The room had many different fingerprints and skin epithelials, not surprising in an institution where inmates come and go into rooms at their leisure. No fingerprints or outside DNA found on the body of Wendy Tang aka Wendy Chen aka Chen Hong Xi. On the knife, only her fingerprints were present.
Ridpath turned to the last page in the file. It was another note from DS Barnes.
In view of the pathologist’s report of suicide, and in the absence of any evidence or witness statements to the contrary, I am able to conclude Ms Wendy Tang aka Wendy Chen aka Chen Hong Xi, a detainee at the Wilmslow Immigration Removal Centre, took her own life in the early hours of August 20th.
This case file will be now passed to the coroner.
And that was it.
No pathologist’s report included. No other witnesses interviewed. No follow-up on who the victim was or why she was living under a different name.
Mrs Challinor was right to have had her suspicions. It appeared DS Barnes was just going through the motions.
Why hadn’t he investigated this death properly?
Ridpath reached for the second file and opened it. Here was the pathologist’s report. He scanned it briefly. Through the jargon, Latin and medical descriptions, one message stood out loud and clear. In the pathologist’s opinion, taking into account the reports of the Centre’s staff, Wendy Chen had committed suicide.
The report was two pages long. There was no toxicology, no description of the body save for the wounds she had on her throat, and a perfunctory examination of the vital organs.
Even a layman like Ridpath could see the report wasn’t thorough or comprehensive.
It was almost as if both departments, the police and the pathologist, were simply going through the motions.
Was it because they were certain she had committed suicide?
Chapter 6
As Ridpath was thinking about the case, Sophia came back into the office.
‘I bought you something healthy from the caff: a bacon and egg sarnie.’ She plonked two large doorsteps of white bread with something sandwiched between.
‘Which bit of it is healthy?’
‘I got you a salad too.’ A plastic box of some limp lettuce leaves, a floppy slice of cucumber and a stray tomato appeared next to the bread. ‘You should eat it when it’s warm, or at least lukewarm.’
‘While I make a call, can you take a look at this pathologist’s report?’ Sophia had studied Biomedical Sciences at university. It was one of the reasons he had employed her. ‘We can go over the other cases afterwards.’
‘You’re gonna give me heartburn, Ridpath.’
He checked the file Mrs Challinor had given him for the Wilmslow Immigration Removal Centre’s number. His call was answered after the third ring. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr David Carlton, please.’
‘He’s not here.’
The voice was brusque and offhand. ‘Who’s in charge at the moment?’
‘Pete is.’
‘Can I speak to Pete?’
‘He’s busy doing the rounds.’
‘Right. This is the Coroner’s Office. I’d like to come and see the Centre this afternoon. It’s regarding the inquest on Wendy Tang also known as Wendy Chen.’
‘You have to complete the form and book an appointment two weeks in advance.’
‘No, I want to come this afternoon.’
‘No form, no entry, them’s the rules.’
Ridpath took a deep breath. ‘And this is the law. You are required to allow the representatives of the coroner onto any government premises for the purpose of their investigations. Any contravention of this law is an offence under paragraph 3 of Schedule 5 of the Coroners and Justice Act 2009, and is classified in common law as obstruction. Do I make myself clear?’
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone.
‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘I’ll have to talk to Pete.’
‘Go ahead. I’ll be there at three o’clock this afternoon. Goodbye.’
Ridpath placed the phone back on the cradle.
‘God, you scared me Ridpath.’ Sophia was staring up at him, her mouth open wide.
‘Let’s hope I scared him more. So what do you think?’
‘Of this?’ She held up the pathologist’s report. ‘It’s a bit shallow isn’t it. Almost as if the man couldn’t care. It feels like he reached his conclusions before he even started cutting up the body.’
Chapter 7
Wilmslow Immigration Removal Centre was at the end of a short street close to Manchester Airport. It was housed in one of those four storey government blocks which seemed to proliferate in the 1960s like mushrooms after rain.
Ridpath drove up to the metal gate topped with barbed wire and stopped. A CCTV camera swivelled round to look at his car as he pressed the intercom. ‘DI Thomas Ridpath of the Coroner’s Office.’
A voice crackled through a tinny speaker. ‘We’ve been expecting you, DI Ridpath. Please park your car in the Visitor parking spot and press the intercom next to the grey door.’
The gates swung open, revealing a large sign with the words Wilmslow Immigration Removal Centre, and beneath it in equally large letters, Managed by the New Hampshire Detention Services, a division of Gentian Worldwide.
Ridpath drove through and parked his car. The place looked forlorn and empty and sad. There were no windows facing the car park, just a stark grey wall, with a metal shutter guarding the entrance to a loading bay and next to it, a small grey door. The whole place was surrounded by a chain linked metal fence topped with barbed wire.
He walked to the door and pressed the intercom. As he did so, another CCTV camera swivelled round to greet him. ‘DI Ridpath again.’
‘Please hold your ID up to the intercom camera.’
Ridpath did as he was told using his coroner’s ID instead of the one he still had from MIT.
