One Way Out

  ONE WAY OUT

  A. A. Dhand

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  Seventy-Six

  Seventy-Seven

  Seventy-Eight

  Seventy-Nine

  Eighty

  Eighty-One

  Eighty-Two

  Eighty-Three

  Eighty-Four

  Eighty-Five

  Eighty-Six

  Eighty-Seven

  Eighty-Eight

  Eighty-Nine

  Ninety

  Ninety-One

  Ninety-Two

  Ninety-Three

  Ninety-Four

  Ninety-Five

  Ninety-Six

  Ninety-Seven

  Ninety-Eight

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A. A. Dhand was raised in Bradford and spent his youth observing the city from behind the counter of a small convenience store. After qualifying as a pharmacist, he worked in London and travelled extensively before returning to Bradford to start his own business and begin writing. The history, diversity and darkness of the city have inspired his Harry Virdee novels.

  Also by A. A. Dhand

  STREETS OF DARKNESS

  GIRL ZERO

  CITY OF SINNERS

  For more information on A. A. Dhand and his books, see his website at www.aadhand.com

  For my boys, the true Dark Knights of my world.

  PROLOGUE

  The outdoor cinema screen in City Park cut out. The children’s movie went black. Most of the thousand-strong crowd didn’t notice, too busy playing in the fountains, a welcome respite from the sun’s inhospitable rays.

  Then a message started to flash on the screen, bold and threatening:

  IMMINENT SECURITY THREAT. LEAVE CITY PARK IMMEDIATELY.

  No ‘please’.

  No hint that this was optional.

  Confusion rippled through the park. People stared at one another, wondering if this was some sort of joke. The screeching of car tyres and the overhead roar from two helicopters answered their doubts.

  Police officers jumped from their cars with megaphones, screaming for the crowd to disperse. They did not enter the park but kept to the perimeter.

  At first, the shift was slow but the domino effect didn’t take long to come into play and the few became the many. Bodies jumped from the pool and ran, some barefoot, others holding their shoes. Parents grabbed their children as the stampede began. Bradford was under siege.

  ONE

  Ten minutes earlier.

  City park had never been so full, the people of Bradford making the most of the July heatwave. Midday was approaching as the mercury soared past thirty, heading towards a forecasted record-high of thirty-four. At its centre, the park’s powerful fountains had created a magnificent pool of water, where adults relaxed at the edges and children waded in for water fights. Around the perimeter the restaurants were heaving. The Wetherspoon’s pub had a queue two dozen deep.

  Detective Chief Inspector Harry Virdee sat beside his mother, Joyti, and rested two cups of tea on the shallow wall surrounding the fountains. No matter the heat, it was always ‘tea’ with her.

  ‘How much were they?’ she asked, watching her four-year-old grandson, Aaron, splashing in the fountains.

  ‘Does it matter?’ replied Harry, shaking his head.

  He watched his mother prise the lid from the container and frown at the colour. ‘I knew it would be like this.’

  ‘It’s how people like it, Mum.’

  ‘If I had a stall here and made my Indian tea, these English people would never drink this filth.’

  ‘I’m English. I drink it.’

  Harry’s mother frowned. ‘Your blood is Indian, your brain English.’

  ‘I’m more English than you think. I stand in queues, prefer sandwiches to samosas and, most importantly, when you hit seventy, I’ll be tempted to put you in an old people’s home.’

  His mother shook her head disapprovingly and sipped the tea, wincing at its taste. Harry slipped his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. God, he had missed this. With his brother, Ronnie, in India with his family, Harry was looking forward to a bit more time with his mother. He was determined today not to think of his father. Not if he could help it.

  Harry’s phone rang, interrupting his heat-hazed peace. He saw it was work and ignored it. These moments with his mother were precious; five years apart had been five years too many. Today was the first day of a fortnight’s annual leave, and he would be creating memories he could call upon during those frequent nights when his job dragged him to the city’s darkest corners.

  He kept his arm around his mother as she rested her head on his shoulder, both of them watching Aaron innocently splashing in the water.

  Today, even more than usual, City Park was a vibrant display of Bradford’s citizens. Women in burkas played with their children while beside them girls in Western swimwear were sunbathing. Boys, both Asian and white, had stripped off their tops and were flexing their muscles. Everyone was laughing and enjoying the weather.

  ‘Do you like the watch?’ his mother asked him.

  Harry sighed, glancing at the Rolex on his wrist. ‘It’s a bit extravagant, Mum. You didn’t need to.’

  ‘Rubbish. You never had a proper wedding, so I never gave you a gift.’

  Usually the watch stayed inside its box but when he met his mother he made a point of wearing it so she could see that he appreciated the extravagance. He’d looked up the value on the internet.

