Last Request

About the Author

Born in Scotland, made in Bradford sums up LIZ MISTRY’s life. Over thirty years ago she moved from a small village in West Lothian to Yorkshire to get her teaching degree. Once here, Liz fell in love with three things; curries, the rich cultural diversity of the city … and her Indian husband (not necessarily in this order). Now thirty years, three children, two cats (Winky and Scumpy) and a huge extended family later, Liz uses her experiences of living and working in the inner city to flavour her writing. Her gritty crime fiction police procedural novels set in Bradford embrace the city she describes as ‘Warm, Rich and Fearless’, whilst exploring the darkness that lurks beneath.

Having struggled with severe clinical depression and anxiety for many years, Liz often includes mental health themes in her writing. She credits the MA in Creative Writing she took at Leeds Trinity University with helping her find a way of using her writing to navigate her ongoing mental health struggles. Being a debut novelist in her fifties was something Liz had only dreamed of and she counts herself lucky, whilst pinching herself regularly to make sure it’s all real.

You can contact liz via her website https://www.lizmistry.com/

Readers Love Last Request

‘I devoured this over two nights, literally not being able to put it down’

‘Amazing … A story so twisted it makes your head spin in a good way’

‘An excellent crime thriller … Entertaining and exciting and a particularly satisfying finale … Engrossing’

‘Gripping from beginning to end, and I enjoyed each and every moment of it!’

‘From the first page to the last it kept you gripped’

‘Great read!’

‘A cracking good read’

Last Request

LIZ MISTRY

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Liz Mistry 2019

Liz Mistry asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008358341

Version: 2019-09-13

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Readers Love Last Request

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: 1983

Monday 15th October 2018

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Tuesday 23rd October

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Wednesday 24th October

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Thursday 25th October

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Friday 26th October

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Epilogue: Three Weeks Later

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

To my family, for all that you do and all that you are.

Prologue

1983

Her hand, scaly and trembling, reaches out. The flash of shocking-pink nail varnish that I’d applied with painstaking care whilst she’d been sleeping is incongruous against her yellowy skin. The stench of death hangs heavy around her, as if she’s rotting from the inside out. I take her hand, careful not to grip too tightly. Every worm-like sinew, every frail tendon, every arid vein a braille pattern against my palm. Still, she flinches, the pain flashing in her milky eyes. A sheen of sweat dapples her forehead. Her nightdress is soaked with perspiration that mingles with fetid pus and piss, creating a cacophony of odours that make me want to retch. Her pink scalp shines through matted hair. Her cheekbones, jutting against paper-thin skin, bear raw scabs.

The room is dire – stinking and filthy. I should clean it, but I don’t know how. That was never one of my jobs – cleaning up, keeping things neat, tidy. That had always been her job. Her eyes look heavy. Soon, once the morphine kicks in, she’ll doze off. The dim light from the bedside lamp illuminates the layer of dust that covers the cabinet top. We don’t use the main light anymore. It hurts her eyes. With the curtains drawn against the outside world, we are cocooned in this hell hole together … slowly disintegrating … decomposing like two worthless corpses thrown on an unlit pyre.

The carpet’s gross. I’ve spilled more piss on there than has made it into the bedpan and that’s not mentioning the stains where she’s thrown up. No matter how much Dettol I use the overwhelming stink of vomit still hangs in the air.

When she drifts off into an uneasy sleep, I switch the television on. Casting anxious glances her way, I wait. Today’s the day. The court hearing. It’s like the entire country is on tenterhooks waiting for the verdict. I’ve tried telling myself I’m imagining things – the looks, the surreptitious glances, the whispers every time I go to the shops – each one a piqueristic experience of both pleasure and pain. Each one grounding me in the reality of what he’s done to us. Deep down I know that everyone – the postman, Mr Anand at the corner shop, Mrs Roberts two doors down – everyone in the entire fucking world is waiting, holding on to their bated breath, with the heightened anticipation of an illicit orgasm.

They barely noticed me before this. Now it’s as if, in the absence of my mother’s presence, I’ve been thrust into minor celebrity status, my every move scrutinised. At least the paparazzi have slung their hooks, for now. Not before Mum had to face them though. When the story first hit the news, she was forced to run the gauntlet, her head hung in shame, her eyes swollen and red, her gait unsteady. It took its toll. Well, that and the shit that he’d infected her with. It all combined to drag her down, drain her.

