Smile of the Stowaway

by Tony Bassett

  Then, the next day, Sharp had informed Mr Cheeseman only one payment had been made into the bank that week. He pretended the money the cashier credited to the firm’s account on Wednesday was the money he, Sharp, had been due to pay in on Monday. He told Mr Cheeseman: ‘I had my doubts about Yusuf all along. I’ve been proved right. He’s a thief.’

  But the head of security was no fool. Once he had seen the CCTV evidence clearing Yusuf, suspicion immediately fell upon Sharp. He was interviewed and showed all the tell-tale signs of guilt. Mr Finch and Mr Cheeseman, who sat together behind a desk, noticed he was extremely nervous. He was perspiring. He appeared deeply troubled. Eventually, he confessed it was he who had stolen the money.

  He gave the two men a verbal admission along the lines of: ‘ I took the money and destroyed the evidence of Yusuf’s transaction. As the chief accounts manager had noticed the takings were down, I had hoped to blame the imbalance on Yusuf. I didn’t think there’d be any proof of Yusuf going to the bank.’

  Sharp had believed, wrongly, the company would accept his evidence as a trusted employee over that of Yusuf - a relatively new member of the workforce whose character was largely unknown.

  The company called in the police. A constable accompanied Mr Cheeseman and the disgraced supervisor to Sharp’s house, where the £930 was found hidden in a wardrobe. Sharp was sacked and then given a court date on which he would appear before the city magistrates, charged with theft.

  A journalist - possibly Anne’s friend Prunella -- found out about the case from making routine calls to the police press office. The local newspaper reported on the affair under the headline: ‘Accounts clerk charged with theft.’

  David Finch invited Yusuf into his office. He apparently told him: ’I hope there are no hard feelings, old chap. You can get back to your job now, starting tomorrow morning.’

  But despite the fact Yusuf had been through a humiliating ordeal and had spent three weeks being distrusted by his friends, there was no official apology over the way he had been treated. Anne and I were dismayed by this. We felt he should have at least received a letter from the managing director and possibly a gift of flowers or wine as a token of their remorse.

  After telling us his news and spending a few minutes playing with the cat, Yusuf happily cycled back to the farm. He was planning to celebrate with Kristina.

  ‘It’s funny that he never seems to be far away when there’s a spot of bother,’ I said as we watched him cycle off down the lane. ‘That’s the second time he’s come under suspicion for something. But I’m glad his honesty has shone through.’

  ‘I’m sorry I ever doubted you about him,’ she confessed. ‘You must be a better judge of character than me.’

  ‘Well, I suppose strangers will always be blamed first. Trust has to be earned,’ I declared.

  My darling wife cupped my face in her hands and kissed me on the lips for several seconds.

  ‘I love you so much,’ she said. ‘And I’m so glad he has been cleared.’ She went on: ‘Yusuf has been through a terrible time.’

  Then, taking my right hand, she tugged me towards the stairs. ‘And now I am going to show you just how much I love you,’ she added.

  Meanwhile, the farm’s decision to sack Sharp and reinstate Yusuf did nothing to halt the bitter hostility between the two men.

  Yusuf told Kristina he regarded the sacked accounts supervisor as a silver-tongued fraudster and xenophobe who would stop at nothing to suit his criminal purposes. Sharp regarded the farm messenger as an arrogant peasant who had no doubt tricked his way into Britain and was now trying to ingratiate himself to gain promotion and money.

  The conflict between these two men was to endure for a while longer.

  13

  Shortly after Yusuf returned to work at the farm, he called round to tell us a Hallowe’en party had been planned for the evening of Saturday, October the thirty-first and we were both invited.

  Anne spent an afternoon making costumes - a practice at which she was adept. Her mother had been a fashion designer and had passed on her sewing skills to Anne.

  She produced for me a Grim Reaper outfit which consisted of a full-length black cotton robe with matching face-veil and waist sash. We managed to find a novelty item for me to carry -- an old, rusty, long-handled scythe that, years before, had belonged to my great-grandfather.

