Hard Bargain: Detective Ahmed Mystery Novels, #1

By S. H. Miah

Private Detective Ahmed Hakeem, the best case solver in East London who's always down on his luck.

 

When running low on cases with rent payments looming, Ahmed needs a miracle, and needs one fast.

 

Then a blinder of a case strolls into his agency in the form of Alfie Marsh, a wealthy businessman with a lot more to him than meets the eye.

 

Ahmed and his ace assistant Yunus must solve a murder and kidnapping rolled into one. As Ahmed investigates the case, he uncovers a twisty web of lies far larger than he could've ever imagined.

 

And with lives hanging in the balance, Ahmed must work against the clock in his most difficult case yet.

 

Can he solve the mystery before it's too late?

 

The first novel in the brand new Detective Ahmed Mystery series. If you enjoy twisty, witty mysteries that'll keep you turning every page, then this is a series you don't want to miss.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Muslim Fiction Project
• Release date: Jul 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223591092

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was often said that light was a constant struggle against darkness. That the overwhelming pull of the blackened sky battled the light every day, until the light won out and fashioned itself across the skies every sunrise.

Well, the darkness was winning, pretty convincingly, for Private Detective Ahmed Hakeem as he sat on a fairly under-cushioned chair, doing little to support his already creaking back, whilst parsing through the morning newspaper with nothing to brew in his mind other than unpaid bills and an office falling apart.

No work, is there? his assistant, Yunus Amir, asked from beside him. Yunus had a coffee table, a little higher up than most other tables, with a small chair languishing in front. He called that a desk. Of course, the only desk they could afford was the one Ahmed sat at, being the head detective and all.

Not that he felt like a head detective. He hadn’t solved a case in nearly a month. The last had been a shoddy affair—running across London to find a lost cat of all things. A woman had cropped up to the drab sign on the front door, knocked once, before barging in and demanding Ahmed’s services.

Ahmed, ever the one to pay bills, duly obliged, and proceeded with Yunus to burn God knows how many train fares in an attempt to locate the pesky feline.

In the end, it had been hiding at the woman’s house, after all. Well, not at the house, per se. More in the large forest behind the three-bedroom home, scavenging for rats and other treats amongst the foliage.

Ahmed had only realised when he caught sight of a scurry amongst the trees, and after a short investigation, the cat made its grand entrance, hobbling into the garden as if nothing was the matter.

The woman, rather peeved that her cat had been in plain sight the entire time, paid them half the promised amount.

Still, Ahmed was going to take it as long as it managed to eke them over the line for another month’s rent. And it did, just about.

This month, however, was a different affair. And Ahmed, despite not wanting to think about it, knew how dangerously close he was to dipping into another overdraft.

Ahmed combed through the headlines that morning. Nothing interesting about, he said, sipping his customary mug of coffee and setting the cup down again. It clattered, the sound hollow, as if mimicking Ahmed’s bank account.

Never is anything, is there? Yunus said.

The sarcasm doesn’t fit you.

Yunus turned to him, giving a side-glance. Of course it does. You just fail to see my genius in comedy.

Ahmed snorted. More like a comic failure.

Hey, I heard that.

You were meant to.

Yunus huffed, before turning back to his phone and scrolling through something. Probably Instagram, or Twitter, or whatever it was that young twenty-somethings were using nowadays.

Ahmed, in his early fourties, didn’t care for much social media. The only piece of tech he needed was his trusty dictaphone with the wired mic, which he carried in his overcoat’s inside pocket just in case. He wasn’t a famous ‘influencer’, anyway, and Yunus, more than once, had suggested they advertise their services online.

And get scammed? Ahmed had replied the last time Yunus brought the subject up. No, thank you.

Everyone’s using social media marketing, though.

Doesn’t matter. I’m not fiddling with that stuff. We get enough customers as it is.

Yunus had huffed and crossed his arms. There’s a course I can take that’ll teach you all about advertising. Facebook Ads, Twitter Ads, Google Ads.

Ahmed had slammed his coffee down. Then, "Seems like they’re advertising a scam to you."

Yunus merely turned away, face turning an odd tinge of red.

Here’s something, Yunus said, flinging Ahmed’s mind back to the present, back to the dreary office.

At the prospect of a new job, Ahmed was all game.

What is it? he asked.

Yunus rose from his seat and shifted to Ahmed’s desk. He shoved his phone under Ahmed’s eye. When Ahmed hadn’t bothered to read the headline—the blaring light of the smartphone was doing his head in—Yunus decided to elaborate.

