by William Shaw
‘Yes,’ said Cupidi. ‘I bloody do.’
‘Almost ran over him.’
‘Shame you missed.’ She pointed to the white bandage on her face. ‘Exhibit A. Assaulting a police officer.’
The man’s head twitched away, nervously. He was frightened, she realised. That was something, at least, she thought.
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘Horses,’ said the woman, looking out of the window at the searchlight beam of the police helicopter that was scouring the fields for the runaways. ‘Bought the place after my divorce,’ the woman said, ‘Fifteen years ago. Still trying to make a go of it. Tough here in the country.’
She had given her name as Miss Connie Reed. ‘I’ve gone back to my maiden name. My husband’s name was Conway. Connie Conway always sounded ridiculous,’ she said, pouring water in a kettle.
‘I kept mine,’ said Cupidi.
‘What?’
‘Sorry. My ex’s name, I meant. I tend to just say whatever’s on the top of my head. My name: Cupidi. I liked the name better than I did him.’
The woman nodded, as if it were a perfectly normal conversation to be having on a night like this after everything that had happened.
Connie Reed and Alex Cupidi sat in the kitchen, next to an Aga. The other police had left, trying to find the people who had run away.
The paramedic had replaced Reed’s dressing with a small bandage, covering the cut on Cupidi’s face. His colleagues had injected Ferriter with painkillers and taken her to hospital to have stitches put into her leg.
‘Twice, now,’ Ferriter had said as they helped her up. ‘What next, eh?’
Connie Reed’s house was small but neat. The fabrics were floral. Amateurish paintings of horses hung on the walls. There was a bookshelf stacked alphabetically from Isabel Allende to Joanna Trollope.
At the house, she had washed herself in the woman’s bath-room. Reed had given her a clean blouse and found a wraparound skirt. ‘You’re a bit bigger than me,’ she’d said. ‘See how that fits.’
‘Seriously,’ said Cupidi, emerging from the bathroom. ‘You were great. You saved a police officer from much worse injury. I expect the papers will want to make a fuss of you.’
‘Oh God no,’ said Connie Reed, horrified. ‘I abhor that kind of thing. Less said the better.’
‘How long have the caravans been parking on your farm?’
‘Few years, I would guess. Lot of summer work round here on the farms, see? They come along every now and again asking for places to stay.’
‘And they pay you rent, these people?’
‘I honestly didn’t think it would make much of a difference. It’s only a little money here and there. Mostly it was useful to have a couple of men around. They helped me out a bit with the hay, things like that. And now I’m probably going to be in a lot of trouble, aren’t I?’
‘It depends. Did you know that they were probably working illegally?’
The woman looked away at the kettle, waiting for it to boil.
‘You see, I suppose I didn’t really ask,’ she said. The woman who had looked so in charge when it came to tackling a vicious dog now looked helpless.
Cupidi tried to remember her law. Under the Immigration Act landlords had been tasked with policing immigration; it was their job to make sure that tenants had a legal right to be in this country, but would renting land be different? Presumably it would. Technically, if she had rented a field to illegal immigrants without knowing, had she broken any law at all, beyond not declaring the income?
‘If you get in touch with the tax people and tell them you’ve been receiving some kind of rent, they’ll come to some kind of arrangement. I’m sure it wasn’t very much. Did you know anything about who they were?’
Connie Reed shook her head. ‘Their English wasn’t very good. And they came and went. They kept themselves to themselves. That’s why I didn’t mind having them, really.’
‘There was a young woman. Apparently they found an identity card in one of the caravans. She may have been Lithuanian.’
‘I don’t really know, I’m afraid. As I said, they came and went. I’m quite a private person, really. I prefer the company of animals, I’ll be honest. It’s why I like it. Some people say it’s lonely around here. I don’t mind that at all.’
‘What about the man who did this to me? The man they arrested? He didn’t give a name.’
