SLAUGHTER OF INNOCENTS

by M. G. Cole

  Finally, the woman spoke up.

  “You have come at a bad time. We have had a death.” She gestured to a caravan parked the furthest from the others.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “How we deal with death is different from you, sir.”

  “I apologise. I don’t mean to be insensitive, but the investigation really can’t wait.”

  The woman gave a curt nod. “And I reckon it’ll be no good you freezing to death standing there. I doesn’t say a lot about Romani hospitality does it.” She turned and barked a few words at the crowd. A pair of stools appeared close to the fire. A mug of brown tea was thrust in his hand. The rest of the community disappeared like smoke in the wind.

  The woman pulled a shawl tighter around her neck and gestured to the fire.

  “Sit by the yog. Let it take the chill.”

  He sat down, luxuriating in the waves of heat from the fire. The woman joined him. Up close, he could see her skin was smooth, making her look far younger than she was. Streaks of grey ran through her wavey black hair, and she was just as attractive now as she must have been two decades ago.

  “David?”

  “DCI David Garrick. And you?”

  “Kezia.”

  “This is your community?”

  “My husband’s. But he is not here.”

  Garrick sipped the tea as he waited for her to elaborate. It was extremely sweet, with a syrupy thickness he hoped was honey. Whatever it was, it kissed his throat and warmed him to the bones. When no further explanation was forthcoming, he pressed on.

  “Tell me about the girl.”

  Kezia folded her hands over her lap and eyed him thoughtfully. “Jamal became part of our community, despite being a gadji. Folks took a shine to her, and she worked hard.”

  “Do you often help refugees?”

  Kezia shook her head fiercely. “We have problems of our own, without inviting them from others.”

  “What work did she do?”

  “There are always jobs to be done,’ she replied cagily. “And she never complained.”

  “Tell me how she came here.”

  “September last. We was out Hythe way, and she was half starved. Manfri found her. He’s a soft heart, that lad. Despite what you hear about us, we’re not animals. Especially, when it comes to leaving a pretty young rakli to her fate.”

  “Forgive my ignorance, but don’t you people travel across the country? Hythe to here isn’t just journey.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe it is time to move on.”

  “So she stayed with you.”

  “She stayed with Manfri.”

  “Her boyfriend?” He was quickly learning that uncovering out details was going to be like extracting teeth.

  Kezia chuckled. “That he would think himself, for sure. Marriage is the way with us, but Jamal was maybe too strong-minded for that.”

  Garrick looked around. There was no sign of anybody, yet he got the distinct impression he was being watched. “May I speak with Manfri?”

  “When he returns, you might.”

  “Where has he gone?”

  “I told you this is not a good time, sir. It is Manfri’s tata who died.” She indicated to the far caravan again. “Manfri was afraid, so he gone.”

  Questions queued up in Garrick’s mind, but each one would need to be fished out with patience. He sipped his drink and made appreciative noises.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. How did he die?”

  Kezia tapped her heart with a balled-up fist. “This stopped dead. Duke was never shy of shouting his opinions to whoever would listen, and most who didn’t want to. He held some influence here…” Whatever those opinions were, she stop herself from explaining.

  “What is Manfri afraid of?”

  “Marimé.” She tilted her head as she assessed him. “We have a certain understanding with dead. It’s impure, a stigma. And when it graces a family, the impurity becomes infectious. That is marimé. We don’t bathe until after the funeral. And you don’t touch the body until they’re laid below. Lest they come back.”

  Garrick followed her gaze to the caravan and now understood why it had been moved aside. The body must still be there, threatening to spread its curse across the community. John had warned him they were a superstitious lot.

  “I understand. So Manfri is trying to avoid a similar fate.”

  “Aye. And he is also tasked with arranging the funeral.” She said that with a slight smile, which was broadened by Garrick’s embarrassment. “He’ll be buried Monday afternoon. Over there,” she tilted her head in the direction of the village. “A proper catholic burial, mind. That’s when you can see him.”

  “Monday? I’m afraid I can’t wait that long.” A whole weekend was a lifetime for the investigation.

  “Nevertheless, that’s when you’ll see him. That’s when I’ll catch him too.”

  “Does he have a phone?” She shook her head. “Do you have a photograph? I can put a search out for him. We need to speak with him about Jamal.” Kezia firmly shook her head. Garrick bit back his frustration, it wouldn’t help to start an argument.

  As if sensing that, Kezia gently touched his knee and looked him straight in the eye. “Manfri is a good lad, sir. If he runs when he sees you coming, it’s because he’s trying to protect you. Death follows him.”

  It was a matter-of-fact statement. She removed her hand.

  “When did he last see Jamal?”

  “You’ll have to ask him. I saw her that morning. As bright a thing as ever.”

  “Did she have plans for the day?”

  “The usual,” she replied vaguely. She stared at the flames, then finally continued. “She was excited about moving on.”

  “You were all moving or…?”

  “Moving on with her life. She had sought asylum.”

  “At the risk of being deported if it didn’t happen?”

  “I said as such. I didn’t want to see that happen. She could always stay here as one of us.”

  “Manfri must not have been happy about that?”

