by Mistry, Liz
‘Where were the children?’
‘They were sat on the floor or on one of the shelves. They didn’t speak English ’cause I tried to speak to them upstairs but they couldn’t understand me.’
‘What was the van like outside. Did you get a number pate?’
‘Nah, not a number plate, but there was a picture of a mattress on the side and a name. Can’t remember what the name was. It was like it was a delivery van for mattresses.’
‘Anything else?’
Shrugging, Jamal shook his head.
Ishaq leaned forward. ‘Surely he can go now, detective. He’s exhausted and he’s only a kid. He needs to rest.’
Holding up one hand, Gus smiled. ‘Only a few more, Mr Asif, please.’ He turned to Jamal. ‘Did you see the man who shot at you today?’
‘No, it all happened so quickly. We didn’t get the chance before he’d driven off, did we, Ishaq?’
Ishaq shook his head. ‘All I saw was the black car, like I told the other officer.’
‘Ok, Jamal, you need to take a break, but after that shooting today we don’t want you to go back to your brother’s.’ He smiled at Ishaq. ‘We’ve had an officer outside your house all day, but we want to move your family and Jamal to a safe house for a few days, just as a precaution.’
Looking like he would’ve liked to argue, Ishaq grimaced, but then, with a tired sigh, he nodded.
‘We’ll take you and your brother to the house. Your wife and child will be brought over, too, and we’ll send the police artist to you tomorrow morning.’
Ishaq stood up, but Jamal hesitated and then picking up his phone, he started flicking through it.
Gus, sensing the boy’s excitement. waited until, face flushed, he yelled. ‘I’ve got it!’ A smile stretched over his face as he handed his phone to Gus. Gus took it and saw a photo of a man taken in dim light. He was lying down with his eyes shut in profile, but it was a start.
‘Sweaty man?’ said Gus
Disgust on his face, Jamal nodded. ‘I took it ages ago when he was asleep in my mum’s bed. It’s pretty crap because I was too scared to use the flash but I kept it just in case he ever touched Maryham or Rehana again.’
Heart thundering with excitement, Gus smiled. ‘You did good, son, you did good. But I’m going to have to keep your phone till our techie expert’s had a look at this.’
Chapter 35
Monday 8:30pm, Bradford
Nancy watched as Gus, unaware of her presence, stood in front of the board that held the photos of the children. Nancy could tell by the way he stood that his right leg was playing up. The sling supporting his left arm was twisted at the back over his shoulder and she guessed he’d only put it on when the rest of the team had gone home. She’d have words with him about that. After speaking in detail to his physio, she knew that, although he needed to strengthen his torn shoulder muscles by letting them support themselves for increasing periods, he also had to support it regularly to avoid over-stretching. She suspected Gus was blithely forgetting to pace himself and was reluctant to show weakness in front of the team.
He stretched out his right hand and traced the faces of each child individually. Nancy knew he would have committed to memory every detail about each child. Seeing his shoulders slump, she frowned and pushed herself away from the wall as he gently lowered himself onto the edge of his desk, arms crossed. Heedless of the paperwork being crushed beneath his buttocks, he remained engrossed in the photos. Three mismatched mugs stood among the disarray of folders cluttering his workspace. Circular coffee stains adorned its wooden surface with a couple of screwed-up wrappers and a half-full foil pill packet strewn alongside. Clearly he’d been there for a long time.
Summoning a bright smile from her drained reserves, she gently coughed. Gus started and then pivoted round on one heel to face her. Fleetingly, his handsome face looked haunted and involuntarily, Nancy shuddered. Doubt clenched her stomach and she felt nauseous. He’d worn that same look in the hospital six months ago and Nancy wanted to gather him in her arms and rock him like a baby. Her mind flashed to his mother, one of her best friends. Corrine would never forgive her if she’d made a mistake. Imagining what the tornado that was Gus’s petite half-Jamaican mother would do if she hurt her baby, Nancy touched her crucifix. Gus’s mum was no pushover. She’d fought her upbringing in a Scottish orphanage to become a paediatrician, first at the Sick Kids in Edinburgh and then at Jimmy’s in Leeds, until she’d packed it all in to do charitable work and explore her many artistic hobbies. Nancy was in no doubt that she’d suffer greatly if Gus flipped through coming back to work too soon.
Limping towards Nancy, his face transformed into a welcoming smile. She moved in and hugged him whispering in his ear. ‘It’s great to have you back. We’ve missed you.’
