by Chris Simms
Jon raised his eyebrows.
‘Foreign policy. And I’m talking about our government’s. A few years ago, the numbers of Iraqis and Afghans we had turning up here was relatively low. Now, they’re arriving in their thousands. We invade their country and destroy their homes: they come here to find new ones. You reap what you sow, as they say.’
Jon exchanged a look of surprise with Rick. Not quite in keeping with the government’s stance on the issue, he thought.
At the top of the stairs, Marlow ran his card through another reader. The door gave access to a narrow office, tiers of desks running along its length. Blue files were piled up on each one and the people who weren’t sitting down filling in forms were ferrying paperwork round the corner at the far end of the room.
‘I sit halfway down. Tea, coffee?’
‘Coffee, thanks. Black, no sugar,’ Jon answered.
‘Tea, just with milk,’ Rick added.
He passed the order on to a young woman busily typing at the workstation in the corner then led them to his desk. A small bronze cast of a horse in full gallop was the only personal touch: most of his work surface was taken up by the ubiquitous blue files.
‘So,’ he said, dragging over two extra chairs then sitting down and reaching for the file at the centre of his desk. ‘The man calling himself Marat Dubinski. He’s dead?’
‘Yes,’ Jon replied, taking a seat. ‘That’s not his real name?’
Marlow shook his head. ‘I started on his background checks – and knew within a few hours he’d spun me a yarn. Suspected as much during his interview, to be honest. Next time he checked in at Dallas Court he was to be detained.’
‘What’s Dallas Court?’ Jon asked.
‘Our reporting centre for asylum seekers placed around Manchester. From there he would have been taken to Harmondsworth Immigration Removal Centre,’ he fluttered his fingers in the air, ‘and back from whence he came.’
Jon leaned an elbow on the edge of the desk. ‘I’ve not come across Dallas Court before.’
‘Salford Quays? Near the Theatre of Dreams?’
Jon registered the mocking tone in the man’s voice. Theatre of Dreams was how supporters of Manchester United described their football stadium. Bollocks, he thought. We’re going to have to go through all this shit. ‘Who’s your team, then? Liverpool?’
‘Liverpool?’ He scoffed. ‘I’d rather scoop my eyeballs out with a blunt spoon.’
Everton, then, Jon thought. The city’s other team, separated from Liverpool’s ground by a short stroll across Stanley Park. From the corner of his eye, he could see Rick’s attention had already started to wander. His partner’s head turned so he could peer at the noticeboard next to a heavily laden coat-stand on their right.
‘I take it you’re a red?’ the immigration officer asked in a guarded tone.
Jon shook his head.
‘Blue, then?’ Marlow stated, referring to City, the other major football club in Manchester.
‘Neither.’ Jon paused, wondering how long the other man could hold his nonplussed expression. ‘Sale Sharks.’
‘Aaaah.’ Marlow’s eyebrows dropped with something close to relief. ‘Rugby. Fair enough.’
Jon grinned at the customary reaction then, seeing Rick was still a million miles away, saw an opportunity to stitch him up. He nodded at his partner. ‘Don’t ask him, though. He’s from down south.’
Grimacing, the officer turned to Rick. ‘Not Chelsea, I hope?’
Rick realised the comment had been directed at him. ‘Sorry?’
‘Chelski. That Russian billionaire’s plaything. You don’t support them, do you?’
Failing miserably to hide his look of boredom, Rick replied, ‘I don’t really follow sport, to be honest.’
Jon stifled a laugh, knowing the reaction the comment would have on a man like Marlow. You had to support someone in these parts. If not a football club, a team from another sport was just about acceptable as an alternative. But to not support anyone? That was unnatural. Freakish.
Marlow swivelled in his seat and Jon knew Rick was now as good as invisible. ‘How did our man die?’ Marlow asked.
‘Gruesomely. He was garrotted.’
‘You mean strangled?’
‘Basically. But through a wire or something similar being looped round his neck.’ He glanced at the file. ‘What do you have on him?’
Marlow placed both hands on the blue folder in readiness to open it. ‘Well, considering his story’s false, not a lot. Photo, fingerprints. That’s it, really.’
