Streets of Darkness (D.I. Harry Virdee)

by A. A. Dhand

Simpson didn’t know where to send his men. City Hall, one of the oldest buildings in Bradford, was on fire. A crowd more than a thousand strong was rampaging through the streets, looting, destroying and engaging in fierce battles. Two riderless police horses bolted past the van, charging north.

  He’d received eight missed calls from his wife, no doubt terrified as she watched the mayhem on television.

  There were too many rival groups in the city. The cancellation of the Leeds United – Millwall football match had added to the disorder. Football hooligans were treating the riot as an excuse to do what they did best.

  The mob had broken through strategic barriers blocking access to Bradford. The mentality to destroy was infectious. Simpson had witnessed it in 2001.

  The rain couldn’t fall hard enough to wash the blood from the pavements. Batons smashed into skulls, bones were shattered, bodies dropped like bowling pins.

  Simpson was on the phone, getting another update from across the city, when the National Media Museum went up in flames. The old, withered building which had withstood two world wars had succumbed to the madness.

  It was a spectacular sight. For a moment everybody paused and looked at the inferno. George Simpson ended his call and jumped out of the van. One of his officers had become isolated. Instinct took over and he drew his baton.

  ‘Oi!’ Simpson shouted, running towards the officer who was being beaten. He stood side by side with him, baton out, CS gas at the ready.

  ‘Fuckin’ pig!’ spat one of the skinheads. A mouthful of phlegm landed on Simpson’s arm. Somehow, they’d got separated from the crowd who’d drifted some fifty yards up Centenary Square.

  Simpson was set upon by several men.

  The ageing superintendent fell to his knees and cowered into a foetal position, hands over his head, knees tucked into his chest. His hair was being pulled ferociously. A fist smashed into his face. His head cracked on to the concrete.

  The world went hazy. He heard the barking of dogs getting louder; then feet hitting the ground, running desperately towards him.

  ‘Sir? Sir! Are you OK?’

  Panicked voices. Hands helping him to his feet. A trickle of blood down his face. Somewhere, a powerful flash went off.

  Tomorrow’s headlines.

  An hour later, George Simpson hobbled out of a patrol car outside his home. He’d refused to go to hospital. His wife would tend to his wounds. The tight bandage around his head had been applied by the paramedics in Centenary Square. The phone lines were down and he had been unable to reply to his wife’s earlier missed calls.

  He had handed silver command on to one of the DCIs and unwillingly left the carnage.

  Tomorrow morning, George Simpson would retire, four days earlier than planned. He couldn’t stand the fallout from yet another riot, this one on a scale he’d never seen before.

  Simpson unlocked his front door and stepped into his home. He placed his protective vest on the floor and threw his hat on the stairs. He kicked off his shoes and hung his jacket on an antique coat rack. Turning, he looked in the mirror and saw a ragged, patched-up face.

  Simpson spotted light under the living-room door. Mavis would have been following developments on the news and would be furious he hadn’t answered her calls.

  He cautiously opened the door.

  At first he couldn’t take in the sight. Mavis was bound to a chair. Behind her stood a large, angry-looking Asian man.

  He was standing bare-chested, blood dripping from his body, with a metal chain in his hand.

  Simpson instinctively reached for his radio. It wasn’t there; he’d tagged it on to his riot gear. With his mouth suddenly parched, he retreated a step. ‘Who the hell are you? Let my wife go. Whatever your grievance, she has nothing to do with it.’

  The intimidating figure filled the room. He looked unwashed with untidy stubble. His eyes were bloodshot. Simpson noticed it wasn’t just a metal chain he held. There were knives hanging from it. The man had a thick accent when he finally spoke.

  ‘It has everything to do with her, George. Look at me. Recognize me. You know me.’

  Simpson stole a glance at Mavis and saw the panic in her eyes. There was blood splattered across her face yet she looked unharmed.

  ‘I say look at me, bastard! Look my eyes – remember!’

  Simpson locked eyes with the man, wondering which of the many animals he’d put away had come back to haunt him.

  Then, slowly, George Simpson recognized Bashir Iqbal.

  It couldn’t be.

  Simpson recoiled.

