Enough Rope: A Hakim and Arnold Mystery (Hakim & Arnold Mystery) Page 7

  ‘Then let’s just pay them, get him back and move on,’ she said.

  ‘Without knowing who they are? No.’

  ‘Why not? I’ve got the money.’

  ‘And if they ask for more?’

  ‘Then we give it to them. Just fucking give it to them.’ Tina took what she hoped was a calming breath. ‘Paul, I just want him back. I want Harry back and I want to see Cyd and I want you to tell me the truth about what the kidnappers said to you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean,’ she said, ‘Lee Arnold, I get the impression, thinks that these kidnappers may also be blackmailing us. I know they’re not blackmailing me. But what about you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I know you still mix with . . . people you shouldn’t. Paul, be honest with me!’

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’

  What could she say? She knew Paul. Once something was said he would never contradict himself. Never.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Just remember that Harry’s the important person here. Not you or me or your career – or your reputation.’

  ‘I have to go to work,’ he said. ‘I imagine you do too.’

  ‘Late,’ she said. ‘We’re night shooting. I’ll stay over in London tonight.’

  ‘At . . .?’

  ‘Call me on the mobile if anything happens.’

  She put the phone down and the tear dam burst. When she cried she gave in to it totally. Harry was a sneaky little shit. Over-privileged and manipulative. But she knew she’d do anything to get him back.

  *

  There had been a time when Rajiv could be seen on Brick Lane in his full glory, in one of his late mother’s saris, make-up courtesy of Boots at Liverpool Street. But people had complained. Not to Rajiv, but to his boys, Amaal and Farooq.

  ‘They say that you should be stoned.’

  ‘Who does?’ Rajiv had asked.

  Amaal had looked away. ‘People.’

  Rajiv knew who. He knew everyone on Brick Lane, and their secrets.

  ‘Well maybe I should be. Stoned,’ he’d said. ‘It’s years since I smoked dope. Why I gave it up . . .’ He’d shrugged.

  He’d started dressing in male clothes many years before. But the make-up had stayed, and that was what a gang of boys who called themselves the Brik Boyz had objected to. After forty years on the Lane, five beatings from shaven-headed white-power twats, the shop trashed by a disgruntled customer in 1989, and the nail bomb attack by a man called Copeland, a neo-Nazi homophobe, ten years later, it seemed as if it was going to be a group of kids in shalwar khameez who were finally going to put him out of business. Mainly because the fuckers would not go away.

  The police had been called again and again. When one of the Boyz had spat in Farooq’s face, Rajiv had almost taken matters into his own hands. But the police had come, eventually. They’d seen the gang, asked them to move along and then told Rajiv there was nothing else they could do.

  ‘So I just have to put up with having my salesmen spat at? My shop plastered with homophobic graffiti?’ he’d said, but got no answer. And when Mumtaz Hakim walked into the Leather Bungalow early that Tuesday morning, Rajiv was, as usual, marvelling at the fact that his two boys had yet again turned up for work.

  ‘Miss Huq!’

  Rajiv always used her maiden name. He’d known her since she was a child.

  ‘Rajiv, how are you?’

  The smart young salesmen that he called his boys looked at her from behind rails of leather jackets, skirts, trousers and some very risqué suede dresses.

  Rajiv stood, ran over and kissed her on both cheeks. Her father had always said that he looked like an actor from the seventies who had been called Peter Wyngarde. ‘He was also inclined to men,’ he’d said.

  ‘I’m fine, but you’re looking even more beautiful than the last time I saw you,’ he said. ‘Now you must take tea. Farooq!’

  The boy walked through the shop and out into the small lean-to kitchen behind the cupboard that passed for Rajiv’s office.

  He took her arm. ‘Amaal, mind the shop.’

  ‘Yes, Rajiv-ji.’

  ‘I haven’t seen you for ages, Mumtaz Huq. You must come into my office and tell me everything.’ Rajiv took Mumtaz’s arm. ‘Most of all you must tell me what foundation you use. Your skin looks flawless.’

  *

  The woman, or rather the girl, sitting outside Venus’s office was bottle-blonde, fake-tanned and had tits the size of a bulldog’s head.

