Ride or Die - Jay Qasim Series 03 (2020) Read online

  Praise for Khurrum Rahman

  ‘Told with striking panache. Announces the arrival of a fine, fresh new thriller writer’

  Daily Mail

  ‘Combining humour and tragedy is one of the hardest literary challenges, but Khurrum Rahman succeeds.’

  TLS

  ‘A brilliant thriller. You’d be mad not to buy this.’

  Ben Aaronovitch

  ‘A very funny but tense thriller… Think Four Lions meets Phone Shop’

  Red

  ‘As much a coming-of-age story as a full-on action thriller, East of Hounslow is thought-provoking and entirely gripping.’

  Guardian

  ‘Excellent book. Phenomenal writing.’

  BA Paris

  ‘Sweary, funny and, above all, an absolutely cracking thriller that you’ll tear through, this is the anti-James Bond that the 21st century needs’

  Emerald Street

  ‘East of Hounslow, in which a young Muslim finds himself forced to become an MI5 plant in a group of jihadists, is as British as Nelson’s Column. A superb and exciting debut novel’

  Telegraph

  ‘The best thriller I’ve read in ages’

  Stephen Leather

  ‘I loved it. More please’

  Mel McGrath

  ‘Builds to a heart-constricting climax’

  Times Crime Club

  ‘Clipped dialogues, staccato sentences and the hilariously brilliant prose set the pace of this excellent unputdownable crime thriller. The climax will leave you breathless.’

  New Indian Express

  Born in Karachi, Pakistan in 1975 KHURRUM RAHMAN moved to England when he was one. He is a West London boy and now lives in Berkshire with his wife and two sons.

  Khurrum is currently working as a Senior IT Officer but his real love is writing. He has a screenplay which has been optioned by a Danish TV producer but is now concentrating on novels.

  His first two books in the Jay Qasim series, East of Hounslow and Homegrown Hero have been shortlisted for the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Novel and CWA John Creasey Debut Dagger.

  Ride or Die

  Khurrum Rahman

  ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

  Copyright © Khurrum Rahman 2020

  Khurrum Rahman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © July 2020 ISBN: 9780008322434

  Version 2020-06-16

  Note to Readers

  This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

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  Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008322434

  In memory of my beautiful Dad x

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1: Javid Qasim (Jay)

  Chapter 2: Imran Siddiqui (Imy)

  Chapter 3: Jay

  Chapter 4: Imy

  Chapter 5: Jay

  Chapter 6: Imy

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8: Jay

  Chapter 9: Imy

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11: Jay

  Chapter 12: Jay

  Chapter 13: Imy

  Chapter 14: Jay

  Chapter 15: Imy

  Chapter 16: Jay

  Chapter 17: Imy

  Chapter 18: Jay

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21: Jay

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23: Jay

  Chapter 24: Imy

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26: Jay

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28: Jay

  Chapter 29: Jay

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31: Jay

  Part 2

  Chapter 32: Jay

  Chapter 33: The Teacher

  Chapter 34: Imy

  Chapter 35: Jay

  Chapter 36: Imy

  Chapter 37: Jay

  Chapter 38: Imy

  Chapter 39: Jay

  Chapter 40: Imy

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42: Jay

  Chapter 43: Imy

  Chapter 44: Jay

  Chapter 45: Jay

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47: Jay

  Chapter 48: Imy

  Chapter 49: Jay

  Chapter 50: Imy

  Chapter 51: Jay

  Chapter 52: Imy

  Chapter 53: Jay

  Chapter 54: Imy

  Chapter 55: Jay

  Chapter 56: Imy

  Chapter 57: Jay

  Chapter 58: Imy

  Chapter 59: Jay

  Chapter 60: Imy

  Chapter 61: Jay

  Chapter 62: Imy

  Chapter 63: Jay

  Chapter 64: Imy

  Chapter 65: Jay

  Chapter 66: Jay

  Chapter 67: Imy

  Chapter 68: Jay

  Chapter 69: Imy

  Chapter 70: Jay

  Chapter 71: Imy

  Chapter 72: Jay

  Chapter 73: The Teacher

  Chapter 74: Jay

  Chapter 75: Imy

  Chapter 76: Jay

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  In that very heartbeat, I knew what I had to do.

  As I watched, his small hand emerged out of his pocket, a detonator gripped high above his head, high enough for me to see. In a hall full of guests, I alone was his audience and he had my attention. The serene smile on the face of the ten-year-old boy was one of no regret and no fear of death, only victory. There would be no second guessing, no degree of falling to my knees and begging to sacrifice my life for the lives of my family.

  There was only one way it would go. This was my punishment.

  His serene smile was the last thing I saw before a white light filled my eyes and an explosion filled my ears. He took his own life and snatched away everything that I had allowed myself to believe would forever be mine.