The kettle boiled. She poured water into a pot. ‘Sorry. I think he was new. I didn’t really recognise him.’ She looked around. ‘I think your colleague is OK. Flesh and muscle, the dog got, by the look of it. She’ll be limping a bit, I’ll bet. And it’ll probably scar. Hate killing an animal like that, though. I’ll have nightmares now.’
‘You live here on your own?’
The woman nodded. ‘Apart from the horses, obviously.’
They drank tea. It all seemed ridiculously calm and domestic now. All very English.
‘Are you going to be OK? You’re not afraid of them coming back?’
‘Why? Should I be?’ said Connie Reed, surprised by the question. She looked completely unafraid, just as she had been when Cupidi had watched her jump down into the sewer to save Ferriter. She had acted decisively and bravely. An eccentric, perhaps, but a woman who seemed entirely content to exist on her own terms.
Cupidi smiled at her and reached her hand across the table, laying it on top of the other woman’s. ‘No. I don’t suppose you should.’
‘You could have called,’ said her mother.
‘Not really. My phone got wet. It’s ruined. When the man was trying to kill me,’ said Cupidi. She had put the device into a pot of rice to try and dry it out.
Her mother peered at the bandage. ‘It doesn’t look like he tried that hard,’ she said.
‘Nan!’ said Zoë.
‘Sorry,’ said Cupidi’s mother. ‘I’m not very good at sympathy.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Zoë.
The two of them laughed. Cupidi looked from one to the other.
‘I need a bath,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Zoë. ‘You do.’
She sat in the water with a glass of white wine, trying to get the stink of mud out of her nostrils and her hair.
Dropping her head back into the bath, she lay, listening to the noises of the house, amplified by the water. Najiba’s tip-off had meant they had stumbled into something; she was sure of it now.
One thing had convinced her: the look on the man’s face in the back of the police car. The way he had fought with her to get away when they were both stuck in the watercourse had been more than vicious. It had been desperate. But the world was full of desperation.
It was when she had looked into his eyes as he sat there, hands bound by the cuffs; it was real fear she had seen there.
She had made a serious mistake going there unprepared, she realised.
It was on the TV news in the morning. The tickertape under the newsreader read: ILLEGAL MIGRANTS ATTACK POLICE.
Her mother was watching it, a mug of tea in her hand.
‘That was you?’
‘The TV are making a meal of it,’ Cupidi said.
‘I suppose it must have been frightening,’ her mother said.
‘Yes. It was.’
She took a sip from the cup, then said, ‘I am proud of you, you know.’
‘Are you?’
‘Don’t sound so surprised. Of course I am. Always have been, doing what you do.’
The local MP was on the TV saying this showed why they had to take a tougher line on people coming into the country. Zoë appeared at the door, yawning.
Cupidi looked at her face in the mirror in the hallway. Behind the scab of where his nails had cut her, the man had bruised the skin between her temple and her eye. It had turned an unpleasant greyish-yellow. ‘What are you two doing today?’
‘Going for a walk.’
‘Again?’
‘I’m ashamed to say I’m enjoying it, really
,’ her mother said. ‘I haven’t spent this much time outdoors since I was a kid, on the farm. Is that all you’re having for breakfast?’
Cupidi had wrapped a jam sandwich in foil.
‘That’s not even healthy.’
She was missing her regular morning walk, but there seemed to be no time for it on days like this. ‘I need to be at the station for eight. Don’t forget your phones.’
‘Don’t drop yours in the water,’ Zoë called after her as she closed the back door and walked to her car, digging in her handbag for the keys.
She tried switching on her phone. The rice hadn’t worked. The phone was still dead.
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘Turn it up,’ said Cupidi.
The video feed from the interrogation room was showing on a computer screen in the incident room. Sergeant Moon pressed the volume key until they could hear the hum of the quiet room.
The camera was focused on the young man whom they had arrested last night and the duty solicitor sitting next to him.
