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‘Can I have some water?’ He nodded to the glass she was holding.
Nikki grabbed a glass from the drainer, filled it with water, plonked it down on the table and pushed it towards him, spilling some as she did so. ‘Look, Burhan, you don’t want to be here and I certainly don’t want you here, so why don’t you just say whatever it is you’ve flown over two and a half thousand miles to say and then go.’
Khalid’s dad lifted the glass and took a long drink, gulping the liquid down as if it would give him strength. Was he playing for time? Was Khal poorly? Didn’t matter to her, she couldn’t care less. He could be dead for all she cared. Fifteen years and no word from him. Barely married and then he fucked off back home to Palestine. No, Khalid Abadi, meant nothing to her.
‘I’ve come about what you did to Khalid.’ His voice was strong as he spoke, each word staccato. ‘I want you to know that I will personally make you pay for what you did. If your British courts won’t provide justice, then my promise to you is that you will still pay and I will take your daughter. You don’t deserve her.’
What was the old man talking about? What she’d done to Khal? He was the one that had left her. Her breathing was beginning to hitch in her chest and a flutter at her temple told her that her eye was twitching so she took refuge in anger. How dare he come into her home and start accusing her of doing something to Khal when she hadn’t even seen him for years? ‘Oh, sod off – you can’t come in here and talk to me like this.’
The old man’s eyes sparked and the hand on the top of his cane shook. ‘You killed him. You killed my son and you will pay. Like the worthless whore you are, you took my boy and then when he wanted to come back to us, you killed him.’
The words hammered into Nikki’s chest. Was he deranged? What was he talking about? Khal wasn’t dead. She thought her heart would stop. Was he saying Khal … her Khal … was dead? Was he saying he’d died because she’d driven him away? None of it made sense … none of it.
‘Khal’s dead?’
‘Hmph … you know he is. Don’t pretend.’
Dead … Khal … dead. For all she’d told herself she didn’t care, it was still a shock. Khal had always been so alive, so full of fun, so vital and now he was dead. She was a widow? She turned around, stretched her arms out and leaned on the sink, head bowed. Burhan was still speaking, but she couldn’t hear his words. Her brain was filled with buzzing, her vision distorted. She’d gone through hell when Khal left. She’d moved on, put him to the back of her mind – except when she looked at Charlie who was so like Khal. The last thing she’d expected was to feel this scorching pain, this squeezing, wrenching agony … but none of what the old man was saying made sense. Was grief making him insane?
His other words filtered into her consciousness. He was saying she’d killed him? How could she have? He’d left Bradford fifteen years ago. Khal’s dad was acting as if she’d murdered him.
Her phone rang, breaking through the fuzz. Still not looking at Burhan, she slipped it from her pocket – the boss, Hegley – and silenced it before tossing it onto the table. No sooner had it landed than it started ringing again. Fuck’s sake, can’t it wait? Then the doorbell was ringing, echoing through the house. She lifted her hands to her head and covered her ears. Shut up, just shut the fuck up!
‘Nikki, Nikki, open up, come on, let me in. It’s important.’
Sajid! Just go away, let me think.
Her phone started ringing again, DCI Hegley flashed on the screen. It rang a few times and went to voicemail. They must have caught a case. Why now?
Burhan, with effort, pushed himself upright and made to approach her but Nikki extended her hand, palm up. ‘NO! Just go.’
The voice from the door came again. ‘Nikki, Nikki. Open up, Come on. I can hear you’re in there.’
Fuck off, Saj!
The phone started going again. Nikki wanted to smash it through the kitchen window. Just let me think!
Almost conversationally, Burhan continued as if they were completely alone. ‘Khalid had responsibilities at home, but he was adamant he would stay here with you. We thought when he stopped contacting us, answering our calls, that he’d divorced himself from us.’
Nikki frowned. What was the old idiot talking about, Khal divorcing himself from them? It was Nikki he’d left.
Straightening his spine, Burhan slammed his palm on the table and yelled at her. ‘Did you not think they could identify him from his remains. You should have taken his passport.’ Spittle flew from his lips and his frail body shook. ‘They told me how you went there, saw my son excavated. How you never gave a hint about what you’d done. Cold as ice. They’ve come to arrest you. You will either rot in a British prison cell or I will kill you.’
Nikki stilled. Anger tinged with sadness flashed in his eyes and her shoulders slumped.