When he replied his voice was thick with emotion as he returned her hug. ‘Good to be back, Nance. Good to be back.’ He gestured to the kids on the wall behind him, his brow furrowed in anger. ‘We’ll get these bastards. I’ll make sure of it.’
‘I know you will. Now, what the bloody hell does a girl have to do around here to get a coffee?’
Flinging his head back, Gus guffawed; a sound that lifted her heart. He was so like his big bluff dad in many ways, yet he also had the gentle empathy of his mother. She watched as he went over to the coffee machine and poured them both a brew. When he’d added milk and sugar to hers and carried it back to his desk, she moved over and slid the chair out from the opposite side. Slipping her shoes off, she collapsed into it and with a sigh crossed her feet on the desk, revealing a hole in her tights. With an annoyed tut, she reached down and pulled it, making the hole substantially bigger in the process.
‘Maybe just stop pulling at it or it’ll unravel up to your armpits,’ said Gus.
She cast him a sharp look, then gave up and sank back in her chair, accepting the steaming mug he offered her. ‘New on today these were. Damn waste of money.’ She took a sip of her drink and spluttered in an exaggerated way before giving him a coy look. ‘Bloody awful coffee this, Gus. Got anything to take the edge off?’
Pushing his dreads back from his face, Gus laughed and opening his bottom drawer, he presented her with a bottle of twelve-year aged Glenmorangie Lasanta malt whisky. Pursing her lips, she nodded approvingly. ‘Better taste than your dad. I’ve always preferred a Glenmorangie to a Glenlivet. It’s the chocolatey toffee flavour that does it for me. It’s like drinking a Crunchie with an extra kick. Humph. But there’s no budging the old bugger, dead set in his ways, he is.’
Gus tipped a liberal amount into her mug and a much smaller amount into his own. ‘Not sure that this isn’t sacrilege, mixing this quality of whisky with coffee. Doesn’t come cheap, you know.’
‘Ah, I see you inherited your old man’s penny-pinching ways.’
When he laughed, she was pleased to note that his face seemed less strained than before. Tipping her mug in a cheers motion, she sipped, content to chat about trivia as, soothed by the alcohol, the tension of the day slowly left her body.
Twenty minutes later she banged her empty mug down on the desk and pushed her feet back into her shoes. ‘Right, let’s get you home then, Gus my boy!’
Slightly disorientated and relaxed by the small amount of whisky he’d allowed himself Gus looked puzzled. ‘Eh?’
Already putting her coat on, she paused. ‘Get your coat on. I’m dropping you home. Tomorrow will be another busy day and you,’ she said, prodding his chest, ‘Need your rest. You still at your mum and dad’s place are you?’
Gus looked about to protest, so Nancy cocked her head to one side and raised her eyebrow. Gus shook his head and laughed before grabbing his bag from under the desk. He meekly limped after her. No need to tell her that he never managed to sleep for more than a couple of hours a night.
Chapter 36
Tuesday 7:30am, Bradford
Gus’s habitual scowl transformed into a reluctant grin that made his eyes sparkle. On entering
the kitchen he’d witnessed his tiny mum twerking energetically to Miley Cyrus’s ‘Wrecking Ball’. His dad, with a decidedly lascivious look on his spherical face made the odd thrusting movement in time to the music and the pair of them lip-synced the lyrics in near-perfect time. Laughing and slightly breathless, his mum stopped when she saw him and hands on her hips, she caught her breath.
‘Your mum’s still got the moves,’ said Fergus McGuire, wrapping his huge arms round his wife’s shoulders and hugging her tightly.
Corrine McGuire’s face reddened and she wafted a tea towel at him. ‘Och, away with you, Fergus. It’s you who spins me round the dance floor till I’m all hot and bothered.’
Still grinning, Gus pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. ‘Well your twerking looked like it was getting Dad all hot and bothered just now. Since when did you twerk to the radio in the morning?’
Corrine raised an eyebrow and pouted. ‘You’re never too old to try something new Angus, that’s my motto. Scrambled eggs coming up!’ She turned to the stove and ferociously stirred the steaming pan that she’d forgotten during her impromptu dance session. The extractor fan made a valiant effort to suck up the thin trail of grey smoke, but the smell of singed scrambled eggs still hovered accusingly in the air.
