The Cover Up Read online

  He reached out. Grabbed her gently by the neck and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ she said. ‘I don’t like that.’ She batted his hand away, shivering involuntarily. Coughing painfully.

  ‘Catch me if you can!’ Bob darted back into the maize, disappearing within one or two long strides.

  Gloria was alone again. Perhaps. Turning on her heel, she scanned the tall stalks. No sign of any other explorers this early in the morning. No sign of Bob, though she sensed him studying her every move, nevertheless, from behind the wall of leaves.

  Checking her watch, she was dismayed to see that the time had passed more quickly than she had anticipated. Ideally, she should have left an hour or so ago to make her meeting with Sheila and the letting agent in central Manchester. Why, oh why had she allowed Bob to talk her into this spontaneous lunacy?

  They had met outside their usual airport hotel at 8 a.m. Given it had been the first time she’d seen him since being discharged from hospital, she’d anticipated a morning of lascivious doings between the poly-cotton sheets. But Bob had had other ideas and an air of mischief about him.

  ‘Why would I want to trek round a maze with you, Robert? I’ve got business to attend to.’

  He had seemed evasive in his response, trotting out ‘Because’ several times before he had resorted to, ‘It’s dead romantic.’

  Torn between wanting to put her orthopaedic-shoe-clad foot down and not wanting to alienate a man who seemed to be falling in love with her, she had agreed reluctantly. Hours later, she was lost beneath Cumbria’s rain-heavy grey skies, swamped by dank-smelling crops past their best.

  ‘Oh, Gloriaaaa!’ Bob’s voice rang out from somewhere to her left. A few paces up ahead.

  She jogged towards him – or so she thought. A hand thrust out from the stalks on her right and Bob snatched her in amongst the maize.

  ‘C’mere!’ he said, encircling her waist with a strong arm and dragging her further into the thicket.

  ‘Get off me!’ she shouted, pushing him away.

  ‘I want you. Like this. In here.’ He reached for her again but Gloria didn’t feel comfortable. What the tight skin of his face kept secret, his eyes revealed in terrifying detail. Bob had a bloodthirsty look to him that set her internal alarm blaring. She was not about to offer herself as easy meat to this suddenly carnivorous man.

  Sprinting along the corridor cut into the tall maize, she determined to get away from him and get back to her car at all costs. Perhaps once they got out of that claustrophobic hell-hole, he might calm down. Panting, she listened to the rustle as he dashed alongside her through the crop. He dived out in front of her, blocking her path.

  ‘Here’s Bobby!’

  ‘What are you doing, for heaven’s sake? Stop it, Robert!’

  Doubling back, she ducked down another path. Pounding the ground beneath her, her handbag felt cumbersome, jostling against her hip as she ran. Her chest screamed in complaint.

  ‘Oh, Gloriaaaaa!’ His call travelled across the leafy tops to find her. Where had it been coming from?

  Running, running, Gloria was barely able to catch her breath, feeling the burn of lactic acid in her legs and the thump of her heart against her ribs. Coughing. Coughing up blackened sputum still. She came to an abrupt halt. Listening. But all she was able to hear was the sound of the dried foliage crackling on the wind. The odd, giant cob that had been overlooked during harvest, swaying above her like jack-in-the-boxes, nodding; tipping her the wink that Bob was lying in wait, ready to snatch her and put his hand around her throat again. Was it some kind of kinky foreplay? Or were his intentions sinister?

  After a wait of some minutes where Gloria tiptoed in the general direction she had guessed the exit lay, she heard a phone ringing some way off. Hearing Bob’s voice, indistinct and serious-sounding on the breeze, she checked her own phone. No bars. Her network had no signal here. Darn it! What was Bob saying and to whom was he talking? Was he talking about her? She was certain she had heard him say, ‘Gloria’.

  All fell silent. Perhaps an hour passed since the call. Maybe longer. Despite shouting at the top of her voice in that vast field of rustling maize, Gloria could not be heard. She was trapped. She had missed her meeting with Sheila and the letting agent. Nobody knew where she was. More to the point, she had no idea where Bob might be.

  Chapter 32

  Sheila

  ‘I thought you were never coming,’ Tariq said, pulling the covers back for her. He patted the sheet. ‘Let’s have red-hot sex in the middle of the afternoon.’