  I held my family in my arms, tight to me, their faces and bodies burnt and broken and breathless. Through my tears and through my screams, I never once asked why.

  I knew why.

  The rage was the only emotion that I’d felt and I welcomed it back like an old friend.

  I knew what I had to do, and I would allow the rage to dictate my actions.

  Part 1

  Fake News.

 
; Definition: Bullshit information fed by bullshit media to fit a bullshit narrative.

  Chapter 1

  Javid Qasim (Jay)

  Flat on my backside, arms flopped to my side, laid out on a sun lounger with one of those big umbrella things above me, protecting me from the blazing sun, with nothing but another lazy day ahead of me. On the small plastic table next to me, a bottle of water sat upright on top of a book. Yeah, a book! Seemed like a good idea at the time. Seemed like a holiday thing to do, but really I could not be arsed. Give me some credit, though, I attempted it, ripped through a few chapters, but it just felt way too much like homework. Fuck, man, I barely did homework at school, I sure ain’t doing homework on holiday! Next to the book was my phone, also taking a well-deserved rest, and some loose change that amounted to either a fortune or jack-shit. I don’t know, I still hadn’t sussed out the exchange rate.

  I sighed the sigh of a man who had finally sat down. I accompanied it with a noisy stretch which turned into a big fat yawn. Good times, that may just get better from what I could see in front of me.

  Through the tango tint of my replica designer shades I glanced across the pool and the brunette who was giving me the eyes yesterday was doing so again. I wasn’t surprised, I’d hit the weights twice in the last couple of weeks, and possibly this attention was a result of that. I crossed my arms across my chest, hoping that the curve of a bicep might make an appearance. I lifted my shades onto my forehead, and gave her the elevator eyes. I decided against a wink, instead giving her the smallest of smiles, no teeth, not yet, just one side of my lips curling a touch. That’s enough for today. I’d played this game before, with varying results. I’d keep it cool. With a flick of a finger I slid my shades down my forehead, but they fell too far down my nose and I had to quickly readjust. Great! She’d turned her attention elsewhere.

  A member of staff approached. Unlike me he was showing teeth and smiling wildly. He towered over me, blocking my view. His too-tight shorts too close to my face, he handed me an already dripping lemonade ice-lolly that I’d forgotten I’d ordered, and didn’t feel like anymore, and started jabbering on about some excursion or another, thrusting flyers in my face. I reached across to the table and picked up a couple of coins and held them up to my face, squinting, trying to figure out how little of a tip I could get away with. I handed him one Qatari Rial and took a flyer from him and waved him away with it as I considered jumping in the pool.

  This had been my spot for the last two weeks, with another two weeks to come. And I didn’t have the inconvenience of waking up at fuck-off-o’clock in the morning to come and plant my towel on the lounger, as is the international method of reservation. No, man, this was my mum’s joint and she called the shots. It was actually the Marriott Hotel in Doha, Qatar, and Mum worked there on reception. She had a word with one of the lifeguards to keep the shaded lounger reserved for me during my stay, because she knew better than anybody how sensitive my skin was to the sun.

  I had finally managed to get out to Qatar to visit Mum and Andrew, her now fiancé. His proposal was a long, convoluted story which I lost interest in pretty quickly when they told me, but there were dolphins, a hot air balloon and a lost shoe involved. He was alright, Andrew, made Mum smile and laugh. He made her happy. Even though they were settled in a Muslim country, nobody questioned their so-called interfaith relationship. It would have been worse in Hounslow!

  Yeah, man, life was good, you know. Well, it was good right then.

  In a couple of weeks, I’d fly back home to an empty house and an empty life. I’d sit on my trusty armchair and face up to the fact that I was quickly running out of money, currently unemployed and had jack-shit to fill my days with. It crossed my mind that I should go crawling back to my old IT Helpdesk role at the London Borough of Hounslow. I mean, I never officially left. I just hadn’t been in for the last eight months. I didn’t even phone in my absence. I mean, what would I tell them? How would I explain the death in the family? That my old man was tracked down then shot down as part of a large-scale government operation that I was central to.

  Can you imagine that conversation?

  So instead I ignored the emails and phone calls from my team leader, then I ignored the emails, phone calls and letters from HR. I just couldn’t be arsed to go back, figured that I had too much to sort out. Turns out I didn’t have jack-shit to do. Abdul Bin Jabbar was dead and MI5 had no use for me. I should’ve been glad. It’s what I wanted. What I thought I wanted.

  My life came to a standstill and the world continued to spin without my interference.

  It gave me time to reflect. Eight months of sitting in my armchair watching Piers, Lorraine and Holly and those crazy Loose Women, as I tried to work out what matters and what fucking doesn’t. I was done with doing the right thing in the wrong way, and I was done thinking about those that didn’t deserve my fucking attention. But, you know, sometimes your mind betrays you.

