by A. A. Dhand
‘You’re not under arrest. Look, if you humour me, clear up a few trivial matters, I can be on my way and you can get back to your evening.’ He waved in the direction of the television.
Steele placed her hands on the table. Palms down.
‘So, Lucas Dwight. You know him?’
She paused, as if unable to decide whether to answer or not. It wasn’t long, maybe a few seconds, but she was leaking emotion.
Fear.
‘As well as I knew any inmate.’
‘You saw him before he was released? Gave him his final medical?’
‘Routine. Everyone gets one before we release them. Well, anyone who’s an addict.’
‘How come?’
‘We give them a tox screen before enrolling them on a community programme.’
Harry nodded. ‘Anything unusual about that appointment?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Lucas is wanted in connection with an important case. I’m chasing down the last few people who spoke with him.’
‘It was a routine appointment.’
‘You take blood from him?’
There was the faintest of hesitations. ‘Yes. Standard practice.’
‘Hmmm. Is it standard practice to get it wrong the first time?’
There was the faintest movement in her hands and her eyes looked away momentarily. ‘Huh?’
‘You messed it up. How do I put it? Filled the wrong sample bottles?’
‘How do—’ she started before quickly correcting herself. ‘I don’t think I did.’
Harry had her.
And she knew it.
It was all over her face and her hands had become fidgety on the table.
‘You did,’ replied Harry. ‘You had to do it again. You don’t remember?’
He was goading her.
She paused, an uncomfortable silence. Finally she smiled. Steele moved her hands from the table and ran them through her hair, revealing the narrow lines of her jaw. ‘Of course,’ she said, clearly trying her best to sound casual. ‘That’s right. I did. I was rushing – there’s never enough time in that place.’ She let out a forced laugh.
‘Sounds like my job,’ Harry replied, trying to reel her in. ‘You’ve got a dozen patients and a dozen minutes, right?’
‘Something like that. Public-sector pay but they expect a private-level service.’
‘Isn’t that the truth?’ Harry smiled insincerely. ‘The blood you took. The first time. What did you do with it?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The vials. What did you do with them?’
‘Why?’ Steele was becoming increasingly restless.
‘I’m interested.’
‘For what reason?’
‘Ms Steele, we can swap seats if you want to play detective?’
‘I . . . I put it in clinical waste.’ Her cheeks flushed.
‘Can you elaborate?’
‘Yellow clinical-waste bins,’ she said coldly, almost snapping.
‘Is that protocol?’
‘It is.’
‘And this was just before he was released?’
She nodded.
‘If I was to go down to Armley prison, go into the infirmary and examine the contents of those yellow clinical-waste bins, I would find two clotted vials of Lucas Dwight’s blood?’
Karen Steele seemed to shrink into the chair. The muscles on the side of her face twitched. ‘Yes,’ she said with a faint quiver to her voice. ‘You would.’
Harry exaggerated a nod. ‘OK. There was a prison riot in . . . er . . . I can’t quite call it to mind now – help me out?’
‘Two thousand and four,’ she replied quietly.
‘You were caught up in it?’
She didn’t reply. It was the year she had tried to commit suicide. Harry wondered if there was a link. He couldn’t see it. Instead, he used the information he had got from Lucas. ‘When they rebuilt the prison, repaired all the damage, they installed some fairly decent CCTV cameras in the infirmary, right? I bet that made you feel a lot safer, especially considering you were caught up in the mess?’
Steele’s face dropped; the colour drained instantly.
‘I’m going to take a punt here and suggest, Ms Steele’ – Harry leaned forward and placed his hands on the table – ‘that if I were to look at that footage, I wouldn’t see you putting those vials in the clinical-waste bins. In fact, if we went down there right now and examined them, we wouldn’t find anything, would we?’
She remained placid. Didn’t answer.
‘Who did you give them to?’
Steele couldn’t look at him. She blinked repeatedly.
Harry was breathing heavily. His heart was racing and the red mist descended.
