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‘Well, in the circumstances I thought it best to have him taken back to his hotel. He’s at the Midland Hotel in town, so I got a uniform to drop him off and stay with him. He’s been mouthing off, accusing Nikki. Didn’t want him here when Springer landed.’
‘The Cold Case lot not there yet?’
‘CCU are on their way.’
‘Keep me updated.’
Sajid took a deep breath. Hegley’s bark was worse than his bite, but hell, it was ferocious nonetheless. What the hell, Nikita? What are you playing at? Picking his phone up, he dialled Charlie’s number, but it went straight to voicemail. Pissed off now, he brought up the tracking app he and Nikki had on their phones. Nikki’s app was inactive, but the last registered position was right here. Shit, she’d clearly ditched her phone in the street. What the hell was she up to? She needed to get her ass back here pronto before Hegley burst a gut.
The back door opened and a small Indian woman in jeans and a T-shirt, black hair falling to her shoulders, came in. Aw no, why did Nikki’s mum have to turn up right then? Hoping she’d leave before the CCU officers arrived, he smiled. ‘Hallo, Mrs Parekh, you all right?’
Lalita Parekh had her daughter’s height and her down-to-earth Yorkshire accent. The two women were clearly mother and daughter. ‘Don’t you Mrs Parekh me, Sajid. I’ve told you before, it’s Lalita. Nikita nipped out, has she?’
Pleased that she’d provided her own reason for her daughter’s absence, Sajid nodded, ‘Yeah, something like that. She’ll be back in a bit.’ Well, he hoped she damn well would.
Lalita proceeded to dump a couple of Morrisons’ bags-for-life on the table and began putting groceries into cupboards. ‘Pop the kettle on, love. I’m gasping for a tea.’
Sajid hesitated. What was he supposed to do? If he could, he’d rush Lalita out of the kitchen and into her own house down the street, but that was out of the question. This wasn’t his story to tell. Nikki would kill him if he told her mum, but what other option did he have? He shrugged his shoulders, trying to shake the tension out of them.
If that’s what she wanted, then she shouldn’t have pissed off like she was guilty of something, then should she? Picking up the kettle, he walked to the tap and filled it. ‘Lalita, something’s come up. Maybe you should sit down. Leave the shopping for now. We need to talk.’
Lalita froze, her dark eyes studying his face, and then without saying another word, she put the tins she was holding on the worksurface and sat down at the kitchen table, resting her clasped hands on the brightly coloured plastic table cover. ‘What’s she done this time? Is she okay?’
Sajid put the kettle on, flung a tea bag in one mug and a spoonful of coffee in another before replying. ‘She got some …’ He frowned, trying to think of a suitable word to describe the information his colleague had been confronted with a couple of hours earlier and settled with ‘… troubling news.’
A small frown pulled Lalita’s eyebrows down. Unlike Nikki who was full of anger and passion and activity, Lalita possessed a calm stillness that instantly reassured. The pressure across his back diminished a little. Lalita Parekh had not had an easy life, but here she was exuding soothing vibes, ready to face whatever he had to tell her. He filled the mugs, stuck a teaspoon in Lalita’s tea and took a carton of milk from the fridge. Before he had a chance to pour it into his coffee, Lalita stretched out her hand, a smile teasing her lips. ‘I wouldn’t risk that. Knowing Nikki, it’s three weeks out of date. There’s some fresh in the bag.’
Sajid sniffed the milk, grimaced and poured it down the sink. He settled opposite the older woman and studied her face. Nikki hadn’t told him anything about her mother’s past, but police stations were notorious for gossip and Trafalgar House was no different. It was funny how the fact that Nikki had been married and somehow misplaced her husband, had passed the gossipmongers by completely.
According to the rumour mill, Lalita Parekh had been through a lot and yet, despite her own trials and tribulations, she’d raised two daughters single-handedly. Okay, Anika was a bit loopy and Nikki carried a chip the size of Concord on her shoulders but, all in all, she’d done all right. Shame neither of the girls had inherited her serenity.
Conscious that time was running out, Sajid blew on his coffee and then told Nikki’s mother about the Odeon remains, the passport identifying them as belonging to Khalid Abadi, and his dad flying over from Ramallah and accusing Nikki of killing his son.
As he spoke, Lalita’s grip on her mug tightened. Her face paled, her frown deepened and a tear trickled from the corner of her eye. He wanted to put his arm round her shoulders and hug her, take away the pain that had dulled her eyes. Sniffing, she wiped the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand and wiggled her nose as if that would stop the onset of more tears.
‘Fifteen years.’ Her voice was a whisper. ‘We thought he’d left her, gone back to his family. His dad put pressure on him, you see? We thought he’d chosen his family, the business, everything they could offer and … all the while …’ Her breath hitched in her throat and she stood up, scraping the chair back and began pacing the room. ‘Oh, my poor beti, my poor Nikita. How is she?’ As if noticing her daughter’s absence for the first time, she looked round the room, apparently expecting her to materialise.
Sajid wished to hell she would! Time was running out. Springer would be here soon and there was no love lost between her and Nikki. The last thing Nikki needed, was to give the other woman more ammunition.
‘Where is she? Is she next door with Anika?’
This was the tricky bit. How could he explain to Nikita’s mum that her daughter was a suspect in her husband’s death and that instead of waiting to be interviewed, she’d run? For fuck’s sake, Nikki! ‘That’s just it. I don’t actually know where she is. But that’s not all. Khalid’s dad’s accusing her of having something to do with his son’s death. She’s a person of interest.’
