SLAUGHTER OF INNOCENTS

by M. G. Cole

  “I think most people would be surprised to hear that,” Garrick replied, watching John delicately cut the scone in half. “A lot of people dislike them.”

  “Ah, the old gypsies,” John sighed. “Somewhere over the years, the romance disappeared. And I do believe you are taking about the Irish Travellers. They can be a cantankerous lot, admittedly. I’m referring to the classic Romani travellers, of course.”

  Garrick had only been vaguely aware of the difference in Traveller culture until that very morning. Peter Thorpe’s comment about Jamal finding shelter amongst them had been bothering him all night. If she had been accepted amongst them, and taken by their kindness so much that she was even dreaming of going to bat for them in court, then why hadn’t anybody come forward to report her missing? As usual, a call to John had proved to be a useful source of background information. Although it cost him an over-priced cream tea.

  John applied the cream before the jam as he lectured Garrick. “They’re heathens, all of them. I don’t have time for them. Bunch of thieves and drunkards.”

  Garrick was surprised to hear such strong opinions from the normally placid man.

  “What have they ever done to you?”

  “I told you, we had a bunch passing through here before Christmas. Broke into my car and stole the stereo.”

  Garrick was surprised. “You didn’t tell me.”

  John examined the first endowed half of scone. “You were very much otherwise engaged.”

  His sister. How stupid of him. How could that have slipped his mind?

  John continued. “They came through here littering the place. Stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down. Should all be thrown in the Channel with the rest of them.”

  “How do you know it was them?”

  “When they cleared off towards Hawkinge, the crime spree stopped.” He bit into the scone and sighed with approval. “Now that’s traditional.” He looked around the café and dropped his voice conspiratorially. “At least she kept the recipe, not that I approve of all this modernisation. The name of this place sounds like something out of that bloody sitcom, Friends. Hate it.”

  Garrick chuckled to himself. John’s concept of modernisation extended to new stools, a long wooden bench that ran the length of the café, allowing customers to sit either side, improved lighting and, horror of horrors, Wi-Fi. The new proprietor was rushed off her feet, despite the lack of customers, as her waitress was running late. That had meant their cream tea had arrived a whole five minutes later than expected. Another act of sacrilege that had annoyed John.

  “You’re old before you time, John.”

  John winked. “I still have my youthful vigour. I just don’t understand what this obsession is for updating everything. It’s just not needed.” He turned to the man in the wax jacket and called over. “Stan, I was just telling my friend here about the trouble we had with the gypos.”

  Stan glowered over his newspaper, a free copy of the Metro, Garrick noted. No expense spared.

  “Bloody bunch of pikeys. Should all be arrested. Rounded up and slung in a camp or something. Sponging on benefits and causing no end of trouble. They tried to break into my sheds and pitch up on my land. Police did nothing! I tell you. Nobody wants ‘em here.”

  John smiled and raised an eyebrow at Garrick, as if proving a point.

  “I thought you said they were a much maligned culture.”

  “Doesn’t that prove my point? Very maligned. It doesn’t mean they don’t deserve it. I know if they come back through here there are a number of residents who would certainly take matters into their own hands.” He finished the scone in two bites and set on creaming up the other half. “They have their own traditions, even their own language. Have you ever heard of Shelta?” Garrick shook his head. “It’s a mishmash of Irish Traveller Cant and Gammon. And I’m not talking about the meat. It’s a cryptolect. A secret language designed to keep outsiders out. That’s just the Irish. The Romani go one better with their own variants, Vlax, Sinte, Welsh…”

  “And I had a problem with Cockney Rhyming Slang.”

  “Far worse than that. It’s even worse than Scouse,” he added with a smirk at Garrick’s expense. John lathered on the jam, before adding a liberal mound of cream. Garrick’s stomach rumbled as he watched, but he didn’t join in.

  “It doesn’t sound the right type of environment for an Iraqi refugee to call home.”

