by Chris Simms
‘Fuck’s sake!’
Jon glanced over as the couple came into view. In their fifties, her stick-thin, him way too fat, the pair of them staggering from booze. The shopping bags hanging from the woman’s hands were leaking water. Jon knew the score. Into town to find some cheap frozen food in the Arndale, then – on the spur of the moment – a cheeky one in a nearby pub. Probably The King on Oldham Street with its deals on spirits and mixers. A few hours later and they’re both off their faces, the food they came into town for in the first place now defrosted in its packets.
‘Taxi!’ she snarled at him.
‘Got no money for one,’ he burbled in reply.
Fuckwits, Jon thought, keying the code for the door then ushering Holly through as soon as it started to roll back.
‘The shopping.’ The woman had realised the bags were leaving a trail of droplets behind them. ‘It’s gone to shit.’
Jon glanced down, hoping Holly hadn’t caught the exchange.
‘So,’ he said, ‘see those little doors?’ He pointed to the panel of lockers lining one side of the lobby. ‘That’s where the letters for the people who live here get delivered. Lots of people live here, not just Carmel.’
He stepped across and pointed to one on the middle row.
‘Number fourteen, that’s Carmel’s post box. She’s so excited you’re coming to stay.’
Holly’s eyes moved uneasily around the lobby. Garish flyers for nearby takeaway places had been blown behind the pot of a large palm tree in the corner.
‘Let’s get the lift, shall we?’ Jon suggested, jabbing a thumb at a silver door.
She nodded and he pointed out the button so she could press it. ‘How cool is this?’ he announced. ‘Catching a lift up to your front door.’
A few seconds later the lift opened, and to Jon’s relief, the interior was clean. ‘OK, floor two, that one there.’
Holly pressed the button and the door closed.
‘I wonder what we’ll be having for tea,’ Jon mused, anxious to keep any silence from enveloping them. ‘Maybe pasta?’
‘Yuk.’
‘Baked potato?’
‘Yuk.’
‘Worms, with dead flies on top?’
‘No!’ she squealed with delight.
The doors opened and Jon led his daughter across to Carmel’s door. Up until now, Holly had only met his girlfriend in neutral places – cinemas, parks or restaurants. He knocked on the door and when Carmel opened it moments later, the smell of pizza wafted over them.
‘Hello, you two!’ she exclaimed a touch too cheerfully, beckoning them both inside before bending down to address Holly. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come to stay.’
Jon looked down at Holly as she pressed herself against the side of his leg. He placed a hand on the top of her head, trying to wordlessly reassure her everything was OK. ‘Holly, this is Carmel’s flat. Nice, isn’t it?’
Holly said nothing, a hand now hooked round the back of his leg.
Carmel stood up, eyes bouncing uncertainly off Jon’s as she did so. ‘Who would like some crisps? Tea’s not quite ready yet.’
‘Sounds good. Come on, Holly.’ He tried to move her towards the sofa, but her feet seemed stuck to the wooden floor. He realised his daughter was saying something in a voice so quiet, he had to crouch down. ‘What was that, sweetie?’
Carmel was also looking at Holly, eyebrows raised encouragingly.
Holly’s eyes, so huge in her little round face, moved from Carmel to Jon. ‘Mummy says we don’t eat snacks before tea.’
Shit, thought Jon. She’s right. We never eat snacks straight before a meal. He took a breath in, preparing a line about how it would be OK, just this once. The rules and routines which provided stability in his daughter’s life were beginning to slip. No wonder the poor little thing had started wetting her bed.
‘You’re right, Holly,’ Carmel intervened. ‘That’s a bad habit. How about we do something else?’
Jon glanced up to see Carmel looking round her apartment. Not a toy or activity in sight. Damn it, he thought, I should have brought that Nintendo.
‘Some drawing, maybe? I’ve got some paper here.’ Carmel motioned towards her workstation and the printer at its side.
Jon pictured all his daughter’s colouring books, pens and pencils in her bedroom at home. I should have just asked Amanda, he cursed. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Can you help me unpack a box? You could line my CDs up on the shelf.’