Apparently, there was a murder last night, Yunus said. Details aren’t here, but a woman was found dead up in Mile End, near the station. Again, no details, but they suggest the murder happened really late last night. Station’s closed today for police to investigate. Yunus glanced at the teetering clock hung on the peeling wall, then at his watch. In fact, it was only about six hours ago, around three in the morning, the article says.

Ahmed’s heart lurched at that. A woman. Murdered.

Other visions surfaced to his mind, brimmed to the fore. Of the murder of his wife, a decade before. But he blocked those thoughts out, not willing to ponder on things that could never be changed. Whether it was their waning love, or the stark reality that he would never see her in this world again.

That is strange, Ahmed said, folding his newspaper and plodding it beside his steaming mug of coffee. They don’t usually slam a new headline within six hours. It must be something big. But they won’t say.

Seems like it, Yunus said, pocketing his phone once more. Guess we ain’t gonna get a case like that for a while.

You think? Ahmed laughed.

Yunus barked a laugh, too. Not a chance. Only cases we get are missing animals and odd requests to spy on people.

You never know, Yunus. Maybe our fate is turning around right this moment.

They both turned to stare at the front door, eyes expectant. But nothing met them except a shriek of wind outside and the shout of a woman screaming at someone to get out of the way. All typical noises on their side of East London, where grimaces held more hope than straight expressions and those on their last lease of life decided to make a new start.

Fancy getting some food? Ahmed said, fast noticing no one was coming through that grimy glass door. He’d have to get someone to clean the door—something else he couldn’t afford, a cleaner.

Aren’t we running low on money? Yunus asked.

Ahmed waved away the concerns with a hand. We’ll get the money somehow. Allah will provide, you know. For now, I want some chicken and chips.

Yunus wasn’t as enthusiastic to spend money, but he hopped to his feet and grabbed his jacket. I’m with you.

Never expected anything otherwise.

Ahmed wrapped his black, overcoat jacket around himself, ran a hand through his fraying hair, and grabbed the office keys. He turned, glanced around at his sorry excuse of an office. Heck, if he was a burglar he wouldn’t come in here, knowing there was nothing of value just by the state of the place.

You’re not leaving anything here, are you? Ahmed asked.

Yunus shook his head. Let’s just get something. I’m hungry.

Ahmed nodded, feeling the pangs start to rattle his stomach. Since he’d grown up on the east side of London, Ahmed loved fast food. It was his bread and butter, his peanut butter and jam, his Wallace and Gromit—although no one ate the last combination.

Any kind of fast food was the easiest way to Ahmed’s heart. His wife used to tell him every day to stop munching wings with side portions of chips every day, but Ahmed couldn’t help it. And despite the bucket loads of grease he was flinging into his stomach on a daily basis, he remained as slim at thirty-seven as the day he turned eighteen.

So, there was nothing to worry about, of course.

The bustling pavement welcomed their footsteps as Ahmed shut and locked the door, then tottered down the three small steps leading to a busy street. Bodies swarmed around them, and Ahmed finally noticed the source of the earlier screaming.

A woman, wearing what seemed office attire, was screaming at two young men, who had evidently spilled a drink on her—was that Coke, or Pepsi?

Definitely the one on the left, Yunus said, pointing at the boy with a suspiciously low amount of sloshing dark liquid in his bottle covered by a translucent bag.

Don’t point at them, Ahmed said, tugging Yunus’ arm down. They might chuck some at you. Ahmed turned, faced the rest of the street, ignoring the howls of the woman behind them. "Slimmy’s is waiting for us."

Slimmy’s was a chicken and chip and practically everything else unhealthy—they even had a slush machine in the corner—shop on the edge of Slim Street, the road Ahmed’s detective agency was based on. Ahmed, after moving into his office, shortly tried the famous hot wings Slimmy’s was known for.

And he fell in love all over again. The next time he’d gone, he tried a chicken meal, then a burger meal, then the different assortments of doners they had on offer.

Everything mesmerised him. And he was hooked. Whenever he needed a good meal, Slimmy’s was the place to go.

Although, it was an odd name for a shop housing fast food—not exactly the slimming selection for dinner. Not that Ahmed cared.

All right, Boss? Ahmed greeted with a raised hand as he entered the typical red shop. The walls were red, the seats were red, and the only other spots of colour were slashes of white cutting into the underside of tables or striped across the walls.

