Streets of Darkness (D.I. Harry Virdee)

by A. A. Dhand

  Lucas was right. Trust was a scarce commodity at the moment. ‘We’re missing something. There has to be another factor. We just haven’t worked it out yet.’

  Harry got up and moved away from the pews, towards the votive candles in front of the lectern. He kept massaging his side but in truth, the pain was now in his head. It seemed such a risky play for the BNP. And for what? A shit-hole like Bradford? Was that really what this was all about?

  Harry returned to Lucas.

  ‘Your blood?’ he said. ‘How was it found at Shakeel Ahmed’s house?’

  Lucas shrugged.

  ‘That’s what we need to establish. There must be someone else sticking their oar in. Start from when you were released. Who could have planted your blood?’

  Blood, thought Lucas. An image came suddenly to him.

  Four large sample bottles.

  ‘My blood.’ Lucas leaned forward and placed his head on the pew in front, the wood cold against his skin. ‘Can’t be,’ he whispered. ‘Can’t be.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Harry said, quickly sitting next to him. ‘It’s always the smallest details which make the difference.’

  ‘Before I was released, I had a medical. You know: thorough check-up before they enrolled me on a community detox programme. Made sure my HIV meds were organized. The nurse . . . she messed up my blood samples.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Harry put his hand on Lucas’s shoulder and pulled him upright.

  ‘Can’t be.’ Lucas shook his head. ‘She filled a couple of bottles with my blood and then made a big show of getting it wrong. Filling the wrong containers without any heparin. It’s an anticoagulant. Stops the blood from clotting, apparently, before it hits the lab. I nearly passed out with blood loss by the time she’d finished.’

  ‘What did she do with the other bottles? The ones she said were dud?’

  Lucas shrugged. ‘Threw them away, I guess? I didn’t notice. I’m only mentioning it because now I think back, she did over-dramatize it. Like she was trying too hard. Look, that’s the only place where I’ve had blood taken recently.’

  ‘You didn’t think of telling me this before?’

  ‘It’s not exactly been a routine day.’

  ‘That’s the clue. That’s where we need to focus. Her name? You remember it?’

  ‘Sure. I saw her most days for my methadone. Karen. Karen Steele.’

  ‘We need to find her.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘She worked at Armley?’

  Lucas nodded.

  ‘Won’t take me long to track her. I can use the police database.’ Harry took out his iPhone and stood up.

  ‘Harry – it doesn’t make sense, I mean . . .’ Lucas stopped talking.

  Harry was staring at the phone’s screen. The expression on his face got Lucas to his feet.

  ‘What is it?’

  Harry’s hands were shaking and his eyes glaring at a text message. It was from Saima.

  It said just one word.

  HELP.

  TWENTY-NINE

  HARRY WAS IN sister Clarke’s Ford Focus racing down Leeds Road. The fog had temporarily lifted, allowing Harry to weave between cars at speed. Ignoring his protests, he’d left Lucas at the church. Lucas might be the only leverage Harry had. He wasn’t about to throw that away.

  HELP.

  He had tried calling Saima but she hadn’t answered. Harry had called A & E but Saima hadn’t arrived.

  HELP.

  Harry swerved the car on to the wrong side and overtook three cars at once, red-lining the rev counter. Drivers blasted their horns and flashed their lights in outrage.

  Harry accelerated to sixty. Neon signs blazed past and he triggered a speed camera at the bottom of Leeds Road. Harry nearly lost the car on a bend into the city centre and would surely have been pursued by a patrol car if there hadn’t been more pressing issues at hand.

  The squad cars with flashing lights, the ambulances, the gangs of youths tearing across the city centre – none of them concerned Harry.

  He called her again, but she didn’t answer.

  Harry knew she was in trouble because Saima would never have sent a message like that unless it was critical.

  HELP.

  He couldn’t remove the image of that single word from his mind.

  ‘Please,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Let it be a mistake.’

  Harry flew through more red lights. More flashes from traffic cameras. But he remained utterly invisible to squad cars coming urgently the other way.

