Last Request. Liz Mistry
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14
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