Leaning back in the chair, the immigrant tried to appear relaxed, but he wasn’t. His fists were clenched, nails digging into his palms. He was dressed in a tracksuit and a New York T-shirt somebody in the custody unit must have given him. The top was too small for him; it strained at his chest. The solicitor was a young woman who sat scratching her scalp with the blunt end of her biro.
‘Please tell us your name and date of birth.’ It was one of the other sergeants speaking. You could see her on the second camera.
‘We believe your name to be Hamid Fakroun. Can you confirm that for us?’
‘How do they know his name?’ asked Cupidi.
‘Fingerprints. He came through Dover last year. Failed asylum seeker. Was due for removal, but he disappeared.’
‘What were you doing on the farm, Hamid?’
The man’s lips twitched, but he said nothing. He looked small and uncomfortable on the plastic chair.
‘You were seen coming out of one of the caravans. Were you living there?’
Again no answer.
The sergeant’s voice was quiet, slightly distorted. ‘We have reason to believe you were working illegally in the neighbourhood. Where were you working?’
Cupidi unwrapped her sandwich.
‘Do you recognise this man?’ The sergeant’s hand appeared in shot holding a photo. ‘For the record, I am showing the man known to us as Hamid Fakroun a photograph of the unidentified deceased man whose body was found at Horse Bones Farm.’
The man didn’t even look at the picture. Instead he stared at the edge of table in front of him.
‘He’s actually bloody avoiding even looking at it,’ said Moon. Cupidi pulled up a chair and sat next to him, taking the first bite into her breakfast. Did that mean he did recognise the man and didn’t want to look at him? The man’s eyes were small, hard to read on the screen.
‘What were the names of your other companions?’
Again, nothing. He remained still, his lawyer silent at his side.
Frustratingly, they had recovered little in the way of documents from the two caravans. A few worn photographs of children in some faraway country. There was a single blue Permanent Residence Certificate; that of a Lithuanian. It had been the young woman Cupidi had chased and lost.
‘Do you recognise this woman?’ The sergeant was saying now. ‘For the record, I am holding up the identity card of Rasa Petrauska.’
This time there was the smallest of smiles on the man’s face; then he shook his head.
‘Why are you smiling?’
The man’s expression turned to sneer.
‘Was she in a relationship with any of the men in your group?’
The face returned to expressionlessness.
The sergeant was saying, ‘If you’re able to shed any light on the killing it would be helpful. I’m sure your lawyer has already informed you of the trouble you are in.’
Silence.
‘He’s not going to say nothing, is he?’ said Moon. ‘Straight to jail for him.’
‘What’s in it for him to talk?’ said Cupidi. ‘Even if he’s not prosecuted, he’s still on the next plane home. Besides. I think he’s scared of something. Look at him.’
She pushed back her chair. On the screen he looked so much smaller than the man who had tried to gouge her eyes.
Moon looked round. ‘Anything from Ferriter?’
‘She’ll be off for a couple of days. She needed stitches in the leg.’
‘She won’t be liking that.’
‘You should visit her. She’s back home. Take her flowers.’
Moon nodded, chewed on his tongue. ‘Maybe.’
She went to Najiba’s flat, but as before, no one answered. This time no one peered down from the window above either. She waited a while and watched, but there was nothing to see.
Ferriter’s address was a flat in the Panorama building. The Panorama had been built in the 1970s as a grey concrete office block, a huge V-sign of concrete spread out in two angled wings, but it had recently been refurbished as what were now called luxury apartments.
Ferriter buzzed her up. ‘Seventh floor,’ she said.
She opened the door on metal crutches, her wounded leg wrapped in bandage. She was wearing a pink towelling dressing gown.
‘Look at you,’ said Cupidi.
‘Sorry. Not dressed.’
‘You look pretty good for someone who was mauled by a dog last night.’
‘Little fucker,’ she said, hobbling back down the corridor to a living room whose window looked out over the flat town. ‘If it scars I’m going to have a fit. Your face looks worse though.’
