Last Request

‘FFS mum, what’s with all the cloak and dagger stuff? “Take your battery out, don’t phone me back” and all that shit?’

Nikki shrugged. ‘Less of the “shit”, Charlie.’

Charlie, lips pursed, hand on hip, harrumphed. ‘Like you don’t swear.’

‘Do as I say, not as I do.’ Nikki mimicked her mum’s words making Charlie grin.

‘Now you’re here I can go get a drink or summat, yeah? This bloody radio station is doing my head in.’

Nikki became aware of the muted sounds of some dated music drifting from the next bed. ‘Don’t be so mean, Charlie. The radio’s keeping the old bloke company.’

With an exaggerated sigh, Charlie plopped herself on the side of Haqib’s bed eliciting a ‘watch my bloody hand, Charl,’ from her cousin.

‘… Now, here on Bradford Radio Royal we have a news update. It seems that the skeletonised remains found in the Odeon car …’

Nikki held her breath. Now, she too wished the old man would switch off the damn radio. Would they release Khal’s name – or worse still link it to her? She glanced at Charlie and wondered if she should take the time to tell her what was going on now.

‘The police have not released a name, although the victim has been identified …’

Thank God for that! It would take far too long to explain everything to Charlie, and she couldn’t just rush off, leaving her daughter to process everything on her own. No, they hadn’t released a name so she’d sit her daughter down later, just the two of them, and take the time to make her understand. Why the hell was there always so much drama in her life? Bloody Haqib and his eye on making a fast buck. Idiot!

She turned her attention to her nephew. His pupils were dilated and his bandaged hand was held at an angle as if he didn’t want to have to look at it. Nikki would have hugged him, but suspected that would make the tears shimmering in his eyes start. This had all the hallmarks of a Franco hit on it. He was a heartless thug and he had it in for the Parekh family. Yet another reason that Nikki wanted to keep her sister out of the picture for now. Not that she’d be able to keep it from her for long. Anika would need to be told about Haqib’s stupidity and Franco’s part in it. But she’d deal with that when she had to. Instead, she hardened her tone. ‘For God’s sake, what the hell did you not understand last week when I told you to steer clear of Franco and Deano? You really are a stupid little turd, you know that?’

‘Mum!’ Charlie’s tone was sharp.

Haqib’s lower lip trembled and he looked down at the bed sheets. Sighing, Nikki plonked herself down on the seat Charlie had vacated. He was just a kid trying to grow up too damn fast. She blamed the useless piece of shit he called his dad. Yousaf only showed up for the odd booty call and Anika had spent sixteen years kidding herself that he was going to leave his wife to settle down with her. He was the worst sort of role model – all sexist shit and bravado. Nikki couldn’t stand him. Nikki’s kids might have different dads, but Marcus was active in his kids’ lives and he treated Charlie as if she was his own. Okay, so recently Marcus had been getting a bit clingy, a bit too keen on making their arrangement more permanent. That was something to think about another day. Besides, how the hell could she explain about Khal to him? For now, she had Haqib to sort out. ‘What happened?’

Voice shaking, Haqib outlined how he’d been grabbed from a street near school, bundled into Franco’s car and transported to the back alley. As he spoke, Nikki’s heart sank. The school cameras didn’t reach as far as there. Despite their frequent moaning about drugs being sold nearby, the police hadn’t acted on advice to extend their camera footage to cover the streets adjacent to the school. As a result, rather than deal right outside the school, the dealers hung about at the end of the road where they weren’t recorded. So, Haqib’s abduction wouldn’t be recorded and as for the back alley – again no CCTV footage.

‘It weren’t Deano, though. He weren’t there. Just Franco and two of his men.’

Deano might not have been there, but he was the one who’d brought Franco and his little shitbags back into their lives. He’d pay for that – she’d make sure of it. ‘You been given pain relief?’

He nodded once.

‘It working?’

Again, the nod. Nikki turned to Charlie. ‘What are the doctors saying? Can they re-attach?’

‘Yeah, if you sign the consent, they’ll take him up in a bit.’

‘Right, I’ll do that on my way out. You stay with him for now, Charlie.’ She leaned over and ruffled her daughter’s hair, earning herself a grunt. ‘Once he’s in surgery phone Auntie Anika … on second thoughts, phone Aji-ma and let her know what’s happened.’ Having her mum break the news to Anika would make things easier in the long run.

‘What d’ya mean? Are you not staying?