  Feeling her instantly ignited desire burn away the grime and the greasy cold of the city, Sheila undressed slowly and provocatively, dropping her garments to the floor one by one. Enjoying the grin on her lover’s face as she theatrically twisted and turned in some silent approximation of a striptease. ‘You’re a naughty boy, Mr Khan. You’ve got a sad widow very, very wet.’ She flicked a fingernail over one of her erect nipples. Traced her index finger downwards to stroke her pussy provocatively. ‘What have you got for me?’

  Tariq revealed his nakedness, all taut abs and trim, muscular thighs. He was already aroused. ‘I really need you, Sheila. I really need this. I’m so stressed about Dad. It’s the only thing keeping me going.’

  With the sinuous movements of a stalking wild cat, she mounted the bed. Put her finger on his lips. ‘Shhhh.’ Kissed him gently. Kissed him harder. Straddled him and rubbed the heat of her body along his, feeling him hard against the inside of her thigh. ‘Come on, then. Screw me. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  She felt him slide inside her, thrusting upwards. The thrill of the knowledge that she was cheating on Conky made her arousal all the more intense. It was wrong. It was dirty. And that was precisely why it was terrific. Gripping her upper thighs for balance, she bounced up and down on him, savouring his hands on her breasts, and the sight of their coupling reflected in the full-length cheval mirror. Just what the doctor ordered. At that moment, despite all the trials and tribulations of her professional life, Sheila felt like a woman in her prime. Wise. Wicked. Sexy as hell. She had forgotten all about her burgeoning wrinkles, the sagging of her neck, her droopy tits and the split veins that had begun to appear around her nose and on her cheeks.

  ‘Faster. I’m gonna come,’ she said.

  But the build-up of intense pleasure and urgency was interrupted by Tariq’s phone reverberating its way across the bedside table.

  ‘Ignore it,’ she said, trying to focus on the task in hand.

  ‘I thought I’d put it on silent,’ Tariq said, rolling her onto her back and stretching his arm out to retrieve the phone.

  ‘Leave it, for Christ’s sake! I’m nearly there.’

  He squinted at the screen, bringing it closer to his face. Baulking visibly when he saw who had messaged him.

  ‘Anjum! Oh no.’ Still inside Sheila, he pulled his glasses on, propped himself on his elbows and balanced the phone on her sternum. ‘Dad’s been spotted in the day centre, safe and well, she says.’ He grinned. Withdrew his fast-deflating manhood. ‘Oh, man. Thank you. Thank you, God. I don’t believe it.’ He looked at Sheila, his eyes shining as if they were backlit by pure joy. A flurry of tickly beard as he kissed Sheila on the lips. ‘I’m going to have to go. I’m so sorry. I’ve got to get back up to Cheetham as quickly as possible before the old bugger decides to go walkabout again.’

  Five minutes later and with her lover gone, Sheila lay in the emperor-sized bed staring up at the gold curtains. She rolled over to revel in the heady scent of Tariq’s lingering aftershave on the pillow, hugging it to her; surprised by the plethora of emotions that, all at once, supplanted her simple mid-afternoon lust. She raised her knee to feel the place on the sheet that was still warm from his body. Felt tears prickle at the backs of her eyes. Her period was only six days late. And at her age, she was well aware it could merely be the dreaded onset of perimenopause, screwing with her cycle. And yet …

  ‘You�
��re such a silly bitch, Sheila O’Brien. You and your sodding hormones. Why are you doing this?’

  Wiping her rogue tears away on the counterpane, Sheila pushed the spectre of a possible pregnancy out of her mind and started to dress. She was the Queen. Once a victim, she was now one of life’s winners, on her own terms. She was in control!

  But taking her phone out, she saw that there was still no news from Gloria or Lev. Felt her shoulders stiffen up at the prospect of that SIM card still being out there, somewhere. Not so in control, after all.

  Dialling Lev’s number, he picked up straight away.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I told you, Sheila. I think the coppers must have it.’

  ‘So get it.’ She examined her red nail extensions, flicking one off in temper.

  ‘Look. I need that money,’ Lev said. ‘My ex burned my boy with a ciggy. It was a threat. She’s playing dirty. She says she’s gonna get social services on my back.’

  ‘And that’s my problem because …’

  ‘Come on, now! I did what you asked. It wasn’t in the fire station. I can’t exactly walk into the cop shop and nick something the size of a one-pence piece without getting collared. I wouldn’t even know where to look. It could be anywhere. Manchester’s a big place. Lots of criminals. Lots of cop shops.’

