by Wonny Lea
She was now amazingly calm and rested her head on the back of her chair. Martin quietly asked her if she knew which of the men had killed her brother.
‘The big one, the guard. When he was minding us he used to shave blobs of paint off the walls with this thing that looked like a cheese wire with wooden handles – I guess he was bored, it seemed to amuse him. I’m sure that’s what he used to kill Dalmar. Although there are two others who are not without responsibility in my brother’s death.’
‘Two?’ questioned Martin.
‘Yes, the man who wanted to possess my brother – and me.’
‘You can’t possibly hold yourself responsible. You did what anyone would’ve done in the circumstances.’
‘It would have been agony to watch the trauma and humiliation of my brother being sodomised, but he would still be alive. I shouldn’t have intervened.’
Martin realised that she had been living for eleven years with that thought, and he wasn’t sure if anything he said would be of any help, but he had to try.
‘I would have done exactly what you did. There’s absolutely no doubt in my mind. And your love for your brother may be the thing that finally brings his killer to justice. Your memorial stones demonstrate how much you care, and they’re what brought us to this point.’
Martin suddenly remembered something. ‘What did you mean when you said you’d been waiting for me?’
‘Not you personally.’ Basra smiled sadly. ‘I just knew that if someone found me, wanted to talk to me, they would be looking for the truth.’
‘What happened to you after your brother was killed?’ asked Martin.
‘I discovered that charities aren’t always all they seem. It’s not unusual for families in Somalia, and other desperately poor countries, to pay large sums of money, usually to unscrupulous people, so that their relatives can have the chance of a better life. Some people are the ones you read about in the news, hidden in trucks … others are transported by more devious means, like the charity that was supposed to help me. It’s not unusual for people to get … lost … in transit. There are bad apples everywhere, DCI Phelps. The people who brought me into the country had no compassion for the people of Somalia – even though many of them were Somalis too. They use the organisation to fill their pockets. It makes me sick to think of how many of their own people have suffered for their financial gain. They are evil and have to be stopped.’
DCI Phelps could barely comprehend what he was hearing and asked Basra to go back a bit.
‘After Dalmar was killed I was too shocked to really know what was happening, but I do remember the veiled woman arriving and taking control. The other Somalis were taken off somewhere immediately, and I’ve never seen them since – although I’ve seen some of their photographs in the charity’s campaign leaflets.
‘Nothing else happened for a while and I know I just lay on the floor and sobbed. Then a small van arrived and after the woman had spoken to the driver I was bundled into the back. By then I thought I was prepared for anything, but not the fact that my brother’s body, stripped naked, would be thrown in alongside me.
‘I had no fight left in me, and in the darkness of the van I couldn’t see Dalmar’s mutilated body so was strangely comforted by his presence. God knows how far we travelled and from time to time I heard raised voices from the front of the van. They were not speaking English but arguing in Somali. Cardiff was mentioned several times, but it wasn’t a place I had ever heard of, so it meant nothing to me. Quite suddenly the van stopped and the front passenger got out and opened the back door. As if he was handling a piece of meat he lifted Dalmar up and just dumped him on the ground, and I know it’s bizarre, he was already dead, but I remember thinking it was so cold and yet he had nothing on – I was still in shock. The place Dalmar’s body was dumped is where I go to think of him and, as you know, where I’ve placed a stone every year in memory of his life.
‘I was dumped with only a little more dignity than my brother, outside a block of flats in Cardiff, but at least I was alive. If I’d been them I would have killed me immediately following my brother’s murder, but they must have panicked and decided that the only course of action was to follow the original plan and at least get one of us to Cardiff.
‘I was outside the home of a woman called Elmi, and although she and her husband were expecting both me and my brother, they didn’t seem surprised that only one of us had arrived. I told her what had happened to Dalmar and she just shook her head.’
‘Almost immediately knew I was with some good people. Days and possibly weeks went by before I was in any fit state to get my head around everything that had happened to me. I guess it was some sort of post-traumatic stress and I’m pretty sure I was being sedated.’
‘Why didn’t she go to the police? There would have been a lot of media coverage at the time your brother’s body was discovered.’
‘Elmi and her husband, Amiin, they are good people, but … DCI Phelps, you know the sort of people I have been talking about. Dalmar wasn’t the first person not to make it. Nevertheless, Elmi did attempt to go to the police, even though things were going on at the time that made it an unsafe option.
‘I’ve learned since that her efforts to bring the circumstances of Dalmar’s death to the attention of the police resulted in threats to her and her family and eventually she gave up. Even now she won’t tell me everything that went on, but she says it changed her whole perception of the police. I’m afraid she doesn’t trust you at all now and some of that has rubbed off on me.
