by Eva Dolan
It made for emotional reading but didn’t help locate Ainsworth’s murderer.
Ferreira added it to the file anyway.
Added as well the multiple news reports that had followed in the wake of a whistleblower who had exposed the myriad failings at Long Fleet two years ago. The abuses that the shopkeeper in the village she’d spoken to denied had ever happened.
But there they were, in black and white, with video footage too. Guards were fired, apologies were made and assurances given that important lessons had been learned. The former governor was released by mutual consent and the management brought in someone new. This was the man Zigic was currently trying to convince to allow them inside the centre so they could interview Ainsworth’s colleagues.
They knew Ainsworth was working at Long Fleet two years ago, so apparently he wasn’t implicated in the abuses, but she wondered about the whistleblower. Their identity had been protected but surely the staff members who were fired had some idea who exposed them. How could you possibly keep that secret in such a closely contained environment?
She leaned back and stretched her shoulders, music still blaring in her ears, watching the office go about its business, sound-tracked by the Dead Weather. Adams and Murray were standing at the board where their attempted murder case was plotted out, Murray doing the talking, making sure the importance of her words were impressed on the collection of DCs and PCs watching her. Adams seemed content to let her take the lead and Ferreira liked that about him, that he respected Murray’s years and her instincts.
The case was getting under his skin though. A violent altercation outside a nightclub that left a young man in a coma; they knew who was responsible within hours – George Batty, 24, Peterborough born and bred, nothing more serious than a couple of speeding fines on his records. Batty fled the country immediately, caught a lorry to Dover and then on to Calais. Knowing who your man was but not being able to grab him and bring him to justice was the greatest frustration of being a copper, and Adams wasn’t taking it well. He seemed particularly annoyed because Batty was hardly a seasoned criminal who he’d expect to give him the runaround. Just some gobshite who’d run and made it further than he should have.
Ferreira finished the report and emailed it to the rest of the team.
She went back to Asylum Assist’s Facebook page and scanned down the posts, reading links to news items and blogs on other groups’ sites, calls for donations to legal defence funds and signatures for petitions, an occasional interview with a sympathetic politician or a live chat with a high-profile celebrity campaigner. They were a more significant force than the group outside the gate appeared, but there was nothing to suggest direct or violent action here.
Of course it wouldn’t be visible, she thought.
These people spoke openly because they were hopeful their tactics could provoke change.
The private groups were where the radicals lurked.
Ferreira look up as DC Keri Bloom approached her desk, wearing a broad smile, which revealed the workings of her near invisible braces.
‘Ma’am, I’ve got something I think you’ll want to see.’
Ferreira pulled her earbuds out and followed Bloom to her desk, noticing a new photo of her pet ferret tucked up close to the monitor. It was wearing a tiny black beret and didn’t look particularly happy about it. Obviously red was better suited to its colouring, Ferreira was shocked to find herself thinking.
‘This is the listing for the holiday cottage next door to Joshua Ainsworth,’ Bloom said, turning the screen towards Ferreira.
The images showed the cottage in its full picturesque glory, all cream-painted furniture and sheepskin rugs on the stripped pine flooring. The owners had written a breathlessly positive description of Long Fleet’s manifold charms, describing a rural idyll perfect for nature lovers and fans of Norman churches, a description so tempting she had to check that it was the same place that she’d spent the better part of the morning in. No mention of the sprawling Immigration Removal Centre.
‘And this –’ Bloom scrolled down, ‘is the review from the couple who stayed there at the weekend.’
‘We couldn’t in all good conscience recommend this beautiful cottage to others due to the shocking noise levels from the neighbours. We understand that this is beyond the control of the owners but our otherwise tranquil weekend was irretrievable, marred by the inconsiderate behaviour on Saturday night. It sounded like there was a war going on. One just doesn’t expect that from a country cottage getaway.’
Ferreira straightened away from the desk.
‘Good work, Keri.’
