Streets of Darkness (D.I. Harry Virdee)

by A. A. Dhand

  ‘Jesus – not you as well?’

  ‘It’s true,’ answered Simpson. ‘I can’t deny the comparisons any more.’

  ‘That article was a joke. The only similarity between Gotham and Bradford is that we have a city full of dark knights and more than our fair share of jokers.’

  Simpson grunted at the soft attempt at humour. ‘PC as ever,’ he replied. ‘How I wish that were true.’

  ‘You want to tell me how a guy who won the Bradford West by-election last night ended up crucified on that wall?’

  Simpson took another cautious look around. But they were alone and well concealed from prying eyes.

  ‘Ahmed was reported missing just after midnight. He left the victory party early; tired, we assume, from celebrating. When his son arrived at his father’s residence he found signs of a break-in. Front door was smashed. Signs of a struggle in the kitchen.’ He paused and then added: ‘Blood.’

  Shakeel Ahmed might not have been the new Titus Salt but he was a hugely influential businessman who had tried to reverse Bradford’s decline. In the city’s heyday the population had dramatically increased, with hundreds of textile mills providing thousands of jobs. That industry was now dead. The factories were closed. The city’s fortunes had taken an unprecedented fall and unemployment was at a record high. Thousands of immigrants, welcomed into Bradford to work in the sixties, had found themselves without prospects when the trade collapsed, unable to educate themselves or find alternative jobs. Bradford crumbled into a bleakness from which it couldn’t recover.

  Ahmed was a first-generation immigrant who had left the textile mills and started a small takeaway. Now, it was a chain of eleven restaurants. ‘Ahmed’s’ routinely won Bradford’s ‘Indian restaurant of the year’, which was no mean feat – there were hundreds of them in the city. Ahmed had also been given an MBE in 2008 for services to Yorkshire. He had built three mosques, owned several charitable foundations and had recently funded a new wing at Bradford Royal Infirmary.

  ‘How long before Forensics get any data? Have we ruled out the son?’

  Simpson ran a wrinkled hand through grey hair and sighed. His watch sparkled again before disappearing beneath his raincoat.

  ‘You already know who it is, don’t you?’ said Harry, leaning closer to his boss.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  There was something troubling Simpson. He was hesitating, grimacing at the question he knew was coming next.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Before I answer, Harry, I need something from you,’ replied Simpson.

  ‘I’m listening.’ Harry’s breath formed a white mist in the air.

  ‘I need your assistance.’

  ‘Can you help me with next week?’ replied Harry, almost too eagerly.

  Simpson shook his head. ‘What happened is on you, Harry, and you alone. There isn’t a damn thing I can do.’ He paused and then added, ‘There is, however, something you can do to “help” your case.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘I need you to operate off the books on this one. You’re in enough trouble as it is, so I’ll understand if you refuse.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re—’

  ‘You will.’ Simpson held out his hand to silence Harry. ‘In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never asked you how you solved so many cases. Nobody has your success rate.’

  Harry felt an unease prickling through his body. Simpson’s tone was tinged with ambiguity.

  ‘But I also know . . .’ He paused, poking Harry gently in the chest and waiting until he met his gaze. ‘. . . that no one achieves those kinds of results without help.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Harry blurted out before he could stop. He didn’t want to pursue this conversation.

  ‘Meaning that I’ve always taken a back seat when it came to exploring where or how you got your information. You seem to have every convict in Bradford in your pocket and I don’t know how you’ve managed it. Truth be told, I never much cared because as long as the cases were brought to a satisfactory conclusion, my job was done.’

  ‘I keep my ear to the ground,’ said Harry. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘No, Harry. We all do that. Hell, I’ve got detectives with twenty years more experience and far more brains who can’t deliver what you do.’

  ‘They don’t work hard enough.’

  Simpson shook his head. ‘That’s not fair, Harry. They work hard. But no one works like you. No one needs to. You punish yourself. It’s the perpetual need to prove something. Look, we’re getting off the point here.’

