City of Sinners

by Dhand, A. A.

  ‘Why?’ Palmer asked, looking a bit offended.

  ‘He speaks the lingo. You might need some translation help if they get emotional,’ Harry said with a shrug.

  Palmer made a move for the door.

  ‘Oh, and Simon,’ Harry stood tall to make sure his voice carried across the office, ‘make sure you get all you can on what they know about that money, I want to make sure there was nothing else dodgy going on there.’

  ‘Right you are, boss.’

  In the meantime, Harry left Trafalgar House, still reeling from the way the killer had simply walked out of the front door when Jane had opened up.

  This was a different type of murderer – calm, calculating and well organized.

  And Harry had the distinct feeling his next victim was already in the planning.

  FIFTEEN

  GOOGLE MAPS SHOWED That Nail Girl boutique nail salon was only three miles from Trafalgar House. Harry found it nestled in the middle of a parade of shops with a large forecourt. He pulled up next to the only car parked out front, a sleek black Range Rover with the registration plate, ‘Kim2TNG’.

  The parade of shops housed a suntan parlour, Indian takeaway, pharmacy, nail salon, sandwich shop and a large triple-fronted convenience store. He took a walk around the parade and saw nothing out of place. Harry entered the boutique and was immediately assaulted by the strong smell of something chemical in the air and a radio playing nineties boyband music.

  It was compact, to say the least. The walls were a glossy red with the TNG logo painted on each one. Three technicians were working at three small workstations down one side of the room. Each of the customers was part way through what looked like a complicated manicure of some kind that Harry couldn’t get his head around. Shelves on the far wall stocked glitters and polishes in every colour Harry had ever seen. A framed certificate on the wall by the reception desk caught Harry’s eye.

  Kim Tu

  Star of Fame, UK Nail Awards

  Awarded for innovation in 3-D nail design with special commendation to Kim’s signature Blood Rose design

  Beside it were other awards. Seemed Kim was no ordinary nail artist.

  A petite blonde receptionist tapping away on a laptop gave Harry a cursory glance and asked if he needed any help.

  ‘I’m looking for Kim Tu,’ he said.

  ‘That’s me,’ said a girl sitting behind the furthest workstation. Brunette. Late twenties. Attractive. She didn’t look up, her focus remained intently set on her customer’s nails.

  Harry approached her and told her who he was, offering his identification.

  Kim didn’t take her eyes off her work, she’d completed a graphic design on her customer’s nails – one hand had been set aside to dry under the glare of an ultraviolet lamp while she applied finishing touches to the other.

  ‘I need to speak with you,’ said Harry.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘It’s delicate. Here’s not really the place.’

  ‘I finish at six.’

  ‘That’s not going to work for me.’

  ‘This is intricate work. Do you mind?’ she said, her voice sharpening.

  Harry crouched beside her, leaving only a few inches between them. He changed his tone. ‘Kim, this is a conversation we’re going to have.’

  She glanced at Harry. ‘You’re going to have to tell me what it’s about. If I cancel a client? That’s forty quid, minimum.’

  ‘It’s about Usma Khan,’ replied Harry.

  A shift in Kim’s eyes. Discreet, but Harry clocked it. She focused back on her client. ‘I’ve got another ten minutes on these nails. Okay?’

  ‘Missed my breakfast. Sandwich shop next door any good?’

  Kim nodded.

  L’Kitchen was a cosy little café rather than a sandwich shop. Harry ordered a fried egg sandwich and a milky coffee.

  He quickly learned the owner was called Lena, she had a one-year-old girl and she was very willing to talk.

  Harry asked if she knew Usma Khan.

  ‘Asian girl with the rich boyfriend?’ said Lena, putting some milk in the microwave for Harry’s coffee.

  ‘Rich boyfriend?’

  ‘She’s always being picked up by a different sports car. I’m a Top Gear fan, I know my cars.’

  ‘What kind of motors?’

  ‘Porsche. Bentley.’ She nodded towards Kim’s Range Rover. ‘Think that used to be one of his until Kim bought it off him.’

