by Dhand, A. A.
‘He been a good boy?’ asked Harry.
‘Pretty much.’
The deeper they walked, the colder the air became. Finally, they arrived at a meeting room, metal door closed.
‘Anything I can use?’ asked Harry.
Angus handed him a file. ‘This is him. Got a parole review in four weeks. Pretty keen to make a good impression.’
Harry patted Angus on the arm. ‘Cheers. Like I said, I owe you one.’
The inside of the room had a metal desk and two chairs, all bolted to the floor. Harry remained standing. Fredrick Ashford, Gurpal’s long-time cellmate, sat glaring at him across the table.
‘Guvnor says it’s Freddie. That right?’
He nodded. Shifting in his seat. Uncomfortable.
‘We met before?’ he asked.
‘Nah.’
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Freddie shrugged. ‘Don’t like cops. You always want something.’ He looked at Harry, still uncertain. ‘Don’t you?’
Harry sat down. Placed Freddie’s file on the table. ‘Just a chat.’
‘Got nothing to say to you.’
‘You don’t know what it’s about.’
‘Sure, I do.’
‘Really?’ Harry leaned back in his chair. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘I know who you are. You set Gurpal up.’
‘What do you know about it?’
‘He told me everything.’
‘And you believed him?’
‘One thing you learn in prison. Guys in here bullshit all the time. In the gym. The courtyard. Whose dick is bigger. All that kind of stuff. But between cellmates? That shit doesn’t fly. No reason to lie. Too much time to fuck it up and get caught out. Then? If you lose their trust? Who’s got your back? No one.’
Harry nodded. Opened the file on the table. ‘Makes sense.’
He leafed through the pages. ‘What did he tell you?’
‘The truth.’
‘Which is?’
‘You were first copper on the scene. There was a video camera. You got rid of it. Would have shown he acted in self-defence.’
Another nod from Harry. ‘I haven’t slept in about thirty-six hours, Freddie. You ever done that?’
Freddie nodded.
‘Makes you impatient, doesn’t it. Body temperature creeps up. Almost feel zoned out.’
Harry fixed Freddie with a cold stare.
‘Basically, makes me cranky.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To know what Gurpal was going to do when he got out. Plans he had. Maybe he spoke about getting even? Revenge? Causing some shit that would get everyone talking.’
‘You ruined his life.’
‘He beat his wife almost to death; that’s what ruined his life.’
‘That was between him and her. Man answered for that. Did his time. But you put a sentence on him he didn’t deserve.’
Harry stood up and walked across to Freddie, perching on the table by his side. He dropped his voice. ‘Maybe I did drop that charge on him. Maybe there was a camera in that room. And maybe when I watched it, I realized a piece of shit like Gurpal Singh deserved everything he got.’
Harry leaned a little closer, his breath caressing Freddie’s ear. ‘Not going to lie to you, I don’t like playing by the rules when lives are at risk. Innocent lives. So, you’re going to tell me what I want or this parole meeting you’ve got in four weeks’ time might not go so well for you. Amazing what random searches of your cell can turn up.’
Harry saw Freddie’s lip curl. He put his hand on his shoulder and squeezed firmly. ‘But I’m sure we are going to get on just fine,’ he said, standing up and retaking his seat opposite.
Freddie remained silent.
Seemed the years of camaraderie between the cellmates was stronger than Harry anticipated.
He tried a different approach.
Harry told him what had happened at Maestro’s the night before. And about Usma Khan.
The messages for Harry.
‘Now, finding shit in your prison cell is one thing. Maybe you do an extra few months. Maybe you don’t give a shit about that. But I’m looking at two murders in forty-eight hours. And whoever’s doing this knows me. Has history with me. If it turns out to be Gurpal and later on we discover you knew something about this? That might implicate you as an accessory and, Freddie – that’s years.’
Freddie shook his head. ‘He was right about you. Some piece of work, aren’t you?’
Harry shrugged.
