Smile of the Stowaway

by Tony Bassett

  ‘But the warders keep saying no staff. We stay locked in a lot of the time. Some days we’re locked up twenty-three hours.

  ‘I had association for two hours the other evening. This is when you mix with other prisoners on the block. A friend of Sam Tedros told me I was to be punished on Sam’s orders.

  ‘When I got back to my cell, my mattress had been set on fire. It was quickly put out. When I complain, a warder called Pete said I must have done it. I’m now sleeping on the floor. Inside the cell the smell of the burnt mattress is in the air. Lee says I’m lucky to sleep on a blanket on the floor because his mattress has bed bugs.

  ‘I’m missing everyone so much. Please try to get me free. When I was in my country, I heard of the British justice, but I don’t see the justice. I never was in the Lilac Cottage. Please help me to make people understand.

  ‘Please say Hello to my Kristina and ask if she’ll write. Also give Fiesta a cuddle from me. Your friend, Yusuf.’

  We sat looking at each other for some seconds in stunned silence. I thought of remarking about how much his English had improved but decided this would not be the right moment to make such a comment.

  I then thought about the terrible plight Yusuf was in. To my mind, it was shameful that he was facing such harsh conditions inside a British jail. Furthermore, it was disgraceful that, somehow or other, African criminals from Yusuf’s past life were able to pursue their feud against him inside a British jail.

  It was Anne who broke the silence. She said: ‘My God! I can’t believe people are treated like that in our prisons - especially remand prisoners, who are meant to be treated as innocent until found guilty. They are meant to have more rights, so God knows what sort of conditions the normal inmates are facing!’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I admitted. ‘It’s shocking, truly shocking!’

  ‘It’s all wrong, Bob. We have got to do something.’

  ‘But there isn’t much we can do,’ I told her. Then, for some reason, she suddenly snapped.

  ‘For God’s sake, Bob. You just sit there, twiddling your pen and rustling the envelope. Can’t you be more dynamic?’

  ‘Don’t have a go at me,’ I retorted. ‘I’m as shocked as you, but it’s hard to see where we go from here.’

  Anne continued: ‘Yusuf shouldn’t be having to sleep on the floor. It’s inhuman. Bob. We have got to do something. How can these criminals operate INSIDE a prison?’

  ‘Well, I suppose all we can do is take our complaints to Mrs Carslake,’ I said. ‘I mean, what are we paying her for, for Christ’s sake? She should try and sort this out. Or we take up these complaints with the visitors’ centre at Elmley.’

  Anne replied: I’ve got a feeling we’d be banging our heads against a brick wall there.’

  Anne appeared to calm down. She decided to follow my suggestion. She would raise the issue of Yusuf’s prison ordeal with our solicitor.

  As I drove to school, Anne took a bus into the city in order to see Mrs Carslake. She brought Yusuf’s letter with her and thrust it in front of the lawyer.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve had lot of similar reports about the conditions inside some of the prisons,’ Mrs Carslake told Anne. ‘I’m not surprised to hear he’s being forced to share a single cell and is being locked up for long periods. The prison reform groups have been trying to address this. But what’s very alarming to me is some vendetta is being played out and someone’s set fire to his mattress, forcing him to sleep on the floor.’

  ‘Can anything be done about this?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Well, actually, yes, it can. I’m going to speak to the governor, whom I know privately. I believe I may be able to get this sorted out fairly quickly.’

  However, despite Mrs Carslake promising her best intentions, nothing was done to ease our friend’s prison ordeal. He remained sleeping on the floor of his cell. Sam Tedros’s friend continued to intimidate him. Anne noticed on her next visit he looked pale and exhausted. Over the coming weeks, his health declined further.

  29

  That evening Anne sneaked up the concrete path beside Gemma Sharp’s uncut front lawn. Instead of approaching the front door, she crept along the side of the house until her eyes rested upon her friend’s mountain bike. I watched her from the warmth of the car.

