Dead Wrong - [62]

Siddiq’s sidekick shrieking; ‘You done wrong, man.’ The wrong man…wrong man. Zeb and Ahktar, side by side, by the dance floor, matching jackets. Not wrong man…the wrong man. And then I knew.

So tired. I ought to leave the house in Ayres Road but the effort of getting up seemed beyond me. In a minute, I promised myself. In a minute.

It took five. Before I left I dialled Ray. Told him I wouldn’t be long.

I put my face up to the sky, charcoal-grey now, and let the mist fall on my skin. My throat was raw from roaring at Ricky. I moved to the car but he caught me by the arm.

I turned, sudden anger flaring again. I was ready to shake him off. Tell him about the injunction, tell him about Chris McPherson. No longer frightened of the sad man in the old suit and his cruel infatuation.

I turned and Rashid Siddiq said, ‘We’ll take my car. There’s somebody wants to see you.’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

He kept my arm bent up behind my back to steer me towards a dark car, a Volvo, parked nearby. Of course, they wouldn’t just have the white van, they could use that to spook me but they had plenty of cars to choose from. It hadn’t even occurred to me; I’d only been looking for the transit. Stupid.

I debated whether to try getting out of his grip. The knowledge that he was in charge of security for Jay, that he had been used to send a little warning when required made me hesitate. I didn’t think my limited self-defence moves would be adequate to escape.

When we reached the car he clasped both my wrists together behind me in one of his huge hands and frisked me with the other. He removed my mobile phone, purse and personal alarm and pocketed them.

‘Hey,’ I started to protest.

Swiftly he grabbed my hair and slammed my face against the car. The wave of pain made me retch.

‘Shit.’ He moved back a little, freaked at the prospect of vomit on his shoes. My nose began to bleed; I couldn’t wipe it. He held onto my wrists and tied them together with what felt like nylon rope.

‘Quiet,’ he admonished in a whisper. ‘In the car.’

He opened the back door and steered me in. He sat beside me. Zeb Khan was at the wheel.

Neither man spoke. We drove north skirting Hulme where the infamous crescents had been demolished ready for rebuilding. Thirty years earlier the slum terraces had gone to make way for the shiny new walkways in the sky. Broken concrete, broken dreams. Cracked by poverty.

Siddiq used his own phone to make a call. ‘We’re on our way.’ Short and sweet.

We followed the diversions through town. Lights were rigged up to enable the crews to continue to clear the debris from the bomb and prepare for demolition. The Marks & Spencer building would go; there were rumours about the Corn Exchange and the Royal Assurance building. Surveyors were still assessing the structural safety of the Arndale Centre.

Blood dripped onto my coat. It pooled above my lip and I licked some of it away I did not allow myself to wonder where they were taking me or what they would do. I knew it would unmake me and I needed all my wit and wariness, every ounce of sense and intuition. Whenever my mind veered towards the questions, I blocked it.

On Cheetham Hill Road, Zeb took the car round the back of the J.K. Imports building opposite the petrol station, where I’d once trailed Siddiq. It felt like months ago.

We went into a compound fenced round with chain link. There were two Portakabins along one edge, illuminated by harsh security lights.

Siddiq escorted me from the car. Gripping the top of my arm, he pulled me towards one of the Portakabins. Zeb passed us, mounted the two wooden steps and knocked on the door.

‘Come in.’

We crowded into the room. The man behind the desk rose. ‘Miss Kilkenny, Jay Khan. Your nose is bleeding.’

‘Yes.’ I was surprised my voice still worked, ‘comes of having it slammed against a car.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Jay said. He spoke to Siddiq in what I guessed was Punjabi, then English. ‘Rashid, please, untie the lady.’ He turned back to me. ‘I’m afraid Rashid overreacts. There is no need for this, surely?’

My hands free, I rubbed my wrists where the cord had left deep grooves and then foraged in my pocket for a hanky. There was one in my jeans, back pocket. I pulled it out. Peter Pan, one of Maddie’s. No, oh no. I felt a swoon of dizziness. Caught myself.

‘I didn’t bring you here to hurt you,’ he said. His Mancunian accent was tinged with southern vowels as though he’d been spending time in London and acquiring new habits.

‘No?’ I wiped my nose, it throbbed horribly. ‘Why, then? Why did you bring me here?’

Zeb and Rashid had moved back and were leaning against the wall beside the door. Jay gestured at the table opposite his desk. It bore an architect’s model of a building.

‘Do you like it?’ he asked. ‘Expansion. We’re opening our new warehouse next year. Ski-wear, après-ski, surf and dive. Business is good.’

‘Which business is that then?’ I said it before I realised how dangerous it could be. ‘Looks good!’ I tried to cover my tracks.

He paused a moment, just to let me know. ‘We’ll keep on with the fashion side, the street wear, but this’ll open up a whole new market. And we can use both sides to get the ideas going. Kids in the club coming up with wacky new outfits, incorporate it into the leisure wear, turn it round and sell it back to them – aprèsski for the club.’