  A couple of blackbirds hopped on to the fountain. They lowered their beaks cautiously to the surface.

  ‘Hardeep—’

  ‘Harry,’ he corrected. ‘I’m not in trouble. Why don’t you just cut to the chase, sir? What is it that you want?’

  ‘I need your help. Off the books. You know the streets better than anyone. I need you to find Shakeel Ahmed’s killer.’

  ‘And that is who exactly?’

  ‘First I need your word this won’t go—’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Harry impatiently. ‘As if you even have to say it?’

  ‘I do. Right now, I need to hear it. Because when I tell you what I know – you’ll understand. I need to contain this for as long as I can. So I need your utmost discretion.’

  ‘You have it,’ replied Harry. ‘In spite of my current predicament, you still have my loyalty. So, who am I tracking?’

  ‘I’m asking you because you seem to enjoy working outside the constraints of the law which the rest of us abide by. And today I’m asking you to do whatever it takes to find me Lucas Dwight.’

  Harry stared at Simpson, momentarily lost for words. The blackbirds stopped pecking at the ice and fixed their jet-black eyes on the men.

  ‘What?’ whispered Harry, as if saying the name out loud might trigger a curse.

  ‘His DNA was found at Shakeel Ahmed’s house. We got a match a few hours ago,’ said Simpson.

  ‘He’s – he’s . . . in jail?’

  ‘No,’ replied Simpson solemnly, ‘he’s not. He was released four days ago.’

  THREE

  LUCAS DWIGHT WAS alone in the one place no one could bother him. In the fourteen years he had been in prison, some things had changed dramatically. He couldn’t buy two pints of milk with a quid. He couldn’t even spend his last nugget on a lottery ticket. Two quid for a flutter?

  But some things hadn’t changed. Bradford was still a shit-hole. In fact, it was the same shit-hole it had been when he’d been jailed. The centre might have had a posh new shopping centre but it was still a ghost town. Even the charity shops had closed down; seemed even philanthropy had deserted Bradford.

  Lucas was standing in the middle of the gymnasium floor. The boxing gym had closed in 1991 and was the only thing Lucas owned that he hadn’t lost yet. It had been passed on to him by his grandfather, a well-respected boxer back in the forties. The building was derelict, like all of its neighbours. It was smack in the centre of Bradford, engulfed between huge construction boards.

  He wasn’t sure quite why he’d hung on to it.

  Perhaps because it represented the happiest times in his life – being taught by the man who had raised him. Lucas had boxed his first professional fight in the ring. Third-round knockout. He could still remember the adrenaline rush of that first victory.

  There were twenty punch-bags ghosting around the gymnasium. They comforted Lucas, like old friends. He corrected his stance in front of one and raised his back foot so he was on his toes. Lucas whipped a brutish right hook into the bag. The sound lifted his spirits and echoed around the gym.

  Great shot that, young Lucas – near damn exploded that nigger’s liver!

  Lucas swallowed a lump in his throat. He’d spent years honing that liver punch, and won six out of his first ten fights with the devastating blow, bringing his opponents to their knees and counting to ten with the referee.

  Good times.

  His gr
andfather had died in this very ring. He had been sparring with Lucas when he’d suddenly dropped his hands. His face had become clammy and pale. So terribly pale. Lucas hadn’t thrown the punch. He’d known instantly something was wrong. His grandfather had collapsed and died from a massive heart attack.

  Lucas brought the punch-bag close to his face and held it there. Lost in memories, inhaling the smell of sweat and leather.

  He let the bag go and walked towards a cracked mirror behind him, staring at his reflection with jaundiced eyes. Lucas was woefully thin but, whilst he might not have packed the same power, he still had the speed and precision of a boxer.

  ‘Double-jab, dip, uppercut,’ he whispered and began to shadow-box, ducking and weaving from his reflection, trying to warm up and repel the bitter cold. He was pleased at the speed with which he was able to move. His punches retained the fluidity of a professional.

  At one time, he had been the most dangerous man in Bradford; he’d been the leader of the BNP. He had bathed in more blood than water.