  It was impossible.

  Standing in front of him was the man who had haunted his nightmares for decades.

  A ghost from the past.

  With the strength in his legs failing, Simpson realized that tonight, not even God would save him.

  FORTY-TWO

  HARRY AND LUCAS headed towards the city centre, towards Toller Lane.

  Towards Colin Reed.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ Harry said, approaching Thornbury roundabout.

  ‘You’re telling me.’ Lucas slouched into the passenger seat.

  A procession of police cars screamed by, blue lights flashing. Harry pulled the car over, out of the way. He tuned the radio to BBC Leeds.

  ‘We are in the heart of Bradford where fierce clashes between the police and gangs of Asian youths are becoming increasingly violent. Authorities have blockaded routes into the city to try to calm—’ The reporter’s mic suddenly went off air. The presenter tried to reconnect; it only showed how volatile the situation in the city had become.

  ‘It’s happening,’ Harry said. ‘We’re too late.’

  ‘To save the city, maybe,’ Lucas replied. ‘Let’s focus on your wife.’

  They both glanced at the clock: 22.22.

  Harry took the car around Thornbury roundabout, away from the city centre.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Lucas asked.

  ‘Avoiding the madness.’ Harry pointed to the radio. ‘We’ll head towards Bowling Hall Road, take the back way towards Toller.’

  Harry took the Mercedes past sixty, causing two speed cameras to flash. ‘What the hell is going on here?’ he asked quietly. Almost to himself.

  Lucas sighed. ‘Can’t understand what I’ve got to do with it. This guy, Colin Reed? He’s gone to a lot of trouble to put me at the centre. That’s the part I’m struggling with. All this effort?’

  Harry agreed. ‘It’s drugs. Some kind of power play. The riot is a distraction. Question is by who?’ he said. ‘It has to be someone powerful or with a lot to lose. Ahmed wasn’t a target without risks.’

  At Dudley Hill roundabout, the traffic stopped as more police vans rushed past. The M606 was only a few hundred yards away; these looked like summoned reinforcements.

  Harry overtook stationary cars and moved on to Wakefield Road, descending towards the city centre. Halfway down, he took his foot off the accelerator.

  The car slowed to a crawl and then stopped. Lucas swore under his breath as they got out and stared in disbelief at the clouds of smoke rising over the city. The central library and museum were burning in an inferno that lit up the night. To the west of the city, where they needed to go, helicopters and blue sirens warned them away.

  ‘We’ve got to go through that to get to the warehouse?’ said Lucas.

  ‘No. We can’t. We’ll never make it.’

  It was the scale of the disorder which dismayed Harry. ‘What are we missing?’ he asked, pointing to the flames.

  Lucas shook his head and then shrugged. ‘Never seen anything like it. Two thousand and one was a walk in the park compared to this.’

  A crack in the distance made them both jump. One of the helicopters rotated wildly. It looked as though it might have hit power lines.

  Harry and Lucas held their breath, scarcely able to watch as it struggled to stabilize. There was a moment when the pilot looked to have it under control, but then, with flames from the museum illuminating its d
escent, the helicopter dipped critically before nosediving towards the ground.

  For a moment the madness seemed to stop. Time paused.

  But the pilot regained control. And as quickly as it had descended the helicopter was back in the air, circling high and then pulling away to safety.

  Harry and Lucas let out their breath and got back in the car. They drove in a stunned silence away from the epicentre and headed to the ring road – subdued, trying to understand who Colin Reed was and why he had put himself at the centre of this.

  There were so many different elements to decipher.

  All of the clues led back to Lucas. But the carnage in the city was way beyond a BNP-motivated riot. The damage would be far-reaching and no one would come out unscathed.

  Ambulances were hurtling past them, heading for the infirmary close by.

  Harry had turned off the radio. By all accounts, the city was in the grip of a madness from which only daylight would save it. He checked the time: 22.40.

  ‘There.’ Lucas pointed towards a sign for Toller. It led on to Duckworth Lane, where Bradford Royal Infirmary was currently at breaking point. Ambulance sirens were all around them, blue lights bouncing off the houses.

