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‘Aw piss off, Saj. Go and get wined, dined and laid. It won’t make you any prettier, but it’ll make you better company tomorrow.’
Sajid grinned and with a wave to Gordon and Nancy, he was off.
Nikki stayed where she was, using the time to text Marcus. With everything that had gone on, she needed to touch base with him. He was looking after the kids and she should really have told him she’d be a bit later. Truth was, she was reluctant to go home. Marcus had proposed yet again and just as she’d done every other time, Nikki had refused. Why couldn’t he understand that they were fine the way they were. Their relationship worked. If they moved in together … got married … whatever, it would all go tits up. Nobody knew that better than Nikki.
When Nancy came over ten minutes later, Nikki put out the feelers about the Es. Despite its quietness tonight, when the weekend rolled round, The Mannville Arms perked up with both university and college students as well as locals. Nancy was one of the many eagle-eyed landlords that the Bradford police approached to keep their eyes open for possible dealing. The latest batch of MDMA, or Es as the kids called them, were particularly potent and Nikki wanted everyone on alert.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_198e9923-e47a-511d-94f6-7f76e0c2d4c8)
How many years have they been blind? The thing is, they all think they’re so smart – so damn smart – but they’re not.
Every one of them I killed deserved it. Time and again they proved that they’re not only stupid, but weak too. At first, I wanted them to prove their superior intellect – show me how they were better than me. Show me they deserved what I was denied, that it was more than just privilege. That they’d earned it through hard work and dedication. Then, I wanted them to pay for the way they’d let themselves down. Taken opportunities and then just fucked it all up. One by one, despite my best efforts they failed and at some point – maybe after the fourth or fifth – I realised that this was something in which I excelled. I’d found my forte – my calling, if you will.
I’m not inhuman though, not at all. Despite my social experiment I gave them something before the end. Some little salve as they realised what the end was going to be. Each of them got their last chance – each of them bared their soul and made their last wish. Whether their last request was ever granted though is a different matter. That’s how it is. That’s life.
The police finding the remains has made me a little anxious. Need to soothe myself. I run my hands along the shelf. Which one shall I choose? November 2003? No not that one. That one I’ll save for when I’ve got more time. No, I’ll opt for this one. With the tip of my finger I remove the DVD case and insert it in the player. I settle down with my glass of Glenmorangie on my sofa. I have half an hour. This will be enough time for Day One, more than enough.
The date is 6
March 2008.
Day One and this is the first recording.
The scene is set – a backdrop of fabric, spotlight shining across the stage. Props at the ready. Each knife sharpened – metal glistening as the light bounces over them. A single chair centre stage. A figure waits in the wings, shadowed and grim. My voice rings out over the tape. ‘Bring the captive through,’ I say. ‘Bring the captive through.’
I love listening to my voice narrating as if I am a mere bystander and not an active part of it all. Everything up until that point is enjoyable – of course it is – but it’s doing my David Attenborough bit that really makes my blood fizz. Homing in on small details, analysing the scenes – that’s what I love best. And if I’m right, this one is a particularly well-produced cinematic performance. Here we go …
We see the figure, dressed in black – oh, how spooky! Arms under the captive’s arms, he is dragged through and flopped with all due finesse onto the chair.
In this wide-angled shot, we see the figure exit stage right, returning within seconds. Rope is wrapped round the captive’s arms, legs and chest. Things are hotting up now.
Note how the captive barely reacts – no resistance. No awareness of his surroundings. No understanding of the basic premise of this experiment. His privilege sets him above us mere mortals. His sense of worth lends him an arrogance, an entitlement denied the hordes that flock here. Tonight, as on previous nights, his true worth, his true character, will be ascertained and he will ultimately get his just desserts.
Sound-over – clapping hands and gleeful chuckle.
Now to wake him up – bring him out of his stupor.
The figure slaps our captive – once … twice … three times across the face. Our captive groans, his eyes flicker – open briefly then close, keeping his audience on tenterhooks.
The figure, hooded drape trailing the floor, leaves in silence, returning within seconds carrying a bowl. With an agile twist of the hands, the bowl’s contents are thrown over the captive, eliciting a frenzied jolting movement. It has the desired effect. The ice-cold water wakes the specimen up, makes him focus and … ah – he speaks, in the bewildered tones of a baby deserted by its mama.
‘Wh – what the f …? Where am I?’