  Sheila sat down heavily on one of the burgundy plush armchairs, rolling her eyes at the tall windows. ‘Ellis James will have it. He’s the one who’s got a stiffy for the O’Briens and the Boddlingtons. Maureen Kaplan and my Paddy made a tit of him. I thought I’d get different treatment once Paddy died, but … James is not daft and his reputation’s riding on bringing the whole shebang down. And if he’s got my SIM, it’ll have gone to HQ.’ She exhaled heavily. Felt suddenly nauseous. Morning sickness?! Maybe it was just the power of suggestion. She’d read about that in a Vogue article about losing weight. ‘Listen, I’ll speak to my man on the inside. If it’s there, he’ll be able to lay his hands on it. But I can’t be seen with him. I need you to be the go-between. You get it from him and give to me. Then, we’ll talk about your money.’

  On the other end of the phone, Lev paused. Sheila could hear the sound of tiny children chattering and screaming with delight. The whine of swings moving backwards and forwards, she imagined. He was in the park with his son. Could she do another round of broken nights and playgrounds? On her own? Or maybe a second chance with Tariq. Could she wake up next to him every day for the rest of her life? She didn’t know the first thing about Tariq Khan as a person. Not really. Was it conceivable that she could bear a healthy child in her mid-forties and continue to be a successful businesswoman? A crime boss with a crib. Can it, She! That’s crazy talk. Tariq would want a slice of your action, anyway. Men are all the same. Controlling wankers. And you’re just late because you’re bloody well over the hill.

  Finally, Lev spoke. ‘I want ten thou up front, or I’m telling Conky about you and Tariq. I mean it, Sheila. I’ve got to get my kid away from his shitbag of a Mam. I can’t do that unless I can pay a top-notch solicitor. Have a heart. She’s using him as an ashtray to get to me! What kind of a dad does that make me, if I can’t keep my baby out of danger? I need to get a fresh start, away from all this. I’ve had enough.’

  Aware that she could merely have Lev discreetly killed, rather than pay out or risk Conky discovering her treacherous tryst with the Boddlington boss, Sheila decided she was better than that. She wanted to be everything Paddy wasn’t. Lucid, savvy, borderline-ethical. ‘Go on then. I’ll drop it round later. But I want you to get this done today. I’m gonna phone my bent copper now and set it up. Between yous, I want that SIM card back in my hands before midnight tonight. Right?’ Strangely, she felt a lump in her throat yet again. Jesus. What was wrong with her? She tried to keep the sorrow out of her voice. ‘Do yourself a favour, Lev.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get yourself a proper bloody babysitter with childcare credentials, you dozy arse!’

  ‘But I can’t let anyone know where I’m at, in case Fish Man finds out, can I?’

  ‘Think it through! And tell your Mam I’m not very happy with her. She’ll know why.’

  Dumbfounded by Lev’s stupidity, Sheila made the call to her man on the inside of the force, who reported that Ellis James had been walking around with a grin on his face for several days. Not good. But her contact did, at least, sound confident that he could gain access to the evidence room. If the SIM was there, he’d find it. Money always made the impossible possible.

  As she took the lift down to the lobby, calculating whether she could walk in her heels to the car park where she had left the Rolls or whether she’d have to take a cab, her mind was everywhere but on her immediate surroundings. She barely noticed the glorious, oversized flower arrangement on a table, in the centre of the checkerboard marble floor. She paid no heed to the drab Mancunian daylight that leeched through the giant glazed lanterns, set into the ceiling. She absolutely did not notice Conky until he strode up to her – a phalanx of black – and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  Startled, Sheila let out a squeak. ‘Christ on a bike!’

  ‘Sheila,’ Conky said, a half-smile on his lips, though with those shades on, she had no way of knowing if the smile reached his eyes. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

  Chapter 33

  Youssuf

  ‘Look. You have to stop worrying,’ Youssuf had said, patting Colin on the arm. ‘Nobody will recognise you in that outfit.’

