Price to Pay, A (21 page)

People were rising out of their seats. Someone roared, ‘You beauty!’

She looked at Martin but his back was turned to her as he applauded in the direction of the DCI. She should be standing, too. She got up and started to clap. But the movement felt jerky, unnatural. It’s not him, a part of her said. He’s not who we should be looking for.

T
he man in the baseball cap studied the back room wall. Stuck to the bare plaster was a cluster of photos. All had been shot from the window of the main office overlooking the car park of Orion House.

Iona was the latest addition. A Post-it note next to her listed her name, number of her mobile phone and car registration. Various other members of the investigating team had been similarly profiled, including DCIs Roebuck and Sullivan.

Further along the wall was another grouping of photos and scraps of paper, this one far more sparse. Next to a copy of Jade Cummings’ photo was a newspaper photo of Teah Rice. Alongside that were two index cards marked Girl X and Girl Y. Another newspaper clipping, this one a report of Eamon Heslin’s death, sat below them.

‘Soup?’ a voice whispered.

He turned to the doorway. There was a cup in the outstretched hand of the man who stood there. ‘Thanks, Eli,’ he replied softly.

The office that had been provided for them had a bathroom with a toilet and a small kitchen area equipped with a microwave and kettle. They were living on non-perishable foodstuffs, mainly tins, cans and packets. UHT milk for their muesli. Still, it was far better than scooping rations direct from foil wrappers, contents half-cooked by the relentless desert sun.

There was a rustling sound in the corner as the man whose turn it was to sleep moved in his sleeping bag. The man in the baseball cap took his soup then stepped from the room, carefully closing the door behind him.

‘The female detective is leaving the main building, accompanied by a male,’ announced a voice from beyond a sheet of dark netting which had been pinned to the ceiling a couple of metres back from the windows. A whirr and click as more photos were taken.

‘Who is he?’

‘Mid-to-late twenties, not sure of his name. They’re heading towards her Micra … no, they’ve passed it. Continuing along – she’s got a call on her mobile.’

The man in the baseball cap set his cup down and reached for the panel of the scanner on the table. ‘She’s number seven, right?’

The colleague who’d brought the soup checked a listing by the piece of equipment. ‘Correct.’

Iona’s number, pre-programmed in, appeared on the backlit screen and the speaker made a couple of muted ticking sounds as the machine patched in.

‘… I didn’t get back to you, Jim. It all just kicked off in there.’

‘Yeah, how come?’

‘We lifted Nirpal Haziq. Trying to access his own flat, can you believe?’

‘Stroke of luck. Where’s he being held?’

‘On his way here, apparently. Though I’m not sure for how long.’

‘Is he talking, yet?’

‘No commenting it, so far.’

‘Did he have any of the laptops with him?’

‘Unfortunately, not.’

‘So you still only have the one?’

‘Possibly two. The remains of a Dell were recovered from Heslin’s premises. But it’s too damaged to say where it came from.’

‘What are you up to now?’

‘Heading out.’

‘I can tell that. Where? Aren’t you sticking around for the Haziq interview?’

‘I should be so lucky. Us foot soldiers? They give us our orders and we follow them.’

‘So where are they sending you?’

‘There’s plenty of other stuff needs wrapping up. The two missing girls, for a start. Who, where, when, how. We still need plenty of answers.’

‘So they’ve got you doing that?’

‘Yes. We’re heading to a care home over in Heaton Chapel.’

‘The laptop you’ve got – the one you think is probably Haziq’s. I wanted to ask you—’

‘Jim, I didn’t have time to check what I could and couldn’t share. Sorry. Let me speak to Roebuck when the opportunity comes up. I’ll call you as soon as.’

‘Iona, all I wanted to ask was—’

‘Jim, I’m with a colleague. I’ll call you back, OK?’

As soon as the call cut, the man in the baseball cap pointed to the backroom door. ‘Move her details to Roebuck’s, she’s in his team.’ He pressed a few buttons and the number Jim had been calling from came up. He noted it down on a fresh index card.

‘They’re stopping at a silver Audi, ending in CYP,’ the voice by the window stated. ‘He’s unlocking it. Getting the full registration now.’ The camera clicked again.

The man in the baseball cap took it off and tossed it to Eli. ‘Follow them. Haim, you as well. See where they go!’

