapter 61
14:45 En-route to Hawthorn Drive, Eccleshill
Gus had tried to contact both Christine and Graeme Weston by phone, but to no avail, so he and Alice jumped into her Mini and hotfooted it over to the Weston residence in Eccleshill. As they drove, Gus phoned Weston’s campaign manager.
‘I’m busy right now,’ said Michael Hogg, not bothering to conceal his annoyance. ‘Fitting a boiler. Can’t this wait?’
Nancy Chalmers had once told him when having a difficult conversation with someone, smiling made your tone less antagonistic. Gus wasn’t particularly bothered about Hogg’s opinion of him, and any other time, he’d have relished the opportunity to antagonise the man. However, for the purpose of getting a quick answer, he pasted a smile on his face and hoped it shone through in his words. ‘Do you know where Mr Weston is, or how I can get hold of him, please?’
Tone gruff, Hogg responded in his usual abrupt manner. ‘Nope … and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you now, would I? Your lot are as bad as the press; hounding him and invading his privacy. Unfair treatment, I say. Just because he’s a man of principle, not afraid to say it like it is.’
Gus pictured Hogg’s chest inflating like a balloon in righteous indignation, and the desire to deflate one little prick with another was almost overpowering. Instead, feeling like a less agreeable Joker from the Batman films, Gus widened his smile. ‘Well, that is a shame, sir. I take it you’ve seen the Bradford Chronicle today? In light of the article, it might be an idea to share his whereabouts with us, don’t you think?’
Hogg hesitated, then extending the sound of the first consonant, he gave an elongated reply, flicking his pitch up at the end. ‘Nnnnnope.’ He added, ‘Graeme will show up when he’s good and ready.’
Although he sounded full of bluster, Gus detected an edge of concern amongst the bravado. Michael Hogg was clearly keeping his anger on a tight leash. Gus wouldn’t want to be in Weston’s shoes when Hogg finally caught up with him.
Next, he phoned Weston’s offices where his PA, Marcia Hogg, answered. Gus recognised her voice from their meeting the previous evening. Seemed like Weston and Hogg were linked in business as well as politics, if Hogg’s wife was Weston’s PA. When he introduced himself, it was easy to imagine her thin lips tightening as she spoke. She made no effort to disguise her disgust and was barely polite. Irritated by her pettiness, Gus prodded her.
Finally, she said, ‘Look, all I know is, every six weeks on a Wednesday, regular as clockwork, Graeme keeps his diary clear. He’s marked today off on his calendar.’
Was she a little prickly about divulging that information? A bit fed up, perhaps, that she wasn’t privy to his whereabouts? Gus pushed her. ‘So, where might Mr Weston go on those pre-booked Wednesdays, Mrs Hogg? Care to hazard a guess?’
Marcia gave a brittle laugh. ‘He’s my boss, not my partner. I suspect he needs ‘me’ time every so often to unwind. After all, he is a very busy man.’
Unwind doing what? wondered Gus. Maybe Weston’s wife wasn’t the only one in flagrante. Maybe Weston had a regular six-weekly assignation with someone other than his wife. Mind you, a six-week gap didn’t exactly speak of high passion, did it? More a clinical scratching of an itch than lustful uncontrollable shenanigans. Gus smiled at the thought of the rotund Graeme Weston, golden boy of Albion First, submitting to his basest instincts.
‘You must have some idea though, Mrs Hogg. You are his PA. You’ve got your finger on the pulse. I would imagine there’s not much passes you by.’
The silence from the other end of the phone was palpable. Gus wondered if she’d hung up on him. ‘Mrs Hogg …?’
Her sigh drifted over the line. ‘Was there an actual question in there, Inspector?’
Touché! Maybe she should be the politician. Annoyed by her obstructiveness, Gus added an edge to his tone. ‘Have you seen today’s Chronicle?’