  He had surveyed his handiwork. A quick foray to his distant cousin Ahmed’s in Southall had ensured that Colin Chang had been able to travel incognito. Provided nobody had been looking carefully, the middle-aged Chinese pharmacist could have easily been mistaken for any Asian man of pensionable age. Heavy woollen overcoat on top of a beige salwar kameez – long tunic; baggy trousers. Thick woollen socks. Leather sandals. All topped off with a flat brown Pashtun hat. His cousin had even given him an old pair of half-framed tortoiseshell glasses with scratched but handily weak lenses. The transformation had been convincing enough to persuade Colin to board the Virgin West Coast Pendolino train from Euston to Manchester – a celebratory upgrade from the crippling coach journey on the way down that had wrought havoc with Youssuf’s aching bones and weak bladder. Youssuf had been more than happy to blow the last of his pilfered cash from Anjum’s just-in-case-cash-tin on that.

  Colin had dabbed at his clean-shaven upper lip with a large white handkerchief, visibly sweating, though the Manchester Piccadilly concourse had been freezing cold and draughty as they had woven their way through the late-morning crowds. ‘I hope you’re right about this. I do really, really want my old life back.’ His eyes had been everywhere, perhaps expecting every face to be an unsavoury type from his recent past. ‘But now I’m here, this feels silly. Anyone could spot me.’

  ‘Slow down!’ Youssuf had said, tapping Colin between the shoulder blades with his walking stick. Wheezing slightly as he had tried to keep pace with the younger man. ‘Nobody will be looking for you after all these months. And even if they are, they’re looking for Colin Chang and a young Chinese girl called Mae Ling, escaped from a gangster’s cannabis farm. They’re not looking for two old Asian men. You follow?’

  They had descended the escalator to the tram station in silence, listening to the nasal tannoy announcements of delayed journeys to Huddersfield and Manchester Airport. Wrong leaves on the line. Wrong drizzle in the air. Malfunctioning heating. Please keep an eye out for unattended baggage.

  ‘We want the tram to Bury,’ Youssuf had said, shepherding his charge towards the platform with a wave of his stick. He had allowed Colin to carry the Disney rucksack for him, feeling the fatigue from his adventures in earnest after nights away from home, sleeping first in an unfamiliar bed in a budget hotel and then on a lumpy guest bed mattress in Ahmed’s cramped terrace. ‘In my heart, I feel thirty again,’ he had said, checking in his wallet for his pensioner’s travel pass. ‘But my body …? I’ll be paying the
price for this for weeks with sore feet and an aching back.’

  ‘You will?’ Colin had said. ‘I might be paying the price for this with my life.’

  ‘Oh, stop being melodramatic. You sound like my son! Look, it’s going to be easy. We get to the day centre – I’m among friends there. Nobody’s going to give us any bother, and we’ll be in time for lunch.’ The thought of sitting in the massage chair in the sun-room, enjoying a plate of hot pakoras and samosas followed by a nice helping of dhal, had momentarily seemed to banish the chill from the air. What tales he had imagined regaling his friends with! Though clearly, he would never be able to give them the full story. Merely that he, Youssuf Khan, had absconded on a road trip to London. Alone! Those were the actions of a hero for a man of his age. ‘Then, we go to the rendezvous point and just sit tight for Ellis James to come and meet us. He told me on the phone he’d picked a safe place to take our statements.’

  But Colin had been so jumpy that Youssuf had started to worry that he would attract the wrong kind of attention to them. Every time a passenger had joined the ranks of sombre-faced travellers, waiting patiently on the platform for their onward connection, Colin had covered the lower part of his face with his hand. Had looked down at his borrowed sandals, two sizes too big. Had started nagging in a high-pitched, stringy voice that this fellow over there had looked like Degsy; that that scraggy-looking girl over here had looked like Maggie.

  ‘Ya-allah! Will you keep calm? Please! We’ve come all this way to do very important work. Your soul depends on it. Your conscience demands it.’

  On that journey to Cheetham, Youssuf had sat in silence, peering out of the window as the hustle and bustle of Piccadilly Gardens and Victoria Station had given way to the litter-strewn sidings of Collyhurst, punctuated only by 1970s tower blocks where the poor white trash lived. This had given way in turn to Abraham Moss – an area Youssuf had always felt more comfortable with and where he had spent some of his earliest years in Manchester, scratching a living in the garment factories of Strangeways, whilst living in a damp, run-down house with two other recently arrived Pakistani families on the Cheetham/Crumpsall border. Decades on, Youssuf contemplated how he had progressed, mainly thanks to his son’s efforts, from those humble beginnings in a cold, damp new homeland, to the easy life in Boddlington Park.