Unquiet Souls: a DI Gus McGuire case

by Mistry, Liz

  ‘They sit round the table in there.’ He gestured towards the curtained kitchen. ‘They’ve got a sort of production line going. One rolls the dough, the second shapes them into triangles, the third fills and the fourth seals them.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah Mo, I get it; they make bloody samosas. What’s the problem?’

  ‘That’s just it.’ Mo caught up in his tale, forgot to lower his voice. ‘I’ve got no problem with their samosa making. It’s their…’ he swallowed and lowered his head, ‘It’s their conversation.’

  Gus frowned, not getting it. ‘You can’t expect them to work in silence, Mo.’

  Mo wafted his hands in front of him. ‘No, no, I don’t. Course they can talk.’ He flung his hands up into the air. ‘It’s not them talking that’s the issue. It’s what they’re talking about that’s the problem.’

  From the corner of his eye, Gus saw the beaded curtain twitch and was about to warn his friend, when Mo said, ‘They’re always going on about their underwear and what their husbands like them to wear and Ann Summers and stuff.’ Mo raked his fingers through his thick hair. ‘It’s not like I can talk about it to Naila, is it? And if I say owt to them they’ll think I’ve been ear-wigging into their conversations. They might think I’m a pervert and tell their husbands. It’s driving me bloody mad.’

  Gus, aware that the women from the kitchen were gathered in the doorway listening with huge grins on their faces, tried to shut Mo up, but he was in full flow now. ‘I’m no prude. I couldn’t care less about their red thongs and black bras and what not. But, it’s just a bit … TMI, you get it?’ He shifted on his stool. ‘Especially when I see their husbands at the mosque.’ He wrung his hands. ‘I shouldn’t know that sort of stuff about my friends’ wives. I wouldn’t want you to know stuff about Naila’s… you know... knickers.’

  Gus, really struggling not to laugh, saw one of the women put a finger over her mouth and wink. She crept quietly up behind Mo, carefully positioning the curtain behind her so the strands wouldn’t click together.

  Oblivious to Gus’s amusement, Mo continued in a pleading voice. ‘What shall I do, Gus?’ and then nearly fell off his stool when the woman behind him spoke right in his ear.

  ‘Oh, get a grip, Mo. We’ve been winding you up! Do you really think we’d discuss our knickers with you around?’

  The other three women high-fived each other as she prodded Mo’s arm. ‘You’re bloody daft Mo. Your Naila put us up to it, you know?’

  Mo gawped at them, speechless then wiped the back of his hand over his forehead. ‘So, Naila’s behind this is she? I’ll get my own back on her later. Thank God it’s all a joke. I was seriously thinking of changing mosques because of you lot. Now instead I’ll just dock your wages for cheeking me.’

  The women laughed and traipsed back through to the kitchen.

  Grabbing a napkin to wipe his streaming eyes Gus said, ‘You know, Mo? I’ve not felt so good for ages. Thanks for this.’

  Mo, hands on hips looked indignant ‘Thanks a lot for your support, mate. I think it’s about time you got back to work now. Get some normality back in your life. Go on, piss off.’ And he made shooing motions with his hands as, still laughing, Gus shrugged his coat back on, hugged Mo, and left.

  Chapter 20

  Monday 10:30am, Bradford

  The Facilitator studied the spreadsheet on his computer. ‘This is a disaster. Losing those assets has made a huge dent in the profits. Knew we shouldn’t have trusted that whore, but The Distributor vouched for her.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The Matchmaker lounged on the double bed, not caring that his shoes, still wet from the snow outside, were leaving muddy, damp marks on the white duvet. With his fingertips he rapped a rhythm on the bedside unit. ‘It’s not as if we need to justify our losses with the taxman, is it?’

  ‘Suppose not; but it’s a fucking mess. We’re going to need to acquire more assets to meet the current orders.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that: The Provider has it in hand. What’s more important now is moving forward. It’s time to deal with that other bitch. Her comeuppance is long overdue. Twelve years overdue, in fact. We need to get that little job started.’

  The Facilitator’s voice rose, ‘Look, you know I’m not convinced about this. Can’t you just let that lie? Our business is flourishing again now. Why rock the boat?’

