by Ted Tayler
“We’ll interview them in the staff canteen if it speeds things up Zara,” joked Phil.
There was no sign of a smile on the face of his colleague. Phil pulled into his parking space in front of the Portishead HQ and decided he’d better play these next few hours wearing his serious head. Zara was right about watching your step when dealing with these sorts of cases.
An hour later, they found an interpreter for a Romanian guy, whose passport said he was forty-four, but whose features and physique placed him closer to sixty-four. As for suspect number two, he was a Nigerian whose papers said he was fifty-two. Within seconds of seeing him, Phil realised that his English was better than most UK teenagers; they couldn’t shut him up, unfortunately, and everything he shouted at the world at large concerned hellfire and damnation. Phil scanned through his passport to see if he was a preacher of an obscure denomination, but he was described as a mature student. His given name was Sunday however, so that felt right.
Phil took Zara to one side. He wanted to have her in with him as he conducted each interview.
“A female officer in the room might help to make them feel less threatened. The poor beggars have had a right ordeal. No point us playing ‘good cop, bad cop’ and trying to force information out of them. Let’s just tread softly and see where it leads. The more comfortable they are, hopefully, the longer it will be before they demand to see a brief.”
“Right you are,” said Zara, “that makes sense. I’ll get tea, coffee, and sandwiches brought across. I’m not playing ‘mother’, but it will ease the tension.”
“Makes sense; okay, who do we start with, Anton Dumitrescu or Sunday Aronu?
“Best get the interpreter doing something useful or she’ll be looking at her watch; wondering if she’ll be back in the office by clocking-off time.”
Anton Dumitrescu was escorted in first. He shuffled towards the seat and looked around the room. He looked a frightened shadow of a man. As Phil asked the interpreter to tell him who he was and why he had been brought to the police station, there was a knock at the door. A young female PC entered pushing a trolley.
“The refreshments DI Wheeler ordered, Sir,” she said, then left the room.
Phil noticed that Dumitrescu stared at the trolley; he didn’t seem to notice the attractive young female officer.
“Tell Anton to help himself,” said Phil Hounsell to the interpreter.
The suspects’ eyes widened; it was clear he was ravenous. He grabbed the food and stuffed a packet of biscuits in his jacket pocket, in case the trolley was taken away. The interview was off to a good start. Phil coaxed Dumitrescu through the process with his usual cool professionalism.
The interview with Sunday Aronu was a different matter altogether. The big man was a borderline fruitcake. He blessed the food before he took a bite and refused coffee as it was ‘the Devil’s potion’. Phil was desperate for a mug of coffee but made do with a cup of weak tea, which he hated, to avoid offending Sunday. Zara watched Phil’s discomfort with every sip and stifled a chuckle.
Two hours later, the interviews were completed. Phil and Zara went back to his office to look at the information they had gathered.
“Much as we expected,” said Phil, looking dejected. “Dumitrescu has a forged passport; he came into the country by hiding in the back of a lorry transporting tyres and then ran off into the night in Wolverhampton eighteen months ago. He was picked up off the streets by a traveller’s gang operating near Redditch and then sold on to the Kelly family a year ago. Since that time he has been kept in dreadful conditions and forced to work wherever they sent him.”
“What he told us gives us more evidence for our case against the Kelly gang when we track them down,” said Zara. “Earlier this year the Coroners and Justice Act created a new offence of holding another person in slavery or servitude or requiring them to carry out forced or compulsory labour. Until this Act came into effect, there was no single offence that covered the crime in full; this recognises forced labour as a crime on its own–these men’s statement makes it easier to bring a prosecution.”
“Sunday Aronu was different, though,” said Zara. “I’m not sure on what planet he is. His passport is fine as far as I can make out, but an expert might show otherwise. It appears he arrived in September 2004, stating that he had a place at a theological college in London. That course should have lasted two years. He stayed over, way beyond the time his visa expired. He doesn’t seem too clear on why he ended up in a hostel; except to say he thought that ‘God will provide’. In the end, it was the Kelly gang that provided for poor Sunday for the last three years.”
