Page 72 of Savage Protector
Arriving at the conclusion that he’d ‘done’ martial arts, he turned his attention to parkour, or as he prefers to call it, free running. This was a new one on me but apparently involves daredevil leaps from building to building, across rooftops and incorporating all manner of kicks and spins as he goes. Sounds like utter madness, a death wish on steroids, but it takes all sorts. Apart from anything else, though, he’s one seriously fit bastard.
Despite all his apparent advantages in life, he somehow ended up in young offenders for more or less killing a kid who tried to nick his phone. These days he’d agree that that he perhaps went a bit over the top, it was only a cheap Nokia. I suppose he’s mellowed in his old age, but his stint in kiddie jail was enough for him to develop a taste for life on the wrong side of the tracks.
Or maybe that was his parents’ doing.
Trading on his Irish heritage, he worked for Jed O’Neill initially as a doorman in the clubs and casinos, But in a country where everyone and his dog carries a gun, his special skills were somewhat superfluous. It was Ethan who spotted him in action on one of his trans-Atlantic trips to do business with his brother-in-law, thought he could be useful, and offered him a job with us. Beck’s been on board for a year now. I can’t say I know the guy well, but he seems okay.
If nothing else, he’s shit-hot in a fight.
We all sling our bags in the back of the SUV and pile in, Rome driving and Tony beside him. Beck and I take the rear seats and settle in for a long drive.
Tony is tapping away on his phone, and the rapid beeping suggests replies are coming through. Sure enough, he forwards a recent image of Bilal, now going by the name of Bilal Alahi and apparently a student at the College of Engineering in Birmingham.
“I guess they stayed in town, then,” I suggest. “Anything else come up under that name?”
“We have him at school, winning a prize for designing a deep-sea diving bell…” Tony informs us.
“A prize? That’s been done already,” Beck scoffs.
“This one converts into a hairdryer and can double as an electric kettle if you’re stuck.”
“Ah. I see. Useful.” Beck settles down again.
“What about the others? His mum, or Sarah?”
“Nothing yet, but the college article says he’s from Solihull,” Tony informs us.
“They must have moved out there. I dropped them at a house in Aston,” Rome puts in. “Are we starting there?”
“As good a place as any,” we all agree.
By the time we are cruising the salubrious streets of Aston in search of a street that looks familiar to Rome, we know that young Sarah attended a school in Aston but transferred to Tudor Gate primary in Solihull some three years previously.
“That’s probably when they moved house,” Tony observes, “and if she was still in primary school, the chances are they lived somewhere near. Kids don’t tend to travel that far at that age.”
“I think this is it,” Rome announces. “I remember that old cinema.”
The building in question is now a carpet warehouse, but Rome seems pretty certain, so he swings the car into the closest side street. “Yes. That place, there. With the dormer and the double garage.”
He pulls up outside the house, and we all peer at it hopefully.
“Who actually lived here then?” Beck wonders.
“Some friend of a cousin,” Rome replies. “She never told me his name. Or hers.”
There are plenty of pedestrians scurrying up and down the street, and not a white face among them. This decides the matter.
“I’ll go and have a chat with them.” I get out of the car and stroll round to the boot. A brief rummage and I produce a cardboard box full of jump leads. I tuck the lid down nice and neat, then stroll to the front door of the house Rome pointed out, with the parcel under my arm.
A kid of about fourteen answers my knock. He glares at me. “You’re not the Imam,” he accuses me in fluent Punjabi. “What do you want?”
“Amazon, mate,” I reply in my best Urdu, gesturing to the parcel. “Delivery for Shahida Malik.”
“Not here,” he spits. “Fuck off.”
My foot is in the door momentarily before it slams in my face. “I need a signature, mate.”
“I said, not here.”