  But no more.

  Fourteen years in a hell-hole prison changed a person.

  Lucas stopped boxing and took a quick nervous glance around the deserted floor, then raised his shirt. He focused on a freshly etched tattoo, the outline still crusted with blood, and ran his hand across it. He couldn’t quite believe he had done it. Nobody would ever understand – but he didn’t need them to. It was a sign of change and, as such, it comforted Lucas.

  He leaned forward and spread his hands on the mirror, resting his face against it. ‘I’m sorry, Granddad,’ he whispered and walked away, back towards the boxing ring. ‘Try to understand.’

  He climbed on to the canvas and from his pocket removed the white powder he’d spent his money on. Fourteen years might have passed, but his usual dealer was still in business and had given him a freebie. A welcome-home gift.

  Prison had changed Lucas. But not his addiction. The perpetual need for a hit.

  The methadone programme Lucas was enrolled on wasn’t working. Shit, thirty millilitres a day was for amateurs. His doctor had said she would increase his dose steadily according to his need. Lucas couldn’t wait.

  Twenty minutes later, Lucas was ready. He needed to make his stash last five days, just until his benefits cleared. The last pound in his pocket would buy a loaf of cheap bread. Thankfully the taps in the gym still provided water, so for now Lucas had his five-day plan organized. Not that his plans ever carried through. Yesterday he’d been so high he couldn’t even remember what he’d done. Or where he’d been. He’d smoked a week’s worth of marijuana in a single day.

  This time he was going to make the drugs last. He’d got the heroin that afternoon and was relieved he hadn’t used yet. His dealer had been desperate for Lucas to shoot up with him, got aggressive when he’d refused. But Lucas liked to get high alone, to forget in solitude. His days of communal shoot-ups were over. Besides, he had to make this last. Lucas was going to inject a fraction of what he was used to, just enough to take the edge off so he would fall asleep in the middle of the boxing ring. It would make another day pass and bring his benefits that bit closer.

  Lucas prepared the syringe and slid the needle into a pulsing vein in his arm. Then he lay down and looked at the wooden beams running across the roof. Dust flickered across the lights like the fall of snowflakes.

  The euphoria never materialized.

  Something was wrong.

  When his airways seized, he knew – he just bloody knew.

  This wasn’t what he’d ordered.

  Whatever Lucas had injected had rendered him barely able to move. He managed to roll on to his side so if he vomited, he wouldn’t choke.

  As the world started to fade and convulsions racked his body, Lucas saw images of his grandfather’s body hitting the canvas. He heard the false echoes of someone screaming and saw his grandfather’s eyes widen in pain before they fixed for ever.

  FOUR

  ‘LUCAS DWIGHT – THE Lucas Dwight?’ Harry asked. ‘You’re shitting me?’

  Simpson tensed the muscles on the side of his face and nodded. ‘Same guy. Same problems.’

  ‘Jesus wept, sir.’

  ‘You see where I’m sitting now?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Harry was struggling to believe the revelation.

  ‘Not the kind of development I wouldn’t have checked. The blood found at Shakeel Ahmed’s house has been run twice. It’s Lucas Dwight’s.’

  Harry got off the bench and made his way over to the fountain. The blackbirds flew away as he approached. He placed a hand on the ice and left it to turn numb. Then he ran it across his face. Lucas Dwight.

  The man had nearly burned the city to the ground. A crazy fascist who was as deadly with his mind as with his fists. Harry had arrested him fourteen years earlier, after the Bradford riots. He still had mental scars from what it had taken to apprehend him.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ replied Harry quietly. He didn’t turn to face his boss and put his hand back on the ice. ‘How did he even get to Ahmed’s front door? How could he get that close? Hasn’t Ahmed got security gates? CCTV? An intercom?’

  ‘No. Surprisingly, Ahmed lived in relative modesty. He was a man of the people. Being hidden away in a mansion didn’t suit his image.’

  ‘So there was no security at his house?’

  ‘Gates. Easy enough to get over. No CCTV.’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Lucas fucking Dwight,’ he whispered.