  The fuck, man! Stop with this self-pity bullshit.

  I had Christmas in the sun with Mum to look forward to. I realised that my nails were digging into my palms. I flexed my fingers and shook my head clear of that shit. Those demons could take a back fucking seat.

  I lifted my head and peered over the rim of my shades across the pool to see if I could re-establish eye contact with my soon-to-be holiday romance. I watched her carefully, still perfectly poised, one leg stretched, the other bent at the knee looking like an Instagram post. She was no longer looking in my direction. She was chatting merrily away to a copper.

  He had gallantly picked up her towel, which had dropped to the floor, and handed it to her. She smiled and flirted her way through a show of gratitude. I had been about to make my move on her, tomorrow or the day after. But I had no chance with him knocking about.

  I laughed to myself in disbelief. If I’d had a pen and a pad, I’d have been taking notes.

  I took him in. He wasn’t in police uniform. In fact, he’s wasn’t wearing a stitch, apart from a pair of barely-there lime-green trunks that he’d probably borrowed from his ten-year-old nephew. He gave her a Sheriff’s nod and sauntered away, her eyes tracking his movement as he rounded the pool and approached me with a perfect smile on his stupid face.

  My best mate, and Hounslow’s finest detective – his words, not mine – Idris Zaidi. I hadn’t seen him in, I don’t know, a couple of months? A few? A long time considering that we once lived in each other’s pockets. Despite the fact that he’d got in the way of what could very well have been The One, Idris was just what I needed.

  ‘They’re letting anyone in here now, are they?’ I beamed up at him. ‘This is supposed to be a five-star joint.’

  ‘They dropped a star as soon as you walked in,’ Idris replied. ‘You going to get up and greet me properly or do you want to do this horizontally? You know I’ll do it!’

  I laughed and straightened up, and we bumped fists before bumping bare chests. It was as awkward as it sounds.

  ‘Mum?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, using a straight hand to shield the sun from his eyes. ‘She called me, said you might need some company, so you know, thought I swing by.’ He smiled and ruffled my hair. The girl from across the pool was laughing like a cheerleader as though the jock had just kicked sand in the nerd’s face. I knocked his hand away.

  ‘Swing by?’ I said, fixing my hair with a flick of my hand. ‘It’s a six-and-a-half-hour flight.’

  As sunny as my disposition allowed me to be, Mum had read me inside and out. She recognised that I was at war with myself. She’d made the right call to the right person. It was just what I needed. I’d never tell Idris this, but he was just what I needed.

  In the evening Mum and Andrew joined us for a meal at one of the many bars at the Marriott. This one, can’t remember the name, something corny, turned into a nightclub late on and I could already see it filling up with young hungry holiday-makers and well-dressed hookers looking to clean them out for a slice of dirty heaven. />
  ‘We should call it a night,’ Mum said, joined at the hip to Andrew, opposite us in a booth.

  Idris glanced at his watch. ‘It’s only just gone nine. Can I tempt you with a nightcap?’

  Idris always did that, always spoke like that around certain company, a little hoity-toity for my liking. Who says tempt you with a night cap? Like he’s just stepped out of a black-and-white flick.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind an early night, actually,’ Andrew said, making eyes at Mum.

  I wanted to believe that age was catching up with them, and that they were heading up to rest their old bones and not… you know. I made a face. Mum noticed, smiled beautifully at me, and they shuffled out of the booth. Idris stood up and gave Mum a cuddle, and shook hands heartily with Andrew, and told him what an immense pleasure it was to meet him. Seriously Idris, keep that shit real, man!

  Mum beckoned me over to one side, away from Andrew and Idris, and softly asked me the same question that she had been asking for the last two weeks.

  ‘Are you okay, Jay?’

  It was a double-barrelled, fully loaded question. We both understood the meaning of it, but neither of us was willing to mention or even acknowledge the fact that my dad, her husband, was dead. We just had to read it in each other’s eyes.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Are you?’

  Mum smiled and replied. ‘I am.’

  I watched her watch me for a moment before landing one on my cheek and then rubbing off the lipstick with her thumb. She stepped away and linked arms with Andrew, then with a joint smile they walked out of the bar.

  ‘Right.’ Idris rubbed his hands together like he was trying to start a fire. ‘Drinks?’

  ‘Yeah, go on,’ I said. I didn’t have to tell him my order. He knew.

  Idris went off and ordered the first round of alcoholic drinks of the night. It wasn’t like we were hiding it from Mum, I think she knew, but I would never feel comfortable drinking around her. I did quit for a while, possibly due to the company I was keeping, but I was back on it. It helped, other times it hindered, but each time it numbed and clouded what I didn’t want to see.