by Chris Simms
‘Curtis off with a bad back, Heywood on holiday. We were stuffed when that one was rung in. What was the score with it?’
Jon grimaced. ‘Someone nearly took his head off with a garrotte.’
‘Unusual.’
‘Yeah, we’re following up on it this morning. Nothing else for us?’
‘Phones haven’t gone for over two hours.’
‘OK. See you.’ He carried on through the doors, down the corridor and up the stairs. Just after eight on a Monday morning and the main office was quiet. His eyes swept the unmanned desks and files stacked in trays. Reports and actions waiting their turn. Trace, interview and eliminate this person from the investigation. Check that statement again. Process this evidence. Close this case because a fresh incident will be in any minute. Sometimes, he reflected, this place is just like any other factory.
Rick was already at his desk and in the side office Jon could also see their boss, DCI Mark Buchanon. Jon made his way across. ‘All right, Rick? Been in long?’
‘Twenty minutes? I thought I’d get the psychiatric assessment requests started for the rape case. Lindsay over in RAFA said she had some time later this morning.’
‘Great,’ Jon replied, taking his jacket off.
‘Well, you know,’ Rick replied. ‘This asylum seeker one is going to be a runner, I reckon.’
Jon hung his jacket on the back of his seat. He could see a dozen witness reports waiting in his in-tray. He sat down, switched on his computer then started leafing through the sheets as his machine booted up.
Three reports contained reference to an unidentified male seen leaving the scene. As was usually the case with visual recollections, the descriptions varied wildly. This one had him with black hair, going thin. The other two maintained his hair was brown and cut short. Average build in two reports, muscular in the other. At least each statement had him wearing a dark top and trousers, possibly jeans. They all also concurred on his skin being light brown. One thought he was from India, one from the Middle East and one thought he was Caucasian, with a sun tan. None had seen the man actually leaving the victim’s flat. Jon sighed. ‘We’ll need to get these guys in, go over their statements in more detail. What’s the wait on forensics?’
‘Six to eight days. I asked if there’s any way they could squeeze in the hair from the back of the sofa a bit sooner. There was a multitude of prints from the frame of the front door, too. Stands to reason when you consider the transient nature of the residents.’
‘True.’ Jon sat back. Their contact with the Border Agency had borne little fruit. The Liverpool office was closed at weekends and the person they’d spoken to in the head office down in London had informed them a claim from a Marat Dubinski had gone on the system the Monday before. The case owner processing it was due in the Liverpool office first thing Monday morning. All Jon and Rick could do was send the guy an email, saying his workload had just got one applicant lighter and that they needed to talk. ‘What time did we tell the bloke from the Border Agency we’d be showing up?’
‘Before ten.’
‘Right, we’d better let Buchanon know what we’re up to and get over to Piccadilly station. It’s an hour to Liverpool on the train.’
Forty minutes later they were seated in a half-empty carriage of a Transpennine Express as it skirted the edge of Manchester’s centre, trundling slowly round the back of the Palace Hotel with its exterior of intricately carved reddish stone. Soon after, they crossed the Manchester Ship Canal into Salford, a freight storage area in the industrial park to their left.
Metal containers, mainly in shades of orange, green or blue, were stacked high. The building blocks of a young giant, Jon thought, studying the lettering on their sides. China Shipping. Hapag-Lloyd. Maersk. Yang Ming. Norasia. Cosco.
My own father used to work these docks, he thought. And how many times did I hear him complaining that those standardised boxes were crushing his job – and those of thousands like him around the world? Now freight ships delivered the containers to ports where cranes waited to lift them clear and lower them directly onto the beds of specially adapted railway carriages or the backs of lorries. Apart from officials checking the paperwork, people hardly played a part in the process. The old maritime centres like Liverpool had died on their arses while modern ports like Felixstowe couldn’t grow fast enough.
They now were passing a series of industrial units and Jon let his eyes rove over the yards which backed up to the railway line’s fence. The waste-ground was home to forklift trucks and the cars belonging to those working inside the buildings. In the corners were squat columns of rubber tyres, skips overflowing with rubbish, untidy stacks of wooden pallets, mounds of dull- grey gravel, stray bollards and unwanted coils of plastic piping.
