Cut Adrift

by Chris Simms

  ‘Hence the referral,’ Alice concluded. ‘So you have the missing file?’

  ‘There never was one.’

  ‘Sorry? How could the patient have had no notes? Where did he come from?’

  ‘This is what’s confusing. The patient we referred was female, not male.’

  ‘Female?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But the name is J. Smith—’

  ‘Yes. Jane Smith. The house officer here at our hospital gave her that name because we had no other.’

  My God, Alice thought, picturing the frail form in the private room. The large eyes, the long lashes, the delicate cheekbones. Of course, with no hair, she could pass for a feminine young man. But what was she doing in a male-occupancy room? She almost clicked her fingers: no female beds had been available. ‘Where did she come from then?’

  ‘The screening unit.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Near the waterfront here in Liverpool. Where people who want to claim asylum have to go. To have their screening interview.’

  ‘But when she arrived, she was virtually catatonic. She still doesn’t speak.’

  ‘Which is why she was sent to us.’

  ‘And you shipped her straight to here.’ Alice thought for a second. ‘So, who brought her to the screening unit? Surely that person had her notes?’

  ‘I spoke to the house officer – he remembers her being brought in. She arrived in a taxi and the man driving it said he’d come from a hospital in Plymouth.’ She pronounced each syllable of the city as if they were separate words.

  ‘Plymouth?’

  ‘Yes, Plymouth. Do you know it?’

  ‘It’s a city on the south coast. A taxi? Why would a taxi drive her all the way from Plymouth to Liverpool?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Are there any other screening units apart from Liverpool?’

  ‘One. A place called Croydon.’

  ‘Down south,’ Alice said. ‘It’s near to Gatwick airport – not far from the likes of Dover. Why wouldn’t the taxi have taken her there?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  Alice took a long breath in. This was bizarre. ‘OK, thanks very much for your help, Yulia.’

  ‘That is fine. I hope you have luck finding those notes.’

  ‘So do I,’ replied Alice, wondering, again, how long it would be before they decided her bed should be freed up for someone else.

  Twenty-Three

  ‘Hello, madam. My name’s DI Spicer. We’re making enquiries about the incident that occurred across the road, night before last.’

  ‘You mean at number nine? Oh, Archie.’ The woman stepped aside, then bent down to pick up the toddler who had appeared between her ankles.

  Jon noted she was in bare feet, toenails perfectly painted. As she perched the little boy in the crook of an elbow he spotted the Fat Face logo on her fashionably faded top. She brushed strands of light brown hair from her tanned face and peered across the leafy avenue. ‘I thought the new owners were doing it up. You know – getting it ready to rent out.’

  Jon’s gaze was on the toddler who was now playing with the wooden toggles at the neck of his mum’s top. ‘Did you ever speak to them?’

  ‘No. They looked Chinese. They’d turn up at really odd times, ferrying stuff into the house. Then it all seemed to go quiet. The curtains were permanently drawn. Is it true,’ she placed a palm on her son’s head, ‘you know. A person inside was . . .’

  ‘That’s correct. Do you know what type of vehicle it was the people drove?’

  ‘Not really. A van, one time. Something expensive-looking as well. A Lexus, maybe. Silver.’

  Jon jotted the information down. ‘Were they all male?’

  ‘Yes. In their twenties, early thirties, I’d guess.’

  ‘And on the night of the incident. Did you hear or see anything?’

  ‘No – not until the police cars showed up in the morning. What actually happened?’

  ‘We’re still establishing that. It looks like some sort of a feud. A private matter.’ He pocketed his notebook. ‘Thanks for your help, Ms . . . ?’

  ‘Randall. Mrs Randall.’

  ‘And if you – or your husband – think of anything else, please give me a call.’ He handed her a business card, looking at the little one once again. ‘How old is he?’

  She smiled. ‘A year and a half. Aren’t you, Archie?’

  Jon grinned. ‘Keeps you busy, I bet.’

  ‘Oh, he certainly does.’