Holly gave a little nod, so he led her over to the shelf units on the far side of the room. He knelt down in front of the two boxes and started trying to scrape away the brown tape which sealed one of them shut. ‘Daddy’s got no nails. Can you do it?’
Holly sat down and started picking at the corner of tape. Behind her, Carmel raised a thumb and stepped into the galley kitchen.
Jon lifted the flaps of the other box he’d previously opened, peered at the stack of CDs inside, then lifted half a dozen out, trying to remember the last time he’d listened to any of them.
Rattlesnakes, Lloyd Cole and the Commotions.
Stanley Road, Paul Weller.
Hatful of Hollow, The Smiths.
T.B. Sheets, Van Morrison.
Central Reservation, Beth Orton.
Rum, Sodomy and the Lash, The Pogues.
His fingers stopped moving as The Pogues album caught his eye. Remembering the letter which the paper claimed had been found inside a rubber duck, Jon looked at the painting of the raft on the album cover with renewed interest. He studied the scene of utter desolation as a handful of survivors, surrounded by corpses, waved frantically at the merest hint of a sail far off on the horizon. Jesus, he thought, I’ve never really seen the painting for what it is, never noticed its horror.
‘Daddy?’
He blinked, as the present obliterated the thoughts in his head.
‘Yes, honey, that’s right. You put them there, so the writing points out towards us. Good girl.’ As Holly continued sliding his collection of albums onto the shelf, Jon sat back and opened the CD case, searching for details about the painting itself. There in the small print, he found it.
Cover painting Le Radeau de la Méduse by J.L.A. Géricault.
‘Carmel,’ he called out. ‘You speak a bit of French, don’t you? What’s Le Radeau?’
She poked her head round the corner. ‘The raft, I think. Why?’
The Raft of the Medusa, he thought. ‘Just something to do with an old album cover here.’
‘One of your weird bands from way back when?’ She grinned.
‘Something like that,’ he smiled, eyes drawn to the image once again. The horizon was set so high in the sky, the sombre spectacle seemed to draw him in. To stand before the actual painting, he imagined, would put you right there on the sodden timbers.
An ugly buzzing noise started from his jacket and Jon looked up, suddenly aware that he was sitting on the floor of someone else’s home, his daughter obediently lining up his music collection on an empty shelf. A sense of profound regret pulled at him as he reached for his mobile.
‘Jon here.’
‘DI Spicer, Sergeant Innes.’
Innes, Jon thought. A supervisor from the station’s radio control room. His eyes closed with the knowledge of what was coming next.
‘Got something for you, Jon.’
He sighed, turning away from Holly. ‘Don’t tell me no one on the night shift is available.’
‘You’ve hit the nail on the head. Friday night and they’re a team short, apparently. You’re top of the list for cover.’
‘Graham, I’m not coming out unless it’s a body. Anything else, leave it with the uniforms attending and I’ll get on it tomorrow morning.’
‘Sorry, mate. It’s a body. Head only just hanging on, but a body nonetheless.’
Shit, Jon cursed. ‘What do you mean, only just hanging on?’
‘Someone’s cut through the guy’s throat, I gather.’
Jon rubbed the pal
m of one hand briskly across the top of his head, noticing Holly staring at him uncertainly. Guiltily, he looked away. ‘Whereabouts?’
‘Grimsville, I’m afraid.’
Grimsville, Jon thought. That could be several of Manchester’s more deprived and decaying boroughs. ‘Anything to narrow that down?’
‘Old block of flats in Lostock.’
‘Stretford way?’
‘Yup. Drop off the M60 just before the Trafford Centre, then head back towards the city along Barton Dock Road.’
‘I know it,’ Jon replied, picturing the wasteland of warehouses, depots and trading units stretching away on one side of the road, the maze of drab streets and run-down housing stock on the other. ‘What are these flats called?’
‘Sunlight Tower. I presume the architect was having a little joke.’
‘Victim?’
‘Foreign national. The block is one of those properties the Home Office have leased. You know, the ones they use for housing asylum seekers.’