‘Elmi seemed to think I would’ve been sent back to Somalia, and any bad publicity would have been a disaster for the charitable organisation she was involved with. The whole transport of people to the UK … although there are charities which do that legitimately, my papers were false and the fact that I was an illegal immigrant might have counted against Elmi and her organisation’s work. Then one of her sons was beaten up and told that his mother should keep her mouth shut. And who knows what other kind of threats were made?
‘Would you be able to identify any of the people involved with what you have spoken about? You say the woman initially had her face covered but was there anything about her you can remember. Was she tall or short? Roughly what age was she? Anything at all!’
‘Her voice,’ replied Basra. ‘It still rings in my ears when I think about it. Certainly not the Cardiff accent I’ve come to know and love! She sounded … well, posh, but her voice was hard – almost brittle.’
‘I know it’s a long time ago, but we do have a voice recognition unit here, and our staff could help work out which part of the UK she comes from. It could help.’
Martin knew he was clutching at straws but he wanted to give Basra some hope. He asked her the same question regarding the men who had been involved.
‘I could draw you a picture of the man who killed my brother. I’ve only got to shut my eyes and I can see every detail of his face. I’ve never seen him from that day to this. That is not the case with Dalmar’s abuser.’
For a moment Martin thought he had misheard.
‘Sorry, does that mean you’ve seen that man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Actually seen him here in Cardiff?’
‘No, Chief Inspector, I haven’t seen him walking around the streets – I’ve seen him on the television. I think you will have too.’
Chapter Eighteen
Following her revelation that she could identify the man who was present at the time of her brother’s death, Basra told Martin about her life in Wales.
She’d lived initially with a family in Grangetown and had been immediately accepted by the Somali people living in the area. Not all the people were refugees or new immigrants, many of the elders had been seamen, with their families, who’d stayed on after their working days in Cardiff Docks had ended.
Basra’s education in Somalia had been basic, and to begin with her English wasn’t very good, but she’d been determined not to let
her family’s sacrifice be in vain. A lot of Grangetown was quite poor, but it hadn’t taken Basra long to realise that there were amazing opportunities in the city. Many of the kids her age in her street had been contemplating university, and a few of them were now working as solicitors, dentists, and in other professional jobs.
She’d missed out on that opportunity but she did have one more year at school and there realised her talent for art. Basra proudly told Martin of the well-paid job she now had in an advertising company, and of the Welshman who had recently proposed to her.
‘Does he know about your brother?’ asked Martin.
‘Not the whole story, no – but when I leave here Craig’s picking me up. Then I’ll tell him everything.’
She looked questioningly at Martin. ‘I guess this is only the start of things, and I will be expected to tell others what I have told you – in court?’
Martin nodded. ‘Hopefully that’s where we’re heading, but it’s a long way off and I need some advice on handling this appropriately. You said earlier that you had no idea where your brother’s body had been left, so how did you find out?’
‘It was all over the newspapers at the time, and although I was shielded from it Elmi kept copies of everything and when she thought I was ready to know she told me. It was years before I plucked up the courage to go to that place, and it was such a cold and desolate spot that I knew I had to bring something perfect there as a tribute to Dalmar. Those first few years were amazing, and although English wasn’t spoken much at my new home I was keen to learn and used every opportunity to talk to local people. The Somali people were initially up in arms regarding what had happened to my brother but no one was prepared to speak out publicly.
‘The family were unbelievably kind to me and did everything to help with the times when my feelings of loss for my home and family were almost unbearable. I was taken to the coast a few times and St Mary’s Well Bay became my special place. It’s not a busy beach, even in summer, and I often sit on the rocks there and look out over the Bristol Channel.
‘One day when I was sitting there I found a particularly smooth stone that had been washed into a perfect shape by the sea and that’s when I thought of creating a special place for Dalmar. It would be a place for me to think of him and my family – somewhere only I knew about. I knew where Dalmar’s body had been left, but I’d never been there until I found three perfect stones and carried them there.’
‘Three?’ questioned Martin.
‘Yes, three! You see the first time I went there was on the third anniversary of his death and I had decided to place a new stone there for every year – so I had to catch up.’
Martin grinned broadly. ‘I’m really glad you did because I’d never have made the connection if there’d been two less stones. It was the fact that the number of stones related to the number of years since your brother’s terrible murder that made me hope you’d be back to place another one.’
Basra returned the smile and nodded. ‘There’s a reason for everything, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I do, but I still don’t understand why Elmi didn’t make more of a fuss. You told her what had happened to you and your brother and to the other people who left Somalia with you. I know she’d been threatened, but if the press had got hold of your story at the time there’d have been intensive media coverage and your brother’s killer may have been brought to justice.’
Basra shook her head slowly. ‘With respect, Chief Inspector, yours is a common but very naïve understanding of the situation for people like us. I don’t think the plan had been for my brother to be killed – I believe we were meant to be amongst the lucky ones. I believe the six of us who made it to Britain would be the poster people – Somalis that the charity could claim to have helped, while keeping quiet about the illegal side of the proceedings. They have that kind of good news story on their website. Can’t you see how the powers that be would prefer that type of story?