  Pulling a chrome torch from her pocket, she carefully examined the tread on the front tyre. It was similar in design to the pattern left in the mud at Lilac Cottage, but Anne was unsure whether it was an exact match.

  She was wondering how she could take an impression of the tyre when she heard a sound behind her.

  ‘Oh, it’s you!’ said Gemma.

  ‘Sorry!’ said Anne. ‘I heard a tinkling sound as I reached your door. I thought I’d dropped some money.’

  ‘If it’s a two-pound coin, it’s mine!’ said Gemma. ‘You didn’t say you was coming round.’

  ‘Bob and I were just passing,’ said Anne. ‘Can we come in for a cuppa? It’s freezing cold out here.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ replied Gemma, suddenly noticing me walking slowly up the path towards her. ‘It’s good to see you both.’ We followed her into the ground-floor flat.

  As we waited for our hostess to make tea in the kitchen, Anne was unsettled. She had been carrying out some research into the man who had promised to sell her the fireworks and who lived in a block of flats in Northgate. Earlier she had spent time in one of the libraries, examining the electoral roll to see who inhabited the ten flats.

  She had eliminated from her inquiries all the female tenants and all the tenants with foreign names. She had been left with just two names -- Gregory Smith and Brandon Hill. She wanted to ask about Gemma’s association with the fireworks man. She was uncertain how her friend would react.

  After a few minutes, Gemma entered the living-room, where we had made ourselves comfortable on the beige settee.

  ‘Just one sugar for me, Gem, and one for Bob, please,’ Anne said. Her friend spooned in the sugar, stirred the steaming brews and handed each of us a cup and saucer.

  ‘Can’t beat a cup of tea!’ said Gemma.

  Anne decided to seize the moment and confront her friend directly.

  ‘D’you know a man called Gregory or possibly Brandon?’ she asked.

  Gemma nearly dropped her drink. ‘I know a Brandon. Why?’ she asked.

  ‘Bit of a long story,’ said Anne. ‘You know I’m looking into the murder? Well, someone’s been going round local pubs, selling the kind of firework that killed Lucas.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Look, I got a phone number given to me by a pub landlord for a man selling fireworks on the quiet. I phoned it and pretended to be interested in buying some. I arranged a rendezvous with the man outside the City Tavern on Monday evening. Then I watched to see who’d turn up. I followed him. He went to some flats and I saw you meeting him.’

  Suddenly Gemma’s welcoming attitude was gone.

  ‘I don’t know what planet you’re on, Anne,’ she said. ‘Brandon’s a friend of mine, but he don’t sell fireworks. He’s a builder. It sounds like you’ve been snooping on me.’

  ‘I haven’t been snooping on you,’ Anne insisted. ‘I never expected you to turn up. Is Brandon a boyfriend, a relative or what?’

  ‘It sounds to me like you’ve got your lines crossed somewhere,’ said Gemma. ‘Sounds like someone was playing a joke on you and gave you Brandon’s phone number. Anyway, I’ve been thinking good and hard about what you’ve been up to. I’m not very happy about it.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Why’re you trying to undermine the police case against this Osman character?’ Gemma demanded. ‘The inspector came round to see me. They seem to be doing their job properly. Why don’t you trust them to get on with it?’

&
nbsp; ‘Because sometimes in this world mistakes are made and the wrong people get accused. That’s what’s happened here.’

  I interrupted Gemma to say: ‘Gemma, Anne’s only trying to help. She wants to make sure there isn’t a miscarriage of justice.’

  Gemma started to become agitated. ‘I’ll talk to the pair of you about justice, if you want. Doesn’t Lucas deserve justice for the horrific way his life was cut short? Shouldn’t you both be helping instead of hindering the police? Are you doing this because you’re soft on refugees and think the country should be flooded with illegal immigrants?’

  Anne stood up. ‘I think perhaps we should be going,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you see things that way. I just really wanted to ask if Brandon is a friend of yours or a relative?’

  ‘You can mind your own bloody business!’ our hostess yelled. ‘I’m not telling you about Brandon. It’s just between me and him. I don’t need someone coming here and prying into my private affairs.’ Anne walked into the hallway and opened the front door.