‘Should I get in touch with the letting agency and try and get the guests’ contact details? Or I could email them direct through the site,’ she suggested. ‘They have an enquiries form here. I think they’ll pick that message up pretty quick, don’t you?’
‘Do both,’ Ferreira told her, already heading for Zigic’s office. ‘Push the site, though. We need to speak to those guests asap.’
The phone was already in her hand. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Zigic was slamming his own receiver down as she went in.
‘Long Fleet?’
‘They won’t see us until tomorrow,’ he said irritably. ‘One of their medical staff gets murdered and they’re already putting roadblocks up.’
She told him about the guests at the holiday cottage and his expression became slightly less furious, even if it didn’t soften completely.
‘Are we sure they’re talking about the murder and not Josh’s lady visitor?’
Ferreira grinned at him. ‘Either way, we’ve got potential witnesses and a potential time of death until the PM can confirm. Makes things easier, doesn’t it? Narrows us down to Saturday night for questioning.’
‘Very tentatively,’ he said. ‘Best we stick to what we actually know for now.’
Ferreira shrugged.
‘Thanks for putting the stuff on Long Fleet together by the way.’ He gestured at his computer. ‘What do you think about the group? Asylum Assist?’
‘I doubt they’re behind the harassment,’ Ferreira told him. ‘But they probably have an idea who is.’
‘The Paggetts?’ he asked. They had been identified as the couple who had deserted the gates of Long Fleet this morning at the first sign of a police presence.
‘You’ve looked at their records, right?’
‘Do we really think people like this escalate to murder, though?’ he asked, his face twisting at the thought of where this could lead, the trouble they were pushing up against. ‘There’s no lunatic fringe in these movements, is there?’
‘All movements attract extremists. They don’t necessarily believe in the cause, they just see an opportunity to cause havoc and they take it.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Idyllic,’ Ferreira said, as they got out of the car, shouting to make herself heard over the incessant roar of the traffic on the A1 ten metres away from them. The house itself was even closer to the road, a ceaseless stream of lorries and cars thundering past the sash windows, so close that you could probably reach out and touch them.
The old farmhouse would have been idyllic once, Zigic thought, as they went to the back door, before the motorway was built. Tolerable even then maybe, when few people had cars and freight was moved largely by train. But now with the road widened and the constant activity, it must be torture. Never quiet, never still, the slipstream of vehicles rattling the windows and the fumes insidiously penetrating the gaps around the frames, seeping through the putty, the unpredictable semaphore of headlights flashing across the glass at night.
It was a substantial building though, with a large concrete yard bordered by outbuildings in various states of disrepair. Maybe that would be enough to compensate for the deficits of the location.
‘Over there,’ Ferreira said, gesturing towards the least dilapidated barn, which had its wooden roller door pushed back, revealing a workshop inside that was somehow gloomy enough, despi
te the sun, that they needed the network of strip lights hung slackly from the rafters. ‘That’s Paggett. He was the one in the shop this morning.’
Damien Paggett was hunched over a long workbench, his face hidden behind a protective face mask as he carefully spray-painted what looked like a door from a kitchen cabinet. Four more of them were lined up on the bench ahead of him, primed and waiting for the same midnight-blue topcoat. Music was playing at full blast, a band Zigic didn’t recognise, thrashy and raw.
Across the barn at another workstation was his wife, Michaela, stood with her back turned to them as she searched through plastic tubs on a set of shelves.
Was this what had made them bolt from the Long Fleet demonstration this morning? An urgent job that needed finishing? It hardly made sense to show their faces for an hour and then leave.
Their police records were a much more feasible motivation.
Public order offences, trespass, vandalism, harassment and libel.
Both of them barely thirty-five and already with a long history of active involvement in the anti-capitalist movement, mostly focused on environmental issues, but recently they’d shifted towards anti-fascist groups and found themselves under the watchful eye of the anti-terror police.
