by Liz Mistry
Not long now, and the seemingly endless wait for a white Britain would be over, and he would be on the front lines of the attack. They’d nearly made it too. Nearly got their foot in the political door. Breaking away from the BNP had been beneficial for them. They’d been able to gather around them a blend of hungry youth and experienced elders. The ones with staying power who could lead them to political dominance. People like Graeme Weston.
He punched the table. What the hell was he supposed to do now? In a short while, he’d have to explain about Graeme Weston’s wife and Graeme’s sojourn, courtesy of Her Majesty’s finest. What spin could he put on the fact those photos were on the front page of not only the local papers, but also national news. It had been bad enough convincing the Generals that if Nigel Farage, the UKIP leader, could have a German wife, then it was of no consequence Christine Weston was half Greek, because she was British, after all, and white. Now, she’d gone and whored herself with a fucking Paki all over the tabloids. And not just any fucking Paki, but a dead one at the centre of a serial killer murder investigation.
There was nothing else he could do, except try to convince them they could still pull themselves out of this. Of course, that would have been a lot easier if Weston hadn’t got pissed and gotten himself arrested earlier, although that, too, could perhaps be used to bolster his reputation and give him credibility with the militants in the party – being in jail never hurt Hitler’s reputation. This whole thing would need to be handled sensitively. After all, they wanted to appeal to ordinary voters too.
God knew when Graeme would get out. The only thing he’d been able to do was to send in the party lawyer with strict instructions to tell Weston to deny all knowledge of his wife’s affair. The lawyer would also tell him to break off all ties with Christine on his release. The sympathy vote was the only one that could play out for him now. They needed to throw Christine Weston to the dogs for the duplicitous traitor she was, and Graeme would just have to put up with it. It was all for the greater good; and he’d have to convince him of it.
The thing was – Hogg had the distinct impression Graeme Weston would find it near impossible to divorce his wife. Whatever hold she had on him seemed unbreakable. Weston would hear nothing against her. He could understand that, to a certain extent. Christine was very attractive, and if the photo in the paper was anything to go by, she was also extremely flexible. He’d been tempted himself on a couple of occasions, though the snooty cow had turned her nose up. No, it seemed like she preferred to slum it with the Pakis.
He stood up, his face flushed, and paced around the conference room, considering each of the Generals in turn, playing out what he supposed would be their individual responses to the crisis. Jamie would no doubt follow Anthony Cairns’ lead. Cairns would bluster like a pompous idiot for half an hour and then settle down to let everyone else make the decision, giving himself ‘plausible deniability.’ Rob Harrogate would insist on cutting Weston loose, regardless of how it would play out. He’d always been jealous of Weston’s selection in the first place. Fancied himself as the candidate. The only problem with him was he couldn’t string two sentences together. Tommy Bond was persuadable, more so if he could convince Brendon Hope to agree to brazening it all out.
Looked like it was up to him to paint a rosy picture of Graeme Weston as the duped husband with the traitorous wife; a man who took the moral high ground for the sake of his political party. Weston must be visible now, at all costs, constantly focussing on the important issues. The purification of Bradford, then Yorkshire, and then the whole of England. They must not be hijacked by Christine Weston’s antics.
Then, of course, there was the other worry. Could the Generals control the foot soldiers? The last thing they needed was for one of them to go after Christine. He could understand their righteous anger. Christ, he was fucking angry himself. Still, right now, they had to play the long game. They needed to hold things together. Christine Weston could and would be punished later, of that there was no doubt. However, they couldn’t risk the press swinging things in her favour. Making her look like a victim. No, they had to keep her safe, for the time being … until after the by-election, at all costs.
He’d spent the afternoon since the police arrested Weston, working on a statement for the press. In it, he’d portrayed Weston as the victim. Part of a conspiracy by the Asians and blacks supported by his wife who’d been brainwashed by working in City Academy which was full of ‘ethnics.’ He’d brushed away his arrest, saying Weston was helping the police piece together aspects of his wife’s sordid past, in light of her lover having been murdered. He’d hinted at Christine Weston’s culpability in the murder, revealing a time when she’d suffered from mental health issues that had jeopardised the wellbeing of their son.
