City of Sinners

by Dhand, A. A.

  SIXTY-TWO

  ANOTHER MORNING IN the overloaded briefing room on the top floor of Trafalgar House. The floor was alive with activity; phones rang incessantly and officers moved quickly through the hallways.

  They had one hour until the killer was supposedly calling back for another game of wasp kill.

  Harry focused on the television screen at the front of the briefing room, he increased the volume and leaned forward as the press conference started downstairs.

  Harry had seen the vans arriving all morning: BBC, ITV, C4, Sky, CNN.

  As the ACC spoke on screen with Conway and Tariq Islam either side of him, Harry wondered if the killer was watching.

  Of course he was.

  The ACC had advised Tariq not to attend but some of the suits from the Home Office had thought differently.

  Show the world you’re a father first, a politician second.

  Show the killer your human side.

  Bullshit, as far as Harry was concerned.

  It all was.

  None of this was going to make a difference.

  Gurpal Singh’s name was going to be made public today, as a ‘person of interest’. Aside from that case, Harry had a dozen more files on his desk of recently released prisoners or perpetrators he’d put away who might have held a grudge. He’d had a quick nosy. None of them interested him. His team had looked for any intel on ‘Adi’, the name the killer had used on the radio. Nothing had turned up.

  Harry had seen this guy. Spoken with him and watched as he’d thrown his latest victim off the bridge.

  Whilst many clues pointed towards Gurpal Singh, Harry was no longer sure he was their guy. Harry knew him – he wasn’t smart enough to pull this off. No matter how much prison might have changed him.

  Harry sighed.

  All Asian victims.

  The Asian Home Secretary.

  This was a clash of cultures, about those traditional values that had little place in the modern world they lived in.

  Harry knew it all too well. His mind drifted to his father.

  He’d be going in for his operation in the next few hours.

  Harry wasn’t sure whether he wanted him to survive it or not.

  Neither outcome felt right for him.

  Harry had been blocked from attending the conference. They didn’t want the personal connection to be made public. Since the killer had mentioned his name on the radio, journalists were already speculating about who his friend Harry might be. As yet, they hadn’t identified him.

  As yet.

  The ACC was talking on the screen. A carefully written script intended to get the wider public on high alert.

  It would only drive the killer further underground.

  Harry focused on Tariq Islam as Frost handed over to him. He appeared calm.

  He stepped forward, looked into the media scrum and put his hands in his pocket.

  ‘I’m not the Home Secretary. Not a politician. Just a father, who loves his little girl, Aisha, very much and wants her home. Aisha, I want you to know we’re all thinking of you and, like you, we’re being brave and strong.’

  A pause.

  Dozens of camera shutters clicking.

  Flashes going off.

  ‘To whoever is holding Aisha. Talk to her. Ask her to tell you the joke about the Englishman, the Irishman and the Chinese man. It’s her favourite. It’ll make you laugh. She makes everyone laugh. Try it. I promise you, you will see a very special young woman.’

  He looked down at his hands.

  ‘Please,’ said Tariq. ‘My wife died young and I have only Aisha. She means everything to me. Somebody out there must know something.’

  He paused.

  ‘I’m putting up a 50,000-pound reward for information which leads to the safe return of Aisha. So, please, if anybody knows anything, get in touch with the police.’

  Tariq stepped away.

  The media erupted with questions but Tariq filed off stage, flanked by the ACC and Conway, and the cameras diverted back to the news studios.

  Harry, Conway and Frost met Tariq Islam in a small meeting room to await the phone call they’d been promised. They had two technical support officers with them. They’d rigged Tariq’s phone, so they could record it and, more importantly, track the killer’s location in real time.

  With everything set, Tariq backed quietly out of the room.

  At first, he’d objected to the idea that he wouldn’t be present for this second call.

  But ultimately, Harry felt as though he had secretly been relieved to stand down.

  Trauma a father didn’t need to witness.