  Five grand.

  Harry wasn’t a flash bastard and, while he did have a thing for watches, he’d never indulged it. A detective’s salary didn’t stretch that far.

  Harry slipped off the wall and stepped into the water, soothing his sunburnt bare feet. He lifted Aaron and pointed
towards the ice cream van.

  ‘You want one?’

  Aaron nodded.

  ‘I think we’d better get dry first.’

  ‘We come back here after, Daddy?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Aaron kissed Harry’s cheek. ‘I love you, Daddy.’

  Harry smiled and started towards his mother, who was ready with a towel. ‘Love and affection when you want something, just like your mother.’

  Harry’s phone rang again.

  Work.

  Again, he dismissed it and flipped the phone to silent.

  ‘Don’t take the piss, I’m off,’ he muttered to himself, annoyed.

  As Harry’s mother towelled Aaron, she took every opportunity to steal a kiss from him. Harry closed his eyes, taking a mental photograph. He hoped Saima would get here before his mother had to go.

  She was due to meet Harry after Friday prayers.

  Distracted from his son by an unfamiliar noise, Harry looked up to see a distant swirling of helicopter blades. More than one. As he saw them, the enormous cinema screen at the far end of City Park went black, before displaying a flashing red message, timed perfectly with the deafening roar of what appeared to be two military helicopters now almost directly overhead.

  IMMINENT SECURITY THREAT. LEAVE CITY PARK IMMEDIATELY.

  Only moments later, the same message boomed from the speakers.

  Time froze in City Park. Everyone stared at the screen.

  Nobody moved.

  The message sounded again.

  Harry watched as, in agonizing slow-motion, the panic started.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, feeling his phone vibrating in his pocket again. He pulled it out and put it to his ear, taking Aaron from Joyti and moving her out of the main flow of people as City Park started to fracture.

  ‘What’s happening?’ said Harry. On the borders of City Park officers exited two armed-response vehicles, weapons raised, but came no further. More police vehicles were arriving every second and in the distance Harry could see uniformed officers pulling bright yellow tape taut to establish a cordon around the site.

  The cinema screen now displayed another message, this one far more sinister: a skull and crossbones, a timer below them, counting down from twenty minutes. An obvious hack – there was no way that was protocol.

  Harry listened to his boss, jaw tense, his eyes drifting down to his watch.

  13.10.

  Twenty minutes.

  Before the call hit thirty seconds, he disconnected it, turned to his mother, tightened his grip around Aaron and said, ‘Run.’

  TWO

  Pandemonium.

  Harry had never witnessed anything like it.

  People running in all directions. Screaming, shouting, adrenaline tangible in the hot, thick air.

  Two helicopters continued to hover in the sky, not directly overhead, a little distance away. Harry knew there was only one reason for that – City Park was a blast zone. Police were ushering the public out of the area, loudspeakers bellowing for everyone to evacuate.

  Terrorism.

  Had to be.

  Even Harry wasn’t immune to the panic.

  They’d only moved a short distance, people pushing past them, when his mother stopped, her face crippled in pain. Aaron started to cry in confusion.

  ‘It’s OK, little man, just a game we’re playing,’ he said.

  ‘You go, Hardeep, get my boy to safety. I’m too slow,’ Harry’s mother said, panting, her hand gripping his.

  ‘The hell with that,’ replied Harry, lifting her arm and putting it around his shoulder. He threaded his hand round his mother’s waist and tried to support her. It was her bad hip.

  ‘Come on, Mum, I’ve got you.’

  They moved slowly, too damn slowly.

  Bodies glanced off Harry as people rushed forward and he saw several fall to the ground, skin grazing on concrete. Above them the sun continued its assault. Around them a mess of car horns, packed buses trying to move through stationary traffic. Everywhere was chaos.

  Harry was struggling. Aaron grew heavier with each step, his mother pulling down his right arm. He felt as though he were back playing rugby, the second-row forward trying to support a collapsing scrum. He did what he did then, commanding her forward, pushing her with his arm.

  They crossed the road, hit Hustlergate. She wouldn’t last much longer – no chance she’d make it to the car.

  In his peripheral vision, Harry saw people with mobile phones in their hands, social media no doubt awash with rumours. He could only imagine the speculation. His thoughts went to Saima but his hands were full and he had no chance to call her.

  His mother finally stopped outside Waterstones, the old wool exchange building, sweat pouring down her face, breathless.

  She tried to push him away. ‘You go, take my boy and leave!’

  Aaron cried louder, his face red and not just from the heat.

  Harry couldn’t leave Joyti. He glanced for somewhere to hide.

