Streets of Darkness (D.I. Harry Virdee)

by A. A. Dhand

  The interior of the Jaguar contrasted with the gloom outside: expensive white leather and a warm orange glow from the dash.

  Even this early, Davis looked alert, as though he’d been awake for hours. He had a tanned complexion, was wearing an expensive Hugo Boss suit and his shoulder-length dark hair was slicked back, tucked neatly behind his ears.

  ‘Covert meeting this early? This better be important,’ Davis said.

  ‘Important?’ Reed replied. ‘When is it not?’

  ‘We should consider an alternative meeting point – this place gives me the creeps.’

  ‘I value my anonymity.’

  Davis lit a cigarette. He lowered his window to release the fumes.

  ‘Keep it closed.’ Reed pinched the cigarette from Davis’s mouth, stubbing it out in the ashtray on the centre console. ‘Can never be too careful of prying ears.’

  Davis was used to Reed’s obsessive secrecy. He didn’t protest.

  It had stopped raining but there was an intermittent drip of water on the roof from the trees overhead.

  ‘There’s something wrong with this place,’ Davis said. ‘Don’t know if it’s the fog or what happened in the sixties with those kids.’

  ‘The Moors murders were on Saddleworth. We’re fifty miles from there.’

  ‘What’s with the SOS? Don’t you know I just blew an election?’

  ‘I know. Why do you think I’m here?’

  ‘Nothing I could do about it. Twenty-five per cent of Bradford is Muslim. Shakeel Ahmed played the Asian vote – and from what I hear threw a million quid at it.’ Davis shook his head. ‘Can’t compete with that in this city.’

  ‘You clearly haven’t heard yet so let me enlighten you. Shakeel Ahmed was murdered. Early this morning.’

  Davis searched Reed’s face for signs of a joke. ‘Murdered?’

  Reed nodded. ‘From what I hear it was your mate Lucas Dwight who did him. Crucified him to the side of Bradford Grammar.’

  Davis’s mouth dropped open. ‘Lucas? He’s in prison.’

  ‘Nope. Released four days ago.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘This is my city. I keep my ear close to the ground.’

  ‘Crap,’ Davis said. ‘This is going to piss all over my campaign message. We’re not the same party Lucas left.’

  ‘I know that but Lucas doesn’t. Hell, he’s been holed up for years. Maybe he just wants to go back inside. You get used to prison life.’ Reed spoke almost ruefully, like a man who knew that struggle.

  ‘Lucas fucking Dwight?’ Davis whispered. ‘You know,’ he said, grabbing his cigarette from the ashtray, ‘I was this close to taking Bradford West. This close.’ He held his finger and thumb together in the air. ‘My campaign was tight and you know what? I had some solid policies. Solid. Just as we’re turning the corner – becoming serious contenders – this son of a bitch Lucas turns up.’ He placed the stubbed-out cigarette back in its packet.

  Davis had significantly improved the BNP. Over the past three years, violence, aggression and hate had given way to policy, reform and substance. Davis had used his Oxford degree in politics to overhaul the decaying party. Membership had increased fivefold. The party accounts showed them to be the fourth wealthiest political organization after the big three.

  The north was becoming something of a BNP stronghold with huge gains in Newcastle, Oldham and Sheffield. The recession helped; when the chips were down, patriots always turned on the foreigners.

  ‘I can’t disagree – terrible timing. But it must be pointed out,’ Reed said, ‘we have . . . an opportunity here.’

  ‘Figured you would say as much. Always the way with you.’

  ‘Hey, I don’t need that attitude. You want to know what’s in this bag?’ Reed asked, ruffling the holdall. ‘Quarter of a mil.’

  That got Davis’s attention. It was the largest amount Reed had ever offered. ‘Jesus. Two hundred and fifty? How do you expect me to cover that?’

  ‘Put it the same place you ditched the rest.’

  ‘What are you asking this time?’

  ‘I can give you Bradford,’ replied Reed. ‘And I mean guarantee it.’

  ‘There are no guarantees in politics.’

  ‘There are in my world.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘There’s going to be another by-election. If you want to win it, you need to do exactly as I say – exactly.’

