Last Request Read online

  About the Author

  Born in Scotland, made in Bradford sums up LIZ MISTRY’s life. Over thirty years ago she moved from a small village in West Lothian to Yorkshire to get her teaching degree. Once here, Liz fell in love with three things; curries, the rich cultural diversity of the city … and her Indian husband (not necessarily in this order). Now thirty years, three children, two cats (Winky and Scumpy) and a huge extended family later, Liz uses her experiences of living and working in the inner city to flavour her writing. Her gritty crime fiction police procedural novels set in Bradford embrace the city she describes as ‘Warm, Rich and Fearless’, whilst exploring the darkness that lurks beneath.

  Having struggled with severe clinical depression and anxiety for many years, Liz often includes mental health themes in her writing. She credits the MA in Creative Writing she took at Leeds Trinity University with helping her find a way of using her writing to navigate her ongoing mental health struggles. Being a debut novelist in her fifties was something Liz had only dreamed of and she counts herself lucky, whilst pinching herself regularly to make sure it’s all real.

  You can contact liz via her website https://www.lizmistry.com/

  Readers Love Last Request

  ‘I devoured this over two nights, literally not being able to put it down’

  ‘Amazing … A story so twisted it makes your head spin in a good way’

  ‘An excellent crime thriller … Entertaining and exciting and a particularly satisfying finale … Engrossing’

  ‘Gripping from beginning to end, and I enjoyed each and every moment of it!’

  ‘From the first page to the last it kept you gripped’

  ‘Great read!’

  ‘A cracking good read’

  Last Request

  LIZ MISTRY

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Liz Mistry 2019

  Liz Mistry asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008358341

  Version: 2019-09-13

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Readers Love Last Request

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue: 1983

  Monday 15th October 2018

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Tuesday 23rd October

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Wednesday 24th October

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Thursday 25th October

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Friday 26th October

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Epilogue: Three Weeks Later

  Acknowledgements

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  To my family, for all that you do and all that you are.

  Prologue

  1983

  Her hand, scaly and trembling, reaches out. The flash of shocking-pink nail varnish that I’d applied with painstaking care whilst she’d been sleeping is incongruous against her yellowy skin. The stench of death hangs heavy around her, as if she’s rotting from the inside out. I take her hand, careful not to grip too tightly. Every worm-like sinew, every frail tendon, every arid vein a braille pattern against my palm. Still, she flinches, the pain flashing in her milky eyes. A sheen of sweat dapples her forehead. Her nightdress is soaked with perspiration that mingles with fetid pus and piss, creating a cacophony of odours that make me want to retch. Her pink scalp shines through matted hair. Her cheekbones, jutting against paper-thin skin, bear raw scabs.

  The room is dire – stinking and filthy. I should clean it, but I don’t know how. That was never one of my jobs – cleaning up, keeping things neat, tidy. That had always been her job. Her eyes look heavy. Soon, once the morphine kicks in, she’ll doze off. The dim light from the bedside lamp illuminates the layer of dust that covers the cabinet top. We don’t use the main light anymore. It hurts her eyes. With the curtains drawn against the outside world, we are cocooned in this hell hole together … slowly disintegrating … decomposing like two worthless corpses thrown on an unlit pyre.

  The carpet’s gross. I’ve spilled more piss on there than has made it into the bedpan and that’s not mentioning the stains where she’s thrown up. No matter how much Dettol I use the overwhelming stink of vomit still hangs in the air.

  When she drifts off into an uneasy sleep, I switch the television on. Casting anxious glances her way, I wait. Today’s the day. The court hearing. It’s like the entire country is on tenterhooks waiting for the verdict. I’ve tried telling myself I’m imagining things – the looks, the surreptitious glances, the whispers every time I go to the shops – each one a piqueristic experience of both pleasure and pain. Each one grounding me in the reality of what he’s done to us. Deep down I know that everyone – the postman, Mr Anand at the corner shop, Mrs Roberts two doors down – everyone in the entire fucking wo rld is waiting, holding on to their bated breath, with the heightened anticipation of an illicit orgasm.

  They barely noticed me before this. Now it’s as if, in the absence of my mother’s presence, I’ve been thrust into minor celebrity status, my every move scrutinised. At least the paparazzi have slung their hooks, for now. Not before Mum had to face them though. When the story first hit the news, she was forced to run the gauntlet, her head hung in shame, her eyes swollen and red, her gait unsteady. It took its toll. Well, that and the shit that he’d infected her with. It all combined to drag her down, drain her.

