Brothers in Blood

Book 0: Zaq & Jags

by Amer Anwar

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

A Sikh girl on the run. A Muslim ex-con who has to find her. A whole heap of trouble.

Southall, West London. After being released from prison, Zaq Khan is lucky to land a dead-end job at a builders' yard. All he wants to do is keep his head down and put the past behind him.

But when Zaq is forced to search for his boss' runaway daughter, he quickly finds himself caught up in a deadly web of deception, murder and revenge.

With time running out and pressure mounting, can he find the missing girl before it's too late? And if he does, can he keep her—and himself—alive long enough to deal with the people who want them both dead?

Previously published as Western Fringes

Release date: September 6, 2018

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 448

Sample

Zaq had a bad feeling.

The most senior person he usually dealt with at the builders’ yard where he worked was the manager but this morning he’d been called in to see the owner, Mr Brar. That could only mean one thing: trouble.

The yard manager, Jatinder Singh Sidhu, known to everyone as Sid, had caught Zaq flicking through a newspaper before taking his deliveries out. ‘Thu haleh aythay uh?’ Sid had said in Punjabi.

‘I was just leaving.’

‘Brar sahib thenu balanda.’ A short, squat man with a thick black moustache, he might have looked athletic if it weren’t for the large pot belly straining the fabric of his polo shirt.

Zaq pushed the refugee crisis, the latest political scandal and the robbery at Heathrow airport from his mind and put the paper down. ‘What’s he want?’

‘Mehnu kee putha? Ja ke dekh la.’ Sid waved at the building behind him.

Zaq patted brick dust, plaster and wood chips from his clothing and headed inside through the warehouse, weaving his way between the high stacks of timber and building materials. Hindi music from the latest Bollywood blockbuster accompanied him as he tried to figure out what the boss wanted with him. He hadn’t been there long enough to be getting a raise and there wasn’t any scope for career advancement. Then a thought struck him – maybe he was about to get sacked? Shit… He hadn’t done anything to warrant it. As far as anyone knew, he worked hard, was good at his job and, unlike most of the guys that worked there, he spoke fluent English. But as the only Muslim in a company owned and run by Sikhs, he knew if anyone was going to get the boot, it’d be him. It didn’t even matter that he wasn’t religious; just having a Muslim name and coming from a Pakistani family would be reason enough – and that was before you even mentioned his criminal record. Shit.

He climbed the dingy stairs to the first-floor office and stopped outside the cheap wooden door. Mr Brar’s name was spelled out on it in bold black capitals on gold stickers. Sod it, he thought, if I get sacked, maybe I’ll find something better. His optimism faded as he remembered how hard it had been to land even this job. Five years inside and a record of violence weren’t the sort of qualifications employers were looking for and there was no shortage of people looking for work. He’d only got this job driving deliveries for Brar Building Supplies because a friend of his dad’s had put in a word.

He steeled himself and knocked on the door. Let’s just get it over with, he told himself.

‘Haah? Ajaa,’ a deep bass voice called out. Zaq opened the door and went in.

Mr Brar sat behind a huge mahogany desk. He was a heavyset man in his late fifties, with a barrel chest and wide shoulders. His calloused, shovel-sized hands had clearly seen a lot of manual labour. His coarse skin was molasses brown, and his broad face was nailed in place by dark, deep-set eyes, which regarded Zaq with little warmth despite the tooth-filled smile that split his face. The teeth and eyes reminded Zaq of a documentary he’d seen recently about sharks. Thick black hair smoothed back from a large forehead only added to the impression.

‘Zaqir,’ Mr Brar said, using Zaq’s given name. He gestured to a pair of cheap office chairs facing his desk. ‘Ah ke behja.’

Zaq took the seat on the right. He’d only been in the office once before, when he’d come about the job. It hadn’t changed in the six months since. It didn’t look as if it had changed much in the last few decades. It was done up like the set of a bad 1970s TV show. Some of the furniture might actually have been from the ’70s. A garishly patterned threadbare carpet lay dying on the floor, and the walls were covered with faded cream and brown striped paper, peeling at the edges. Brightly coloured religious images, intended to bestow blessings and good fortune on the business, looked down from the wall on the right. On the left, windows let in a dull grey light which did little to brighten the gloom. ‘You wanted to see me?’ Zaq said.