  Harry skidded on to Manningham Lane. He blindsided several parked cars and his wing mirror flew off into the night.

  Then he was on Oak Lane.

  His house was halfway down. Harry slammed the brakes on and was out of the car before it came to a stop. He jumped over the gate and sprinted to his front door.

  It was open.

  Harry’s heart started to pound, the sound echoing through his mind. He scanned the immediate vicinity but despite sirens wailing, the street itself was peaceful.

  Harry snatched an empty milk bottle lying on the ground. He turned it in his hand, raised it high and moved to the side of the door. He pushed it open.

  Blood on the handle.

  He felt the world swaying and a crippling fear seized his mind.

  Blood spraying across his face.

  Images flickered and he tried to block them out.

  Karma. The word rang in his mind. Karma, you son of a bitch. Karma.

  A life for a life.

  Harry was scared to cross the threshold. He took a few deep breaths and forced himself inside.

  The Islamic painting on the wall which said ‘Welcome’ was hanging clumsily, skewed from its usual position. The corridor was dark and untrustworthy – a foreign sensation for Harry. This was his home. His centre of peace. Harry opened his mouth to call Saima’s name but his voice failed.

  The ache in his side was more potent than ever, like a hot blade slicing through him.

  Then he looked to his left and knew she was in trouble.

  His mother’s slippers were missing.

  The table they rested on was lopsided. Saima must have put the slippers on – her message to him: I’m in danger.

  Harry pushed open the living-room door and stepped inside.

  The room’s usual order had been destroyed. The red sindoor Harry had placed on Saima’s forehead had been trodden messily into the carpet. Cushions were scattered and shiny golden sequins from Saima’s wedding outfit showed a telling trail. Saima had been dragged from the kitchen. She’d struggled and they’d grabbed hold of her, tearing her heavily embroidered pink outfit. There was a scrap of torn cloth on the floor.

  Harry checked the kitchen. It smelled strongly of incense but was unspoiled. He searched upstairs quickly and found nothing noteworthy. Whoever had taken her had ventured into the bedrooms; there were wet footprints on the landing. Frenzied footprints. Spaced wide; the perpetrator had been in a hurry.

  Harry ran downstairs and closed the front door. He charged into the living room and picked up the phone. Just before he dialled 999, a mobile phone rang.

  Saima’s. He recognized the Bollywood ringtone.

  It was on the floor under the dining table. Harry pulled his sleeve over his left hand, picked it up and answered. ‘Saima?’

  ‘First and foremost, she’s fine,’ the male voice said.

  ‘You son of a bitch! What kind of sick fuck takes a heavily pregnant woman?’

  ‘The kind who has no choice. I told you at the graveyard to leave this alone.’

  ‘If you’ve hurt her—’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘There’s blood on the front-door handle.’

  ‘It’s mine. Your wife’s quite the firecracker.’

  Flashes of Saima struggling with her captor made Harry squeeze the phone harder. ‘I swear to God—’

  ‘We don’t have time for theatrics. You have something I want – something valuable. And in return, it appears
now so do I. Bring me Lucas Dwight and take your wife. It’s that simple.’

  ‘Give her back to me – right now. You can take me instead – she is due to give birth any moment.’

  ‘We realize. I’m a professional, Harry. I don’t want this any more than you do. Give me Lucas Dwight and you have my word: this is over.’

  ‘I . . . don’t have him.’ Harry realized that Lucas was his only bargaining chip. ‘When we ran from the cemetery, he took off. I’ve been searching for him – but I don’t know where he is.’

  The man paused. Harry could hear his breathing, soft and shallow. ‘Is that why you arrived back here alone?’

  Harry opened his mouth to reply but was stunned into silence. He moved quickly out of sight of the curtains even though they were drawn. He dimmed the light in the living room and moved to the window, peering through the drapes. There was nothing untoward. Harry moved quickly into the hallway to his front door and stepped outside.

