by Anne Coates
Hannah took the bags as he took off his duffle coat. She had already laid the table in the dining-room and had opened a bottle of red wine which she knew he preferred. The snowdrops he’d bought earlier took pride of place in the centre of the table.
They sat facing each other. Waiting. Hannah broke the silence. “Shall we tuck in before this feast gets cold?”
As they helped themselves to green chicken handi, rice, dahl, chana massala, naan bread and onion bahjis, they chatted easily until James asked, “Have you come up with any leads on Liz’s murder?”
“I’m not sure really.” Hannah sipped her wine. “I’m convinced her death has something to do with her time in Somalia.”
“Why so?”
Hannah paused to consider her reply. “She was deeply upset by how the girls were subjected to FGM. Female Genital Mutilation.”
“I know what FGM is, Hannah.”
“Sorry.” Hannah helped herself to some more curry. “She went to Somalia, I think, because she had ‘adopted’ a girl there and was sending her money regularly.”
“Can’t see that would be any reason to murder her.”
“No I could be way off beam here. But I would like to interview someone about FGM. I wondered if you knew anyone I could ask?”
James looked furious. “Are you asking me because I’m black Hannah?”
“No of course not.” Hannah had the grace to blush. Until recently she had never given much thought to James’s colour or origins. She had never actually thought of him as black. His pale coffee coloured skin and dark hair reflected his mixed heritage.
“I was born here, Hannah. My father came here as a young adult. For God’s sake I’m more likely to know about what’s going on in China than I am in Somalia.”
“I’m sorry, James, I didn’t mean to offend you. I actually thought you might have had some connections via the hospital.”
He sighed theatrically. “Well, I do have some people I could contact and ask a few discreet questions.”
“Oh would you? James you’re a hero.”
“I’ll see what I can do. No promises, okay?”
“Okay.” Hannah lowered her eyes so he wouldn’t read in them the triumph she felt.
“More wine?”
“No, I’d better make tracks. Early shift tomorrow.”
Hannah felt as though she’d been slapped in the face. She could have kicked herself. James obviously thought she was using him and sadly she was. “You won’t forget..?” she asked as he put on his coat in the hall.
He pulled her to him in bear hug.
“No I won’t forget.”
The trouble was what she couldn’t know – what he didn’t want to remember.
Somalia May 1993
Dear Hannah,
I wonder where you are when you are reading this? Where will I be? Actually I hope you never open this letter because that will mean that things have worked out and I am safe.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be safe again. This place is terrifying. The people here are never what they seem to be. Whom can I trust? The answer is no one. Hannah I am scared for my life. I came here with such good intentions and hope. Hope that I would be able to do some good. Hope that I’d make a difference, however small. And hope that I would be able to find Kamaria and her family. Her name means “like the moon”. Tragically she will never see that moon again.
You may or may not know by now that I “fostered” Kamaria. You know the type of thing – standing order once a month that satisfies the the charitable do-gooder in us without having to actually do anything. Letters every now and again telling the sponsor how the child is doing etc. But somehow they – Kamaria’s family – got other letters to me. She had been raped by an uncle and, it transpired, traded into some “terrorist” organisation. I had to come here and see what was happening. By the time I arrived Kamaria’s family had also disappeared. Moved on – no one seemed to know where. It seems unlikely. Where would they go to? Unless they too had been taken or killed by the terrorists. No one is saying anything although somebody must know something.
So here I am in this godforsaken place. Everything is so basic you wouldn’t believe. No sanitation or running water means people have to leave their hovels (no other word to describe them) when they want to pee etc. When this happens in the night the girls and women are at their most vulnerable. Kamaria was just eight years old when she was raped. Can you believe it?
The charity workers here live in conditions that are hardly any better although we do have armed guards patrolling the perimeter of our compound. And a high fence – not sure if that’s to keep us in or others out. We have very basic sanitary conveniences that are a million times better than what the villagers have. Plus we have an electricity generator which doesn’t always work but does fulfill some function.
The trouble is I have to be on my guard the whole time. It’s exhausting but if I confide in anyone I may put others at risk. No one here knew about my connection with Kamaria and her family. It was just as well.
Hannah I’m scared. There are people here who are trafficking young girls. They just disappear. I try to keep meticulous records of families I see. Most of the time I am employed in teaching basic hygiene – and I don’t mean orally. I have established codes and cross-referencing. Trying to keep track of the girls. But I have to be so careful. I think some of the charity workers here are involved. I’m not sure who or how many but it makes me sick to death.
I feel I must come home earlier than planned. I’ve stayed here too long already. People are beginning to question some of my actions. God knows why. Maybe guilty consciences.
Anyway I hope you never read this. I trust when I return I can try to establish the truth of what is going on here and expose the perpetrators. I’ll need your journalistic help then. Maybe we can do this together. Maybe…
I’ve had to find a way of hiding anything I write as I am sure someone is going through my papers. A horrid thought but I’ve learned to be careful. I always know when someone has been in my hut. Amazing what you can do with dental floss!