‘Who was that?’ Martin asked, reaching for his seatbelt.

‘A sergeant with the City Centre division. He was on the Emily Dickinson case until …’

‘We took over.’

‘You guessed it.’

‘But he’s still sniffing about?’

Iona could anticipate the next question; why’s he ringing you? ‘I used to work with him when I was based in Bootle Street.’ She shrugged. ‘He wants to know what’s going on. Can’t blame him, either.’

‘Suppose so.’

As the barrier lifted and they emerged on to the A635, she kept her head still, pretending to look at the road ahead while actually having a good nosey round his car. It was clean and smelled nice; an air freshener was tucked away somewhere. Not one of those cheap dangly ones with their cloying, floral reek. This was more like an essential oil. Something musky, sandalwood maybe. She liked it.

When Martin had offered to drive, Iona felt relieved. Doing his typing was one thing, and then driving him round – that would have raised all sorts of questions in her head – about his levels of arrogance, his willingness to use people. But he’d offered to drive.

A few CDs were lined up in a rack near the handbrake. Adele, of course. Amy Winehouse. Ella Fitzgerald. Janis Joplin. Nina Simone, even. He liked his female vocalists, then. And not the cheesy ones, either. Singers with a bit of oomph.

‘Wonder how long before he rats out Khaldoon,’ Martin said with a sideways glance.

On their way out of the office, all the talk had been about whether Nirpal would take the get-out that would be offered by whoever got to question him: Khaldoon was the leader, he’d organized the trafficking stuff; Collins was the violent one; Nirpal had just been dragged in. It was obvious he was, at heart, a decent guy. That was easy to see. He’d been led astray. Possibly coerced by that nasty Khaldoon and Collins. He didn’t deserve to spend the rest of his life in a maximum security prison. The chance of extradition to face detention in a far less savoury country. Give us the full details about the other two and we’ll make sure the judge knows how you helped us, how you bitterly regret getting mixed up in all this.

Iona hunched a shoulder. The bloke was being held under the Terrorism Act. That meant there was no need to even charge him with anything, not for twenty-eight days. It was a long time to spend alone in a windowless cell.

‘My money’s on Wednesday morning. Three days and he’ll crack.’

‘You went in on the sweepstake? I thought you had doubts about him.’ She tried to seek out his eyes, but he kept them on the road.

‘Well, once it went over two hundred quid, I thought it was worth a punt.’

‘What are the rules if you’re all wrong? Do you get your money back?’

Martin sniffed. ‘You still think this guy’s nothing to do with it?’

‘I certainly wasn’t going to put any money on it being him.’ Within twenty minutes of Nirpal Haziq going into custody, the investigation had been scaled down. Officers who’d been drafted in from other units were swiftly sent back. Support workers were being allocated other roles on different cases. It was touch and go whether the two of them were staying together. But the pair of missing girls needed to be traced. It was assumed Nirpal – or Khaldoon or Collins once found – would supply that information; but, in the meantime, officers would continue to visit the care homes girls had absconded from.

It just wasn’t being pursued with quite as much urgency. The difference in O’Dowd’s tone had left Iona seething. There’d been a gloating look on his face as he’d announced the new arrangements. He thought the thing was all but cracked. Now it was just a matter of tying up loose ends. Roebuck had even said that, after they’d visited the care home, they were free to go home for a few hours. Grab some sleep and be back in for a briefing at five that afternoon.

With a weak dawn trying to light the sky, they drove in silence round an almost empty M60. Sunday mornings, Iona thought. The near total lack of cars was a touch surreal. Slightly unsettling. Like everyone but them had been told of a killer virus.

As their turn off came up, Martin said casually, ‘That Forced Marriage Unit. Nearly one thousand five hundred cases it dealt with in 2012. Didn’t think it was so big, did you?’

An image of her father appeared in her mind. ‘No.’

‘It’s a shocker. Imagine turning up for school. Just an empty desk where the kid sat. What’s happened to so-and-so? Where is she? No one quite knowing. I wonder what the teachers tell the kids.’

Iona fiddled with the glove compartment catch, her father’s face clearer in her mind. ‘I’m sure an approach has been worked out in those cases.’

