The Cover Up

by Marnie Riches

  Rain started to pit the ground suddenly and with gusto. Paddy looked around but there was no place to shelter.

  Contemplating seeking sanctuary from the weather in the pub, he had only walked twenty metres or so when the diesel rumble of a van’s engine heralded the arrival of his man.

  The white Transit rounded the corner. There he was, glowing in the cab. Hank the Wank. Club Tropicana in white overalls. Beeping.

  ‘All right, Pad?’ Hank shouted through the open passenger window. He opened the door. ‘Get in, mate!’

  Paddy was aware of red mist gathering in the periphery of his vision. Threatening to descend all the faster in the rain. The Rage was all that was keeping him warm. ‘Keep your voice down, dickhead.’

  Clambering in, Paddy listened to his oldest school friend wax lyrical about the highs and lows of the building trade, the weather, the recent closure of the Mancunian Way and how Tony Foley from school had carked it from cancer only last week.

  ‘How do you like?’ Hank said. ‘Poor bastard was given weeks. Weeks, Pad! They opened him up, took one look and sent him home. He was riddled with it.’

  Thinking of the scar tissue that was a constant, aching reminder of his own mortality, thanks to Leviticus Bell, Paddy grabbed Hank’s hand as he changed gear.

  ‘Ow! What you doing? Get off!’

  Between gritted teeth, he let a little of The Rage speak. ‘I don’t pay you to gossip like a frigging bird. I pay you to be my eyes and my ears. Right? So stop giving me earache about Tony sodding Foley. He was always a loser. I didn’t give a shit about him at school, and I don’t give a shit about him now he’s dead.’ He released his pincer-grip on Hank’s hand. Caught sight of the undulating Pennines in the distance as they gunned from Radcliffe New Road onto Bury New Road. The hills were studded with giant wind turbines. A rare sight for a man who had spent most of his adult life on the flatter south side of town. ‘What I give a shit about is information on my business interests and my slag of a widow. Tell me what that bug-eyed bastard Conky McFadden has been doing with Sheila.’

  They walked through the rain-soaked bustle of Bury market, past the rainbow-coloured palettes of the fruit and veg stalls, the tarp-covered offerings of M&S seconds; distracted by bold flashes of red inside portable chiller cabinets where florid slabs of locally reared meat had been laid out with artistry, clashing with cheese wheels and yoghurt that was displayed on viper-green synthetic grass; almost bumping into fat garlands of black pudding that hung from the supporting beams of stalls that drip-dripped with residual rainwater. It was dizzying and overwhelming for Paddy, whose new life was perpetually grey and limited.

  Hank spoke of Conky, staying over at Sheila’s, night after night.

  ‘I seen them kissing in that Rolls of hers,’ he said. ‘Like a couple of teenagers.’

  The rain stung Paddy’s reddened skin. He punched a black pudding hard, sending it flying into the queue of meat-shoppers, waiting to place their orders for a Sunday joint.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Enough. I get the picture. What about this Bancroft business? If she’s not farmed out the protection and drugs, who’s doing collections? Conky and Degsy?’

  Hastening into the mid-century arched halls of the indoor market, they found a café and sat at a battered Formica table for two, surrounded by unwitting, damp shoppers who guzzled strong tea, beans on toast and ham butties. Paddy’s careful eyes were everywhere, sizing up the clientele to check for Boddlington crew. His attentions flicked dismissively over the two Asian pensioners at the next table who were deep in conversation, rattling on in some foreign language. One of them put him in mind of that ponce, Tariq Khan, if he had a white beard and wore one of those astrakhan hats and a pair of brown pyjamas under his coat. But they all looked the same to Paddy. This old feller was all ‘blah, blah, blah’ at his mate, whose chest rattled with an ungodly cough.

  Nobody of any interest to him. Good.

  ‘Not Conky,’ Hank said, slurping his tea. Rubbing his drum-tight skin with a rugged hand that was at odds with the rest of him. Clean fingernails, though. ‘She’s got Gloria Bell doing her dirty work.’

  ‘You’re having me on!’ Paddy threw his head back and guffawed with laughter. ‘What’s she threatening them with? Hellfire and damnation?’

  Hank shrugged. Smiled. Looked smug. ‘I’ll get the full story soon enough. No danger. Wanna know why?’