  ‘I’m sorry, Gem,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, and I’m sorry too!’ shouted Gemma, as Anne and I walked slowly away down the path.

  A few days later, on Thursday the nineteenth of November, a horrifying incident happened at the farm. When Anne arrived to hold her class that evening, Kristina was absent. One of her Romanian friends explained why.

  Ted Moreton, a man unaccustomed to running, had sprinted into the pack-house just after two pm that afternoon with a look of panic on his face. He had shouted: ‘Kristina, come quick! Yusuf’s caravan’s on fire!’

  A small number of Romanians and Bulgarians had been kept on at the farm. As the apple season had ended, they had been gradually switched to general husbandry work.

  Moreton informed Kristina he had dialled 999 for the fire brigade, but the flames were quickly taking hold and there might be no caravan left if they waited for the fire crew.

  Kristina and several of her Romanian friends ran to the caravan park, Anne was told.

  As they feared, flames were appearing at the back of the caravan where Yusuf had been staying with three other farm-hands. Kristina had sometimes shared the sleeping quarters with Yusuf. Many of her personal belongings were inside.

  The flames danced and flickered in the misty Kentish air, sending a pall of black smoke into the winter sky.

  Kristina’s woman friend informed Anne that Kristina and two other workers knew where to find buckets. They each filled two from the water butt by the pack-house door. They then rushed with them towards the blaze.

  While they ran, they met a man in a grey, hooded top and black trousers hurrying in the opposite direction.

  Anne was told that, as they passed him, they fleetingly heard the words: ‘This is for Yusuf!’ spoken in a malicious voice. There was no time for anyone to chase after this man. All their attention was on stopping the blaze from taking hold, but their efforts were to no avail. They splashed the contents of their buckets onto the fierce flames. But the fire roared like a blacksmith’s furnace, unleashing noxious fumes and ever more acrid smoke into the atmosphere. Within a few minutes, two fire engines from Kent Fire and Rescue Service arrived. But it was too late. The caravan was almost completely destroyed.

  Kristina was seemingly left in tears. Colleagues tried to console her, but she could not be pacified. Some of her clothes and many of her treasured possessions had been devoured by the flames, along with those of Yusauf’s three Romanian friends. The only comfort - if it could be so described -- was their passports and money had been safely locked away in a farm safe. Luckily for Yusuf, his belongings had either been placed in Anne’s care or were being held at the prison.

  Kristina is said to have told her fellow-labourers: ‘This is all because Yusuf has bad friends. They want him to give them money or work for them. They’re crazy! He’s in prison. He can’t do nothing. I sometimes wish Yusuf had never come here.’

  ‘You can’t mean that,’ said one of her friends, with his arm round her.

  ‘But I do!’ she screamed.

  30

  I must have fallen asleep while marking some history essays because I woke with a jolt. Some unexpected noise downstairs had roused me. I think it may have been the sound of Anne entering the cottage through the front door.

  It was a quarter to ten in the evening. I had dozed off across my desk in an upstairs bedroom I used as a study. I could hear Anne moving about in the kitchen.

  Poor, troubled Anne had returned from the farm. She looked exhausted. I found her slumped in an armchair in the living-room, staring. Her arms were hanging loosely by her side. Her handbag had been discarded on the floor.

  ‘I’ve got a good idea who might’ve killed Lucas Sharp,’ she said, turning her head towards me as I stood in the doorway.

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘Gemma’s been visiting a man named Brandon Hill - the man who was selling fireworks,’ said Anne. ‘I’ve been racking my brains. I don’t like saying this about a friend, but I think Gemma may have killed her husband. Or Brandon might’ve done it without involving her. Or they might be in it together. But I just don’t see how I can prove any of it.’

  I walked into the room and sat on the settee. I told her: ‘If Gemma and Brandon are in a relationship, that does question the strength of Gemma’s marriage and provides a possible motive.’