Hogg looked out the window, his fists clenched by his sides. He could do with a cigar and a double brandy right now to steady his nerves. Didn’t matter it was a pack of lies. The important thing was they turned the tide of doom away from their candidate. Didn’t matter what it took, as long as they were smart about it. However, they had to be tactical.
Chapter 72
20:45 Lister Mills Apartments, Manningham
For the tenth time, Jez Hopkins read through the press release Michael Hogg had had delivered to him. He was nervous and a bit scared. It wasn’t that he’d suddenly grown a moral compass or anything; he just didn’t want to be a pawn in the hands of a racist political party who appeared to have a militia wing that were quite handy with a flick blade.
The message, delivered earlier by a large skinhead with muscles the size of baby elephants, had been clear. Publish this or else. The ‘else’ hadn’t been specified, but it didn’t take a genius to work out that broken bones and a liberal smattering of blood would be included … his blood.
Deep down, he knew he had no choice. He’d have to submit the release, and, no doubt, it would make the front page tomorrow. That was all fine and dandy, except he knew if he did it once, he’d be expected to do it again … and again. He regretted publishing the photos. Not for Christine Weston’s sake … no … for his own. The nationals hadn’t jumped for him, intimating Christine Weston’s roll in the hay was a two-day scandal and further news, like the possibility of a general election in June leaked by a top Tory cabinet member, might trump that. Hell, Trump might trump it, for all he knew. That guy made headlines just by looking like he’d been Tangoed.
Now, he was stuck in Bradford, and it seemed like Albion First viewed him as their bitch.
Chapter 73
20:55 The Fort
The exhaustion of having been on the go for hours with little sustenance had kicked in. As Gus swallowed his anti-depressants with a sip of flat Irn Bru, he knew he should stir himself to go to the staff canteen for food. However, he also knew when he got there, he would be faced with a choice between a dried up yellowing jacket potato or a soggy salad sandwich on the verge of its sell-by-date. Sometimes, starving was better than the alternative. He frowned. What the hell was he thinking? There were loads of people in the world without food or even the promise of food, and here he was, moaning about a ‘yella tattie.’ He dragged himself to his feet, glanced around his team, who all seemed motivated and energised. Compo, head bobbing, was focussed on his screen, Sampson and Taffy were collating phone reports, and Alice was updating the murder board.
‘Anybody want owt from the canteen?’
He wasn’t surprised when Compo’s head jerked up first. The lad had an uncanny ability to hear even the most obscure reference to food and to react like a Pavlovian dog. He rubbed his eye and then waved a hand at Compo telling him he’d noted his interest. With Compo, it didn’t matter what was on offer. His strange metabolism seemed to guzzle all sorts and work it off, leaving him, if not slim, certainly not over-weight. Sampson and Taffy shook their heads.
Alice, head on one side, said, ‘A Kit Kat?’ She hesitated. ‘Er, no … a Mars Bar, please.’
Gus waited. He was used to thes
e conversations with Alice.
‘A choc chip muffin. That’s what I want.’
‘Sure?’
‘Definitely.’
He’d reached the door, when she said, ‘Wait, actually, I’ll have a white chocolate chip cookie.’
Gus nodded and left. He made it halfway down the corridor before Alice poked her head out the door and called after him.
‘What, changed your mind again?’ he said, laughing. ‘Don’t tell me it’s the Kit Kat after all?’
She shook her head. ‘No, still the white chocolate cookie, but I’ll get it myself. Shamshad Ul Haq has just turned up wanting to speak to you.’
‘Yeah?’ He spun around. ‘She in one of the kid’s rooms?’
‘Yep, Hardeep put her in the blue room.’
