City of Sinners

by Dhand, A. A.

  Saima stood up. ‘I … want to try it. Do you mind?’

  Harry nodded.

  Saima turned the lights off, only the gas fire glowing, and walked to the bay window which gave a wide, sweeping view of their street outside. Harry was right. This was the place to say things that hurt.

  ‘I saw it,’ she said, resting her hands on the cool ledge underneath the window. ‘His hatred. It doesn’t matter what I do or what I say. He grew up learning that hatred and it’s buried so deep in his soul that he cannot see me for who I am. Only what I am.’

  Saima heard Harry get up from the table and told him to stay where he was. She didn’t want him close to her. Not right now.

  ‘I look in the mirror and I see just me. A mum. A wife. Sometimes a nurse.’ She looked down to the floor briefly. ‘What a fool. Seventy years of me being the enemy and I think, just because I’m nice, he’s going to welcome me with open arms.’

  ‘What happened, Saima?’ asked Harry.

  ‘I honestly believe,’ she said, biting her lip but unable to stop the tears, ‘that he would rather have died than have me work on him.’

  Harry arrived by her side and, although she initially resisted, he put his arms around her.

  She cried hard into his shoulder as he tightened his grip, reassuringly.

  Then, Saima told him everything.

  It took a while for Saima to calm down. Harry thought sharing what she had been hiding must have eased the burden somewhat. But she wasn’t finished.

  ‘I want you to do something, for me,’ she said.

  ‘Anything,’ said Harry wiping tears from her face.

  ‘You won’t like it.’

  ‘Won’t know until you try me.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll do as I ask.’

  ‘As long as it’s not apologizing to him for marrying you, I can make you that promise.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask that.’

  ‘Then, shoot.’

  Saima put her hands on Harry’s chest, where his heart was beating furiously, and told him what she wanted.

  ‘Can you do that? For me?’ she said.

  Harry removed her hands from his chest and held them, dropping his eyes to the floor. ‘Why would you ask that of me?’

  ‘Because, one day, you’ll thank me for it.’

  ‘Maybe. But “one day” might be a long time away.’

  ‘So? Could you, do it? For me?’

  Before Harry could answer, a ringing noise from the hallway, loud and startling, made them both jump.

  ‘Christ, is that your phone?’ said Harry.

  Saima shook her head. ‘Mine is on the table, over there,’ she replied, pointing at it.

  ‘Whose is it, then?’

  They moved towards the incessant ringing, pausing in the hallway where a package lying beside Harry’s mother’s slippers was vibrating.

  ‘Saima, when did that arrive?’ asked Harry.

  ‘It was delivered this morning.’

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  HARRY STUDIED THE package in his hands.

  No postmark.

  Hand-delivered.

  ‘Harry?’ said Saima. ‘Is everything okay?’

  The fucker had hand-delivered it.

  Harry opened it; an iPhone, with a hands-free kit and a piece of paper.

  For the sinner.

  ‘Saima,’ whispered Harry, concealing the paper in his hands. ‘Go pack a bag for you and Aaron. Wake him up. We need to leave.’

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Saima, it’s this case I’m working on. Now, please.’

  Harry made sure his tone got Saima moving. She looked at him hard then ran up the stairs.

  He checked his front door was locked and brought the phone into the living room.

  The phone had three missed Facetime calls.

  It rang again.

  Another Facetime request.

  Harry wanted to call Trafalgar House so they could monitor it, but he couldn’t risk missing the window.

  For Aisha’s sake, he accepted the call.

  The screen was dark but Harry could make out the faint silhouette of a figure.

  ‘You’ve kept me waiting,’ said a familiar voice.

  Hand-delivered.

  Harry hurried to the window but there was nothing to see. He could hear Saima frantically packing a bag upstairs.

  ‘Why has there been no media response to Aisha’s kidnap?’

  ‘Protocol,’ replied Harry, in no mood for niceties.