‘Haah, haah! How is everything?’

‘Fine.’

‘Your mum, dad? How are they?’ He didn’t really know them – it was just the sort of thing you asked.

‘They’re okay, thanks.’

‘The rest of your family? You have a brother, hena?’

That was one of the things about living in a tight-knit community like Southall: everyone knew everyone else, at least as far as the Asian community was concerned. Forget six degrees of separation, in Southall it was down to one or two.

‘He’s all right,’ Zaq said.

‘And how is the job? Okay?’

This had to be his way of working up to it. ‘Yeah, it’s fine.’

A momentary silence hung between them like a bad smell. A sound from behind made Zaq look over his shoulder. Two men he hadn’t noticed when he came in were sitting in the shadows against the back wall. They were bigger and bulkier than he was and were both staring right at him. There was something vaguely familiar about them…

‘You know my sons?’ Mr Brar said. ‘Parminder and Rajinder.’

‘No.’ He didn’t know them but it explained why they looked familiar. They were younger versions of their old man, with the same intimidating, shark-like presence. The Brar brothers had a reputation in and around Southall, and it wasn’t a good one.

Zaq gave them a nod. They gave the slightest of nods in return but said nothing. Zaq turned back to face Mr Brar. ‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’

The remnants of the smile faded from Mr Brar’s face. ‘Okay, Zaqir, I will come straight to the point.’

Zaq let out a slow breath and waited.

‘I want you to do something for me. I want you to find someone.’

It wasn’t what he had expected. ‘Who?’

Mr Brar’s face was as impassive as a block of stone. ‘My daughter.’

Zaq managed to contain his surprise. ‘If she’s missing, shouldn’t you tell the police?’

‘This is a family matter, not something for the police. She has just run away from home. All we want is to find her and bring her back – no police, no fuss.’

If word got round in the community that Mr Brar’s daughter had run away from home, it would be the subject of gossip for months, possibly years, and would never be forgotten. The family’s reputation would be tarnished for ever – if you bought into old-fashioned crap like that.

‘If it’s a family matter,’ Zaq said, ‘maybe you’d be better off having your boys look for her…’

‘I didn’t ask for your opinion.’ Mr Brar’s eyes bored into him, any pretence of friendliness now gone. ‘You are here to do what I tell you, and I’m telling you to find my daughter.’

‘What if I can’t?’

‘Then you will go back to prison. We will arrange it.’

It hit Zaq like a punch in the stomach. He felt short of breath, like his lungs were being squeezed.

‘Haah, now you have a good reason to make sure you find her.’

‘Arrange, how?’

Mr Brar shrugged. ‘A call to the police perhaps, to tell them you have been caught stealing from us.’

‘I haven’t, though.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Everyone here will say whatever I tell them to. If I tell them you have been stealing, then that is what they will say to the police.’

Zaq knew it was true. The staff were shit scared of the Brars.

‘And we will also say you attacked the staff when they caught you, beat them most viciously. The police will believe that, don’t you think?’

What Zaq was thinking was how much he’d like to dive across the desk and punch the old fuck in the face – and then he realised exactly why Parminder and Rajinder Brar were there. If he made any move towards their old man they’d be on him like a pair of rabid Rottweilers. ‘Why’re you doing this?’ he managed to rasp, his throat dry, a sick feeling taking hold of his stomach.

‘Because I want my daughter found quickly and quietly and I don’t want people to know what has happened. This way I can be sure you will keep your mouth shut and do whatever you have to do to find her.’

‘What if I just quit?’

Mr Brar gave him a cold smile. ‘There is no quit, bastard. You do what I’m telling you or you go back to prison… for another five years, maybe more this time.’

Zaq’s mind was spinning. He couldn’t see any other choice but to agree to what Mr Brar wanted. ‘How the hell am I supposed to find her?’ he said. ‘I don’t know anything about your daughter.’

Mr Brar signalled to his sons. One of them – Zaq wasn’t sure which – came over and handed his dad an envelope, then took up position standing just behind Zaq. It was like being back in the prison governor’s office with a guard hovering over him. Mr Brar took two items out of the envelope and looked at them, before placing one in front of Zaq.

‘This is Surinder,’ he said. ‘Everyone calls her Rita.’

