Читать книгу Last Request - Liz Mistry - Страница 18

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.

‘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.