‘Maybe I am. But I don’t know you. I don’t care about what you’ve done. We’ve no history. So, you tell me what I want to know and, when I leave this place, it will be like we never met.’
Harry closed the file in front of him. ‘Just like that.’
Freddie was thinking on his predicament. Chewing his lip. Sucking his teeth.
‘He was pissed off at what you did. Reckons you should have understood where he was coming from, you and him being from the same community an’ all. Said you were a coconut, brown on the outside and white on the inside, and that when he got out of here he was going to see you right.’
Harry was watching him closely. He didn’t see any signs of a lie. No shifting in the chair, no looking away nervously.
‘Which meant what?’
Freddie hesitated.
‘He said he was going to see it right.’
‘Which means what exactly?’
‘He was mad. Fucking crazy with what happened. They put him on pills for it but he never took them. Hid them in his mouth. He spoke about getting even with you every day. But he never said nothing about killing no girls.’
‘Getting even?’
‘You,’ said Freddie, eyes narrowing, brow creasing. ‘Said he was going to humiliate you. Make it known what a bent copper you were. Drag your name through the shit. Even if it meant he ended up back in here.’
THIRTY-SIX
HARRY FINALLY ARRIVED home at five o’clock, practically delirious from sleep deprivation. He was surprised Saima wasn’t home and sent her a text message asking her to wake him in a few hours’ time, before collapsing on to his bed without getting changed.
Harry woke to Saima stroking his face. He could hear the sound of the nine o’clock news from downstairs.
‘Simon’s here, do you want me to get rid of him?’ Saima asked gently.
He shook his head, moving to sit up.
He couldn’t believe he’d slept for four hours. It felt like he’d blinked.
‘You weren’t here when I got home,’ he said.
‘Supermarket. Aaron was getting cranky, cooped up in the house all day.’
She continued to stroke his face. ‘You’re not going to work tonight are you, Harry?’
‘Not a chance,’ he replied.
When Saima didn’t move from the bed, Harry wiped the sleep from his eyes and studied her more closely. She looked drawn. Now he thought about it, she’d looked like that for the past few days. Usually by Wednesday evening, after a day off, Saima was full of energy, but something was clearly bothering her.
‘What’s wrong? Did you go see your sister? Did she upset you?’
‘No, no, no, nothing like that. But, we … need to talk.’
‘Do you need me to send Simon away?’
‘No, just promise me you’ll make some time for me?’
‘Are you pregnant?’ Harry took a punt.
She laughed. ‘Such a man,’ she said.
‘That’s a no?’
‘Save your detective skills for the dead,’ she replied, stood up and walked out of the room.
Downstairs, Harry found Palmer drinking a cup of Saima’s Indian tea.
‘Christ, Saima, you could have made him an English cup,’ said Harry.
‘He wanted Indian.’
‘It’s true,’ said Palmer, warming his hands around the mug. ‘You’ve been bringing a flask of Saima’s tea in for years and never once offered me any. I ca
n see why; this stuff’s terrific.’
‘Don’t get used to it,’ said Harry, sitting down on the couch opposite Palmer. ‘I’m not the sharing type.’
‘I’ll leave you boys to it,’ said Saima, putting a plate of chocolate digestives on the table for Palmer and handing Harry a plate of chicken and rice.
‘Are you sure you don’t want anything, Simon?’ she asked. ‘There really is plenty.’
Palmer waved a biscuit at her. ‘This will be fine.’
Saima touched Harry’s hand affectionately before she left. He stared after her, bemused. He’d have bet money on the pregnancy card.
‘So?’ said Harry to Palmer once Saima had closed the door. ‘Give me the headlines.’
As Harry wolfed down his food, Palmer briefed him on Jaspreet Mann’s autopsy. Carotid artery puncture by a sharp object, nothing else unusual. No wasps, obviously. The family had been told and four of Harry’s team were now looking into Jaspreet’s life, trying to find a link between her and Usma.
Any link.