Zaq was surprised to see a portrait shot of a very attractive girl, who bore absolutely no resemblance to the men in the office. Lucky for her.

Next to the photograph Mr Brar placed a hand-scrawled list, and tapped it with a meaty finger. ‘These are the names and numbers of some of her friends and workmates. We managed to find them from things in her room. Maybe one of them will have some idea where she is.’

Zaq looked up from the list. ‘Even if I manage to find her, how am I supposed to get her to come home? She don’t know me. She ain’t going to come with me.’

‘You don’t worry about that. You just find her and tell us where she is. We will sort out the rest.’

That didn’t sound like a good thing – but then, there was nothing good about any of it. It was bullshit, and if he didn’t do what they wanted they’d drown him in it. Zaq looked at the big blocky son-of-a-bitch sitting opposite him then glanced at the son-of-the-son-of-a-bitch looming over him. These guys didn’t believe in talking and negotiation; they got what they wanted with threats and intimidation. Whatever their reasons, Zaq didn’t see he had a choice. He looked at Mr Brar again, hoping it was all some big wind-up, that they would start laughing and tell him he ought to see the look on his face. But when he looked into the older man’s iron-black eyes, he saw he was serious as cancer. ‘When do you want me to start?’

‘Huun, right now. Ram will take the deliveries. This is your top priority.’

‘How am I supposed to get around?’

Mr Brar’s face clouded with annoyance. ‘You don’t have a car?’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Thu ja, aur Sid nu uthay bhej de.’ Zaq stood. ‘You will need these.’ Mr Brar pushed the photograph of Rita and the list of names and numbers towards him. Zaq slipped them into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘And Zaqir,’ Mr Brar said, ‘find her quickly. I am not a patient man.’

Zaq turned to leave and found his way blocked by the son who’d been standing over him. He could have moved a chair aside and slipped past or gone around the other way, but he did neither. He stayed where he was and returned the big lump’s stare, waiting for him to either let him pass or do something. It probably wasn’t the best idea to get into a punch-up with the boss’s son, but it sure as fuck might make him feel better.

Mr Brar tutted. ‘Rajinder, enu jaane de,’ he ordered.

Rajinder didn’t move. The muscles in his jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed as he stayed where he was for a few more seconds… then moved before his father had to tell him again. He turned his body slightly but not enough to allow Zaq to get past. It was a tactic used by bullies in the playground, and in prison too. Rather than nudge a chair out of the way to make more room, Zaq simply shouldered Rajinder aside. He felt the other man tense but was past him before he had time to react. Zaq’s senses were fully jacked up, alert for the slightest whisper of movement behind him, ready to turn and slug it out if he had to. He took a step, then another… but nothing happened.

Parminder Brar was still seated near the door, staring at him too. Zaq stared right back. If they wanted to intimidate him, they’d have to do a lot better. Zaq had learned the rules of this sort of game the hard way, but he’d learned them well. Faced with threats and intimidation, you never backed down. If you showed fear or weakness, your opponents would be all over you. It was the law of the jungle, a primal thing. In order to survive you had to confront anything like this head-on – and anyway, he was too angry to be scared.

Maybe Parminder sensed his mounting anger or read it in his face; either way, he broke eye contact first. He didn’t want to and was clearly pissed off that he had, but he was unsure about Zaq. They all knew what he’d been inside for and other stories would have done the rounds, some true, some not… but if they made shitheads like these think twice, Zaq didn’t care what the stories were or who believed them.

He went down the stairs, taking deep breaths and trying to keep his anger in check, rage bubbling away in his gut. They could’ve just asked him to find the girl – but no, they’d wanted to show their dominance, make it clear he had to do what they wanted. Arrogant fucks.

Bowling into Sid’s office, he found the yard manager sat behind his shabby desk reading a newspaper. ‘He wants you upstairs.’

Sid looked over the top of the paper. ‘Kohn?’

‘Who d’you think?’

Sid’s brows knitted in a frown. ‘Kyoh?’

‘How should I know? Why don’t you go and find out?’

Sid gave him an unpleasant look, then folded the paper on the desk and left to see the boss.

Zaq needed to calm down and clear his head, so he went out into the yard. On the way, he saw Ram sorting wooden flooring in the warehouse, in preparation for a new delivery coming in. ‘You’re going to be taking the deliveries out in the white van today.’

