by Chris Simms
He kept his face averted and his eyes slowly shut.
‘OK,’ Alice whispered. ‘You take it easy.’
Back out in the corridor, there was no sign of Garrett. She hurried round to bay three, reaching for the pouch of tobacco in her pocket. A white man with an unruly mop of red hair was in Nathaniel’s bed. Realising she was staring, mouth open, Alice peeled her eyes away.
Garrett was sitting on his bed, one leg hanging over the edge. The bottle of Ribena was on his bedside table.
‘Where’s Nathaniel Musoso?’ she demanded.
‘Who?’
‘The man who was in this bed.’
‘The oonga-boonga with the slashed-up arms? Group 4 took him.’
Group 4, she thought. The private security firm the Home Office often used for enforced deportations. ‘When?’ She realised one of his hands had strayed down to the front of his tracksuit trousers. His fingers were probing around.
‘Late last night,’ he grinned.
Turning on her heel, Alice marched back round to the front desk. Just before it, she passed the door to the medication room. She noticed its upper half was open and looked in. Two nurses were inside, placing little pots of pills into the drawers of a trolley that was chained to the wall. Keys jangled as one of them unlocked a wall cabinet and withdrew a large box. ‘Let’s just put the diazepam in the bottom. We can dish it out straight from there.’
‘Excuse me,’ Alice announced. ‘The assistant who let me in, he didn’t say Nathaniel Musoso was no longer here.’
The woman slid the box into the compartment at the base of the trolley then looked up. ‘Which one was he?’
‘He was in bay three.’
‘Oh, him. He was transferred.’
‘Where to?’
The nurse straightened up. ‘Yarl’s Wood.’
Alice closed her eyes for a moment. The immigration removal centre in Bedfordshire. ‘He wasn’t well. How . . . who the hell authorised that?’
The nurse was looking embarrassed. ‘Erm, it was Dr Braithwaite. He signed the forms.’
Phillip? Alice swallowed, waiting until she could be sure her voice was under control. ‘Could I use a visitors’ room, please?’
‘The one opposite the Games Room is free.’
Alice let herself into the windowless room, took her mobile out and called Phillip’s number. ‘How could you? How could you do that to that man?’
She heard him cough and his voice was muffled. ‘Excuse me for a moment, I need to take this call.’ His voice came back on the line, now much clearer. ‘You’re talking about Musoso?’
‘He had PTSD. He was self-harming. You knew these things.’
‘Alice, Yarl’s Wood has its own mental health facility. He’ll be cared for there.’
‘Cared for? Yarl’s Wood is a fucking prison. The solicitors’ reports we have for cases of abuse and brutality by the staff there fills a bloody filing cabinet in our office. There’s attempted suicides all the time. Cared for. Who are you trying to fool, Phillip?’
He kept his voice down, irritation underpinning each word. ‘Who was paying for that man’s care in our unit, Alice?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you. It wasn’t the Home Office. It wasn’t social services. And it wasn’t the Local Authority. We were paying, Alice. Our Primary Care Trust. We do not have the money. The Home Office was prepared to take him, so I gave my consent.’
‘He was in no fit state.’
‘It was him or that J. Smith character. Derbyshire PCT pays for two beds in the unit, Alice. Cash up-front, each quarter. They needed one of them, so someone had to go. Musoso’s claim has been turned down. So, I gather, have repeated appeals.’
Alice felt like she was about to cry. It was all so fucking hopeless. ‘But he was ill,’ she croaked.
‘That, if I may say, is not a matter you’re qualified to judge upon.’
‘Oh, come on: it was obvious. You did assess him, didn’t you?’
‘I’m not getting into this.’
‘Did you assess him?’
‘I’m in the middle of a clinic at the moment.’
Yeah, Alice thought. Your private clinic out in Hale. Quids in there, aren’t you? ‘You didn’t, did you?’
‘We’ll talk later. Goodbye.’
