Last Request. Liz Mistry
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down. There was nothing else for it, he’d have to go to Parekh – cut some sort of deal. What with Franco involving Parekh’s nephew, Deano hoped she’d be only too willing to back him against the psycho. He shuddered, his back prickled as if a million pairs of eyes were scouring it. How the hell could he get to her without Franco finding out?
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