  “Good God, no. They can’t tolerate outsiders.” He gestured to Stan. “And you think Mr BNP is bad.”

  Garrick surreptitiously glanced at Stan. He had him pegged as a friend of Farage, but the British Nationalist Party or even National Front seemed a step too far. Nevertheless, he knew the quaint backwaters and idyllic nooks of the Garden of English were a breeding ground for homegrown nationalism. He always hated driving through a lovely village and seeing the red Cross of Saint George flying from somebody’s garden flagpole. Saint George. The Patron Saint of England, born in Turkey from Greek parents, served in the Roman army, buried in Israel. The proud symbol of all that is English.

  “They wouldn’t have much tolerance with her. Unless she was pretty. In which case, it would be like throwing the lamb to the wolves.”

  “So you don’t think it’s unlikely she would have stayed with them?”

  Garrick chewed the scone, savouring every bite. Garrick patiently waited until he finished.

  “Not with the Irish, no. But the Romani are a different kettle of fish.” John filled his cup with green tea from the metal teapot on the side. He offered it to Garrick, who nodded, and he filled both cups. “People often think of gypsies as Eastern European tinkerers, or bandits,” he added with a mischievous smile. “Their roots actually hark back to the Indian subcontinent. And some scholars are talking maybe, circa 400 AD. They have a rich culture and they’re not very tolerant of outsiders, yet an Iraqi refugee… I could see them taking her in.”

  “And you said the ones you had trouble with moved down to Hawkinge?” The town was only a mile north of Castle Hill, if that.

  “They’ve been circling around the region for months. Pitching up in fields and causing farmers no end of trouble trying to shift them. Don’t get Stan started again, you’ll never hear the end of it. He’d like to throttle them all.”

  “Because they don’t try to integrate?”

  John regarded him with a heavy dose of bemusement. “They see themselves as very separate people. Humanity likes its neat boxes, doesn’t it? Divide by religion, borders, race, gender, even football teams. We can’t help ourselves. Only outsiders see them as the same.” He looked thoughtful. “Although they do share obvious similarities.” He snapped his fingers. “Valentine!”

  Garrick sipped his tea. It was so hot it burned his lips. “Sorry, what?”

  “We spoke about Valentine’s day last time. Saint Valentine is the Patron Saint of Travellers. Then again, they have a lot of them. Saint Sarah is probably the more revered one.”

  “They’re a religious people?”

  “The ones here are predominantly Catholic. The church is always running outreach programs to help them.”

  “Guiding Hands,” Garrick mumbled.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.” He put his tea down. “Funny, but I always associated gypsies with fortune tellers, the dark arts and all that kind of stuff.”

  John shrugged. “Naturally, such a nomadic people pick up a lot of pagan bits and bobs on the way.” He rolled his hands together. “Blending it all together. That is what makes them exceedingly superstitious. And there are tales of… darker beliefs.”

  “Such as?”

  “Shaktism. It’s a Hindu thing. I read a little. Something to do with Kali. It can involve animal sacrifice. As I say, a rich culture. But a bunch of barmy beliefs. I believe there are some key dates around November for that sort of thing.”

  Something John had said initially passed him by, but it suddenly came back to him.

  “You said people think o
f them as Eastern European.”

  “There are substantial communities there, but I was merely pointing out people’s generally incorrect assumptions.”

  “What about Romania?” Discretion meant that he hadn’t told John any of the details regarding the investigation, and John knew better than to ask. John’s frown prompted him further. “Romanians-Romani…?”

  John raised his hands up. “You are meowing up a confused tree.” He seemed to take pleasure in Garrick’s bewilderment. “They are two incompatible comparisons, sorry. It’s merely a linguistic quirk.”

  The lite-research had overwhelmed Garrick’s train of thought. Suddenly ideas and thoughts that hadn’t quite coalesced, fizzled just beyond his reach. He was certain that understanding Jamal’s life with these people was critical.