A rail company repair shed slid slowly past, a spur of track leading to a solitary carriage, paint stripped off to expose pale metal. A phantom, returned to haunt the depot where it had been dismantled.
He thought again about his family. Mary and Alan in their house, looking after Jake. Ellie, still single and now fretting she’d never find someone to have children with. Alice and Holly, Braithwaite lurking at the edge of their lives. Punch, his Boxer dog, also banished from the family home because Alice didn’t have the time to look after him with everything else that was going on. The animal was being looked after by Senior, the gruff old rugby coach from Cheadle Ironsides. Christ, Jon thought, how many days since I’ve rung? As he took his mobile out, he noticed Rick’s questioning look. ‘Just calling Punch.’
His partner glanced about, a look of dread on his face. ‘Here?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
Rick sank lower in his seat. ‘There are other people in this carriage.’
Jon shrugged, keying in a number. ‘Senior, you old git! It’s Jon. How’s things?’
‘All right, mate, all right. Where are you? On a train?’
‘Yeah, heading over to Liverpool.’
‘Keep an eye on your wallet.’
‘Will do.’
‘Pre-season training’s started.’
Jon sighed. He’d hung up his boots two years ago, but it didn’t stop Senior from trying to tempt him back. ‘I’m nearly forty, mate. Give it a rest.’
‘And I’m nearly sixty. Doesn’t stop me from playing.’
Jon pictured the ex-Marine trundling round the pitch, packing down against props a third his age. ‘Yeah, but you’re not normal.’
‘You’ll be wanting a word with your dog, then?’
‘Please.’
‘And you’re saying I’m not normal.’
Jon grinned. ‘Where is the brainless thing?’
‘Lying right here, next to Bess. Took them for a run-around first thing this morning.’
‘I bet,’ Jon replied, thinking of Senior’s dawn runs and imagining his exhausted Boxer stretched out alongside Senior’s Labrador. ‘Let’s have a word then.’
Senior’s voice went faint and Jon knew the phone was being held to his dog’s ear. ‘It’s your useless owner, Punch. Don’t worry, I’ll hang up on him in a minute.’
Jon raised his voice in the silent train carriage. ‘Punch, it’s your daddy! Punch, it’s me!’ He listened as a suppressed yelp came down the line. Grinning, Jon spoke again. ‘Punch, it’s Daddy! Where’s your daddy? Where’s your daddy?’
A succession of barks and excited whines. Laughing, Jon fell back in his seat. ‘Good boy, Punch! Good boy!’
More barking and then Senior’s amused voice. ‘Happy? The bloody thing’s going bananas now.’ The line went dead.
Chuckling, Jon placed his mobile on the table and looked at Rick. His partner’s face was bright red.
‘You are so embarrassing. Do you know that?’
Jon peered down the aisle, spotting several people’s heads turning back round. ‘Any more news on those letters? The ones in the rubber ducks?’
Rick put aside one of the witness statements spread out on the table between them. ‘Do you not re
ad the papers?’
‘Not if I can help it.’
Rick shook his head. ‘Another note was found on Sunday, this time at Lyme Regis on the coast of Dorset and, when I checked the internet this morning, another had been discovered on a beach in south Wales.’
‘What did they say?’
Leaning to the side, Rick looked down the aisle. ‘I’d have thought it would be in this morning’s papers. Here you go.’ He leaned across and removed a discarded copy of the Metro News from an empty seat.
Jon looked at the paper Rick dropped in his lap. It was open on the business section: a story about opposition in the fledgling Iraqi parliament to plans for awarding no-bid contracts to major Western oil firms. Many Iraqis feared the deals would allow the corporations to gain dominance over their country’s vast reserves.
‘So what am I looking for?’
‘Try page three. It’s where they usually run the quirky human- interest stuff.’
Jon leafed to the front of the paper. On the third page a bold headline declared,
Poor Molly Goes For A Spin
The accompanying image showed a cat held in the arms of its owner who was kneeling before a washing machine with a partially open door. He flicked through the rest of the pages until he reached the business section once again. ‘Can’t see anything.’