Valeri waited outside the entrance to the Royal Liverpool University Hospital’s Accident and Emergency. Earlier, as a man with a blood-soaked bandage pressed to one eye had been guided through to the waiting room by a mate, he had glimpsed her behind the front desk before the outer doors had slid shut.
He’d made a note of her name the evening she had smuggled sweets and biscuits to them as they’d waited to be wheeled through to a ward for the night. Yulia. A kind girl. He hoped what he was going to ask of her wouldn’t mean that she would have to die.
He gave a small shake of his head. If only the duck carrying that note had been washed up after the Lesya had off-loaded the cargo at Baltimore. None of this would have been necessary, then. Where, he wondered, would the ship be now? Probably just a few hundred miles off the American coast, drawing a little closer with every hour that passed.
A while later, she emerged from the side doors used by ambulance crews to wheel their gurneys in and out. He made sure his turtleneck top was properly covering the skin of his throat, then, keeping close to the wall, slowly approached as she said goodbye to a couple of colleagues before setting off across a poorly lit parking area. Once he was sure she was alone, he jogged after her, dismayed at how quickly physical exertion drained the energy from his limbs.
‘Yulia!’ he called out breathlessly, while still a few metres behind her.
She looked back, the expression on her face showing partial recognition.
Careful to keep his distance, he smiled then said to her in Russian, ‘I was in the hospital last week. You brought me chocolate and other things to—’
‘Vladimir!’ Her face relaxed as she remembered him. ‘How are you? Are you OK?’
‘Yes, fine. Thank you.’ He placed a hand on his stomach.
‘Getting better. Eating. Always eating. My strength is returning now.’
She was frowning slightly. ‘That’s good.’
They looked at each other and he waited, deliberately letting her ask the next question.
‘So,’ she said, glancing towards the bus stop on the main road nearby. ‘What about the other three?’
He let his eyes become sad. ‘They separated us. The immigration people gave us accommodation in different places. I haven’t seen them since.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity.’ Her eyes cut to the main road again.
‘You’re catching a bus? Can we talk while you wait?’
‘OK.’
They walked in silence between two rows of parked cars. A gap in the side railings led to the road. He noticed, with some relief, that no one else was at the bus stop. ‘I worry for them,’ he announced. ‘We haven’t been made to feel welcome here. It’s not easy.’
She nodded. ‘Give it time. Have they allowed you to stay?’
‘My claim is being processed. I have another interview in a few days. I think they will have decided by then. But maybe they don’t need someone like me in this country. Someone who only knows how to help run a trade union.’ He paused, making a show of building up to something. ‘Did you hear what happened to us?’
Gaze shifting to beyond his shoulder, her eyes made small movements as they scanned the approaching traffic. ‘The ship which carried you from Russia put you down too far from the coast.’ Her eyes connected with his. ‘It was several days before another boat found you.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, bowing his head. In the periphery of his vision, he saw one of her feet move forward. A hand pressed lightly on his shoulder.
‘I think you will be successful. Your ordeal is obvious.’
He kept his eyes lowered as he spoke again. ‘I didn’t tell the immigration officers something. There were others on the ship that took us from St Petersburg. Including a woman. I’m afraid for her safety.’
‘A woman? From Russia?’
He raised his head. ‘No. She was fleeing from the trouble in Iraq. I don’t know where she had paid to go. But if the ship’s crew left us out at sea, maybe they did the same to the others.’
‘How many were there?’
‘Seven or eight. The woman spoke English. She was a good person, Yulia. A doctor, I think. I got to know her a little.’ He pursed his lips, trying to give the impression of anguish. ‘Her name was Amira. Amira Jasim.’
Yulia’s frown had returned. ‘Amira Jasim? And she is a doctor?’
‘I believe so. Could you check the hospital computer? I only want to know that she is safe.’
Yulia nodded. ‘Yes. That’s simple enough if she has been admitted here.’
‘It’s likely. There are only two screening units for people seeking asylum. Here and somewhere called East Croydon, near London. But I don’t think our ship was going near there.’
Her eyes widened slightly and her hand shot out to the side.