TWENTY-FIVE
Hannah put the letter down. Her whole body felt leaden. She was terrified. If Liz’s murderer or murderers were connected to the charity in some way then it could be she too was at risk now that she was in possession of some of Liz’s documents.
She decided to photocopy anything that could be incriminating and send copies to people she could trust. Revd John Daniels and James. The decision reminded her of Caroline’s diaries. However she hadn’t read those before they were sent. She would take the added precaution of storing another set – and she knew just the place. Hide things in full view and they won’t be seen. She was sure Sam at King’s Cross would help her – especially if he had no idea what the parcel contained.
She would also ask Rory if the news desk had had any reports of trafficking in Somalia that could be connected with the charity.
She should visit the charity HQ. They needn’t know she had any information on Liz’s time there but she could ask about Kamaria, saying she’d found a bequest in a codicil to Liz’s will. That might work. Or not. Be brave, she told herself. But she didn’t feel brave and wondered how much she could or should tell DI Turner. What she needed was a contact in the Foreign Office. And she was more likely to find someone via a broadsheet rather than The News.
However she could use the library at The News and check though the cuttings library and the microfiche files. That would be a start.
Hannah was surprised when she saw the entrance for the WelcAf ’s head office. It was a door with peeling paintwork at the side of a burger café just off Hammersmith Broadway. She’d taken the tube from Westminster and on the way went over in her mind what she would ask. She’d made some notes on her pad. Having phoned ahead she’d mentioned her connection to Liz Rayman and said she was looking for background information for an article she was writing for The News. So far, so true. Seeing the entrance to their offices, she
was relieved that at least they weren’t spending any money they raised for their charitable work on their own comfort.
A voice answered her ring on the bell and when she gave her name a buzzer sounded and she pushed the door open to reveal a narrow and steep flight of stairs. The faded blue walls were covered with campaign posters some of which were now faded and curling at the edges. Hannah clutched at the handrail and counted the steps. There was only one way to turn at the top – right – which she did and pushed open another tacky door with a square of glass positioned at about head height.
“Hi Hannah – I’m Cheryl otherwise known as general dogsbody here.” The mousy haired girl with wire-framed glasses held out her hand.
“Nice to meet you Cheryl.” Never had anyone looked less like a Cheryl, thought Hannah. The name, for her, conjured up a sophisticated and glamorous being. This one was wearing a huge red cardigan over thick leggings in a sickly shade of green that ended with her feet in Doc Martens. Every finger including her thumbs bore a ring and a small tattoo peeped over her collar. Whatever her appearance, she seemed genuinely friendly.
“I was so sorry to hear about Liz. She was doing such good work out in…”
The inner door opened to reveal a smartly dressed – dapper was the word that leaped into Hannah’s mind – man who could have been aged anywhere in his forties or fifties. “Ms Weybridge I presume? Michael Dresden, CEO of WelcAf.”
Hannah shook his hand. “It’s really good of you to see me at such short notice, Mr Dresden.”
“Not all – and please call me Michael, Hannah. We were all devastated when Liz died. Please – ” his hand indicated his office. “Could you drum up some coffee for us please, Cheryl?”
The door closed on whatever Cheryl’s answer had been.
Hannah took the chair indicated. Unlike it’s occupant, this office was drab and tatty too. Michael Dresden’s desk was a maze of piles of paperwork, proofs for campaign leaflets, files in various colours. Adorning the wall behind the desk was an enormous map of Africa with coloured flags pinned into it. Hannah assumed that’s where they had their outposts. Geography was not her strong point but she now knew exactly where Somalia was and where Liz had been stationed. The position was marked with a series of red and yellow flags. She wondered at the significance of the colours.
Michael Dresden perched on the corner of his desk and leaned forward to open the door as Cheryl came in with two coffees on a tray with milk and sugar. Hannah took hers black.
“Now what can I do to help you.” The CEO added milk and two sugars to his cup.
Hannah smiled. “I’m just after a bit of background information really. For instance I was wondering whether Liz contacted you directly or through a third party when she volunteered? As you’re not a major player I mean. I hadn’t heard of you, I’m sorry to say.”
“No that’s par for the course really. We do our best with limited resources. However we are an international organisation but sadly our London office is really small fry. Sometimes we piggy-back on other charity recruitment events. But to answer your question, Liz was referred to us by another organisation who knew of us and thought Liz would make a good match.”
“Why was that?” Hannah sipped her coffee.
“We do a lot of outreach work in Somalia and that’s where Liz wanted to go.”
“Was she that specific?”
“Yes, she was as a matter of fact. I thought it curious at the time but finding candidates for any area we work in is hard enough so we just jumped at her offer. She had the funding all sorted so there was no hassle with raising the necessary money as there usually is.”
Hannah smiled. “Do you know why she returned to the UK before her term finished?”
Michael Dresden shrugged. “I’ve no idea. However if other early returnees are anything to go by it’s usually charity fatigue. Our outreach camps are basic. The terrain is often unforgiving and the weather can be equally so. I must say it was unsual for a woman to sign up for such a long stint anyway. We did our best to point out all the drawbacks but she was adamant.”