‘Odd,’ murmured Rick. ‘I thought every paper would have picked up on it by now.’ He raised his mobile phone, pressed a few buttons and then handed it to Jon. ‘Here you go.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Jon muttered. ‘How does it work?’
Rick grinned. ‘Just scroll down using the silver wheel above the buttons. Both new letters are there.’
Hunching over the tiny screen, Jon extended a finger and revolved the wheel through a few clicks. The introductory paragraph shunted up to reveal a mocked-up image of curling parchment prepared by the paper’s graphics department. Jon squinted. They’d even printed the lettering in a loose, handwritten style.
L E T T E R T W O
We were abandoned yesterday at sunset. Two men near me in the water used children’s ropes to secure some of the wooden pallets in the sea around us. These we held on to during the night. Many others were crying out around us in the dark as the storm grew more angry.
With daylight, the sea calmed. Many have not survived. The two men have tied many more pallets to our raft and we are able now to stand. We are most wet and cold. Surrounding us are the yellow ducks. There are many thousands of them. Beyond is only open sea.
Others from the ship have now swum to us, some with bags. There are now twenty-one of us. These numbers are too many for our raft. It has been pushed almost below the water, and the waves now wash over our knees.
It seems . . . storm ha . . . passed. Others believe the . . . return. I am not . . . certain.
Jon looked up. ‘What’s happened to the last bit?’
‘Water damage, apparently. She could well have named the ship at that point.’
Jon continued to click the wheel until the second letter filled the screen.
L E T T E R N I N E
Last night was free of storms. The old lady moaning and her husband talking to himself disturbed us all. In the blackness, the boy saw balls of fire floating above the sea. He believed they were witches. To calm him, I said they were ships, searching for us. I heard Parviz praying.
At dawn, the old Chinese man told us he was getting help. He stood up, but I was too weak to reach out. He stepped from the raft and was gone.
Our numbers are now only six. Ali said to use the pallets from the ends of the raft to make a higher area in the middle. The man with the throat scars agreed. Clothes and some plastic bags have been laid across, so little water passes through. At last, after four days, we can lie down without getting wet.
Hunger has woken us all. Cruel and sharp, it never tires. After our noodles, Ali and I lay down and talked of how Abu Nawas Street was before the Americans came. Strolling along beside the river, choosing a restaurant to sit and eat muskof. The smell of the fish as it roasted slowly beside the coals. Amba, the spicy mango sauce, and sweet, smoky tea, flavoured by the pot being left on the glowing embers. Such memories!
Ali spoke of bache, the lamb flavoured by dried lemon pieces. I spoke of sipping yoghurt, mixed with water, salt and ice. He answered with watermelon, cool from the fridge and I begged him to stop.
At sunset, a family of dolphins surrounded us, chasing under our raft, leaping from the sea. They are the masters here and we are nothing. When they left, I cried. Who will save us?
Saying nothing, Jon scrolled back to the top and read the stories again, more carefully. ‘This is . . .’ His words trailed away. ‘Christ, in letter two, written on the first day, there’s twenty-one of them. Then it jumps forward three days and there’s only six left. What the hell went on out there?’
‘I know,’ Rick replied. ‘That first letter found on the beach at Minehead describes Iraqis, Iranians, Chinese or somewhere, a few from Pakistan and a crewman.’
Jon stared out the window, the Géricault painting vivid in his mind. ‘They were on their feet for four days, it sounds like people were beginning to hallucinate. Where’s Abu Nawas Street, anyway?’
‘Baghdad, according to what I read. The foods are all Iraqi dishes – muskof is something you only find in the city. A fresh-water fish they roast at the edge of beds of embers. Sounds quite nice.’
Jon slid the phone across the table. ‘Do you reckon they were rescued?’
‘Surely something like that would have made the news. Apparently more and more people have started searching the beaches, looking for notes. The ducks have been washing up everywhere – from the Lizard right up to Portishead in the Bristol Channel and Portsmouth on the south coast.’
‘Can no one find out where the ducks are from? I mean, they must have fallen off a ship. Someone, surely, will have noticed half their cargo is missing?’