  Lister Park wasn’t far from Toller Lane. Gangs of youths charged through the side streets, faces covered, mobiles to their ears. Harry took a sharp turn on to Toller and slammed on the brakes as a group of four Asian youths leapt into the road. They ran in front of the car, one of them slipping and putting a gloved hand on the bonnet. Then, as quickly as they appeared, they vanished across the dual carriageway, into the darkness of a snicket.

  ‘Crazy that we’re heading to the middle of this madness,’ Harry said.

  ‘I was thinking the same thing. What is all this for?’

  ‘When you deliberately burn a building down, it’s usually to hide something or to rebuild,’ said Harry. He pointed into the distance, where flames were rising from the city. ‘Question is, which one?’

  Harry covered a few hundred yards on Toller Lane before they reached the warehouse. It was set in a barren area of land. The grass was wildly unkempt and there was a narrow dirt track full of potholes leading to it. There was a protective but badly rusted metal railing around the perimeter and a decaying sign on the front gates, which were open: ‘Blade Packaging’.

  Harry stopped the car and got out, hovering by the driver’s door.

  ‘Plan?’ Lucas asked, rushing around to his side.

  ‘Not sure.’ Harry checked his watch.

  ‘Look.’ Lucas pointed to the building.

  The main doors next to the shutters swung open and a man scurried out. He opened the back doors of a van and threw two bags inside. Harry trained his eyes on the van. A light inside showed it to be empty. The man slammed the doors shut and got into the driver’s side.

  No sign of Saima.

  ‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ Lucas said.

  The van screeched off the tarmac and came blazing down the dirt track. Harry turned his face, out of sight. The van slowed when it hit the kerb and then raced away.

  Harry noted the licence plate and took out his phone. He tried to make a call but it wouldn’t connect.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ Lucas asked.

  ‘Only man I can trust.’

  ‘Colleague?’ Lucas asked suspiciously.

  ‘Brother,’ replied Harry. He shook his phone in frustration. ‘Damn thing won’t connect.’

  ‘Phone masts are probably down.’

  Harry typed a frantic text. He punched in the licence plate of the van and gave Ronnie a brief idea of what had happened and where he was going.

  ‘Sounds fucking insane,’ Harry said, sending it. The text struggled to transmit. Harry hit resend and put the phone in his pocket. ‘Come on. We’re going in.’

  They hurried to the gates and sneaked inside. Harry was suspicious at the ease with which they were able to approach, but pressed on down the dirt track, taking care to avoid potholes. The wind picked up as they ran, cutting at their faces – warning them to retreat. A chill crept up Harry’s spine and he couldn’t shake the notion they were being watched. But even on this hostile terrain, the need to get to Saima drew him magnetically towards the warehouse.

  The ground disintegrated into a bog. Lucas slipped and Harry grabbed his arm, keeping him upright. Harry kept glancing at the building but it was too dark to spot any cameras. They reached the front of the warehouse and both men dropped to their knees – silhouettes camouflaged in the night.

  There was an enormous blue shutter across the main entrance and a side door which was open. Harry glanced at Lucas, who nodded for him to enter.

  Harry was alarmed at not having a weapon. It seemed foolhardy to charge in unprepared. But he was here now, with no time to delay. He needed to get to Saima. Being unarmed was irrelevant.

  The iron door creaked heavily. Harry slipped inside, holding his breath. There was a lamp directly above the door. Its light petered out a few feet in front, leaving a corridor of impenetrable darkness. It was all too similar to that morning at the boxing gym. Unfathomable how much had happened in the few hours since then.

  Harry pulled Lucas to the floor and pointed to a faint glow in the distance. They headed towards it, keeping low.

  Suddenly the door behind them slammed closed. The morsel of light disappeared. In front, the glow they had been focusing on eclipsed and then vanished too. The corridor shrank into blackness.

  Harry and Lucas were motionless on the floor, only their laboured breathing breaking the silence.

  And then there was the sound of a gunshot.

  FORTY-THREE

  ‘TELL HER!’ BASHIR screamed.

  Simpson was speechless.

  Bashir raised the zanjeer as if to strike Mavis. Simpson leapt forward to intervene.