Zooming in for the close-up we can see his pupils are dilated – pulse increasing, thrashing around. We’ve got ourselves a lively one. Wonder if he’s as clever as he is lively. Time will tell. We’ll soon see. Now for the main event. Ha ha! Fingers crossed he lives up to expectation.
The figure speaks. ‘Have you earned your place here? Your position? Have you earned it? Or is it all about Daddy’s wealth – privilege – entitlement?’
Do tell. Indeed, do tell.
The captive glances round the space – sees the table and the knife. Begins to struggle against his constraints and, at last, he speaks.
‘What are you doing? Let me go. What the fuck you doing?’
The figure’s response is low but if we strain, we can hear it ‘Ascertaining your worth. I thought that was clear. That’s the purpose of this. Why should you be here with all your privilege and not Joe Bloggs from down the road in Holmewood or Tyresal.’
‘You’re fucking mad – mental. Let me go. Right now – just let me fucking go.’
Note the heightened colour on his face, the flush of rouge over his cheeks as he struggles. His fingers fisted, held tight. Observe the whitening across his knuckles. This one’s a fighter.
Let’s see if he also has a modicum of intelligence.
‘We have rules. Easy rules. Rules an imbecile can follow. I expect you to comply. Will you?’
Alas, our captive continues to struggle, displaying an abject inability to correctly analyse the situation. His head shakes rapidly from side to side; his upper body, though trapped, strains against the rope. With the sad desperation of a failing man, he makes a vain attempt to wrench his tied hands apart. In his increased state of tension, the pitch of his voice rises, higher and higher to a shriek of desperation.
‘Fuck off. Let me go. Fuck off or I’ll kill you.’
Note the figure’s placatory response – soothing, yet with the promise of a reprimand implicit in the delivery. ‘Really? That’s the most intelligent thing you can say?’
Watch closely, for things are going to pick up speed now and you don’t want to miss anything. See how the figure picks up the item from the floor. Did you notice it lying there? Never mind, it was easy to miss in the muted lighting. But wait for this bit.
As the camera pans out, the figure approaches the captive. The long slender metal, glinting beneath the subdued stage lights.
Still, the captive is oblivious to the threat that approaches him so slowly. The figure slaps the bar against the palm of one hand causing the captive to glance up. With lightning speed, the figure strikes, jabbing the cattle prod onto the captive’s thigh.
The captive jerks back and screams.
‘Are you ready to listen to the rules?’ The figure raises the prod, waves it in sight of the captive. The specimen’s eyes water, a single stream of liquid rolls down his right cheek. He nods.
Bravo! Specimen is under control.
Sound-over – clapping and cheering.
Watch now as we find out the rules of play.
‘That’s more like it. Rule one – you must answer every question. Rule two – you may not pass on any question. Rule three – if you get five questions in a row right, you will be released. You will have earned your freedom. Rule four – for each incorrect answer you will be punished. Rule five – your fate is in your own hands. When you have had enough and don’t want to play anymore then we will move onto your last request. Do you understand?’
Ha! Now we see the typical response of a captive in denial. See how he shakes his head.
No matter. That will change. For now, enjoy his simple mistakes.
‘No, no – ’course I don’t. I don’t get it, not at all. Let me go. Let me go.’
You see what he’s done, don’t you? His rookie mistake? Now for the consequences.
‘Wrong answer number one.’
Watch the concentration as the figure picks up a knife, studies it. Runs his finger along the blade and then approaches the captive. It’s all about care and precision …
I hear a sound outside the door and quickly turn off the DVD. Never mind. There will be plenty of time later. Plenty of time.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_34a8919b-c5d7-56a3-9883-94b0b9a054f3)
‘Oy, Deano, get your arse over here, right now, ya tosser.’
Deano’s heart sank as the Ferrari pulled up to the kerb outside Chicken Cottage. Last thing he needed right now, when he didn’t know if Kayleigh was all right, was to have a convo with her old man. He burped, took a last swig from his Vimto and tossed the can into the gutter, before stuffing the last of his burger into his mouth and throwing the polystyrene food container after the can. Wiping his hands down the front of his joggers, he approached the car. Shoulders hunched, big-man glower on his face, he ignored the passenger and spoke over his head to the driver. In situations like this, the only thing you could do was brazen it out. He’d find out soon enough if Franco knew. ‘Y’aright there, Franco?’