‘They contacted me. You see all they found to identify him was his passport, with me as next of kin.’
What? Nikki reached out her hand to the worktop. What is he talking about?
‘All these years we thought he was with you and all these years he’s been dead … murdered. We will have our revenge. You will suffer for this. How could you discard him so thoughtlessly – like rubbish – in a car park?’
The Odeon car park.
The skeleton?
Khalid?
Fifteen years.
Like an electric shock, it all slotted into place. He’d been here all along. He’d not left them … he’d not left her.
With everything ringing in her ears, Nikki turned and vomited into the sink.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_43ff9db3-2f34-5ccf-b3d3-b153912cab03)
The wind whistled lifting empty crisp packets and yellow takeaway containers, dancing them further down the weed-ridden alley which skirted the recreation ground. On the one side was the rear of a row of shops, their backyards fenced off with black painted metal topped with barbed wire. An old settee wobbled on top of a skip. Rain-swollen grease-spattered worktops and a dozen metal ghee cans stood next to a line of industrial-sized bins. The stench of decaying meat hung strong in the air. On the other side was a six-foot concrete wall sectioning off the kids’ playground. Overgrown grass skirted the bottom of the wall – a coarse browny-green fringe that stank of piss and hid a conglomeration of syringes and bent spoons. The alley was a shortcut between the terraced houses at one end and the main road. It was rarely used now, except by drug dealers, prostitutes and the occasional rough sleeper.
The lad, in his school uniform, spotty and ghostly pale, was sprawled on the wet ground, a rolled-up sock in his mouth, one foot bare. His gelled hair rippled in the breeze, the contents of his schoolbag scattered all around him. Textbooks soaked up the damp from the floor, a few pages fluttering, making a strange whirring sound in the air. Pencils and pens, trampled on, jotters covered in blood and muddy footprints surrounded him. His shoe floated in another puddle, laces dangling in the water. One hand, held away from his body, trailed through a mucky pool of water, his fingers twitching. Blood trickled down the back of his hand and dripped into the slurry, sending small waves over the surface. Beside it, on the cobbles by the watery rut, lay his little finger, blood oozing from the stump.
With his two mates, Tyke and Big Zee, standing behind him, Franco glowered down at the boy, a satisfied smirk on his face. Tyke had his phone out, taking photos of their handiwork – moving around, getting the angle just right – whilst Big Zee snapped the pliers open and shut, his gaze fixed on their victim as if daring him to provoke more action from the pliers.
‘You deal with me, you make sure you get your payments in on time. This was a warning, okay?’ Franco kicked the lad on his leg. ‘I said, okay?’
Whimpering, the lad nodded. His lower lip trembling, his eyes wide and staring. Tyke had held him down whilst Big Zee did the deed. He’d tried to yell but all that had come out was a muffled noise.
‘You take my stuff, you sell it and you pay me. Them’s the rules. You fuck up, you pay the consequences.’
The boy moved his head a little to see the damage and groaned, spitting the sock from his mouth as he did so. A stream of vomit flooded from his lips, mingling with the stagnant water on the path. With his good hand he wiped his mouth, his chest heaving. As Franco moved closer, the boy curled his legs up, to his stomach, preparing himself for more pain.
Franco kicked him on the thigh once more for good measure and then jerked his head to his mates, ‘Come on. Let’s go before someone sees us.’
As they passed, Tyke and Big Zee too kicked the boy. Big Zee snapped the bloody pliers in front of the lad’s nose, laughing as he whimpered and tried to push himself away from them.
They walked up the alley towards the main road and then paused. Franco yelled back down the alley. ‘Get up to BRI with that – you never know, they might be able to re-attach it.’
*
Haqib waited till their voices faded into the distance followed by the sound of a souped-up car engine as they roared off, before moving. His hand throbbed and when he looked at his severed finger more bile gushed into his mouth. Weeping, he pulled his phone from his pocket with his good hand and dialled. Relief surged over him when it was answered and great sobs rent the air as he told Charlie what had happened and where to find him. Keeping his eyes averted from his injured hand he shoogled himself into a sitting position and leaned against one of the wheelie bins.
Why the hell had he been so stupid? He should have known better than to trust Deano, but it seemed easy. Deano had promised it would be easy. Just sell a few pills. Set up a supply in Listerhills and he’d be quids in. And it had been easy till Charlie had swiped his stash so he couldn’t sell it. She’d been going to give it back to him on pay day so he could return it to Franco. Trust his aunt to find it. It was all Auntie fucking Nikita’s fault. She should’ve minded her own damn business and he could’ve returned it and everything would be sorted.