  Anne sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s so frustrating. I’m starting to feel I shouldn’t have started all this. Maybe I should have left it to the police.’

  I was disappointed to see she had become disillusioned again. I tried to encourage her.

  ‘You’ve made great strides,’ I said. ‘Don’t give up now. Perhaps you should look through all the paperwork again. You might find you’ve missed something.’

  This suggestion appeared to revive her interest in the case slightly. She went upstairs to our study, where I had left a pile of history exercise books. First, she carefully put the school books in a pile on an empty shelf out of the way. Then she collected from a drawer the documents and photographs she had assembled during her week of research. She spread them out across the desk.

  Half an hour passed. I was watching a television programme downstairs when I heard a noise upstairs. Anne must have had a sudden moment of inspiration, I thought.

  She came rushing downstairs clutching the quiz sheets she had been given by Bernard Couchman, landlord of the Pilgrim’s Rest.

  ‘Who did we think had the strongest motive for killing Lucas right at the beginning?’ she cried. ‘Who did we think was the most likely candidate?’

  ‘Rosie’s Bennett’s husband Neil was at the top of your original list of possible suspects, but we decided he had a cast-iron alibi,’ I said, turning the volume down on the television.

  ‘Well, look at this,’ Anne said. ‘On Bonfire Night, we were told by two people he was at the Pilgrim’s Rest quiz as part of his family’s team.’

  ‘That’s right. You mentioned they received a poor score when they’re often one of the top teams.’

  ‘OK. Well, how come they got a question about caving wrong? Surely if Neil had been there - one of the keenest cave explorers in the country - they would’ve got that question right?’

  ‘Let’s have a look!’ I said.

  Fortunately, Anne had kept the sheet of twenty answers the Gordon Bennetts team had given during the quiz night.

  The fourteenth question asked: ‘Underground potholers sometimes come across a tall, narrow passage formed by a stream eroding downwards. What do we call this passage above the water table - phreatic, vadose or littoral?’ The team had written down ‘phreatic.’ But the correct answer should have been ‘vadose,’ according to the list of answers Bernard Couchman had given Anne.

  I looked at the sheet in some confusion since I could not recall c
oming across any of the three words before.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ she continued. ‘If Neil Bennett had been taking part in the quiz, he would’ve known the correct answer immediately.’

  ‘Perhaps he was at the bar when the question came up or in the toilets,’ I suggested.

  ‘But surely someone would’ve run to get him?’

  ‘I see what you mean, but the fact remains the landlord and Lucas’s uncle both confirmed he was there.’

  Anne could not be dissuaded. She was convinced there was something odd about the make-up of the Bennett family team that night.

  She began considering various possibilities. Were Couchman and Moreton lying for some reason? Had someone bearing a resemblance to Neil Bennett taken his place? Did he perhaps have a brother who looked like him? Had he only been at the Pilgrim’s Rest for part of the evening and been absent when the fourteenth question came up?

  These options - and numerous others - were swirling round her head when we both went to bed. By the Friday morning, she had devised a plan. She would carry out research on the Bennett family.

  Anne paid for a subscription to a genealogy website. She discovered Neil Bennett had been born in Chatham on June the twenty-eighth, 1977. His mother had been Judith Spillett before her marriage to Neil’s father, Ryan Bennett, in 1976. Another child, Luke Bennett, was also born in 1977.

  She decided to travel to Rochester, where Chatham birth records were kept, so she could obtain a copy of Neil Bennett’s birth certificate - still unsure where this would lead her.

  I took a bus to the school so Anne could have the car. It took her nearly an hour to drive to the register office, which was 33 miles away. Then she had to wait an hour for the document to be written.

  She was glad she had taken the trouble. The certificate showed Neil Bennett was one of twins. As she had read online, he was born at Medway Hospital, Chatham on June the twenty-eighth, 1977. What was unusual was it stated the time of birth, which was “two thirty-six am.” She asked the register office staff whether this held any significance as she had never seen a time of birth given on a certificate before. They told her this meant the child was a twin.