Phil looked up at the ceiling as if searching for divine inspiration.
“So where does that leave us?” he asked.
“There are two ways of dealing with illegal immigrants Sir. The Border Agency can handle the administration, or we can move forward via criminal proceedings. In general, even if criminal proceedings cannot be taken, a person may remain categorised as an illegal immigrant as far as the administration is concerned. They can still be subject to deportation or removed by the Home Office under the relevant sections of the Immigration Act 1971.”
“Is there any knowledge you don’t have stored away in that massive brain of yours Mouse?” said Phil, shaking his head in astonishment.
Zara blushed and crinkled her nose.
“I can quote the relevant act Sir, but does it help? Neither of these two has committed an offence we would wish to pursue through the courts. They were offended against and as illegals; either by ‘entering without leave’ or ‘remaining beyond the time limited by leave’ then it’s best to hand it over to the UKBA to deal with isn’t it?”
“Yes, Miss,” said Phil, “let’s get these two on their way then. Can you get hold of the Southern regional office and arrange for a collection?”
Zara looked at the clock.
“Nothing will happen today now Phil. We’ll have to put them up for the night. I’ll ring through and see if they can do a pickup first thing tomorrow.”
Phil shrugged. A bed in the cells was light years better than the conditions they had suffered for months; so a good night’s sleep, breakfast in the canteen and then they’d be off in the morning on the journey towards deportation. Ah well, you can’t have everything.
CHAPTER 9
Zara went back to her office and made the call. Her request was duly noted and the UKBA official promised to call back first thing in the morning. Phil and Zara drove back to Bath and their respective homes in convoy again after a long and fruitful day.
Zara arrived back at her desk bright and early the next morning. She waited patiently for the call. Dimetrescu and Aronu had been fed and watered, ready to leave. She dropped in to see them in the custody suite. They were resigned to their fate but had no complaints about the treatment they received since yesterday.
Only one thing concerned Dimetrescu. Did he have to hand back the packet of biscuits? Zara suggested he shared them with Sunday Aronu. She bought a bar of chocolate from a vending machine and handed it over to the Nigerian. Sunday blessed it, broke it in two and gave half to the Romanian.
When she walked back into her office; the phone rang.
Two minutes later, Zara slammed the phone down and stomped across to Phil’s office.
“Good morning Zara; I take it someone’s rattled your cage?”
“Unbelievable,” she cried, “absolutely bloody unbelievable. The Border Agency say they have no one available. I told them we were up against the clock with these two; that we couldn’t charge them with any criminal offence. The bloke had the audacity to say ‘Not my problem! It’s the cuts love, we’re short-handed’. I asked him what he expected me to do with them. He said unless we wanted to hold on to them for an offence, then we may as well let them walk!”
“What a crazy, fucked-up system,” exploded Phil.
Everyone in the office looked up and listened in on their conversation now. Nobody would stand up and
say their superiors were mistaken. They knew this to be an everyday occurrence. Anton and Sunday were taken to the carpool, and a driver dropped them at the town centre. He left them with a wave of the hand and a good luck wish.
In his office, Phil Hounsell and Zara Wheeler still fumed. Was it ever worth the effort? There must be a better way.
As any policeman will tell you; life goes on. DS Hounsell and DCI Wheeler, or Cat and Mouse if you will, didn’t have long to wallow in self-pity. Other cases lay on their desks. Other tragedies waited to unfold.
“Did you know this chap Armitage, Sir?” asked Zara one morning, showing Phil a brief obituary in a police magazine.
“He was stationed in London with SOCA while I worked there Zara; but no, I wouldn’t say I knew him. Armitage was rotten to the core. I kept as far away from his circle of friends as possible. Not that he had that many friends; except in the criminal fraternity that is. I heard he was killed.”
