His father took hold of the stick he had been gripping between his knees. Brandished it and grinned. ‘I gave them what for, though, didn’t I? Nobody messes with Youssuf Khan!’
Back to English. ‘Yeah. Right. Course you did.’ He determined silently not to point out that the only reason the two wannabe kidnappers had got back in their van and driven away to whatever hole in Parsons Croft they’d presumably scuttled out from had been the mutual sighting of Ellis James, sitting in his unmarked Mondeo, parked a mere ten yards away. Watching. Waiting for some errant behaviour that would warrant arrest. ‘You’re a hero, Dad. But don’t forget the line of work I’m in. It pays to be cautious.’
‘You can talk! You nearly drove us into the path of a truck the other day. How about you exercise a little caution?’
Together, they began the sluggish advance to radiology, his father refusing to be pushed in a wheelchair. The corridors thronged with swiftly marching young doctors, cleaners pushing wheeled buckets and mops slowly along, and patients – some walking briskly, ready to ring the bell that signified the end of their treatment. Most were in the crawler lane like them, stooped with regret at the poor diet they’d spent a shortened lifetime enjoying, the cigarettes they’d chugged on defiantly or the daily ten pints they’d chosen to self-medicate with, which had turned out not to be quite so medicinal after all.
‘What’s that noise?’ his father asked, frowning down at the pockets of Tariq’s coat. ‘You sound like a respirator.’
In his pocket, Tariq’s phone pinged and buzzed constantly. He itched to know what was being sent through. Today was payday. Had the count from the brothels been correct? Had the take from the drugs been healthy? Had there been any more hassle from Sheila O’Brien’s lot? Was Jonny acting up, ably assisted by the unpredictable Asaf Smolensky? Or perhaps, more worryingly, had there been any further threatening communication from that cow, Ruth Darley at HMRC or her shitty, shabby boyfriend, Detective Ellis James?
‘Nothing.’ Tariq’s fingers itched to retrieve the phone but his sense of duty towards his father had to take precedence, at least until the old man was carted off to the scanner.
Advancing towards radiology, the pinging and buzzing grew more insistent. He helped his father to undress and don the hospital robe inside a changing cubicle that was too small for the two of them. He folded his father’s tunic and trousers accurately, placing them in the plastic basket on the floor. Peeled the thermal underwear off the old man’s frail body, wondering what on earth the scan would find this time. As if the heart surgery hadn’t been trial enough.
‘You need to speak to Anjum,’ his father said unexpectedly, sitting down heavily onto the bench as Tariq slid his sandals back onto his now-bare feet. His breath whistled in and out through the broken bellows of his lungs. ‘She’s your wife, Tariq! It’s been months. You shouldn’t still be sleeping in the guest room. She knows about you, doesn’t she? She found out what you really do for a living.’
‘Grab my arm,’ Tariq said. ‘I think they’re calling you through.’
‘Youssuf Khan!’
The unfamiliar, perky voice that came from beyond the cubicle curtain felt like a buoy to which Tariq was only too happy to cling.
‘Here he is!’ Tariq said, smiling at the young male radiology nurse. ‘You can have him, but I want him back.’ He hoisted his father from the bench, gladly steering him towards the friendly, no-nonsense capability that the nursing staff offered. ‘Don’t let him get into any mischief!’
His father took his wire-framed glasses off and thrust them at Tariq. Narrowed those eyes that, for all their cataract-haze and high cholesterol white rings, seemed to see right into his soul. They always had. ‘Show some respect!’ In English, as some show of authority for the benefit of the nurse. Then, in Urdu. ‘And don’t think we’ve finished that conversation.’
Sitting alone in the waiting area, Tariq took out his phone. The perspiration rolled down his back, as if his limbic system already knew what dire news awaited him.
A semi-literate text from Little Jimmy: Shud I giv £ 2 Fish Man?
Tariq allowed himself an easy breath. The drugs money was in, at least. Ordinarily, only he or Jonny took cash proceeds, so that the money could be quickly counted and concealed in the safe, the whereabouts of which only the two of them knew. But Jonny wasn’t himself. And if cash was found on Smolensky, the repercussions for all of them didn’t bear thinking about. He thumbed back a response.
Give it to Mohammed in accounts.