  ‘Your phone.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Show it to me.’

  ‘What for?’

  There was a muffled sound on the line. Harry heard a scream. Involuntarily, he looked up to the ceiling, Saima hadn’t stopped moving. He attached the hands-free kit and put one headphone in.

  ‘Every time you don’t do what I ask, Aisha loses blood.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Harry, removing his phone from his pocket.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Your wife’s too.’

  Saima’s phone was on the table. Harry held both of them in front of the screen.

  ‘Into the kitchen. Select the forward-facing camera so I can see what you’re doing.’ Harry followed the instructions, confused.

  ‘Fill the sink. Show me you’ve turned the phones off.’

  Harry did so.

  ‘Now throw them in.’

  Harry watched them disappear under water, grimacing.

  ‘Radio 5 live. Within the next fifteen minutes. And Harry, I’m going to keep phoning your landline. If it’s engaged at any time before I call back, the girl dies.’

  Click.

  Hurriedly Harry ran through to the living room and turned on his television. He scrolled until he found the Sky channel broadcasting BBC Radio 5 Live.

  The Phil Williams show.

  The discussion seemed to be about Brexit.

  Harry wanted to call Trafalgar House from his landline. The killer could be bluffing about having his number. But he couldn’t risk it. The bastard seemed to know everything else.

  Saima entered the living room, her face pained with worry. ‘Bags packed. Should I wake Aaron now?’

  Harry hurriedly told her what was happening, one ear on the radio.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Saima, irrationally looking around their living room.

  ‘He’s not going to ambush us, Saima. Can you grab my laptop?’ he said. His thoughts were interrupted by the radio and Phil Williams’ familiar voice.

  ‘Ahh,’ said Phil, ‘I’m pleased to say we can now go to Adi from Bradford who we’ve tried to hear from a couple of times during his breaks on shift at the twenty-four-hour supermarket he’s working at. Good to have you on, Adi, and, er … you’ve got a different view to the other Asian callers we’ve had on tonight, don’t you? You believe we should lock down the borders and kick out everyone who doesn’t have a job? Explain to us why you have this pretty radical view.’

  ‘Hello, Phil, and good evening everyone, especially my friend Harry, who’s a keen listener.’

  Shit.

  Harry couldn’t believe it. His landline rang, the radio reception suddenly crackling. Two rings and it stopped.

  The killer wasn’t bluffing.

  It was him.

  Adi? It wasn’t a name they’d turned up so far. Likely an alias.

  ‘Holy Christ,’ whispered Harry.

  ‘Harry,’ said Saima, ‘what’s wrong?’

  He waved her quiet and increased the volume on the TV.

  ‘I just wanted to say something which nobody knows and it’s a little strange but bear with me, Phil, because this is worth listening to.’

  ‘Be brief, Adi, cos the eleven o’clock news is only three minutes away.’

  The killer dropped the A-bomb.

  ‘Right now, the Home Secretary, Tariq Islam, is holed up at the Midland Hotel in Bradford because his daughter, Aisha, has been kidnapped by a serial killer who’s killed three girls, three sinners, in Brad
ford this week.’

  He paused.

  ‘I know this because I killed them. And I’ve got Aisha Islam.’

  Phil killed the line.

  The presenter’s voice came back on, smooth as you like.

  ‘Right, well, we’ll leave that call there for now because we are unable to independently verify that information. Let me apologize if you’ve been affected or upset by what that caller just said, we’re very sorry. We assumed he wanted to give his view on Brexit from what he said to our researcher. Rest assured, we will now be passing the transcript of that call to the police. The news is next …’

  The radio cut to the news and Harry wondered if, behind the scenes, BBC researchers would be scrabbling to ascertain the story’s credibility.

  Harry jumped at the noise of the mobile ringing in his hands.

  Another Facetime call. Harry answered quickly.

  ‘Now everyone in the UK knows the truth. I want to be known, Harry.’

  ‘What now?’ said Harry.