She snorted. ‘Garbage! That newspaper is just garbage. It’s all a conspiracy to discredit Graeme. We all know the newspapers and the police are at the heart of a smear campaign against Albion First. I have no doubt whoever leaked those …’ she swallowed before continuing with a quiver in her voice, ‘… those abominable images to that immoral Hopkins man has his own agenda. An agenda that is not for the people of this city. One that will protect those who seek to steal our jobs and snatch our houses from us. Graeme Weston should not be judged by his …’ she hesitated, and it seemed she was struggling to find the words to end her sentence. As the gap lengthened, Gus could hear her laboured breaths drift down the line until, at last, she said, ‘… wife’s actions.’
The word ‘wife’ had not been her first choice to describe Christine Weston. Gus’ eyes narrowed. Was that a touch of jealousy amongst the anger in her tone? If it was, it threw up an interesting scenario. He wished he could see her face right now. How rich would it be if Hogg’s wife was in love with Weston? Whatever else Marcia Hogg was keeping secret, she clearly did not like Christine Weston one little bit, and judging by her well-rehearsed dogma, she shared her husband’s racist views fully. No surprise there, then!
‘You’d think, though, in light of the damage that article could do to his political career, he’d have been in touch with his campaign manager, wouldn’t you?’ said Gus.
She snorted again, so Gus pushed the knife in further. ‘So, he’s not been in touch with your husband or yourself, and you’ve no idea where he disappears off to on a Wednesday afternoon, every six weeks?’
Again, his words were met by silence, prompting him to sharpen his tone. ‘Well, would you say that’s accurate, Mrs Hogg?’
He could almost feel the venom as she said in nipped tones, ‘Yes!’
Feeling well and truly fed up with the antagonism from the Hogg couple, Gus ended the conversation with, ‘So, it sounds very much to me like he’s as dishonest as his wife. Maybe Mr Weston’s having an affair too. Wonder how that would go down on top of today’s revelation?’
Gus hung up, wondering where Graeme Weston took himself off to, and if his wife knew where he went.
Chapter 62
14:55 Weston’s Construction, Becks Road Bingley
‘Pick up! Pick up, for God’s sake!’ When Graeme Weston’s phone went to voicemail for the umpteenth time, Marcia walked over to her office door, opened it, and with all the force she could muster, she slammed it shut. The release of aggression made her feel better, but her breath still came in sharp pants as she scrolled through her phone before hitting another number.
Where the hell was he? It annoyed her his whereabouts on these periodic Wednesday absences was unknown to her. She’d got used to his secrecy in that department and was prepared to overlook it. After all, in all other aspects of his life, he was remarkably transparent. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried to find out where he went … she had. It seemed wherever it was he went, it was with his family. Or at least on the few occasions when she’d tried
to spy on him, he was always with Christine and Jacob. So, despite the wog officer’s innuendos, it didn’t seem Weston was having an affair. Mind you, it would be no more than that bitch deserved if he was.
She had no idea why he stayed with that woman … none at all, and after the revelations in today’s Chronicle, she was even more dumbfounded. For such an intelligent man, he was remarkably thick when it came to his wife.
Finally, the number she’d dialled was answered. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for hours. That darkie police officer’s been on the phone. You know, the one who came to the house last night? He’s looking for Graeme. Do you know where he is? Have you heard from him?’
She flinched at her husband’s clipped response. ‘I’ve no damn idea, Marcia. Bloody idiot’s switched his phone off. Don’t even know if he’s seen that fucking article yet. He’s supposed to be contactable twenty-four seven. Doesn’t he realise we’re running a campaign here?’
Marcia’s lip curled up at Michael’s words. Did he think she came across the channel on a banana boat like some bloody immigrant? Thanks to the wonders of phone tracking, she knew exactly where her husband was at this precise moment and campaigning was the last thing on his mind. She could guarantee that!
Chapter 63
14:55 Hawthorn Drive, Eccleshill
By the time they reached the Weston’s street, dread gnawed at Gus’ gut. Bad enough that he’d been unable to contact them in the wake of the newspaper article, but that Weston’s campaign manager and PA had also been unable to was worrying. As they drove into the street, a jostle of journalists scurried over to them, vying to reach them first. Gus scowled. Half of them he didn’t recognise, and the others had not been among his allies during the Matchmaker Case or last year.
