Dead Wrong

Chapter Ten

I’d no doubt that Mrs Siddiq would alert her husband to my interest, and the longer I left it the more time they would have to confer. I was 99 per cent sure that she’d been lying to me, but I still ran through other explanations for her manner; guilt at not reporting the attack, previous unpleasant dealings with the police, or maybe emotional problems that had nothing to do with the case itself. Had I just caught her on a bad day? She’d certainly been mercurial, her reactions running the gamut from hostility to anxiety.

The Cash and Carry was built with security in mind rather than any aesthetic consideration. It was a large metal cube in a compound of wire netting topped with savage barbed wire. Stanchions sported cameras and lights. The car park was almost full; traders were busy loading crates and drums into vans and cars.

I went in through the automatic doors and surveyed the warehouse. The huge space was divided into aisles by metal shelving which stretched up towards the ceiling. The place was illuminated by harsh strip lighting which gave everything a washed-out look. It smelt of damp cardboard. A sign pointed the way to an empty enquiries desk placed in front of two long prefabricated sections with frosted windows and doors which I took to be the offices.

I rang the bell on the counter and after a few moments a young man in a brown suit appeared from the nearest door. I asked for Mr Siddiq and passed over my card. He went back into the prefab and I watched his shadow disappear from view. When he returned he told me that Mr Siddiq was busy in a meeting. This I translated as: ‘Mr Siddiq is in and he’s told me to get rid of you.’

‘Will he be long?’ I asked.

The guy’s face darkened with embarrassment. ‘He didn’t say.’

‘I could wait?’

‘No,’ he coughed. ‘It’d be better if you made an appointment.’

‘Can I do that now?’

He looked even more uncomfortable. ‘You need to see Mr Siddiq? Try ringing.’

‘OK,’ I said, ‘can you tell me his official title?’ Apparently not, from the blank look on his face. ‘What does he do here?’ I prompted.

‘He’s one of the bosses. He sorts out the deliveries, transfers, transport, that sort of thing…and he’s in charge of security.’ He paused, trying to remember if he’d missed anything.

‘And who owns the business.’

He shrugged.

‘Well, who’s in charge?’

‘Mr Khan.’

‘Thanks.’

It took ten minutes for a man I presumed to be Rashid Siddiq to leave the building and climb into one of the cars park in reserved bays off to my left. I angled my rear mirror until I could see him in it.

I’d found sunglasses and a baseball hat in the car and put these on just in case Siddiq had taken a peek at me while I’d grilled his employee. I pretended to study an A-Z, head down while my eyes locked onto the mirror.

I watched as he punched numbers into a mobile phone. I’d a fair idea who he was ringing. From the look on his face and the way he hit the steering wheel with his clenched fist I don’t think he liked what he heard.

Mr Siddiq finished his call then started his car up and reversed out of his space. I followed, allowing a couple of cars to come between us. He skirted town along Great Ancoats Street, past the old Daily Express building with its glass and Art Deco façade. I was old enough to remember seeing the papers rolling off the presses there – like something out of Citizen Kane. Down past the CIS building, famed for its height rather than its beauty, and over the bridge to the bottom of Cheetham Hill Road. He stopped partway up in a car park adjacent to a large clothing wholesalers.

It was a brilliant building, or had been in its heyday, like a Georgian country house standing foursquare, with pillars around the front entrance and broad steps down to the street. There were huge windows on both storeys, a real liability for this inner city spot. They were covered with sheets of metal, grilles and wood, no two alike and daubed with graffiti.

There was a petrol station conveniently placed opposite. I’d time to check my tyres and top up with petrol. I bought a plain Bounty bar and a small bottle of water with a hint of lemon. Well, I meant to get a hint of lemon but I ended up with a peach one which tasted like liquid pot-pourri.

Huge signs on the front of the building told me it was J.K. Imports and proclaimed International Labels, All Discount Stock, Best Deals in Town and Trade Only. I could hardly go in and browse then. And he showed no sign of coming out. I concluded that Mr. Siddiq was probably now back doing business having spoken to his wife. Luke Wallace had mentioned that the Khan brothers had a place up Cheetham Hill. This was probably it. J.K. – Janghir Khan. I could sit and stare at the building all afternoon and learn nothing.

Time to go.

I dropped off the film that had the pictures of the stalker for same-day processing on my way to the office.