‘How come?’

‘I’ve got to do something else for that wanker upstairs.’

‘Who… Mr Brar? Okay, cool.’

Ram would be happy just to get out of the yard for the day. Someone else could sort out the flooring.

When Zaq had started work at the yard, he’d taken over from Ram as a delivery driver, which caused some friction between them. Things had blown over once it became clear Zaq hadn’t got the position out of any sort of favouritism, but simply because he could drive and navigate at the same time. The company was too cheap to fit sat-nav in its vehicles, so the drivers had to rely on their own phones or tatty old copies of the A–Z. Ram could drive but he had a terrible sense of direction and couldn’t read a map for shit.

Zaq strode out into the yard. Ram left what he’d been doing and followed him out.

‘Here,’ Zaq said, handing Ram the keys to the van. ‘You might as well take these now.’ Zaq took a breath of the crisp morning air, breathing in the scents of timber, sawdust and diesel. The whine of wood being cut and voices shouting in Punjabi came from the saw room.

‘Shits already gone out?’ Ram asked. He was talking about the other van driver, Bits. The guy’s family nickname was Bittu but he’d thought it sounded too childish and told everyone to call him Bits, reckoning it was more ‘street’. Unfortunately, Bits soon became Shits and, like shit, it had stuck.

‘Yeah.’ Zaq mimed holding a roach and taking a drag.

‘Ah, right.’ Ram understood the action: Bits had gone off to smoke a spliff.

‘Ay, kautha,’ came a shout. They turned and saw Sid coming towards them. ‘Yeh leh.’ The manager threw something to Zaq, which he instinctively caught and found was a set of keys. ‘Chauti van di eh,’ Sid said, pointing to a small Vauxhall Rascal van in the corner of the yard, a spare vehicle used now and again for running errands. It was dark blue and orange. Zaq knew it was blue because he’d once seen the colour under the dirt. The orange was rust. Light reflected off the bodywork at odd angles, from prangs and dents that had never been repaired. It was a piece of junk… but at least it was a set of wheels.

‘What you doing for him?’ Sid asked, his English mangled by his heavy Indian accent.

‘A special job.’

‘Haah, haah, bouthi special job howga. Blow job tha nahi?’ Sid leered at him. ‘Maybe you sucking his cock, huh?’

‘Nah, your missis is already taking care of that,’ Zaq said.

Ram tried not to laugh but couldn’t help himself.

‘Theri bhen dhi…’ Sid pulled back a fist as if to throw a punch. Zaq didn’t move. The manager stood poised for a second then let his arm fall to his side and forced a smile to show he could take a joke. ‘Chal, duffa hoja.’ He waved Zaq away, encouraging him to piss off and do whatever it was he had to do.

‘See you later,’ Zaq said to Ram, who was still laughing, and he walked over to the van. It took three tries to get the engine started. When it finally coughed to life, Zaq let it idle. His anger had cooled a little and he tried to think objectively about the situation he was in. If the Brars made good on their threats he’d be in deep shit. All he had to do was find this Rita, tell her fat fuck of a dad where she was, and that would be the end of it – only he knew it wouldn’t be. Once they had a hold over him, they wouldn’t let go. People like that never did. They’d have him do any dirty little job that came up and if the shit ever hit the fan – well, who the fuck was he? Nobody. They’d deny any knowledge of whatever he was doing for them and let him take the fall.

He might not have any choice but to do what they wanted now but once he was done with it, he’d tell them to stick their job. They could find another mug to push around.

Right, so, find this girl – but how the hell was he meant to do it? Where did he even start?

He pulled out the photo and took a good look at it. She was certainly a looker. There was nothing remotely shark-like about Rita Brar. Her skin was the colour of milky tea, smooth and unblemished. She had a small straight nose and her eyes were the amber of warm caramel. Her smile showed off perfect white teeth and full lips. The hair that framed her face was fashionably cut and coloured, not tied back in the braided plait more traditional parents made their daughters wear. She could easily have been mistaken for Mediterranean or South American, instead of Indian. She’d certainly been lucky not to inherit her father’s size or looks and must’ve taken after her mother. The photograph was only a head-and-shoulders shot and Zaq found himself wondering what the rest of her looked like.