  Leaning in to hear Hank’s daft revelation – no doubt inspired by some FBI conspiracy bullshit he’d read about on the web – something was playing out on the periphery of Paddy’s vision. Or was it? Did he simply need a whisky and chaser, rather than the strong tea? He blinked repeatedly, processing the information. Could have sworn that the old Asian at the next table had just taken out his phone and snapped a hasty photo of him.

  ‘Woah! Woah! Hang on!’ he said, holding a hand up in front of Hank’s flushed face. Turned to study the elderly men.

  But there was no sign of any phone or even an indication that either of the two old men had given him so much as a second glance. They were still deep in conversation – animated chatter; waving their hands. Eyes on each other and their coffees.

  Paddy took a slurp of his tea and frowned. Shook his head like a wet dog. Back to matters in hand. Abruptly, he grabbed Hank by the straps of his overalls.

  ‘Listen, Sherlock. Keep tabs on Sheila. I wanna know if she farts out of line. I’m gonna bring that disloyal cow down, if it’s the last thing I do. And find me the address of Lev Bell or you’re dead.’

  Chapter 19

  Sheila

  ‘We’ve still got five outstanding payments,’ Gloria said, scanning a hand-written list through her purple-framed glasses. Her eyes were twice their normal size through the thick lenses. Mascara on those eyelashes. She counted the names on her fingers. Painted nails, today, for some reason. All very unlike Gloria. ‘The Nun’s Head, Bayswater Brasserie, Saffy’s Wine Bar, Pizzeria Pancetta and Pete’s Pint & Pie Emporium.’ She removed her glasses, leaving them to hang on the chain around her neck. They sat low on her chest, threatening to disappear down her uncharacte‌ristically low-cut top.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ Sheila asked, scrutinising her business partner for signs of illness.

  Gloria beamed at her. ‘Oh, yes. Never better.’ Her breath steamed on the air of the builders’ merchant’s back office. She seemed unperturbed by the cold. Also unusual. Turning her attention back to her notes, she peered through her granny’s jam-jar-bottom reading specs. ‘I managed to get what was due from all the others, and I have their assurances that they’ll not be late again.’ Looked up at Sheila with those giant googly gobstoppers. Except there was more than optometry in play here. There was unbridled excitement in Gloria’s eyes.

  ‘Out with it,’ Sheila said. ‘I know you’re dying to tell me.’

  Giggling like an embarrassed schoolgirl, Gloria dug into her neck with one of those painted nails. ‘No. I mustn’t bore you with my little stories of romantic triumph.’ Hands flapping dismissively.

  ‘Please yourself,’ Sheila said, looking around the freezing, spartan back office and wondering whether this was still a sensible location in which to conduct her business. Just because Paddy had always used it didn’t mean she had to. It was surely a safety risk to be holed up in a shitty area in the back of beyond, sandwiched between the isolation of a nature reserve and the impenetrable concrete whirl of the M60. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about leasing an office in town …’

  But Gloria wasn’t listening. She had already leaned in with a conspiratorial air and was chewing on one of the arms of her glasses. ‘So, you know I went on that lunchtime date with Bob from speed-dating, right?’

  Sighing, Sheila sat back in the threadbare desk chair. Nodding occasionally to make it look like she was listening to her business partner.

  ‘I never, ever thought all that nonsense would be for me, Sheila.’ Hand on her chest again like she was some two-bit actress in B
Movie of the week, confessing to scandalous behaviour. ‘I mean, honestly! Courting when you’re young is one thing. But dating at my age is such a forward thing to do. I’d almost class it as the pastime of wanton hussies. You know? Those sorts that do vajazzles.’ She whispered ‘vajazzles’ as though the word might burn her tongue. ‘But I’m glad you talked me into it because …’

  When is the hammer gonna fall? Sheila replayed the scene of Brummie Kev’s beheading over and over in her mind’s eye. A scene of horror she wished she could forget. Wished she could dispel the rotten realisation that her lover had coolly despatched the young grass as though he had been simply preparing meat for dinner. And the very suggestion she should sell out to the Boddlingtons! Conky thinks I’m nothing more than a little woman who should sell out and stick to dolling myself up. And he’s a damned psychopath, same as Paddy. What the hell have I got myself into?

  But Gloria was unaware that her captive audience of one was anything but in thrall to this tale of being wooed and seduced. ‘And he said to me that I had the nicest timbre to my voice that he’d ever heard. I mean, how about that for charming? Timbre’s such a sophisticated word for a man who works in property development. Don’t you reckon?’