‘Thanks,’ said Cupidi.
‘Yeah. Well.’
The room was white, dominated by a large mirror framed in artificial red and pink flowers. A purple beaded lamp hung from the ceiling, while a white teddy bear with a red bow tie sat on a plain grey sofa. Above it, a poster of swirly writing encouraged the reader to ‘Live well, laugh often, love always’.
‘You live here on your own?’
‘Bought it when my mum died. Do you like it?’
‘When did she die?’
‘Couple of years back. Brain cancer.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s lovely,’ said Cupidi, looking around. On the table sat a purple glass bowl full of gold-painted pine cones. No bookshelves, just a large TV on, beneath the big mirror, volume turned down. And all neat and spotless.
Ferriter dropped down onto the couch, resting the crutches beside her, pulling her pink dressing gown around herself. ‘Did they catch any of them? Have any of them said anything?’
‘They’re still looking for the rest. It’s just the one man who tried to poke my eye out who we’ve got, for now, anyway.’
‘Bastard.’
Cupidi nodded. ‘Everybody at work says hello.’
‘God. I never thought I’d want to be back at work so soon. One morning at home and I’m bored just sitting around, being honest. Tea? Coffee?’
Cupidi told her to stay where she was and walked to the small kitchen next door. It was just as tidy.
‘I’ll have rooibos,’ Ferriter called.
Cupidi opened cupboards until she found one with tea in it. There were several herb infusions, and a ‘wellness’ tea, but she couldn’t find either ordinary tea or coffee.
‘I came to say sorry,’ she called from the kitchen.
‘Don’t fret. Wasn’t your fault.’
The kettle was starting to murmur. ‘Yes. I think it was.’
‘What you talking about, Sarge?’
‘That address,’ she said, when she returned with two cups of rooibos. ‘You understand where I got it from, don’t you?’
‘I think so. Najiba. She gave you it, didn’t she?’
‘Yes. And she was clearly worried about passing it over.’
‘Was she?’
‘Think about it. It’s not surprising. First off, she’s working illegally.’
‘Yeah, but it’s that or begging.’
‘The point is, she knows if she is found out it’ll be another reason to deport her, so her first instinct is to say nothing to us. Which happened when we first met. But she thinks about it and a day later she changes her mind. Even though she’s risking everything to talk to us. So it was obviously something that was important for her to do.’
‘Because I said I’d help her,’ said Ferriter.
‘She wasn’t naive, Jill. She’s been around. But she gave the list to us anyway. And I think she knew what she was going to tell us was dangerous in itself. She knew already what she was dealing with.’
They sat side by side on her sofa, looking out at the blue sky.
‘I should have figured that out,’ said Cupidi. ‘I should have been more cautious.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Ferriter. ‘You think she knew them? The people who attacked us?’
‘That’s the point. She knows something, at least. I’m pretty sure.’
Ferriter’s eyes shone. Cupidi recognised the look. It was something she felt herself; the excitement of getting close. And then Ferriter’s mouth dropped as she realised what that would mean for Najiba: the risk of removal. She had not wanted to be involved; now she was, and as a significant witness.
TWENTY-NINE
‘It means,’ said Cupidi, ‘that we’re going to have to question her.’
Ferriter glared. ‘But I promised her. When I ran after her. That’s what I promised her. We’d keep her out of this.’
‘You shouldn’t have.’
‘That’s why she talked to me in the first place. She wouldn’t have talked to us at all if I hadn’t chased after her last week.’
Cupidi nodded. ‘I suppose we can still try and keep her identity quiet if she talks to us off the record. But we’ll need to speak to her.’
‘Have you been to her place?’ Ferriter said.
‘She’s not there. She’ll be at work. But she gave you her phone number, didn’t she?’
Ferriter grabbed a crutch and was about to stand, then dropped it. ‘Crap. Her number’s in my phone. It got trashed.’