  ‘Get in your car.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re going for a drive.’

  ‘What?’

  Harry heard Aisha scream again.

  ‘No!’ Harry shouted.

  ‘I warned you.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Harry, momentarily allowing the phone to slip from his grasp and taking the opportunity to mouth for Saima to go and get Aaron. ‘But I’m not leaving my family here,’ said Harry, repositioning the phone. ‘You need to let me get a squad car here before I—’

  Aisha screamed again.

  ‘Shit,’ hissed Harry. ‘I can’t do this with my own family at risk. You know where I live. The game’s changed.’

  ‘It has,’ he replied. ‘Drop them at the police station on your way to meet me. You keep the hands-free kit in and stay on the line. It goes dead? Tariq will be receiving something bloody in the post. If anyone finds out you’re coming to meet me, the girl dies. Simple.’

  Harry was trying to figure out his best move.

  He didn’t have any.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What if we lose connection while I’m driving?’

  ‘When you’re in the car, I will switch this to a voice-call. Now move.’

  Harry kept the phone’s camera on his face, increasingly annoyed that he couldn’t see anything on the screen.

  He didn’t like being watched.

  Saima came in holding Aaron, wrapped in his duvet, still asleep in her arms.

  Harry took a deep breath.

  Just get them to the station.

  Harry grabbed his keys, keeping Saima behind him as he opened the front door.

  Nothing.

  He scanned the street.

  Deserted.

  He didn’t know what he’d expected.

  They moved quickly to Harry’s car, Saima got in the back with Aaron.

  The Facetime was cancelled and the phone rang immediately.

  Saima was cuddling Aaron, who now started to cry.

  ‘He’s loud, isn’t he, Harry,’ said Adi.

  Enraged, Harry held his tongue.

  ‘You’re wise to want to protect your wife and child. Very wise. I’d do the same if mine were still with me.’

  He’d slipped up.

  This was the first piece of information he’d revealed.

  He’d lost a family.

  Harry thought fleetingly of Indy.

  They reached Trafalgar House in under five minutes. Harry drove right up to the front entrance. He pulled his identification out of his jacket and handed it to Saima.

  ‘Go inside. Tell the duty officer who you are.’

  Harry spoke into the hands-free kit now. ‘She’s going to have to tell them what’s happened.’

  ‘She should,’ replied the killer. ‘As soon as she gets out, you leave. I will hear the car door open. No delays, Harry. Clear?’

  ‘Clear.’

  But Saima wouldn’t leave him.

  ‘Please,’ said Harry. ‘You have to. I’m trying to save Aisha Islam’s life.’

  ‘I’m scared.’

  Aaron reached out his hands for Harry to take him, crying loudly.

  Harry couldn’t do it. He turned away, urgency in his voice. ‘I know, now please: go!’

  Saima opened the back door and left the car, stealing one final look at Harry.

  He watched her enter Trafalgar House, put the car in gear and drove away.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  ‘WHERE AM I going?’

  ‘Head towards Saltaire. Take the route which takes you past Mumtaz restaurant.’

  Harry drove the route, arriving just a few minutes later.

  ‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘It’s closed.’

  ‘I had my first date with my wife in that place. You can keep driving. I just thought you’d like to know. Relive it with me.’

  Harry made a note to check the detail with Indy as soon as this was over. If this was connected to her, if this was Gurpal, he might have just slipped up.

  ‘How long ago?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Twenty years. Almost to the day.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘What makes you think anything has happened to her?’

  ‘A feeling.’

  Harry stopped at a red light.

  The killer laughed. ‘I had to go away for a while. She left me.’

  ‘Were you in jail?’

  No response.

  ‘She left you for a white guy? Is that what this is all about?’

  ‘She was a sinner,’ he spat. ‘People should stick to their own kind. When they do not, there have to be consequences. When promises are broken? Vows? We let it lie. We’ve got used to being shamed.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I told you, Harry. You don’t get to psychoanalyse me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Harry, pulling away again.