  ‘I spent ages locating her and now that things are in place I’m not walking away. I will have my revenge. Have you forgotten how close we were to being caught? How much revenue we lost, not to mention the damage to our reputation? All because of her interference.’

  Head bowed, The Facilitator’s next words were spoken in a quiet voice. ‘I still think we should focus our energies on the current problems, namely reassuring our clients and acquiring new assets.’

  The Matchmaker’s mouth opened in a silent snarl. With effort, he relaxed his facial muscles before speaking. ‘There’s nothing to say we can’t combine the two, is there?’ He stood and took the single step necessary to reach the Facilitator and gripped the other man’s arm just a little too tightly. ‘Are you with me on this?’

  The Facilitator’s nervous swallow satisfied him that his lead would be followed. He released his grip and sat down on the edge of the bed avoiding the damp patch left by his shoes. Crossing his legs, he waited for the other man to speak.

  ‘Are we ready? Is everything in place?’ said The Facilitator, fiddling with the strap of his laptop bag.

  The Matchmaker grinned. All trace of his previous displeasure eradicated from his face. ‘Oh yes everything’s in place. It’ll happen tomorrow!’ He rubbed his hands together and jumped to his feet. Retrieving his coat from the flimsy wardrobe, he slipped it back on. It was still faintly warm. Sensing his colleague’s anxiety, he said, ‘Don’t worry. Everything’s under control. Trust me.’

  The Facilitator nodded once. Satisfied, The Matchmaker turned and left the hotel room. It had been risky meeting in a rooms-by-the-hour hotel, but he knew they weren’t too fussy. And, of course, he’d taken the usual precautions to protect himself, and he assumed The Facilitator would have done the same. Striding back toward Bradford City centre, beanie hat pulled over his forehead and scarf wound round his mouth, he knew he was unidentifiable. As he walked, he planned his next conversation. When he was ready, everything clear in his mind, he stepped inside an empty bus shelter, speed-dialled The Distributor’s number from his safe phone and waited.

  ‘Yep!’

  The Matchmaker scowled at the abrupt greeting, imagining the other man’s graceless bulk lounging in an unsavoury stained couch, beer cans and discarded food scattered around, the air soured by the pervading odour of days-old sweat. He began without preamble, his tone clipped and disapproving.

  ‘Yet again you’ve fucked up and, yet again, I’m not impressed. Damn shoddy work if I’m honest, damn shoddy.’

  Hearing the other man’s laboured breathing down the phone, the Matchmaker, added the presence of a drugged-up whore and the lingering stink of stale sex to his previous image. His mouth curled in distaste as he paced back and forth in the confined space of the shelter. The Distributor really was an abominable creature.

  When he’d caught his breath enough to reply, The Distributor sounded defensive. ‘Well, it’s not as if we’ve lost much is it? Most of the little buggers were well used. Past their sell by dates. I think we got our money’s worth from them.’

  The Matchmaker snorted. ‘That’s really not the point, is it?’ he said, his voice curt.

  The Distributor remained silent.

  ‘This is bad management and now the problem isn’t that the police have our assets. It’s that they’ve also got a credible witness. One that isn’t too traumatised to speak!’ He paced his office and waited for The Distributor to realise who he meant.

  It took a minute, then in a stunned whisper, The Distributor said, ‘Shit, you mean her son?’

  ‘Exactly! Now we need to nullify the risk of him revealing crucial in
formation.’ He hesitated then delivered his final thrust. ‘Like a detailed description of the idiot who delivered the kids to his mother’s door. Do you understand?’

  The other man swallowed, and a satisfied smile spread over The Matchmaker’s face.

  ‘What shall we do?’

  The Matchmaker laughed. ‘We won’t do anything. You, however, need to nullify him.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you! You messed up, you sort it out. Today!’

  A moment’s hesitation, then reluctantly, ‘Yes, yes, ok, I’ll deal with the boy.’

  ‘Good, that’s sorted then.’ The Matchmaker smiled and, pacing suspended, delivered his sucker punch in a conversational tone. ‘Oh and we’ll be moving on to phase two tomorrow, by the way.’

  ‘What?’ Disbelief resonated through the phone. ‘Tomorrow? You can’t be serious!’

