Salt Lane

by William Shaw

  She had refused to talk, denying any involvement with the killings of Freya, Salem or Najiba. However, interviewing the illegal workers they had caught on the farm over the last week, officers from the Serious Crime Directorate had put together much of the story and, on her PC, they had found log-ins for four bank accounts, each holding tens of thousands of pounds. Tracing back the exact pattern of payments would be a matter of time. It was still not clear exactly what had happened – maybe it would never be – but they had enough to charge her. The man whom Cupidi had stabbed in the gut accused Reed of ordering all the killings. Other workers backed him up. The other man, the one who had been beaten up by the other migrants and left by the minibus, had been one of Reed’s inner circle for years, and added more to the story.

  It seemed that Freya Brindley had run an informal agency, providing work for undocumented labourers like herself. From years of working that way herself, she had known the ropes. She must have been there at the beginning of it all, when most workers were just a mix of drifters and local misfits.

  At some point around ten years ago, Connie Reed had become involved in the business as a partner. But as it had grown more and more profitable, and more regulated, Connie had taken over. As the foreign gangs had come in, instead of giving up to them, Connie had learned from their tactics. And when the laws regulating gangmasters tightened, forcing the traffickers aside, she had gradually moved into the space they had vacated. Copying the gangs, Connie had developed a knack for picking out men who had come from difficult places; those who had already witnessed violence, or taken part in it. They became Connie’s bodyguards, her enforcers.

  The workers had liked Freya, though. Maybe Freya, who had exploited people for drug money when she was younger, had changed. Maybe she had become a better person. Cupidi would like to have thought so. They would never know why she had kept the picture of the two boys she had killed, Jacob and Finn Olsson; perhaps that had been part of it.

  More was emerging, too. Alongside the illegal gangmaster agency, it was now becoming clear that Connie had run a kind of dating agency. Seeking out young single women among the documented labourers, she had set up clandestine meetings between them and the undocumented male labourers she controlled. The women were often lonely and vulnerable, like Rasa Petrauska. The men were desperate to find a way to remain in the country and would pay Connie thousands just to find the right girl; a girl whom they could marry; or better, in terms of immigration law, make pregnant. So that when the baby was born, it became much harder to send them home.

  So far the investigation had turned up two other women like Petrauska – one Polish, the other Lithuanian – who said Reed had acted as a matchmaker, pairing them up with young men. Both had given birth but been abandoned by the fathers. It seemed likely there were more.

  From what some witnesses had said, it appeared that Connie and Freya had started to argue over the summer. Some witnesses had said it was over money. Others had said it was because Freya had not approved of the increasingly severe regime that Connie was running. If you were overheard criticising her, you would find you weren’t paid, or your bed would be given to another worker, leaving you only the floor to sleep on.

  And then, one day at the tail-end of June, Freya had simply disappeared.

  By then, nobody had asked questions. Everybody had just kept their head down, saying nothing.

  Without Freya there, things had quickly become worse. It was clear that some of the workers were loyal to Connie. Others weren’t. Nobody was sure whom to trust, who was passing information to Connie in exchange for better treatment, who was spying for her. Everyone had been terrified of talking, of saying anything critical, in case word got back. It was a Libyan man called Salem who had broken ranks first. He was the first one to whisper the suggestion that Freya hadn’t just left, she had been killed by Connie.

  As a warning to the rest of them, they had come for him in broad daylight, brandishing sticks. Salem had run, escaping them.

  Everyone had hoped he had got away, vanishing into the city, perhaps.

  Until Najiba turned up to work one morning saying she had seen a photograph of Salem, dead; beaten and drowned in shit. Connie had killed him, too, Najiba had said. At first, few wanted to believe it.

  And then, last week, there had been a raid of some kind. The police – Cupidi and Ferriter – had turned up on Connie’s land. Connie was now convinced that somebody had talked. Which they had, of course.