‘Phuh! Person of interest indeed.’ Lalita, her eyes reproachful, glared at him. ‘If you’d seen her when Khalid disappeared you wouldn’t be standing there telling me that. She was devastated – broken.’
‘Aw, hell. I don’t think she did it, Lalita. But I’m not the one investigating. She never filed a missing persons report – it looks suspicious. The Cold Case Unit will be all over her till they can prove either way. She dumped her phone and took off. We’ve no idea where she is, none at all.’
Lalita moved over to the sink and began washing up her mug. ‘Well, she can’t have gone far, can she? Her car’s up the street.’
Sajid paused, processed that thought, then it dawned on him. This was Nikki they were talking about. She’d have been one step ahead of him. Slamming his cup on the table, he ran to his coat, rummaged in the pockets. ‘Aaaagh.’
He wrenched the front door open, jumped down the steps and onto the pavement. The space that had been filled by his Jag was occupied by a bashed-up Mini Cooper. Fucking hell, Nikki. You better not have damaged my car!
Chapter 13 (#ulink_c5de0bff-f130-5363-ad02-c72a79b5b86f)
Nikki parked Sajid’s car on Toller Lane and jogged down the hill to BRI, pausing only to nip into the hardware shop that, for some reason, also sold cheap mobiles. At least now she’d be able to contact Charlie and possibly Sajid, under the radar. Mind you, she might leave Saj for later, he was prone to being a bit possessive about his Jag and she’d enough to worry about without getting beef from him.
Every so often, a sharp pain, like lightening, jabbed her heart. Khal! How many times had she parked in that car park? Passed by? Visited the Chinese buffet? And all that time Khal was there … buried under there. What had happened to him? How had he ended up there? Everybody loved Khal. There was just no explanation for it. Unless, of course, his dad had orchestrated something from Ramallah. He’d plenty of money – more than enough to order a hit on his only son. The question was, would he? If the stories Khal had shared with her were true, then she would put nothing past the old bastard. Of course, if he was guilty, what better way to exert a little more revenge than to point the finger at Nikki. But he had seemed upset, hadn’t he?
If she thought about it, her breath started to clog up her throat, and her heart hammered. She had to keep it under control, had to sort out Haqib and then she could go back and talk to them about Khalid. That old bastard had told them she’d done it to stop Khal returning to his family. Surely they wouldn’t believe that. She was a police officer. Niggling at the back of her mind was the fact that she hadn’t reported Khal missing. That would play against her big time. However, she’d known he was conflicted. Known he was anguished by the pressure from his family. That was why she hadn’t told him she was pregnant.
Turning into BRI, she steered clear of the ambulances, pulled her hoodie up over her hair and the collar of her leather jacket over her lower face. Keeping an eye out for any officers accompanying those with drink- or drug-related injuries, she skirted the Accident and Emergency Department and entered the hospital. Despite it being early in the day, the corridors were bustling with patients, visitors and staff. Hopefully, she’d blend in.
Haqib, according to Charlie, was on Ward Two and Nikki made her way there as quickly as possible. She couldn’t blame Charlie for contacting her instead of Haqib’s mum. Anika had always been useless in an emergency. Nikki had lost count of the times she’d had to break off from work in order to sort out something to do with Anika’s kids – broken arms, split heads. Anika had deferred responsibility to her older sister and Nikki had, as usual, taken it on. She owed Anika a lot. It was because of Anika and her mum’s childcare that she’d been able to focus on her work. Sometimes though, an aching tiredness suffused her body. Sometimes, all she wanted was to curl up in her huge double bed, wrap the duvet around her and block out everything for a week. But she also realised that that was a luxury she couldn’t afford. If she stopped for a minute, let her control slip for even a nanosecond, then perhaps she wouldn’t be able to bring herself back from the brink.
To survive, like a well-trained soldier, she compartmentalised things. Put Khal in his box – the big dusky grey one towards the back of her mind. That one was slightly in front of the ridged black one with the lock and hasp that contained her dad, but behind the rainbow-coloured one that stood, lid ajar, with all her family stuff spilling out, its colourful entrails intertwining in a buzz of love and exasperation and responsibility.
She entered the ward, giving Haqib’s name and identifying herself feloniously as his mother to the busy nurse on the desk. As she moved towards the bed where Haqib lay, all his usual bravado dissipated, face pale and right arm elevated, Charlie got up to meet her. Her beautiful Charlie. Her heart contracted. So like her father, her skin a lighter brown than her own, her eyes the exact same shade as Khal’s, more than a touch of her mother’s drive but tempered with Khal’s patience and ability to reason. She’d protected Charlie from the moment she was conceived, but nothing could protect her from the fallout surrounding the discovery of her father’s remains. How could it? Charlie thought he’d deserted them before she was born and, in self-preservation, Nikki had pretended not to have known him well – a one-night stand. For nearly fifteen years she’d deprived her eldest child of being acquainted with the essence of her dad. His humour, his loyalty, his care and joy. How could she ever square this with Charlie? Feeling the unwelcome tickle at the back of her eyes, Nikki swallowed hard and smiled. ‘You all right, Charlie?’
‘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 (#ulink_5c29673c-8c3b-5ab7-a096-a7c322c5693e)
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 (#ulink_5073abdf-3bc7-5a4e-9930-c482c1431d22)
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 …