The line went dead and Alice turned to press her forehead against the wall. She thought about Nathaniel in the bed, knees drawn up in a foetal position. The poor man probably wasn’t even in the country any longer. What would become of him? I’ll probably never find out, she concluded, tears starting to well up. No, she thought, finding a tissue and dabbing at her eyes. You’re no good to anyone like this. You lost Nathaniel, but there’s someone else on this unit who needs your help. So stop the bloody crying.
Once she composed herself, she stepped back out into the corridor and returned to the meds room. ‘Sorry to bother you again, but what about the other foreign national on the unit? The one in the last room?’
The nurse was attaching a printed sheet of A4 to a clipboard. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘We’re still waiting for the file.’
‘Still? Who’s sending it?’
‘Liverpool. The Royal University Hospital.’
‘So why did this unit get the referral?’
‘Luck of the draw – otherwise known as the National Dispersal Scheme.’
Of course, Alice thought. Government has the power to allocate asylum seekers all round the country. ‘Well, they’re taking their time with the file. Is there anything I could do to help? Maybe chase it up for you?’
The nurse was bowed over the list of names, double-checking the pills in each pot. ‘Be my guest.’
Fifteen
‘You won’t believe this,’ Rick murmured, eyes on the screen of his computer.
Jon looked across at his partner, his own computer midway through printing out a document. ‘What’ve you got?’
‘Two more letters have been found in ducks. All the major news providers are now reporting on them. First one follows on from the last one they printed, the other jumps forward a bit.’
Jon leaned back in his seat. Christ, we’re meant to be looking into the murdered Russians and any links to the freight company in London the victim out in Runcorn phoned. ‘Rick. Lloyd’s Register of Shipping? What happened to that?’
‘Oh, yeah. Sorry. I’ve found eight vessels owned by his company so far. But he’s a sneaky bastard . . .’ He paused. ‘You sure you don’t want to hear what the latest letters say?’
Jon took a sip of coffee, ran his tongue across the backs of his teeth and swallowed. ‘Of course I bloody do.’
Rick’s eyebrow arched as he reached for his mouse. ‘Thought so. Last letter to be found was number four, right?’
Jon nodded. ‘Yup. Down to fifteen survivors from the original twenty-one, the best part of two days spent standing knee-deep in sea water.’
‘OK,’ Rick replied. ‘So a letter marked number five was found on a beach near Salcombe yesterday afternoon.’
‘Salcombe?’
‘On the south coast, not far from Plymouth.’ He took a deep breath and started reading.
L E T T E R F I V E
This, our second day after being abandoned, I have noticed the people are becoming into groups. The only language is English, though the five men from the east do not speak any. They stand at the other end of the raft and they whisper and frown. I fear what is in their eyes.
In the group I am in, there is Ali, Khadom and Qais from Baghdad, Mehdi and Parviz from Iran. Also staying close to us is the old man and woman. He speaks a small amount of English. They are Uighur Muslims from the corner of China and the government destroyed their home. Last in our group is the boy, Jîno. He will not talk.
The man with the throat scars guards the drum.
Everyone is tired and little is said now. The sun often breaks through the clouds and there is only the sound of water as it surges and falls
through the many gaps in the raft.
Parviz explained this is its weakness and its strength. Though we always are wet, the raft cannot sink.
My feet hurt me all the time and I long to sit. Hunger and thirst are becoming worse. Writing these letters keeps my mind from black thoughts.
The eastern men demanded more food this afternoon, but our group refused. We cannot tell when a ship will find us and there is so little – some packets of noodles, dates, sweets and less than five bottles of drink.
Sunset and the wind has just blown strange jellyfish among the ducks which float around our raft. Their pale blue colour reminded me of the balloons in the soldiers’ base in the Green Zone when there was held a party. One of the eastern men lifted one up, then screamed and dropped it. Everyone kept back until the wind blew the animals away. The man has very bad pain.
All day we drift with the sea, unable to know our direction. For those who are Muslims, there is no way to know which direction is Mecca for their prayers. Only now when the sun nears the horizon it is possible to tell. The wind is moving us north.