  ‘If she got any cheaper she’d be in one of them bargain bins at Farm Fresh Foods,’ Vi Collins said.

  She didn’t usually peer at her superior’s guests from behind her computer screen, but this one was special.

  DS Tony Bracci, sitting beside her said, ‘She’s gotta be from Essex.’

  ‘You know I’ve always wondered whether Venus has got a thing about sleeping with the lower orders,’ Vi said.

  ‘We don’t know he’s sleeping with her, Guv. We don’t know he’s sleeping with anyone.’

  Vi cut him off with a stare. ‘Grow up, Tone.’

  Detective Inspector Violet Collins had been a copper all her working life, which was a long time. Now in her fifties, the divorced mother of two grown-up sons had seen a lot of changes in her thirty-five years on the force. One of them had been the fast-track system for graduates, which had enlisted people like Paul Venus.

  ‘He’s no different from the rough old sorts we had thirty years ago,’ Vi said. ‘None of them could keep their hands off of women’s bums. Same wandering hands, different accent, that’s all.’

  ‘S’pose so.’

  ‘I know so.’

  Vi didn’t like Venus and the feeling was mutual. Everything about her irritated him. Her age, her old-school values, the fact that she smoked and swore. Just the sight of him made her cringe. She was used to the sort of Super who was just posh enough to be in charge but could also have a drink and a laugh with the lads once in a while. But Venus only had eyes for his statistics and women under thirty.

  ‘Smelt booze on him again this morning,’ Vi said.

  Tony said nothing. Venus was always lecturing everyone else about their smoking and their drinking, so it had been a bit of a shock when he’d first come in after a heavy night.

  ‘Maybe he’s got problems.’

  ‘Like I give a shit.’ Vi said.

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘You seen Lee Arnold lately?’

  Vi was inclined to change the subject abruptly.

  ‘No.’

  Although they had never discussed it, Vi knew that Tony had lived briefly in their old colleague Lee Arnold’s flat when his marriage had gone through a bad patch. For that period she’d been forced to keep away from Lee, which hadn’t been easy. Although not lovers in the conventional sense, they had an occasional casual sexual relationship, which she found gave her life a sparkle. Lee was ten years younger than Vi. She’d never liked what she called ‘old’ men – men her own age – and that had included her ex-husband.

  ‘So you don’t know what Arnold’s up to?’

  ‘No, Guv.’

  She was bored. Apart from the inevitable minimart robberies and the constant monitoring of the borough’s gangs, Newham was unusually quiet and Vi didn’t like it.

  ‘Would you like to come in, Mrs Green.’

  Venus, his face blotchy as an old woman’s chilblained leg, was out of his office and shaking the tart’s hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  When she stood up she unintentionally flashed her knickers. Vi wasn’t surprised. ‘Fuck me.’

  Venus took the woman into his office and closed the door.

  Vi frowned. ‘Mrs Green,’ she said. ‘You don’t think . . .?’

  ‘Guv, Brian Green’s almost seventy and has not long been widowed,’ Tony said.

  ‘Yeah, but she’s his type,’ Vi said. ‘Young, blonde, a plank.’

  Tony shook his head. ‘Oh, Guv, don’t . . .�
�

  ‘What? That’s how it is, Tone,’ she said.

  ‘That can’t be Brian Green’s wife. God help us.’

  ‘Old gangsters can always get young kids like her because they’ve got money,’ Vi said. ‘Someone like Brian Green can buy you a lot of plastic surgery and all the fake tan you could ever dream of. Anyway, I don’t suppose he can get it up anymore.’

  ‘I do hope not,’ Tony said.

  *

  ‘Polarisation is what’s to blame,’ Rajiv said as he pushed another digestive biscuit on Mumtaz. ‘Eat. You’re too thin.’

  She did as she was told.

  ‘I was born here,’ Rajiv said. ‘In the fifties, but don’t tell anyone.’

  She smiled. She knew.

  ‘Then we were very mixed here. Hindus, Muslims, Jews, Irish. We had a Spanish family lived next door to us. In the seventies some, what we felt were weird people, came. White from rich families, they wanted to save the old houses. I knew them. All very lefty radical, you know.’