He turned his attention to the list. The first name on it was Rita’s, along with her mobile number. He didn’t recognise any of the other names, so he took out his phone and tried calling her. No answer. Obvious, but he’d had to try. She was probably screening her calls, if she was still using the number at all.

Right, now what? The answer popped into his head. His phone still in his hand, he thumbed to his contacts, pressed ‘J’ and hit the first name on the screen to make the call.

‘All right, Zaq?’ a male voice answered.

‘What you doing? You at work?’

‘I’m working from home today.’

‘Can I come round? I need to talk to you about something.’

‘Ain’t you supposed to be working too?’

‘I am. I’ll tell you about it when I see you. Be there in about fifteen minutes. Oh, and Jags…’

‘What?’

‘Stick the kettle on.’

Zaq had been away for five years and though some things had changed, the sights, sounds and smells of Southall were essentially the same. The brightly coloured sari shops and glittering Indian jewellers were still there in all their spangly glory, even if some of the names had changed. Music shops and street stalls continued to blare out the latest Punjabi and Hindi hits. Indian restaurants and supermarkets did a roaring trade, filling the air with the pungent aromas of spices and real Indian cooking. He had changed much more than the streets he moved through.

He rattled along Southall Broadway, heading towards Hayes. Road layouts and traffic controls might have been improved while he was away but the congestion hadn’t. The chicanes for slowing down boy racers on the side streets had been replaced by batteries of speed bumps and now the roads were mostly one-way, alternately going towards the Broadway or away from it.

The slow grind of traffic had its plus points, though. When he was growing up, the Broadway had been the place to cruise, by car or on foot. Going nowhere fast meant you had plenty of time to chat to your mates, check out girls and generally show off and be seen. Weekends were good, but the summer holidays had always been the best time. It wasn’t quite the same now, on a cold and overcast Monday morning.

He crossed Hayes Bridge, heading west over the Grand Union Canal, still thinking about what had happened in Mr Brar’s office – and still pissed off about it. It was their sheer arrogance that really needled him; how they’d made their demands and enforced them with threats. Worse still, he was going to have to go along with what they wanted – at least for the time being.

He drove along Uxbridge Road and thought about how he was supposed to find Rita Brar. What the hell did he know about looking for a missing person? He wasn’t a bloody detective. What if he couldn’t find her? Would the Brars accept it and let him off the hook? Course they fucking wouldn’t. They’d shop him out of spite and simply because they could.

He turned off near Hayes police station, drove along some residential streets, and pulled up outside a small mid-terrace house. He got out of the van and walked past a sleek black BMW in the driveway, to the front door, where he rang the bell.

Jags opened the door. ‘Kidaah?’ he said and they shook hands.

Jagdev Kholi was Zaq’s best friend and had been since they were about nine years old. Although he was a Sikh, he’d never worn a turban or a topknot and his dark hair was styled in trendy disarray, his neatly trimmed, stubbly beard lending his appearance a slightly rough edge. He was almost the same height as Zaq, though a little slimmer in build. His eyes were dark brown, sharp and intelligent. Laughter made them twinkle but Zaq had seen anger turn them hard and sharp as black diamonds.

He followed Jags into the L-shaped, open-plan living area. The lounge was to the right, at the front of the house, with a large kitchen and dining area at the back, forming the base of the L. French doors to the garden added to the natural light that filled the bright and airy interior. Zaq took a seat at the dining table.

‘Kettle’s just boiled,’ Jags said. ‘You want tea or coffee?’

‘Tea.’

‘Sugar?’

‘Not any more.’

‘You used to.’

‘When I was about twelve.’

Jags brought their mugs over and set one down in front of Zaq. He took a seat opposite and pushed his laptop out of the way. ‘So, what’s up?’

Zaq took a breath. ‘You know Mr Brar?’ he said.

‘No. Should I?’

‘He owns the builders’ yard where I work. I just got dragged into his office and told to do something for him.’

‘It didn’t involve his dick and your mouth, did it?’

‘No, it fucking didn’t.’ Even though he’d been told to keep quiet about what he was doing, Zaq needed help and there was no one he trusted more than Jags. ‘I’ve got to find his daughter for him – and if I don’t, he’s threatening to have me banged up again.’