‘Probably. I feel sorry for the poor girls. Shoved into a new life. Meet your new family. This is your husband. This is where you—’

‘It’s not just girls.’ The words came out too fast. She felt his stare. ‘My dad …’ She took a breath in. I’ve never told this to anyone before, she thought, staring straight ahead.

‘Your dad …?’

‘He … the reason he came to Britain. I’m pretty sure it was to escape an arranged marriage back in Pakistan. It’s never talked about, not openly. But … I think it was.’

‘Really? Shit.’

He sounded genuinely taken aback. No stress on the words, not treating her sudden admission like a juicy morsel. Scandal fodder. She glanced right. His eyebrows were half-lifted. ‘This isn’t for the office, right?’

‘Of course not,’ he immediately responded. ‘Christ, of course not. When did he move here, then?’

‘Years ago. When he was about thirty. He’s from quite a wealthy family, back in Pakistan. There’s no contact now. Nothing. He arrived in Britain on his own. I think he fled – whether he was married, or about to be, I’m not sure.’

‘And then he met your mum here.’

‘Not in Manchester. Scotland. He ended up lecturing at Glasgow University. She was working in the admin office. We moved down here when I was six.’

Martin tapped a finger against the steering wheel. ‘Wasn’t he something to do with hockey? Your nickname – that’s what you were called in your hockey team.’

The Baby-Faced Assassin, Iona thought. ‘It’s how I got into Manchester High School – a sports scholarship.’ Fond memories of the hours she spent mucking about with her dad came back. He used to take her along to the university’s pitches after the students had finished training. Speed dribbling, controlled dribbling, Indian dribbling. They’d spend hours weaving through cones, spinning round them, shooting on the run, reverse passing. It was their time together. Dad and daughter. Fenella never showed any interest.

‘Who did he play for?’

‘Pakistan.’ Saying the word used to make her feel uncomfortable. It had connotations among certain people in Britain, especially outside Glasgow in the late eighties. Her and Fenella had been the only non-white kids at their school. She’d heard all the paki jokes there were.

‘The national team? Seriously?’

Saying Pakistan when it was about who her dad had played for felt completely different. She relished saying the word. It was so strong, it demanded to be said with pride. ‘Yeah, he played in the ’eighty-four Olympic games. I used to wear his gold medal.’

Martin laughed. ‘Until you won a few of your own, I’m guessing.’

She smiled. Her school team had cleared up in quite a few competitions. And she was top scorer: from the moment she was selected for the First Eleven. Small, slight and usually dismissed by other teams – until she started ghosting through their defence and slotting the ball into the net. ‘What about you?’

She’d seen the notices in the kitchen about the five-a-side football team that played over at the Pits, a load of AstroTurf pitches near Ardwick. She’d spotted him a few times heading off with the others from the office, kit bags over their shoulders.

‘I play a bit of football, but it’s not serious. Though I was scouted once.’ He puffed his chest before dramatically letting it fall. ‘When I was nine. Reddish Rovers. Didn’t pick me, though.’

She grinned in response. ‘This is it – left here and it’s at the end.’

They turned into a street lined on each side by large, detached houses that had all seen better days.

‘D
etectives Everington and Khan to see Diane Finnigan.’

‘It’s open, come in.’

The short hallway beyond ended at a second door, this one with a wire mesh window making most of its upper half. A woman, mid-thirties, dull brown hair tied back, was stepping out of a door further along the corridor. She was wearing jeans and a baggy cardigan that didn’t quite hide her paunch.

Iona pulled the second door open. ‘Diane?’

‘Yes, come through, we can talk in my office.’ She stepped back, out of sight.

‘Big old place,’ Martin murmured.

Iona glanced about. It was typical Victorian; high ceilings, wide stairway, ornate ceiling roses and huge skirting boards. The green fire exit sign and strip lighting were incongruous. ‘Built for a wealthy cotton merchant, I should think,’ she replied. ‘Back in Manchester’s heyday.’

They proceeded down the corridor, the clear plastic runner feeling sticky underfoot.

Diane was in her office, already sitting back at her desk. She had a weary look about her. Clearly, police visits were nothing new. ‘You’re here about the absconders,’ she stated, pointing at two empty chairs. ‘Madison Fisher and Chloe Shilling?’

‘That’s right,’ Iona replied. ‘Thanks for seeing us.’

‘No, it’s fine. I submitted a report to the police.’