  ‘When have I not?’ Davis nodded towards the bag. ‘That kind of gift will get almost anything done.’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping. What I want from you – what I need from you’ – Reed emphasized his words – ‘is to organize a BNP march through the city tonight. Eight p.m.’

  ‘A march? They’re going to be associating Lucas Dwight with us; nobody’s going to want to do that.’

  ‘I know. That’s exactly the point.’

  ‘I’m not following.’

  ‘The Bradford Mela starts tonight, right?’

  Davis nodded.

  ‘You’ll have over five thousand Asians in Lister Park. Give it an hour and they’ll become restless. As usual, there’ll be some trouble, some arrests. Same shit as every year. Only this year, there needs to be mayhem.’

  ‘If we start trouble in Bradford, there’ll be—’

  ‘We’, Reed snapped, ‘are not starting anything. You hear me? This needs to be a one hundred per cent peaceful march. No engagement.’

  ‘Talk straight, Colin.’

  ‘By this evening, Bradford is going to be shaking from Ahmed’s . . . demise, for want of a better word. You put your guys in Bradford – in the park – and the Asians will react. You know how this city works. We need the smallest of sparks. The petrol’s already there. There’ll be cameras in the park. Media. You tell your boys that they stand down – they do not start anything. But once they are provoked, well . . .’

  Davis cottoned on. ‘Let the Asians ignite the violence and it’ll be like two thousand and one all over again?’

  ‘Bingo. They’ll burn the city. And once it starts, tell your boys to get out. The mob – the Asians – will do as they always have: torch Bradford, and who do you think the seventy-percent-white population will lean towards at the next by-election? You keep your shit clean and do exactly as I say and we both win.’

  ‘What’s in this for you?’

  ‘Like you, it will serve me just fine to see the city burn. And I mean burn.’

  ‘No, it’s more than that.’

  ‘This is “not to know”.’ Reed ruffled the bag again. ‘And, Martin, there’s another two fifty if you get this right.’

  ‘In the two years we’ve known each other, you’ve never offered me this much. I need something to go on here. What the fuck is this?’

  ‘Let’s just say I represent some powerful businessmen and it’s in their interest for this to happen. Shit, Martin, what am I really asking here? Just to organize a peaceful protest to clearly demonstrate you had nothing to do with Shakeel Ahmed’s disappearance. That you condemn it. You’re being the good guy – offering Bradford solidarity. And you’re telling the truth.’

  ‘You and I both know that’s not what you’re asking.’

  ‘A knee-jerk response is what I’m counting on.’

  Davis wasn’t sure. But half a million quid was a retirement fund he couldn’t ignore.

  ‘You get what you need and so do I.’ Reed put his hand reassuringly on Davis’s shoulder. ‘Shakeel Ahmed shouldn’t have won yesterday. He manipulated the system and got an ethnic vote. That shit’s not right. Fair policy – fine, but a protest vote? Come on.’

  Davis nodded. ‘It’s a risky play, this, Colin.’

  ‘Nobody ever won a battle by playing safe. We’re just using the history of this city. Is it our fault they love to watch the place burn?’

  ‘You’re dead right,’ Davis said, warming to the idea. He could gain the first MP seat in Westminster for his party and create history.

&nb
sp; ‘Your boys wait for provocation,’ Reed repeated. ‘Then they get out.’

  ‘They will. We’ll make this a spectacle of Asian fury against its own city.’

  Reed handed over the bag. ‘Another two fifty afterwards.’

  ‘These . . . businessmen you represent,’ said Davis. ‘When will I meet them? I’d like to show my gratitude.’

  ‘They’re aware.’ Reed brushed him off. ‘The indigenous people of this country appreciate the work you do, Martin. You’ve turned the party around.’

  Davis swelled with pride, pleased his hard work was being noticed.

  ‘Eight p.m.,’ Reed said. ‘Let the Mela get warmed up and then release them. You’ve still got a lot of supporters in the city from yesterday. Organize this covertly, Martin. Don’t let the police get wind of the march. We clear?’

  Davis nodded. ‘We’re clear.’

  ‘I need to know, for certain, if you can manage this?’