Ahmed felt a tingle race down his spine at the thought of a wings bucket between him and Yunus. He ordered a wings bucket, with two large servings of chips to freshen up the sides.

Yunus balked at the order, and said as much when they’d sat in their favourite booth in the corner, with a clear view onto the road and the pedestrians streaming past. But we’re running low on money, Yunus said.

And I said Allah will provide us money. We need food, don’t we?

We have a kitchen for a reason.

Ahmed raised an eyebrow, before grabbing the ketchup and mayonnaise and bringing it close to him. And which one of us knows how to cook?

I can learn. There’s some videos on YouTube—

You and your videos. I can just phone my aunt and tell her to teach you. She can make some nice curries.

Yunus’ eyes widened, and he shut his trap.

Serves him right, Ahmed thought. His Aunt Khadija was a nice woman, and she definitely meant well, but she practically smothered anyone who was a guest in her little flat not far from Ahmed’s office. She was the only living relative Ahmed had left, and he visited her on a weekly basis, more if he could.

Given his lack of jobs in recent times, he definitely could.

He’d taken Yunus with him on a few visits—and well, Yunus hadn’t liked the smothering and constant questions about when he planned to get married and whether he wanted to see any of the fifty brides Aunt Khadija had, for some odd reason, stored in her phone’s gallery.

Then, just as Ahmed was getting really into eating his wings, the taste indescribable, a shout rang from outside. Hurried and piercing the air. And a figure flashed past the window, blindingly quick.

There’s a thief, Yunus immediately said, standing to his feet.

How he had seen that in the flash of a second, Ahmed hadn’t a clue. Ahmed stared at him, blankly. Loads of thieves around here. Finish your food, man.

No, I’m running after him.

The bloody eagerness of youth.

A bag has been stolen, the cashier, Boss, said in an accented voice whilst turning to Ahmed. He knew Ahmed was a detective, and if Ahmed ruined his image in front of the locals, he’d never get a job again.

His business would be destroyed, and so would his life. And Slimmy’s would never serve him again for being too much of a coward.

Fine, Ahmed said, leaving his wings on the table and brushing his hands off. The grease still stuck, though, and he rushed into the open day and joined Yunus amongst the swirling bodies thrashing around them.

Up ahead, over the heads of the crowd, he spotted a figure running, wearing a dark jacket with something bobbing about in his hands.

I think that’s him, Ahmed said, pointing ahead.

Yunus nodded.

They both gave chase.

Chapter 2

Ahmed was breathing hard, as was Yunus, by the time they caught up to the thief. Ahmed had clawed back every ounce of energy he had. And Yunus, despite being young in age, hadn’t a bone of stamina in him.

Ahmed had lunged forwards and wrapped two arms around the thief’s legs, pulling him to the ground. Ahmed also invited, with the motion, a mouthful of dirt to stuff his cheeks. The thief had bolted into a park after the chase had wound on, and Yunus had slipped at the entrance, leaving Ahmed the only one to get the stolen item back.

And Ahmed had caught the thief. Finally. On a dirty patch of grass. Despite the tiredness now coursing through his veins.

He rolled the thief over, keeping a knee on his writhing legs, and grabbed what had been stolen. A little handbag, with gold around the edges of a logo Ahmed didn’t recognise. It seemed to be worth hundreds of pounds, possibly thousands, far more than anyone on this side of London could afford.

Perhaps the owner could give Ahmed some money for returning it to them. Maybe enough to get him over the line in terms of rent.

Fat chance of that happening, Ahmed thought. Anyone who owns a handbag like this ain’t giving anything.

You best get off, Ahmed said to the thief, who wriggled out from under him and sprinted to the other side of the park.

Why didn’t you get him? a voice said.

Ahmed whirled around to find, most likely, the owner of the handbag facing him. A mousy old woman wearing what posed as an elegant coat with a poppy plastered onto its white collar.

Behind her was Yunus, red in the face and with half his body caked in dirt and a slimy substance. Yunus was, visibly, holding back laughter as the woman rounded on Ahmed.

And give me back my bag, you cretin. Couldn’t even catch the vagrant.

No need to be rude about it, Ahmed said, shoving the handbag at the woman. No point asking for a payment now.

And no manners, too. Tut tut. Expected no less from a place like this. The woman huffed, before turning on her heels. I shall return to my journey into the central parts of London. Far better than the likes of this. Her nose wrinkled, and she trotted off to the edge of the park like a poodle, before disappearing into the next street.