  ‘We’re not amateurs, Harry. Want to give me a wave? Towards your right.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Harry spat, glancing that way. ‘I swear before this day is over I’ll—’

  ‘You’ll have your wife back and we’ll have Lucas Dwight. You’ve got until midnight to bring him to me. No police, Harry. You know how many I have in my pocket. Keep this phone on you. Midnight. Or . . . she dies.’

  ‘Hello? Hello?’

  But the line was dead.

  Harry ran out on to the street. He looked both ways: nothing. But now he knew they were watching.

  Harry stood for a moment. Scanning the periphery of his street.

  Then, slowly, he retreated, back to his house.

  Harry was sitting in his living room. The pain in his head was far worse than the one in his side. He was shaking and poured a double shot of Jack Daniel’s into a glass. The bourbon burned its way down his throat into his stomach.

  Saima didn’t approve of Harry drinking in the house. But for the first time in three years, she wasn’t here.

  Harry closed his eyes and let pain suffuse his body.

  He had never been superstitious but the fact Saima was wearing his mother’s slippers was comforting. If there was such a thing as karma, Harry hoped his wife’s was better than his.

  What had she ever done except love him?

  ‘Saima,’ he muttered and kept his eyes tightly shut. All day, his wife had fasted for the longevity of his life. She was the woman he had lost everything for – and now she was at risk.

  Lucas? Shakeel Ahmed? Bradford? His job? Nothing mattered – except Saima.

  Harry started his descent to a dark place. To memories which would bring the worst out of him.

  He needed to ensure he was battle-ready.

  Three years before, Harry’s father, Ranjit, had beaten him. Drawn blood while his mother bowed her head and let tears drip quietly to the floor. Ronnie had tried to intervene but Harry had stopped him. With each blow from his father, Harry had felt superior. Because no matter how ferocious the beating, Harry hadn’t caved in.

  He took it.

  Standing firm against the only man who could strike him and not expect any retaliation. Harry had looked his father in the eyes. And it had angered Ranjit. The rage Harry had inherited took over. His father lost control and in that instant, when he grabbed his kirpan, the sacred sword owned by devout Sikhs, his mother had finally stepped between them.

  Harry wasn’t sure what he would have done. He had thought about it in the three years since. Blocked the blow? Or called his bluff?

  Harry’s mother had led him out of the house but before he was banished, she had taken off her slippers and gifted them to him. It was her way of showing she loved him but that she couldn’t walk this path with him any more. She had torn a piece of cloth from her Asian suit, wiped the blood from his face and handed him her shoes before closing the door for ever.

  Harry opened his eyes and stared at the lopsided table in the hallway. It wasn’t a bad omen. The slippers guarded his house. Saima had them on her feet – so she was protected. The thought was soothing and he clung to it fiercely because it was all he had.

  Harry started planning. He wouldn’t call his colleagues. He couldn’t take the risk his enemy wasn’t bluffing. Harry would do whatever it took to get Saima back. There were no laws any more.

  It was eight o’clock. Harry had four hours before the deadline. He knew his next move. He was just trying to figure out the tactics. If he got it wrong, everything would go to hell.

  Twenty frantic minutes later, Harry was ready.

  It was time to release a fury which had blighted his life ever since he could remember.

  This time, there were no shackles. No restraint.

  This time when he shed blood, it wouldn’t be something he would live to regret.

  THIRTY

  DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT GEORGE Simpson’s phone hadn’t stopped ringing for the past hour. Intelligence reports were flooding into Trafalgar House from across the city about a rising BNP demonstration. There were claims it was a solidarity march to condemn the brutal murder of Shakeel Ahmed. Apparently the BNP were outraged their party was being defamed by accusations of responsibility.

  Simpson knew better.

  This was no peaceful march.

  This was the lighting of a fuse. The dynamite was in Lister Park. The explosive effect would decimate the city.

  Simpson didn’t have concrete intel about where or how the gathering was taking place. The Mela was an obvious target and Simpson had every spare officer ring-fencing it.

  He had experienced 2001.

  But this felt different. In 2001 the riot had been unexpected. A sudden flash of deep-seated unrest. This was something else.