  ‘Thanks for your time.’ He strode back up the garden path, seeing Rick emerge from the driveway of the house opposite.

  His partner shook his head. ‘Out. Probably at work.’

  Jon nodded. ‘Yeah, only a couple of mums in on this side.’ He surveyed the quiet street. ‘Looks like we’ll have to come back this evening. Did the newspaper call you back?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Jon glanced at his watch. Almost one o’clock. Marlow had provided him with the name of the man who owned the fishing trawler. An answer phone message had said he was out at sea, due back late morning. As they set off back to his car, Jon tried the number again, breathing a sigh of relief when it was answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  Jon could discern the man’s Welsh accent above something clanking away in the background. ‘Is that Lee Davis?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Jon Spicer, here, Greater Manchester Police. Do you have a minute?’

  ‘Hang on.’

  There was movement and the background noises abruptly fell away. Now Jon could hear the shrieks of a seagull. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘The Russians you found drifting in a lifeboat thirteen days ago.’

  The man didn’t respond.

  ‘There were four of—’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Where, exactly, did you find them?’

  ‘About twenty-five miles out from St Bride’s Bay.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Pembrokeshire, Wales.’

  Jon frowned. He’d assumed the men had been dropped off closer to Liverpool itself. ‘You head that far south?’

  ‘If that’s where the fish are.’

  ‘The men were in quite a state, I gather.’

  ‘Terrible. Starving, they were. Very unlucky not to have been spotted sooner. There’s Irish ferries crossing that stretch all the time during the summer. Mind you, a boat like theirs, it was so low in the water, anyone could have missed it.’

  ‘How long would you say they’d been in it?’

  ‘Several days. As I said, they were starving. Almost too weak to eat. They only managed soup, at first. When we gave them food they were like dogs eating it.’

  ‘Was there any sign of other vessels in the area?’

  ‘Commercial vessels?’

  ‘Anything. Lifeboats, dinghies, rafts. Even debris in the sea.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just four starving Russians in a lifeboat.’

  ‘Just four starving Russians in a lifeboat.’

  ‘OK. Thanks for your help. I may need to call you again.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Jon was just returning his phone to his pocket when it started to ring again. He looked at the screen. A mobile number. His eyes swept the houses lining the quiet residential road. Maybe someone’s remembered something from the night the Vietnamese was murdered. ‘DI Spicer.’

  ‘Hello, sir. This is Victor Labon.’

  Jon closed his eyes. Victor Labon. Where’ve I heard that name?

  ‘You paid me five pounds for the loss of credit to my telephone.’

  Labon! The man from the block of flats over in Runcorn. The one whose mobile the Russian, Andriy Bal, had borrowed. ‘Mr Labon, let me call you straight back.’

  He hung up, selected last received call and pressed the return button. ‘Hello, Mr Labon. Better we talk on my phone’s credit, not yours.’

  ‘Thank you. I have some mo
re information for you.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘I am sorry?’

  ‘What information do you have?’

  ‘That Russian man who used my mobile telephone. He also sent a text message. I have just found it in my sent messages store.’

  ‘Really? What does it say?’

  ‘It says this: Lesya left me. Now in the UK. Do not reply, Andriy.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That is all. He sent it just before he made the phone call. At twelve minutes past four on the twenty-first. I have looked up the international dialling code – it is for Russia. Would you like the number of the phone he sent the message to?’

  Jon couldn’t help smiling. This guy was a dream come true.

  ‘Yes, please, Mr Labon.’ He wrote the number down. ‘Mr Labon, would you mind giving me your Home Office reference number? I’ll get on to your case owner and make sure he’s aware of how helpful you’ve been. Maybe it will have a bearing on your claim.’

  ‘Thank you. I would appreciate that.’

  Once he had the information, he turned to Rick. ‘We’ve got a contact number in Russia.’

  ‘Who for?’

  ‘The one who was using the name Andriy Bal. He sent a text just before calling Mykosowski.’ Jon glanced at his notebook. ‘Lesya left me. Now in the UK. Do not reply, Andriy. Seems like the Christian name he was using was real.’