Franco – tall but skinny, cap on backwards, pockmarked face and ice-cold eyes – cast a sideways look at Deano. He shook his head and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel twice. As if on some sort of preordained order, the prick, Big Zee, thrust the passenger door open, crashing it into Deano’s legs and jumped out, quickly repositioning himself in the back seat, beside another one of Franco’s goons. Deano wanted to slam his fist into the idiot’s sneering face, but contented himself with hoiking a gob of phlegm into the gutter. It was pushing it for Franco to come back to Listerhills. Thing was he didn’t get it – too arrogant. Didn’t he realise Parekh would never let him get away with supplying to her nephew?
‘Get in.’ Franco’s words were an order and Deano had no option but to obey. He was in too deep and Franco knew it … but did he know about him and Kayleigh? With a quick glance along the road, Deano wished that Nikki hadn’t disappeared off with that big Paki dick. He slid into the front seat, next to Franco and tried to angle himself to the side, out of arm’s reach of Big Zee and his sidekick in the back. Deano had been in too many similar situations in the past not to be aware of what was coming. How many times had he been the one to move to the back seat, ready to slip a chain round the neck of the idiot Franco was grilling in the front seat if he didn’t deliver the goods?
‘Little bird told me you were talking to that Parekh bint?’
Fuck, word travelled fast! Deano laughed, tried to look nonchalant, hoping his face wasn’t giving owt away. He was caught with his balls between a rapidly closing vice. On the one hand, Parekh had made her threat clear and Deano couldn’t risk Franco finding out about him skimming. No way did he want to end up as pig food on one of them farms in the Dales. He’d seen too many end up there. On the other, Parekh was no pushover. She’d made her intentions clear. The only option open to him was to strike some sort of deal with her. What the hell was he going to do? ‘Yes, frigid bitch. She needs a good seeing to, to loosen her up a bit.’
He sensed Big Zee leaning forward at the ready and, from the corner of his eye, he saw Franco glance into the rear-view mirror. His hands grew damp with sweat and relief swept over him as his next words gushed from his mouth. ‘She wants me to keep an eye on my stepdad. Tosser’s been beating up my mum. Had her in hospital twice. I told her I’d deal with the fucker.’
‘That all?’ Franco’s eyes honed right in to his soul, red hot like a soldering iron.
Deano ignored the sounds from the back of the car – the rattle of metal, the squeak of leather as Big Zee edged forward. Deano could feel the big man’s breath on the side of his face, and the smell of his aftershave made him want to choke. He shrugged. ‘Yeah, that’s all. Cow think’s that cos she’s a copper she’s got the right to sort everyone out. Don’t worry, my man, I’ll keep her sweet. I’ll keep her out of your hair.’
Gaze razoring Deano’s face, Franco leaned towards him, encroaching on his space and then, slapping the steering wheel, he laughed and jerked his head to one side – presumably the signal for Big Zee to step down. ‘You better, D. We don’t need some half-caste whore messing up our plans now, do we? This estate’s gonna be mine this time and you’re gonna help me.’
As Deano watched the streaming rain splatter down the windscreen, every fibre of his being screamed a warning. Franco could give the order and anything could happen inside the car without anyone outside noticing. Even if they did, chances were they’d ignore it. Franco was just that little bit too unpredictable, that little bit too dangerous for folk to risk annoying him. No one here ever volunteered a witness statement! ‘We did all right in Oldham, didn’t we? Ousted them Pakis and took control. Listerhills will be a doddle. Don’t worry, I’m on it. I’ve got my ears to the ground. Like you say – get the kids with us and the rest follows on. Parekh won’t fuck things up this time.’
Franco lifted his hand and angled it palm upwards, finger moving in a ‘gimme it’ gesture to Big Zee and Tyke in the back seat. A bit of rummaging and then a package wrapped in a plastic bag was given to Franco who passed it to Deano. ‘Here, go do your job then.’
Taking the package, Deano stuffed it up the front of his hoodie. No point in advertising what he had to everyone. There was always some tosser waiting to grab your stash, and that wouldn’t go down well with Franco. The man expected returns on his produce and Deano would have to make sure he paid up. ‘Usual rate?’
‘Yeah, keep the cost down, get ’em hooked, then, BOOM!’ Franco laughed like he’d cracked the finest joke ever – head back, furry yellow rabbit teeth on show. ‘Right, piss off then. I’ll be in touch.’