Gus glanced at his dad who stuck his tongue in his cheek but wisely kept quiet as a plate of brown speckled eggs was placed in front of Gus. Two slices of toast, both bearing the remnants of half scraped burnt ash slathered with yellow and black speckled butter lay, defeated, under the eggs. Thankfully, a large mug of delicious coffee accompanied the burnt offerings before him. If there was one culinary skill his mother had mastered, it was how to make a damn fine cup of coffee.
Casting a sidelong look at his Dad who was hiding his grin behind The Guardian, he waited till she’d turned away before quickly slipping half of her loving offering into the dog’s bowl, where, after a friendly lick from Heather, his dad’s bull terrier, the evidence of his treachery was quickly disposed of.
Fergus winked at him and poured some more coffee. ‘How’re things going, Angus?’
Twiddling his fork around the remains of his food, he shrugged. ‘Compo pulled out all the stops and matched the kids to their families. Alice got the enquiry up and running efficiently. Nancy enlisted help from Cambridge and Poland respectively because she’s worried a known paedo ring has reformed and Sharon Asif’s son Jamal was shot at yesterday just before we brought him in for questioning. He’s given us a few leads on the men who brought the kids to the house. We’ll follow up today.’
Both arms extended before him, Fergus shook his newspaper in front of him. ‘Even The Guardian’s leading on this today. Bet they’ll be camping outside The Fort and BRI all day. Bloody vultures.’
Gus groaned. He hated dealing with the press but, when they got wind that he was back at work and leading the investigation, they’d hound him. After all it wasn’t so long ago that he was the Telegraph and Argus front page news.
With his mum’s tuneless humming providing a soothing background noise, he shovelled a few forkfuls of food into his mouth, immediately washing it down with a huge gulp of coffee. His thoughts drifted to his meeting with his wife the previous day, making him scowl. He fixed his gaze on his dad, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Reluctantly, Fergus folded his newspaper away and placed it on the red and white polka dot tablecloth. He exchanged a glance with his wife who turned resolutely to the sink and pulled on a pair of rubber gloves preparatory to doing the washing up.
‘I dropped in on Katie yesterday,’ said Gus
‘Aye, we know. Katie phoned last night.’
Remaining stubbornly silent, Gus waited for him to continue.
‘Look, I’m sorry, laddie. I should’ve told you but… well, your mum and I didn’t know how.’ Hands splayed in supplication, he looked all of his sixty two years. ‘Not when you were in such a bad way.’
Eyes closed, Gus cursed under his breath. ‘It wasn’t up to you to tell me.’ He glanced at his mum, who now leaned against the sink, tears in her eyes, wringing a tea towel between her gloved fingers. ‘Or you, Mum. Katie and Gabriella were the ones who should have shared their happy news. But, of course, they were too cowardly.’
Seeing his mother flinch at his words, Gus was immediately contrite. He jumped to his feet and gathered her in a hug. ‘Don’t worry, mum. It’s really strange but I actually don’t care that Gaby’s left me. Well, my pride’s a bit wounded, I suppose, but to be honest I’m more pissed off that the two of them didn’t have the decency to tell me.’ He dragged his fingers through his hair. ‘Gaby and I were finished a long time ago and quite clearly she had issues with her sexuality. We were going through the motions for months before I killed Greg and, to be honest, it’s as well it’s over. Time for all of us to move on.’ He held his mother slightly away from him and kissed her cheek. ‘When I can bring myself to forgive them that is.’
Corrine tutted, and pulling completely away from him she placed her hands on her hips in an all too familiar pugilistic stance. ‘Don’t you dare say that you killed Greg, Angus McGuire! Don’t you dare! You know as well as we do that you had no choice.’
Blue eyes flashed, but when he spoke his voice was gentle. ‘Hey, it doesn’t matter how we dress it up. The bottom line is that I killed Greg,’ he held up a finger to stop her from interrupting, ‘and I did have a choice, no matter what you say. I could have chosen not to save myself, not to kill him, but I didn’t.’ He smiled. ‘And I’ll learn to live with it, ok?’
A tear trickled down his mum’s face so he dropped a kiss on her corn-rowed hair and hugged her. ‘I regret killing Greg, but I don’t regret saving myself.’
Lips still trembling, she reached up and cupped his cheek with her palm. ‘I’m glad you made the choice you did, darling. I truly am.’
Squeezing her shoulder Gus turned to his dad who had remained silent during the exchange. ‘Drop me off at The Fort, Dad?’
With a heavy sigh, Fergus lumbered to his feet and kissed his wife on the cheek. ‘Come on then, let’s get cracking. You’ve got some murdering bastards to find and I’ve got a death by stewing in filth to post mortem’
‘What?’