The recording I’ve seen so many times, the standard one they played on endless repeat when the shit first hit the fan, flits across the screen. He looks so suave, sophisticated. All spruced up in his suit, beard trimmed, sleazy smile playing around his lips. Like he’d done nothing. Like none of this was his fault.

I daren’t put the volume up so I flick to subtitles …

‘Three more students under the care of Professor Graham Earnshaw have come forward, with accusations of rape. This brings the total number of victims to fifteen. Professor Earnshaw’s solicitor still maintains his client is not guilty and as the trial enters its fifth day, the court heard how Professor Earnshaw is alleged to have infected not only his wife, but four of his victims, three male and one female, with the HIV virus. It looks like this case could run into its second week, if not longer.’

The camera flicks to the front of Leeds Court and after a quick glance to make sure Mum is still asleep, I pull forward to hear what the Dean of Social Sciences is about to say about my father.

‘… and the department has responded to student concerns as quickly as possible. We are doing our best to support our …’

A groan from the bed and I press the remote. The screen goes dark and I look round. She’s holding her hand up in front of her, a slight smile tugs her thin lips into a toothless grimace. ‘Thank you. I like pink, always have.’

I lean over, tuck the sheets around her emaciated frame, ignoring the wafts of decay that hit my nostrils. Her frail hand grips my arm and I pause, turning my head towards her. ‘What, Mum? What is it?’

Her smile widens, and I try not to flinch at the bloody cracks at the corner of her mouth and the gaps inside. She nods once and swallows. I go to lift the half-filled glass from the bedside table but she shakes her head – a painful movement that pulls a frown across her forehead. When she speaks her voice is low and raw. ‘Promise me.’

I lean closer, hardly able to hear her words.

‘My last request – you’ve got to promise that you’ll do it. Live your dream. Do everything you always planned to do before this.’

Her hand gestures towards the TV. She saw it. I haven’t been quick enough.

I bow my head and promise her. I’d promise her anything right now, but still, I keep my fingers crossed. I curse my carelessness but there’s no point, for when I glance back her eyes are closed. She is on her final journey and, as if on cue, my entire body responds to the smash of a train hurtling through my core, pummelling me to the ground and, as she gasps her last breath, I cower on the floor hugging my knees tight to my chest. My heart shatters into a jigsaw of fragments that can’t ever reconnect; a sense of relief coddles me like a woollen blanket and guilt and anger swamp me.

*

Days pass with those whose slurs had previously scorched us, now offering platitudes. Each false word drips like acid, as I take in the detritus that is my life from here on in, and all the time her last request plays in my mind like an annoying jingle.

There’s nothing else for it. I’ll have to do something about that.

Monday 15th October 2018

Chapter 1

Dour rain pummelled the cobbles that ran between the two rows of houses on Willowfield Terrace, making them sleek and dangerous underfoot. Except for the oppressive, grey clouds that promised more of the same, the alleyway was deserted. The air hung heavy, waiting to embrace the latest drama involving the Parekh women as Detective Sergeant Nikita Parekh flung open the back door and stormed out. Anger emanating from her every pore, she flew down the steps into the yard and out the gate, followed by her daughter. Leather jacket flying loose, she ignored the spatter of mucky water that her trainers kicked up the back of her jeans. With a plastic bag looped over one wrist, she raked her waist-length hair back into a ponytail and slipped a scrunchie round it. She was on a mission and nothing would deter her.

‘Mum … Mum! Wait up.’ Charlie, a foot taller than her mum, ran behind, hitching her schoolbag onto her shoulder. Unlike her mum, she tried to avoid the puddles created by the worn cobbles.

But Nikki was already pushing open the back gate of the neighbouring house and striding up the steps. Using her fist, she brayed briefly on the door before turning the handle and pushing it open, not waiting for a reply. Entering the kitchen, she glanced at the hijabed woman cooking a fry-up in a huge frying pan on the cooker. ‘Where’s Haqib?’

The woman puffed her cheeks out in a ‘what’s he done now?’ expression and, shaking her head, pointed her spatula towards the kitchen door. ‘Front room.’

Stopping only to grab a bite from a piece of buttered toast on a plate on the worksurface, Nikki marched out of the kitchen, through the small hallway and into the living room. The room was in semi-darkness, with just the light from an Ikea tabletop lamp and the TV illuminating the area. She went straight over to the large bay window and swished the curtains open, allowing the scant light from outside to penetrate.