‘Not major players,’ the specialist that DS Zigic had consulted said. ‘But we’re aware of them.’
Michaela Paggett turned away from the shelves and nodded as if she’d been expecting their visit.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, punching her hands into the pocket of her dungarees, looking like a surly teenager, an impression only enhanced by her heavy eye make-up and the stubby plaits in her black, teal-streaked hair.
Damien stopped working, straightened from the bench. Well over six foot and clearly uncomfortable about it from the set stoop of his narrow shoulders, he cut an awkward figure, but his was a job with a lot of heavy lifting involved and Zigic thought he would have been easily capable of overpowering Josh Ainsworth.
‘We’re not taking any new orders right now,’ he said, shoving his face mask up onto the top of his head, revealing a slim face with a pierced nose. ‘I can give you a few recommendations if you let me know what you’re after.’
‘You can tell us why you did a runner from Long Fleet this morning,’ Zigic said, in no mood to indulge him.
‘We didn’t “do a runner”,’ Michaela told him. ‘We had work to be getting on with, so we put in a couple of hours, showed our faces and came home. We can’t be there all day, every day, we have to earn a living.’
‘It’s important we help them to keep the numbers up,’ Damien said affably. ‘The minute they drop it starts to look like we’ve deserted those women in there.’
‘Nothing to do with all the police in the village then?’ Ferreira asked.
‘We’ve got nothing to hide,’ Michaela said fiercely. ‘We’re talking to you now, aren’t we?’
‘You know about the murder then?’
‘Someone called us, yeah. One of the doctors from the prison.’ A hint of pleasure flicked the edges of Michaela’s mouth up. ‘Shame, that.’
‘Josh Ainsworth was trying to do right by those women you claim to care about,’ Ferreira said. ‘He was actively helping them, rather than standing around on the road with signs achieving nothing.’
‘We are achieving something,’ Michaela shot back at her. ‘We’re raising awareness of what’s going on in Long Fleet.’
‘Will awareness change the law?’
‘Are you suggesting a more direct approach might be better?’ she asked. ‘Because that sounds an awful lot like incitement.’
‘From the look of your record you wouldn’t need much inciting,’ Ferreira said, and Zigic could see that she was already getting to Michaela Paggett. ‘I’m surprised someone with your experience is satisfied with making placards and flyers.’
‘We don’t make flyers,’ Damien said. ‘It isn’t the nineties.’
‘So what do you do?’
‘We stand around with our signs,’ Michaela answered, her tone saccharine. ‘Just like you said.’
‘What’s this got to do with some doctor getting murdered, anyway?’ Damien asked, taking a rag from his pocket and wiping the sweat off his face.
‘Dr Ainsworth was the victim of a targeted harassment campaign,’ Zigic said, watching them both for a reaction.
‘Nothing to do with us.’ Michaela leaned nonchalantly against the workbench. ‘You’ll want to talk to Asylum Assist if you think he was murdered with a leaflet.’
‘Ruby Garrick,’ Damien added. ‘She’s the one who puts the leaflets together.’
‘And she was very close to Dr Ainsworth,’ Michaela said in a teasing tone, her face lit so bright with insinuation that Zigic didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of asking what she meant. He didn’t need to, though. ‘We saw her coming out of his house a few weeks ago. She looked like she’d had a very pleasurable evening.’
‘And how do you know where Dr Ainsworth lives?’ Ferreira asked icily.
Michaela blinked, pushed herself away from the workbench while she scrambled for an answer. ‘Well … he was seeing her out to her car, I figure that means that it was his house.’
‘Just hanging around outside, were you?’
‘We’d been to the pub for something to eat,’ Damien said smoothly, looking to Zigic. ‘They do a really good midweek barbeque in the summer. All you can eat for fifteen pounds a head.’
The idea of two environmental protestors driving half an hour to go to an all-you-can-eat barbeque struck Zigic as implausible verging on ridiculous.