Shrugging dismissively, he said deadpan. ‘Death by drowning in bathwater. Daft git! Was probably pissed and dozed off in the tub.’
As his old man left the kitchen, Gus turned to wave bye to his mum. ‘No more twerking today. At your age you’ll end up causing an accident.’
He quickly shut the door behind him as his mum sent a balled up tea towel flying towards him.
Chapter 37
Tuesday 7:45am
The Matchmaker couldn’t resist it. He knew it was dangerous, but still he did it… and it was so easy. Wearing a hoodie and trackie bottoms he skulked in the dreary early morning drizzle inside the doorway of a charity shop. Already he’d received a couple of pounds from a middle-aged woman in high heels, trotting along to some appointment or other, protecting herself from the sleet under one of those dome shaped clear brollies. With a clear view of Keighley’s Wetherspoon’s he eyed with interest the myriad of people entering the pub for their early morning breakfast. From retired couples treating themselves to a fry-up, to young singles taking time out for a cuppa and toast on their way to work, The Golden Crown was bustling. The Matchmaker knew exactly what he was looking for and it wasn’t long before he saw the perfect candidate.
Yawning as he got out of his blue Fiat, the man ferociously rubbed his face in an attempt to wake himself up. Hair still flattened by sleep, he pressed his key fob and the car emitted a double bleep. It had a dint in the front bumper and suited the Matchmaker’s purposes perfectly; nondescript and commonplace. The car owner wore cement-streaked jeans and a dust-infused, mucky, white t -shirt from which muscled arms hung, chimp-like. Following him discreetly into the pub, The Matchmaker was pleased when he saw him join the man who’d driven up in a white builder’s van ten minutes earlier. The car owner orde
red a full English breakfast with extra toast. Feeling peckish himself, The Matchmaker also bought a full English and paid in cash, before heading over to a table nearer to the door where he could continue his scrutiny of the men. Shortly afterwards a third bloke joined the other two. He was young, clearly the gofer and, despite his slender build, they called him Big Al and clapped him robustly on the back. ‘Hey Big Al, want a cop of page three before we go? Set you up for the day, hey!’
‘Aw leave him alone; he still thinks tits are for his mammy’s milk. Don’t you, Big Al?’
The lad grinned good-naturedly. ‘Fuck off! I’ve seen plenty tits you know? And not them wrinklies that your missus has, Bill.’
Bill raised his hands in mock protest. ‘Oooh, you’ve hurt my feelings now.’
Fifteen minutes later, having belched and slurped their way through their breakfasts, rustled through The Sun and effed and blinded enough to support the typical builder’s stereotype, the three threw their napkins onto greasy plates and headed for the door.
Oblivious to the shadow observing them from the doorway, they walked over to the white van and bundled in. Grinning at his good fortune, The Matchmaker pulled on a pair of gloves and waited for a few minutes before heading over to the Fiat. Taking a small electronic gadget from his pocket, he aimed it at the car. It bleeped twice. Opening the door, he slid behind the wheel and within seconds the engine was running.
With the adrenalin rush quickening his heartbeat, he drove along the A629 towards Steeton, caught the A6034 to Addingham, followed by the A65 to Ilkley and, although the rush hour was abating, he got caught behind a people carrier laden with children and a huge slavering dog that stuck its head out the nearside rear window. Frustrated with the driver’s erratic steering he was tempted to peep his horn but caution dictated he swallow his anger. Eventually, after what seemed miles, but was in actual fact only a few hundred yards, the car turned off and he took a right off the main road onto Cunliffe Road. Turning onto Springs Lane, he passed Betty’s Tea Rooms and continued on till just before he reached Ilkley’s pride and joy, the ornate King’s Hall and Winter Gardens. Anticipation rising as he neared his destination, he indicated and turned onto the little-used Dales Way Link, with its few isolated houses looming behind the trees that bordered their properties. This was the heart of moneyed Ilkley, home of the west Yorkshire affluent, though the narrow road and potholes would belie it. Eager now, his hands gripped the wheel tighter and he pulled himself forward to peer out the snow-specked windscreen. The wipers left a fuzz of streaked water across the screen, but he was still able to view the narrow road in front of him. He slowed as he approached the huge house that loomed up to the right from behind a tall fence. Dense foliage marred his view of the house, but previous reconnoitres had told him that behind the heavy security was a forbidding building with an attached granny flat in expensive Yorkshire stone.