  Harry checked his watch: 09:56.

  They waited in the room, blinds drawn.

  Harry felt uncomfortable. Once again on the back foot in this twisted game.

  The nerves in the room were palpable.

  10:00.

  Nothing.

  10:20.

  Still nothing.

  ‘He’s fucking us around,’ said Harry.

  When still no call had come in by 11:00, they stood down. Frost left the room but Conway held Harry back.

  ‘You look knackered, Harry. Hell of a few days you’ve had.’ He wasn’t sure whether she was talking about the case or the situation with his father.

  ‘Midnight swims aren’t exactly my idea of a good night’s rest. Third night in a row this guy’s kept me awake. Maybe that’s his plan. Disorientate me, so I miss any clues.’

  ‘I’d love to send you home, Harry, but I need you here. In case the bastard does call. You want to take a load off in my office?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘I’m fine. What can I do from here? I can’t sit here sipping coffee all day, making nice with him –’ he nodded towards Tariq, who was loitering outside with his close-protection team.

  ‘Frost’s going to ask him to leave. He’s drawing too much attention being here and, Home Secretary or not, this isn’t his house to oversee. We need to be allowed to do our jobs.’

  ‘Good. Do we have anything from the CCTV surveillance from last night around the canal?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘How’s that possible?’

  She shrugged. ’My guess is he ran hell for leather, went as far as Thackley then into Dawson’s Wood. It makes good cover. After that? He could have gone anywhere. We’re looking, Harry. Once he pings on a camera, we can track him.’

  Harry watched as the ACC put his arm around Tariq Islam and led him away. ‘What can I do?’

  Conway pointed outside, where a large board displayed pictures of the victims.

  ‘Find out what links those girls and how he chose them. That’s how we end this.’

  SIXTY-THREE

  ‘HARRY CALLED THE five victims’ boyfriends in.

  He chose a meeting room rather than an interrogation room, he wanted to keep it informal. There was a chance that one of these men knew more than they thought they did and it was easier to coax that type of information to the surface when someone didn’t feel under the pressure of an interrogation.

  He’d met Xavier Cross and Andrew Lightfoot, but he’d not yet come across Jaspreet, Leila or Sabrina’s boyfriends.

  ‘What’s the crack, yeah? We can’t be suspects all in the same room like this?’ said Xavier.

  ‘I’m sure you won’t mind sitting here in a room like this if it leads to you providing the kind of information that gets you a fifty-grand reward. Or have I got that wrong?’ Harry said.

  ‘Mate, for fifty grand I wish I did know something.’

  What the fuck did Usma Khan ever see in this prick?

  Xavier was uncomfortable but the others were more patient.

  Harry held his hands out passively. ‘None of you guys are under suspicion,’ he said honestly. ‘But you might be the guys who can solve this and help us save Aisha Islam’s life. Claim that reward.’ He nodded at Xavier, who held his stare.

  ‘This killer targeted the five girls you were dating. But here’s the thin
g,’ said Harry, sitting down, ‘all of you were dating secretly. None of you ever stepped out in public. I’ve read all your statements. You dated these girls in secret because of all the cultural bullshit that came along with it.’

  Xavier had clearly assigned himself the role of group leader.

  ‘How’s it work then?’ he said. ‘If we figure something out in this room and it saves the girl, we split the fifty-k five ways?’

  ‘Christ,’ snapped Aisha’s boyfriend, Andrew, ‘is that all you care about? I know you’ve all lost someone but my girlfriend’s still out there and all you give a shit about is lining your pockets?’

  Andrew turned to Harry. ‘Seriously, one of the girls was seeing this dumbass?’

  ‘Who you calling “dumbass”?’ snapped Xavier, getting angrily to his feet. Harry got there first, stepping between the two men. ‘Hey! This isn’t helping.’

  Harry pushed them apart, back to their chairs.

  The other three remained quiet, their loss clear on their faces.