A passing detective, one hand clutching a sausage and egg sandwich, paused at their desks. ‘Don’t tell me you believe that shit?’
Jon glanced up at him. ‘Hard to say.’
The man took a bite, his words distorted by the food in his mouth. ‘Someone is pissing themselves with laughter over this. Notes in fucking ducks.’ He chewed for a bit then pointed the remains of his sandwich at Rick’s monitor. ‘You know how the Express is offering a grand for every letter? Think I might scribble a few myself. I fancy a break in the Caribbean this year.’ He placed the crust into its greaseproof wrapper and dropped it in Jon’s bin. Shaking his head, he continued on his way.
Jon waited for him to go before turning back to Rick. ‘The Green Zone? So she was working in Baghdad. You’ve got to go through all sorts of security checks to get in there. Surely they can—’
Rick cut in. ‘No one knows her name because she doesn’t sign the letters. The editorial here pointed out the same thing.’
Jon was gazing at a point above Rick’s head. ‘Didn’t the ducks have a company name printed on them? Aren’t the papers trying to trace it?’
‘Yes. This report says there’s a particular town in China where these sorts of items are made. The Kyou Corporation is located there. They made a batch of rubber ducks with the serial codes these ones have on them last year. But they failed to get a safety kitemark for sale in Europe and the States. Something to do with the paint used. The lot were meant to have been destroyed.’
‘What does the next letter say?’
‘It was found yesterday by some kids on Tramore Beach . . .’
‘County Waterford?’ Jon interrupted.
‘What?’
‘County Waterford. In Ireland?’
‘Yeah, it says Ireland.’
‘These ducks are getting everywhere.’
‘Wherever the currents take them, I suppose. Anyway, it’s number twelve, so it jumps forward a bit.’ He leaned closer to the screen and licked his lips.
L E T T E R T W E L V E
Afternoon. The sea just broke into activity. Tiny fish, fleeing from a dark shadow below. Many leaped onto our raft in panic and we fell on them, squeezing our cheeks full. More we wrapped in clothes. I saw Ali chasing one with his fingers, many tails sticking from his lips. I pointed at this and we laughed together at our luck.
Once we had eaten, Ali and I lay back down and talked of food once more. It’s all we can think about. Ali described tashreab – the rich tomato sauce poured over two pieces of flat bread. I spoke of sha’ar benat – how the soft, pink lumps would melt in my mouth.
Ali told me they have this too in Great Britain. It is called candy floss. I am so desperate to make a new life there, to not be afraid all the time. I know they read Arabian Nights to their children, too. At Christmas they even have plays about Aladdin. Ali says they also keep pigeons, in cages on roofs, like at home. We smiled at memories of the birds, rising in the evenings over Baghdad, the whistles as the old men called them back.
I miss the sounds of birds. The bulbul’s song. The Americans cut down all the trees, saying their enemies could hide in them. Their tanks tore up the pavements and knocked down all our traffic lights and street signs.
The edges of where Ali was bitten have grown angry and the wound bulges out.
Jon let out a long stream of air through both nostrils. ‘They were heading for Britain. Their destination was here. If they weren’t abandoned too far away, perhaps they made it.’
Rick shook his head. ‘Those jellyfish she describes in the earlier letter? The paper reckons they were Portuguese men-of- war. Rarely found north of the Bay of Biscay, which is bloody miles away. Plus, the actual ducks look like they’ve been drifting for weeks, apparently. Face it, whoever wrote those notes is fish food by now. You heard what Marlow said, no one knows how many people trying to get here end up at the bottom of the sea.’
As Jon tilted his head back, he noticed the massed dots that seemed to be spreading like some form of mould within the casing of the strip light above. Moths, lured in by the fluorescent glow. He wondered briefly how long it had taken the insects to die. ‘Fish. Maybe the poor bastards caught enough from the sea to survive.’ He glanced at the bin where the other detective had just casually tossed his crusts. ‘How much food do you need each day to survive? Surely someone would have spotted these people sooner or later?’
