The Cover Up: A gripping crime thriller for 2018

‘Get Khan, and let’s go!’ shouted Dreadlocks.

Paralysed, feeling the adrenalin drain away rapidly from his ailing body as though someone had pulled a plug in his bunioned feet, Youssuf was aware of being grabbed from behind. Strong-armed towards the open door of the van. He shouted for help. He prayed to God that he might be saved. He thought of Tariq and his grandchildren, little Shazia and Zahid, whom he might never see again.

‘No! No! I’m not getting in!’ he cried, kicking against the side of the van, though the man-mountain hoisted him aloft like a doll.

‘Put my father down!’ A familiar voice sliced through the pandemonium. Tariq.

To his right, Youssuf caught sight of his son’s henchman, Asaf Smolensky, sprinting towards the kidnapping Midlanders. Clad in his usual Hassidic garb of a full-length black overcoat and an oversized felt Homburg hat, his ringletted sidelocks jiggling atop his shoulders, it was an unexpected sight to see him move with the pace of a panther. He was wielding a machete.

Dreadlocks baulked. ‘Shit! It’s the Fish Man. Leg it, Trev!’

Trev released Youssuf from his grip instantly, leaving him to stagger back against the enclosure’s damp walls.

‘I’m gonna kill you!’ Tariq shouted, throwing himself onto the man-mountain.

As Dreadlocks scrambled into the van to escape the blade of a Fish Man with human harvest on his mind, Youssuf watched Trev square up to his only son. The difference in height between them was at least ten inches. Tariq’s slender build didn’t help. It was like David facing down Goliath.

‘I’d like to see you try,’ Trev said, swinging a punch at Tariq.

But Tariq was quick on his feet and deft with his hands. Years of aikido and judo lessons as a youth had stood him in good stead. Within three easy moves, he had thrown his outsized opponent to the ground and sat astride him now, clutching the man-mountain’s bull neck with the manicured hand of a gentleman.

Overwhelmed by a fresh surge of outrage, Youssuf whacked at his felled attacker’s legs with his walking stick, hurling insults at him in Urdu.

‘Leave it, Dad!’ Tariq said, calmly. Turned to the vanquished man, ignoring the van’s revving engine and the hacking sound of the Fish Man slashing at the vehicle’s tyres. Hissing, as the air in the back tyre escaped. One down … ‘Now, who do you work for? And what do you want with my dad?’

‘No one,’ Trev said, spitting in Tariq’s face.

‘Donkey!’ Youssuf yelled, swiping at his ankles.

Tariq wiped the spit calmly from his face, though Youssuf knew his fastidious son must have been cringing inside. ‘You work for the O’Brien crew?’

‘Fuck you, man!’

‘Smolensky!’ Tariq shouted. He looked over to the Fish Man who had just punctured another of the van’s tyres. Inside the vehicle, Dreadlocks was screaming something unintelligible through the closed window to his associate. ‘Come here! Our friend needs a little encouragement.’

The tall, thin henchman stalked towards Tariq, holding the machete in his right hand. But he blanched suddenly, his gaze fixed on something on the far side of the road.

‘Ellis James!’ Smolensky’s machete miraculously disappeared up into the sleeve of his coat. He slipped out of sight behind a parked van.

Like a startled goat, Tariq descended the man-mountain, disappearing swiftly into the shadows of the jet-wash enclosure, dragging Youssuf with him. He pressed his index finger to his lips, pushing his father out towards the kiosk on the far side of the car wash, where they could not be seen by whoever this Ellis James might be.

The Volkswagen van sped off on its wobbling, clack-clacking flats in the direction of Cheetham Hill Road, disappearing along with its kidnapping driver and passenger into the streets beyond the neighbouring Chapatti Corner and Gurdwara temple.

Youssuf staggered over to the low wall and slumped against it. Amir popped up from behind.

‘Have they gone?’ Amir asked. ‘Have you called the police?’

Tariq nodded, putting his arm around his father. ‘They’re gone. You both okay?’

Youssuf shrugged him off, though he was now shaking with cold. Light-headed. He felt like he might vomit onto his wet feet at any moment. ‘What a disgrace.’

‘What were you two thinking, wandering these busy streets on your own?’

‘Show some respect, Tariq!’ Youssuf said, glancing over at Amir for moral support. ‘We’re not children, are we? We’re grown men.’ He picked up his walking stick and shook it. ‘You think me and Amir can’t see off a couple of amateur pick-pockets?’

