The Cover Up

by Marnie Riches

  Tariq opened and closed his mouth. Seemingly chewing over an appropriate answer. ‘I’m coming with you to Mecca. I’m trying.’

  ‘If a donkey goes to Mecca, when he comes back, he’s the same donkey! You need to give your dodgy business up, son. Turn your face to virtue and your back to vice. Set a good example for your children!’

  But his son may as well have stuck his fingers in his ears. ‘Let’s get you ready. I’ll wipe down one of the sun loungers so you can get some fresh air in the back garden, if you like.’

  Tariq smiled and tried anew to steer him into the bathroom.

  It was like talking to a brick wall, Youssuf mused. Stubborn. The boy was like his mother in that respect too.

  ‘It comes to something when the only person who listens to me is Colin Chang.’

  ‘Your pharmacist? You’re not still going on about him, are you? You said he’d gone away.’

  ‘Not gone away. Gone missing. I think he’s got into trouble with the wrong sort.’

  ‘Is that what you want, Dad? Do you want to go missing? Because that’s the kind of thing that could happen to you. Someone, like those scumbags in the black van, is going to get a grip of you so they can get at me. You need to be careful, Dad. No wandering the streets. Not in your condition.’

  As Tariq turned on the taps of the shower and laid out a clean towel, a plan started to formulate in Youssuf’s mind. His son was unyielding and controlling, forgetting who was the elder and wiser. That much was clear. Some subterfuge and a little light rebellion was therefore in order if Youssuf were to reclaim any of his lost dignity.

  ‘Okay. You win,’ he said. ‘You go to work. Anjum’s back from the school run soon. She’s working from home today, isn’t she? She’ll make me a nice lunch. I’ll watch the TV. Satisfied?’

  The brilliant smile lit up his son’s handsome face. ‘Great, Dad. Thanks.’

  Grunting softly as he alighted from the bus, Youssuf bid the driver a friendly farewell and turned towards his planned destination. Leaning on his stick, he gave himself a few moments to catch his breath. Enjoyed the feel of the weak Mancunian sun on his face – such a rarity in this almost perpetually grey place, where the damp crept into his bones. Thought wistfully of the blue skies back home; vivid green palms and the flame-coloured flowers of the Gul Mohr trees providing a bright foil to bleached-out streets. Cheering himself with the thought of their planned trip during Hajj. At least it would be nice and hot in Saudi Arabia, though he wasn’t looking forward to the long flight. Or going with Tariq, for that matter, which rendered the pilgrimage a sham. That boy needed reining in.

  Youssuf sighed. Then started the trek along the cracked slabbed pavement – heavy going in his sandals. He had told Anjum he was merely going for a walk in Boddlington Park. But there was no need for either his son or his daughter-in-law to keep tabs on him now that he was returning to better health.

  He straightened himself up, ignoring the dragging ache of the scar tissue. Grit your teeth and get on with it, Youssuf. The man with a white beard and toothless gums must still attend to worldly affairs. His family was under threat; under surveillance by a detective who had slipped him his business card. His favourite pharmacist was missing. A crime boss claiming to be dead was not dead. Here were mysteries that needed solving, and Youssuf had nothing but time on his hands and zero interest in daytime TV.

  When he arrived outside the pharmacy, his heart leaped at the sight of the raised shutters. The sign on the door said it was open for trading. He smiled. Pleased with himself, as though he had caused this about-turn in Colin Chang’s fortunes, whatever they might be. Delighting in the prospect of being able to sit and chat amiably to the nice young man while his assistant prepared his medications.

  ‘Morning!’ Youssuf said to the girl behind the counter. He drank in the familiar smell of cardboard packaging and pine disinfectant. Toiletries on display in glass cabinets. An array of over-the-counter medication on the shelves and children’s colourful novelty hairgrips on the carousel. He approved of the old-fashioned feel. Here was a place where he was listened to and taken seriously. ‘I’m pleased to see Colin is back. How are you, my dear?’