Zara read pieces aloud from the article, “DCI Richard Armitage was discovered by his playing partner on a Lewes golf course - on a late October afternoon; he had been shot at close range - no eyewitnesses - few leads to follow.”
Phil said, “I laughed at the comment saying ‘a valued friend and colleague who will be sorely missed’. The truth is they were glad to see the back of him. That’s one less rotten apple in the barrel.”
“Their investigation centres on his drugs gang connections. Armitage planted narcotics on gang members and blackmailed them for large cash donations to make evidence disappear. It’s likely that one of these gangs put a price on his head,” continued Zara.
“It was a professional job. Whoever carried it out, from what I heard,” said Phil.
As the weeks ticked by, the daily grind continued, but just after the New Year, the team received two bits of good news.
Every member of the Kelly gang had been arrested. They wintered in a site near Cheddar Gorge. Nick Frobisher and his ‘snatch squad’ paid them a very early morning call. Despite spirited resistance, particularly from Kelly Senior and his wife, they bundled the gang into the police vans and got back to HQ before breakfast.
“Excellent,” Phil Hounsell enthused, “that gets 2011 off to a good start. Now it’s up to the courts to get us a good result.”
Zara checked back through her paperwork.
“With the evidence we gathered, they’ll struggle to get out from under this one. ‘Employment of Illegal Immigrants - Criminal proceedings, are appropriate in cases where the employer has deliberately and knowingly breached the law.’ Tick. ‘An offence is committed where an employer employs a person knowing that the employee is an adult subject to immigration control. Also that the employee has not been granted leave to enter or stay in the UK. Or the employee's leave to enter or stay in the UK is not valid, or has ceased to have an effect.’ Another tick.”
“Remind me; what are we talking here? Please tell me it’s a big number.”
Zara smiled. “Don’t be stupid Phil; it’s just a slap on the wrist as usual. ‘A person guilty of an offence shall be liable on conviction on indictment, to a fine, and or to imprisonment not exceeding two years.’ Still, together with the imprisonment, abuse, and exploitation of the British nationals, we released near Burnham added into the mix then they will be away for a while.”
“We haven’t uncovered any more sites where they might have been holding people have we?” asked Phil.
“Nick Frobisher collected paperwork at Cheddar that indicates the Kelly gang sold on their labourers. They would be hiring again in the spring I imagine. A large sum was found in notes in a safe in Kelly’s caravan.”
Phil decided the good news warranted a beer or two after work, to celebrate the prospect of a minor win. Most of the team joined Phil and Zara in a pub by the Marina. There were several soft drinks in the order he gave over the bar because it wouldn’t do to have anyone getting pulled over for drunk-driving later.
Angela Chambers collected her gin and tonic and came over to sit by Zara Wheeler.
“These things usually come in threes,” she said.
“Sorry,” said Zara, “what do you mean?”
“Well, we’ve received two bits of good news today. Anton Dimetrescu sent the custody sergeant a postcard from Ostend. He’s back across the Channel and working in the kitchens of a five-star restaurant. Anton’s got a flat and everything.”
“Is he still illegal?” asked Zara.
“Oh yeah; but he wanted to thank us for the way we helped him. Nice of him, don’t you think?”
“I suppose the third bit of good news would be to learn that Sunday Aronu has found what he was searching for.”
“Never a whisper since he left us, Ma’am, I’m afraid,” said Angela.
The pub filled with a few men intent on watching the football on the big screens. The group of police officers had their corner to themselves, but gradually numbers dwindled as people drifted off to family and commutes demanded their time.
“Ready to make tracks back to Bath, Zara?” asked Phil.
Angela nudged Zara gently. “Why not spend the evening here in town? Go for a meal and find a bar without those sports-mad Neanderthals. What do you say?”
Zara looked at her lemonade and lime. Nothing exciting waited for her at home. Napoleon and Josephine would cope for a few hours.
“Go on home, Phil,” she said, “Angela and I hitting the town.”
Phil drank up, waved a hand, and left the pub.