  The recording I’ve seen so many times, the standard one they played on endless repeat when the shit first hit the fan, flits across the screen. He looks so suave, sophisticated. All spruced up in his suit, beard trimmed, sleazy smile playing around his lips. Like he’d done nothing. Like none of this was his fault.

  I daren’t put the volume up so I flick to subtitles …

  ‘Three more students under the care of Professor Graham Earnshaw have come forward, with accusations of rape. This brings the total number of victims to fifteen. Professor Earnshaw’s solicitor still maintains his client is not guilty and as the trial enters its fifth day, the court heard how Professor Earnshaw is alleged to have infected not only his wife, but four of his victims, three male and one female, with the HIV virus. It looks like this case could run into its second week, if not longer.’

  The camera flicks to the front of Leeds Court and after a quick glance to make sure Mum is still asleep, I pull forward to hear what the Dean of Social Sciences is about to say about my father.

  ‘… and the department has responded to student concerns as quickly as possible. We are doing our best to support our …’

  A groan from the bed and I press the remote. The screen goes dark and I look round. She’s holding her hand up in front of her, a slight smile tugs her thin lips into a toothless grimace. ‘Thank you. I like pink, always have.’

  I lean over, tuck the sheets around her emaciated frame, ignoring the wafts of decay that hit my nostrils. Her frail hand grips my arm and I pause, turning my head towards her. ‘What, Mum? What is it?’

  Her smile widens, and I try not to flinch at the bloody cracks at the corner of her mouth and the gaps inside. She nods once and swallows. I go to lift the half-filled glass from the bedside table but she shakes her head – a painful movement that pulls a frown across her forehead. When she speaks her voice is low and raw. ‘Promise me.’

  I lean closer, hardly able to hear her words.

  ‘My last request – you’ve got to promise that you’ll do it. Live your dream. Do everything you always planned to do before this.’

  Her hand gestures towards the TV. She saw it. I haven’t been quick enough.

  I bow my head and promise her. I’d promise her anything right now, but still, I keep my fingers crossed. I curse my carelessness but there’s no point, for when I glance back her eyes are closed. She is on her final journey and, as if on cue, my entire body responds to the smash of a train hurtling through my core, pummelling me to the ground and, as she gasps her last breath, I cower on the floor hugging my knees tight to my chest. My heart shatters into a jigsaw of fragments that can’t ever reconnect; a sense of relief coddles me like a woollen blanket and guilt and anger swamp me.

  *

  Days pass with those whose slurs had previously scorched us, now offering platitudes. Each false word drips like acid, as I take in the detritus that is my life from here on in, and all the time her last request plays in my mind like an annoying jingle.

  There’s nothing else for it. I’ll have to do something about that.

  Monday 15th October

  2018

  Chapter 1

  Dour rain pummelled the cobbles that ran between the two rows of houses on Willowfield Terrace, making them sleek and dangerous underfoot. Except for the oppressive, grey clouds that promised more of the same, the alleyway was deserted. The air hung heavy, waiting to embrace the latest drama involving the Parekh women as Detective Sergeant Nikita Parekh flung open the back door and stormed out. Anger emanating from her every pore, she flew down the steps into the yard and out the gate, followed by her daughter. Leather jacket flying loose, she ignored the spatter of mucky water that her trainers kicked up the back of her jeans. With a plastic bag looped over one wrist, she raked her waist-length hair back into a ponytail and slipped a scrunchie round it. She was on a mission and nothing would deter her.

  ‘Mum … Mum! Wait up.’ Charlie, a foot taller than her mum, ran behind, hitching her schoolbag onto her shoulder. Unlike her mum, she tried to avoid the puddles created by the worn cobbles.

  But Nikki was already pushing open the back gate of the neighbouring house and striding up the steps. Using her fist, she brayed briefly on the door before turning the handle and pushing it open, not waiting for a reply. Entering the kitchen, she glanced at the hijabed woman cooking a fry-up in a huge frying pan on the cooker. ‘Where’s Haqib?’

  The woman puffed her cheeks out in a ‘what’s he done now?’ expression and, shaking her head, pointed her spatula towards the kitchen door. ‘Front room.’

  Stopping only to grab a bite from a piece of buttered toast on a plate on the worksurface, Nikki marched out of the kitchen, through the small hallway and into the living room. The room was in semi-darkness, with just the light from an Ikea tabletop lamp and the TV illuminating the area. She went straight over to the large bay window and swished the curtains open, allowing the scant light from outside to penetrate.