  ‘Yes. If I need you, where can I contact you?’

  ‘You’ve got my mobile. It’ll be active until midnight. After that, we shouldn’t need to meet for some time.’

  ‘It’s frustrating that this relationship only goes one way.’

  Reed shook the bag again. ‘That’s what this is for.’

  Back in his car, Colin Reed waited for Davis to pull away before calling his boss. He removed the Trafalgar Club tie, lowered his window and threw it outside where it landed in the mud. He wouldn’t be needing it any more. The phone rang six times before a male voice answered.

  ‘Secure line?’

  ‘Yes,’ Reed replied.

  ‘We good?’

  ‘He bought it.’ Reed smiled. ‘The stupid son of a bitch bought it.’

  SEVEN

  HARRY AND SAIMA were sitting on their couch. They appeared close but Harry’s confession had just put a huge distance between them.

  ‘You did what?’ Saima asked incredulously, shuffling forwards so she was perched on the edge of the sofa, elbows on her knees, hands underneath her chin. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

  ‘I put Pardeep Singh in hospital.’

  ‘Why? When? How?’

  ‘I saw him leaving the restaurant just after we did. When I told you I went back for my wallet, I confronted him and . . . things got out of hand.’

  ‘What did you do, Jaan?’

  Harry got off the couch. He lifted his cup from the table, carried it to the bay window and looked out on to Oak Lane. A few elderly men were on their way to the Jamia Masjid mosque for morning prayers, walking arm in arm.

  Harry sipped his tea.

  ‘Jaan? Talk to me.’

  Last Thursday evening, Harry and Saima had been having a meal at Akbar’s Café, one of Bradford’s popular restaurants. Pardeep Singh, a friend of Harry’s father, had also been there. He was an orthodox Sikh and a senior member of the gurdwara committee. He found Harry’s choices in life abhorrent.

  Pardeep had spent most of the evening sneering at Harry from across the restaurant, whispering and gesturing to his wife, who didn’t even try and conceal her delight at the scandal. Harry ignored it at first. But when they were still at it half an hour later, he had gone over to their table and the conversation had become so heated that the manager had asked them both to either walk away or leave. Harry had returned to his table – to finish a ruined evening with Saima. Later, on his way out of the restaurant, Pardeep had made a point of passing Harry’s table and muttering something about Saima’s pregnancy. Saima had put her hand firmly on Harry’s arm and told him not to react.

  He hadn’t. Not then.

  But the red mist which blighted his life had seized control and, once outside, Harry had lied to Saima about forgetting his wallet and taken the opportunity to confront Pardeep in the car park.

  A shove had turned into a punch, then a scuffle, then a full-blown fistfight, Harry stopping only when Pardeep’s wife had put herself between both men. By that time, Pardeep’s jaw was hanging off his face.

  There were cameras in the car park. Harry hadn’t noticed them.

  An assault charge had been filed and in light of Harry’s previous misdemeanours, his boss had had no option but to suspend him. Harry told all this to Saima without facing her. Not because he was ashamed but because she would see that he wasn’t and that would hurt her the most.

  She remained quiet.

  Harry then told her what had happened that morning at the park. About Shakeel Ahmed’s body and Simpson’s offer.

  Finally, she replied. ‘You lied to me?’

  They never lied to each other. Never. It was the rule.

  Through everything they had overcome, they had always told each other the truth.

  ‘I didn’t want to upset you,’ he said. ‘Not so close to giving birth. I was hoping the hearing on Monday wouldn’t be so bad. But from what Simpson said, I’m looking at a P45. Maybe worse.’

  ‘So why tell me now?’

  Harry heard Saima get off the couch. ‘Because I need to leave. I have one chance to fix this. I need to find Lucas Dwight in the next ten hours.’

  ‘You really think you can?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve got to try.’

  ‘Jaan, look at me.’

  Harry placed his empty cup on the window ledge and turned to face her.

  ‘We chose this life,’ she said. ‘We knew it would be hard and in this city somebody is always going to disapprove, somebody who knows the hurt and dishonour we’ve caused.’ Saima walked over to where Harry was standing. He crossed his arms defensively on his chest. ‘You worry me,’ she continued. ‘Not because you defend me – but because you don’t know when to leave it alone.’