  ‘Can you see his play?’

  Harry stared around the park, then back towards the crime scene and nodded. ‘We’ve got the biggest Asian festival in England tonight. It’s Eid, and Bradford just elected its first Muslim MP. The ex-leader of the BNP just crucified Bradford’s favourite son, so all in all, I’d say . . .’ Harry turned to his boss. ‘That we’ve got a big fucking problem on our hands.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Simpson said. ‘Five days from retirement and this shit hits the fan. I won’t leave this city in a mess, Harry. I won’t let all the hard work I’ve done be pissed away by some vicious prick like Lucas Dwight.’

  He swore so infrequently that Harry was momentarily surprised.

  ‘As you’d expect I’ve got every officer at my disposal on this. And I mean every officer. But,’ Simpson added, staring at Harry, ‘I don’t have my best.’

  Harry sighed. ‘There’s not much I can do from where I am.’

  ‘You’re wrong. It’s because of where you are that you can be of most use.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘You need me to spell it out?’

  ‘Actually, this time, sir, I do. I need you to tell me exactly what you’re thinking.’

  Simpson let out a sigh which expressed a burden Harry was familiar with. The pressure of Bradford. Of carrying expectation and the fear of falling short.

  ‘You were not designed to be in law enforcement,’ Simpson said abruptly. It caught Harry off guard.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’m going to speak candidly, Harry, because to be honest, with less than a week of my tenure left, I don’t have the luxury of sugar coating.’

  ‘Speak freely, sir.’

  ‘I’ve known you, what . . . eleven years? I knew immediately you had an edge. Something drives you, Harry. Something you’ve never spoken to me about. Perhaps I’m reaching here, but I’d say you got into this job off the back of some memory which bothers you.’

  A flash of scissors. The scream. The blood.

  Harry turned away. Simpson was staring at him with an intensity which made him uncomfortable.

  ‘You’re always reining in your temper, Harry. I can see it. Testing the boundaries of what is necessary force and what is excessive, and I’m not just talking physically. We all get frustrated by the constraints of the job – the rules, the politics; the times when we know the perp did it and we can’t carry it forward—’

  ‘Actually, I think you should get to the point, sir.’ Harry kept his eyes foc
used across the park, back towards Mughal Gardens.

  ‘Blunt trauma?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I think you enjoyed what you did last week. I think when you put that son of a bitch down, no matter what happens on Monday, deep down, you think you’re right.’

  Harry didn’t reply.

  ‘Your file is a glowing tribute to a detective who has closed more cases than anyone else but who has also had more investigations about his conduct. And . . . I think you’ve had help. I think . . .’ He walked in front of Harry so the detective was forced to look at his boss, and pointed to the fountain. ‘. . . that the difference between right and wrong as far as you’re concerned is about as thin as that sheet of ice.’

  They held each other’s gaze. ‘I want you to do whatever you need to do. If you have to break the law, then break the bloody law. Only this time, you’ll have my support.’

  It was, by far, the most astonishing thing Simpson could have said. He only ever played by the rules.

  ‘I’m not sure I heard that right,’ Harry replied quietly.

  ‘You heard it just fine.’

  ‘I don’t break—’

  ‘Don’t try me, Harry. It insults my intelligence and’ – he pushed his index finger into Harry’s chest for emphasis – ‘we both know it’s bullshit.’

  Harry let out a slow, heavy breath. ‘I want my job back. On Monday, I want them to give me one last chance. Can you make that happen?’

  ‘No. But what I can do is highlight in the strongest terms possible that you single-handedly brought me Lucas Dwight. That you saved Bradford from probable meltdown. And in this city, that is more valuable than all the rules put together.’

  ‘What’s the evidence against me?’

  ‘CCTV footage. At the back of the restaurant.’

  ‘Clear?’

  ‘Borderline. But the rest of your file doesn’t read well.’

  ‘Self-defence?’

  Simpson frowned. ‘No one’s going to believe that.’

  Harry smiled and looked away. ‘Destroy the footage.’