  The harried-looking assistant put a pile of prescriptions into a toothpaste-green plastic basket. ‘Colin’s not here,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a temporary pharmacist. He’s in the back. Do you want to see him?’

  ‘No,’ Youssuf said, the smile evaporating and leaving only a residue of disappointment on his lips. ‘I hoped to catch up with Mr Chang. I had things I wanted to tell him. About a loft extension I’m designing for a young couple. He was interested.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked, pushing her glasses up her nose. Chewing gum like a masticating cow.

  Way too young. Way too pushy.

  ‘Where is Colin?’ Youssuf took a seat and sat expectantly with his walking stick between his knees. Feeling his warfarin-thin blood succumb to the cold in the shady shop, despite the thick cardigan, slacks and woollen socks he had put on. Shouldn’t have worn the sandals.

  ‘I can’t say where Mr Chang is, I’m afraid,’ she said, focusing studiously on the basket. ‘He’s still away.’

  ‘Away where?’

  ‘Further away.’

  ‘Has he gone on one of his nice trips to Hong Kong? I like to hear about those. He shows me the photos when he gets back.’ Youssuf tried to read the girl’s expression and suddenly realised she was hiding the truth. The bad feeling he had had when the shutters had been down during the summer returned. ‘Tell me where I can find him. I’d like to send him a letter.’

  The girl scowled and looked him up and down like a security guard at the airport, suspecting every brown man of hiding plastic explosives in his pants. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘Young lady,’ he said, levering himself out of the chair and pointing his stick towards her, ‘I’ve been coming here for over ten years. Just because I’m a customer doesn’t mean Colin Chang and I don’t like each other as people. A man can become friends with a professional associate over that length of time. But you wouldn’t know, because you’ve only been serving here for two years and have never so much as asked me how I am.’

  The girl looked crestfallen and duly admonished. Youssuf knew he had wedged his sandaled foot in the door of her guilty conscience.

  After half an hour of ingratiating himself with the temporary pharmacist and chivvying on the assistant, she had let slip that Colin Chang was in ‘a spot of bother with some unsavoury types’.

  He walked out of the old-fashioned chemist clutching a piece of paper with an address on it.

  Chapter 21

  Sheila

  The din of something heavy being hurled against the Portakabin wall roused Sheila. How long had she been out for? She had no clue. Pure daylight flooded in where all had previously been engulfed in smoke and hellfire. She was dimly aware of a tall figure, clad in black, discarding a lump hammer; running through the flames towards her. Realised she was being hoisted onto one of Conky’s shoulders, Gloria over the other. Then all was dark until she woke to find a paramedic placing an oxygen mask over her face.

  ‘Get this sodding thing off me,’ she cried, wrenching it off her head. ‘I’m fine.’

  Woozy and confused, the sense of urgency percolated through the smoke damage to her brain almost immediately. She realised her hand was encased inside Conky’s. Shook him away.

  ‘I don’t need saving!’ she shouted. Easy to say, now she was free of the burning wreckage. Kicking out at the male paramedic who was trying to get a blood pressure cuff around her arm. ‘Where’s Glo? Where’s my business partner?’

  She expected to hear Gloria, perhaps only some feet away, strapped to an ambulance gurney, just as she had been, spouting the Bible.

  ‘Gloria’s gone off to hospital,’ Conky said, stroking her brow.

  ‘What do you mean? Where is she? I want to see her!’ Sheila coughed and spluttered her demands.

  So
ft fingers through her hair. Trailing gently over her chin. Conky had taken off his glasses and was gazing into her eyes with evident adoration. ‘She was out cold, darling, but they said her vital signs were fine. They’ve got to give her a brain scan and some oxygen. They’re going to keep her in for observation. Don’t worry yourself, my love.’ Conky’s voice was soothing and placatory like a father trying to calm a fraught toddler.

  ‘Sod it, Conky! Get off me, will you?’ Pushing his hand away, she registered the disappointment in the way that his smiling, craggy, smoke-smudged face fell. But sitting up, trying to unbuckle herself with clumsy fingers amid wracking coughing, there was only space in her mind for thoughts of home. Get behind those tall gates. Gather her composure. Call Bancroft. Confront the bastard. Sort this nonsense out.