Saima: starving all day to wish for his long life. Missing. Overdue with his child. Wearing his mother’s slippers.
And this bitch is complicit.
Harry pursed his mouth and exhaled slowly. ‘Ms Steele . . .’
‘I have nothing more to say,’ she said suddenly. ‘Either arrest me or leave.’
‘You really want to take this down the station?’
She shrugged and glared at him. ‘If you insist. I want to call a solicitor. I know my rights.’
Harry got to his feet. ‘Your rights’, he hissed, ‘ended when you opened your front door.’
She recoiled momentarily.
‘You . . . you . . . need to leave . . .’ she began and stood up on shaky legs. ‘Or I’ll . . . I’ll call the police . . .’
‘What good is a phone – if you are unable to speak?’ said Harry, suddenly snapping out his hand and grabbing Steele by the throat. She was too stunned to fight back and Harry constricted his fist powerfully around her neck.
He turned Steele around and choked her in a sleeper-hold. Her resistance was futile and when she faded, Harry lowered her limp body to the ground. Then he walked to the back door, opened it and whistled.
Within a few seconds, Lucas Dwight appeared from the shadows. He looked at Harry’s face and got the answers he needed.
‘We’re not going to have a problem, are we?’ Harry asked as Lucas mounted the steps.
When the two men were close, Lucas paused. His breath was warm on Harry’s face. ‘Let’s get her talking.’
Harry grabbed his arm and Lucas responded by clamping his hand across Harry’s.
‘Worst thing we can do is fall out right about now,’ Lucas said. ‘Let’s see how deep this pile of shit is and then . . . we’ll see.’
Harry let go of Lucas. ‘She’d better talk. Because if I’ve got to go through you to crack her, I will.’
THIRTY-SIX
WHEN BASHIR LEFT Zain, he didn’t go to the house he had been observing. If this was to be his last evening in Bradford, then Bashir wanted to say goodbye. Blood from the wounds on his back trickled down his skin.
Bleeding was a need he had developed.
First it had been the pain. He needed the blades to cut him. To dwarf the agony in his mind.
But lately, it hadn’t been enough. Now, Bashir needed to bleed constantly. In a few hours, he would conquer that need. He would, once and for all, gain vengeance.
Bashir wasn’t concerned about Zain. He had done the boy one favour – as agreed. Zain needed to forge his own reputation.
Bashir was doubtful the boy would succeed. He had seen him develop into a man; a needy one. A daddy’s boy. Too much money, too much complaining. Not enough elbow grease.
Three men. One warehouse. The odds were favourable. Zain would have the element of surprise.
Did he have what it took to pull the trigger? Could he instil fear into the gangs he wanted to control? Could he manufacture a reputation in one night?
Bashir put his hand in his pocket. Felt for his passport.
It wasn’t his fight any more. His allegiance had been to Zain’s father.
Now, he had different priorities.
Bashir made his way to Lister Park. To the Mela.
> There was an enormous police presence. Squad cars, vans, horses. In the distance, Bashir could hear the rotor blades of a helicopter.
But, for now, the Mela was peaceful. Bashir was at a stall, waiting in line for samosas. He was irritated at the racket on stage. It was too loud; there were too many disco lights. The introduction of an Indian dhol-drum and some bhangra dancers took the crowd’s heartbeat to new heights. They pulsed along with the drums, hands in the air, moving to the rhythm.
The park was heaving. It was a dual celebration with Eid, an opportunity to celebrate the diversity of the city and one the council had seized. Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus: they all had stalls and ongoing events and, for the first time, there were English stalls selling beers and pies.
It didn’t matter that it was raining through the fog. The crowds were oblivious to the downpour. The harder it fell, the quicker they danced. Bashir glanced towards the stage. The bhangra dancers in bright yellow turbans were spinning and twisting their bodies as if possessed. Their moves were perfectly synchronized with the pounding rhythm. Above them fireworks exploded. There would be no darkness tonight.