Next, a flurry of texts regarding the brothels, manned of late by a skeleton staff of remedial idiots, thanks to Degsy and that cow, Maggie, having blown half of the Boddlington foot-soldiers away in the war that had started with Jack O’Brien’s murder.
There was one from Nasim: Coppers dun raid on Traf St n Grove Cl. Lads in nick. Girls gone.
He leaned forwards and wiped his face with his clammy palms. ‘Oh, God.’
The patients, quietly sipping their iodine drinks, waiting in their robes to be called through for their CT scans, stared at him with selfless concern etched onto their already harried faces.
‘Gets to you, doesn’t it?’ one of the men said, smiling sympathetically. Varicose-veined legs peeped out beneath his gown. He was almost certainly around Tariq’s age, though his hair had thinned to a few lonely strands, making him seem decades older.
Tariq nodded. Non-committal. ‘Just worried about my dad.’ Avoided eye contact. Focussed on his phone. He didn’t need to engage in polite chit-chat in this hellhole. He had more pressing matters – raids on Trafford Street and Grove Close. Sweeney Hall’s finest low-rent brothels, both under Boddlington ownership. That meant he and Jonny were another six staff down. And where had the girls gone, exactly? Had they been taken into custody? Would any of them grass, revealing that they’d been trafficked to Manchester to order from Eastern Europe and Africa by people-smugglers who subcontracted for the Boddlington gang? Shit.
He thumbed out a text to Leviticus Bell yet again.
Please call me. There’s a job here if you want it. T.
Lev had been good. Mildly dyslexic but reliable. Bright. Trustworthy. He was worth three of that big beefy dimwit, Nasim. Second cousin or no second cousin, Nasim couldn’t be relied upon, even though he’d been under Smolensky’s tutelage for almost a year now. He was just muscle. There had to be some way Tariq could overrule Jonny, with his misplaced need for retribution. Lev was worth a damn sight more back on the payroll as a Boddlington man than as a scapegoat for the murder of Jonny’s daughter.
He dialled Jonny’s number. When his partner picked up, his speech was heavy and sluggish with anti-depressant medication and sleep.
‘You still in bed?’ Tariq asked, careful to keep his voice low.
‘And? Are you my mother?’
‘Hasn’t your phone been going mental? We’ve got problems, bro.’
‘I know.’ Jonny coughed at the other end of the phone. It was crackling and phlegmy. ‘I told Smolensky to go round and see what’s what.’
Irritation prickled beneath Tariq’s skin. The tick beneath his eye started up. ‘The Fish Man’s not cut out to deal with staffing problems and lawyers, Jonny.’
The sound of Jonny lighting up. Exhaling heavily. ‘So, you get onto the solicitors and get the lads bailed out.’
‘I’m at the hospital with my dad, I can’t. It’s family.’
‘And I don’t have a family? Does my family – what’s left of it – count for nothing?’ Bitterness curdled his consonants. ‘You’ll have to deal with it. I’ve got other fish to fry.’
The call ended abruptly before Tariq could even discuss the likelihood of the police having gathered damning evidence against them over time or them possibly having an informant among their number.
In yet another waiting area, crowded with optimistic patients and fidgeting relatives – petrified or bored, depending on how far along the treatment process they were – Tariq poured his father a plastic c
up of water from the water cooler. The old man was sitting grim-faced, clutching his stick between his knees.
‘Drink this, Dad. You don’t want to get dehydrated.’
His father pushed the drink away. ‘Ya-allah. I don’t want water. I want coffee.’
Tariq sighed. ‘The doctor said you’re not to drink too much caffeine. It’s bad for your heart. Drink the water.’
He proffered the cup to his father once more but the old man grabbed the cup, rose from his seat and shuffled over to the water cooler. He placed the full cup on top of the machine. Shuffled off to the café, returning moments later with a coffee clutched in a shaking hand.
‘Remember who the father is here, young man.’ He sipped the steaming drink, narrowing those milky eyes.
When the oncologist called them through, his stony expression revealed nothing of the scan results. As Tariq put a comforting hand on the old man’s back, that light-headed feeling almost overwhelmed him yet again. Try as he might to listen to the oncologist’s explanation of the CT scan, as he scrolled through the cross sections of his father’s cancerous body that appeared on the computer’s monitor, explaining each image in turn, all Tariq could think of was the brothels. Had they been sealed off with POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape? Had the cops discovered anything at the scenes that might secure a conviction against Jonny and him in court?
