Dead Wrong (8 page)

I wasn’t getting anywhere. She tried to close the door again.

‘Has someone been threatening you?’ I asked gently. ‘If anyone’s put you under any pressure not to talk I’d be expected to notify the police.’ Not strictly true but it certainly rang bells for Sonia Siddiq.

She swallowed and stood back. ‘No, nobody has. It’s just so horrible, like you say.’

The lounge was at the end of the small hallway. It was dominated by several intricately designed rugs on both the walls and the floor, and by a large white leather couch and matching armchairs. An old-fashioned elaborately carved sideboard was covered in silver-framed photographs, candelabra and statuettes. One corner of the room held the consumer durables; CD midi system, video and television.

The armchair crackled under me. Mrs Siddiq perched on one end of the sofa. She was slightly built, which added to the impression of youth. She wore shalwar kameez in a soft caramel colour with silver threads around the borders. Her hair was shoulder-length; silver globe earrings hung bright in her ears.

I asked her to tell me everything she could remember from New Year’s Eve.

‘We were going home, we’d been in the club. We’d parked in a side street round the back.’

‘Who was driving?’

I wanted to establish whether the Siddiqs had been sober that evening, how reliable they were as witnesses.

She looked puzzled. ‘I was.’ But she didn’t sound very certain.

‘Had you had anything to drink?’

‘I don’t drink.’

I nodded.

‘As we came round the corner, there were these two lads arguing and one of them, he had a knife.’

‘You could see the knife?’

‘Yes, it was quite big. And the other one kicks out and the lad with the knife screams like he’s hurt, and then he swings the knife up and they both fall over.’ She was disturbed by her recitation; her fingers knotting round themselves, her words breathy.

‘What happened then?’

‘Excuse me.’ She rooted in the sideboard and found what she was looking for, a book of matches, a cigarette.

‘Rashid doesn’t like me to smoke,’ she shrugged her shoulders, ‘although he smokes all the time.’ She dragged on the cigarette as if she’d suck all the tobacco out, pulling the smoke in deep and holding her breath before releasing it through her nose. I could recall from my own distant past the gloriously dizzying effect of the nicotine as it charged round the system, the buzzing at the back of the neck, the satisfying hit on the throat.

She took another drag.

‘We went home.’ She spoke with smoke in her lungs.

I stared at her.

She exhaled. ‘It’s shameful, I know. We were…I was frightened to get involved. They were drunk, there was a knife, anything could have happened.’

Anything did. Ahktar died.

‘You didn’t ring for an ambulance?’

‘I wish I could say different.’ She lowered her voice, ‘Rashid said someone else would get an ambulance or call the police. I think maybe the shock…’ She broke off. There could be no justification.

‘But you did contact the police?’

‘The next day, the day after. We heard that he’d died and—’

‘Ahktar?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you know him?’ I asked.

She stared at me. ‘No, no.’ She shook her head emphatically. ‘I didn’t know him. We never knew him.’

‘I thought perhaps from the club…?’

‘No, I’m sure. Neither of us knew him.’ She was rattled. Understandable. Bad enough to walk on by while someone bleeds to death; even worse to think you might have known them.

‘How did you hear?’ I asked her.

‘Sorry?’

‘About the death. There weren’t any papers on New Year’s Day.’

She paused. ‘The radio, there was something on the radio.’

‘OK. So you went to the police on New Year’s Day?’

‘Yes.’ She took another long drag on the cigarette. ‘We told them what we’d seen and they arranged an identity parade.’

‘And you both picked the same suspect?’

‘Yes.’

‘Had you seen him before?’

‘No, only that night.’

They’d been very reluctant to get involved. So reluctant that they didn’t even phone for an ambulance or alert the security staff at the club, but the next day they were contacting the police like model citizens. ‘What made you go to the police?’

She shrugged. ‘We’d seen what happened. We felt obliged…’ She tasted filter and grimaced, ground out the cigarette in a large glass ashtray. ‘Is there anything else?’ She tried to be dismissive but there was no conviction behind the phrase.

‘Just a few points,’ I said. ‘What time did you get to the club?’

‘About ten o’clock.’

Luke and friends had gone early knowing it would sell out.

‘Did you meet friends?’

She looked perplexed. ‘No.’

‘Just the two of you?’ I sounded surprised.

‘Yes, just the two of us.’

‘And you didn’t bump into anybody by chance, no acquaintances, friends?’

‘No,’ she insisted. ‘It’s not somewhere we usually go; we don’t know those people.’

‘So why were you there?’

‘I don’t see what this has to do with anything.’ She stood up ‘I’ve helped you all I can, now please…’

‘You didn’t drink. Did Rashid?’

‘A little.’ She shook her head impatiently.

‘I’d like to see Mr Siddiq,’ I said, ‘when’s a good time to catch him?’

‘Why?’ She looked appalled.

‘To hear his version of events.’

‘It’s the same as mine,’ she said urgently.

‘There are always differences in what people notice, what they remember.’

Unless they’re rehearsing a story.

‘We identified the same man,’ she said, ‘we both saw what he did. The police believe us. You’d better go.’

‘OK. Thank you for your time. When can I call on Mr Siddiq?’

‘I don’t know, he’s very busy.’

‘Where does he work? I could call in, perhaps?’

She hesitated. She was behaving like a suspect, not a witness. What the hell was going on? ‘Or I could come back here one evening?’ She paled.

‘Is there something wrong?’

‘No. No,’ she blinked. ‘He’s just…very busy.’

I smiled. ‘It shouldn’t take too long. Where does he work?’

I could see her trying to decide whether she should tell me. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?’ I pushed her.

‘No.’ She gave a little laugh, brittle. ‘Just he’s busy, you know.’ She gave up. ‘The Asian Cash and Carry on Upper Brook Street.’

‘Thank you.’

She was quiet as she saw me out. Muttered goodbye at the door. If the prosecution were going to use her as a witness she’d need plenty of coaching. I’d found her responses puzzling, veering from guilt to indignation.

Why was she so anxious about my intention to interview her husband? What was she so frightened of? Him? What he might say? What also intrigued me was that some of the seemingly innocuous questions about the evening itself had riled her as much as those about the murder and their inhumane response. Questions about why they were there, who’d driven and who they’d met. Now why would those upset her so?

It would be interesting to see if Rashid Siddiq was as defensive as his wife had been.

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.’