  Mumtaz had asked Rajiv about the postal address, but he had to weave it into a story. That had always been his way.

  ‘Then we had the racism of the National Front and that lunatic who set a nail bomb in 1999 and now suddenly we’re fashionable. Well, part of the area is. I don’t have to tell you.’

  But he would.

  ‘Beyond the old Truman’s Brewery you’re too cool for school. You’re probably white; if you’re a boy you probably have a beard and you ironically experiment with cross-dressing from time to time. But only vintage clothes.’

  Mumtaz laughed. She recognised the type.

  ‘And then here we have Muslims.’

  He put a hand on her knee, but Mumtaz didn’t flinch, this was Rajiv.

  ‘You know I mean no disrespect,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’ve got a thousand Muslim friends. I have my two boys, both Muslims. But these characters who want the sharia law here . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I told them, I said, “I am Hindu. You do what you like and leave me to do what I like.” But they won’t. Kids, most of them, but there are adults behind them. Gone my mother’s saris!’ He threw his arms in the air. ‘Gone my jewels! A man with make-up is all I am now. And what is that? So there is a climate of fear, Mumtaz.’ He raised a finger. ‘We come to that address.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Men and women are attracted to each other, it’s natural,’ Rajiv said. ‘But in this climate, can you express such a thing? No.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Everyone looking at everyone else’s phone, peering over your shoulder when you’re on the computer. How can people communicate without the world knowing? The world that will hurt you if you get found out? The old ways is the answer. A postal address. You send a letter to your lover and someone gives it to you when your husband is out or you’re in the park with your children. You use a postal address already in use by dodgy businesses who offer work to pretty girls or cheap trips to Mecca. You pay a lot of money to the man who has your life in his hands.’

  ‘What about the owner of the address? He’s registered in Bangladesh,’ Mumtaz said.

  ‘Maybe the owner is, but he doesn’t run that address. That’s someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  Rajiv said nothing. As usual he had got carried away with his story. Of course he knew.

  ‘If you’ve used the address I won’t tell anyone,’ Mumtaz said.

  There was a pause and then he said, ‘Is it important that you know who runs the address?’

  ‘About as important as it gets.’

  Rajiv lowered his head. ‘You can’t tell him you got it from me.’

  ‘Would I?’

  ‘I hope not.’ He looked up. ‘But how will you have got his name if not through me?’

  ‘Perhaps I will have noticed something myself,’ Mumtaz said. ‘Maybe once I know who he is something will occur to me. But I promise you Rajiv, I will not reveal your name. I absolutely promise that. You and I have always been friends, and so even if he saw me come in here, I’ll explain it away.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  He wasn’t sure. When she’d arrived she’d seen a couple of kids in the local gang, the Brik Boyz, outside the shop. They’d sneered at her, but said nothing. Rajiv was a target. A middle-aged, gay, cross-dressing Hindu. Just about everything the Boyz loved to hate, in one body. These were the kind of kids her brother had almost been excusing. Little thugs.

  ‘Rajiv . . .’

  ‘Mr Bhatti from the electrical shop,’ Rajiv said.

  ‘The shop next to the address?’

  He nodded. ‘He pays that idiot son of the Ullahs, fat Imran, to do the deliveries.’

  ‘How does he get in there?’

  Lee had told her he’d seen nobody enter or leave the address. But he had seen a fat Asian boy go into and come out of the electrical shop.

  ‘I dunno. He has a key . . .’ Rajiv shrugged.

  Maybe he did. Maybe Imran Ullah, who wasn’t what Mumtaz would have called an idiot, more of a rather dreamy boy, went and picked mail up in the middle of the night.

  ‘Imran brought mail to you?’

  ‘Yes. The secrecy was more for his . . . the man’s benefit than mine,’ he said. ‘He lived in that world, your world.’

  Mumtaz shook her head. That wasn’t her world. But she knew what Rajiv meant.