When Amir muttered an insult about the younger generation in Urdu, agreeing with him, Youssuf silently hoped his friend had bought the story that the aspiring kidnappers were nothing more than thieving opportunists. It wouldn’t do for an elder of the Asian community to click onto the sort of nefarious dealings Tariq was involved with on the side. To realise that those men had come for him – Youssuf Khan. What a dreadful situation to find himself in! Lying to his respectable buddy to protect his fool of a son!

‘Didn’t we decide that you weren’t going to leave my offices until I drove you to the day centre, Dad?’ Tariq tried again to put his arm around Youssuf, encouraging him to stand.

‘Don’t be so patronising!’ he said, taking his karakul hat out of his coat pocket. Agitated to see that it was sodden. He manoeuvred himself from the ground, using his stick. Wincing and grunting at the effort and stiffness in his knees. ‘If I have to spend another morning sitting around, waiting for you to drive me quarter of a mile down the road, like I’m some kind of deranged, drooling halfwit, I’m going to get on the first plane back to Karachi and I’m never coming back.’

Amir laughed. ‘And because the ladies love me, your dad’s taking me with him, aren’t you, Youssuf?’ More cackling. ‘Wait ‘til Ibrahim hears about this! Ha. Me and Youssuf. Fighting off criminals. That will knock the stuffing out of the stuck-up—’

‘Dad,’ Tariq said, making another attempt to grab him by the elbow. Scanning the street. ‘It’s not safe. Come back with me. Both of you! I’ll drive you both to the day centre once we’ve got Dad some dry socks and found his sandal.’

But Youssuf could barely articulate his mounting frustration. ‘No! I don’t want your help. Because it’s the wrong kind, Tariq! I need that kind of help like I need a prostate check from a doctor with fat fingers.’

‘I’ll make my own way, thanks all the same,’ Amir said, smoothing his suit down, starting to make his way across the forecourt. ‘I don’t need a babysitter.’

‘Wait for me!’ Youssuf called after his friend.

‘Look, Dad. If you come with me now, I’ll take you to Mecca for Hajj next year.’ Tariq held his hand out, his eyes softening at the edges. ‘How about that? We’ll fly first-class on Emirates.’

Youssuf inhaled deeply and raised an eyebrow. Ignoring the hand. ‘Really? You’d do that for me?’

But Tariq’s face fell. A short, chubby white man clad in a beige raincoat had just got out of a grey Mondeo and was walking towards them. Ellis James, no doubt.

‘We’ve got to go, Dad. Now!’

Too late.

‘Well, well, well,’ the man said, a twitch of a smile breaking the thin line of his lips. ‘Tariq Khan.’

The confrontation in the middle of Derby Street was short and civil but, Youssuf noticed, with a clear edge of hostility to every word uttered by both young men. Tariq insisted that nothing whatsoever had come to pass at the car wash – Ellis James could feel free to question the workers – if their English was good enough. Ellis James insisted that he was watching Tariq and was in possession of some interesting information about the Boddlington Gang that he would soon be acting upon. Youssuf knew to keep quiet.

When he got back to T&J Trading, stomach still rumbling, Youssuf rummaged in his coat pocket to see if there was perhaps a boiled sweet, hidden beneath the now sodden tissues and the container for his false teeth. His fingers picked out something smooth and dry with sharp, stiff edges. He withdrew a business card that had certainly not been there before. Took out his reading glasses to study the wording.

Detective Ellis James, GMP.

Beneath the name and number was a neat handwritten note.

Call me when the truth becomes too heavy to bear, Mr Khan.

Chapter 6

Gloria

‘You be careful,’ Leviticus said, cleaning Jay’s hands with a wet wipe before the child could shampoo the mashed banana into his hair entirely. ‘You wanna watch your back, Mam.’

Gloria eyed her son and grandson disdainfully. ‘I’d be more worried about him getting that banana on the carpets, if I were you. Don’t expect me to cover the cost of a lost deposit because you let him paint the floor with his pudding.’ She turned back to applying her lip liner in the make-up mirror that she’d set up on the kitchen windowsill. The remainder of the autumn daylight was best in there in the evenings. The last thing she needed was poorly applied lip liner. Her lips were her best feature, and first impressions counted.

‘Mam! Seriously. The farm’s on red alert. One of the lads spotted a van staking the place out the other day. And M1 House is definitely a target after that meeting between Sheila and Bancroft went tits up.’