  ‘The six of us in this room can save Aisha Islam. I’m certain of it. There is something that connects these girls, a common thread that enabled our killer to learn about your secret relationships. And you guys could help me find the answer. Maybe there’s a place you all have in common. A takeaway you all used? A restaurant? Clothes you bought the girls from the same shop? It could be anything.’

  Harry moved his seat forwards a little.

  ‘This guy hates that these Asian girls were dating white guys, that’s pretty clear.’

  ‘Racist,’ one of the boyfriends that Harry hadn’t met before muttered under his breath.

  ‘Absolutely. Question is, how did he know? What is it that connects you all? There has to be something. And,’ said Harry, trying his hardest to hammer this home, ‘yes, there’s fifty-k on offer, but park that for a moment. You guys,’ he turned away from Andrew Lightfoot, ‘have lost your girlfriends and I can’t imagine how that feels. But we could stop Andrew losing his. We could find the thing that saves Aisha Islam’s life.’

  SIXTY-FOUR

  NOTHING.

  Absolutely nothing.

  After three hours delving into the clandestine dating histories of all five couples, Harry didn’t have anything to link them.

  Tired, irritated and unable to see the wood for the trees, he let them all go.

  Harry walked into the incident room, still heaving with officers, and stopped in front of the case board. Across the top was a large photograph of each of the five victims. He folded his arms across his chest, and stared at it, trying to connect the scraps of information he’d just had from their boyfriends.

  So many dead ends.

  Andrew Lightfoot had been Harry’s best hope, easily the brightest of the bunch and the only boyfriend who needed to hide his relationship as much as the girls had to.

  Andrew and Aisha had gone to a lot of trouble to keep their affair a secret. None of his colleagues knew a thing about them and Aisha’s friends were just as ignorant. Rabeena had been interviewed three times now and hadn’t yet told them anything helpful.

  Harry remembered the killer’s words,

  ‘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.’

  Harry’s head was starting to hurt. The tiredness creeping in.

  ‘There’s something here I’m not seeing,’ he whispered.

  He tried to block out the noise of the room, the phones ringing, the chatter, the tapping at computer keyboards and the pairs of eyes staring at him, all wondering why the killer had chosen to play this game with him.

  Five girls.

  Five separate universes.

  Nothing in common except the boyfriends.

  Harry closed his eyes.

  What were they all doing?

  Keeping secrets.

  And?

  Something shifted in his mind.

  Almost there.

  What were they all doing?

  ‘Harry!’

  He was jarred from his thoughts suddenly by Conway who put her thumb and little finger to her ear, phone call. She pointed to the conference room, urgency written across her face.

  It was him.

  Harry sprinted to the conference room.

  ‘Where’s Frost?’ Harry asked.

  ‘No time, line one,’ she said and switched on the recording device.

  Harry hit the speaker button.

  The blinds hadn’t been lowered and from outside he could see dozens of eyes looking his way as he spoke. Harry turned his back to them.

  ‘DCI Virdee,’ he said.

  ‘It’s time,’ said the killer, his tone immediately different. Irate. ‘You want to end this? Then tell them what you did?’

  Conway looked at Harry in shock.

  ‘What?’ said Harry, confused.

  ‘I’m tired of this. It needs to end. So, tell everyone what you did!’

  Harry frowned at Conway, who was monitoring the recording device, looking to the tech guys just outside for a trace.

  ‘Tell them your secret. You killed a man. You ruined a family.’

  Harry’s heart started to race, his hands prickling with sweat.

  Blood.

  Scissors.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  He could feel Clare’s eyes on him.

  ‘Did you think you would get away with it? What did I tell you last night? There have to be consequences to people’s actions.’

  Harry’s mouth went dry.

  How was this possible?

  Only Harry and his brother knew the truth.

  ‘You think this was about the girls? Come on, Harry. I wanted your attention. I wanted everyone’s attention. To shame you. To ruin you.’