‘Oi!’ All angles, acne and attitude, Haqib, slouched on a bright red leather sofa, TV blaring, remote control in his hand, bare feet balanced on top of a glass-topped coffee table. ‘What d’ya think you’re doin’? Can’t see the telly, can I?’

Nikki turned with her hands on hips, and glared at him, the spark in her eyes forcing him to back down.

Charlie panted into the room, the knot on the top of her head wobbling as if it might fall off, her cheeks spattered with raindrops. ‘Mum, if you’d just hang on a minute.’

Nikki extended her hand, one index finger raised to her daughter, just like her own mother had always done, ‘Chup kar.’ She rounded the bulky couch and positioned herself right in front of the TV.

Charlie folded her arms under her boobs, one hip extended towards her mum, pure sulk dripping from her pursed lips.

Haqib bobbed his head, first to one side and then to the other, trying to see the TV, his tone a little less confrontational this time. ‘Can’t see.’

Nikki bent over and swiped his feet off the table.

‘Hey.’ He glanced from his aunt to his cousin, his hands splayed before him. ‘What’s up? What’ve I done now? You can’t just come in and do that, you know?’

Nikki snorted before tipping the contents of the plastic bag she was carrying onto the table where Haqib’s feet had been. Haqib stopped, mouth open. If Nikki had been in a better mood she’d have laughed, but right now she was fuming. Really fuming. Haqib’s eyes moved from his aunt’s stern face to the bags filled with multicoloured pills, then up to Charlie. The pills with their smiley faces, love hearts and winky eyes incensed Nikki. Over the past few months she’d seen umpteen cases of kids in the city taking E and landing themselves in Bradford Royal Infirmary. This new batch was potent – three deaths and a brain damaged kid testified to that. It made Nikki’s piss boil. She snatched the remote from her nephew and switched off the racket that boomed from the speakers. ‘Spill!’

Haqib clipped his mouth shut, then opened it, before once more closing it like a minnow about to get swallowed by a shark. That analogy appealed to Nikki. All she wanted to do was to swallow the lad up, chew him till he squealed and spit him out.

‘I … erm, I …’ He looked at Charlie as if expecting her to bail him out.

Nikki moved closer, breathing heavily, her anger exuding from every pore. ‘You selling MDMA to my 14-year-old, are you? Got a death wish, have you?’ Another step and Haqib was trying to mould his body into the leather couch.

‘You all right in there?’ Nikki’s sister, Anika, called from the kitchen.

Nikki glowered at Haqib. ‘You’d better start spilling before your mum comes through.’

‘For God’s sake, Mum.’ Charlie, her face perfectly made up, eyeliner on point and her school skirt too damn short, flounced forward and flung herself onto the sofa beside Haqib, sliding her schoolbag round till it rested on her lap. ‘If you’d give me half a chance to explain. Haqib didn’t sell me it.’

Nikki glared at the lad, eyebrows raised. ‘You gave them to her? You gave your 14-year-old cousin E? That’s no better. In fact, that’s bloody worse.’

He ran the back of his hand across his nose and glanced at Charlie. ‘I didn’t. I wouldn’t – she …’ He glanced at Charlie and shrugged.

Charlie elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Tell her then – you might as well …’

Head bowed, looking like a 2-year-old in trouble for stealing the Easter eggs, he mumbled something.

‘What?’ Nikki’s voice was sharp. She’d thought Haqib knew better than to bring drugs of any sort near her family, near her home or even onto the damn estate. What the hell had he been thinking?

Clearing his throat, Haqib tried again. ‘She’ – he jerked his thumb towards Charlie – ‘confiscated it.’

‘You what?’ Nikki looked at her eldest daughter who was all sulky indignation and ‘I told you so’.

‘What? So, you thought I’d buy Es? I’m not a loser, you know!’

Nikki grinned and scooped the bags up. Charlie wasn’t a loser. Definitely not. Nearing the sofa, she leaned over and kissed the top of her daughter’s top-knot head. ‘No, you’re not.’ She leaned over further and cuffed Haqib’s head. ‘You, on the other hand, will be, if you don’t stop with the damn drugs. Now I’ve got to bail you out, yet again. Not good enough, Haqib – not fucking good enough.’

She could just about put up with the weed that was rife on the estate – turn a blind eye and all that – but this? Once this shit got a grip on the estate it’d spread like wildfire bringing with it crime and violence and despair. She’d seen it all before on other Bradford estates and she was buggered if she’d allow it on hers. But what was she to do about Haqib? She was tempted to turn the little scrote in – let him see what it would be like – but deep down she knew she couldn’t do that to her family or to this runt of a boy.