  *

  Venus had asked Mrs Green what she wanted to drink. He hadn’t been expecting her and had been entirely unprepared. Unfortunately she’d asked for a latte, which meant that a PC had to be dispatched to the nearest Starbucks. One didn’t upset a wife of Brian Green’s, even if he’d only been married to her for a week. One didn’t upset Brian Green, especially when he was doing you a favour. But he wished she hadn’t come. He also wished he hadn’t called her ‘Mrs Green’ in front of Vi Collins.

  ‘Brian wants you to know he has asked everyone he knows about . . .’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Venus stood, as the PC they’d waited almost half an hour for returned with a fresh Starbucks latte.

  ‘Thank you, PC May,’ he said.

  ‘Sir.’

  The young man left, closing the door softly behind him.

  ‘Kidnapping kiddies is sick,’ Taylor Green said. ‘Brian said to tell you that if he finds out who’s got your boy, he’ll deal with him.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, but you can tell your husband that my wife and I appreciate his concern,’ Venus said.

  ‘We had a paedo on our estate once.’ She drank her coffee, looking down at it through a forest of fake eyelashes. ‘Some boys give him a right kicking. He never come back.’

  Venus wondered whether Taylor knew what her husband Brian, owner of gyms and health clubs all over Essex and east London, had done to people when he’d been in charge of one of the capital’s foremost crime families. Years ago, he’d told Venus about the blindings himself, during one of their little ‘chats’.

  ‘So, Brian sends his best and says when all this is over he’d really like to come out to your place on the river again one day. He’s told me all about it. Sounds lovely. But he can’t help you with your boy,’ she said. ‘If he hears something, though, he will let you know, he said. He’ll do anything to help. Not that he mixes with them type of people.’

  In spite of himself, Venus smiled. Brian Green had indoctrinated her well. Not all the previous Mrs Greens had been so unaware.

  ‘Please do tell Mr Green that I appreciate it,’ Venus said.

  ‘I will. My Brian’s very worried about your boy, Mr Venus. He likes him. And all Brian’s mates are worried too. So much crime these days. All these foreigners about.’

  She left.

  Venus watched his staff follow her with their eyes as she walked out of the station. He wondered how many of them knew or suspected who she was, or thought he was having an affair with her. For himself, Venus was just cold at the thought of how close he’d been with Green and wondered h
ow many old lags around Brian knew about Harry. He told himself it was unavoidable. He’d had to speak to Brian Green when Harry had been taken. Green could have taken him. Green had sent his new wife, unannounced, possibly to humiliate him. But Venus could say nothing and Brian Green could do anything.

  7

  ‘Imran Ullah is overweight and yes, spotty too,’ Mumtaz said.

  Lee nodded. ‘That describes the kid I saw going into the electrical shop.’

  ‘He has an older brother who looks like a Bollywood star. Drives a flashy car, wears a lot of gold chains . . .’

  ‘Drug dealer?’

  She just smiled.

  ‘But if this kid’s part of a private mail service for lonely hearts, why didn’t I see him go into the address? I saw him go into the electrical shop. Now if you can access that doorway from the electrical shop . . .’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mumtaz said. ‘But Lee, you have to understand that if people are using this address to conduct affairs, anyone connected to that doorway will deny that they have any involvement with it. Mr Bhatti who owns the electrical shop and who is, according to my source, involved, will be the loudest denier. He is a pillar of the community. The survival of his business is entirely down to his good name.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Can’t you tell me anything about why you are interested in this address?’

  ‘No. I wish I could. What I can tell you is that it’s not about an affair. It’s actually about packages delivered to that address. That’s all I can say. Look, if I did tell you, would you be able to get these men to talk to me?’

  ‘Me? No,’ she said. ‘My dad or my brothers maybe, but it would have to be serious, Lee. I mean, really, as serious as it gets. Mr Bhatti is a rogue, he’s making a lot of money from the misery of others.’

  ‘So why doesn’t the community blow the whistle on him then?’

  ‘What? Those who are using his service? Or those who get discounts at his shop?’ She shook her head. ‘Lee, the Asian world runs just like the white British world. You scratch my back, I will scratch yours, and outsiders can do their own thing provided they don’t affect us. And anyway, if this thing is so serious, what about the police? Bhatti would talk to them. He’s a coward.’