‘My bus. How can I contact you if I find her name?’
‘Here.’ The piece of paper he handed her had his mobile number and Amira’s name already written on it. ‘Thank you, Yulia.’
‘That’s fine,’ she replied, reaching into her purse and removing a bus pass. ‘I will call you if I find anything.’
He nodded, moving away before the vehicle pulled up and anyone inside it saw him talking to her.
Six
When the glowing domes of the Trafford Centre came into view, Jon switched off the flickering blue light mounted behind the car’s radiator grille. He took the slip road leading from the M60 and drove down to the roundabout under the motorway flyover.
Hugging the car to the roundabout’s tight curve, Jon half-turned towards Rick. ‘You OK with that, then? I really can’t stay long.’ He thought about having to leave Holly, knowing his daughter already had a thing about Daddy walking out on her. As he’d retreated towards the door, her chin had developed its dimple: a sure sign she was fighting back tears. They’d found the DVD of The Jungle Book at the bottom of the second box, tucked in between copies of Raging Bull and Heat. But the film, pizza and the promise of a treat when he got back couldn’t alter the fact he was leaving her alone in what amounted to a near-stranger’s flat.
‘Of course, mate,’ Rick replied. ‘I’ll get a lift back to town in a patrol car.’
‘Cheers,’ Jon sighed, eyes catching for a moment on the panel of store names running down the illuminated sign on the other side of the road.
Selfridges. Next. River Island. Game. Monsoon. The Pier. What a place to dump penniless asylum seekers, he thought. Right next to one of the biggest shrines to shopping in Europe. He turned onto Barton Dock Road, immediately spotting several high-rise buildings to his right. Concrete clad, with paint peeling off wooden balconies, many of which were festooned with lines of washing. Semaphore to passing traffic, he thought: we can’t afford a tumble dryer in this flat.
He pulled up behind two patrol cars and a white van. Seeing the Greater Manchester Police crest on its side, he announced, ‘Scene of Crime Unit’s here already.’
Rick nodded. ‘Least we won’t be hanging around waiting for
them to show.’
They climbed out of their vehicle and approached the officer standing guard at a gap in the crime-scene tape. At the corner of the building another uniformed officer faced a huddle of men, all with cigarettes in their hands. Jon wondered how, exactly, the men’s clothing immediately marked them out as from somewhere else. Non-branded trainers, tracksuit bottoms, tight stone-washed jeans, plain dark trousers, baggy shirts or tops with American words emblazoned across the chest or down an arm. Teamster. Varsity. New York. Ed’s Gym. Jon imagined the grim, Third World sweatshops where the garments had been manufactured, doubting the poor bastards who’d actually done the stitching would ever come close to the United State’s coast.
The men were answering the officer’s questions quietly, risking the odd glance, but never making eye contact for more than a moment. The officer at the rendezvous point saw their warrant cards and raised his clipboard.
‘DI Spicer, DS Saville,’ Jon announced. ‘Who’s in charge?’
‘Sergeant Moore,’ the officer replied, adding their names to the form then speaking into the handset clipped to his tunic.
‘Boss? MIT are here.’
A minute later, a trim-looking man of about forty with short brown hair emerged from the lobby of the building. ‘Evening, Detectives.’
‘Evening,’ Jon replied. ‘DI Spicer, DS Saville. How long has the Scene of Crime Unit been here?’
‘Thirty, maybe forty minutes. They’re just getting started. Home Office pathologist has also showed.’
‘Really?’ Jon replied. ‘That’s keen. Who is it?’
‘Richard Milton.’
That figures, thought Jon with a nod of approval. A couple of years back, Milton had worked with him on a case involving a burned-out church with a body in it. The man knew his stuff, even if his sense of humour was a little twisted. ‘So, what have we got?’
The sergeant looked around. ‘As you can see, this place isn’t among your most sought-after rental properties. Used by the Home Office, mostly, for asylum seekers.’ He gestured at the group on the corner. ‘We’ve started asking questions. They’re pretty keen to help, with waiting on their asylum applications and all.’