‘Thank you, an officer will be down to escort you through the facility shortly.’ The voice went dead. Ridpath looked around. The place appeared more like a warehouse than a place where human beings were kept. The only difference was most warehouses weren’t surrounded by barbed wire.
The door swung open behind him. ‘DI Ridpath?’
He was surprised to hear a woman’s voice. For some reason, he had expected all the guards to be male.
‘Can I see your ID again?’ she asked.
He handed it over and she stared at it and then at him, checking the picture matched.
‘Please come in.’ She stood aside to allow him to enter and closed the door, locking it with a large set of keys.
A large sign on the back of the door said LOCK IT, CHECK IT in stark capital letters.
‘If you could sign in, leaving all your valuables with the reception desk. Please include your mobile phone. We don’t allow any photography or video recording in the facility.’
The woman spoke in a monotone but the accent wasn’t from Manchester, but somewhere else, somewhere nondescript.
He approached the desk where a burly man wearing a white shirt and tattoos sat behind glass with a row of televisions on his left.
Ridpath stared at them, seeing little pictures of each of the areas in the removal centre. In the centre of the console was a large red button with ALARM written above it.
‘If you could walk through the metal detector.’
Ridpath did as he was told, looking upwards and waiting to hear the loud beep indicating metal had been detected.
No sound came.
‘I’m afraid the Centre Manager isn’t available but he’ll try to join us later. I can answer your questions regarding the facility.’
‘And your name is…?’
‘Lucy Bagnall. I’m the PR manager for New Hampshire Detention Services.’ She didn’t offer to shake his hand or give him her card. ‘How can I help you today?’ she said in a tone suggesting help was the last thing she was looking to provide.
‘As you know, I represent the coroner investigat
ing the death of one of your inmates…’
‘We prefer to call them detainees.’
‘…The death of one of your detainees, Wendy Tang also known as Wendy Chen Hong Xi.’
‘A most regrettable incident. New Hampshire takes its responsibilities incredibly seriously concerning the welfare, safety and security of our detainees. We ensure each and every person housed in one of our facilities receives the care and attention they need and deserve.’
Ridpath had read the website before he went to the place. The words were exactly the same.
‘Can you tell me about the Centre?’
‘Of course, come this way.’ She opened another door with a large set of keys and Ridpath was in an entrance room with a tiny table in the middle, a television mounted on the wall and industrial grey chairs lined against the far side.
‘This Removal Centre has 32 rooms and is classed as a Short-Term Holding Facility, meaning our detainees spend less than one week with us. In fact, most spend less than 48 hours.’
‘How long had Ms Chen been in the centre before her death?’
The woman opened a folder she was carrying as if checking the information. ‘Miss Chen, or Miss Tang as we knew her, had been with us for two days. She arrived on August 19th and was processed immediately. She had been picked up by UK Immigration Enforcement during a raid in Stockport. She was fast-tracked for deportation and was due to be removed the day of her suicide.’
‘Removed to where?’
The woman checked the file again. ‘Back to China. Shanghai, I believe.’
‘Can we backtrack for a second? You said she had been fast-tracked for deportation. Why?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t keep that sort of information, Mr…?’
‘Ridpath.’
‘You’ll have to ask Immigration Enforcement.’
Ridpath wrote in his notebook. ‘I will. And you also said she had been processed on entry. Can I have a copy of your processing document?’
‘Why?’
‘I’d like a copy for my files.’
‘One was already given to the police.’
It wasn’t in the report written by Detective Sergeant Barnes. He would have to find out why. ‘I know, but we are a different department. You know how it is.’ He was playing his ‘I’m just another bureaucrat’ card. He hoped it worked.
‘I’m afraid I will have to check with my superiors. We are always conscious of our duties under the Data Protection Act regarding confidential information about our detainees. I’m sure you understand.’
He’d had enough of the foreplay. ‘I don’t actually. I am an officer of the court investigating the death of a young woman while under the protection of the British government. All information that would help in my investigation should be made available to me. I could subpoena the documents. I’m sure your director and his management in America would not enjoy being accused of withholding information. And particularly when the story appears in the British newspapers.’
Ridpath smiled as he watched the woman’s eyes flicker left and right as she processed this information. Which was better, to continue to stonewall him and risk the wrath of her bosses or keep to her story about Data Protection Laws?
Self-interest finally won out.
‘As we have already provided this information to the police and you are an officer of the court, I will try to make a copy before you leave today.’
‘Thank you. And now can I see the place in which the woman died.’
‘Of course, come this way.’
She unlocked the door and Ridpath was faced with a flight of stairs leading upwards. ‘This is the ground floor. Our detainee rooms are on floors two and three. The ground floor also contains the Control Centre, the visitor’s room which you have just seen…’
‘Do you get many visitors?’
‘No, most detainees are not here long enough to receive visitors.’
‘And you do have a two week notice period for visits.’
‘The regulation only applies for official visits,’ she replied with an unconvincing smile. ‘Requests from relatives of detainees are processed much faster in accordance with the Short-Term Holding Facility Statutory Rules of 2018, number 409. I am sure you are aware of this legislation?’