The crowd was a lot younger than in previous years. Ten years before it had been predominantly families. Now it was overwhelmingly teenagers, boisterous groups of boys and giggling girls. The second-largest gathering was the taxi drivers. This weekend, the restaurants they frequented would suffer. The Mela was the place to be. Eye candy and food in the same place.
There was a crack of thunder above his head. Bashir jumped. The crowd went wild, screaming excitedly. They bounced up and down, pounding the earth, absorbing the intoxicating atmosphere.
In the queue in front, two white girls were speaking a language Bashir didn’t understand. Foreign students, he thought. They were pointing at the strange food on display.
Next to the van, a group of teenage girls skipped up and down, holding cans of lager. Their tops were low, breasts trying to escape.
Bashir’s turn had come. He ordered a portion of samosas and some masala chicken. Bashir asked the chef for extra chilli. If he didn’t sweat when eating a curry, Bashir felt as though he was eating a poor man’s meal.
He wandered away from the van. The rain was annoying. He walked quickly to an unpopulated area of the park and veered from the path, through an area of dense woodland. The towering oak trees were curling over, branches finally blocking out the rain. Bashir had parked on the main road and wanted to enjoy his food in relative quiet. He heard twigs snapping to his left. A young couple were fooling around. Bashir carried on.
At the end of his route, Bashir crouched down and jumped off a shallow wall. His car was ahead, parked in a row of vacant taxis.
Bashir removed his waterlogged raincoat and threw it on to the back seat.
Inside the car, Bashir switched on the heater. He put the masala chicken on the passenger seat and started to eat his food. Sunrise Radio was playing a classic Indian song from his youth. He hadn’t heard it in decades. Bashir closed his eyes and thought about his farm back home.
The chicken was extra spicy. Bashir wiped sweat from his temple. But it was good. Almost like his mother used to make. He thought about her now. About the shame he had brought upon her.
About the injustice he had suffered.
His colleagues at the Mela would be wondering where he was. He looked around Manningham Lane. At the side streets where he had fucked so many whores. Cut so many women. Spent so many dark nights. He was tired. He wanted to go home.
Bashir wiped greasy hands on his trousers and removed his passport. A British national. That was who he had become. But his heart was always in Pakistan. A land he would soon walk again.
Alone.
Without his wife.
He thought about her momentarily. About her broken mind. Eyes which couldn’t look at him. Not like a husband anyway. But like a fiend she had been forced to endure.
Bashir’s appetite disappeared.
He wouldn’t be held responsible for what happened to her. Bashir had suffered equally.
He lowered the window and threw the remains of his meal out of it. Then he made his way back to the Mela.
Bashir’s friends were on the lookout for fares – but not the kind who’d pay cash. Tonight they were predators and it was easy pickings. Bashir didn’t like to fuck his passengers. He’d had a few experiences, but they never gave him the pleasure he enjoyed. Without drawing blood, Bashir couldn’t be satisfied.
But it was a spectacle to watch his colleagues competing to see who could pick up the easiest fuck. There was a direct correlation between alcohol, the desperation to get home, and the weather. Once the girls were soaking wet, penniless and drunk, it became so easy to barter with them.
The gales had become a little stronger, dictating the ferocity of the downpour. The crowd reacted as if a long-standing famine had come to an end.
People were laughing. Dancing. Falling over. The atmosphere was infectious; even Bashir cracked a smile at the absurdity of the dance moves. They came so easily for some, yet for others, co-ordinating bhangra moves was too skilled a task to emulate.
Some of his friends were chatting to a group of pissed-up girls, no doubt negotiating fares home.
And then something changed.
It happened over perhaps ten minutes. Mobile phones lit up. Large sections of the crowd became edgy, texting or speaking on their phones. Nervous chatter swept the park. To his left, a large section of the crowd began moving away, some walking, others running.
Bashir asked his friends what was happening. They shrugged, oblivious to the change, and kept talking to the girls.