He heard Charlie before he saw her, ‘Fuck’s sake, Haqib. What did I tell you about getting mixed up with that lot? Bloody stupid you are.’
As she got closer and saw his hand held out away from his body, she gasped. ‘Shit. They cut your finger off?’
‘Nowt like stating the obvious, Charlie. Just help me up. I need to get it sewed back on.’
Galvanised into action, Charlie rummaged around in her schoolbag for tissues, before loosely wrapping his stub. Displaying less aversion than Haqib, she picked up his pinkie with two fingers and after placing it in another tissue, she put it in her bag and helped her cousin to his feet. ‘You know you’re a damn idiot, don’t you?’
Every bone in Haqib’s body seemed to protest as he shuffled along the alleyway to the waiting taxi, his injured hand held out to his right so he didn’t have to look at it. ‘Gimme a break. I’m in agony here. Need to get this fixed before Mam finds out.’
Charlie stopped and stared at him. ‘You what? You think you can hide this from your mam? Don’t be a dick, ’course she’s gonna notice. Anyway, I’m phoning my mum soon as we get to BRI. I’m not risking being grounded till I’m thirty just cos you’re a knob.’
Chapter 10 (#ulink_e6dada92-ea6f-575b-a4b0-81680265113b)
So, they’ve identified the remains – fools! Sheer negligence, lack of attention to detail. They don’t know what’s ahead of them and when they find out they’ll be the laughing stock again. I wonder when they’ll release the name. Can hardly wait. That’s when the shit will hit the fan. Until then I’ll have to content myself with reminiscing. I flit through the DVDs. Which one shall I choose? Who is worthy of my attention today? Ah yes 8
May 2010. Yes, that’s the one!
I fast forward the first bits to get to the main event. It’s always the last bit that shows their mettle. I could watch them all again and again – makes binge watching take on a whole new meaning. I settle into my routine, whisky in hand, settled on the only comfy chair in the room and watch as the scene unfolds. My voiceover begins.
Time in captivity: six days, one hour and twenty-five minutes. Note how our captive has deteriorated.
The past days have not been kind to her. Her own fault, of course. If she’d been worthy, she’d have been allowed to proceed with her life. Observe as the shadowy figure enters from the gloom and hovers behind the specimen. It’s the captive’s reactions that are so intriguing. Her hands are tied and clasped in her lap, with rope binding her chest to the death chair, so her responses are restricted. However, take note of how her right leg judders up and down, up and down. As she nears the end, she holds her head high, stares at the blinking light, eyes dull, yet focused. A fascinating study of the human meeting his maker.
Note how the wounds across her chest have scabbed and crusted. Each one at a different stage of repair, each bearing testament to her valiant struggle to prove her worth. She lasted well. Tried so hard – harder perhaps than the rest. She has surpassed all the others before her – yet still she has failed. More than seventy cuts – one for each failure. So many opportunities, so many failures. If it wasn’t so necessary, I’d almost feel sorry for her. Note how she, unlike those who have gone before, has carried herself with dignity. Pride – spirit even. We’re in the home stretch. Watch and learn. Bear witness, for you are privileged to be party to this.
As the camera zooms in, focusing on the captive’s face before cutting away to sweep downwards, we see despair etched across her forehead in rivulets of blood and sweat. Visible as we pan down over her body are each of the punishments she has endured and yet, still, she is unable to justify her entitlement … or indeed her inability to fulfil her potential. One is bad enough, the two together are unforgivable.
Watch as the figure, like a bird of prey, circles the captive female, prodding her on the thigh with a live cattle prod. The captive’s response is sluggish, her groan half-hearted, a sure indication that her strength is dwindling. Alas, my dear audience, I feel her time with us will be short. However, pay attention to her final moments, as she is challenged for one last time. I guarantee, you will not regret your dedication.
‘Look at the camera. 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 unearned advantage.’
The detail we are privy to has never before been recorded. You, my dear audience, are witnessing history in the making. As we zoom in, we can focus on her open eyes with their pinprick pupils. Panning down, we see the pulse at her neck, weak and erratic. Ha! Observe her stare. I wonder if she too senses the importance of what is about to unfold. These last few special moments have a significance all of their own. Let them not be in vain as the captive is released to her death aware that her last request is recorded for posterity. Closure at the end of a long struggle which so nearly ends in victory.