‘The pub isn’t anywhere near Dr Ainsworth’s house,’ Ferreira said.
‘We decided to go and walk some of the food off.’ Damien shrugged as if it was the most natural combination of circumstances in the world. ‘It’s a pretty little village. We like to get away from this noise now and again.’
He was the one to watch, Zigic thought.
‘And there she was,’ Michaela said, some of the malice gone but desperation showing now as she tried to draw them away to another suspect. ‘Ruby Garrick coming out of the enemy’s house.’
‘I take it she’ll be getting a visit as well, will she?’ Damien asked, some defiance coming into his voice. ‘She was eager to get away from Long Fleet this morning. Asked us to give her a lift home.’
‘And she doesn’t have a job she needed to get back to.’ Michaela folded her arms. ‘She lives in that big block of flats near the sewage works. I’m sure she’ll be in.’
It was a desperate ploy, which said more about the Paggetts than the potential guilt of Ruby Garrick, but there was clearly little love lost between them – despite their generosity in giving her a lift – and Zigic wondered what the woman would have to say about these two.
‘Where were you two between 6 p.m. on Saturday August 4th and 1 a.m. Sunday August 5th?’ Ferreira asked.
Zigic hadn’t wanted to get to this just yet, would have preferred to wait until after the post-mortem when they had a more solid time of death, but watching the Paggetts share a momentary look of panic, he was glad Ferreira had put them on the spot.
She had her notebook open, waiting expectantly for them to provide their alibis.
‘We went to a barbecue at a friend’s house,’ Damien said.
‘You two are big fans of charred meat,’ Ferreira said sarcastically. ‘This friend have a name? And other friends who were also there? Just so we don’t think you’re lying.’
An unpleasant look crossed Michaela Paggett’s face and now she looked a harder, nastier woman than she had before. Easy to imagine her cutting her way through barbed-wire fences and slashing tyres and smashing the windows of people she considered enemies of progressive values.
In a reluctant monotone, she read out names and numbers from her phone as Ferreira wrote them down, a dozen people who she claimed could vouch for them from 6 p.m. until the early hours of the next morning. Zigic watched her husband as she spoke, se
eing how hard he was working at keeping his face blank, hardly blinking even with the sweat running out of his hair and into his eyes, barely breathing until Ferreira snapped her notebook closed, and then one big breath heaved his chest and he tried to pass it off as a cough.
‘Dusty as hell in here.’
Michaela smiled at them. ‘If there’s anything else we can do …’
‘Oh, we’ll be in touch,’ Ferreira told her, matching the flint in her gaze.
CHAPTER NINE
‘You like them for it?’ Ferreira asked, as he pulled onto the slip road that took them over the motorway and back into the city centre.
‘They’re edgy,’ Zigic said. ‘But they could have a cannabis factory hidden in their barns and they’re worried we’ll be back with a search warrant.’
‘They’re not stoners,’ Ferreira said. ‘There’s not a single possession offence on either of their records. People like that, getting picked up for every other public order breach going, they’ll have had weed on them one time at least.’
‘Alibis seem too good not to be true. You might get a couple of people to lie for you in the first instance but not that many. Not when it’s murder.’
Ferreira murmured what sounded like agreement. ‘He’s the brains, we can agree that at least?’
‘Do you believe them about this Garrick woman and Ainsworth?’
‘He was with someone,’ Ferreira said. ‘But they were too desperate to pass the buck. We should definitely talk to her, right? If she was that eager to get away from Long Fleet just because Parr started nosing around.’
Zigic glanced at the time. Half past four. If they were quick and the traffic was kind to them, they could get to Ruby Garrick before he needed to be back at Thorpe Wood Station for the press statement. He put his foot down and overtook a long line of cars on the parkway, thinking about how often the Paggetts might have been hanging around on the village green and the huge coincidence that they happened to see Josh Ainsworth coming out of his house that one time.