‘No, I’ve got something to do. Get Auntie Anika to come over and get Ajima to watch the other kids.’

She should really go back home and face the music. The longer she left it, the worse things would be and she and DS Springer had history. However, right now, she wanted to find Franco. Nobody did that to one of her own and got away with it. Keen to put distance between the BRI and herself before Sajid got wind of where she was, Nikki got to her feet. ‘Right, I’ll be in touch when I can.’

About to leave, Nikki saw a familiar figure strutting down the ward. And she turned to her daughter, her tone accusing. ‘You called Marcus?’

Charlie rolled her eyes. ‘Duh, ’course I did. You were acting all weird, so I called Marcus. Chillax.’

Chillax? Nikki wanted nothing more than to barge past Marcus, avoid a repeat of last night’s argument. As he approached, she studied his face. Sculpted cheek bones, lashes to die for and a grin that many women, and a lot of men, swooned over. But Nikki wasn’t observing his prettiness, she was more concerned about whether he knew about Khalid. He loped down the ward, all loose-limbed ease, and dropped a kiss on her lips before she could protest. Seemed that, so far, Marcus was out of the loop which meant she really needed to escape before Saj had the bright idea of involving him.

‘Gotta go, Marcus. Work. Glad you’re here. Keep an eye on these two, yeah?’ And with Charlie’s indignant ‘Muuuum!’ ringing in her ears, she was off down the ward, intent on chasing up Deano and Franco. Living family stuff trumps decease husbands every day of the week. Well, at least that’s what she told herself.

Chapter 14

The Midland Hotel might not have been up to Burhan Abadi’s standards, but it was the best hotel in Bradford and was ornate in an old-fashioned English sort of way. As the lift whisked him up to his room, Burhan thought about Nikita Parekh. Why his son had chosen that woman over his family was beyond him. Not only was she an infidel, but she was a police officer – a half-caste police officer at that … and ugly with that scar round her neck. What power had she exerted over Khalid to keep him here in this freezing, dull, drab city? She had seemed shocked to hear about the identity of the body, but she was a police officer and, in his experience, they were prone to lies and deceit when it suited them. He’d been told that she had been the attending officer when they first discovered his son.

Surely, even that cold-hearted bitch would have revealed something had she been responsible. He had wanted to push her. Make her pay for the divide she’d caused between Khalid and his family. Make her pay for Khalid’s death. He was sure she had killed his son – who else could have? She had the perfect motive. Khalid was coming home and rather than allow it, she’d killed him and buried him. And now she had escaped. He should have known better than to trust the police. He should have employed someone to come with him. Someone who could control that whore. Then she wouldn’t have escaped. He suspected that the DC, Sajid Malik, had turned a blind eye – let her go on purpose. So what if he was Muslim? His loyalties clearly lay with Parekh.

Also, there was the daughter, Charlie. There was no doubt she was Khalid’s daughter and although he would have preferred a grandson, he’d make do with a granddaughter. One thing was certain, he would not leave his kin, half-caste or not, with that woman. She was out of control. One of the more gossipy officers had told him that she had three kids and wasn’t even married. No way could he leave his only progeny with a slut. Khalid, what were you thinking?

The lift doors swished open and Burhan exited. Inshallah, they’ve got the central heating on. Limbs throbbing, heavy overcoat slung over one arm, he leaned heavily on his walking stick. An aroma of lavender tickled his nostrils as he dragged himself along the thick carpeted corridor to his room. The cleaners’ metal trollies clanged along the corridors along with their light-hearted chatter as they worked. Eastern European, he supposed.

His luggage had been delivered to his room earlier and when he opened the door, the first thing he saw was the king-sized four-poster bed and immediately an overwhelming desire to lie on it without removing his clothes or showering or praying flooded him. Instead, he crossed the room, his leg dragging slightly as he moved, and tossed his coat onto a cushioned seat near the window and stretched his shoulders, trying to alleviate the tension that coiled his muscles as tightly as a spring. He stood for a moment looking out the window.

The rain speckling it marred his view and was typical of this godforsaken city. Through the raindrops he watched the people on the pavements beneath, huddled under umbrellas, hoods up, scurrying like sewer rats about their business. The buildings opposite were a mismatch of eras from concrete Seventies’ buildings to the older, more traditional sandstone. What attraction had this city held for Khalid? He’d been used to more than this – better than this. A lifestyle with servants and ease. His every whim catered for, the sun, his family, his home … and he wanted this … and that whore?