“Right, let’s find somewhere decent for a bite to eat,” said Angela, knocking back her drink. They left the pub just as the game started. Zara didn’t think anyone noticed they left. Angela Chambers knew her way around Portishead. They had only walked for a couple of minutes before she guided Zara into an Italian restaurant. Zara hadn’t eaten as well in ages. She wasn’t sure how she would manage to drive home now though; Angela insisted that the food deserved to be accompanied by a good bottle of wine.
When they came outside into the night air, Zara shivered. Angela led them to a small side-street and into a quiet bar. Zara sat on a table in a booth near the fire. She spotted Angela chatting to two girls at the bar, then she came back to the booth with two large glasses of wine.
“Looks as if I’m getting a taxi,” said Zara.
“Why not stay over at my flat?” said Angela, sitting next to her.
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” said Zara. The wine and the log fire in the hearth were making her uncomfortably warm. Angela’s head leant towards her and her perfume was exotic.
“It will be no trouble,” whispered Angela and brushed a stray hair from Zara’s cheek.
“What are you doing,” asked Zara.
“What I’ve wanted to do ever since I set eyes on you, Zara,” said Angela, she kissed Zara gently on the cheek, then on her lips. Zara tried to push Angela away. Angela kissed her more deeply, her tongue parting her lips and forcing its way into her mouth. Zara relaxed and savoured the experience. She had never been kissed by a girl. It felt different. It was enjoyable, but did she want to experience any more than this moment of affection?
“Angela,” she said finally pulling away. “I’m sorry, this is wrong. I’m straight. I’ve never had feelings for a girl. Sex with Toby has been great, and although we’re just friends, I still want to find a man to settle down with one day. I’m a single girl, but not because I’m gay or confused. What the hell. Everyone knows I did it with Idris Williams. If you had been there that night, you’d have no doubts that that’s what floats my boat.
Angela was crushed.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, the drink gave me the confidence to kiss you.” she sobbed. “I’ve always known, but I’ve not found anyone I truly fancied. I come to this bar to talk to other girls; to be among girls who understand, but I’ve never done it with anyone yet.”
Zara sighed. “I still have the problem of how to get back to Bath.”
“Please stay at mine, Ma’am; I promise it will be okay
.”
“Only on one condition. Please call me Zara, not Ma’am, when we’re out socially, we can still be friends, Angela.”
Angela cheered up somewhat. The two colleagues drank up and left the bar. Angela’s flat was a five-minute walk away. Zara slipped her arm through her Sergeant’s and they strolled amiably along the pavement and into the apartment block. Angela let herself in and asked Zara if she wanted a coffee.
“Yes please, black no sugar,” she grinned, “I don’t want to be hanging in the morning when I walk into the office.”
After they drank their coffee and chatted about everything except the kiss in the bar, it was time to sort out the sleeping arrangements. There was an awkward moment when Angela led Zara into her bedroom. Zara stopped by the door.
“Have my bed, Zara,” Angela smiled. “I’ll take the couch. You’ll be perfectly safe.”
“You’ll be freezing,” said Zara, “we’re both adults. If I can borrow nightclothes, we can share the bed.”
Ten minutes later, they lay under the duvet, trying to keep to their side of the bed.
“Goodnight Zara,” whispered Angela, “sweet dreams.”
Zara wondered if Phil Hounsell knew that Angela preferred the company of girls. Did he think that something might happen if he left her alone in that bar? Maybe that’s why he asked if she was ready to get off home. Why did Phil always come into her head? What gave him the right to be protective of her? He was married. Why did she still think of him and ‘might-have-been’?
She blinked back the tears that followed. Angela slid closer and put her arm on her shoulder.
“Hey, what’s the matter, Zara,” she whispered.
“Nothing anyone can change, Angela,” she groaned and snuggled into the comfortable bed with the warm body of her colleague wrapped around her. Sleep was a long time coming. She listened to Angela’s gentle snoring as the clock ticked around into the small hours before her own eyes finally closed.