‘Are you ready to relinquish your privilege and admit your shortcomings?’
Ouch! As the cattle prod engages with her thigh, she barely reacts – a single jolt of the head, no more.
Oh dear, don’t judge the figure, after all his hard work indulge him his enjoyment. It’s good to be happy in your work. After all, this is what all of this is about – a commitment, a dedication to your life choices.
‘You can do better than this? No? Show your audience some strength.’
Despite his plea, and the added incentive of the cattle prod, you can see our captive refuses to respond. Look at the way her mouth tightens. Her defiance is admirable, if ill placed. Let’s see if she can be tempted.
‘Right. The floor is yours. Your chance – your final chance – what is your last request? Make it count. This time you won’t get a re-take.’
Look how our figure moves into position behind our captive, lifting her almost lifeless head, making sure you, his captive audience, miss nothing.
The figure’s words ring out. ‘Your turn. Make it good – make it clear. You only have one shot at this. It’s your final-night production. What is your last request?’
See how her eyes flicker. Her mouth opens, her tongue flicks out, licking her lips. I’m sure you agree. Her final performance – her swan song has, to date, been inspirational. Let’s hope she makes it count. I can feel you willing her on, wishing her the strength to complete her last request. But only a gurgle of unintelligible words reaches our ears.
‘Noo … my … mmm …’
You can see how much she’s trying. How much she wants to do this. This is her legacy. Her final chance. I’m sure we’ve all got our fingers crossed that she doesn’t stumble at the last hurdle. She’s tried all the way along the trial – given a stellar, almost successful performance. Let’s give her a round of applause to spur her on. Come on now, don’t be mean. Applaud her efforts.
Sound-over: raucous applauding.
Our figure leads the clapping and the sound of our encouragement seems to have the desired effect. Our captive starts, and her eyes flicker again.
Come on, you can do this, lass. You can do this. You need to do this. You know you do.
‘My mum – love my mum – tell her – love her.’
Didn’t she do well? Her last request duly recorded. Now for the finale. Focus now. Watch as with all the gravitas fitting such an auspicious occasion, our figure lifts the hammer above her head.
Game over – last request denied.
Last request recorded and denied: Julie Katch 03.22.
Chapter 11 (#ulink_8a80b8c3-89ef-5a34-a289-88faad00b504)
Nikki stumbled to the front door and yanked it open, leaving Khalid’s father standing in her kitchen. She had a vague recollection of Sajid marching in and directing both her and Burhan into the front room. At some point he must have made tea, for she was cradling a comforting mug that smelled sugary enough to cause instant tooth decay. She took a tentative sip and looked over at the old man – Khalid’s dad. Sitting in her oversized favourite chair next to the fire, he looked to have shrunk in this short space of time and he was shivering. Sajid must have given him a fleece because Charlie’s leopard skin one was draped round his shoulders and Burhan was pinching it beneath his chin. She wanted to speak, but no words would come. What could she say? She was still trying to make sense of it. How could the bones under the Odeon car park belong to Khal? Plonking her mug on the coffee table, Nikki began plucking at the elastic band she wore round her wrist. It soothed her, calmed her, made her feel a little more in control.
Sitting beside her on the sofa, Saj angled his huge frame towards her, the slight frown across his forehead the only indication that he wanted answers from her. Nikki closed her eyes and sighed. Of course, he’d expect an explanation. Why wouldn’t he? They’d been partners for nearly three years and she’d never mentioned Khal to him. Not even once. She’d never told him she’d been married. Never told him about Charlie’s dad. Now that it appeared to be out in the open, he’d expect her to confide. But Nikki was determined to closet her emotions away. Nobody would ever know just how deep the scars from Khalid’s disappearance had gone. Few people would ever see the emotional wounds that stayed with her and she was not going to bare all to a work colleague – not even one who was a friend.
Steeling herself, she placed her cup on the stained old coffee table next to the sofa, folded one leg under her bottom and willed herself to ignore the dull ache that mangled her heart. If she stopped to analyse her feelings too closely, she’d be lost. That was something for later. Removing all emotion from her face, she gestured towards her father-in-law. ‘How did they find him?’