Rick nodded. ‘You’d have thought so. I’m sure more notes will show up now they’re offering a reward for them. They reckon all the ducks have been washed ashore now.’
Jon drained his coffee. ‘So, what’s the score with this freight company’s ships?’
‘Well, according to the person at Lloyd’s I spoke to, it’s common practice in the freight business to charter vessels to yourself.’
‘Why?’
‘Tax avoidance, circumventing government regulations, keeping the crews’ wages down. Our man’s company is registered in the Ukrainian port of Odessa, though his commercial office is in London.’
Jon crossed his arms. ‘Carry on.’
‘And he’s doing business all over the world – I know that from the ships I’ve tracked down so far.’
‘Whereabouts?’
Rick held up a hand and started counting off fingers. ‘Pakistan, Hong Kong, Indonesia, Russia, New Zealand, the Bahamas. What you do is set up a corporation in each country and register a ship under that country’s flag. You then lease the ship back to yourself, thereby avoiding all the costs incurred by operating as a foreign company in that country.’
‘That figures,’ Jon replied, picking up a printout. ‘Especially since our man only offers tramp services.’
‘Those being?’ Rick asked.
‘According to this government website a tramp vessel,’ he turned to the sheet, ‘“operates entirely according to the demands of the freight shipments.” It’s an unscheduled service with no fixed itinerary. Basically, you want to shift a load of TVs to India? Contact this guy and he’ll give you a quote. He also provides secondary services like customs clearance and inventory management as well as sorting documentation issues like Bills of Lading.’
‘Bills of what?’
‘Lading. It’s a nautical term, mate.’ Jon grinned, putting on a Cornish accent. ‘You’ve got your Bills of Lading and your Consignor. He places the freight with your shipper. Then there’s your Consignee who’ll be waiting for his freight. You’ve got your deep-sea trade routes, your international waterways, your stowage and your dunnage. It’s a whole different language, my hearty.’
Rick winced. ‘Where did you learn all that?’
‘My old man. From working on the docks.’
‘Well, beam me up, cap’n.’
Jon rolled his eyes. ‘When did we jump to bloody Star Trek? Anyway, it’s “beam me up, Scotty”. And it’s “master” on merchant navy ships, not “captain”.’
‘Whatever,’ Rick replied, head turned to his computer once again.
‘How many ships did you say he’s operating?’ Jon asked.
‘I’ve found eight so far. The Adria, Baden Star, Hai Maru, King Olav III, Oxus, the Lesya Ukrayinka, Camito Princess and Karanchi.’
‘Sounds like the two forty at Epsom.’
Rick smiled. ‘Could be more, too. It’s tracing them back to his company where it gets tricky.’
Jon rested his hands on the arms of his chair. ‘The murder victims claimed the ship that set them down had set off from St Petersburg, where one of them worked as a journalist. If it dumped them in the Irish Channel, as they claimed, where was it bound for? Cardiff ? Liverpool? Dublin?’
‘Could have been headed straight for the States. Caribbean, central America. Anywhere.’
Jon nodded. ‘We could do with trying to map his ships’ itineraries.’ He opened up a new screen and stared at the introductory paragraphs of the Ukrainian’s website.
We have the honour to introduce you to Myko Enterprises. Just a brief perusal will allow you to ascertain the professionalism of our service – which allows for the quick dispatch of operations 365 days a year.
We have an intimate knowledge of the world’s major ports and renowned connections with container terminal officials therein. Consequently, we are confident of our position to secure agreements with officials to grant you a discount on your containers’ fees.
Jon sighed. ‘This company has dodgy written all over it.’
‘You still want to meet the man in person?’ Rick asked.
‘Is there any other way?’ Jon replied, getting up and stepping over to a nearby printer. He stacked the sheets of paper with the others on his desk and slid the lot into a perspex sleeve.
‘Shouldn’t we put a call into the Met? Let them know we’re heading onto their patch to question a suspect?’