  Rick’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who left me?’

  ‘Lesya. Probably his wife?’

  Rick raised his eyebrows. ‘No bells ringing?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  There was a glitter of excitement in Rick’s eyes. ‘The Lesya Ukrayinka.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘One of Mykosowski’s ships. The Lesya Ukrayinka. It docked in Felixstowe, I think. Then was heading for the States. Boston, Baltimore. Somewhere beginning with a B.’

  A wave of energy went coursing through Jon. This, he thought, is what I get up for in the mornings. This fucking feeling, right here. ‘Do you remember where that ship had come from?’

  ‘No, but it’ll be on that shipping register website.’

  Jon pipped the car’s lock. ‘Let’s go.’

  Oliver Brookes’ hips ached from the long trek. When the zigzagging path had reached the top of the cliff, he’d looked back down on his secluded bay, watching the bands of white materialising in the sea a few metres off the beach. The wind carried the sound of the waves as they expired on the sandy expanse. A pulse, he thought. Slow and steady. He examined the sand’s smooth surface; not even the faintest groove remained of the channel he’d dug.

  He wondered about the note he’d found in the duck. Amira Jasim. Could what was written on the scrap of paper actually be true? Since reading it, he’d found himself scanning the ocean more often. Searching, he wondered, for what? Debris? Plastic barrels? A raft, sunburned and skeletal people clinging to its timbers?

  A small shudder went through him as he pictured the internet terminals in Combe Martin’s tiny library. Just the thought of tapping into technology like that again. Memories of multiple screens appeared in his head, the hours he’d spent tracking the flow of numbers, pouncing on some fluctuations, ignoring others. He'd have preferred to never go near a computer again, but he had to know if the Lesya Ukrayinka actually existed.

  Holding the sound of the ocean in his head, he plodded his way inland, crossing clearings of grass in the heather that had been trimmed neat as any lawn. Sheep fled at his approach. Occasionally his way was barred by enormous webs stretching between gorse bushes that dotted either side of the trail. He’d bend down to seek out the spider that had weaved it, marvelling at the colourful markings on its bulbous body. Then he’d skirt round the bushes to leave the creature’s web undisturbed.

  The high street of Combe Martin was clogged by holidaymakers’ cars and he looked at the shiny machines with dismay, remembering his time in London and the sense of confinement that had had such a crushing effect. Passing a small newsagent’s, his attention was drawn by the A-board on the pavement outside. The headline talked of a flotilla of rubber ducks washing up on Britain's beaches.

  Once inside the library’s doors, he stood still. Soft sounds. Someone tapping lightly on a keyboard. The rustle of a newspaper. A muffled cough. He looked towards the computer terminals on the right, walked over and sank onto the padded seat. After logging in, he went straight on to the internet, typed in the words Lesya Ukrayinka, and pressed enter.

  Passing over the initial hits for sites about a Ukrainian poet, he quickly spotted an entry for a shipping company called Myko Enterprises. He clicked on the site and read through the poorly phrased text. After a couple of minutes, he pressed ‘back’ and typed in another company’s name. Once he’d written the number down on the back of his hand, he logged off and went over to the payphone in the library’s porch.

  He slotted in a few twenty-pence pieces, keyed in the number on the back of his hand and waited for the call to be connected.

  ‘Mayweather Maritime Securities. How may I help?’

  ‘Hello. Do you have a Peter Durwood working there?’

  ‘I’ll just put you through.’ The line rang twice.

  ‘Peter Durwood.’

  ‘Peter, it’s Oliver Brookes.’ A second’s silence.

  ‘Oliver! My God, he lives!’

  ‘How are you, Peter?’

  ‘Same old, same old. What about you, old fellow? Is it true? A fisherman’s cottage? Somewhere in the West Country?’

  He smiled. ‘Your sources are as good as ever.’

  ‘Well, I do my best. My God, I can’t believe it’s you. It must be four years, at least.’

  ‘Nearer six.’