Sajid shrugged and settled himself more comfortably in the chair, making it dip with his weight as he moved. ‘They found Khalid’s passport in with his remains. It had his father’s contact details and the Cold Case lot contacted Mr Abadi here. He flew straight over and it was only when he mentioned you, that DS Springer realised that Khalid was your husband. Thank God she passed that onto Archie or …’
Yes, Abadi had said that earlier, hadn’t he? Nikki knew exactly how things would have panned out had Springer been the first to land on her doorstep. No doubt Springer would be en route on her broomstick. God only knew what she made of Abadi’s accusations against her. She was glad Saj had got here first. She could do with a friendly face in her camp. She risked a quick glance at her friend. The look in his eyes told Nikki that Sajid was upset that she hadn’t shared this with him. Why should I though? It’s private. When Khalid had gone off, everyone assumed he’d gone home to his family – chosen them instead of her. She hadn’t talked about Charlie’s dad to anyone outside her immediate family.
That’s why Sajid was here. That’s why Archie had been phoning her. Then, the real reason for Sajid’s presence hit her. She wasn’t being treated as a grieving widow, she was a suspect and she guessed Abadi had been only too keen to fuel that speculation. He’d already accused her, hadn’t he?
‘They’re coming for me?’
Sajid had the grace to avert his eyes as he nodded. ‘Yes, Hegley wanted to give you a heads-up, but bearing in mind Mr Abadi hasn’t left Ramallah for the past twenty years, you’re their next best suspect.’
Her phone started to ring – Charlie’s ringtone. She answered, keeping her voice low, hoping Charlie wouldn’t pick up on her distress. ‘Yep.’
As Charlie explained what had happened to Haqib, Nikki stood up and walked into the hallway, closing the door behind her. Once sure that she couldn’t be overheard, she said, ‘Charlie, wait there. I’m coming. Don’t move and don’t let that stupid little turd do owt else daft.’
She crept along the hallway. Sajid’s jacket was on top of her leather one, so, with all the dexterity of the Artful Dodger, she rummaged in his pocket and took his car keys. Her car was parked on the main street, so she hoped they’d assume she’d left in it and she’d be able to buy herself some time. Shuffling into her trainers, she grabbed her leather jacket and eased the front door open. Closing it gently behind her, she stepped outside. If they wanted to interview her about Khalid, they’d have to wait – she’d family things to deal with first. You’ve waited this long, Khal, you can wait another few hours.
Without considering the consequences of her actions, she ran down the stairs, vaulted over the neighbour’s fence to keep herself out of sight of the living-room window and headed down the path. Taking a second to remove the battery from her phone, she placed it behind a plant pot in Mrs Shah’s garden. Sajid’s Jaguar was parked a few hundred yards up the street and without hesitating she opened it and started up the engine, savouring the roar as it sprung to life … She was off, hotfooting it to Bradford Royal Infirmary. Her boss and Sajid would both be pissed off, but sometimes you just had to crack on with life. Khalid would still be dead in a few hours, but Haqib was alive and she needed to make sure the stupid little sod stayed that way.
Chapter 12 (#ulink_a1aeb00a-13cf-56ed-b007-9d2ea32d252b)
‘I don’t know how she managed it. Her daughter rang and she went into the hallway to take the call.’ Sajid grimaced and held the phone away from his ear as Archie Hegley yelled at him.
‘You were supposed to get her side of things before Springer pounced. For fuck’s sake, Sajid, couldn’t you keep her in sight for five minutes?’
Hegley was all bluster and fat rolls and Sajid could imagine them wobbling as he paced the office, his face becoming redder and redder with each step. The man was a heart attack waiting to happen. What Sajid had told him wasn’t exactly true either. He did know how Nikki had managed it. She’d managed it because he’d cut her some slack. He’d let her have privacy to take a phone call and had compounded his error by being slow to notice she’d gone. But in fairness, sometimes those calls with Charlie could go on for half an hour or more. Besides, he’d been sent to break the news about her husband’s death – the husband nobody had realised she even had until a few hours ago – not to apprehend her.
It was suspicious that when Khalid Abadi had disappeared off the face of the earth, Nikki hadn’t even registered a missing persons report. ’Course it was, but hell, they were talking about Nikki. She was no murderer. At least he hoped she wasn’t. ‘Yes, yes, I’ve sent out a BOLO, first thing I did, Sir. No sightings of her car yet.’
‘And the father-in-law?’