The cover of the file had the same passport-sized photo of the dead man Jon had seen on his Application Registration Card. Alongside it was the letter D and a line of numbers.
‘D is for Dubinski,’ Marlow explained. ‘That and the seven digits form the Home Office reference. Though we’ll soon be having to increase it to an eight-figure number, at this rate.’
‘So what happens?’ asked Jon, looking around. ‘You interviewed this man somewhere in here? Where did you take his fingerprints?’
Marlow stood. ‘Why don’t I walk you through the process? It’ll make things a lot clearer.’
‘Please.’
He led them over to the door by the side of the noticeboard. Jon glimpsed a piece of paper titled The White List. Below were two columns made up of countries’ names. Marlow swiped his card and pushed the door open.
Jon followed the immigration officer through and found him- self in a large waiting area. To their left, rows of seats stretched to the back of the room. A sea of faces stared at them. Trying not to catch anyone’s eyes, Jon registered several large beards and a bewildering array of head-coverings. Scarves, dainty little lace caps, brightly coloured wraps of material, turban-like coils of faded cloth, satin veils.
On their right, the room ended at a glass screen. Modest partitions divided it into ten or so booths, each one with two stools bolted down into the pale green carpet. A row of Border Agency officers were jotting things down or asking questions of the people sitting on the other side of the glass. On the wall above each booth was an electronic board. Different numbers glowed red from the screens.
‘So,’ Marlow announced. ‘They come in downstairs and go into the main waiting room there. Numbers are allocated and they’re brought up here in batches. When their number flashes up, they proceed to the allocated booth. At this point we’re just taking basic information. Name, date of birth, nationality, brief details of how they entered the UK, details of any previous applications for asylum or visas.’
A child’s laughter. Jon glanced to the corner of the room where an African girl of about five was tickling the rounded belly of what he presumed was her younger brother. The boy writhed on the floor, brown eyes open wide as he sought to stop the fingers burrowing beneath his T-shirt.
‘That information,’ Marlow continued, ‘is fed into CID, the Case Information Database. The Home Office reference is then generated with all information given ready-populated in the appropriate fields on their file.’
The little boy had struggled to his knees, and now shrieking excitedly was trying to escape from his sister by crawling across the floor. An ache suddenly blossomed in Jon’s chest. Holly. God, I love you. He thought about waking her in the morning, gently turning her over so he could press his lips against the cheek made hot from being in contact with the pillow.
Marlow held out a hand, forefinger directed downwards. He began circling it round as if trying to remove coffee stains from the base of a cup. ‘Whose are these? Can you please keep them quiet? We’re conducting interviews here.’
A man wearing long flowing robes of white quickly stood. ‘Sorry,’ he said, scooping the boy up and hissing strange words at the sister.
Marlow walked over to another door. ‘Next is fingerprinting.’ He swiped his card and they stepped into a hospital-style room. The hard, grey floor sparkled with silver flecks, and staff members wearing latex gloves bustled around several large white machines.<
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‘Their prints are scanned electronically,’ Marlow pointed to the apparatus in the corner, ‘and then interrogated against EuroDac. Thirty minutes and we know if they’ve gone through any other border within Europe before arriving here. Thirty-five grand for that bit of kit. God only knows how much the computer it’s linked to cost.’
Rick coughed. ‘Does it give access to other countries’ data-bases for criminal offences?’
Jon waited for Marlow to respond, but the other man didn’t appear to have heard. ‘Derek? Do you get to see if the asylum seeker has a criminal record elsewhere in Europe?’
Marlow shook his head. ‘Nope. Only previous asylum claims. We also photograph them for their ARC.’
Jon thought about the card in the dead Russian’s flat. ‘Application Registration Card?’
‘Correct.’ Marlow reached towards a large machine bearing a Lexmark logo. From the side tray, he plucked out a blank card with the familiar gold chip embedded in its corner. ‘All their data – including the biometric stuff – goes on here. Then it’s back into the main waiting area for the full screening.’