  Shakeel Ahmed’s crucified body came to mind. That was a real flashpoint: racial homicide of Bradford’s finest. And now the march? Simply petrol on the fire. Simpson needed to contain it.

  He thought of Colin. Of his desperation to get Lucas Dwight.

  How were the two connected?

  Simpson was missing something. He could feel it but had no time to investigate. He had informed Colin that Lucas was still loose and that his suspicions about Detective Inspector Virdee were unfounded. Colin hadn’t spoken, just disconnected the call. It took all the power in their relationship from Simpson: not knowing Colin’s intent – or his response.

  There was a knock on his door and a detective sergeant called Howell burst into the room.

  ‘Sir, we’ve received word that the football match at Elland Road has been cancelled. Fog’s too severe.’ He was panting heavily.

  The room became silent, the tension palpable. The FA Cup replay had been specially arranged for the evening to maximize television revenue. Historically Leeds United vs Millwall was a bad-tempered affair. It brought out the anarchists.

  ‘Millwall supporters?’ Simpson wasn’t really asking, more airing what he already knew. ‘Dear God.’

  The sergeant nodded glumly.

  ‘How many?’ Simpson croaked.

  ‘Four – maybe five thousand?’

  Simpson felt momentarily nauseous.

  ‘There’s more, sir.’

  Simpson didn’t respond. Howell pressed on.

  ‘We’ve got wind of some troublemakers. The ones we know about – they’re making a beeline for the Mela.’

  ‘Where did you get this information?’

  The DS hesitated. ‘It’s all over Twitter, sir. We’ve also got a Facebook post created by the EDL urging people towards Bradford. Something terrible is building online, sir. It’s going viral. Could be a right shitstorm.’

  Simpson looked at the DS, standing awkwardly in the doorway. The English Defence League had been organizing increasing noise in Bradford, claiming the BNP were no longer the primary voice of true patriots. ‘Gather everyone in the briefing room now. I’ve a phone call to make.’

  He took a deep breath, picked up the phone and dialled the on-call Assistant Chief Constable in Bishopsgate.r />
  The battle to save Bradford had started.

  The phone call didn’t take long. The Assistant Chief Constable was already in the loop. He had assumed gold command for the operation and organized patrols from across Yorkshire, even as far as Humberside, to unite in the city and brace themselves for an epic onslaught.

  Police dogs, horses, police support units and helicopters were all at Bradford’s disposal.

  Simpson, who’d assumed silver command in the operation, prayed he wouldn’t need them.

  But in this city, prayers were seldom heard. Tonight would be no different. Because tonight, hell had a new home.

  THIRTY-ONE

  HARRY WAS READY. His reflection in the mirror was startling.

  A criminal.

  That’s what he looked like: dressed in black, a dark beanie tight over his head and reckless anger simmering in his eyes.

  Outside, the fog had started to settle again. It was ideal because he didn’t know who was still watching.

  Harry put on his gloves and turned off the lights in the bedroom, plunging it into darkness. Finally, he took the piece of cloth his mother had used to wipe blood from his face before he left her home three years earlier. He wrapped it around his wrist and knotted it with his teeth. If he ever needed her blessings, it was tonight.

  Harry took a moment. He closed his eyes and tried to feel for his wife’s presence. He inhaled her scent: the mixed aroma of incense and perfume. He pictured her resting in bed, flicking through baby-name books, jotting down the ones she could claim as ‘fusion’. Harry reached out his hand in the darkness.

  He opened his eyes and exhaled his fears.

  He would find them.

  To do so, Harry was going to give himself to the streets and embrace the darker side of Bradford.

  He slipped out of the back door and into the snicket running behind the terraced houses.

  First, Harry needed a car.

  He couldn’t take Sister Clarke’s Ford; he was too paranoid he would be followed.

  Harry broke into a jog when he was free of the snicket and kept on the side of the road where the streetlights weren’t working. He focused on his breathing, ignoring the pain from his wound. He thought about the last twelve hours. It seemed unfathomable how much had happened in such a short space of time. Like a virus invading its host. Quick, brutal and without mercy.