  ‘Know who he is?’

  ‘Why the interest, mate?’

  The microwave stopped and Lena finished making Harry’s coffee, handing him the mug. ‘I’ll bring your sandwich over.’

  ‘Cheers. The boyfriend then. You were saying?’

  ‘What are you, a cop?’

  Harry nodded.

  Lena looked suddenly uncertain.

  ‘Relax. It’s just routine enquiries.’

  ‘Police don’t make routine enquiries.’

  Harry waited for an answer to his question.

  ‘If we’re talking about the same Asian girl, then her fella owns a second-hand garage on Sticker Lane.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll take a window seat over there.’

  The sandwich was generous, the bread roll soft as butter and the yolk perfectly runny. The coffee wasn’t bad either. Harry made a note to visit again.

  He used his phone to google second-hand car garages on Sticker Lane and found three companies. Checking their stock, he found only one with the types of cars Lena had spoken of. The owner, Xavier Cross, was a white guy with a shaved head and tattoos – the picture of him on the site showed him standing next to a Bentley. Harry noted its location, that’d be his next stop.

  With the sandwich finished and the coffee mug empty, Harry was about to go back into the nail salon when Kim came in and marched straight over to him.

  ‘So?’ she said, looking more exasperated than Harry expected.

  ‘Easy, kid. Get yourself a coffee. A fry-up if you want.’

  ‘I’m on a clock.’

  ‘What? You don’t eat breakfast?’

  ‘It’s almost lunch. Besides, I’ve got a client in twenty.’

  Harry called out for Lena to make him another coffee and waited for Kim.

  ‘I’ll have a latte,’ she said to Lena and sat down.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Can we start over? Maybe lose the attitude?’ said Harry.

  ‘I’m busy. Got clients.’

  ‘I can see.’

  Harry nodded towards the Range Rover. ‘Business must be good.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Didn’t think nail salons made so much money.’

  ‘They don’t. I do.’

  Lena brought over the coffees and left the bill on the table.

  ‘Usma Khan. She used to work for you?’

  Harry regretted the slip of the tongue.

  Kim frowned. ‘Used to?’

  Harry dropped his voice and told her what had happened, omitting some of the finer details. Blood drained from Kim’s face and her whole demeanour changed. She looked genuinely devastated.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Harry. ‘That wasn’t how I intended to tell you the news.’

  Kim looked away, blinking hard.

  ‘Christ,’ she said. ‘Usma? You’re sure?’

  Harry handed her a napkin and gave her a few minutes.

  ‘Can we do this another time?’ said Kim.

  ‘I’m afraid not. First twenty-four hours after something like this are critical. I really need to know a few things about her. I’m guessing there are some secrets maybe only you know about.’

  Kim looked at him, perplexed.

  ‘Come on, Kim, I’m a detective.’

  She dropped the act almost immediately.

  ‘So I’m thinking her family didn’t know she was into this nail stuff and, from what I can see, Usma was good at what she did. Earned decent money, too. I’m here to find out what happened to her. The more open and hone
st you are with me, the better chance I’ve got of nailing the bastard who did this. No pun intended.’

  Kim wrapped her hands around the steaming mug in front of her and looked around the café. There were only two other customers eating their breakfast.

  ‘Think we can take these away? I’ve got a training centre at the end of the parade. Above the suntan shop. Let’s talk there.’

  Harry closed the door to Kim’s office. They were on the second floor of the end retail unit, which Kim had set up as a training facility for nail technicians.

  Kim told Harry she’d met Usma at an exhibition she’d held at the Midland Hotel in Bradford. Kim had gained a reputation online and in the business as one of the best nail technicians around. She’d started her own brand, That Nail Girl, and was keen to franchise it.

  ‘That’s some achievement for someone so young.’

  ‘Was brought up poor. Swore I’d give my kids a better start than I had.’

  ‘How many you got?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Hard work, isn’t it?’

  Kim smiled. ‘It’s worth it though.’

  ‘How’s Usma fit into all this?’