  Kezia’s gaze didn’t stray from the flames. Once again, Garrick gave himself a mental kick. She would not be led by such clumsy questions, and his technique was rusty. He quickly changed tact.

  “Did she have any friends or work colleagues outside the community?”

  “So spoke with people, I believe. I only know of a lorry driver, the one who bought her over. She had stayed friendly with him.” Garrick forced himself to remain calm and took another sip of the invigorating tea.

  “She brought him here one time.” A look of disgust flashed across her face. “There was a terrible argument…”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  She nodded. “Mircea. A Romanian. A nasty piece of work.”

  Garrick’s heart skipped a beat. A connection at last. He tried not to let his excitement show.

  “But he saved her life surely, by bringing her over.”

  “He used her.”

  “How?”

  “Manfri wanted to kill him. He was not welcome back.”

  She lapsed into silence and looked at Garrick. He emptied his cup and had the overwhelming feeling that his time was up. He placed the cup into the snow.

  “Thank you for your hospitality and sharing what you know.” He stood. Kezia remained seated.

  “Jamal may not have been Romani, sir. But she was one of us. Her death has touched us all, and we will all pray that you find who did that to her.”

  Garrick nodded solemnly. “I intend to. You said she lived with Manfri.” He swept his gaze across the caravans. “It would be helpful if I could see where she slept.”

  Kezia treated him to another one of her long, hawkish silences. Then he followed her gaze to the outlying caravan, and she gave a nod.

  “You go in, then I can’t speak with you again until after the funeral.”

  Garrick nodded in understanding. He took a few steps towards the caravan when she called o
ut again.

  “I’ll pray you find who did this, sir. And you are welcome back, when the time is right.”

  Garrick realised he had, somehow, taken a step over the threshold of, if not acceptance, certainly tolerance. Before he turned away, another question struck him.

  “How did you know Jamal had been murdered?” Her identity had not been revealed to the media.

  Kezia gave an enigmatic shrug. “News travels, bad news doubly so. People talk and we are always listening.”

  15

  There was every chance that the stale scent of death was woven into the fabric of the caravan long before Duke had died. The only light struggled through the dirt-encrusted windows and was further tempered by nicotine-stained net curtains. It was cooler inside the cramped space than outside, and Garrick’s every breath came in a puff of vapour.

  The caravan layout was much the same as every other one Garrick had stayed in with his sister and parents as they sat shivering on some bleak shingle beach in Wales. That’s what had usually passed for a holiday back then. It wasn’t designed as a pleasure, but more of a punishment to prevent them complaining about what little they had back home. It was always a spot in Wales that was bleaker than his native Liverpool home. A week was just enough to grind down their enthusiasm and make them all eager to return home. Then another year would pass before the threat of another holiday loomed.

  Duke had been laid out on the bed, dressed in a suit. He was over six foot and heavy set. Garrick imagined that in life he would have made for an imposing figure. His dark hair was tinged with white and receding. No attempt had been made to comb it after death.

  Somebody has folded his arms across his chest. There had been no effort made to imbue him with fake life, with a mortician’s makeover. His skin was as leaden as the walls. Sallow cheeks pulled the side of his lip up in a rictus sneer, as if displaying his contempt for death and revealing teeth stained black and yellow from years of neglect. Garrick noted his hands were overly large and folded together. The backs of them scarred and weather-beaten. There was no jewellery, but pale bands of pinched skin showed every finger had carried at least one for many years. His shoes were polished, indicating some pride, although the souls had worn as thin. Garrick wondered if that was some cosmic pun for the state of the man’s own soul.

  The bed took up the back space where a table would normally sit. In the middle was a small bathroom and toilet, opposite which lay a tiny plastic kitchen worktop, sink and two gas burners. The front of the caravan had a smaller mattress propped up on plastic crates. It could be partitioned by brown shower curtains which hung limply from a plastic rail on the ceiling. Garrick assumed this was the area Manfri and Jamal slept. There was scant hope for privacy, and Garrick wondered how the young girl could have felt at home with someone like Duke sleeping mere feet away.

  He was viewing that from the luxury of a first-world western eye; he reminded himself. It was already clear that Romani attitudes were very different. And from the point of view of a refugee, this grim caravan was a palace.

  There was a distinct lack of personal items. Even the beds had no blankets, just the bare mattresses which had occasional dark stains that no doubt contributed to the smell. Had Kezia not told him this was the home of three people, he would have guessed that it was an empty caravan used to store corpses. He diligently checked under the mattress. The plastic storage boxes formed a base. They were all empty.

  The drawers in the kitchen, the cupboards, and the narrow wardrobe space were likewise vacant, expunged of personality and lives once lived.

  And drugs.

  From the way the caravan had been cleared, Garrick doubted even a skilled forensic team would find a trace of cocaine. And if Jamal had been coerced in to selling it, she would have surely kept such valuable merchandise close.

  Garrick was at ease around death. It was all part of the job, yet there was something about the cloying atmosphere that felt creepy. Perhaps compounded by the Romani’s superstitions, he was glad to leave.

