‘Yeah, summat like that.’ She shrugged. ‘Deano’s back … and Franco. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it though.’
Anika nodded and went back to the fry-up she was cooking. ‘He’s trouble, that lad, but I’ve heard Franco’s worse. Sort it before it gets out of hand – like last time.’
Nikki munched the remains of the toast she’d started on her way in. She enjoyed spending time in her sister’s kitchen. It was homely. Filled with clutter and love. Kids’ schoolbags by the back door, shoes kicked off in a huddle next to them, well-tended plants on the windowsill, a series of sentimental ‘There’s No Place Like Home’ plaques and cutesy pictures of cats. Her own kids were always telling her to get some plants and put some pictures on the walls. Truth was, Nikki was as green-fingered as weed killer and the only plant that had been able to flourish in her home was the cactus Charlie had given her three Christmases ago. As for the sentimental crap? Well, that was so not Nikki. She liked things streamlined – no clutter. That way she knew if her space had been infiltrated. That way she felt safe and in control. As she watched her sister, something niggled at her. Something was different. When she realised what it was, she smiled but her heart sank. Why did Anika have to be so needy? ‘You can’t have it both ways, Anki.’
Anika frowned. ‘What you on about?’
Taking a sip of coffee, Nikki pointed at her sister’s head. ‘You can’t wear the hijab on one hand and fry bloody bacon and sausages on the other, now can you?’
Anika’s face broke into a grin. She flung her head back, laughter bubbling out of her like warm fuzzies on a winter’s day. ‘Just as well I’m not wearing it on my hand then, innit?’
Covering her sigh with a smile, Nikki nursed her coffee, observing the warm flush across her sister’s cheeks. Anika was happy … for now. ‘Take it Yousaf’s back an all.’
‘Aw don’t be like that. I love him. Maybe he’ll stay this time.’
Nikki wanted to shake her. Make her wise up. ‘You know he’ll never leave his Pakistani family. ‘Specially now he’s a “councillor”.’ Nikki made air quotes round the last word and crossed her eyes for effect, pleased that her silly actions seemed to have taken the sting out of her words when Anika laughed.
‘He loves me and he loves Haqib.’
Nikki groaned and stuffed more toast into her mouth, chewed, swallowed and then spoke. ‘Come on! When’s the last time he bought Haqib owt – or you for that matter? Yousaf’s a loser. You keep taking him back every time he turns up for a booty call and he’ll get you up the duff again and leave you. The likes of us – working-class, dual heritage and Hindu to boot – are not good enough for well-off businessmen-cum-councillors and especially not for married ones. He won’t leave her.’
Anika’s eyes welled up and Nikki could have kicked herself. Maybe sometimes she should just learn to shut her big mouth. She jumped to her feet and moved round to put her arms round her sister, hugging her tight. ‘I’m sorry. I know I’m bitter and twisted, but I just don’t want you getting hurt again.’
‘Not everyone’s like you know who, Nikki.’
Nikki sighed. Anika was right. Just because she’d had a bad experience didn’t mean Anika would. But the truth was Yousaf just was not good enough for her sister. She only had to convince Anika of that fact. The sisters hugged until, smelling something beginning to burn, Nikki wheeled round, turned off the cooker and yelled through the house, ‘Breakfast’s ready.’
Haqib and Charlie appeared from the living room as Nikki knocked on the wall that adjoined her house and yelled. ‘You two, Auntie Anika’s got breakfast ready. Shift it.’
Faint yells of, ‘I’m starving’ and ‘Hope it’s a fry-up’ filtered through the walls and within seconds, Nikita’s younger two children, dressed in school uniforms, faces all rosy and clean, ran into the kitchen and plonked themselves down at the table, grabbing their cutlery and looking like they’d never been fed in their lives. As Nikki grabbed another slice of toast, she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. Pulling it out, she saw it was a text from her boss, DCI Archie Hegley. She circled the table to drop kisses on each of the kids’ heads in turn. ‘Work. Gotta run. Be good and, Charlie, change into trousers. Your skirt’s too damn short.’
Driving down Legram’s Lane in her clapped-out Zafira, windscreen wipers going like the clappers, Nikki wondered if she had transferred her wellies from the pool car back to her own. She had a sinking feeling she hadn’t. Every so often a drop of water landed on her head and Nikki cursed. She really needed to get a new car, but the kids seemed to have an endless stream of requests for stuff that was never free. The car would have to wait. A new drip splatted on her head, rolled down her forehead and landed on her nose. She wiped it off with her sleeve. Maybe after she’d done her Inspector’s exam and got a promotion, she could treat herself to a car that didn’t leak – or maybe she’d have to repair the leaky tap in the bathroom and the thermostat on the central heating and double-glaze the kitchen window before its old wooden frame rotted and released the pane.
After taking a right at Thornton Road, Nikki joined the trail of commuters. A few hundred yards and she could already see the telltale police vehicles and crime scene vans. She abruptly took advantage of a gap in the traffic and bounced her car onto the opposite kerb. Ignoring the hoots from cars travelling in the opposite direction, she got out and turned her collar up against the rain. Typical! Weeks without a suspicious death and then you choose the day when it’s pissing down to reveal yourself. She jogged the last few hundred yards, hoping the crime scene tent would be up and she could get some shelter.
The Odeon building was all domed shapes and scaffolding. It dominated the landscape from City Park where it was situated next to the Alhambra. Work had recently begun on renovating the building with a view to making it a concert venue. Nikki hoped it would be a success. Bradford could do with the revenue a building like this could bring in. She had fond memories of visiting the cinema as a child with her mum and Anika and … but that was a thought for another day. She wasn’t going to go there.
The site behind the Odeon was a disused car park on Quebec Street facing a Cantonese restaurant that served the most delicious buffet Nikki had ever tasted and had occasional karaoke nights. Behind that was the Renault car dealership, outside which she’d parked her car. As she approached, she saw that the old car park and entry to Quebec Street was cordoned off with crime scene tape. Inside the taped area, a series of diggers and cement mixers had signed a deal with the weather to create a quagmire of khaki-coloured slime that looked as runny as slurry and smelled almost as bad.
‘There’s been a leakage,’ a drenched uniformed officer in a police-issue poncho informed her. Lowering his voice as if he feared a bevy of journos would appear in a puff of smoke to nab his quote, the officer added, ‘Sewage.’
You don’t say? Nikki took the proffered clipboard, signed herself into the crime scene and ducked under the tape. There were no stepping stones and the crime scene officers were busy, so Nikki took a moment to survey the area. Towering above the machinery, the green cupolas of the Odeon surrounded by its protective framework looked angry against the hovering rainclouds. Uniformed officers were dotted round the cordon, chatting to passers-by and drinking coffee from takeaway cups. The crime scene van, back doors open, had parked inside the cordon, as close as possible to the site. A few builders in yellow hats and T-shirts and high-vis tabards hovered near the edges. One of the men was talking to a figure in white that Nikki assumed to be Gracie Fells, the crime scene boss. She’d just decided that there was no option but for her to brave the swamp and join them when a hand on her shoulder made her jump. Shrugging it off, she swung round, a sharp retort on her lips. It was Detective Constable Sajid Malik. ‘Fuck’s sake. What you playing at?’
She glared up at the six-foot-two officer, who held his palms up in a placating gesture. Dark gelled hair was splattered across his forehead, with rain pouring