Take It Back. Kia Abdullah

again.’

      He leaned forward, his voice softening a notch. ‘That’s what you said last time.’ He ran a restless hand through his hair. ‘Seriously, what’s going on?’

      ‘I overslept, that’s all.’

      Stuart’s lips came together in a tight, thin line, holding back words he might later regret. ‘Okay, fine.’ He pressed a Post-it note onto her desk. ‘The detective on Jodie Wolfe’s case called. You might want to call her back.’ With that, he stood and left.

      Zara tried to shrug off the guilt but it clung heavily to her shoulders. Were it anyone else, she would wave away the criticism but Stuart was one of the few truly selfless people in her life. He wasn’t concerned with feeding his ego or chasing profits; he simply wanted to help their clients. The knowledge of that made her cheeks burn hot. She threaded her fingers through her hair and grabbed angry fistfuls. What was she doing? Her mind posed then denied a series of accusations: No, I’m not bad at my job. No, I shouldn’t just quit. No, I don’t have to stop using – it’s just harmless release.

      Listlessly, she picked up the note. Four words were written in Stuart’s expansive scrawl: ‘I have news. Mia.’ Zara’s heart rate quickened and she picked up the phone and dialled.

      Mia answered promptly. ‘I take it you received my message?’

      ‘Yes. Sorry, I’ve had a crazy morning.’

      A short laugh. ‘Yes, unfortunately I’m all too familiar with those.’ Mia waited a beat. ‘So, Jodie’s clothes are positive for semen. We’re trying to expedite the DNA tests.’

      Zara felt a flush of relief. ‘That’s great news.’

      ‘I haven’t spoken to Jodie yet. I thought you might like to tell her.’

      Zara was oddly touched by the gesture. ‘Thank you. Do you know when we’ll get the results?’

      ‘Right now, I’m told three weeks.’

      ‘Christ.’ Zara flicked through her diary and marked out a date. ‘Have you found anything you can use on the boys’ electronics?’

      ‘No, nothing yet,’ Mia sighed. ‘They use these so-called “ephemeral apps” and everything gets deleted after twenty-four hours.’

      Zara tapped a pen against the page. ‘Listen, check if the boys are on Jabdam. It’s a Korean app that allows users to post anonymous rumours about each other, tagged by location. It came up in a past case of mine. The app’s not governed by GDPR and we can access all the data that’s ever been posted on their platform – even if it was set to expire.’

      Mia brightened. ‘What would we be looking for?’

      ‘Anything that’s tagged Bow or East London and that mentions Amir or Jodie – or any of them. Maybe one of the boys couldn’t help bragging, or a friend of a friend knows something.’

      ‘Good call.’ Mia scrawled down the details. ‘I’ll let you know if we find anything.’

      ‘Okay,’ Zara paused. ‘Hey Mia, one more thing. When you canvas the neighbours, greet them with Assalamu Alaikum if they’re Muslim. They’ll likely be tight-lipped and this might help disarm them.’

      ‘Thanks,’ said Mia. ‘I’ll keep you updated.’

      Zara hung up and glanced at the clock. Stuart had reassigned her appointments and her day was unusually empty. She flicked through Jodie’s case file, reading and re-reading random passages. Eventually, after an hour of inertia, she decided to take a break. She walked to Port & Port on the western end of Whitechapel Road. She liked the bar for its unique position between East London and the city, and for the blackboard outside that said in bright yellow chalk, ‘I’d eat here,’ a quote which was then attributed to, ‘The owner’. Inside, an ensemble of high beams, sturdy wooden furniture and dusty artefacts gave it a comfortable old-barn feel.

      She ordered a drink and settled in a booth in the corner. She shrugged off her blazer and placed some files across the table: her excuse for drinking alone. She checked her phone and noted acidly that Luka hadn’t tried calling. She picked up a file and scanned it blindly. She was bored. She was always fucking bored. She glanced at her watch, not even sure what she was waiting for. She put down the file and picked up another. As she did so, she heard a purposeful cough at the next table. Her eyes – trained to ignore such puerile plays for attention – remained fixed on the sheet of paper. After a beat, she sensed movement towards her.

      He was dressed in a dark suit, crisp white shirt and slim black tie. As he sat down opposite, she noticed the muscles of his arm flex beneath the suit. He wasn’t her type – far too built for that – but he had her attention.

      ‘You probably haven’t drunk enough for this. I certainly haven’t drunk enough for this but,’ he paused, ‘you’re stunning. And I knew that if I left this bar without talking to you, I’d regret it. So tell me to get lost and I’ll get on my way. I just have to know that I tried.’ He barely waited for her to respond. ‘But, if you want – and it’s what I really want – I can buy us another drink and we can sit and talk about whatever you want: the perversions of the Marquis de Sade or the plight of the Congolese, who should have won Bake Off or the latest shade of lipstick – anything.’ His eyes searched hers and grew confident as he gleaned the reaction he intended.

      A smile curled at the corner of her lips. She knew exactly what type of man he was: the type that recycled pet names from each of his flings and used women as landmarks (‘you know the place, the one with that sexy blonde waitress with an arse like an onion’), but it mattered less than it should.

      ‘I’m going to take that as a yes,’ he said with a smile. He strode to the bar, his frame tall and powerful – almost twice her size.

      As she watched him, she felt her conscience tug. She was angry at Luka but could she really sit here with a stranger and pretend he didn’t exist? She sat stock-still for a moment and then, making a decision, gathered up her files and strode to the bar. She stopped the stranger mid-order.

      ‘Listen, I’m sorry but I have to go.’

      His head tilted back in askance. ‘No, come on!’

      ‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’

      He clasped his hands in mock agony. ‘Okay, but please, please leave me your number.’

      ‘I don’t give out my number.’

      ‘Okay, then give me your phone and let me put in mine.’

      She shook her head with a smile. She knew not to do that after a friend of a friend used her phone to call his own hence securing her number, and then doggedly pursuing her for a good six months.

      The stranger reached over the counter and picked up a ballpoint pen. From his pocket, he retrieved a receipt and scribbled down his number. ‘Then please take this and please call me.’ He pressed the note into her hands. ‘I’ll be waiting.’

      She accepted.

      ‘And at least tell me your name.’

      ‘It’s Zara.’ She glanced at the piece of paper. ‘And yours?’

      He leaned forward and whispered it in her ear, his breath warm on her skin.

      She closed her eyes momentarily. ‘Goodbye, Michael.’ She left the bar without turning back, knowing he was watching her go.

      Nina Sahari was on her back. Her cut-off T-shirt revealed a smooth, taut belly and her silken hair fell around her head like a fan. She reached up and threw the ball against the ceiling, catching it again with ease. Her green eyes – a much-desired result of her Pathan roots – blinked off tiny bits of plaster that rained down around her. She chewed her gum and blew it into a bubble, then popped