There was a delay on getting the footage from Lister Mills which Harry had requested after speaking with Dawn. The managing agent was proving to be a pain over data protection, forcing them to liaise with the landlord, solicitors, all kinds of crap. None of which helped.
‘The shops selling tarantulas. Anything there?’ asked Harry.
‘Nope.’
‘How about Gurpal? Any sign?’
‘Nothing, Harry. I put four DCs on checking out his old haunts. Clubs he was a bouncer in, ex-girlfriends we know about. After what you did to Kash, pretty certain Gurpal is being extra careful.’
‘So, we’re up shit creek?’
‘Well, except for this,’ said Palmer, unlocking his phone, scrolling to a picture and handing it to Harry.
On screen, Harry could see a tattered piece of paper, torn in several places. It was covered in Arabic writing. Apart from one word written across the middle of the page in what appeared to be blood.
Sinner.
‘What the fuck?’ said Harry, putting his empty plate aside.
Palmer reached for another biscuit. ‘I know.’
‘Where’d you find it?’
‘Inside Jaspreet’s pocket.’
‘Eh?’
Palmer dunked his biscuit in his tea, waited a few seconds then stuffed it in his mouth. Crumbs fell on to his chest. ‘We think the killer put it there before he killed her.’
Brazen bastard.
Harry used his fingers to zoom in on the picture.
‘You know what? This isn’t Arabic, it’s Urdu. Give me a minute,’ he said to Palmer and took the phone into the kitchen. Saima was on her iPad, scrolling through eBay pages.
‘Here,’ said Harry, showing her the picture on screen.
Saima put the iPad aside and took the phone from him.
‘Know what that is?’ he asked.
Saima used her fingers to zoom and scan the photo.
‘Where did you get this?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘It was found on a victim.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Was the victim female?’
‘Yes.’
‘Married?’
‘What?’
‘Was she married?’
‘No.’
Saima frowned. ‘This is a Haq Mehr.’
‘A what?’
Saima spent a little longer analysing the photo. ‘God, how to explain? The girl you found this on was Muslim, right?’
‘No, Sikh.’
‘That makes no sense.’
A Haq Mehr, Harry learned, was a financial agreement between an Islamic couple, arranged prior to their getting married but signed on the wedding day. Typically, the man would make a sizeable gift of money to his bride-to-be as a token of his commitment to her. It was a safeguard for his bride, a promise that he would not marry her, consummate the marriage and then leave without consequence.
‘How much are we talking?’ asked Harry.
‘Thousands, usually. That picture’s not clear but it looks like the amount is in rupees, five lakhs. That’s about ten grand.’
‘So, why was this found on a Sikh girl?’
Saima shrugged. ‘You’re the detective.’
Back in the living room, Palmer was as stumped as Harry.
‘Nothing so far suggests Jaspreet was married before, never mind to a Muslim.’
Harry frowned at the photo of the Haq Mehr. ‘You’re sure we didn’t miss it?’
‘I really don’t think so, Harry. I was with the Family Liaison Officer when we broke the news to the family. I spoke to both her brothers and we’ve got statements from her close friends, nobody mentioned anything about a marriage.’
‘This is all wrong. The MO of this guy isn’t consistent. Did Conway call in a profiler?’
Palmer nodded. ‘He’s formulating a report.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Harry dismissively. ‘Usma had wedding mehndi on her hands. Now this marriage certificate. Is this fucker trying to tell us a story or just fucking with our heads?’
‘You don’t like Gurpal for this, do you?’
‘Yes and no. Can’t be sure who he mixed with in prison and what it made him into.’
Harry thought again of Ronnie and the dramatic change which prison had had on his life.
‘There’s just nothing consistent between these two murders. One is planned, perfectly executed, the other is an impulse kill with a massive risk of it going wrong.’
Palmer took his phone back from Harry, helped himself to a third biscuit then pointed at Harry’s phone.
‘It rang while you were in the kitchen, mate. Couple of times.’
Harry picked it up and saw two voicemails.
Unknown number.