Deano slid out of the car, his legs shaking, and watched as Franco squealed off down the road towards town. Fuck! That had been a close one. All he’d wanted was a lousy Chicken Cottage and what did he end up with? Fucking Nikita Parekh on his case and then Franco. He glanced round. Who the hell had told Franco about his meeting with Parekh? Shit, he’d have to be extra careful now. Seemed like Franco had eyes everywhere.
Huddled over against the rain, Deano retraced his steps back to his house, wondering as he went how long he could keep his secrets hidden from Franco. He suspected it wouldn’t be for much longer. Shit, why did he have to do the dirty on the toughest drug boss in the north? As he neared his mum’s house, he slowed down. There was nothing else for it, he’d have to go to Parekh – cut some sort of deal. What with Franco involving Parekh’s nephew, Deano hoped she’d be only too willing to back him against the psycho. He shuddered, his back prickled as if a million pairs of eyes were scouring it. How the hell could he get to her without Franco finding out?
Tuesday 23
October (#ulink_0db8129f-f14c-5565-84ed-13abb690e9f4)
Chapter 8 (#ulink_7856123e-4079-5c3b-ad0f-8e8d6c18c49f)
Sun speckled the walls through the blinds in Nikki’s bedroom and sent little specks of shimmer like a kaleidoscope over the carpet. The room wasn’t spacious, mainly because one corner was stacked with large cardboard boxes, each with a year scrawled in black marker pen on the front, dating from 2000 onwards. A bed, bedside table, wardrobe, chest of drawers and a chair took up most of the remaining space.
The radio blared some funky feel-good song from the Nineties. Nikki didn’t know the title or the name of the band, but she didn’t care. Having the house to herself for once, meant she could prance around and get rid of some of the pent-up energy that had built in her recently. Sajid had suggested she go jogging with him, but she’d made it clear that she’d rather go trekking through Bradford’s rat-infested sewers covered in cheese than do that. He’d laughed, finding it funny that her aversion to any member of the rodent family was compounded by the ongoing battle with her youngest child Sunni who, with his tenth birthday approaching, was adamant that a hamster was all he wanted. Nikki shuddered. The mere thought of their ratty tails and clawy-like feet and gnawy teeth brought her out in hives. Their pittery-pattery scritchy-scratchiness, their scurrying, all made her skin crawl. Sunni was going to be disappointed. Poor kid, he never asked for anything, but this was just too much for her to cope with.
The track changed and, breathless, Nikki flopped on the end of the bed wondering if she maybe should take Sajid up on his offer after all. The only thing was Marcus wouldn’t like it. He was already jealous of Sajid and the last thing she needed to do right now was fuel his stupidity. Of course, she could just tell him Saj was gay, but then that would seal up that escape clause and even after eleven years in some semblance of a relationship with Marcus, she couldn’t quite bring herself to fully commit to him. What is wrong with me? Maybe I should go jogging with Saj. Maybe that would be enough to knock Marcus over the edge and into ex-boyfriend territory, and the best thing was she wouldn’t even have to do a thing. Aw, Nikita, what are you thinking? Marcus was great – the perfect boyfriend: good with the kids, reliable and shit hot in bed. Still, it was too intense for her, too much to handle.
She studied her face in the mirror opposite. She was in her early thirties with three kids by two different dads. Didn’t that tell her she was no good at relationships – that she was better on her own? Her face was smooth, her mix of Indian and Scottish genes giving her a healthy bronze complexion. Her eyes were like her Indian mother’s; dark brown and intense, like thunder on a balmy day. Her cheekbones were high, her nose bent from when that drunk had broken it when she was in uniform three years earlier and then there was the scar – five inches long, ropey, fading right across her throat. She didn’t hide it. Kept it exposed to remind her that she was a survivor and, if she was honest, to make her look scarier on the streets. Most women would cover it up with makeup and shit, but not Nikki. When she was stressed or anxious, she stroked it, getting reassurance from its raised uneven surface. It was a reminder that she was strong – she’d always been strong.
‘Breaking news on Capital Radio Yorkshire. Whilst police in Bradford have identified the skeletonised remains discovered last week in the Odeon car park, the shocking revelation that the remains are more recent than was previously thought and the nature of the death has led them to announce an active historic case investigation. Relatives have been notified, but as yet the victim’s name hasn’t been publicly released.