  Garrick glanced at his phone, expecting to see dozens of messages. There was only one from Wendy, telling him that she was looking forward to their date tomorrow. He had clean forgot about that and felt guilty for doing so. It was an early evening, which somehow didn’t feel like an actual date, and they had yet to fix a location. For a moment he considered cancelling it, as his mind wasn’t in the right space. Besides, there was a very real chance he may have to do just that if the investigation got back in gear. It was seductively easy to postpone their lunch. It would be a pre-cancellation… but where would that end? He had to remind himself why he signed up to HeartFelt to begin with.

  Sheer crushing loneliness because his life was all work.

  He had to break that cycle, and so far he’d had one date last year with a woman called Sandra, and he’d ruined that.

  There were no messages from the team. That meant no tangible progress had been made. He had instructed Fanta to continue chasing her digital footprints, and Chib had taken a search team back to Castle Hill to look for any other clues to what Jamal had been doing there. With more snow overnight, the chances of finding any forensic smoking guns were low, but they had to try.

  Garrick found himself staring at Stan. The man caught him and glared back with piggy eyes. Garrick finished his tea.

  “So John, these Romani travellers around here. How do you fancy joining me on a little research trip?”

  The smile never left John’s face. “Oh, no, dear boy. I would absolutely loathe that. I don’t mingle with the great unwashed unless I can absolutely help it.”

  Booking a table for an early evening at The Tickled Trout, on his way out of Wye, Garrick drove to Hawkinge. The snow was coming down in occasional heavy flurries, painting the farmers’ fields and distant hills with pristine white charm, and crowning the trees with pale halos. It was a beautiful image, but it brought with it an uninvited image of his sister stranded in the snow, somewhere in the wastes of America. Had she experienced the same feelings of a snowy wonderland before the light had been snuffed from her?

  Garrick was thankful for the slow, grim traffic on the M20. Moving at just under fifty through the salt and sludge carriageway allowed him to focus on something other than his own tortuous inner thoughts. He called the office and asked Harry to find out exactly where the Romani travellers were. It only took him two minutes to call back after he found a plethora of recent complaints to the local police about the Traveller community.

  From the sounds of it, Garrick was about to drive into a war zone.

  14

  The country lane, a quarter mile southwest of Hawkinge, was proving tricky to navigate in the snow. Despite an inch or two elsewhere, here it had drifted, providing thicker coverage, and the narrow lane was well beyond the reach of the gritters.

  David Garrick was pleasantly surprised that his shabby Land Rover’s four-wheel drive was working, as it slipped doggedly onwards. There were signs that a couple vehicles had passed, but not the large amount he had assumed from a Traveller community. After several minutes of struggling down the lane, he was thinking Harry had been relaying on dated information, had it not been for the fact that at the very bottom of the lane he was on now, ended on Crete Road. The very road Jamal had ended her car journey on after leaving the Truckstop. It was too much of a coincidence to ignore. Had Jamal called somebody from the Romani community to pick her up and take her home? As to why they had stopped at Castle Hill, a good mile from the reported Romani site, he wasn’t clear.

  Garrick craned forward in his seat as the trees to the left cleared, and he spotted several vehicles parked in a snowy field. Four horses ambled around the site, blankets over them for warmth.

  He stopped when the view over the hedge lowered enough for him to see about twenty caravans, some in better condition than others, yet all carried a slight air of dilapidation. Most had been positioned in an approximate circle, reminding him of Old West pioneer wagons. Several had been parked further out, like strays banished from the group. Each was accompanied by either a transit van or estate cars. Smoke rose from a bonfire at the centre of the ring, around which the entire community was gathered. Men, women and children.

  Crawling a little farther up the lane, Garrick stopped at a gate that, although closed, bore all the hallmarks of having been forced open. He climbed out, pulling his Barbour tight and kicking himself for not having the forethought to bring a pair of gloves. As he clambered over the fence, he noted there were no footprints or tyre tracks leading from the field.