  ‘Oi!’ All angles, acne and attitude, Haqib, slouched on a bright red leather sofa, TV blaring, remote control in his hand, bare feet balanced on top of a glass-topped coffee table. ‘What d’ya think you’re doin’? Can’t see the telly, can I?’

  Nikki turned with her hands on hips, and glared at him, the spark in her eyes forcing him to back down.

  Charlie panted into the room, the knot on the top of her head wobbling as if it might fall off, her cheeks spattered with raindrops. ‘Mum, if you’d just hang on a minute.’

  Nikki extended her hand, one index finger raised to her daughter, just like her own mother had always done, ‘Chup kar.’ She rounded the bulky couch and positioned herself right in front of the TV.

  Charlie folded her arms under her boobs, one hip extended towards her mum, pure sulk dripping from her pursed lips.

  Haqib bobbed his head, first to one side and then to the other, trying to see the TV, his tone a little less confrontational this time. ‘Can’t see.’

  Nikki bent over and swiped his feet off the table.

  ‘Hey.’ He glanced from his aunt to his cousin, his hands splayed before him. ‘What’s up? What’ve I done now? You can’t just come in and do that, you know?’

  Nikki snorted before tipping the contents of the plastic bag she was carrying onto the table where Haqib’s feet had been. Haqib stopped, mouth open. If Nikki had been in a better mood she’d have laughed, but right now she was fuming. Really fuming. Haqib’s eyes moved from his aunt’s stern face to the bags filled with multicoloured pills, then up to Charlie. The pills with their smiley faces, love hearts and winky eyes incensed Nikki. Over the past few months she’d seen umpteen cases of kids in the city taking E and landing themselves in Bradford Royal Infirmary. This new batch was potent – three deaths and a brain damaged kid testified to that. It made Nikki’s piss boil. She snatched the remote from her nephew and switched off the racket that boomed from the speakers. ‘Spill!’

  Haqib clipped his mouth shut, then opened it, before once more closing it like a minnow about to get swallowed by a shark. That analogy appealed to Nikki. All she wanted to do was to swallow the lad up, chew him till he squealed and spit him out.

  ‘I … erm, I …’ He looked at Charlie as if expecting her to bail him out.

  Nikki moved closer, breathing heavily, her anger exuding from every pore. ‘You selling MDMA to my 14-year-old, are you? Got a death wish, have you?’ Another ste p and Haqib was trying to mould his body into the leather couch.

  ‘You all right in there?’ Nikki’s sister, Anika, called from the kitchen.

  Nikki glowered at Haqib. ‘You’d better start spilling before your mum comes through.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Mum.’ Charlie, her face perfectly made up, eyeliner on point and her school skirt too damn short, flounced forward and flung herself onto the sofa beside Haqib, sliding her schoolbag round till it rested on her lap. ‘If you’d give me half a chance to explain. Haqib didn’t sell me it.’

  Nikki glared at the lad, eyebrows raised. ‘You gave them to her? You gave your 14-year-old cousin E? That’s no better. In fact, that’s bloody worse.’

  He ran the back of his hand across his nose and glanced at Charlie. ‘I didn’t. I wouldn’t – she …’ He glanced at Charlie and shrugged.

  Charlie elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Tell her then – you might as well …’

  Head bowed, looking like a 2-year-old in trouble for stealing the Easter eggs, he mumbled something.

  ‘What?’ Nikki’s voice was sharp. She’d thought Haqib knew better than to bring drugs of any sort near her family, near her home or even onto the damn estate. What the hell had he been thinking?

  Clearing his throat, Haqib tried again. ‘She’ – he jerked his thumb towards Charlie – ‘confiscated it.’

  ‘You what?’ Nikki looked at her eldest daughter who was all sulky indignation and ‘I told you so’.

  ‘What? So, you thought I’d buy Es? I’m not a loser, you know!’

  Nikki grinned and scooped the bags up. Charlie wasn’t a loser. Definitely not. Nearing the sofa, she leaned over and kissed the top of her daughter’s top-knot head. ‘No, you’re not.’ She leaned over further and cuffed Haqib’s head. ‘You, on the other hand, will be, if you don’t stop with the damn drugs. Now I’ve got to bail you out, yet again. Not good enough, Haqib – not fucking good enough.’

  She could just about put up with the weed that was rife on the estate – turn a blind eye and all that – but this? Once this shit got a grip on the estate it’d spread like wildfire bringing with it crime and violence and despair. She’d seen it all before on other Bradford estates and she was buggered if she’d allow it on hers. But what was she to do about Haqib? She was tempted to turn the little scrote in – let him see what it would be like – but deep down she knew she couldn’t do that to her family or to this runt of a boy.