‘And on another front, schools in Bradford are getting set for the October break …’
It looked like the Cold Case Unit were going to have their work cut out. She was glad to be well rid of that case. Nikki much preferred current investigations. They were always a bit easier to coordinate. She yanked her heavy wardrobe doors open. What to wear? Like she had a lot of choice. Jeans, jeans and more jeans. Half a dozen T-shirts in a variety of colours and a couple of crewneck jumpers. Three pairs of DMs and a single pair of strappy flat sandals were lined up along the bottom shelf. Then there was that one black suit for interviews and the like and her uniform, both in crinkly plastic clothes bags. On a shelf to the side were a rainbow of saris, again in clear bags.
Nikki couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn one. Probably for her cousin Reena’s wedding last year. That had been an affair and a half. All posh, with more gold and sparkle than Liberace, she’d hated it. Her Gujarati was rubbish, but everybody had insisted on speaking to her and Anika and the kids in mother tongue. Anika had been on edge and whilst Nikki tried her best to convince her sister that nobody was talking about her, she knew fine and well that they were. The sidelong glances and mumbled conversations that stopped abruptly as soon as she and Anika came near testified to that. They’d committed two of the biggest faux pas they ever could have done. They’d both had a child out of wedlock … with Muslims. Hai hoi! Not content with that, Anika had chosen to give her son a Muslim name. Despite her uncles’ pleas and her aunties’ tears, Anika had dug her heels in. Nikki had never been prouder of her than at that moment. Not that she liked Haqib’s dad, Yousaf, she didn’t – but it took a lot for Anika, the shy one of the two sisters, to assert herself. Nikki and their mum took her side and protected her from the worst of the gossipmongers.
‘Weather in the north set to remain sunny if cold, with winds of forty …’
It wasn’t often that she had a late start and she was determined to take advantage of it. She’d pampered herself for once. She looked down at the boxes scattered on her floor; her ongoing hobby – the ‘Stalk the Stalker’ project as she liked to call it – could wait. The last three weeks had been hectic, with three murders and a suspicious death to contend with, and now she needed to unwind and recharge her batteries. So, instead of her usual quick shower, she soaked in a bubble bath, turned the radio up full volume and used some of the smellies Charlie had given her for Christmas. She got dressed in her usual jeans and T-shirt – an upmarket whore with downmarket tastes! – and was just beginning to brush her still-damp hair when the faint echo of the doorbell disturbed her. She rolled her eyes at herself in the mirror and ignored it, studying her split ends. Maybe a trip to the hairdresser’s was in order.
There it was again, the damn doorbell. Couldn’t they take a damn hint? She stood up and walked over to the window, parting the blinds with her fingers and straining to see who was at the door, but the angle was wrong. Whoever was ringing the bell with such persistence was standing too close to the door. She backed away from the window and waited. If they didn’t ring again, then she’d ignore them. She didn’t want her valuable time eaten up by one of her neighbours with their never-ending problems or one of the men from the mosque wanting donations to some Islamic charity or another. She’d just about decided that her would-be visitor had given up, when the ringing started again – longer and louder and more insistent. Gonna have to disconnect the damn thing!
She ran down the stairs, nearly tripping on a pair of trainers placed halfway up. Ruby! That child was going to be the death of her. Reaching the bottom, she could see a male shadow behind the frosted glass of her front door. Not recognising the figure, she hesitated. Maybe he’d give up now. But no. The buzzing was really doing her head in. In two strides she was at the door, wrenching it open, not bothering with the safety chain, her mouth open to tell her visitor to take his damn finger off the bell.
Gripping the door handle, she glared at the man. Pale skinned. Middle Eastern? In an instant, she was transported back fifteen years. Her breath caught in her throat. This couldn’t be. Nikki blinked, her mouth closed, her words dried up, ashes in her throat. Her fingers left the handle and flitted up to her scar, fluttering over it briefly, before re-establishing their grip on the door. She tried to swallow but couldn’t. Heart thudding like a stampede of wildebeests, she eyed the intruder. How long had she waited for this? How many years? The plastic edge of the door dug into her hands, sharp and real. It was like seeing a ghost, an apparition. She wanted to yell, to rage, to raise her fists and hit him. All the frustration she’d experienced before incapacitated her again now and she hated herself for it. Just for a second, she’d tricked herself into seeing what she wanted to see.
A gaggle of thoughts drifted through her head, trying to make sense of this situation. And then it hit her. Khalid! Something had happened to him.