‘So, good news, Mr Khan,’ the oncologist finished, at last, allowing himself a satisfied smile. ‘You’re officially in partial remission.’
At Tariq’s side, his father clapped his hands together. Raised his face and looked up at the strip light on the ceiling. ‘Allahu Akbar,’ he said softly. ‘God is great,’ he explained to the oncologist with a chuckle.
‘Perhaps, Mr Khan.’ There was that tight smile again on the professional’s face. ‘But, personally, I prefer to say medical science is great.’ A cheeky wink that Tariq knew his father wouldn’t appreciate.
In the car, heading north along Princess Parkway, Tariq put his foot down. Eager to get out of O’Brien territory fast and get halfway down Deansgate to where the Boddlington turf began. But the car journey was proving intolerable, beset as he was by a mixture of incoming messages on his phone and his father’s pronouncements.
‘I’ve been given a clean bill of health, Tariq,’ the old man said, waving to every pedestrian who looked his way, as if they too knew of his reprieve. The shoppers who milled around outside Kendals seemed indifferent to his near-euphoria. ‘So there’s going to be some changes between me and you, son.’ He poked Tariq in the shoulder. ‘I’m sick of being bossed around.’
‘I don’t want you overdoing it, Dad.’
‘And I want you to stop all this illegal nonsense. Whatever it is you’re up to.’ He held his hands in the air. Closed his eyes. ‘I don’t want to know the details. But I want you to give it up and make amends. Sort your marriage out. Talk Anjum round. I need to be able to hold my head up amongst the other elders at the masjid, Tariq.’
Tariq could feel his father’s accusatory eyes on him. His beard itched. ‘Don’t get yourself excited, Dad. Think about your heart.’ He hung a left into Blackfriars Street, which led down to the bowels of the city and the border with Salford, heading out to the ring road. The absolute safety of Lower Boddlington was not far now.
‘Take me to the pharmacist’s!’ his father said. ‘It’s just down there.’ He pointed to a quiet side street.
‘No, Dad. I’ve got to go into work after I’ve dropped you off. I’ve got a lot on.’
‘No?!’ There was a strength to his father’s voice now. ‘I’m not asking for the earth, Tariq. I just want to see if Colin Chang is back. He’s my friend.’
‘He’s just an acquaintance, Dad.’
‘Colin’s my friend! He listens to me. He’s been missing for months, and if he’s back, I want to see him.’
The old man had had his death sentence repealed and owned the moral high ground. That much, Tariq appreciated. Tutting, he took the short detour and pulled up outside the shuttered shopfront.
‘It’s closed.’
‘There’s a notice on the shutter. See what it says.’ Pointing, pointing – the old man wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Tariq got out of the car. Read the smudged ink on the fluttering piece of paper. Returned to the driver’s seat. ‘It’s reopening in two weeks,’ he said. ‘Mystery solved. Your precious pharmacist must have just gone on one of his trips to Hong Kong.’
With the old man safely installed at home, Tariq paused to wedge one of Anjum’s samosas into his mouth, snatched a bottle of Diet Coke from the fridge and drove over to the Trafford Street brothel in Sweeney Hall. He was careful to park in an adjacent alleyway, feeling confident that no local scuzzball would dare touch the wheels of a Boddlington boss. But it wouldn’t do him any good if the police were hanging around and saw his car parked up outside the brothel they had just raided.
Tariq scanned the litter-strewn street for unwelcome faces, then glanced up at the cracked and dirty windows of the terraced houses, checking for snooping eyes of grasses and local do-gooders. Trafford Street was empty of cops, but that dreaded police tape was indeed draped over the splintered remnants of the front door. Surreptitiously, he slid around the back and entered the property through the yard with his master key. The place smelled rank – of stale sex, overly floral air-freshener and rising damp. The accoutrements of breakfast had been abandoned, half-eaten, on the kitchen table. Upstairs, the beds looked as though they had been hastily tumbled out of, with crumpled sheets spilling onto the threadbare carpet. Every drawer had been emptied. Every cushion on the waiting room sofa had been removed. The place had been searched.