  Najiba had already given herself away by telling people she had seen a photograph of the dead man. They had come for her at the end of a late shift, dragging her from the seat in the minibus and killing her in front of a handful of witnesses, including Esin.

  Cupidi did not know exactly what Esin had seen that night; she could only guess. Maybe she was talking about it now with Zoë.

  Connie Reed was tough. Session after session she had sat in the interview room saying nothing.

  Except once.

  At Cupidi’s suggestion, Moon had asked Reed if, when she was out riding along the Royal Military Canal, she had ever had a confrontation with a man in his sixties.

  Puzzled by the question, she had answered yes. It was the only thing she admitted to.

  It had been a summer evening two years ago. She had been riding along the path when her horse had been startled by a fisherman on the banks who was blocking her way. They had argued. She told him to move. He refused. When she had tried to ride on, he had slapped her horse’s neck with stick, forcing her back, threatening to hit her with it too.

  The incident had happened a few hundred metres from Stanley Eason’s house.

  Cupidi could imagine it: Connie Reed, the animal-lover, squaring up to Stanley Eason, the temperamental loner.

  When she had returned home, Reed had rung the police and complained that she had been threatened with a stick; she described the fisherman, but had refused to give her own name.

  Whether the incident had occurred as Reed had claimed or not was academic. The Complaints Commission would have to concede that the account was enough to support McAdam’s decision to assume that he was going to react violently to any attempt to arrest him.

  ‘Another biscuit?’ said Ferriter.

  Cupidi shook her head. ‘Still no sign of my man? The one who pulled me out of the apple store?’

  ‘No,’ said Ferriter. ‘It appears he got clean away.’

  Cupidi smiled.

  At the farm, as a paramedic had been preparing to inject her with morphine, Sergeant Moon and Ferriter had arrived from the murder scene.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Moon had said. ‘You look like shit.’

  Cupidi had told the paramedic to wait. ‘Leave me alone, I need to speak to the officer confidentially.’

  The young man had stepped back and Cupid had beckoned Moon close. ‘See the equipment barn? Over there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She had told the medics about the wounded man in there, the one she had stabbed with a fork. They had pulled him out, still conscious, on a stretcher.

  ‘Get in there. Guard it. Any copper goes in there, tell them it’s a crime scene and to keep out.’

  ‘What crime?’

  ‘A man tried to kill me in there. I stabbed him.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Quick. Get it done.’

  ‘Right. The whole barn?’

  ‘Yep. Keep them out, OK?’

  And he had gone off, eager to do his job.

  It was true. It was a crime scene. But Cupidi had told Yusuf, the ghost-man who had saved her life, about the grey crates she had been about to hide in. If he had done as she had told him, he would have been in there, waiting for the police to leave.

  But then it had been time to get in the ambulance, and she hadn’t heard any more about it.

  The ghost-man must have taken her advice, because he had disappeared again. He had not been caught. Though they had helped save her life, the rest were already in detention centres and, for them, t
he removal process would be beginning. Some would be prosecuted, others simply put on planes. All except for Esin; as a parentless child, they couldn’t lock her up.

  She was in emergency foster care now, her future uncertain.

  ‘What about you, Jill?’ Cupidi asked Ferriter. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Me? I’m fine.’

  ‘Good.’

  She looked at her and thought she probably wasn’t. Only Cupidi knew how she had tried to win Najiba’s confidence. She had told Ferriter it would be better to keep the story to herself. It had cost Najiba her life; a second death following police contact was something they were both going to have to live with.

  They sat together in the front of the car, side by side. ‘I was thinking of doing a course in digital intelligence,’ she said. ‘We’re going to be able to solve ninety-nine per cent of crime before it even happens.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘Serious. Algorithms. All the stuff people leave on social media. Add that to number-plate recognition. And facial recognition. We’ll just be wearing bits on our lapels soon and it’ll tell us everything we need to know about whoever we’re talking to.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  Which Ferriter took as an encouragement to tell her more. ‘Just the way you use a phrase on Facebook can be an indicator of criminal behaviour. Did you know that?’