Haqib rubbed his head. ‘I don’t take them, Auntie. It’s just …’ He sighed.

Charlie broke in. ‘What he’s trying to say is that Deano’s back.’

A talon curled its way round Nikki’s heart and squeezed, hard and sudden. If Deano was back, then that meant his drug lord boss Franco was too … and he was an evil sod. ‘I’ll deal with this.’ She hung the bag back over her wrist and chucked the remote control at Haqib, making sure it whacked his head. ‘Don’t be late for school, you two.’

When she re-entered the kitchen, Anika handed her a mug of steaming coffee. ‘Weed? Again?’

Nikki sighed. Anika took a pragmatic approach to her son’s weed consumption. Personally, Nikki would rather he didn’t smoke the stuff, but then she knew how many alternatives there were out there, so she let it pass. She could tell her sister the truth, but what purpose would that serve? Anika would wail and moan and threaten to ground him and Haqib would do what he always did and ignore her.

She’d deal with it and they’d move on with her keeping a closer eye on the little turd. ‘Yeah, summat like that.’ She shrugged. ‘Deano’s back … and Franco. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it though.’

Anika nodded and went back to the fry-up she was cooking. ‘He’s trouble, that lad, but I’ve heard Franco’s worse. Sort it before it gets out of hand – like last time.’

Nikki munched the remains of the toast she’d started on her way in. She enjoyed spending time in her sister’s kitchen. It was homely. Filled with clutter and love. Kids’ schoolbags by the back door, shoes kicked off in a huddle next to them, well-tended plants on the windowsill, a series of sentimental ‘There’s No Place Like Home’ plaques and cutesy pictures of cats. Her own kids were always telling her to get some plants and put some pictures on the walls. Truth was, Nikki was as green-fingered as weed killer and the only plant that had been able to flourish in her home was the cactus Charlie had given her three Christmases ago. As for the sentimental crap? Well, that was so not Nikki. She liked things streamlined – no clutter. That way she knew if her space had been infiltrated. That way she felt safe and in control. As she watched her sister, something niggled at her. Something was different. When she realised what it was, she smiled but her heart sank. Why did Anika have to be so needy? ‘You can’t have it both ways, Anki.’

Anika frowned. ‘What you on about?’

Taking a sip of coffee, Nikki pointed at her sister’s head. ‘You can’t wear the hijab on one hand and fry bloody bacon and sausages on the other, now can you?’

Anika’s face broke into a grin. She flung her head back, laughter bubbling out of her like warm fuzzies on a winter’s day. ‘Just as well I’m not wearing it on my hand then, innit?’

Covering her sigh with a smile, Nikki nursed her coffee, observing the warm flush across her sister’s cheeks. Anika was happy … for now. ‘Take it Yousaf’s back an all.’

‘Aw don’t be like that. I love him. Maybe he’ll stay this time.’

Nikki wanted to shake her. Make her wise up. ‘You know he’ll never leave his Pakistani family. ‘Specially now he’s a “councillor”.’ Nikki made air quotes round the last word and crossed her eyes for effect, pleased that her silly actions seemed to have taken the sting out of her words when Anika laughed.

‘He loves me and he loves Haqib.’

Nikki groaned and stuffed more toast into her mouth, chewed, swallowed and then spoke. ‘Come on! When’s the last time he bought Haqib owt – or you for that matter? Yousaf’s a loser. You keep taking him back every time he turns up for a booty call and he’ll get you up the duff again and leave you. The likes of us – working-class, dual heritage and Hindu to boot – are not good enough for well-off businessmen-cum-councillors and especially not for married ones. He won’t leave her.’

Anika’s eyes welled up and Nikki could have kicked herself. Maybe sometimes she should just learn to shut her big mouth. She jumped to her feet and moved round to put her arms round her sister, hugging her tight. ‘I’m sorry. I know I’m bitter and twisted, but I just don’t want you getting hurt again.’

‘Not everyone’s like you know who, Nikki.’

Nikki sighed. Anika was right. Just because she’d had a bad experience didn’t mean Anika would. But the truth was Yousaf just was not good enough for her sister. She only had to convince Anika of that fact. The sisters hugged until, smelling something beginning to burn, Nikki wheeled round, turned off the cooker and yelled through the house, ‘Breakfast’s ready.’