“Sounds like Liz.” Hannah sighed. “Did she make any particular friends while she was there?”
“That I don’t know but you did meet Sam Lockwood at Liz’s funeral. Not sure how friendly they were but the expats aren’t numerous so they would have socialised if you can call it that.”
“How many charity workers do you actually have there?” Hannah asked glancing out of the window. The view was of unremmitting backs of buildings with their fire escapes and a spaghetti junction of gutterings and downpipes.
“Actually I’ve put together a file of info for you. Just about everything we have about the camp and personnel.” He handed Hannah a yellow file.
“That’s very kind of you.” Hannah took this as her cue to leave.
“Vested interest. I know it’s only background material for your article but any publicity can help raise our profile.” He smiled and shook her hand. “I am very sorry for your loss Hannah. I did write to Lady Rayman but what can one say…”
“Indeed. Thank you for your time.”
“I would say it’s a pleasure but given the circumstances... Take care Hannah. Goodbye.” He closed the office door behind her. Cheryl looked up and handed her an envelope.
“I think this may help too. Good luck Hannah.”
Hannah tucked the envelope into the file and put it into her bag.
“Thanks Cheryl. How long have you worked here?
“Eighteen months. I started after being active in the field. Supposed to be a stopgap but I’m still here?”
“Would you go back into the field?”
“Never.” Hannah thought she caught an expression of despair on the other woman’s face. But it was fleeting. “Never,” she said but this time with a sad smile.
On her way home Hannah made a detour to King’s Cross. She had a package ready to leave with Sam. As she approached the Lost Property office, she could hear low voices and then laughter. Hesitantly she walked in and saw Marti sitting in a chair – knitting – while Sam regaled her with some story. Well that explains the smart jumpers, Hannah thought.
Marti jumped up and surprised Hannah by hugging her. “How are you?” she asked. Then said, “Don’t answer that stupid question. I’m sorry Hannah.”
“Well better for seeing you, that’s for sure.” Hannah smiled. “Sorry to interrupt but I need to get home and I just wanted you to hold this for me, Sam.”
Sam took the jiffy bag and limped down one of the aisles, returning empty-handed.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t be daft, I told you before as long as it’s not hot and it doesn’t move… It’s not hot is it?” He was smiling at Marti.
“No. But I do need it to be kept safe.”
“Best place then,” said Sam. “Sure you won’t stay for a coffee?”
TWENTY-SIX
“Did you and Liz fall out about anything?”
Hannah looked up in surprise at Lady Rayman’s question. They were in the makeshift office now that the police had finished with it, sorting though boxes. Celia had decided to help her for some reason. Now Hannah wondered if there was an ulterior motive. She felt compelled to answer as honestly as she could. “We didn’t always see eye to eye. And I felt there was a certain coolness between us when I became pregnant. I think Liz probably got fed up of my hormonal swings and one track mind.” Hannah smiled ruefully.
“Oh do you think so? I thought she was rather excited for you.”
“Excited for me but probably bored for herself. I felt that was one of the reasons she went off to Somalia.”
“Mmm perhaps. We’ll never know now. I wonder what sort of mother she would have made?”
A single tear traversed her cheek and dropped onto the sheet of paper she was reading. Hannah had no idea what it was that Lady Rayman had found. But the question about her relationship to Liz made her shudder. She’d always thought they had been so close. Now all
that she’d cherished about their friendship had seemed to unravel with Liz’s death.
Hannah took a deep breath to ask the one question she was aching to know the answer to, “Do you think Liz was searching for her father?”
Celia Rayman’s face was a mask of impenetrability. “What on earth makes you think that?”
Hannah held her gaze. She could see where Liz got her inscrutability from. “I’m sorry. I don’t wish to offend you Celia but I wondered if Liz worked in her clinic at St John’s in the hope of discovering more about her father… as he had disappeared I thought maybe he had taken to the road…” Hannah’s voice tailed off in embarassment but when she looked again at Lady Rayman she was smiling.
“Good Lord, no. Liz knew what happened to her father. There was no need for her to search for him.”
“Oh.” Hannah couldn’t think of anything else to say. She wanted to ask what had happened to Lord Rayman but she knew from his wife’s expression that that question would be as unwelcome as to her ears it was inappropriate.
“Why do you think she worked with them then, the down and outs and homeless? It can’t have been an easy call.” It made Hannah feel queasy just thinking about the state of some of those mouths full of decay and dirt. How could Liz have delved into cavities and caries and not felt her stomach heave? She must have been tougher than Hannah ever gave her credit for. But then she must have had an inner strength that took her off to Somalia. Who in their right mind would volunteer to go there?
Hannah thought of the young woman in the charity’s office. Her reaction said it all. When she got home and opened the envelope Cheryl had given her, she was shocked by the contents.
“Hannah please be careful. There have been rumours about strange things happening at the camp where Liz was working. She may have unwittingly upset some very powerful people. I’m not sure but Sam Lockwood may know something about this. Don’t trust anyone. Even Simon Dresdon. Cheryl.”