He loosened his tie and flung it on the bed before undressing and taking a quick shower. He’d ordered a light snack – some eggs and toast. Who knew if the hotel really catered for halal? Ablutions done, he prayed like he’d never prayed before – for the strength to cope with what was before him. The strength to show to these English that he was a better guardian for Khalid’s daughter than a promiscuous whore who’d killed her husband and buried him.

*

Dressed in pyjamas, the hotel’s fluffy robe wrapped round him for warmth, a plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs and coffee discarded beside him, he took out his laptop and started the first of two Skype calls.

Abubhakar Husayni had been recommended to Burhan by his own business solicitor. Husayni dealt with more delicate family issues and was based in London. Not having the time to visit the barrister in person, Burhan preferred Skype. He liked to get the measure of the person on whom he was placing such faith. Husayni was expecting his call. Burhan knew he would be. The amount of money he was offering made that a certainty. First impressions played an important part of Burhan’s business negotiations. He’d been known to pull out of major deals, solely because he took a dislike to one of the negotiators. A lot rested on this for Husayni, although he didn’t realise that … yet.

He was younger than Burhan had expected, but he was courteous and took notes as they talked. Like Burhan’s, his suit was Western and of the highest quality – Armani? Versace?

‘As-Salaam-Alaikum, Mr Husayni.’

‘Wa-Alaikum-Salaam, Mr Abadi. What can I do for you?’

Bhurhan explained about his son’s death and his desire to bring his granddaughter back to Ramallah, no matter the cost.

‘From what you have told me, Mr Abadi, the best legal solution would be for us to prove this Nikita Parekh to be an unfit mother. I think you would have many grounds for this, particularly if she was found guilty of your son’s murder. She has a proven track record of promiscuity which we can play on – three children and not married. Hmph, I understand exactly why you would not wish her to influence your grandchild. I also took the liberty of looking into her background and it seems that this promiscuity runs in her family. Her mother was known for having a countless number of partners and Nikita and her sister are the result of this activity.’

Bhurhan already had an inkling of this. Loose tongues at the police station had told him Parekh, whilst respected by some, was not popular with others. A bit like sheep’s brain curry – you either liked it or you loathed it. Husayni was still talking, so Burhan tuned back in.

‘Then there are the demands of her job, the area she lives in – all in all, I think we can pull this your way.’ He paused and steepling his fingers together, he tapped them on his lips. ‘Of course, there are other options available should you so choose.’

Husayni instinctively understood what his client wanted and was prepared to take great lengths to remove any barriers that stood in Burhan’s way. By the end of this, inshallah, Nikita Parekh would be imprisoned for murder and Khalid’s daughter Charlie would be under his guardianship, where she would learn how to be the heir her father couldn’t be. The knot of anger that had pressed against Burhan’s chest eased. He was happy to pay whatever Husayni needed to gather the evidence. He had his eye on the end goal and cared not a jot about Nikita. She had brought this on herself and if he needed to play dirty further down the line, then so be it.

‘Keep me informed. I want regular updates. At the moment she is “in the wind” as the British say. I suppose even the Bradford police will be able to find one of their own quickly.’

Bhurhan leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out before him. The damp weather made his muscles ache and he desperately needed to sleep. His doctor had advised against the trip, but how could he not come … regardless of his own health. First though, he had to call his wife.

Enaya, scarf covering her head, looked at him, her eyes wide and expectant. Burhan could see the hope still burning in them and hated that he would have to dash it so completely. For years, she had prayed that her only child would return and forsake the infidel. She was a simple woman and Khalid’s betrayal had hit her hard. She, like Burhan, had been sure that when given the ultimatum, Khalid would choose his family, his privileged life in Ramallah over the drudgery of life in a Yorkshire city with a woman who neither understood nor took steps to embrace their religion and culture … but worse than that, was the fact that she was of Hindu descent. Both he and his wife had been severely wounded by Khalid’s actions.

Wishing he was with her to comfort her, Burhan shook his head. ‘It’s him, Enaya. They took DNA and there is no doubt, our Khalid has gone.’

Enaya began to recite Qur’anic script, rocking back and forth as she did so. A wave of tiredness rolled over him, drowning him, pushing him under a suffocating quagmire. He could do nothing but watch as tears flowed down her cheeks, dripping from her chin, unheeded.

‘She killed him, Enaya. That woman killed him to stop him coming back to us.’