‘Language, young man! I’m going to an elegant reception for grown-ups in Jack’s Bar. I’m sure nothing untoward will happen whatsoever. You’re being melodramatic.’

‘You’re being daft.’

‘Shouldn’t a child as little as my Jay be in bed by now?’

Her remark was pointed, she knew. It was an easy non-confrontational way to respond to her son’s flagrant impudence. Gloria was determined to have a nice evening and neither the perceived threat of Midland-based gangsters nor her cynical, paranoid son would rain on her parade. Speed-dating beckoned. Old Gloria felt like a hussy for even contemplating it; couldn’t stop thinking of how her heart had been smashed into smithereens by that scoundrel, Leviticus’ father and then, more recently, the pastor. New Gloria had relished every second of donning her most flattering Windsmoor dress and couldn’t wait to slip into the fancy matching heels that she could just about squeeze her only slightly swollen feet into. Water retention was a pig, but even that wouldn’t spoil her evening.

Climbing out of the taxi a while later, she felt a pang of apprehension at ever having agreed to this nonsense. The emotionally daring Gloria of old had been supplanted yet again by the heartbreak-fearing church elder.

‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, love!’ the taxi driver shouted after her as she approached the bouncers. ‘You tight old cow.’

She wondered if the fifty-pence tip had been adequate. Decided it had been, given the taxi had stunk of stale sick. Beastly.

To her delight, Frank’s bouncers stood to attention, opening the doors for her with some ceremony.

‘I’m here for the speed-dating.’ She spoke her intention with an air of secrecy, mouthing the words in exaggerated fashion as though she was hard of hearing. Checking over her shoulder to see she hadn’t been overheard or spotted by anybody she knew who might conceivably be walking around an industrial area at 8 p.m.

Toying with the strap of her Sunday-best handbag, wishing she hadn’t worn a dress with such a plunging neckline – because she had no intention of meeting anyone anyway – she crossed the lofty main space of the night club. Conscious of the click-clack of her heels on the parquet dance floor. Was she stepping over the spot where Jack O’Brien had breathed his last? She shuddered, suddenly tempted to about-turn and head for home.

‘All right, Glo!’ Frank loomed before her like a well-meaning, underfed spectre.

‘Hello, Francis,’ she said, her smile faltering as she saw the sign for ‘Speed-dating this way.’

‘Come to find a nice feller to keep you warm at night?’ Frank asked, draping his arm over her shoulder in a gesture of friendship that was far too familiar for her liking. ‘Well you’ve come to the right place, then. Love is all you need, right?’

She shrugged him off, shuddering at the prospect of being judged by strange men. ‘Sheila talked me into it, and I agreed, in a moment of lunacy.’

‘Get a drink down you, Glo,’ Frank said, nudging her and winking. ‘Bit of Dutch courage, eh? You’ll be sorted. It’s on the house.’

As she descended into the basement bar, she was both thrilled and horrified to see so many others of her age, milling around with drinks in their hands. The women were all dolled up to the nines, of course – the smell of their perfume and hairspray rose up to greet her in a heady fug of optimism and trying too hard. Far too much cleavage and leg on show. But the men … Scanning the men, it was immediately apparent that not a single one of them bore any resemblance to the pastor. In fact, the only black man in the room was at least twenty-five stone in weight and, judging by his leper-like complexion, needed the curing hand of Jesus Christ and a better diet far more than a three-minute mini-date.

Somewhat crestfallen, realising that the notably absent Sheila had cleverly dumped the responsibility for their inaugural speed-dating event onto her by nagging her to take part, she grabbed a flute of prosecco from the bar. Took a sip, followed by a deep breath. The bell rang. Here we go.

Seated at her own numbered table, as were the other women, Gloria felt like livestock at an auction as the men moved around the room, one by one, to vet her. But even as she nodded politely while being spoken at by Steve, the forty-year-old man from Widnes, whose strange, rubbery face looked as though it had been partially melted by a blowtorch, she felt as though she was being watched. You wanna watch your back, Mam. Lev’s words buzzed in her head like unwanted tinnitus.

‘Well, I’d always been interested in ice cream,’ Steve told her breasts. ‘I like the whippy stuff, me. My vans sell a lot of Flake 99s.’ He wiped the sweat from his brow with the napkin from beneath his tumbler of whisky, staining the charcoal tissue black. Gloria noticed then that he had a bogey, suspended on the hairs in his right nostril. ‘I make a packet at the football after a match. Even in winter.’