Rick shrugged. ‘There’s writing and a serial number on each one. They were made in China, apparently. I imagine there’ll be journalists rushing to find out where.’
‘Well,’ Jon said, watching the countryside rolling past. ‘There’s at least six more letters to be found. That should make interesting reading.’
They lapsed into silence and Jon gazed at the green countryside beyond the glass. West of Manchester. Land of the woolly backs; places like Wigan, Warrington, Widnes and Leigh. Old textile towns, the inhabitants of which once trekked to market, bowed beneath sacks stuffed full of cotton. He thought of the people and their fierce love of rugby. So many Saturdays spent in these parts, leading Greater Manchester Police’s team out to do battle on pitches which had to be cleared of crushed cans, broken bricks and dog shit before the match could kick off. Trading blows with the bastards and, further towards the coast, with mouthy gits from Liverpool itself. He realised he’d started touching the scars and lumps which dotted his hands. His reflection showed in the glass, the bump in the bridge of his nose where it had been broken, then broken again. God, he thought, how I loved those days.
Nine
‘More coffee, Amanda?’ Phillip Braithwaite was looking over his shoulder, eggs sputtering in the frying pan before him.
‘I can get it,’ she answered, starting to rise from the table.
‘No – you relax.’ He flicked a dishcloth over his shoulder and plucked the octagonal-shaped espresso maker from the stove top.
‘That’s such a wonderful gadget,’ Amanda beamed, as he re-filled her cup. ‘I’ve never tasted coffee so good. Where did you get it, again?’
‘Milan,’ he replied. ‘But, worry not. I’m sure I’ll be able to find you one next time I’m in Manchester.’
‘Oh.’ Her face reddened. ‘I wasn’t trying to . . .’
‘Amanda,’ he smiled, ‘it will be my pleasure.’ He replaced the espresso maker on the gas ring, lifted the frying pan and expertly flipped the eggs into an oven tray that already had half a dozen rashers of b
acon inside it. Then, using the dishcloth to protect his fingers from the hot metal, placed the tray in the centre of the table. ‘Tuck in, everyone.’
On the other side of the table, Alice felt herself smile. Smooth bastard.
He sat down and laid out a copy of the Telegraph so it formed a bridge between the edge of the table and his bony knee. ‘Spotted a curious story on the internet yesterday. About a duck. But it doesn’t seem to have made the papers yet.’
Alice broke off from buttering a croissant and glanced across.
‘What sort of a duck?’
‘A plastic one, washed ashore at Lyme Regis.’
‘Down in the West Country,’ Alice replied.
He gave a slight cough, as if preparing a formal address. Perhaps a talk to a newly qualified group of medical students. ‘Yes, Dorset. You know The French Lieutenant’s Woman, the film?’
Alice looked slightly sheepish. ‘I don’t think so. Holly, do you want some jam on this?’
Next to her, Holly shook her head.
‘How about some of that nice apricot conserve?’ Phillip asked.
Holly shook her head again.
Amanda raised an eyebrow. ‘Holly! Phillip has been very kind buying us all these nice breakfast things. What do you say?’
Alice found herself almost giggling. The plummy accent her mother put on in Phillip’s presence was truly absurd.
Holly’s fingers sought refuge beneath the crooks of her knees.
‘No, thank you,’ she replied, voice small.
‘That’s OK,’ he replied with a smile, turning back to Alice. ‘You’ve not seen The French Lieutenant’s Woman? Superb adaptation. John Fowles wrote the novel on which it’s based. There’s a famous scene with Meryl Streep standing on the stone jetty. Are you sure you haven’t seen it?’
Slightly flustered, Alice handed the croissant over to Holly. ‘Must have passed me by.’
‘Oh.’ The word was pitched slightly high, a suggestion of disappointment, even disapproval, contained within it. ‘We should hire the DVD. Anyway, according to the report, these plastic ducks are being washed up along the coastline there. Someone had already found a note inside one on the beach at Minehead. I’m not sure exactly what it said. Then this second one was discovered on the beach at Lyme Regis.’