  It had once been used to slice through thick grass on a Kent farm that had long since passed from the family. It had never seen use as a fashion accessory, as far as I knew. We covered the blade with brown tape to avoid any unpleasant mishaps.

  For herself, Anne chose a witches’ garb consisting of an extremely short, black dress with a zigzag hem and a black pointed hat. I joked a witch could easily catch a chill prancing among the tombstones in such a short dress, but she failed to find my comment amusing.

  We attracted a lot of laughter as we stepped from the car in our lavish costumes and made our way to the caravan park, where the party was being held. Luckily, although it had rained during the previous week, the day itself turned out fine and dry.

  Kristina and Yusuf had spent hours preparing. A huge banner that stretched between two posts proclaimed ‘Happy Hallowe’en.’ Caravans had been decorated with bunting and balloons. Pumpkins carved into jack o’ lanterns, and with tea lights inside, had been arranged on trestle tables laden with sandwiches, sausage rolls and vol-au-vents. One table - stacked with homemade cider, beer and wine - had been erected beneath a banner declaring: ‘Witches’ brew.’

  Kristina and her Romanian friends had baked a large circular cake which was coated with marzipan and then topped with a witch’s face and hat made from black icing. Cleverly-crafted black paper mobiles in the shape of bats hung from ropes.

  ‘You’ve worked hard, Kristina,’ I said, greeting her with a kiss on both cheeks.

  ‘Thank you. We all have,’ said Kristina. ‘You’re both very welcome. I hope you enjoy your evening.’

  As Anne kissed her on the left cheek, I added: ‘You like Hallowe’en?’

  ‘Of course. We celebrate at home. We have Transylvania.’

  ‘Dracula’s castle,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Many tourists come. But this party isn’t just Hallowe’en. We also celebrate with Yusuf. He’s had bad time. He was tricked and then questioned like the Stasi.’

  ‘We knew he was innocent all along,’ I said, noticing Yusuf himself had suddenly emerged from the crowd and was standing next to Kristina, holding her hand.

  I patted him on the back. ‘We’re so glad you’re back in work,’ I told him.

  Two hours later, the party was in full swing. There were more than fifty adult guests and 15 children. I was fully entering into the spirit of the party, half-expecting to win a prize in the best costume contest.

  But as I downed my third pint of cider - safe in the knowledge Anne would be driving us both home later - my hopes were dashed. The coveted prize of a box of chocolates was awarded to a Bulgarian fruit picker who had arrived in an elaborate skeleton outfit with authentic-looking bones and a hideous facemask.

  During the evening, Romanian music was played incessantly. One of the male pickers had brought a piano accordion. As the strains of his music filled the air, a small group of men and women held hands. Then they skipped, swayed and whirled around together, demonstrating a series of Romanian folk dances.

  I discovered Yusuf was a fan of Eritrean-born singer Helen Meles, one of the most successful pop stars to have emerged from modern Africa.

  One of the music tracks played at the party was a haunting love song in her native tongue. Yusuf could afterwards be heard humming part of the melody.

  At around ten o’clock, I decided to try my luck at the apple-bobbing contest. A tub of water had been set up on one of the trestle tables.

  ‘What d’you win if
you manage to prise an apple out of the water?’ I asked.

  ‘An apple!’ said Kristina. ‘I’d have thought you’d have known that since you’re a teacher!’

  ‘I was hoping I might’ve won a tenner!’ I said, bending down over the tub. I chose the reddest, ripest apple I could see, opened my mouth as wide as I could and lowered my head towards the water.

  I should have been more wary. As my face approached the surface, Kristina ducked me in the ice-cold water. I had never seen anyone guffaw so much as Kristina. Her gales of laughter rang out across the farmyard. Yusuf, who had been watching from a distance, walked over and joined in the hilarity.

  Kristina provided a towel. My hair was quickly dried. However, I noticed Anne did not seem to be joining in the fun.

  ‘Aren’t you enjoying the party?’ I asked her a few minutes later, when we were on our own.

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I’ve just had a huge row with Kristina.’