‘For what?’

‘Nicking stuff from the yard.’

‘You haven’t, though… have you?’

‘Course not. But he’s got a story all worked out, how I been taking stuff and when I got caught, I beat up the guys who found out.’

Jags shook his head. ‘That’s fucked up, man. What you going to do?’

‘What can I do? I got to try and find this girl… least until I figure something else out.’

‘Why don’t you just walk out?’

‘I was going to but they’d have called the cops there and then and had me busted.’

‘They?’

‘His boys were in the office too.’ Zaq saw the blank look on Jags’ face. ‘Parminder and Rajinder Brar.’

‘Oh, shit. I forgot you worked for their old man. Those guys are bad news. They ain’t joking about fucking you up. They’d do it.’

‘I worked that out myself.’

‘Damn…’

They drank their tea in silence for a while. Telling Jags hadn’t made Zaq feel much better about what was going on; anger was still burning a hole in him. He put his mug down. ‘Can I have the key to the garage?’

‘What for?’

‘I need to go and hit something.’

Zaq went out through the French doors into the garden and followed the path to the large brick-built double garage that took up the whole of the far end. He let himself in the side door, entering what Jags used as a home gym and storage area. Small windows near the ceiling allowed some daylight in but Zaq turned on the overhead fluorescents anyway. They flickered to life and lit up the collection of fitness equipment set up on the floor.

There were barbell and dumbbell weights and a couple of benches, as well as a treadmill, a rowing machine and an exercise bike. It wasn’t a bad little set-up. But what Zaq had come for was the punchbag hanging from one of the thick roof joists by a heavy-duty chain and suspended in front of a large mirror. He took off his sweatshirt and draped it on the treadmill, so he was just in his T-shirt, and got a set of boxing wraps from a shelf. He wound one round his left hand first, like a bandage, making sure it was nice and tight, then did the right.

He shook himself as loose as he could and began hitting the bag. Left, right. Left, left, right. He was light on his feet, bouncing, sticking and moving. Jab, jab, straight right, hook. The blows were easy to start with but as his thoughts returned to Mr Brar, they became harder and faster, until he was unloading everything he had into them, making the heavy bag bounce around on its chain.

When he finally stopped, he was panting and sweaty. He realised it had been ages since he’d last trained. He’d meant to keep it up but his resolve had weakened gradually until he’d stopped altogether. His workout now had managed to burn off some of the anger and frustration he’d carried from the builders’ yard and he felt better for it, calmer.

He took off the wraps, put on his sweatshirt, locked the garage and went back to the house.

‘Feeling better?’ Jags enquired.

‘Yeah.’ Zaq gave him back the keys.

‘Your tea’s gone cold.’

‘I need some water.’ He took his mug to the sink, emptied it, and filled it with cold water from the tap. He drank it down in one go, refilled it and sat back down at the table with Jags. ‘Right, where were we?’

‘You just got done telling me you’d been threatened,’ Jags said. ‘What’s the score with the daughter?’

‘She’s done a legger from home and no one knows where she is. He wants me to track her down.’

‘Why you? Ain’t like you’re Sherlock Holmes or anything.’

‘Says he wants it done quietly, without anyone finding out.’

‘I can believe that – desi family wanting to keep it all under wraps. So, what you going to do?’

Zaq shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You said it yourself, I ain’t no Sherlock Holmes. Where do I even start?’

‘They give you anything to go on?’

‘Not much.’ Zaq took out the photograph and the list and handed them to Jags.

‘All right, let’s see what we can do.’

Zaq smiled at Jags’ use of the word ‘we’. It was a small word but it carried a lot of weight. It meant Jags was going to help him, that they were in it together, just like the old days. It was also an affirmation of their friendship – and as Zaq knew only too well, sometimes your friends were all you had.

Jags looked at the photo. ‘Bloody hell, she’s well fit! What’s her name?’

‘Surinder. But everyone calls her Rita.’

‘That don’t narrow it down much. You know how many Asian girls are called Rita?’

‘Loads, but at least we got a picture.’

Jags turned his attention to the names and numbers. ‘This her number at the top?’

‘Yep. I tried it already but no answer.’

‘If she don’t want to be found, she’ll have ditched the phone and got a new one.’ Jags looked down the page, lips pursed in concentration. ‘Some of these names seem familiar.’

