Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘How’s it going?’ said Shepherd.

Salik’s brother stood up. He was wearing a pale blue suit and a white shirt with a flowery tie.

‘You already know my name,’ said Shepherd. ‘Don’t you think it’s time I was told who I’m dealing with?’

‘I suppose you are right,’ Salik said. ‘I am Salik. My brother is Matiur.’ Matiur nodded at Shepherd.

‘The drive from Dover was okay?’ asked Salik.

‘Traffic wasn’t great, but I made it.’

Salik took out his mobile phone and placed it on the table. It was a new Motorola.

‘How do you find it?’ asked Shepherd, indicating the phone and placing his own Nokia in front of him. ‘I’ve always used Nokias.’

‘Very reliable,’ said Salik.

Matiur put his phone on the table too, another Motorola. ‘We have a supplier who gets them in bulk from Hungary,’ he said. ‘We can get you one, if you want. Nokia is a good brand but a phone is a phone. They are all the same.’

Shepherd smiled and nodded, although his phone was not an ordinary mobile: if it was working properly Hargrove and Singh should be listening to every word of the conversation and, hopefully, recording it.

‘You like Indian food?’ asked Salik.

‘Sure. I’m a big fan of chicken tikka masala and a pint of Cobra,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s pretty much our national dish, these days, isn’t it?’

‘On the phone you said you were as British as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,’ said Salik, with a sly smile.

‘You’ve a good memory.’

‘I need it in my business. Let me tell you something, Tony. Chicken tikka masala is British. It was invented here. And Cobra is brewed in the UK. And I’ll tell you something you didn’t know, I’m sure. Every time you’ve had an Indian meal in London, the chances are it was cooked by a Bangladeshi.’

‘Yeah?’

‘We are great cooks,’ Salik went on. ‘We cook better Indian food than the Indians. Most Bangladeshis are Muslim, as are we, but they still have to work in restaurants where alcohol is served. We are an adaptable people, Tony. We have had to adapt to survive.’ A waiter hovered at Salik’s shoulder and he spoke to him in rapid Bengali. The waiter moved away. ‘I have ordered you a Kingfisher,’ Salik said. ‘It is more authentic, but only just.’

‘You don’t drink beer?’

‘Muslims don’t drink any alcohol,’ said Salik, emphatically.

‘I’ve seen Arabs in the West End knocking back champagne like there was no tomorrow,’ said Shepherd.

‘Then they were not Muslims,’ said Matiur. ‘Or not true Muslims.’

‘We have no problem with you partaking,’ said Salik, ‘but alcohol must not pass a true Muslim’s lips. And pork is forbidden, too. That’s why you will never see it in an Indian restaurant. The chef would rather die than prepare it.’

‘Do you know much about our country?’ asked Matiur.

‘It has the wettest climate in the world,’ said Shepherd, and the two Bangladeshis burst out laughing.

‘That is true,’ said Salik. ‘I am sure that when I was a child it rained every day.’

‘It is one of the reasons we love this country,’ said Matiur. ‘When it rains, it reminds us of home. And it rains a lot here.’

The waiter returned with Shepherd’s Kingfisher lager, which he poured into a frosted glass, then placed three glasses of iced water on the table. Salik and Matiur raised one each to toast Shepherd. ‘To our new friend,’ said Salik.

‘To a profitable relationship,’ said Matiur. ‘ Inshallah.’

Shepherd frowned. He knew what the phrase meant, but Tony Corke wouldn’t.

‘God willing,’ explained Salik.

Shepherd nodded. ‘ Inshallah,’ he repeated. He put down his lager, picked up his water glass, and clinked it against the brothers’. ‘ Inshallah,’ he said again.

The two brothers nodded approvingly and Shepherd knew he’d done the right thing in not accepting the toast with his lager. He sipped his iced water.

‘So, what else do you know about Bangladesh?’ asked Salik, as the waiter tried to hand them menus. He spoke briefly to the man, who hurried off. ‘The chef is an old friend. He will take care of us,’ Salik explained. ‘So, you think Bangladesh is part of India, don’t you? Everybody does.’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘It used to be part of Pakistan.’

Salik looked surprised. ‘You are right. We gained our independence in 1971 after a civil war. Bangladesh means “land of the Bengali people”. We should never have been part of Pakistan. Like the British taking over Northern Ireland.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘I’m not sure that’s the same thing,’ he said.

‘Oh, it is,’ said Salik, seriously. ‘You should read your history. The Irish are fighting for what we had to fight for thirty years ago.’

‘What about you?’ asked Shepherd. ‘When did you come to this country?’

‘I was three years old,’ said Salik. ‘My father came over just after I was born, in 1958, and he sent for me and my mother and my three siblings a few years later. He worked as a hotel porter and by the time he died he owned three hotels here in Bayswater and had twenty-four grandchildren.’

‘A good life,’ said Shepherd.

‘A good life, well lived,’ agreed Salik. ‘I should be as lucky as my father. Inshallah.’

‘You have a big family?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Four children,’ said Salik proudly. He took out his wallet and unfolded a flap to reveal small photographs of three boys and a girl, all neat in school uniforms, smiling at the camera with bright eyes.

‘Nice kids,’ said Shepherd.

‘And you, Tony? You have a family?’

‘Divorced,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s hard to keep a relationship when you’re at sea.’

‘My father spent three years in London while my mother stayed in Bangladesh,’ said Salik. ‘True love never dies.’

‘I guess my wife didn’t really love me,’ said Shepherd.

‘Children?’

‘A boy. I don’t see much of him. She moved up north with her new boyfriend.’

‘A boy needs his father,’ said Salik. ‘He needs his mother when he is a child but he needs his father to show him how to be a man.’

‘No argument there,’ said Shepherd. He picked up his glass and sipped his lager.

The first dishes arrived, along with an oval stainless-steel plate piled high with rice. ‘Ah, the chef’s speciality,’ said Salik. ‘ Aloo dom. Potato curry. The secret is in the yoghurt he adds. My own wife can’t cook aloo dom as well as he can.’

Another waiter appeared from the kitchen with a tray of more stainless-steel bowls. Salik pointed at each in turn as they were placed on the table.

‘ Doi begun,’ he said. ‘Aubergine in yoghurt. Kanchkolar dom, green banana curry.’ He pointed at another dish. ‘Now this one I doubt you’ll have had before. Shukta – it’s lauo with lentils. One of my favourites. Lauo is bottle gourd. Do you know it? Like melon, but not as sweet. It’s a difficult flavour to describe. Anyway, you fry cubes of lauo with mung beans, then simmer with ginger and turmeric, add peas and a sprinkling of coriander leaves.’ He smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘What the chef here does is to fry mustard seeds in hot oil, then add the cooked vegetables and bring them to the boil again. It’s one of his secrets but I bribed one of the waiters to tell me what he does.’ He laughed.

Matiur gestured at something else. ‘This is my favourite,’ he said. ‘ Reshmi kebab. Minced chicken kebab.’

A big Asian man appeared at the kitchen door, his face beaded with sweat. He was wearing grubby white baggy trousers, a white T-shirt and apron. A threadbare chef’s toque was perched at a jaunty angle on his head. He was holding a large oval tray and grinning broadly. ‘And here’s the man himself,’ said Salik. ‘My very good friend Nasram. Possibly the best chef in London.’