  ‘What was that about?’ I said.

  ‘I mentioned the sandwiches appeared to be running out. I was only trying to be helpful. She blew up. She said she had worked solidly organising it and all I did was complain.’

  I brought her a glass of wine and a sausage roll, but I was unable to lighten her mood. We decided to leave the partygoers to enjoy the rest of their celebrations. We returned to the car and Anne drove us home.

  Five days later, a dazzling display of bright, fiery colours - red, white and green - lit up the November sky as the residents of Chasehurst celebrated Bonfire Night.

  Every few seconds, a rocket or a host of rockets would soar into the air above the village and then captivate their earthly audience with a crackling shower of fire.

  We stayed at home as I had a lot of marking to do and Anne wanted to watch a programme about zoo animals on the television, but we spent a few minutes gazing out of an upstairs window at the fireworks as they soared above the fields.

  The following day, Friday, November the Sixth, the name of Rosie Bennett by chance cropped up again. I ran into Gordon Carsten—a teacher who, like myself, was a member of the local committee of the National Union of Teachers. Moments after spotting him in the staffroom at school, he began recounting details of an extraordinary incident that had occurred the previous evening.

  He told me Mrs Bennett had visited the school at about a quarter past six just as the school football team’s coach arrived back following a match in Dartford. She informed Miss Bushby, the school secretary, she had received an urgent phone call from a man with a slight foreign accent.

  ‘What was the call about?’ I asked with increasing curiosity.

  Carsten replied: ‘He said something like: “It’s the school here. We need you to come in urgently. It’s about your son.” But Miss Bushby knew nothing about it and, as you know, the headmaster’s away at a conference.’

  ‘How bizarre!’ I said. ‘Her son would be Mark Bennett, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right - Year Seven, Mr Hodson’s class. By all accounts, she asked if it was urgent because she was meant to be on her way to some place called something like Chivingden. The caller insisted she come. He said the headmaster needed to see her and she should go to the secretary’s office. Evidently, the caller’s number was withheld. After tackling her son to see if he’d got himself into any kind of trouble and receiving a negative answer, she set off for the school, leaving her mother to care for the two children.’

  ‘Sounds like a hoax call,’ I suggested.

  ‘Yes. That’s what Miss Bushby thought. Strange, isn’t it? She phoned round the extensions, but all the teachers had gone and poor Mrs Bennett walked off mystified into the night.’

  ‘Very strange,’ I said. ‘That Mark’s big for his age and I had to separate him from the Roberts kid in the playground the other day. They were having a bit of a fight. Maybe he’s been bullying him.’

  ‘Perhaps it was a genuine call after all,’ said Carsten. ‘I’ll make a few inquiries. If there’s a bit of bullying going on, we need to nip it in the bud.’

  On the same day, Friday, we were shocked to discover Lilac Cottage, the isolated retreat where Lucas Sharp had been holding secret rendezvous with Rosie Bennett, was in the news. A fire had broken out - supposedly the result of a rogue firework landing on the roof - and a man’s body found amid the ruined kitchen.

  Our daily newspaper had a single column story on the twenty-first page. It said :

  ‘MAN’S BODY FOUND AFTER COTTAGE INFERNO

  ‘Police and fire chiefs are investigating after a man’s body was discovered inside a blazing country cottage.

  ‘A stray firework is believed to have sparked flames which destroyed part of the thatched roof.

  ‘The dead man is understood to be in his thirties or forties. Police, who are at present treating the incident as suspicious, are attempting to identify him and trace next of kin.

  ‘A spokesman for Kent Fire and Rescue Service said two crews were alerted to the incident in the hamlet of Chivingden, near Canterbury at around seven twenty pm on November 5.

  ‘Moments before they’d been responding to reports of an out-of-control bonfire at a Guy Fawkes party being held a few hundred yards away. The fire fighters raced to the cottage and began tackling the flames.

  ‘Using breathing gear and a hose reel, one crew entered the kitchen at the rear of the secluded property, Lilac Cottage, where the partially-charred body was eventually found. The team spent more than twenty minutes extinguishing the flames.