  Sheila nodded, without having absorbed a single word about timbre or property development. Nigel Bancroft’s not the sort of man to take a statement like a head in a tub lying down, she thought. The more time had elapsed since Lev had delivered her message, the larger the paranoia loomed. Or did I really scare Bancroft off? Am I safe?

  ‘You know,’ Gloria continued, taking her phone from her handbag. ‘He’s not my usual type at all. He steals cutlery from restaurants! He nicked a steak knife from where we had lunch. Can you get over it? Said it was his little foible. But he’s so flattering and so persistent. And considerate too. He’s asked for another rendezvous. Look at the flowers he sent afterwards! I wouldn’t give him my home address, of course. But he sent them to the church. Fancy that!’

  Sheila was dimly aware of a photo of lilies and roses in shades of pink being thrust in her face. She pushed the phone down, smiling encouragingly, though the fear was really starting to kick in in earnest. Perhaps she’d drunk too much coffee. ‘That’s really nice, Glo.’

  Flick flick through Gloria’s gallery, past photographs of happy-looking, smartly dressed black women outside the church that Gloria went to. A couple of snaps of Jay, pushing a brick cart around the living room of the rented semi. Then, an unfamiliar dayglo face, topped with white hair, gelled into ridiculous spikes and bisected by an almost ultraviolet grin.

  ‘This is him. Bob. He’s a bit … But obviously takes pride in his appearance.’ Gloria chewed on her lip. ‘I mean, he’s got hair and clearly looks after his teeth, which is not bad, is it? At our age! He’s not the pastor, but—’

  When the firebomb hit the office, the entire Portakabin structure shook. Sheila was lifted off her feet and hurled to the opposite side of the office, as though a giant had picked the flimsy building up and flung it to the ground in anger. Shards of glass and splintered wood were flying everywhere. All she could feel was the searing heat and blinding light of a fireball that quickly started to gobble up the sticks of cheap furniture in the room.

  Nigel Bancroft. It could only be.

  But where was Gloria? Whimpering as she scrambled to her knees, wafting the acrid, roiling funnels of black smoke away, Sheila spied her business partner stretched out on the ground with arms akimbo like some ragdoll thrown away in temper by a spoiled child. Crawling over to her, dodging the terrifying fury of the flames, she grabbed the unconscious Gloria by the upper arm. Dragged her beneath a desk, just as there was a secondary explosion. Sunspot hot. A plume of fire and a deafening blast that made her ears ring.

  Get Conks.

  On the other side of the flimsy plasterboard wall, Sheila could hear men shouting. The lads who ran the shop. She tried to call out to them but the thick smoke snuffed out the words in her throat. Reaching for her phone, she realised she had missed calls. Conky. She dialled him.

  He picked up on the first ring.

  ‘She. I’ve heard. I’m on my way. Nearly there. Are you safe?’

  She screamed in response, part of the ceiling collapsing on the desktop above. ‘Help! Help! I can’t breathe.’

  ‘Get out of there, for Christ’s sake. You’ll die of smoke inhalation.’

  Fire raging in front of the window. No escape there.

  Leaving the phone on Gloria’s stomach with the call still running, Sheila crawled to the door. Grabbed the handle but was forced to let go of the scaldingly hot metal as it hissed and started to weld itself to her delicate skin. Kicked at it to attract attention.

  ‘Help! Help us!’

  No answer. She guessed that the sales lads were outside, scratching their arses and waiting for the fire brigade.

  Sirens in the distance, heralding half-hope. Providing they were quick enough …

  Retreating to the phone, feeling woozy and barely aware of the tears that rolled onto her cheeks, she shouted to Conky. ‘We’re trapped! There’s no way out. We’re gonna die!’

  She dropped her lifeline to the outside world, feeling suddenly sleepy and overwhelmed. Imagined picking up a chair and hurling it through the wall but realised it was mere fantasy of an overheated mind that was becoming rapidly oxygen-starved. She took Gloria’s limp hand into hers. She closed her eyes, wondering if death by asphyxiation would hurt. Felt regret at being too weak after all. Certain that Paddy would have found a way out. At least the girls were well provided for, as long as Ellis James and that tax bitch kept their noses out of her business.

  This was it. Salient thought had all but left her. All was black.

  This was the end.