  She did her best to nod every now and again, but she was thinking about the ghosts. The growing army of the hidden. The more people thought they knew, the less they did.

  She was still talking an hour later, when Zoë emerged from the house. At the door, she and Esin hugged, holding on for at least a minute before they dared release each other.

  Two fragile girls.

  In the back seat, Zoë was silent.

  ‘Well?’ said Ferriter, eagerly. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ said Zoë.

  ‘Did she talk about how she’d witnessed Najiba’s murder?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Ferriter looked a little disappointed.

  Cupidi smiled. Her daughter was a keeper of secrets. All Cupidi knew about Esin was what she’d put in her asylum appeal. She was seventeen and her parents were dead. She had come to England to find an uncle, but she didn’t have an address for him. Nothing more.

  She would be told, at some point in the months ahead, whether she could stay, or whether they would remove her when she was old enough to return there.

  Zoë didn’t speak until they were almost home.

  ‘I’m going to teach her English,’ said Zoë. ‘We’re going to message each other.’

  ‘That’s great.’ Cupidi turned in her seat towards her. ‘Just don’t take on too much. Go carefully. She might not be here for ever.’

  ‘Mum! I am actually old enough to know what I’m doing.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s a great thing to do. You’re amazing.’

  ‘You are,’ agreed Ferriter from the driving seat. ‘Bloody amazing.’

  ‘And it’s for me, too,’ Zoë said. ‘Something for me to concentrate on. Apart from myself.’

  ‘That’s good. Really good.’ Cupidi smiled.

  She was nervous about her daughter; she still seemed so fragile. They would get through this; there were three of them now. Her, her mother and her daughter. It wasn’t something you could just solve; she understood that. But they could do their best here. It would be autumn soon. The birds would be coming through again. Cupidi was still on sick leave and had some holiday coming too.

  They drove down into the flatland. On Denge Marsh, approaching Dungeness, temporary traffic lights slowed their journey. A pump was straining to pour water from one ditch into another culvert.

  She recognised one of the men she had spoken to from the Drainage Board, standing in a reflective work coat.

  He greeted her as they crawled by. ‘Sluice failed,’ he explained.

  Trying to hold back water, she thought. How long can you do that for? ‘We are water,’ she said, half out loud.

  ‘What?’ said Ferriter.

  ‘The photograph you gave me. The children who were killed in the fire. I was just thinking about that.’

  They drove on. The giant power station loomed in front of them.

  ‘Whose is that car?’ asked Zoë as they approached the cottage.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Outside Arum Cottage there was a hire car. They slowed as they approached. Julian was at the door and Lulu was with him, holding Teo in her arms. They must have just arrived.

  ‘They came, then. I didn’t think they would.’

  An older woman stood by them, almost unrecognisable now. Julian must have bought new clothes for his mother. She seemed to be doing well. She had put on weight, at least, even if Zoë hadn’t yet.

  Helen was with them. She was setting up a picnic table on the land by the house.

  ‘Is that Julian’s wife?’ Zoë asked from the back seat.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Ferriter. ‘Piece of work.’

  ‘They’re doing their best,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Drop me. I want to tell Nan about Esin. Are you staying for supper?’ Zoë asked Ferriter.

  ‘I should get back,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Cupidi. ‘You’re very welcome. Please join us.’

  ‘You mind?’

  ‘There will be loads,’ said Zoë, getting out. ‘They keep trying to feed me up.’

  They parked the car at the back of the house. Cupidi looked at her watch. It was almost one. ‘I need to make that call,’ she said.

  ‘Go for it,’ said Ferriter.

  As they walked up to the front door, Cupidi saw a Tesco’s bag hanging from the handle. Poking out of the bag was a small bunch of asters. At the bottom of the bag was a copy of the paperback the book group had finally agreed to: a non-fiction popular science book about physics. She would enjoy that. Tucked inside the book was a note:

  Thank you so much for EVERYTHING. (Sorry about last time.)