  ‘Sheila!’ the paramedic said, placing his hand on hers in an attempt to stop her escape. ‘Sheila! I need you to rest and put the mask back on. Come on, love. Let’s get you checked out.’

  She peered at his neck, trying to focus on the red patch where he had been overzealous with a razor. ‘It’s Mrs O’Brien to you, pal, and I’m not your love.’ Finally, the buckle came loose. She swung her legs over the side of the gurney and stood up. Dizzy. Her ears rang with tinnitus from the blast. But there was no need for these men to see her weakness. Plunging her hand into her jacket pocket, she felt for her car keys. Still there. But no phone. She reasoned she must have dropped it when she passed out. She’d have to get a new one. Shit. No way of calling anyone until she was home, anyway.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Conky said, trying to take her arm.

  ‘Leave me alone, for Christ’s sake!’

  Fending off his overbearing attentions by shaking him loose, she drank in the extent of the damage. Paddy’s builders’ merchants had had it. The shopfront was a jumble of smashed glass, buckled window frames and stud walls that had been reduced to a pile of firewood. All that remained of the back office were some supporting beams, charred and smouldering. Fat jets of water from the firemen’s hoses blasted what was left of the Portakabin, smothering the final daring coils of thick, black smoke that belched from within. Sheila privately acknowledged she had had a near miss. Next time, she realised, she might not be so lucky.

  When a Police squad car pulled in behind the fire engines, she galvanised herself into action. Time to go. Sharpish.

  She grabbed Conky’s arm in a placatory gesture. ‘My Mam’s expecting me to turn up to her ladies’ darts tournament tonight. I’m not letting her down.’

  ‘You can’t drive, Sheila. It’s dangerous. You passed out.’

  He made a grab for the car fob in her hand but she weaved out of his reach.

  Focus on getting in the car, She. Don’t let Conky tell you what to do. Just crawl back to Bramshott. You can pull into a layby if you feel weird. You don’t need saving. ‘I’m going home to ring Lev and sort my head out. As soon as you can, try and get in that back office and find my phone. I can’t have the coppers getting hold of it. It’s got all sorts on the SIM card. Conversations between you and me. Offshore banking information for “Scrubbers”. Correspondence from that Bancroft. Contacts for every single player in the O’Brien firm. That phone could have us all chucked in clink. And we’re gonna have to give the police a statement for the insurance. I can’t face it. You stay and speak to them.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘That’s an order, Conky. Sort this crap out. That’s what I pay you for.’

  She took the M60 back in Paddy’s diminutive million-pound Bugatti, sandwiched between two heavy goods vehicles, crawling at a snail’s pace the super-car had never been intended to endure. Checking her mirrors, she prayed she wouldn’t be spotted in the heavy traffic of the slow lane should Conky come after her. No phone meant no interruptions. No chance for the police to quiz her.

  Get home. Check everything’s okay. Call the girls. Come on! Come on!

  She imagined the damage Bancroft and his firebombs might do to her precious home. Found she was holding her breath and was then rewarded with a coughing fit that almost made her swerve from her lane. The driver of the HGV behind her honked his horn angrily.

  ‘Cock off, pal!’ she told his reflection in her mirror.

  Got to ring the girls. Got to see they’re safe.

  Finally, the Trafford Centre was within sight. Though her lungs felt like they had been filled with cement, her ears buzzed and her head throbbed, she was almost home. With careful negotiation of the M56, she made it back to Bramshott, steering the Bugatti carefully through the security gates. No sign of any sabotage.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered to the shards of jagged crystal in the contemporary chandelier that cascaded down from the first floor.

  But she had been inside for no more than five minutes when the buzzer sounded. Somebody at the gates. Feeling the blood drain from her prickling lips, she padded across the oak floor to check the CCTV, wondering if she’d need to head for the panic room that had been installed just before Paddy’s death. On the screen was a man in dark clothing with a neat beard. Youngish. Didn’t look like one of Bancroft’s. In his hand, she could see an envelope. Could he be a bailiff of the court? Was it some kind of a trap? The light-headedness was back, threatening to knock her to the ground.