  Fresh snow crunched underfoot, and within seconds the damp had seeped through his sensible shoes and his socks were wet. He stumbled on the frozen furrowed earth beneath the snow. He couldn’t be any less prepared for a frozen countryside ramble.

  The smell of burning wood filled his nostrils, and with it the sound of raised voices. Three people were having a heated argument in a tongue he didn’t recognise. A small, dark-faced girl spotted him first. She pointed and, with a sharp few words, the entire group turned his way and fell into silence. They didn’t move or make even the slightest gesture of welcome. Their expressions were deadpan, neither hostile nor friendly.

  Garrick took his hands out of his pockets and smiled in what he hoped was a friendly manner, even though his teeth were chattering and his toes had started to freeze.

  “Hello.” He nodded at several of the elders in the hope that one of them was some sort of leader. Sharp crackles from the bonfire and crunch of snow underfoot were the only sounds. Not even the birds sung.

  He counted fourteen children, no older than twelve. All carried a slightly grubby air and wore clothes that didn’t quite fit, and were certainly not suitable for the cold. Six teenagers glowered, exchanging quick glances at their elders as if expecting to be instructed into action. A majority of the adults were no older than middle-aged. He estimated the oldest woman to be in her sixties. As he drew nearer, he saw two young women cradling babies, one of which began to cry. They couldn’t be more than twenty.

  He stopped six feet short of the elder woman and repeated his hello in case she was hard of hearing. No, apparently she just wasn’t interesting in engaging with him. Now he was close, he could see subtle Indian characteristics. Soft cappuccino complexion, with dark hair and wide brown eyes.

  “My name is David. I wondered if I could ask you a couple of questions?”

  No answer, just an additional layer of suspicion descended. He had no choice but to tell them what he was, but knew the moment he mentioned ‘police’ that, if he wasn’t tossed on the bonfire, then he’d certainly be shown the gate. A little damage control was needed to pave the way. He gestured around the field.

  “I’m not here about the field, or anything. As far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to stay.” Not strictly true, but he needed them onside. “So I come as a friend.” He mentally kicked himself, he was now sounding too much like some old Wild West sheriff speaking to the native indians. “I’m a police detective.” He noticed a slight shift in the crowd. People were tensing, their guards descending even further. He held his hands out and broadened his smile and spoke faster. “But please don’t think that makes me a complete bastard. I’m actually trying to
help your community.”

  “We don’t need no help, sir.” It was the older woman who spoke. Her tone was low and surprisingly friendly, although no smile backed that up.

  “I’m sure you’re more than capable of solving your own problems, but this about somebody who needs help from the outside.” He took his phone out and selected the best picture he had of Jamal. “I know this girl was living with you.”

  The moment he held it up, the woman’s brow knitted in an unmistakable sign of sorrow. It was fleeting, but definite. Garrick shivered as the snowfall increased. He wasn’t in the mood to try to gently loosen tongues and subtly had never been his forte.

  “She was an Iraqi refugee over here illegally, but I don’t care about that. I am investigating her murder.” His voice carried over the crowd, but other than the crackle of flames, there was no response. That meant they already knew.

  “I know she found solace here and spoke highly of you.” It ran against his instinct to give so much information away, but he had no choice. “We have two suspects in custody.”

  He moved the phone so that everybody could see. Her image stirred reactions from several men, and dark looks were exchanged amongst some of them.

  “I have no interest with the folks over there,” he gestured towards the town, “who may have a problem with you setting up camp here. I don’t care about them. I care about her. My sole interest is in bringing her killer to justice, and I don’t have much time. I said I was here to help you, the truth is, I am asking for your help.”

  He put the phone back in his pocket and kept his hands there too as his fingers fell numb. The wind kicked up, blowing eddies of snow across the camp and causing the fire to pop and crackled fiercely. Still nobody spoke and Garrick had no idea what he should do next, other than turn around and return to the warmth of his car.