Guess you never got the money you wanted, Yunus said, limping forwards. He smelt bad, too.

How did you know? Ahmed said.

You’re always thinking about money.

No, Ahmed corrected as they exited the park and their feet touched tarmac again. "I think about Slimmy’s, too."

Well, yeah, there is that.

They limped past the side road before entering the main high street again. The chase had lasted roughly ten minutes. And ten minutes of running through winding streets and narrow alleyways could lead far in East London.

How much do you think the handbag was worth? Ahmed asked as they crossed the pothole-ridden road, cars stopping only by necessity.

Yunus’ hair reflected off the dim light. Looked like hundreds. Maybe even thousands.

And she couldn’t even spare a bit of coin for us.

Yunus sighed. Who ever does? That’s why we need to expand.

Not this about your social media again. We’re detectives. We don’t run yoga classes or—I don’t know—a gaming store.

Why don’t you see what other detectives are doing? Yunus said. I see them all the time on Facebook and Instagram.

Fake detectives. They ain’t real. They just fake it for the fame, no doubt. Pretending to be private eyes like it’s a movie.

You’re too stubborn for your own good, you know.

And you still have the naivety that comes with inexperience. Ahmed pointed to the next road, a right turn that would lead back to their agency. Now, let us return.

On the way back, Ahmed passed Slimmy’s. But after the run, all thought of finishing his food left him, so he quickly popped in and told Boss to tidy it up and not worry about it. He also commented, rather off-handedly, that he’d found the handbag, to which Boss thanked him.

A surprise, considering Boss was usually a deadpan uncle frying food for likely below minimum wage, as many people did in these parts.

And when they did return to the detective agency, another surprise met them. Someone waiting outside their front door.

A job? Ahmed thought. This really is a day of changing tides.

Ahmed rushed up the steps towards the man in the dark-brown coat that was buttoned to prescription. He wore dark glasses, tinted so the eyes weren’t visible. And his trousers looked tailoured beyond anything Ahmed could afford, in a checkered pattern reminiscent of suits.

As Ahmed hit the last step, his hand outstretched. Sorry to keep you waiting, Ahmed said, shaking the man’s hand. The man looked utterly bemused, but accepted the offered palm anyway.

Ahmed unlocked the door as Yunus greeted the man before swinging it open—the door suspiciously shuddered with raining dust—and letting them all inside.

Ahmed paused once inside the office. It was an absolute mess, with papers strewn everywhere, litter across the floor, and the suspicious smell of pot noodle leftovers lingering from the bin they hadn’t been bothered to take out. Not exactly what he wished to show a potential customer.

He hurriedly swept some files across his desk, with his back to the man, and shoved them in a drawer.

How can I help you? Ahmed said, wiping a lock of hair away from his eyes before taking a seat. He offered the chair opposite him, but the man opted to stand. Up close, and now away from the blaring light of the sun behind the clouds, the man’s face looked haunted, cheeks gaunt, eyes sunken in, with bags holding them up as if the man hadn’t the will to keep his eyes open.

Ahmed realised this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill case. It was something far greater, something potentially dangerous.

Something lucrative.

And Ahmed was all for it.

Yunus perched in his little chair before the coffee table as the man began speaking, eyes intently watching the man.

I need you to investigate a murder, the man said, cutting right to the chase. And a potential kidnapping related to it.

Kidnapping? Ahmed asked. He rubbed his chin in thought. He might’ve expected the murder mystery, but a kidnapping connected to it threw a wrench in the works.

Who’s the victim? Ahmed asked, placing both hands onto his desk and clasping them.

My…my wife. She was…well…. The man’s voice trailed off.

Ahmed resisted the all-of-a-sudden urge to retch and let the bile creep back down his throat. His heart rammed into his ribs like missiles of hurt. It’s okay, he said, more to himself than the man. Because he’d suffered a similar loss of family, and knew the heartbreak that accompanied it.

He let the man process his emotions once more. Like a dealer collecting cards and shuffling them back into the deck, the man gathered his emotions and stared at Ahmed once again with those gaunt eyes.

Ahmed waited for the man to speak more. And a few seconds later, his voice operated again.

I have an idea as to who could’ve done it, the man said.

Ahmed leaned forward. I trust I’ll be paid well enough for this. As much as he wished to help anyone who’d