Nick Oldham: Critical Threat

Being twice divorced himself, hung out to dry by two ex-wives who still hovered like vultures around his thin assets, also waiting to pounce on his pension, Daley was bitter and twisted and knew what he was talking about. By doing the job he did, he was taking a kind of perverted revenge on his wives, both of whom had humiliated him with their affairs, then gone for his cash.

He didn’t usually get involved with Asians because he thought they were far too complicated. He much preferred good old-fashioned English working-class infidelity — cheap hotels and the back seats of cars — because it was usually pretty straightforward. Asians were bad news — having played a significant part in his downfall in the cops — and more often than not they sorted out their own dirty washing, anyway. He did not get much business from that side of the community, so he’d been surprised to be approached for a job and he had taken it only because he saw it was one he could stretch out and milk; and because, having warned the client that it would take time and money — 250 per day plus travel, accommodation and any other reasonable expenses (a figure he had pulled out of the ether and hoped he’d kept a straight face) — the client did not flinch.

On the face of it, it was a fairly simple job: locate and trace.

‘We had a very big argument and I said things I wish I hadn’t,’ the client blubbered through tears which Daley was certain were false. But it was a good act. ‘She left me. I am devastated and deeply saddened.’ Although he had a hankie to mop his cheeks, Daley wasn’t convinced by the display.

‘If an adult doesn’t want to be found or doesn’t want to return home, it’s their choice,’ Daley explained to the man who had introduced himself as Mansur Rashid. ‘And anyway, I thought you lot had inner lines of communication, a bit like a black grape vine?’

A slight shadow crossed Rashid’s eyes when Daley had said ‘you lot’ — but it was gone in a flash. ‘I’ve tried to find her, but there are millions of Asians in this country and no, we do not have a “black grapevine” as you suggest. I have been searching for her for six months and you are my last hope.’ He looked forlornly at Daley, his saviour.

‘Finding folk is my bread and butter,’ Daley said. ‘I do it well. But, y’know’ — his head shook — ‘this one would mean me getting my hands dirty with Asians — no offence intended, mate.’ He pulled himself up sharply with a cough of embarrassment. He’d had numerous courses on race relations whilst in the police and none of the learning had ever gone in, even at the time. ‘So it’d be quite a hard thing for me, being white an’ all that, but I’m sure I could do it.’ It was at that point he’d invented his new daily rate, fully expecting Rashid to back off and scuttle away.

He didn’t. Rashid simply said, ‘I want my wife back. I want to restart our marriage.’

‘I’ll need a thousand up front — and there’s lots of questions I’ll need to ask you about your wife.’

‘That is fine.’ Rashid pulled a buff envelope out of his inner jacket pocket and from it eased out a thick wedge of bank notes, making Eddie Daley’s eyes pop open. Rashid counted out the money in twenties.

Daley counted also, his lips moving almost soundlessly — ‘Twenty … forty … sixty …’ — until Rashid raised his head and pushed the neat pile across the table, sliding the envelope back into his jacket. Instinctively Daley’s hand slapped down on the money and virtually snatched it from under Rashid’s nose before he had a chance to change his mind.

Daley walked slowly past the Spanish restaurant, inhaling the aroma of garlic, seeing someone tucking into a plateful of seafood paella, both of which made his stomach turn. Personally, he couldn’t abide continental food. He was a pie and chips kind of guy — as evidenced by his increasingly rounded figure — and garlic in particular made him want to vomit. Still, each to their own, he thought.

The place was heaving, inside and out, even so early in the evening. Daley noticed that most of the customers — well, a fair few of them — had a swarthy look about them. Not many pasty white English folks digging into greasy, olive oil-laden dishes, he thought proudly.

He passed within a few feet of his target. She, and her companions, did not even glance in his direction. Which was good, how it should be. A follower should simply blend into the background.

Daley’s piggy eyes lingered for a few moments on Sabera, but not too long. He’d been tailing her for a few days and liked what he saw. A real dusky maiden with long, lustrous black hair, dark brown, shining eyes and a beautiful face attached to a slender, well-proportioned body by a smooth, long neck. He could understand why Rashid wanted her back. Daley imagined she would be considered to be a bit of a trophy wife within the Asian community. At the same time he could see why she wouldn’t want to come back to boring Blackburn, stick a veil over her head and hide her face for the rest of her life.

From what Daley had seen, she had a much freer, more enjoyable life here in London.

He shrugged mentally as he passed the restaurant, took his eyes off Sabera and veered across the concourse to an Italian restaurant at which he could sit outside and keep tabs on her. It wasn’t his problem, he thought, as he settled his bulk into a metallic-backed chair and ordered a straight coffee — none of that frothy shit — and a brandy. His job was to find her and report back, even though, strangely for him, he felt a little uncomfortable in doing so.

Something to do with Rashid. Something seedy about the guy.

Still, not his problem. It was husband and wife business. He just had his job to do, sod any other issues.

His drinks arrived. The coffee was an Americano and he winced at its strength, but it tasted good, had a real kick, especially with four sachets of brown sugar tipped into it. Just what he needed to get himself going after such an arduous assignment.

He chuckled. As if!

He took out the crumpled photo of Sabera that Rashid had given him, flattened out the creases and looked at it. He’d been working on the case for five days, which meant he’d earned an extra?250 plus expenses on top of the grand up front. He’d get at least another day out of it because he intended to let it drag on past midnight. On top of that he intended to claim a success fee for finding her — say,?200? He was sure Rashid would be able to afford that.

Five days of hard graft. Digging, travelling, overnight stops, questioning people, making diligent enquiries. Eating expensive — English — meals.

At least, that is what he would be telling Mr Rashid, and producing all the receipts if necessary, even if he had to forge them on his computer.

Truth was, Daley had found Sabera on the second day without actually setting foot out of Blackburn.

So easy. Telephone, combined with the Internet. Wonderful tools for an investigator.

By simply using the information furnished by Rashid, doing a bit of lateral thinking, digging through a few archives, trying to put himself in Sabera’s shoes — she was ambitious, a doctor, had friends from university and med school; that and going off the odd snippet of gossip Rashid had related, mainly that Sabera had always wanted to live in London, Daley had locked on to her.

It was the medical thing that was the main drive, that and that she would probably be using her unmarried name of Ismat. Countless hours of trawling through Internet sites for doctors’ surgeries and health centres was where Daley began and ended his search.

It had been hellishly boring, sitting at the computer with a beer in one hand and his lady friend either perched on a knee or occasionally kneeling in front of him.