  ‘No. You’re not. People are not sorry any more unless they have something to lose. It is being proved every day – all over the world, people with no voice are doing things which will forever be remembered in history, things that make people sorry.’

  ‘Like this?’

  ‘Yes. Where are you now?’

  ‘Just passed Frizinghall.’

  ‘Head towards the Salts Mill Art Gallery. You’re nearly there, you’ve nearly got me.’

  ‘I’m going to bring you in?’

  ‘Yes. Tonight, if you wish. You will get to decide. We are always caught in the end.’

  Harry arrived at the art gallery. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Park the car. Walk down Victoria Road. Towards the canal.’

  Harry hesitated.

  ‘I can see you, Detective. Are you really going to stop now?’

  ‘Am I going to put my life on the line? Walk into a blind alley? I’m playing your game but I’m not stupid.’

  ‘Of course you’re not. Do you have weapons in the car? Anything you can use if I ambush you?’ The killer laughed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Harry.

  ‘Bring it. Whatever you need to feel better about this. You’re not at risk.’

  Harry got out of the car, he glanced around the darkness.

  Nothing.

  Again.

  What was he walking into?

  Harry opened his boot, found his torch and crowbar.

  He walked cautiously down Victoria Road and reached the Leeds–Liverpool Canal, the water still and peaceful. A hard frost glistened on the banks as Harry walked along the path. The wind sharpened, the temperature plummeting.

  ‘Turn right. Down the path. In a half mile or so, there’s a bridge.’

  With adrenaline flooding his body, Harry hurried on, alert for any surprises.

  ‘Over here,’ said the killer.

  The canal was a straight route and Harry could make out a bridge in the distance.

  On it, bang in the centre under the glare of an adjacent streetlight, Harry saw a figure, dressed all in black, face covered.

  He wasn�
�t alone.

  There was a girl in front of him, his arm around her neck. Below them the water of the canal glistened in the moonlight.

  The wind whipped fiercely, cutting into Harry’s ears, slicing through his clothes.

  ‘Don’t run, Harry.’

  He hadn’t realized he’d quickened his pace.

  ‘I told you, you were safe,’ the familiar voice said. ‘As for her …’

  Harry arrived on the bridge, now only twenty feet between them. ‘Look, you know who her father is. He … he …’

  ‘You want to cuff me? Or save the girl? She’s injured, Harry. You’ll need to decide quickly.’

  ‘The girl,’ said Harry.

  ‘If you let me go, I’m bound to kill again. Are you sure about your choice?’

  Harry stopped.

  ‘Throw the phone into the canal.’

  Harry pulled the headphones out and threw them into the canal with the phone.

  There was a moment’s peace as the wind died down.

  The killer moved, fast and efficient, lifting the girl and throwing her into the canal before running away.

  Harry charged, arriving where the killer had been, torn between wanting to go after him but unable to leave Aisha in the canal. He peered over the edge of the bridge. Aisha was thrashing in the water.

  ‘Shit!’ he screamed and he jumped in.

  The freezing water momentarily shocked Harry into inaction. But he regained himself, looking desperately around.

  Where are you?

  He took a breath and submersed himself, forcing his eyes open in the murky water.

  Harry searched desperately.

  He came up for air.

  ‘Aisha!’ he shouted. Nothing.

  He disappeared under the surface again.

  Still nothing.

  But he kept going.

  Searching.

  Something brushed against his hand. He shook off the weeds.

  Not weeds.

  Hair.

  Harry turned back. An arm. A wrist. Something sharp.

  Got her.

  Harry pulled her close, and swam to the bank.

  He dragged the girl to dry land, hurriedly removed the hood from her face and tore the gag around her mouth.

  It wasn’t Aisha Islam.

  He felt for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  Harry tried to free her hands but they were bound with barbed wire.

  Harry tore open her shirt to commence CPR and recoiled, crying out in despair.