‘That’s cool…’

‘Don’t mean I actually know any of them, though. Like there’s a Ranjit Singh here. You know how many Ranjit Singhs there are in Southall and Hounslow? Be like searching for a gora called John Smith.’

Zaq took a breath and let it out slowly. ‘That list and the photo are all I’ve got.’

‘Sorry, man.’ Jags handed them back. ‘Wish I could be more help.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Zaq looked at the photo again and found himself studying Rita’s eyes… her nose… her mouth…

‘You’re checking her out too, ain’t you?’ Jags said. ‘Told you she was fit.’

‘Just having a proper look.’

‘Yeah, I’d like to have a proper look, all right.’

Zaq put the photograph face down on the table and took another look at the list. ‘There’s a number here says “work”.’

‘Where’s she work?’

‘I didn’t ask – had other stuff on my mind.’

‘So call the number and find out. We ain’t got nothing else to go on.’

He had a point. Zaq took out his phone and called the number.

‘Hello, Speedwright Logistics,’ a young-sounding woman said.

‘Could I speak to Rita Brar please?’

‘I’m sorry, she’s not here today. Can I help you with anything?’

‘No, I really need to speak to her.’

‘I’m handling some of Rita’s work while she’s away; I might be able to help.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Nina.’

‘Is she on holiday, Nina? Any idea when she’ll be back?’

‘I’m not sure, but if you need to discuss anything to do with her work, you can talk to me. What was the name, sir?’

‘Actually, it’s nothing to do with work. I’m a friend of hers and I really need to talk to her but I can’t get hold of her. You don’t know where she is, do you? It’s important.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t.’ Her voice had taken on a different tone: cautious, maybe even a little suspicious. ‘Who are you?’

Zaq considered a couple of lies but quickly discounted them. He had nothing to lose by telling her who he was. His name wouldn’t mean anything to her, or Rita either. ‘My name’s Zaq, Zaq Khan.’

Her voice took on an icy formality. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Khan, but all I can tell you is Rita’s away. If there’s nothing else I can help you with…’ She was getting ready to end the call.

‘There is something…’ he said. ‘Can you pass my number on to her?’

‘If you’re a friend of hers, wouldn’t she already have your number?’

‘I just got a new one,’ he lied.

She hesitated. ‘I don’t know when I’ll talk to her next.’

‘Well, whenever you do.’ He wasn’t sure she believed him but she took his number anyway. ‘Tell her to call me, please. It’s important.’ He waited in case she said anything else. She didn’t, so he thanked her and hung up.

‘Well…?’ Jags said.

‘She works at a place called Speedwright Logistics. I just talked to someone called Nina and I got a feeling she knows more than she’s letting on.’

‘That your female intuition?’

‘Nah, your mum’s. She’s letting me borrow hers.’

‘Up yours,’ Jags said, laughing. He opened his laptop and began typing.

Zaq studied the list again. ‘Hey, there’s a Nina on here, Nina Sanghar. I wonder if it was her I just spoke to. There’s a number for her as well.’

‘Here, check this out,’ Jags said. He turned the laptop so Zaq could see the screen. On it was the website of Speedwright Logistics, in their corporate colours of red, white and grey. The blurb proclaimed them the dog’s bollocks with all things logistical. Jags moved the cursor to the menu and clicked the Contact Us link. It opened another red, white and grey page, this time with an address. ‘It’s over near the airport. Half of Southall works round there. If we’re lucky, we might know someone there that can help us. Maybe this detective shit ain’t so hard after all.’

‘Don’t count your chickens just yet. We ain’t exactly found out much. Her old man probably knows where she works.’

‘It’s a start. We know more than we did when you got here.’

‘That’s true.’ Zaq stood up. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘Where you going?’

‘Speedwright Logistics. Might as well head over there, see if I can find out anything else.’

‘Without me? You think I’m going to sit around wondering if you’ve got yourself into any more trouble? I’m coming with you.’

‘You sure?’

‘Does a Singh like a drink?’

‘All right, come on then.’ Zaq welcomed the help – and the company. Hanging out with Jags would stop him brooding over what was going on. He slipped the photo and the list into his pocket.

‘I just need to set u. . .