That was a turn-up for the books. Shamshad had been reluctant to talk to them about her dad, yet here she was at The Fort, asking to speak to him. Maybe she did know something that could shine a light on their investigation, although it seemed unlikely. How could she know anything about the Tattoo Killer?
‘Come on, you’re with me.’
Alice shouted back into the room. ‘Hey, Taffy, nip down to the canteen and get Gus some tea. I’ll have a chocolate brownie and get something for Compo, will you?’
Grinning, Gus waited for her, and they walked down two flights of stairs together. ‘Any ideas what Shamshad wants?’ asked Alice.
‘Don’t know, but I hope it’s something useful. We’re going around in circles with this one. All we’ve got is the forensics, and the hope Lewis Gore has something for us. I don’t want there to be another victim before we catch this fucker.’
‘Maybe Graeme Weston will give us something?’
Gus shook his head. I’m not sure he’s got much to give; besides, he’s lawyered up. I’ll grab a bite after we’ve spoken to Shamshad and then tackle Weston.’
He pushed open the door of the child’s interview room and saw Shamshad, black leather jacket discarded on the chair beside her and a large brown envelope on the table in front of her. She was tapping the fingers of one hand on her thigh. There were tension lines around her mouth, and the cheeky insolence that had radiated from her last time they’d met seemed somehow diminished.
Alice offered Shamshad a drink, which the girl declined, and then sat down opposite her. Gus pulled out the other chair and joined them.
From nowhere, Gus’ stomach emitted a protracted rumble, making Shamshad grin. He returned her grin with a wave of the hand. ‘I’m starving. Haven’t eaten all day. My dad would say he could ‘eat a scabby horse,’ and to be honest, right now, that prospect is tempting.’ Another rumble filled the room. Gus grimaced. ‘You better tell me what you wanted to see me about before I start eating the furniture, Shamshad.’
She pursed her lips for a second, and a small frown dragged her sculpted eyebrows downwards. Gus wondered if she was re-considering sharing whatever it was she’d come to tell them. He leaned back and crossed his legs. ‘We need help with this, Sham. If you have something that could shed light on your father’s or the other men’s murders, you need to share it.’
Exhaling, Sham closed her eyes revealing lined lids with a perfectly symmetrical black flick that gave the impression of a huge tick escaping the corner of each eye.
Who needs validation in the form of a tick for their eyeshadow? wondered Gus.
When she opened them, her eyes met his. ‘This is big, Inspector McGuire,’ she said and lifted the envelope. Holding it in one hand, she shook out a substantial pile of paperwork and handed the first document to Gus.
Alice leaned over so she, too, could see it. Gus scanned it. As he read, excitement rose in his chest. This had come right out of left field, and he wasn’t quite sure how it impacted on his investigation. Leaning forward, he said, ‘Where did you get this?’
Sham gave a teenager’s shrug, which he interpreted as a nervous gesture rather than disinterest. She studied the ground in silence. Gus gave her the time to consider her words. The contents of the document he’d just seen needed explaining, and he suspected it wasn’t going to be easy for Sham.
At last, she began to speak. First, she explained about Neha’s admission to hospital and how she’d found the envelope in her bag. Her frown deepened as she described her sister’s condition, and Gus’ heart went out to the girl. It was easy, because of her bravado, to forget she had, in effect, lost both of her parents at a time when she would already be stressed out with her A-levels.
Shamshad went on to explain Neha was still in hospital, but that she had confronted her about the documents, and Neha had confided in her. The decision to bring everything to Gus, she said, had been mutual. Gus could tell by the way her shoulders slumped she still carried the hurt of her sister’s secrecy with her. He hoped the girls could get over it, because they were going to need each other.
‘I’m glad you did, Sham. This puts a whole lot of things in a very different light. Where did Neha get this? Did your father, Razaul, give it to her?’