He proceeded across the room and led the way through another door which took them back into the office. Sitting at his desk, he picked up the cup of tea that had been left by his phone and took a sip. ‘Just right. Thanks, Natalie!’
Jon sat down and reached for the black coffee. ‘How did this Dubinski character strike you?’
Marlow opened the blue file. ‘I was a little wrong-footed by him, to be honest. He didn’t speak much English, so it was all coming via one of our interpreters. For the full screening, you ask them the reason for their asylum claim. Religious, political or some other form of persecution – just to categorise it at this point. We go into background: family, names of siblings, the area they’re from, what their address was. His answers all seemed fine.’ He ran a finger down the page to a large box. ‘He didn’t enter the country as a clandestine. Said he’d been dropped off near the coast, brought to shore by a passing fishing trawler. That all checked out with the authorities who met the boat at the dock.’
‘Is that usual?’ Rick asked. ‘To be set down at sea?’
Marlow kept his eyes on Jon. ‘It’s not unheard of. Far more common for our southern European neighbours. I read a memo the other day – twenty-four thousand have landed so far this year on the Italian island of Lampedusa. Plus you’ve got the ones making it from North Africa to the Balearic islands. And those are the successful crossings. No one knows how many don’t make it. People arrive here all sorts of bizarre ways. Frozen to the landing gear of aeroplanes, sometimes. As if you’re ever going to survive something like that. Anyway, he had that look. Someone who didn’t touch down while seated in the first-class section of any plane.’
‘And is Russia a country we get many asylum seekers from?’ Jon asked.
Marlow shrugged. ‘It’s not up there with Iraq, but it’s not on the white list either.’
‘White list?’
‘Countries deemed as having no overt risk to their citizens. Like Jamaica, for instance. People flying in from there trying to claim asylum are generally super-fast-tracked straight down to Harmondsworth and put on the first flight back.’
Jon thought about the Yardie problem. Manchester had seen a fair few shootings linked to Jamaican gang members vying to get a slice of the drugs trade. Innocent school kids caught in the crossfire. Real victims. People whose murder merited a proper investigation. ‘This Dubinski seemed like a genuine case?’
‘Not genuine, no. But the detention centres are chock-a-block at the moment. That swung it for me, really. He was destitute, too – so he went off with the day’s lot to Greenbank.’ Catching Jon’s questioning look, he elaborated. ‘Overnight residence. Ex- student halls or something the Home Office purchased. A bus takes them there at five. They’re fed, watered, seen by a doctor if necessary then shipped on to initial accommodation the next day.’
‘Which, in Dubinski’s case, was Sunlight Tower, in Lostock,’ Jon concluded.
‘Indeed.’ Marlow sat back and sipped more tea.
Jon tapped a finger on the rim of his cup. ‘What’s next then?’
‘First reporting event. We try and conduct it within two days of their arrival. If they’re being housed in the Manchester area, it takes place in Dallas Court. As case owner, I explained to him the process of how his claim will be handled and then set a date for his substantive interview. That’s when we go into the meat of the claim – proper detail, all cross-checked.’
Jon sat forward. ‘And by this point you’d realised his story was fake.’
‘Didn’t even get to the substantive interview. Just my initial checks which had shown that no Marat Dubinski lived in a town called Kolpino just outside St Petersburg or worked as a journalist for the Peterburgsky Metropoliten newspaper. I was in the process of calling him back to be detained in Dallas Court when you emailed.’
Jon finished his coffee. ‘I don’t suppose we can have his finger-print scans? It could be worth checking them on the criminal databases we have access to.’
Marlow tipped his head at the ceiling. ‘Upstairs will have to give the go-ahead for that. If it was me, you’d be welcome to the whole file. One less for me to deal with.’
Jon sensed a drawn-out bureaucratic process. ‘No problem. His body’s in the morgue at the Manchester Royal Infirmary. I can get prints off that. Anything else you think is worth us knowing?’
Marlow shook his head. ‘Can’t think of anything.’ He picked up his pen and turned to the last page of the file. ‘Not sure what to class this as. Claim withdrawn, I suppose.’ He ticked a box and closed the file. ‘Good luck. I wouldn’t want to be trying to solve this one.’
