Page 73 of Savage Protector

I’m persistent, for an Amazon delivery man. “Do you live here? Do you know Shahida Malik?”

“Never fucking heard of her.” The charm offensive continues. “Do one, shithead.”

“What about your mum and dad? Are they in?”

“What is this? My life story? I told you, Shaz’s not here, not been here for years.”

“So, you do know her? I just want?—”

“Ask her at number seven,” he eventually concedes. “Give her the fucking parcel. What is it anyway?” He cranes his scrawny neck to get a better look.

“Thanks, mate. Most helpful.” I leave him on the doorstep.

Number seven is across the road a few doors along. I pause to update the others in the SUV then jog over there. This place is perhaps marginally less tatty than the previous door, but there’s not much in it. I knock again, and this time find myself facing an older lady of around sixty.

She tugs her headscarf more tightly over her face and peers at me with curiosity. “Do I know you, young man?” This is a more polite reception, certainly. I decide to ditch the Amazon thing and just ask straight out.

She spoke to me in Urdu, so I reply in kind. “I’m trying to find Shahida Malik. I was told you might be able to help?”

“Me? Who told you that?”

“The lad across the road.” I jerk my thumb in the general direction.

“Ah. Him. Bad lot, that one. You can’t believe a word he says. Drugged out of his head most times.” She leans out to inspect me more closely. “You didn’t give him any money, did you?”

“No. Should I have?”

“You don’t look like an idiot, but I suppose you never know.”

I consider for a moment and conclude she’s probably right. “But about Shahida? Shaz?”

“Ah, yes. Gone. Shahida went…”

“Where did she go?” I prompt.

“Down Solihull way. Got a job.”

My ears prick up. “What job? Where did she work?”

“Pretty girl, she was. Bright, too. Could have done anything, but she wanted the cash, she said. Needed to earn money for them kids of hers.”

“It’s hard, bringing up kids on your own…” I’m fishing, and she bites.

“She’d have been better off on her own if you ask me. That man of hers, nothing but bother. Them kids was better off here, but would she leave them with me? No, she wouldn’t, not even thechhokti larki.”

I note the reference to a little girl, but press on with my ore immediate concern. “What man? What was he called?”

She glares at me. “Who did you say you were again? And why are you asking?”

“I’m…I’m a friend of Shahida’s. I need to find her. I want to help her.”

“Aye, well, someone should. If I knew where she was, I’d tell you, but I never had her new address. Better like that, she said. She was going to be an actress, she said, earn good money and she’d not be back. She hasn’t been either, but I did see that lad of hers.”

“Bilal?”

“Aye, Bilal. Now, there’s a fine, strapping lad. Good thing, too. That Fred bastard won’t be raising his fists so much these days, I’ll be betting. I feel for the poor little girl, though.”

The conversation is not exactly easy to follow, but I’m gathering that Shahida got mixed up with another violent man—talk about reverting to type—and moved to Solihull with him in pursuit of a career in acting.

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