  ‘Let me speak to Aisha,’ said Harry.

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘That you’re a sinner. I want to hear you say it.’

  His voice was rising.

  Angry.

  Bitter.

  ‘Say you took a life. That you thought you’d got away with it. Say it, Harry, or I will kill her.’

  Aisha’s voice mumbled from somewhere in the background.

  ‘No, please, not again.’

  Scared. Weak. Worn down.

  ‘Okay,’ said Harry desperately. ‘I … I’m a sinner. I took a life and I thought I’d got away with it.’

  Silence.

  ‘Tomorrow night. We end this, Harry. I will phone again tomorrow at six p.m. In return for Aisha’s safety, I want something from you.’

  ‘What?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Your life,’ spat the killer and hung up the phone.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  ‘I’VE NEVER SEEN that look on your face before, Harry,’ said Conway.

  Harry dropped hard into a chair, his mind a mess.

  I took a life and I thought I’d got away with it.

  How could the killer know something only he and Ronnie were privy to?

  Scissors. Michael King. Blood pooling at Harry’s feet.

  And how did it tie into this investigation?

  ‘Harry?’ repeated Conway.

  ‘No idea what that was about,’ he replied without looking at her.

  Christ, had Ronnie told anyone about their secret?

  Conway perched on the table. ‘Harry, look out there,’ she said, pointing to the incident room where people were still staring at them both. ‘There’s a hundred officers working this case, around the clock.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Don’t bullshit me, Harry. Do you know what he was talking about?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’ve all made mistakes, Harry, innocent ones.’

  ‘Clare,’ said Harry looking at her, ‘I’m serious. I’ve no idea what he was on about.’

  It was true. Harry didn’t. He was confident the only people who knew were he and Ronnie. Hi
s mother had been unconscious on the floor.

  Case closed.

  Ronnie served his time.

  Harry couldn’t believe he would have told anyone the truth.

  Harry ran his hand across his face, scratching at thick angry stubble, and glanced at the clock on the wall. Two p.m.

  ‘I’m tired, Clare, he said. ‘Going home. If things change? Call me? One of the PCSOs got me a cheap burner. Number’s on the noticeboard.’

  Before Harry got up, she grabbed his arm.

  ‘When I play this tape to the ACC, he’s going to wonder just what this guy is talking about.’

  ‘Then the ACC and I will have something in common,’ said Harry, and got up to leave.

  Harry dialled Ronnie’s number.

  They hadn’t spoken about their father yet, but that wasn’t why he was calling.

  That wasn’t right.

  Not a lot was right in this family.

  They might have been at loggerheads over Ronnie’s drug-dealing, but they were still family.

  Twenty-four months of silence and now in the space of twenty-four hours, two tumultuous events had thrown them back together.

  Harry called him. He didn’t answer. He tried again and got the same response.

  ‘Shit,’ he whispered.

  Ronnie had a habit of not taking calls from numbers he didn’t recognize. Harry texted him.

  Lost my phone. Call me back. Harry.

  As he waited for Ronnie to call, he phoned Saima at her sister’s place. She was well but Aaron had got sick. Saima suspected it was the bitter cold of leaving the house in a rush late the night before that had given him a bad chest. She sounded happy enough, though.

  One less thing to worry about.

  Harry ended the call just as another was incoming.

  Ronnie.

  ‘Hey,’ said Harry, answering it.

  ‘Little brother. Long time.’

  Harry hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed Ronnie’s voice until he heard it.

  ‘You want to meet?’ Ronnie ventured into the silence.

  ‘Shall I come to the house?’

  ‘I’m not there, kid.’

  ‘Warehouse?’

  ‘No, I needed a time-out. I’m at Fulneck golf course.’

  Harry found Ronnie leaning against a stone pillar marking the beginning of the course. He had a golf club across his shoulders, an arm draped over each end.