With eyes the colour of a burnished chestnut, the man on the doorstep held her gaze. His brow furrowed, creases spreading out from the corners of his eyes like a shattered window. His skin, wizened, his body hunched and skinny. He leaned with both hands on a walking stick, positioned between his feet. The urge to jump to her feet and push him backwards down the three steps was strong. Ignoring the prickles all over her skin and her sweaty palms, she returned his stare.
The old man took one hand off the walking stick and wobbled a little as he rummaged in his pocket. Nikki’s hand went out to steady him and then she snatched it back, her shoulders tensing. She needed to be on her guard. Khalid had always told her how devious and manipulative his dad could be.
Pulling out a cloth handkerchief, he raised it to his face with a liver-spotted hand and wiped his eyes, one at a time.
For fuck’s sake, is he crying? Nikki exhaled, long and slow. Whatever he wanted, this meeting was not going to go his way. Ignoring her wobbly stomach, she straightened her back and pursed her lips. Was it her imagination or had it got darker, chillier? She was being fanciful, yet her entire body was reacting.
‘I am surprised you weren’t expecting me, Nikita.’ His voice was weak, but his English was good. Almost as good as Khalid’s had been, but still there was that telltale accent. The slight hesitancy over some of the consonants. ‘Especially when what you did all those years ago has come to light. You didn’t expect that, did you? Well, you’ve been caught out.’
Nikki strained to catch the words. It was as if they floated on a puff of air that snatched them away as soon as they left his lips. Each word seemed to be delivered on vibrato – shaky and tremulous. What was he on about? What she’d done all those years ago? His frailty should have softened Nikki’s heart, but she wasn’t giving an inch. After what he did, what he plotted … He could say his piece here on her doorstep and then be gone. It would be as if she’d never seen him. She’d push it to the farthest, darkest corners of her mind and leave it there to fester beside the memories of his son.
‘I’m in a rush. Say what you have to and then go and never, ever come back.’ Her voice barely wobbled, her words clipped. Saying them gave her a surge of power. She had this. It would be over soon, but she was in control.
The old man’s lips trembled and he wiped his eyes again. For God’s sake, he was crying. It must be something bad. Her resolve splintered. Did she really want to deal with this on her doorstep with Mrs Shah earwigging from her garden next door and Mr Khalifa from opposite twitching at his curtains? She stepped back from the door, pulling it wide. ‘Come in.’
Her voice couldn’t have been any more unwelcoming if she tried, yet the old man lifted his stick and placed it on the doormat, using his other hand to grip the door jamb as he manoeuvred himself inside. Nikita, wanting to avoid touching him, pressed herself against the wall until he had moved far enough into the cramped hallway for her to close the door, with a little wave to each of her nosy neighbours. It’d be all round Listerhills by lunchtime that Nikki Parekh had entertained a strange man in her house whilst the kids were at school.
Aware that he was looking at her home – judging it too, no doubt – Nikki turned and slipped past him. Why did the kids have to leave all their shoes heaped at the bottom of the stairs and why hadn’t she spent five minutes hoovering instead of spreading smelly lotion over her feet?
Without uttering a word, she marched down the hallway and into the kitchen, leaving the door open for him to follow. She walked straight over to the sink and filled a glass of cold water. As she gulped it down, she heard the tap, tap of his stick on the wooden floor. She turned and leaned against the sink, cradling her glass in both hands. Again, his eyes flitted round the room, taking in everything, scouring her life. At least the breakfast dishes were done. Nikki followed him with her eyes as he edged closer to the table and, with an enquiring glance in her direction, pulled out a chair and flopped into it, a heavy sigh leaving his mouth as he took the weight off his feet. He seemed in no hurry to speak, his eyes continuing their survey, until they landed on the fridge.
Nikki’s heart sputtered. The photos!
He pulled himself to his feet again and stepped over to study the magnetic photos that hung on the fridge door. He reached out a hand and with one finger traced Charlie’s face. ‘She’s his, isn’t she? Khalid’s? She’s got his eyes. How could you do that to him when he has a daughter? How could you?’
Do what? Nikki wanted to snatch the photo away from him, hide all evidence of her daughter and send the old man away. ‘She’s mine.’
Favouring his right leg, he hobbled back to his chair. He was so much older than he’d looked in the photos Khal had shared with her. Older, shrunken and somehow diminished.