  The snow was falling heavier as he marched back across the site. Kezia had gone and several travellers had emerged once more, and stood around the bonfire, soaking in the warmth. They eyed him with curiosity, but not hostility. Drinking with Kezia had obviously afforded him some acceptance.

  He stopped near a young woman cradling her baby, only belatedly noticing she was openly breastfeeding in the cold. Garrick wasn’t such a prude to be shocked, but he was embarrassed that he’d selected her to talk to.

  “Excuse me. Kezia told me Manfri and Jamal lived with Duke.” He indicated to the caravan. That got a nod from the woman. He saw through an open door of the woman’s own trailer. It was crammed with personal effects. “Where are their things? Their personal possessions? I didn’t see any.”

  The girl’s gaze slid to the bonfire. Garrick wondered what he had said that deserved to be ignored. Then he noticed that some things had just been added to the fire. As he watched, flames consumed the sleeve of a jacket. A box and a wooden picture frame were destroyed in seconds. And he realised she had answered him.

  “They’ve been burned?” he asked incredulously.

  The woman gave a small smile. “As is tradition. The dead don’t need them now, and the living won’t touch them.”

  With a sinking feeling, Garrick watched the flames swatting falling snowflakes as they destroyed evidence of Jamal’s life with the Travellers.

  16

  Garrick’s investigations with the Romani Travellers had offered nothing more than tantalizing hints. Jamal had stayed with them, but any evidence of her time there had been erased. That only left Manfri as a direct line of information about her relationship with the Romani, and he had fled, fearing the repercussions of passing the taint of death on to the others. Or at least that was a convenient excuse to go into hiding.

  On the drive back to the incident room, Garrick had contemplated officially bringing in the Travellers for questioning, but suspected they would clamp up and that would shatter the fragile trust he had established. Kezia had told him Manfri would surface for the funeral on Monday afternoon. Two days was too long to wait… and yet…

  Instead, he put out a request on the radio for any officer who encountered a young Romani man to let him know. Without a description, it was an impossible ask, but he was clutching at straws.

  Mircea had been to the Traveller’s community and something had occurred that made him unwelcome. Did they resent the fact he was forcing Jamal to sell drugs? Had she been trying to extricate herself from her debt to him and using the Travellers support? Again he felt the answers lay with Manfri.

  Kezia had used the term gadji. It had taken him a little time on the internet to discover that meant ‘non-Romani’. She had been adamant that they rarely helped others, so he was at a loss as to how the first victim could also be connected to the Travellers.

  He was in the office kitchenette, waiting for the kettle to boil, as he filled DS Okon in. After being forced to call the search off mid-morning because of the increasing snowfall. Under the snow, they had found a patch of bloodstained grass, indicating substantial bleeding, but it didn’t match Jamal’s.

  Back in the incident room, she had decided to run through both Thorpe and Mircea’s statements to see if she could uncover any discrepancies. They had both been annoyingly consistent.

  “Without Manfri, we are going nowhere,” he sighed.

  Chib was only half-listening “We only have her word for how Duke died.”

  “What?”

  “Duke. Heart failure. Let’s throw some baseless accusations against the wall and see what sticks. He was angry at his son for shacking up with a… what did she call her?”

  “Gadji.”

  “You said they are traditionalists, so maybe that really irked him.”

  Garrick picked up the kettle and poured the water over the matcha green tea bag in his mug. “So he argues with his son.”

  “Or he argues with her? A man of his sta
tus in the community doesn’t want the others overhearing this family argument…”

  “So they do it a short walk away. On Castle Hill.”

  “Something happens. He tries to kill her in a fit of passion and she runs. He follows. Kills her.”

  Garrick replaced the kettle and began stirring the tea. He stared at the wall, imaging her hypothesis playing out.

  “Wonderful. Perfect. And completely without evidence.”

  “It might explain why Manfri really went into hiding?”

  Garrick nodded. “And the entire community is covering it over.”

  Chib shrugged. “We’ll never know without an autopsy.”

  “And we’ll never have an autopsy without reasonable suspicion. And no, before you suggest it, we are not going to exhume the body and do one on the side.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind, sir.” It clearly had.

  Garrick hid his smile, he was beginning to understand Chub’s unconventional thinking. She’s going to go far.

  “None of that explains why she went straight from Peter Thorpe to Castle Hill, with drugs she didn’t want to sell. And we have a chasm about what connects the two victims. Other than our trucker friend being close to both incidents, and the skin being cut from them.”

  “I have been thinking about that. What if they’re not connected?” Garrick continued stirring his tea and prompted her to continue. “Two separate murders, except the second one is a copycat to throw more confusion on the investigation.”

  It was a theory he hated, but it was the one that had the most merit. If true, that would mean there were two killers out there.

  “Both our suspects’ solicitors are demanding we release them if we’re not pressing charges.”

  “They can wait until Monday.”

  “If we really don’t press charges then…”

  “Then holding them for the full ninety-six ours will bite us in the arse, I know. But that gives us to the end of the day Monday. Just after the funeral, if Manfri decides to show up.” He saw the look on her face. “What is it?”

  “Interviewing a witness immediately after he’s buried his father… I can’t think of worse timing.”