The Cover Up: A gripping crime thriller for 2018. Marnie Riches

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      ‘No! No! I’m not getting in!’ he cried, kicking against the side of the van, though the man-mountain hoisted him aloft like a doll.

      ‘Put my father down!’ A familiar voice sliced through the pandemonium. Tariq.

      To his right, Youssuf caught sight of his son’s henchman, Asaf Smolensky, sprinting towards the kidnapping Midlanders. Clad in his usual Hassidic garb of a full-length black overcoat and an oversized felt Homburg hat, his ringletted sidelocks jiggling atop his shoulders, it was an unexpected sight to see him move with the pace of a panther. He was wielding a machete.

      Dreadlocks baulked. ‘Shit! It’s the Fish Man. Leg it, Trev!’

      Trev released Youssuf from his grip instantly, leaving him to stagger back against the enclosure’s damp walls.

      ‘I’m gonna kill you!’ Tariq shouted, throwing himself onto the man-mountain.

      As Dreadlocks scrambled into the van to escape the blade of a Fish Man with human harvest on his mind, Youssuf watched Trev square up to his only son. The difference in height between them was at least ten inches. Tariq’s slender build didn’t help. It was like David facing down Goliath.

      ‘I’d like to see you try,’ Trev said, swinging a punch at Tariq.

      But Tariq was quick on his feet and deft with his hands. Years of aikido and judo lessons as a youth had stood him in good stead. Within three easy moves, he had thrown his outsized opponent to the ground and sat astride him now, clutching the man-mountain’s bull neck with the manicured hand of a gentleman.

      Overwhelmed by a fresh surge of outrage, Youssuf whacked at his felled attacker’s legs with his walking stick, hurling insults at him in Urdu.

      ‘Leave it, Dad!’ Tariq said, calmly. Turned to the vanquished man, ignoring the van’s revving engine and the hacking sound of the Fish Man slashing at the vehicle’s tyres. Hissing, as the air in the back tyre escaped. One down … ‘Now, who do you work for? And what do you want with my dad?’

      ‘No one,’ Trev said, spitting in Tariq’s face.

      ‘Donkey!’ Youssuf yelled, swiping at his ankles.

      Tariq wiped the spit calmly from his face, though Youssuf knew his fastidious son must have been cringing inside. ‘You work for the O’Brien crew?’

      ‘Fuck you, man!’

      ‘Smolensky!’ Tariq shouted. He looked over to the Fish Man who had just punctured another of the van’s tyres. Inside the vehicle, Dreadlocks was screaming something unintelligible through the closed window to his associate. ‘Come here! Our friend needs a little encouragement.’

      The tall, thin henchman stalked towards Tariq, holding the machete in his right hand. But he blanched suddenly, his gaze fixed on something on the far side of the road.

      ‘Ellis James!’ Smolensky’s machete miraculously disappeared up into the sleeve of his coat. He slipped out of sight behind a parked van.

      Like a startled goat, Tariq descended the man-mountain, disappearing swiftly into the shadows of the jet-wash enclosure, dragging Youssuf with him. He pressed his index finger to his lips, pushing his father out towards the kiosk on the far side of the car wash, where they could not be seen by whoever this Ellis James might be.

      The Volkswagen van sped off on its wobbling, clack-clacking flats in the direction of Cheetham Hill Road, disappearing along with its kidnapping driver and passenger into the streets beyond the neighbouring Chapatti Corner and Gurdwara temple.

      Youssuf staggered over to the low wall and slumped against it. Amir popped up from behind.

      ‘Have they gone?’ Amir asked. ‘Have you called the police?’

      Tariq nodded, putting his arm around his father. ‘They’re gone. You both okay?’

      Youssuf shrugged him off, though he was now shaking with cold. Light-headed. He felt like he might vomit onto his wet feet at any moment. ‘What a disgrace.’

      ‘What were you two thinking, wandering these busy streets on your own?’

      ‘Show some respect, Tariq!’ Youssuf said, glancing over at Amir for moral support. ‘We’re not children, are we? We’re grown men.’ He picked up his walking stick and shook it. ‘You think me and Amir can’t see off a couple of amateur pick-pockets?’

      When Amir muttered an insult about the younger generation in Urdu, agreeing with him, Youssuf silently hoped his friend had bought the story that the aspiring kidnappers were nothing more than thieving opportunists. It wouldn’t do for an elder of the Asian community to click onto the sort of nefarious dealings Tariq was involved with on the side. To realise that those men had come for him – Youssuf Khan. What a dreadful situation to find himself in! Lying to his respectable buddy to protect his fool of a son!

      ‘Didn’t we decide that you weren’t going to leave my offices until I drove you to the day centre, Dad?’ Tariq tried again to put his arm around Youssuf, encouraging him to stand.

      ‘Don’t be so patronising!’ he said, taking his karakul hat out of his coat pocket. Agitated to see that it was sodden. He manoeuvred himself from the ground, using his stick. Wincing and grunting at the effort and stiffness in his knees. ‘If I have to spend another morning sitting around, waiting for you to drive me quarter of a mile down the road, like I’m some kind of deranged, drooling halfwit, I’m going to get on the first plane back to Karachi and I’m never coming back.’

      Amir laughed. ‘And because the ladies love me, your dad’s taking me with him, aren’t you, Youssuf?’ More cackling. ‘Wait ‘til Ibrahim hears about this! Ha. Me and Youssuf. Fighting off criminals. That will knock the stuffing out of the stuck-up—’

      ‘Dad,’ Tariq said, making another attempt to grab him by the elbow. Scanning the street. ‘It’s not safe. Come back with me. Both of you! I’ll drive you both to the day centre once we’ve got Dad some dry socks and found his sandal.’

      But Youssuf could barely articulate his mounting frustration. ‘No! I don’t want your help. Because it’s the wrong kind, Tariq! I need that kind of help like I need a prostate check from a doctor with fat fingers.’

      ‘I’ll make my own way, thanks all the same,’ Amir said, smoothing his suit down, starting to make his way across the forecourt. ‘I don’t need a babysitter.’

      ‘Wait for me!’ Youssuf called after his friend.

      ‘Look, Dad. If you come with me now, I’ll take you to Mecca for Hajj next year.’ Tariq held his hand out, his eyes softening at the edges. ‘How about that? We’ll fly first-class on Emirates.’

      Youssuf inhaled deeply and raised an eyebrow. Ignoring the hand. ‘Really? You’d do that for me?’

      But Tariq’s face fell. A short, chubby white man clad in a beige raincoat had just got out of a grey Mondeo and was walking towards them. Ellis James, no doubt.

      ‘We’ve got to go, Dad. Now!’

      Too late.

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