‘Is visible snot considered acceptable in ice cream retail circles, Steven?’ Gloria asked, pointing to his nose. Irritated. Every pore in her skin and every tiny hair on her body became super-sensitive to her environment. She grabbed the number eight sign in the middle of the table, an anchor to her seat, as anxiety whipped the composure from under her feet.

As Steve poked at his nose with the bitten fingernail of his chubby index finger, wearing a bemused expression, Gloria took the opportunity to scan the room. Everyone was deep in stilted, hopeful conversation, wiping their sweaty hands on their knees beneath the table. Everyone, except the man at the next table to her – an orange man with perfect, gelled white hair, plucked eyebrows and a very smooth face. Though the blonde at his table was speaking, waving her manicured hands animatedly as if what she had to say was hyst-er-i-cal, the man’s bright blue eyes were on Gloria and Gloria alone. He smiled.

The connection sent a shiver down her spine that was not entirely pleasant. She was certain she recognised this over-groomed dandy from somewhere.

The bell rang. No time to scroll through her recent memories in a bid to place him. Gloria’s heartbeat escalated to a thunderous pace as Steve, the ice-cream magnate left and her mystery man moved towards her. He held his hand out and remained standing, expecting her to get out of her seat, clearly.

She stood, shook his hand formally and was surprised when he pulled her into him for a full-on peck on not one but two cheeks.

‘I like to faire les bises,’ he said, pronouncing the French like Spanish, spoken with a Lancashire accent.

‘How sophisticated,’ Gloria said, taking her seat carefully and hooking her hair behind her ear. Coquettishly smiling down at the table-top.

‘My name’s Bob,’ he said, pointing to the name-sticker on his shiny pin-stitched jacket. He peered at her sticker, positioned near her shoulder. ‘Pleased to meet you, Gloria.’

Studying his face, Gloria was transfixed by those piercing blue eyes. She took a sip from her prosecco, then a gulp. Felt a Bible quote about to push its way out of her mouth but inexplicably held back this time. Feeling like this Bob was the best of a bad bunch and that there was some peculiar chemistry between them, Gloria forced herself to delve deep into her long-term memory, to the time of The Wastrel, when talking to men had been easy. The time in her life when she had learned to please men professionally. Young Gloria had been hot stuff. Young Gloria had forgotten most of the Bible quotes drummed into her as a child. She would channel young Gloria now. Just for fun. Jesus could take an evening off.

‘Pleased to meet you, Bob. My, what arresting eyes you have.’

‘You’ve got me banged to rights. I can’t take them off you, love.’ He held his hands up, as if in surrender. ‘I’m under your spell.’

Gloria ran her finger around the rim of her prosecco glass. ‘Are you implying I’m wicked?’ She batted her mascaraed eyelashes. The thrill of flirting after decades of the utilitarian exchange of facts with Sheila or spouting of religious platitudes at church was intoxicating. She felt like an old, neglected engine that was being cleaned of a lifetime’s sludge and lubricated by fresh oil. She bit her lip. Felt the alcohol loosening up her muscles and short-circuiting her inhibitions.

Bob grinned. He had small, clean teeth that shone blue beneath the bar’s lights. His white hair was dazzling. Wondering how it felt, Gloria wanted to reach out and touch it.

‘I think you’ve got a naughty lickle twinkle in your eye, Gloria,’ he said, leaning into her. ‘What do you do?’

‘Me? Oh, I bewitch men with my womanly assets and sparkling conversation.’ She threw back her head and laughed, aware that in doing so, her ample bosom would be more noticeable. The pastor’s handsome face loomed large in her mind’s eye, castigating her for acting like a wanton hussy with a smooth-faced, strange man called Bob, who couldn’t enunciate ‘little’ properly. But then, prosecco-fuelled Gloria of old reminded her that the pastor thought nothing of sizing up a teenaged girl’s lower portions whilst pressing the older flesh of his adoring congregation and his devoted fat wife. ‘And you?’

Bob laughed, running his clean fingers along the edge of the table. ‘When I’m not property-developing, I’m making conversation with beautiful coloured ladies.’

Coloured. Aye, there was the rub.

The Gloria that was a capable entrepreneur and an elder at the Good Life Baptist Church was just about to castigate him for his outdated and racist terminology when she became aware of a ruckus, audible above the distant thump-thump-thump of the sound system in the club’s main area.

Girls, screaming. Shouts for help. The sound of breaking glass.

Watch your back, Mam.

Chapter 7

Frank

‘Keep an eye out for unfamiliar dealers.’ Sheila’s words of warning. ‘Call Conky straight away if you spot anything iffy.’