  ‘She was shit-hot.’

  ‘Really?’

  Kim nodded. ‘Don’t get many students like her. She just had an eye for it and the steady hands of a surgeon. I’ve got a good client list but the final nut left to crack for me is the Asian market. Round here, that’s a big piece of the pie. When I saw how good Usma was, I gave her a place at the academy for half-price on the proviso she worked for me exclusively and pulled in some Asian clients. Girl was a natural.’

  Harry asked her about Usma’s job at the bookshop. Apparently it was a job her parents approved of and working there a few hours each week meant Usma could explain a little of the money she was making.

  ‘What did she clear, working for you?’

  Kim hesitated.

  ‘Come on, I’m not the tax man.’

  ‘Say, two fifty a week.’

  ‘For working how many hours?’

  ‘Maybe sixteen to twenty. She worked it around college and she’d built up a big client list who were happy to see her whenever she was available.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  Another hesitation. She shook her head.

  ‘Argh, you were doing so well until then,’ said Harry.

  Kim stared at him suspiciously.

  ‘Xavier?’ said Harry, taking a punt.

  ‘You know about him?’

  ‘I do now.’ He smiled at her.

  Kim took a sip of her coffee. Harry could tell she was thinking over her response. He tried to make it easy for her.

  ‘Asian girl from a traditional family, loves nails, fashion and dates a white guy. That shit might get you killed in some circles, so if I was her, I’d have done exactly the same. Keep it under the radar and tell no one except my closest friend. It’s not stupid. It’s smart. But now, the only thing which gets me is, the guy who did this—’

  ‘Xavier didn’t do this, he’s—’

  Harry held his hand up and stopped her. ‘The only thing which gets me is, the guy who did this knows everything about Usma. Including who she was dating.’

  Kim thought on it. Took another sip of coffee.

  ‘They weren’t dating,’ she said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘They were fucking.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Kim shrugged. ‘You go on dates with your boyfriend. Usma and Xavier never went on dates. It was all about the sweat. He got a booty-call. And she got to do what she wanted without repercussions.’

  ‘Modern Asian dating, huh?’

  ‘You can lose the Asian. This is just how it is now; Tinder is all about the action.’

  ‘Glad I’m old-school then. Dinner and romance.’

  Kim rolled her eyes.

  ‘Usma is – was – smart. She wanted to earn some money and live a little. There’s no harm in that.’

  ‘No,’ said Harry. ‘Until she was murdered.’

  ‘You have any leads?’

  ‘Enquiries are ongoing. Did she have a locker here?’

  Kim hesitated.

  ‘Come on, Kim. We’ve been doing so well. Shame to stop that now,’ said Harry.

  ‘Upstairs. She had a cupboard she kept a few personal things in.’

  Harry raised his eyebrows.

  Kim shrugged. ‘Clothes and stuff.’

  ‘I’ll need to take a look.’ Harry made to get up.

  ‘Don’t you need a warrant or something?’

  ‘I can get one if you need it, Kim, but I don’t want to delay this investigation any more than I have to.’

  Harry’s tone had changed. It wasn’t quite threatening but he wanted Kim to know he had a side to him she might not be so comfortable with.

  ‘Come on,’ said Kim. ‘I’ll show you.’

  The attic of the academy was bitter: naked bricks, exposed roof and no heating. Kim was standing behind Harry as he put on a pair of gloves and opened Usma’s locker, removing the few items in there.

  ‘I can see why she wouldn’t have kept this stuff at home,’ said Harry, moving some jeans aside to reveal lingerie and a key. Harry waved it at Kim.

  ‘No idea,’ she said. Harry believed her. He pulled a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and slipped it inside.

  ‘Anything else?’ he asked Kim.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And her boyfriend – Xavier. What can you tell me about him?’

  Kim shrugged. ‘He’s a pig.’

  ‘Not a fan then.’

  ‘You going to see him?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘Then you’ll find out for yourself.’