‘There are some excellent charities that support the resettlement of my people into other countries, but the one we experienced is not one of them.’
Before leaving Goleudy, Basra made detailed drawings of the man who had killed her brother. She’d sketched his face from the front, from both sides, and finally produced a full body image. Martin asked her if she had ever made these drawings before and for the first time in the interview she lost control, a torrent of tears that streaming down her face.
With no mean effort she managed to speak. ‘I’ve wanted to, as a means of getting him out of my system, but there was never a good enough reason to give the devil substance. Whilst he was just in my head I could somehow keep him contained. But if you’re worried that I may not have remembered him well enough to be drawing him for the first time after all these years then don’t be. At the risk of sounding boastful I’d say my drawings are as good as any photograph you could take of that monster.
‘I don’t know if he’s dead or alive, if he lives here or somewhere else – and remember he will be older but that’s him.’ She handed the drawings to Martin.
‘He’s the killer, and I have given you the name of the other man who was involved so at last I feel able to hand them both over and whatever happens from here on is for you to decide. I know I’ll have to be involved but for me those four sketches have released my demons and I feel I can cope with anything now.’
DCI Phelps couldn’t even begin to imagine how Basra was feeling as he watched her drive off in the car that she’d arranged to pick her up. He hoped her Welsh fiancé would give her the support she needed when she told him the account of her journey to Wales. It had brought tears to the eyes of PC Woodland and had left Martin feeling angry. How dare these people pose as paragons of virtue when preying on the misery of others – and pocketing a fortune to boot? He reminded himself of people he knew personally who were involved with charities and doing a bloody good job, but as he knew from the recent Austin case, there were bad apples in every barrel – even the force.
The surveillance operation couldn’t have had a better result and Geedi could now be given his real name. Realistically, Martin thought, there would be little chance of catching his killer – men like that usually remained anonymous, and were often protected by the people who used them to do their dirty work. But the other man Basra had mentioned was a very different kettle of fish, and Martin headed to the top floor hoping that Chief Superintendent Atkinson would be in his office.
‘In a rush, mate?’ asked Alex who was coming down the stairs. ‘Charlie tells me you got a result from the Roath Park stakeout – well done! She says you picked someone up, so did you get any leads from him?’
‘Not him – her! Turned out to be the victim’s sister.’
‘Bloody hell, that is a result! So after all these years we now know who that poor sod was – the first victim of crime I’d ever seen. Was I right about him not having been killed there?’
‘Absolutely right, and I’ll be briefing everyone who was involved later, so join us if you want to.’
‘I’ll be sure to.’ Alex noticed the drawings that Martin was holding. ‘Matt’s dragged you in to finding his killer, has he?’
‘Sorry?’
‘That sketch looks very like the ones our people have constructed from the memories of people on the train from Treorchy to Cardiff on Monday morning. Let’s have a look.’
Martin showed Alex the drawings and explained how he’d got them.
‘Hell’s bells! I thought getting the identity of the victim was a scoop, but a detailed sketch of his killer – that’s something else.’
Alex stared at the drawings in his usual analytical way and then laughed.
‘I’m in danger of doing what we try to persuade all our witnesses to avoid. We’ve all got some stereotypical images of people from different parts of the world and conjure them up as soon as that country is mentioned. I’d guess this man is from somewhere around the Horn of Africa, possibly Djibouti, Ethiopia, or Somalia, but
although I get that from his features my mind conjures a much smaller, thinner man when I think of those areas.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean. I tend to think that the Japanese people are short and neat but then you’ve got sumo wrestlers and I wouldn’t like to tangle with one of them. So Matt’s looking for a lookalike to my man, is he?’
Alex studied the drawings and asked a few questions about height and build before deciding he’d probably got it wrong. ‘I think it’s just me seeing double again! First there were the identical photographs and then the identical cars, and now I’m suggesting you’ve come up with an almost identical drawing. I’m cracking up!’
Martin grinned. ‘Well, I don’t know about that, but tell me – how did Matt get the picture of what I guess is his prime suspect?’
‘There were four people on the train who could give vague images of a stranger, but none of them could really describe him. They’re all people who make the same journey on a regular basis and none had ever seen this guy before Monday.
‘Individually what they remembered was absolutely useless, but after a few hours with the guys in the Identification Suite they came up with an image between them. They all realised they’d seen him even though they hadn’t stored the memory – didn’t think they had reason to.’
Alex handed the drawings back to Martin. ‘These are really good, the detail is amazing, but they’re definitely of a younger man than the one Matt is looking for.’
Martin had a quick response to that. ‘What if the staff in the Identification Suite were able to age him by eleven years – would he come even nearer to Matt’s killer?’