  ‘Station officer Bill Stephens said: “It’s fortunate we were nearby at the time the blaze started. One of our fire fighters spotted smoke pouring from the rear of the cottage just as the neighbour’s bonfire was being brought under control.

  ‘“The two crews immediately switched their attention to the cottage fire. Speed’s obviously essential in these cases as flames spread quickly on thatched roofs. We managed to control the fire before it could do much damage.

  ‘“Unfortunately, the body of a male person was recovered from the kitchen, where it appears the fire had started.”

  ‘A Kent Police spokesman said: “Our officers are investigating the incident. At present, it appears a firework may have set the roof of the kitchen on fire. We’re not releasing the deceased man’s name until relatives have been informed.”

  ‘Neighbour John Craddock, 41, of The Glebe, Chivingden, said: “We heard a really loud bang like a bomb going off, but, because it was Bonfire Night, there were a lot of other bangs and we didn’t take much notice. Someone told me it’s thought a giant firework crashed through the cottage roof and set it on fire.”

  ‘The fire-damaged house is understood to belong to Mrs Jane Taylor, a 45-year-old widow, who lives alone. She was not available for comment.’

  Anne was dumb-founded when I showed her the story.

  ‘You don’t think that’s Lucas Sharp, do you?’ was her first reaction.

  ‘Could be anyone,’ I replied. ‘Could be a passer-by killed while trying to put the fire out. Anyway you’ve got a class tonight, haven’t you - the one postponed because of Guy Fawkes? You’ll probably find out then if, by some quirk of fate, it was Sharp.’

  I had managed to get that afternoon off because Yusuf had informed me there was a problem with the front tyre of my old bicycle. It had become slightly deflated and he suspected a puncture. In addition, the pump was no longer working. We drove into the city with the bicycle in the back of the car. After finding a space in a car park, we wheeled the bike to the cycle shop and bought a new pump and tyre.

  But as we left the premises with our purchases, more ill luck befell Yusuf. He came face-to-face with two fellow-Africans - two men he had known a year earlier and had hoped never to meet again.

  Yusuf’s first thought was to run away. But, perhaps because I was there, he decide
d it would be best to see why they wanted to speak to him.

  When they beckoned him to follow them into a side road, away from the city’s busy ring road, he begrudgingly agreed.

  Black-haired Sam Tedros, thirty, was a large, muscular man who was well over six feet tall. With a heavily-tattooed neck and arms, he had the appearance of a nightclub doorman.

  His twenty-seven-year-old friend, Jaefer Beraki, was about the same height as Yusuf, -- around five feet eight inches tall -- with short, dark-brown hair parted in the centre. However, he was much slimmer and nimbler than his companion.

  ‘Please wait,’ Yusuf implored me, handing over the tyre and pump for me to hold. ‘I’m speaking to these men and I come back.’

  I idly browsed over the range of bicycles on sale in the shop window while waiting for Yusuf to talk to his fellow-Eritreans.

  The conversation, held entirely in Yusuf’s mother tongue of Tigrinyan and relayed to me by Yusuf later, began with Tedros welcoming Yusuf to Kent. Tedros then ordered Yusuf to pay them £1,000 for arranging his transport to England.

  Yusuf insisted he no longer owed them any money. He had found his own way across the Channel.

  Tedros disputed this, claiming: ‘We did a lot of work for you, helping you get to France. This work’s gone unrewarded. We need compensation for that.’

  Yusuf explained he had only a little money, but somehow Tedros knew he had found work at the farm. He grabbed our friend’s arms and thrust Yusuf up against the outside wall of the shop. Beraki sneered and spat in Yusuf’s face.

  Yusuf told me Beraki made threats and ordered him to pay them the money within four days.

  Our friend was warned he would have to sell drugs for them unless he found the money. Tedros allegedly said: ‘If you’re unable to pay, there’s a fantastic opportunity for you to sell drugs for us to all the tens of thousands of young working people and students in the city. Within a short time, you could wipe out that debt of yours.’