  SIXTEEN

  HAVING FINISHED THE A&E ward-round, Saima returned to Ranjit’s room close to lunchtime and closed the door behind her. Two machines beeped either side of the bed and tubes were connected to both his arms. His turban was resting on the bedside cabinet and his hair had been knotted neatly on top of his head. With his grey beard resting on his naked chest, Saima felt like she had intruded on an intimate moment, she felt the sudden need to run out of the room.

  What are you doing here?

  She had played the scenarios through her mind. If Ranjit was made aware of who she was and refused to be treated by her, it might be viewed as racially motivated, something the department would not tolerate. Things would kick off, family would get involved and no good could come from that. As far as Saima was concerned, she had the opportunity to prove to Ranjit that he did not need to hate her, even if he hated her religion.

  He stirred. Saima braced herself.

  ‘Hello,’ said Ranjit in an accent which was more Yorkshire than Indian. He’d been in England for over fifty years and his accent clashed with his appearance.

  ‘That’s as strong a Yorkshire accent as mine,’ she replied and smiled.

  ‘Forty years I worked in my shop. When I started there, everybody accused me of having a Cockney accent because when I first came from India I lived in London.’

  ‘I didn’t know …’

  Saima stopped herself. She couldn’t blow this before it started.

  She refocused and removed Ranjit’s wallet from her pocket.

  ‘You’re stuck here until we get a bed from CCU but here,’ she said, handing him his wallet, ‘I thought this might cheer you up. It fell out of your pocket when they took you out of the ambulance.’

  Ranjit smiled, warm and natural. ‘Did you have a look inside?’

  Saima nodded. ‘I found it when I got home – actually, my husband did.’ She laughed, releasing nervous energy, and said, ‘He thought I was having an affair. Bringing home a man’s wallet.’

  Ranjit joined her laughing. The bleating on his cardiac machine quickened. ‘Will laughing give me another heart attack?’ he said.

  ‘No. Laughing is good for the soul.’

  Ranjit nodded, opened his wallet, leafed through a wad of twenty-pound notes and removed them
all. ‘Here,’ he said, offering them to her. ‘Please. You take this. God gave me plenty and I’m in your debt.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Saima shaking her head. ‘Firstly, it’s against the rules and secondly, I did my job. Nothing more. Nothing less.’

  Ranjit continued to hold the money in the air. Saima again shook her head.

  ‘I understand,’ said Ranjit, replacing the money. ‘What’s your name, Beti?’

  Beti. It was a term of endearment, it meant ‘daughter’ in Punjabi. It was the word Ranjit would have used had he been accepting of her marriage to Harry.

  ‘Everyone calls me Simmy,’ she replied.

  A half-truth, no one had called her Simmy since school.

  Saima turned away from him and made it appear that she was checking the drug chart lying at the end of his bed. ‘This all looks fine,’ she said without reading it.

  ‘The consultant says I need an operation on my heart. Do you think he is right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It sounded like a major operation.’

  ‘It is. A coronary artery bypass graft.’

  ‘Will it mean I will be okay?’

  ‘It will give you the best chance of leading a healthy life,’ Saima answered tactfully.

  Ranjit fell silent, his face pained with worry.

  Saima hesitated, should she tell him who she was?

  ‘Beti,’ said Ranjit, ‘could you do me one favour?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Saima, regaining her composure and replacing the drug chart.

  ‘I’m sorry to ask but I’m desperate for a cup of tea. This water,’ he said, pointing at the jug by his side, ‘tastes awful. Could you please help me?’

  Saima grinned broadly.

  It was all she could do not to laugh, thinking of the number of times she’d asked Harry whether the tea she made was as good as his mother’s.

  Whether his father would have approved.

  Karma.

  ‘It’s your lucky day,’ she said, reaching into the small bag slung over her shoulder and removing a flask. Saima opened the flask.

  ‘I can’t stand English tea,’ she said. ‘Always bring my own. Fancy an Indian one?’

  Ranjit’s face softened and he beamed her a warm, almost cheeky grin.

  ‘Fennel and cardamom seeds?’ he asked in Punjabi.