  ‘I won’t have some snooty-nosed bast—’

  She glared at him and Harry suppressed the profanity.

  ‘Snooty-nosed idiot judge me,’ he said. ‘The guy’s daughter ran away because he beat her and he judges my choices?’

  ‘Exactly. He has no right to judge us – so why bother with him?’

  ‘He insulted my wife.’

  ‘And a hundred people might do so, but sticks and stones, Jaan.’

  He nodded. ‘I know, but I can’t turn the other cheek like you, Saima. Somebody makes me angry and I can’t back down. I don’t need to back down. If you’re going to try it with me, then you better expect to defend yourself. That’s who I am – that’s who you married.’

  ‘You can’t? You can’t?’ She pushed a finger firmly into his chest, her face flushing a deep red. ‘You will and you must,’ she replied. ‘You think when our child arrives, we won’t have more problems? You think she’s not going to wonder why she has no grandparents or cousins? You don’t think she will be judged? What will you do then? Beat up everyone who upsets her? You’re going to be a father,’ she said, raising her voice, ‘and that comes first and foremost. Not your willingness to dish out some sort of justice.’

  Harry uncrossed his arms and held out his hands defensively. ‘OK, OK. Just take a moment. Don’t get upset.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what you should have done last week.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Harry corrected himself before she gave him another lecture: ‘I mean, yes, I should have.’

  ‘Right. Let’s sort out this mess. Pardeep is on the gurdwara committee with your father. You need to call him and tell him to get Pardeep to retract the—’

  ‘Over my dead body am I calling him,’ Harry said, raising his voice. ‘No,’ he continued when Saima started to object. ‘There is more chance of Lucas Dwight knocking on my front door than of me asking my father for a damn favour.’

  She didn’t fight him. She knew he would never have gone along with it.

  ‘So you need to find this Lucas Dwight. Can you?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘I can try.’

  ‘Is he dangerous?’

  Harry thought back to 2001 when he had apprehended Lucas. A bloody affair. It had taken five officers to get him in cuffs. ‘No more than any other criminal,’ he
lied.

  ‘So you’re leaving me here, alone on Eid and Karva Chauth, to pursue this? Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. I need to do this.’ He put one hand on her bump. Then the other. ‘You understand?’

  She nodded. Hesitantly. ‘I have one condition.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m fasting for you today. For us. I know you don’t believe in these things, but I do. And it’s important to me. If you could make it back in time? Tell me you’ll at least try?’

  ‘I can’t promise, Saima. What time?’

  ‘Before the moon comes out. I want to complete the tradition, the right way, so no bad luck is cast upon us.’

  ‘Bad luck?’ Harry stopped himself from touching the scar on the side of her face. ‘I think we’ve had a generation’s worth.’

  ‘That may be so, but it’s really important. I won’t be able to get it out of my mind. So you can go and tear this city apart looking for this guy, but make it back in time for me to do this.’ Saima was massaging her tummy, staring pleadingly at Harry.

  ‘OK. I can do that,’ he said.

  ‘You need to give me your kasam.’

  Kasam. A sacred Indian promise which literally meant you would die before breaking your word.

  ‘Saima, you know I don’t like doing that. It’s unnecessary.’

  ‘It’s the only way I can be sure you’ll return. That you won’t break your promise. If you don’t, I won’t let you leave.’

  Harry sighed. Although he was pragmatic and didn’t engage in Asian melodrama, the same couldn’t be said for his wife.

  ‘OK. I give you my kasam.’

  ‘And we’re doing Karva Chauth the right way. You know what that means?’

  He nodded hesitantly and looked away. She held his face gently and turned it back towards her. ‘Agreed?’

  ‘OK,’ he replied, trying not to snap, and removed her hands. ‘I need to go, Saima. I need to meet with someone, get this thing started.’

  Harry walked away but before he reached the door, she asked him the one question he didn’t want.

  ‘Who are you meeting?’

  Harry hesitated by the living-room door.

  ‘Who are you meeting?’ she repeated and pushed past Harry, blocking the doorway. ‘Who?’