  ‘Yes?’ she said via the intercom.

  ‘Delivery for Mrs O’Brien. Needs a signature.’

  His voice was steady. He looked straight into the camera’s lens. Nothing to hide?

  ‘Show us your ID.’

  The card that he held up to the screen was attached to a lanyard around his neck. It seemed legit. He was a courier. She buzzed him in, noting the baseball bat that was in the umbrella stand by the door.

  Having snatched the envelope from him, the man started to rub his hands together. ‘Getting parky, isn’t it?’

  She said nothing, signed his hand-held device and slammed the door in his face. Watched him disappear down the path and through the gates. But what was in the bloody envelope? Some deadly chemical that spies killed each other off with? Ricin or anthrax, maybe?

  ‘Oh, get on with it, Sheila. Open the sodding thing.’

  Tearing at the seal, she whimpered as she withdrew a photograph of her two daughters, Amy and Dahlia, clearly taken at their father’s funeral. Amy, with her strawberry blonde hair peeping from beneath her hat. That smattering of freckles across her nose. Reminiscent of her father, but all Sheila in temperament. Dahlia in her lawyer’s suit, all dark hair and eyes like Sheila’s Dad. Her girls. Her precious girls.

  ‘Oh, Jesus. No!’

  Dropping the photograph to the floor, she ran to the landline on the kitchen island. Amy’s number was on speed dial. No answer. But she had the mobile number of her neighbour in the student halls where she lived. She dialled. Waited for what seemed like an age.

  ‘Yeah?’ A boy, trying to sound nonchalant but polite. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Hiya. I’m trying to get hold of my daughter, Amy O’Brien. Have you seen her, lovey? Please?’

  ‘She’s in the kitchen, I think. Hang on.’

  Agonising moments as the boy shuffled off to find her daughter. The pitter-patter and squeak of someone running down the corridor in trainers.

  ‘Mum?’

  Sheila bit back the tears when she heard Amy’s voice. ‘Are you okay, love?’

  ‘Yeah. Why?’

  But there was little time to explain. Sheila gave a swift, believable excuse, told her daughter to be watchful and to stay close to her pals at all times. Nigel Bancroft would have trouble getting to Amy, with all the locks and key-coded systems in halls. There was safety in numbers, and communal living would be Amy’s saviour, should anybody try to harm her. Of that, Sheila was certain.

  She hung up, dialling Dahlia. Would her eldest be in a meeting or in court?

  Mercifully, she was put through to her immediately by her secretary. ‘Please tell me you’re okay.’

  ‘Of course! Why? Listen, Mum. I’m
knee-deep in reading through a contract. Are you all right?’

  Dahlia’s rich, calm, educated voice made Sheila’s heart slow a little. Of course Dahlia was fine. She was capable and intelligent, ensconced in the high-security offices of a City of London law firm. Nigel Bancroft couldn’t touch her at work. But her living arrangements were a different proposition altogether. Dahlia had always cherished her independence.

  ‘I’m fine, love. Just fine. I guess I wanted to hear your voice.’

  ‘Well, er, now you have.’

  ‘Listen, Dahlia, love. Watch your back.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘I’m just having a spot of bother with the business. You know how it is. Rich people attract enemies. I don’t want my girls getting tangled up with my crap. I think you should go and stay at a friend’s for a couple of nights, though. Or book into a hotel. I’ll pay.’

  ‘Why the hell should I do that?’

  ‘It’s important, Dahlia. Please. Promise me you’ll do it. Just a few days. Please.’

  ‘No. I don’t want to. I’ve got people coming for dinner tonight. I’m certainly not shipping out if you won’t tell me why.’

  ‘I can’t tell you why. Just do it, will you? Please. For me.’

  Couldn’t Dahlia hear the urgency in her mother’s voice? She always had had Paddy’s headstrong streak.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Oh, all right then.’