Enaya stopped crying, straightened her scarf over her hair and looked straight at her husband. ‘You will deal with this. Make her suffer as I have done for the last fifteen years.’

‘I am working on it. Trust me, she will pay. Now, I have some better news.’ He picked up the photograph he’d taken from Nikita’s fridge and held it to the screen. ‘This is your granddaughter. Khalid’s daughter.’

Enaya’s lip trembled, her hands clutching at a tissue as her eyes scoured the picture. ‘Khalid’s girl?’ Her hand reached out and her fingers touched the screen, stroking the face of the girl. ‘She has his eyes. She looks like him. Her name?’

‘Hmph, Charlie. Her name is Charlie.’

Enaya frowned. ‘When you bring her home to us, we will call her Aadab.’

Burhan smiled ‘Hope. That’s a good choice. Aadab. I like it. Respect and politeness.’ Whilst Burhan suspected the girl would have neither in abundance, he supposed the name was a good omen.

‘You will bring her home, won’t you?’

Burhan nodded. ‘That is the plan. To bring her home and make her mother pay.’

Chapter 15

It is strange to sit here whilst outside the consequences of my choices so long ago are causing chaos to many. Strange, but dare I say it, quite thrilling. Time on my own is always a welcome thing, but time shared with my memories is second to none. In this time of crisis, I find myself eking out more ‘me time’. Not sure that what I do in my ‘me time’ is exactly what they’ve got in mind but nonetheless, I derive great pleasure from it. There’s something particularly satisfying in knowing that whilst I am indulging myself in my homemade production, others, in more clinical surroundings, are trying to work out what happened. Perhaps one day they’ll be able to compare their findings with these recordings. I wonder how well they’ll match up.

I’ve already inserted the DVD and fast-forwarded to near the end. I love the way my voice sounds through the speakers. Many hate their own recorded voices, but for me it is like music. I love seeing myself too. I look powerful, strong, but more importantly dependable. I am dependable! Unlike my targets, I am fully committed to whatever decisions I make. I don’t give up, don’t opt out. No matter how difficult things become, I dig my heels in and crack on. Maybe it’s that Yorkshire grit in me. Off we go …

10th November 2003. Time 00.45. Time in captivity: four days, one hour

As we watch, the shadowy figure looms over the captive man. Hands tied behind the death chair, feet tied to the legs, his head droops. It’s nearly time – time to lose all hope. Time to face his maker. Notice the number of cuts, the frequency of the slashes. Each bears testament to his failure to prove his worth. You won’t be able to count them, but I can assure you there are more than fifty. Fifty chances he had and fifty chances he blew. Note how he fails to flinch now. Resigned to his failure. Just one more indication of his readiness to submit – to admit defeat. We’re in the home stretch. Watch and learn. Bear witness!

As the camera zooms in, the figure circles the captive, prodding him occasionally with a cattle prod. Watch how our captive flinches, half lifts his head and groans. Watch as the figure pulls his head up and directs it towards the camera.

‘Focus! You have proven time and time again that your privilege is stronger than your brains. That you are lacking – undeserving of the opportunities that have been offered you at the expense of those more deserving. You have one last thing you can do. One last thing you can leave behind – a last chance, if you will, to redeem yourself in the eyes of those who matter to you. A chance to prove that there is more to you than privilege and entitlement. Answer the question. Why are you here?’

Note how the captive remains inert. Is he bluffing? I fear not. His exhaustion is clear, his weakness apparent. Take heed how the figure deals with this. Watch how he teases the captive back to consciousness. Smelling salts and an injection of adrenaline, that’s all that’s needed.

See how the captive’s head slumps backwards, his eyes, although open, keep rolling back in his head before refocusing. For now, he is alert. Witness the care taken to make these last few moments special – momentous. The captive can go to his death safe in the knowledge that his last request has been recorded. Closure at the end of a long struggle which has ultimately resulted in the same abject failure that has plagued his life’s choices.

Listen to me. ‘Have you had enough? Can you not answer? Why are you here? Are you ready to relinquish your privilege and admit your shortcomings?’

‘Aaah.’

Is that all he can muster? It is his final opportunity and his only utterance is a strangled pathetic cry. Can you blame the figure for sniggering?

‘Oh, come on now, surely you can do better than this? No?’

The captive’s lack of response necessitates a punishment. I am directing this show, not him. The figure uses the cattle prod and then speaks in a voice both melodious and compelling.

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