When Frank had gazed out at the sea of gyrating young people in M1 House from the vantage point of the DJ booth, he had considered the difference between the time when Paddy had ruled and his widow’s fledgling reign.

‘One, two, three … four.’ He had inhaled sharply, counting on his fingers; drinking in the smell of sweat, dry ice and alcohol that had come from the writhing mass on the dance floor. ‘Ten, eleven.’ Ignoring the disapproving looks of the DJ whose concentration he had been interrupting, he’d turned to Degsy, who had been standing just beyond the threshold in the corridor. ‘Eleven. And those are just the ones I can see. I bet there’s more.’ Shaking his head, he had wiped the moisture from his upper lip with a quaking hand. Feeling doubly jittery, thanks to the speed he had taken earlier.

‘This would never have happened when Paddy was still alive,’ Degsy had said.

He’d voiced Frank’s niggling doubts over the new head of the O’Brien empire, but Frank wasn’t about to show disloyalty to Sheila in front of a foot-soldier. And he certainly wasn’t prepared to eulogise over Paddy.

‘My son died thanks to that bastard.’ Stepping down from the DJ booth into the corridor, Frank had slammed a fist into Degsy’s shoulder. ‘Now get out there and earn your money, you useless dick!’

‘What do you mean?’ Hurt in Degsy’s spotty, junkie-thin face.

Frank had reached up and had grabbed him by the collar of his Lacoste shirt, pulling him close. Without Paddy around as the unassailable enforcer, he’d had no option but to play the alpha with the likes of Degsy. Stepping up had been hard, but he’d done it. ‘I mean, Sheila’s paying you to run the drugs in my club. You’d have been well sacked by now if it wasn’t for the run on shifty arseholes, thanks to the war with the Boddlingtons. I wasn’t keen to have any drugs in here at all after what went on, but I said yous could still deal in M1 out of family loyalty. So, don’t be pissing my sister-in-law about.’

‘Hey! No need to slag us off, Frank. I run a tight ship, me.’

‘Oh yeah? Then who the hell are them dickheads out there? It’s not the first time I’ve seen them. There’s two black fellers – one with dreads, one’s wearing a red T-shirt. Asian lad in a denim jacket. Three or four white guys with tramlines cut in their heads. Dealers, Degsy. And not Sheila’s fucking dealers.’

‘I don’t know who you mean.’ Degsy’s small, bloodshot eyes, with their pin-prick pupils that said he consumed as much gear as he sold, had darted towards the dark corridor of the backstage area, as if he had been hoping for some way out of this awkward confrontation. He’d picked at one of the scabs around his mouth. All receding gums, when he spoke, and teeth that looked like he gargled in strong urine. That much had been visible, even in the crappy light. ‘I’m telling you Frank. I swear on my nan’s life. I haven’t seen nowt. It’s just O’Brien lads working the club. As far as I know.’

‘You don’t know your arse from your elbow, you!’ Frank had let go of Degsy’s collar, contemplating his next move. He hadn’t wanted to call Conky for backup. Not again. Every time he’d dialled the henchman’s number, he had felt like one of his balls had been snipped loose. ‘Get them dealers out of my club. Get the bouncers to help you. Find out who they’re working for. Report back to me. Right?’

‘Chill out, man.’

‘Don’t chill out, man me, you twat. Get out there and earn your cash. Or would you prefer to explain this to the Loss Adjuster? Don’t make me call Conky.’

Degsy had held his hands up. ‘All right, all right. Keep your wig on.’

As he’d accompanied the hapless Degsy to the edge of the dance floor, the reverberation of the bass and beat had felt like warning tremors beneath Frank’s feet, heralding a seismic shift of the club’s karma in the wrong direction. The atmosphere in M1 House that Saturday night was distinctly off.

He’d grabbed Degsy by his shoulder. ‘Be careful. Right? You’re not packing are you? I said no more guns or knives.’

The memory of his son, Jack, already growing cold and bleeding out on an empty dance floor, had hovered like an unwelcome spectre above the reality of hot, hedonistic youngsters having the time of their lives. It had been joined by the recollection of Asaf Smolensky, creeping in through the open back door, bearing a Bren gun and the bloodlusty intentions of criminal-insanity-on-the-payroll. For a peace-loving temple to dance and music, M1 House had seen more than its fair share of violent death back in the spring. Frank had been keen not to let the grim reaper defile his altar to the beat ever again.