Tariq forced a hand into the thicket of his hair. ‘Jesus. This is bad.’ Couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being watched.
Walking to the front of the house, where they had turned the old living room into a bedroom, Tariq stepped gingerly over the sex toys and handcuffs that had been scattered on the floor during the police search. Grey dust from fingerprinting covered every surface. He was careful to touch nothing. Using his knuckle to pull the grey-yellow nicotine-stained net aside, he peered through the window onto the street.
‘Everyone knows what this place is,’ he whispered to himself. ‘But they know better than to grass. They’re not daft.’
And then, as the trajectory of his appraising scan of the street took his focus upwards, he saw it. A small, discreet, black shining dome hanging down from a lamp post, not twenty feet away on the opposite side. State-of-the-art CCTV. Newly installed, by the looks.
‘Shit!’
He let the curtain slip back and retreated to the kitchen, sweating freely beneath his pristine clothes.
When his phone pinged shrilly, he jumped. Peered at the display, wondering what nightmarish scenario could now possibly befall him. The text was from Anjum and in a morning of mixed fortunes, it was by far the worst thing he had heard that day.
I want a divorce. Give it me, or I’ll go to the police.
Chapter 13
Lev
‘Get off the sofa and go to work,’ Gloria shouted. She flung a pair of his dirty socks at him, almost hitting Jay in the face. ‘And tidy up after yourself!’
Lev stared at her open-mouthed, holding a protective hand over his son’s bandages. ‘Did you just throw shit at Jay’s head? Are you having a fucking laugh with me?’
‘The soul of the sluggard craves and gets nothing, while the soul of the diligent is richly supplied. Proverbs 13:4,’ his mother said, shoving that sodding shotgun into the shopping wagon again. Flinging in a box of cartridges after it, as though her new-found status made her the god of all things, including hypocrisy and nagging.
Closing his eyes, Lev exhaled heavily. The memory of Conky’s brutality was still freshly replaying itself behind his eyelids like a nasty GIF. ‘I can’t face it, Mam. I’ve got a migraine.’ He touched his eyelids with thumb and index finger. Opened them to find Gloria m
imicking him. Clutching her forehead dramatically. Moving her mouth with blah, blah, blah derision.
‘You’ve got the same work ethic as your father, you lazy tripe-hound,’ she said.
Too much. Lev snapped, setting Jay down in the playpen to be watched over by the eternally happy Teletubbies on the TV. ‘Just get out, will you? And leave me alone to look after my son!’
He shooed his mother to the front door with that ridiculous tartan crutch for her ego. His heart was pounding too fast. Breath coming in ragged bursts as the harsh daylight of the quiet cul-de-sac poured in.
Get her off your case. Get back inside before the outside gets you.
Slamming the door behind her, he was aware of the film of cold sweat that coated his skin. Now he had the beginnings of a headache for real, not helped by the stinging knots of tension in his shoulders and the ache in his lower back from spending over an hour on a motorbike, negotiating rush hour on the M6 with a severed head in the top-box.
‘Delivery for Mr Bancroft,’ he had told the receptionist in the sleek lobby – the gateway to Bancroft’s legitimate corporate kingdom. Speaking through the black-tinted visor of his crash helmet.
He had plonked the chicken family-bucket onto the shining wooden counter and had sprinted back out to the motorbike, almost ploughing into automatic glazed doors that were too slow to open. Barely able to kick-start the stolen Suzuki with legs that felt like jelly. He had imagined he could hear the receptionist’s scream as the beast finally sprang to life beneath him. Inadvertently, he had wheelied his way out of the car park, barely in control of anything, let alone his imagination.
The cops are coming. I’ll get done for murder or accessory to murder. I’ll never get away from this nightmare life. If I’m lucky, I’ll just crash into a juggernaut and the pain will be over.
His head had been full of foul noise on the short journey to the rendezvous point, where Conky had been due to meet him with a stolen car, engine already running: the sound of mucus inside Brummie Kev’s gullet, gurgling as he had pointlessly fought strangulation at the iron hand of the Loss Adjuster; the dull, squelching sound as Conky had hacked away at the poor bastard’s slippery, unyielding head with one of the cannabis-farmer’s machetes.
The Cover Up Page 9