  ‘Six? Well I never. A fisherman’s cottage. Sounds idyllic. What’s it near?’

  ‘Nothing, really. It’s on National Trust land. I have it on a rolling ten-year lease. A short distance from a little place called Combe Martin. Where I’m calling from.’

  ‘You really did it. Got out. Made a clean break.’

  ‘It was that or go mad.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Things are crazy here in the City.’

  ‘Not tempted to get out yourself? You must have put aside some nest egg by now.’

  ‘One more year, then I’ll probably jump ship.’

  ‘You were saying that when I was still there.’

  The other man chuckled. ‘So, what do you do with yourself all day long?’

  ‘Not a lot. A bit of wood carving. Watch the ocean. Whistle to seals.’

  ‘Seals?’ he laughed. ‘You must keep an eye on the markets, surely? Old habits die hard.’

  ‘You know what? I don’t.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear about Brian? His company was bought out last year. An Indian operation. They paid sixty-five million, so the reports said.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Still read the FT ?’

  With every comment, he sensed more greatly the gulf that now separated him from that world. The ebb and flow of capital. Buying that currency, converting it to another, selling it on. Never actually anything to hold in his hands, to run his fingers over. How meaningless it all now seemed. ‘Listen, Peter. Believe it or not, I’m on a payphone.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Oliver. You really have gone back to the Stone Age.’

  ‘Could you check out a shipping company for me? What kind of freight it specialises in. Annual turnover. Who owns it – shareholders or otherwise. That kind of detail.’

  ‘No problem. What’s it about?’

  ‘Something washed up, that’s all. It’s piqued my interest.’

  ‘You can’t resist, can you? Same old Oliver at heart. What’s the name?’

  ‘Myko Enterprises.’

  ‘Got it. Give me the rest of the afternoon?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. How about I call you tomorrow morning?’

  ‘No problem. Let me give you my home number.’

  After hanging up, Oliver stepped back into
the library and approached the table of newspapers. The pink pages of the Financial Times stood out against the other dailies and, after moment's hesitation, he sat down to take a look.

  A story on page five caught his eye. Yellow ducks being washed ashore along the coast of south-west Britain. Rumours that the Daily Express was now offering twenty thousand pounds to secure the first in a series of notes someone had been placing within the plastic toys.

  He pulled the paper closer and started to read.

  The lift doors opened on the fourteenth floor of Waterloo Tower and Valeri Salnikov stepped out, taking a final bite of a Mars bar as he did so. Looking at the plant pot on his left, he spotted the Bounty wrapper he’d left there after his last visit. Scrunching up the Mars bar wrapper, he dropped it in as well. The thin plastic immediately began to stretch out, as if making itself comfortable on the dusty pebbles at the yucca plant’s base.

  Brushing his palms together, Salnikov swallowed his mouthful then made his way down the corridor to Mykosowski’s office. Instead of buzzing the intercom, he turned his head and listened at the door. Mykosowski’s voice was faint on the other side. First giving out orders then switching calls to book a slot on a golf driving range.

  You really have no idea, Salnikov thought, stepping back to gauge where on the door the lock mechanism was located. He raised his right knee and shot his foot out so the heel of his shoe connected with the correct point. The door flew open and he stepped quickly inside, swinging it shut behind him.

  Mykosowski was halfway to raising a cup to his mouth. For a second, he stared in open-mouthed confusion. Then, seeing who stood before him, the colour vanished from his face. He threw the cup aside and jumped to his feet, looking wildly about.

  Salnikov observed him in silence, wondering briefly whether the other man was actually going to jump at the plate glass windows in an attempt to get away.

  Instead, Mykosowski darted to the corner of his office where he dragged a golf club from the bag propped against the wall. He raised the iron above his head, breath coming fast and shallow.

  Salnikov’s head tilted slightly to the side, amusement showing in his eyes. He padded silently across the carpet, coming to a halt just within Mykosowski’s striking distance. He bent both legs slightly, raising his hands to stomach height. ‘Who?’