  From what? A bomb? A terrorist attack?

  Joyti pushed him again. ‘I said go!’

  Harry looked around, utterly lost. He would not leave her. As he stared down the street opposite, Piece Hall Yard, a British flag caught his eye.

  The Bradford Club.

  He waited for a frightened crowd to tear past him, then made his move. His mother didn’t resist.

  They slowed as they turned off the main street, Harry afraid the cobbled path might hinder her further. The eerily abandoned street was a welcome interlude from the chaos behind. The chatter and pounding of footsteps on concrete faded. In the quiet, Aaron’s cries reduced to a whimper.

  ‘Hardeep, what is happening?’ asked Joyti, panting.

  ‘I don’t know, Mum,’ he replied, kissing Aaron and trying to soothe his little boy.

  They reached the door of the Bradford Club and Harry tried to open it.

  Locked.

  He rang the bell and hammered on the door. His mum leaned against the wall, getting her breath.

  Harry used the internet on his phone to find the club’s telephone number and hit the Call button, praying reception in the area wasn’t compromised. The phone started to ring. Harry kept pounding on the door.

  ‘Hello?’ said a frightened voice on the other end of the phone.

  ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Harry Virdee. I’m outside the club and I need you to open up. Now.’

  ‘Why? What is happening out there?’

  ‘Open the door or I’ll be forced to arrest you for hindering an investigation.’ It was a bluff but Harry didn’t care at this point. He just needed to get inside. An old Victorian building like this must have had an old cellar, even an old air-raid shelter.

  ‘I’m coming,’ said the voice and hung up.

  Harry immediately tried to call Saima but she didn’t answer. He sent a frantic text, Call me ASAP, then glanced back to where they came from. He could see a chaotic stream of terrified people running away from City Park. As some fell, others jumped over them to escape.

  Harry squeezed Aaron a little tighter, trying both to comfort his son and to keep the feeling in his left arm.

  13.21.

  Nine minutes until the countdown finished.

  What was going to happen then?

  The sound of robust Victorian locks being opened jarred his thoughts, then the grand wooden doors parted.

  Harry grabbed his mother and pushed her inside, past a grey-haired man. Harry quickly established he was Philip Jones, the fifty-three-year-old manager.

  ‘Close the doors, Philip. Seal them,’ said Harry. He let go of his mother, who almost fell into a nearby leather chair.

  Harry switched Aaron to his right-hand side and shook out his left arm.

  ‘Alone, Philip?’ said Harry, hearing the locks being secured.

  ‘Yeah. No one wants to be in here in the dark with the sun out like that.’

  Harry placed Aaron into his mother’s lap and turned to face Phil
ip, now shaking both his arms to encourage blood flow. He looked around at the building, a spiralling staircase revealing three magnificent floors, 200-year-old architecture steeped in wealth and history.

  ‘Is there a cellar here?’

  ‘What the hell is happening?’ said Philip.

  ‘Do you have a cellar, Philip?’ His tone was clipped as he massaged his shoulder, trying to recharge his muscles.

  ‘Yes. Although, well, I haven’t opened it in years.’

  ‘Old air-raid shelter, right?’ asked Harry, more in hope than knowledge. This place had survived two world wars and been a meeting point for wealthy wool merchants. Surely they would have had a shelter in it.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Philip.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Down here,’ said Philip, moving past Harry towards a shadowy oak-panelled corridor.

  Harry picked Aaron up and helped his mother to her feet.

  They entered a grand drawing room where Philip stopped in front of a massive wooden door. He struggled with four rusted bolts, pulling them free before opening the ancient door, grunting at the effort it took.

  Darkness.

  ‘Lights?’ said Harry.

  ‘Be surprised if they still work,’ said Philip. He slid his hand along the left-hand side of the stone wall and flicked a switch.

  A slight delay, then light breathed life into the void.

  Harry pushed his mother inside but she hesitated. Harry checked his watch: 13.27. Three more minutes.

  ‘You just leave me here, take Aaron with you,’ she replied, clearly afraid.

  ‘Not happening, Mum.’

  Harry handed her Aaron, his face blotchy and streaked with tears. Harry stepped through the doorway on to a staircase that circled down into the cellar. It was easily wide enough for two people side by side.

  Those Victorians knew how to design emergency cellars.

  Harry flew down the steps, naked bulbs over his head illuminating the route. Satisfied they would be as safe as possible this close to the blast zone, he charged back up the staircase to his mother and told her to hold Aaron tightly. Harry then picked her up, telling Philip to follow them and close the door.

  The silence was disconcerting after the madness of City Park. They sat on the cold stone floor, their breaths forming a white mist in the icy cellar.