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.
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