From there I rang Ahktar’s father, Dr L. P. L. Khan. ‘Dr Khan?’

‘Yes, speaking.’

I told him who I was, what I wanted. I asked to see him. There was a long pause.

‘I will be at home tomorrow between half past ten and eleven o’clock,’ he said.

‘And Mrs Khan?’

‘Mrs Khan is visiting her family in Pakistan. She will be away until September.’

‘Right. I’ll see you at half past ten then. Thank you.’

The phone rang as soon as I put it down. I hate that. It startled me and sent shivers of shock up my arms. ‘Hello?’

‘Sal, Rebecca Henderson here. Debbie Gosforth tells me there have been some problems with the surveillance.’

Oh, great. ‘Just one,’ I defended myself. ‘We assumed he had no car so I was all prepared to tail him on foot, but he was using a car. Parked round the corner.’

‘You got the number?’

‘Only partial.’

Silence. If I was paying a solicitor, there’d be endless delays and hiccups to put up with, but turn the tables and I’m expected to produce instant results.

‘Listen, I know we said we didn’t need twenty-four hour cover,’ Rebecca resumed finally, ‘but if you don’t feel you can give this one the time…’

‘Hang on,’ I interrupted, ‘am I missing something here? I’ve been over there twice as soon as she’s called. The first time he’d already gone when I arrived and the second time he’s driving, which we knew nothing about. I’ve also advised her to get on to the phone company and fix up a new number or go ex-directory. She knows she can ring me anytime, as soon as he shows.’

‘Have you met her brother?’

‘Eh? No. Why?’

‘I’ve had him on the phone ranting about how little we’re doing. He says Debbie is scared to leave the house, that the threats are escalating and that she thinks you’re only going through the motions, can’t wait to get away.’

‘That’s not true,’ I objected. I thought back to my visits. ‘The first time she called me it was getting dark. I came out, no problem. I even offered to see her at the house when we knew the stalker had gone but she put me off, she was worried it would wake one of the children.’ I was getting riled. ‘The second time when he drove off I did go back to the house to tell her. I offered to come in for a few minutes, asked if there was anything else she wanted me to do.’

‘Hmmm.’ Rebecca gave a non-committal grunt. ‘And you told her she was being paranoid locking the doors when she was in the house on her own?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ I exploded. ‘I don’t know where all this has come from, but I’m doing the job you hired me to do. Now if she’s got problems with me or wants someone else then fine, I’ll send you an invoice but there is no question of shoddy work. Maybe she needs a bodyguard as well.’

‘I think the brother’s limbering up for that. I’m sorry, Sal, it sounds as if there’s some manipulation going on here. I thought it didn’t sound like you but I had to ask. Stay with it for now,’ she decided, ‘if you’re prepared to, and I’ll get in touch with her and explain exactly what we are hiring you to do. I’ll put it in writing too so there’s no mistake. I’ll point out the other things she can do like the ex-directory stuff. Let me know if you meet any resistance.’

I agreed to carry on but came off the phone smarting, not least because I’d failed to pick up on any hint of hostility from Debbie Gosforth. Her complaints were an unexpected slap in the face. I wished that she had given me some indication of her concerns about my work. I suffer from an acute sense of justice and fair-play, and I was outraged that I’d not had a chance to answer Debbie’s accusations before she’d run off to Rebecca with them, or to this brother. I knew I’d have to put things in perspective before I saw her again, but meanwhile I needed to work off some of the useless indignation that was fizzing round my bloodstream.

I called home for my swimsuit and towel and cycled down to the baths in Withington. After twenty lengths I’d mentally barracked Debbie Gosforth, and Rebecca Henderson for listening to her. I’d caught the stalker and been rewarded with huge sums of money and I’d even had a go at Dermott Pitt for his patronising attitude.

The next twenty lengths I used for more positive fantasies. The sun came in through the glass roof and sparkled and dappled the water. I dreamt of swimming in warm seas, of hot sands underfoot and sudden nightfall. As I showered I decided it was time to make holiday plans, something to look forward to. I wasn’t going to get any big rewards no matter what results I got for my clients. There’d be no flights to sun kissed islands dotted with olive groves for Maddie and me. Camping, more like. Somewhere green and damp like Anglesey or the Lleyn Peninsula. Where dry nights or sunny days would be cause for celebration. Kagool territory. It would do. It would have to.