‘Shit,’ said Harry showing Palmer. ‘Just like last night.’
Harry played the first message.
It was twelve seconds of frightened screaming. Harry and Palmer winced in unison.
‘It’s him,’ spat Harry.
‘Play the second message,’ said Palmer.
This one was shorter.
Flat B, 140 Ashgrove.
THIRTY-SEVEN
RONNIE WAS SITTING in his conservatory watching the familiar sight of a fox triggering the security light in his back garden.
Joyti had told Ronnie that she planned to speak with Ranjit the following day and introduce him to Saima.
It would end in tears.
Her need to reunite with Harry, now she had spent some time with Aaron, was blinding her to his father’s strength of feeling.
The politics of Harry’s decision to marry Saima were complicated. Mandy had taken a similar position to Ranjit.
Which was why they needed to speak about it.
A few more minutes passed. The fox circled the perimeter of the garden, continuing to search for food.
Mandy finally entered the conservatory and arrived by Ronnie’s side, both of them now watching the fox.
‘Almost feel sorry for him when he doesn’t find any food. Must have babies to feed,’ said Mandy.
‘If he’s a good enough hunter, they’ll do fine.’
‘Clinical as ever. What did you want to talk to me about?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I’m tired of talking about it, Ronnie. What will be, will be.’
Ronnie turned to look at her. ‘You know it’s not that simple.’
Mandy folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’m so tired of this shit. Of this family.’
Ronnie felt as if she had cut him. Which was exactly what she wanted him to feel. Their relationship had suffered after Tara’s death and with Ronnie’s descent back into alcoholism.
‘Mum wants to play nice with Harry and Saima. If Dad survives the operation, that means …’
Mandy stepped in front of Ronnie and turned to face him. ‘I don’t want Harry or Saima to be part of this family. You know that and you know why.’
�
�Then you had better change your position.’
‘Why? Because Aaron looks like Harry and your mother wants a chance to prove that she can raise her grandson the way she couldn’t raise Harry and right those wrongs?’
Ronnie didn’t like the tone in her voice or the way she spoke so poisonously about Harry. ‘You best get a hold of yourself.’
‘Fuck off, Ronnie.’
He grabbed her by the arms. Hard.
‘What is your problem with this?’ he snapped.
He stared into her eyes, searching for the one thing he had never really understood. They had all been so close, yet when Harry had revealed his relationship with Saima, Mandy had turned on him almost as quickly as Ranjit had.
Mandy shrugged herself free. ‘My problem?’
‘Yes. Your problem. Can’t be that Saima is a Muslim. I know I didn’t marry someone quite that narrow-minded.’
‘Yes. You did.’
‘No. I didn’t. What is it that you’re not telling me?’
Mandy turned away from Ronnie, stepping closer to the conservatory doors. When she spoke, her breath formed a white mist on the glass.
‘I have family. Parents. Siblings. Cousins. They know what Harry did and the position we all took. We’ve raised our children to believe that marrying a Muslim is incompatible with our way of life. Going back on all that … the ramifications are huge. And you know this. If your father dies, your mother can be as much a part of Harry’s world as she wants to be. And if your father survives, it is for them to decide how they deal with this. But if you think I want any part of it, you’re wrong. I’m thinking of the children. Have you considered what happens if they see that we have accepted what Harry did? They can make similar decisions, and that is not something I am willing to entertain.’
Mandy turned to face Ronnie, eyes blazing angrily. ‘If you want your brother back as part of this family, that’s fine. The price is fixed. It will cost you your marriage.’
Mandy stepped past Ronnie and walked out of the room and slammed the door.
THIRTY-EIGHT
HARRY DROVE WILDLY as Palmer contacted the duty sergeant from the passenger seat. He demanded two patrol cars and an armed response unit. This time, Harry was taking no chances.
Ashgrove was a couple of miles away, in a densely populated student area right by Bradford University. Harry parked his car in the only available parking space and grabbed a torch and a crowbar from the boot, handing them both to Palmer.