‘No, it wasn’t him who gave it to her, although he’d told her all about it. You see, I wouldn’t see him. I refused. Neha, well, she was more generous with him. She was seeing him behind my back, all this time.’ Again, the flash of hurt in her eyes. She sniffed, so Alice pushed a tissue box across the table towards her.
Gus waited until she’d blown her nose and then said, ‘So, who did give this to your sister, then?’
Biting her lip, Sham hesitated and then said, ‘Look, I don’t want to get him into trouble. It’s already bad enough for his parents right now with all that stuff in the Chronicle. Neha and I don’t want him caught in the crossfire.’
Gus frowned and studied the document again. ‘Are you telling me Jacob Weston gave this to your sister?’
Sham grabbed a tissue and wiped her nose. ‘Yeah.’
Gus rubbed his fingers and thumb over his chin in a stroking action as he considered what she’d said. ‘You’re telling me Jacob Weston, son of Christine and Graeme Weston, gave your sister copies of his own medical records?’
Sitting up straight, an indignant expression on her face, Sham nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Believe it or not. I don’t care.’ She jumped to her feet, picking up the documents and began to thrust them back inside the envelope. She leaned over to grab the document Gus held, but he pulled it away and flapped it in the air. He was glad to see the return of the feisty Sham, however, he still needed to get to the bottom of this. ‘Sit down. I do believe you. It’s just quite … surprising, isn’t it?’
With an exaggerated tut, Sham plonked herself back down and raked her fingers through her spiky hair. ‘That’s exactly what I thought.’ Eyes wide, she eyeballed them. ‘I’ve researched it, you know. Googled it. It’s …’
‘A blood disease,’ said Gus. ‘I know. My mum’s a carrier, and so am I.’
Alice’s mouth formed an O.
Seeing Alice’s stunned reaction, Gus grinned. ‘For me, it doesn’t impact on my day-to-day life; unfortunately for young Jacob Weston, it does, because clearly both of his parents carry the gene, which he then inherited. Looks like he has Cooley’s anaemia or, for the uninformed like yourself, Alice, thalassemia major. The implications on his health are quite severe. Blood transfusions every few weeks, lasting about four hours a shot. That’s why he was at the haematology department today with his mum. It’s all falling into place.’
Alice frowned. ‘I thought only black people or Asians could inherit thalassemia.’
Sham glanced at Gus, and when he grinned, she said, ‘Or those from Mediterranean countries. Mrs Weston’s dad is Greek. I remember hearing that on the news on Monday. Someone was calling her husband another Farage with double standards because his wife is Greek.’
Gus frowned. Sham was fidgeting on her chair with a smile that said she knew something they didn’t. ‘So, Sham, are you trying to tell me that Graeme Weston is also of Mediterranean descent?’
Her smile bec
ame a wide grin, and her eyes sparkled. ‘No … I’m telling you Jacob Weston’s dad is Asian.’
‘Graeme Weston’s of Asian descent?’ Gus couldn’t believe it. The man was fair with blue eyes and almost Aryan looks. That didn’t make sense. And then, Sham rummaged in the envelope and pulled out a second document. ‘No, not Graeme Weston … His real dad!’
‘What?’ Alice and Gus spoke in unison.
Gus grabbed the birth certificate that Sham proffered. ‘Shit, Al. It says here Christine Weston is the mother, and Razaul Ul Haq is the father of Jacob Weston.’
Gus fell back into the chair. This was mad. How could Razaul Ul Haq be Jacob Weston’s father? Didn’t Graeme Weston realise? How could he not? Surely, he’d have set eyes on his son’s birth certificate before now. Why would he be party to a cover up of this magnitude, particularly with his political views? Why would he knowingly raise a mixed-race child as his own? It was all so confusing.
Gus watched as Sham extracted a third document from the envelope. This one was one of Razaul Ul Haq’s medical records, and it confirmed that Razaul Ul Haq did indeed carry the thalassemia gene.
‘Neha told me my dad confided in her because he wanted her to know our half-brother. Jacob and Neha have been meeting-up in secret for the past year.’