  ‘No!’ he screamed. ‘Please, don’t hurt her – I’ll do whatever you want.’

  ‘Give me back the last forty years of my life, bastard!’ Bashir shouted. ‘Tell her!’

  ‘It . . . it was so long ago, Bashir. I’ll make it up to you, I promise, just let my wife go.’

  How was it that after four decades, mistakes from his past were standing in his living room?

  ‘I say, tell her!’ Bashir bellowed. He brought the zanjeer down and smashed it into Mavis’s legs. Although she was gagged, Mavis released a muted cry and started to shake. Simpson threw himself at Bashir.

  Bashir stepped aside and shoved him easily into the marble mantelpiece. Simpson crashed into it, banging his head, and fell to the floor.

  Grabbing him by his clothes, Bashir pulled Simpson to his feet and threw him on the sofa.

  ‘Please . . .’ Simpson mumbled, ‘don’t hurt her. It’s me you want.’

  ‘Start talking.’ Bashir raised the zanjeer again, this time aiming it towards Simpson. Sweat tricked down Bashir’s bare chest, then on to the floor.

  Simpson looked ashamedly at his wife, who was crying hysterically. ‘Mavis . . . I did something terrible to this man many years ago.’ His voice was trembling with fear; he paused, uncertain how to proceed. Bashir backed off a beat and lowered the zanjeer, his eyes burning fiercely.

  This was a tale which had stolen his life.

  Simpson continued. ‘I . . . did something which I have never been able to forget, Mavis. You know I spent the first twenty years of my life in India and Pakistan? My father was stationed in Bashir’s village to help the local police after the partition of India. He was one of the last working guards at that time . . .’ His voice was shaky. Blood escaped from his bandaged head and his cheek was swelling with speed.

  ‘Bashir and I were friends – we . . . we lived near each other.’ His words slowed as Simpson focused on the past. His eyes dropped to the floor and his voice cracked. ‘One day, a Pakistani girl was walking back from the well. She stumbled and fell. I’d been drinking – I didn’t know what I was doing. I . . . I . . . was only young. She . . . she came over to us for help and I was drunk
, Mavis. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t think.’

  Mavis made as if to speak and Bashir removed her gag. She was grimacing at the flesh wounds on her legs and stuttered her words. ‘What d-did you d-do, George?’

  He paused. He couldn’t look at her. ‘I was only fifteen,’ he said again, as if it were a defence.

  Another pause.

  ‘I knew the girl. I’d been . . . chasing her for a few weeks. I wasn’t in my senses, Mavis, and I . . . I . . .’ Simpson couldn’t bring the words to his lips.

  ‘He raped her,’ Bashir whispered, pointing at Simpson. ‘I was there. Then people came – from my village. I never put finger on her.’ Bashir raised his voice and waved the bloody zanjeer at Simpson. ‘Tell her what you did, bastard!’

  Simpson’s head was weighted to the floor. ‘I . . . I . . . did rape her,’ he said quietly, finally acknowledging his sin after all those years. ‘And . . . I blamed Bashir. But please . . .’ Simpson turned to Bashir, away from his wife’s shocked expression. He couldn’t face her. ‘Let my wife go. She doesn’t deserve this.’

  Bashir twisted the chain ominously in his hands.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Simpson pleaded. He had started to sob.

  ‘You know what happened to this woman? She is cast away from her village. An untouchable. Like me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll do anything you want. Money – I have money! My retirement fund—’

  Bashir stepped forward and smashed his elbow into Simpson’s face. The crack of his nose breaking jolted Mavis into action.

  ‘George? George? Are you OK? Leave him alone, you monster!’

  ‘Even in my country you could beat the system,’ Bashir said icily. ‘Because you are white and your family had money and power.’ He struck Simpson again. ‘Your family paid this girl to blame me – and I was easy to sacrifice. Poor man. No future. No hope. And then your family moved back to England. Left me ruined.’

  Bashir was breathing heavily, almost panting. He was struggling to decide what to do with the woman. What use was life without her husband? He knelt in front of her, keeping Simpson in his line of sight. ‘This girl – you know what happened to her?’ he asked Mavis softly.