Ridpath nodded his head, writing a mental note to himself to check the rules later.
‘As I was saying, the ground floor also contains the Control Centre, the visitor’s room and a staff rest room. While the first floor has the detainee processing centre and a twenty-four hour medical facility.’
She walked up the stairs with Ridpath following her closely.
‘Was the medical centre in operation at the time the woman died?’
‘I’m afraid it wasn’t. We have difficulty attracting trained nursing staff to work unsocial hours, but we have an arrangement with a doctor to be on call 24/7.’
‘And was he called on the night of her death?’
They reached another door on the second floor which she unlocked. ‘I’m not sure, Mr Ridpath, I can check if you want.’
The door swung open slowly. On the reverse side was another sign with the letters, ‘LOCK IT, CHECK IT.’
‘Please do. And it’s Detective Inspector Ridpath.’
‘I thought you were a coroner’s officer?’
‘I’m also an officer of Greater Manchester Police.’
The door clanged shut as she locked it. Ahead, Ridpath could see a long grey corridor with numbered doors on either side. An uneasy feeling crept from his stomach up through his chest. He instinctively found himself holding his breath as if the simple act of breathing in this place would somehow infect him with despair.
And then he knew why he was having such a strong reaction. The place reminded him of the isolation ward after his chemo – the sense of sheer terror combined with profound loneliness.
He forced himself to listen as the PR Manager carried on talking as they walked down the corridor.
‘…Room 7 is the fourth on the right. We have kept it unoccupied since the incident.’
The only background sound to her words was the hum of air conditioning.
‘Where is everybody?’ he asked.
‘Normally from 8 a.m. to 9.15 p.m. the detainees are allowed out of their rooms. On the fourth floor there is a television room, washing facilities, a reading room and a general relaxation area. But as you wanted to inspect the facility, we decided to lock the detainees into their rooms. We couldn’t risk your safety by having them wandering around.’
‘My safety?’
‘Detective Inspector Ridpath. This is an immigration removal centre. There are three reasons why people are here. They have overstayed their visas, they have entered the UK illegally or they have broken the law, served their sentence and are awaiting deportation back to their home country. About half our inmates are in the latter category.’ She stopped outside a door. ‘This is Room 7.’
She opened the door. The room was small but tidy and showed no signs of a person dying inside. The walls and floor had been cleaned, the bedsheets replaced and a new lamp, still wrapped in plastic, stood on the bedside table. On the left, a clean paper band covered the lowered seat of a toilet. On the band the words ‘Disinfected’ were printed in bright purple block letters.
‘Of course, we had to clean it after your forensics people left. We were given permission by the investigating officer.’
‘Detective Sergeant Barnes?’
‘Correct.’
‘Ms Chen was discovered by one of your guards on his rounds just after 4 a.m.?’
‘She committed suicide sometime in the early hours. Our Detainee Custody Officers do their rounds each hour. They have to register on each floor by swiping their card on the reader. The information is recorded on the computer.’
Ridpath didn’t say anything at the presumption the death was suicide, asking another question instead. ‘But the guard on the earlier round saw nothing?’
‘Correct. He si
gned the logbook at 3.15 saying everything was quiet.’
Ridpath walked into the room and looked around. It stank of disinfectant, but other than the smell, it could have been a room you would find in a student hall of residence. ‘So the guard, a Mr Cummings, discovered the body at 4.06 a.m. and he immediately called the police and the ambulance?’
The woman stayed at the entrance to the door. ‘No. He immediately called the control centre which you saw on entry. They called the emergency services.’
‘Can I talk to the guards who were here that night?’
‘I’m afraid none of them are on duty this week. We have given them time off to prepare for the evidence on Thursday at the Coroner’s Court. But they are in the Centre receiving training. I’ll contact them just as soon as we finish our tour.’
Ridpath wondered what sort of training they were receiving. ‘Can you give me the home addresses, telephone numbers and personnel files of all your staff?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have the information. You will have to ask our HR department.’
‘Could you do it? You know them better than I do. And you did say you were here to help in any way possible.’
There was a long sigh from the PR woman. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Now, if you’ve finished here, I can show you the common areas.’
Ridpath nodded. Just before they left the room, he stopped. ‘One more question: the witness report for Joseph Cummings says he noticed the door was open. How did that happen if all detainees are locked in their rooms at 9.15 each evening?’
‘We don’t know, Inspector. We’ve mounted a thorough investigation of our own and we can only put it down to human error. Somebody forgot to lock this door.’
‘A coincidence though, don’t you think? The one unlocked door is the one to a room where a woman dies?’
‘I agree, Inspector, a coincidence. Now if you would like to see the rest of the facility.’ She held out her arm to show him the way.
He spent the next half hour being shown around the other floors. The whole place had a soullessness Ridpath found deeply depressing. Plus there was a lingering feeling of human sadness infused in everything: the walls, the chairs, even the curtains.
Where the Innocent Die Page 3