  ‘Oh but I am. Perfectly serious. School’s on holiday and they’re vulnerable right now. It’s the perfect opportunity. Don’t let me down.’

  Chapter 21

  Monday 11am, Bradford

  Mo’s samosa and spicy tea sat nicely in Gus’s stomach as he began the hike up Oak Lane to Lilycroft Police Station, home to Bradford CID. As he passed the bright blue painted medical centre he saw a group of women, two in headscarves and one in a full Burkha, with pushchairs approach it and realised it must be baby clinic day. A faint cry from one of the buggies made him smile.

  A crossroads marked the end of Oak Lane and the start of Lilycroft Road. Waiting for the lights to change, Gus studied the towering building opposite that he and his colleagues nicknamed The Fort. He sympathised with the local communities who’d protested that the huge sloping walls surrounding the station gave it a threatening air. So much for community policing, huh? Even the few children’s drawings, blown up and stuck to the walls failed to soften the ‘Big Brother’ feel of the building. Opposite The Fort, in complete contrast was the sand-blasted, newly refurbished Lister Mills Apartment Complex. Maintaining the outward appearance of the old wool mill, the complex consisted of up-market apartments. The force’s local spoon, The Chaat Café, was situated just along from it.

  Gus’s older sister Katie had bought one of the apartments, yet, despite its close proximity to his work, Gus rarely visited her. Something about the minimalist, too clean, too sparse décor made him yearn to muss up her Laura Ashley cushions and leave sweat marks on her glass coffee table by propping his feet on it, preferably after a long jog. Maybe he reverted back to childhood roles with Katie because they’d always been so different. He loved to annoy her and she loved to be annoyed with him… Natural sibling rivalry according to his mum.

  Since ‘the incident’ he’d avoided everyone, including Katie, whose insistent hovering had gradually reduced to the odd phone call and occasional family Sunday lunch, in light of his steadfast refusal to interact. He felt guilty that despite her best efforts, he’d shut her out, just like everyone else.

  The green man beeped and Gus crossed the road, the twinge in his hip telling him he’d overdone the walking today. A sudden impulse to see his sister, combined with the need for pain relief before facing his team, made him cross the road to her apartment complex rather than continuing up the incline to The Fort. Maybe he’d be lucky and she’d be home. If she was in, he’d share his good news, pop some painkillers and then head over to the station.

  Gus pressed the buzzer at the gated entrance and before long he saw a figure wearing a security guard uniform approach. The navy jumper stretched over the man’s generous belly and his peaked hat was tipped at a jaunty angle. If he hadn’t already known about ex-copper Frank Hobson’s leg injury, he wouldn’t have noticed the slight drag of his right leg.

  ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t DI Dread McGuire. Hold on and I’ll buzz you through.’

  Gus grinned, as the gate opened. He stepped through and was immediately pulled into a gentle hug. ‘Good to see you, Frank, didn’t know you’d started here. How’re tricks?’ he said, extricating himself.

  ‘Started last week. Wife got fed up with me at home.’ Frank grinned. ‘What about you? Heard you’d been through the mill a bit yourself.’

  Gus nodded and pointed to his shoulder. ‘On the mend now, Frank. I’ve only popped in to see my sister, then I’m headed over there. Signed fit for work again at last.’

  ‘Didn’t know your sister lived here,’ said Frank. He lowered his voice. ‘Bloody tragic, that case your team caught yesterday. Bet they’ll be glad to have you back. Young Alice looked drained when I saw her in Chaat’s this morning.’

  Gus frowned. ‘I’m not up to speed yet. I know my dad looked pretty frazzled yesterday and Mo says it’s something to do with kids?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I heard too. It’s always a fucker when there’s kids involved.’ He pointed over Gus’s shoulder. ‘Must be serious because the vultures are out.’

  Gus glanced back towards The Fort where Frank was pointing. A huddle of hacks stood on the pavement, smoking and laughing, whilst a young Muslim woman with a pushchair struggled to edge past them without stepping onto the road. A yell came from the top of the station’s steps. Gus recognised the duty sergeant shouting at the reporters to stop causing an obstruction or risk spending a few hours in the cells. Gus smiled when he heard one of them shouting back that ‘It’d be a damn sight warmer in the cells’, whilst the others apologised profusely to the woman and moved to the side, leaving the pavement clear.