‘Cheers.’ Jon checked that Rick had also finished his drink then stood. ‘Not sure if I want to be, either.’
It was almost ten at night when, with his car’s indicator making a faint ticking sound, Jon turned into his old road. The street was deserted. He crawled along in second gear, scanning the parked cars on either side. Streetlight had rendered them all in similar, drab, shades and he struggled to make out any maroon among them. His house came into view, lights still on in the downstairs windows. He slid the vehicle into a space on the other side of the road and turned his engine off.
The evenings were now drawing in, making it possible for him to observe where he used to live a little earlier each week. In less than two months, he thought, the clocks would go back and it would be dark by late afternoon. He nodded to himself, liking the idea of taking up his position before Holly went to bed. Perhaps he’d glimpse her through a window.
As the engine’s ticks slowed to nothing, he stared across at where she slept. Something thick and gristle-like rose up and caught at the back of his throat and he had to lower his eyes. Bits and pieces filled the storage tray by the gear stick. A packet of Polo mints, a pound for the shopping trolleys at the local super- market. An old parking ticket had attached itself to the cover of The Pogues CD. He peeled it off and looked once again at the Géricault painting on the album’s cover. The light in the sky was rapidly fading, stormy clouds blowing in at the right-hand side of the painting. Wind tormented the rag one of the survivors had raised above his head and the lurching ocean was made up of cold, grey tones.
He took the CD out, slotted it into the dashboard player and skipped through to track seven. The sad notes of the harmonica began to stretch themselves out, and when Shane MacGowan’s ragged voice joined the lament, the night with Alice all those years ago came hurtling back. He felt the fabric of the car seat brush against the back of his hand as it fell limply at his side. His fingertips traced circles in the carpet as he remembered holding Alice close, her warm lips closing over his. Gone. My wife is gone, drifting further and further from my reach, taking Holly with her.
Light shifted and he realised his eyes were closed. He opened them to see another car approaching. The maroon Saab convertible pulled up a little further dow
n the street and Braithwaite got out, a bottle of wine in one hand. Jon felt like jumping out of his car, racing up to his front door and hammering on it, warning Alice not to let Braithwaite in. He isn’t the nice guy you think he is. The other man stepped away from the car, and as its hazards flashed twice, he paused, key fob still held out. His eyes seemed to settle on Jon’s car. Impossible, Jon thought, shrinking down in his seat. You’re almost thirty metres away and sitting inside a darkened vehicle. The bloke hasn’t seen you.
Braithwaite walked round to the pavement and opened the front gate. He transferred the bottle to his left hand and lifted his right to the door. You’ve got your own key, Jon thought. He wanted to moan. Your own key. Coming and going as you please, like you live in my fucking house. His fingers dug into the carpet, knuckles pressing against the hard plastic base of the seat. Don’t get used to it, you bastard. It’s not going to last, you can be sure of that.
The song died back down, until the wavering note of the uilleann pipes was all that remained. Then it too dried up and silence filled the car. Fuck this, Jon thought, starting the vehicle and racing off down the street.
He was in Wilmslow twenty minutes later, finger raised to the bell of Braithwaite’s estranged wife’s front door. Christ, he thought. What are you doing? His hand lowered a couple of inches and he stared at the frosted panel of glass. Think, Spicer, this is stupid. But the image of Braithwaite returned. The way the bloke had casually let himself in without even knocking. Jon took a deep breath and pressed on the bell.
Seconds later, a light came on in the hallway. It’s not too late, he thought. Ten steps and you could be round the corner and out of sight. But as a blurred form approached, his feet refused to move.
The door half opened and a glamorous-looking woman peered out. There was a sharpness in her eyes. This is bloody stupid, Jon thought, even as he held his warrant card up. ‘Miranda Braithwaite? I’m with Greater Manchester Police. Would it be possible to have a word?’
She opened the door more fully, eyes moving momentarily to Jon’s identification. When she looked back at him, he detected a trace of irritation in her eyes. Jon was used to the reaction from people like her; normally, they only talked to police when they had called for them. This was an unwelcome break from the status quo.