Bashir saw swarms of police officers suddenly infiltrate the park. Some were wearing riot gear. On stage, the dancers became distracted and lost their synchronization.
Bashir tapped his friends on the shoulder and pointed in the distance. They were speechless as they realized the police had surrounded the park and sealed off the exits.
Some of the crowd rushed towards the police. Angry shouts and questions replaced the previous celebratory mood. A police officer appeared on the stage and took the microphone. He spoke clearly and slowly. There were disturbances in the city and, for their safety, everyone was being held for the time being. Ludicrously, he told the crowd to continue enjoying the Mela and let the police do their job.
The crowd booed and whistled. Some looked frightened, others furious. There was a sea of mobile phones in the air trying to catch updates on the web. Groups of boys ran away from the police barricades, wanting to see what was happening in the city.
Nervous whispers of the BNP spread. Like a drop of blood in the ocean attracting a great white, the BNP murmurs caused the predators amongst the crowd to disperse and go hunting.
The change was so sudden, Bashir didn’t register the skirmishes already happening at the far side of the park. The police were forcefully trying to keep the Asians in and the BNP out. It was a foolish ploy. The fuse of anarchy had been lit. Painful lessons of the past hadn’t been learned.
Bashir’s friends ran quickly with the crowd. But he stayed where he was. Deep in thought, calm amongst the chaos, Bashir evaluated the situation. A group of boys tore past him, shouting about the BNP. He heard mutterings about football supporters.
Bashir remained very still as the world around him fractured. The police were trying desperately to regain control over a situation they had lost. As the crowd headed towards them, Bashir turned and walked the opposite way, a lone character, cutting through the masses with purposeful intent.
It was time.
As the rain tried to dampen the steam rising from the irate crowd, Bashir headed back towards his car.
It was all falling into place.
Although much blood would be shed on the streets of Bradford tonight, Bashir would be responsible for only one death.
The one he’d been planning for years.
THIRTY-SEVEN
KAREN STEELE CAME round sitting on a chair in her upstair
s back bedroom. Her hands and feet were tied. There was a click of fingers to her left. She was alarmed to see Lucas Dwight standing beside her. He was eating a Mars bar. From her fridge. And drinking one of her cans of Diet Coke. She closed her eyes in disbelief and then looked again.
‘You’ve no regular downstairs?’ he asked, waving it disapprovingly.
‘Please, Lucas.’
‘Shut up. Not interested. You know something, and to be honest, one way or another, you’re going to tell us.’ Lucas took another bite of the chocolate. ‘You set me up.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘Save it!’ he snapped and shook his head. ‘Do you have any idea what you are involved in? That detective – and he is a detective – his pregnant wife has been taken by the same sons of bitches who want me dead.’
‘What?’
Lucas nodded. ‘Whoever wants me has no boundaries. Now, before I let him in here – before I unleash him – you’ve got one chance to save yourself a lot of pain.’
Lucas finished the Diet Coke, crumpled the can in his hand and threw it across the room. ‘A man whose family is at risk? He is not going to follow any rules.’
‘Honestly, Lucas, I really don’t—’
He slapped her. Using the back of his hand where the rough skin across his knuckles would slice. Steele yelped. Lucas grabbed her face in his hand, squeezing her cheeks against her teeth. He crouched down so their eyes were level. ‘You stupid bitch, I’m being the nice guy here. Don’t you get that? When he comes in, he’s going to kill you. Look at me! Look at me.’ He forced her eyes to meet his. ‘You’re going to die. And it’s going to be horrible unless you tell me what I need to hear.’ He let go of her face roughly and she started to cry. ‘Whoever you are protecting – are they worth dying for?’
Steele stifled her sobs and dropped her head on to her chest. Lucas let her be. He popped the remainder of the Mars bar in his mouth and dropped the wrapper on the floor.
‘I can’t help you,’ she said, struggling with her words. ‘Do what you will.’
Lucas let out a desperate sigh. He had hoped the threat of violence would break her. But something greater was at play here.