  Chapter 20

  Youssuf

  ‘Dad, I think you should just stay home and watch some telly,’ Tariq said, absently flicking through the morning paper. ‘Cash in the Attic’s on later. You like that.’

  Youssuf eyed his son’s youthful clothing – a lumberjack shirt and jeans with too many zips and pockets. Tariq dressed like a teenager. It wasn’t befitting of a middle-aged law graduate. None of it was. ‘All the sacrifices me and your mother made …’ He shook his head, examined the myriad of tablets in the egg cup that Anjum had doled out for him. Emptied the medication onto his tongue and downed the lot with a mouthful of bitter black coffee.

  Tariq looked up at him, finally. So much like his mother, in some ways. The same large, brown almond-shaped eyes, fringed with thick black lashes that Saffiya had had. But the thick eyebrows that bunched together quizzically were Youssuf’s genes coming through. ‘What’s that got to do with Cash in the Attic?’

  Saffiya. Youssuf acknowledged the ache in his heart as he thought about his wife. He felt the larger capsules lodge uncomfortably in his throat. Another sip of coffee would push them down, along with perhaps a bite of the toast he couldn’t quite face.

  ‘It’s a good job your mother isn’t alive to see what you’ve become, Tariq Khan. A hoodlum. A liar. A husband with a discontented wife. Don’t think I haven’t noticed there’s bad feeling between you and Anjum. She knows, doesn’t she? That you’re a criminal!’

  ‘Oh, this again?’ Tariq closed and folded the newspaper into a perfect, tight rectangle. Checked over his shoulder, presumably to ensure that Anjum wasn’t within earshot. ‘I thought we’d dropped the subject of what I do for a living when you had a little think about the prospect of going into some grotty NHS nursing home in Cheetham because I’ve gone straight and have to get rid of all my assets. That’s the alternative, Dad!’ He lowered his voice. ‘And my relationship with my wife is nothing for you to concern yourself with. In fact, Anjum’s the last of my worries. I’m more bothered about Jonny. He’s not pulling his weight. He’s too busy feeling sorry for himself.’ He drew breath to reel off yet more excuses for his shameful activities.

  ‘Do you think it’s acceptable to be brawling in public with petty criminal
s?’ Youssuf asked.

  ‘The guys at the car wash, again? They were going to kidnap you, Dad. The other day, you were congratulating yourself for having had a go at one of them with your stick!’

  ‘If you led a clean life, you wouldn’t need to threaten thugs from a rival gang in the street. Nobody would be trying to bundle me into a van.’

  ‘Eat your toast, Dad. You shouldn’t take your pills on an empty stomach.’

  ‘I don’t want my toast.’ Youssuf pushed the plate away and levered himself gingerly off the kitchen bar stool. ‘You can help me get dressed and then I’m going out.’

  Rising from his own seat, Tariq reached out to steady him, passing him his stick. ‘You’re not going out. It’s dangerous. I thought we’d agreed.’

  Sticking his chin out in defiance, Youssuf snatched the walking stick. The confrontation had set his pulse racing. His lungs struggled to keep up. ‘I didn’t agree to anything. I went to Bury the other day with a friend, if you must know. And I was fine. I don’t have to hide myself away, watching rubbish on the television. I’m an honest man. A god-fearing man.’

  As his son took him gently by the elbow, steering him towards his own downstairs bathroom, Youssuf tried repeatedly to shake him off.

  ‘Please just stay in for a bit, Dad. Until things calm down. My business rival died in the spring. There’s lots of bad types running around and new people trying to flex their muscles. Manchester’s like a volcano waiting to erupt. It’s all just a bit—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it!’ Youssuf said, wondering whether he should mention the photograph he had taken of the unpleasant-looking character in the café, who had cursed too much and spilled his tea in anger before storming out on his companion. Youssuf was certain he had read the man’s obituary in the newspaper earlier in the year. Hadn’t he been referred to as a suspected crime boss? Hadn’t Tariq said he had gone to the funeral, no less? No. He would keep this little nugget to himself for now and do a little investigation. He wasn’t in his dotage just yet. ‘I just want things to be the way they were. I want my freedom back. I want my health. I want to show my face at the mosque and not feel shame. You don’t even listen to me, Tariq.’ He stopped just outside the bathroom, fixing his son with an accusatory stare. ‘It’s like I’m invisible just because I’m old. When was the last time you took my wishes into consideration? Eh?’