  Colette McAdam. x

  ‘Nice flowers,’ said Ferriter. ‘Want me to put them in a jug?’

  Leaving Ferriter in the kitchen making a salad, Cupidi took her notebook and the brown envelope out of her bag and went to the living room.

  One-handed, she flicked through the notebook until she found the telephone number she needed, put it on the coffee table in front of her, then took out the photograph and laid it alongside. She checked her watch, waited another minute. At exactly one o’clock, she took a breath, then dialled.

  The telephone rang for a long time before it was picked up.

  ‘Hej?’ The faraway voice was cautious.

  ‘Olivia Olsson? My name is Detective Sergeant Alexandra Cupidi.’

  A pause. ‘Yes. My husband said you were going to call.’

  It had taken a few days for Cupidi to track down the mother of the dead boys, Jacob and Finn. She no longer lived in the UK. Olivia Olsson was a lecturer in Applied Climatology now, at the University of Gothenburg.

  ‘I have some news about Freya Brindley.’

  Did she hear, or did she just imagine, the gulp of air on the other end of the line?

  ‘Yes,’ the woman said. ‘Please go ahead.’

  Slowly, piece by piece, Cupidi told the story about the woman who had killed Jacob and Finn; about how she, in the end, had been murdered and left in cold water.

  As she talked, she could hear Ferriter bustling in the kitchen, chopping vegetables.

  Olivia Olsson asked few questions; and when she did, they were curt, and almost whispered. ‘Would she have suffered?’

  Cupidi said, ‘No. Not much. Did you want her to have?’

  ‘Naturally,’ she said, in the voice of a quiet, contained woman, someone who had become used to not letting her emotions get the better of her.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, she did not have a good life after she killed your children. I think she was very troubled by what she had d
one.’

  Olivia Olsson didn’t respond.

  ‘I found a photograph of your boys. They were playing in front of your caravan.’

  ‘Royale,’ the voice breathed.

  Cupidi struggled to understand what Olsson had just said. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Would you like me to send it to you?’

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘Freya Brindley had it pinned above her bed. In her own caravan that she lived in until she was murdered. I think she put it there as a way of reminding herself of the awful thing she was responsible for.’

  This time the intake of breath was audible. ‘I don’t want it,’ said the mother of the dead boys.

  ‘Was that OK?’ asks Ferriter, as they walk slowly back to Arum Cottage, arms full with the salad and bottles of wine.

  ‘Pretty bad,’ answers Cupidi.

  Ferriter says, ‘Do you need a hug?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve been having nightmares,’ says Ferriter. ‘Not sleeping that well, be honest.’

  ‘About Najiba?’

  ‘Kind of. Men with knives. I mean, it’s not like I’m going crazy or anything.’

  ‘Normal, given what we went through.’

  ‘What about you? Christ. You were almost dead.’

  Cupidi doesn’t answer. ‘Get a bit drunk. Talk about it. Stay over,’ says Cupidi. ‘I’ve got a sofa bed.’

  ‘How can life be so fucking hard for some people? I mean, Peter’s nice. But he lives with his mum, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Don’t fancy him any more now you slept with him, then?’

  ‘I have not! I’m not the one who goes round shagging policemen.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  They sit on benches and chairs around two tables of different heights. Helen sits down between Cupidi and Hilary. ‘Are you OK if we drink?’ she says.

  Hilary is cleaning up. No drugs, no alcohol. Instead she smokes almost constantly. ‘Go ahead. Mind if I hold Teo?’ she asks Lulu, with a black-toothed smile.

  Lulu is standing on the other side of the long table, with Teo asleep on her shoulder. She has brought a lot of food, including a whole baked salmon with oranges, and laid it out on tinfoil. Pouring wine, Julian pauses. Lulu stands, gently rocking the boy for a little while more, and pretends she hasn’t heard.