  With Frank, Gus walked across the square open-topped atrium that nestled under the surrounding flats. When they reached the shiny new lifts that snuggled discreetly near the entrance to the underground car park, Gus pressed the button.

  Frank jerked his head upward. ‘Can’t be doing with them flats, Gus, too damn clinical for my liking.’

  ‘God, I know, I prefer my own shabby, cluttered gaff to this, but each to their own, eh?’ said Gus, wondering what clutter he’d find when he returned to his own house.

  The lift door opened silently and with a nod to Frank, Gus stepped in and was whisked to the second floor. He exited and walked over to Katie’s front door – expensively fashioned from Nordic wood with overly-shiny chrome fittings – and pressed the bell. Moments later the intercom buzzed and a distorted female voice spoke.

  Gus, presuming the disjointed voice required identification, replied. ‘It’s your younger and much more attractive sibling, Katie, open up and let me in before I collapse in a heap at your door. My leg’s killing me.’

  There was a moment’s silence before Gus heard someone fumbling with the lock. Then the door was pulled open. The smile on his face faded. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

  The woman gripped the door tightly and said, ‘You look well, Gus.’

  Absent-mindedly rubbing his throbbing thigh, he studied her, trying to make sense of his estranged wife’s presence in his sister’s flat. Last time he’d seen her had been when she had told him she was leaving him, just before he was released from hospital. Now, three months later here she was. He released a guttural laugh and clicked his fingers together. ‘Do I? Of course you wouldn’t know how I am, Gabriella, because you haven’t seen me for three months, have you? Not since you dropped your little bombshell and then fucked off.’

  Gabriella’s eyes flashed at his words, but she remained silent, which annoyed Gus even more. What the fuck was she doing here, in Katie’s flat? He knew she’d cleared all her belongings from their marital home because his dad had told him, but no one seemed to know where she’d gone. Except Katie? Why the hell wouldn’t Katie tell him if she knew where she was? It didn’t make sense and now here she was looking up at him with those enormous chocolate button eyes shimmering with unshed tears. A flash of irritation made him glower at her. No way was her ‘poor little me’ act going to work on him. No fucking way. He’d been there and done that during their tempestuous marriage and, despite feeling let down when she’d walked out, his overwhelming feeling had been one of relief. He wouldn’
t fall for her tears now. She’d behaved despicably and he wanted to know why her exit from his life had been so abrupt.

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite your husband into his sister’s flat, huh, darling?’

  He saw a spark of anger in her eyes, but she opened the door wider and stepped back. ‘Come in then. Katie’s at work, though.’

  Stepping through the door onto the virgin wood floor he momentarily considered removing his shoes to protect the polished surface, but, all of a sudden, he felt drained and it seemed like just too much effort. Besides he felt angry with Katie for providing a safe haven for his estranged wife without telling him. A bit of melting snow on her beloved floor felt like just retribution.

  In tracksuit and slipper socks, brown hair tied in an untidy knot on the top of her head, Gabriella led the way through to the open-plan sitting area. Without waiting to be asked, Gus plonked himself down on the cream leather sofa and began to massage his thigh. She walked over to the adjoining kitchen area, leaned against the breakfast bar and folded her arms across her chest. Her fingers clenched and unclenched repeatedly against her upper arms. With a wary expression, she gestured to Gus’s leg. ‘You ok?’

  His dreads bounced as his head jerked up and he lasered her with a look. ‘What the fuck do you think, Gaby?’

  Her face paled and before she could reply Gus pushed himself from the soft cushions and walked over, stopping just in front of her. ‘Don’t try to excuse your behaviour, Gabriella,’ he said, each word staccato. ‘Three months you’ve had to make contact, three fucking months!’ His voice rose, ‘but no, not as much as a letter or a phone call. Nothing! Not a fucking thing!’

  Gabriella flinched as miniscule drops of spittle hit her face.

  He snorted and took a backward step. ‘What? You think I’m going to hit you?’

  She shook her head. He watched as a single tear ran down her cheek and he felt drained. When he finally spoke his voice was low. ‘Have I ever touched you? Hit you? Beat you?’