by Chris Simms
I said I knew Americans, that they would help me. The man laughed. He said the Americans had told them about me, about how Younis picked me up from the Green Zone. That, if I hadn’t been working late, they would have taken me, too. He said they knew where I lived.
I left behind everything. My lovely family and friends. My memories. I hired a car and drove to the border because, if I stayed in Baghdad, I would not be alive.
‘Christ,’ Jon said. ‘It sounds to me like whoever she gave those invoices to in the CPA sold her out. If she’d only have given his name.’
‘The boy died,’ Rick whispered. ‘I’d really hoped . . .’ He sighed. ‘Right, letter seventeen.’
This, our eighth night, was full of dreams about how Baghdad used to be. I heard the market, the man selling oranges and lemons. The crowd brushing against me.
My eyes opened on the empty sky above. The sun like a hammer. I splashed sea water on my cracked lips and then I saw. The boy is gone.
Ali woke and we ate the last two dates. He says he did not move the boy. There are whispers in the boat.
We hide from the sun beneath clothes and pass the toothpaste and perfume between us. Mint then roses, mint then roses. We are now unable to stand.
Movement on the boat. A crewman is making a line of thin strips in the sun. It is meat and I know what happened to the boy. I cannot tell Ali.
The sun’s heat is now weak.
On the boat, I can see their fingers reaching for the flesh.
Jon looked out of the car window. Two women were walking along the pavement, chatting happily away. Three young men stood in the doorway of an office, dragging on cigarettes. Something was said and they burst into laughter. They passed a grocer’s, baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables arranged on the pavement in front of it. An old lady held up a lemon and sniffed it. A young boy finished some crisps and then let the empty packet drift from his fingers. A travel agent’s – the poster in the window shouting about cut-price cruises to the Caribbean. Life went on as normal.
‘You were right,’ Rick stated. ‘He was keeping them as food.’
‘Doing what he has to do. He knows they’re drifting well outside the shipping lane. No way of telling when they’ll get any wind.’
‘Even so – could you do it? Could you eat human flesh?’ They passed a butcher’s, racks of ribs hanging in the window.
A remark popped into his head. Something someone said about Western civilisation being nine meals away from anarchy. He thought about the recent oil scare, how rumours of lorry drivers blockading the Stanlow oil refinery had led to queues instantly forming at petrol stations across the north-west. People emptying supermarket shelves of bread, refusing to give a single loaf to other shoppers. ‘We’re all cannibals, mate. Given the right circumstances. Come on. Let’s get the last letters over with.’
Rick was silent for a few more seconds then looked down at the paper across his lap. ‘It says these ones were written in Arabic. She’s reverted to her mother tongue.’
Day nine? Pinned to this place by the sun. No movement, no sound. I can only lie here and write. The sun does not hurt my skin.
Ali’s wound is black and smells most strongly. When he stirred I tried to speak. My tongue is not my own. It is grown large and hard and it knocks against my teeth. No words come. My saliva is thick and it tastes very bitter.
I lifted my head and much of my hair remained where I lay. Ali’s face is collapsing. His teeth show all the time. His nose has withered and the skin inside is black. His eyes do not close.
He stares at me, panting.
There is little urine left. A few drops to wet our lips.
My fingers are so clumsy. I have dropped the toothpaste. It fell into the water and sank.
Movement on my face. Is the air moving? Small lines wrinkle the water. Gentle wind. I tell Ali but he cannot feel it.
Their whispers carry to me. The meat has rotted and this night they will take one of us.
When it is dark, I will try to throw off the rope.
‘She didn’t survive this, surely,’ Rick whispered.
Jon kept his eyes on the road ahead, saying nothing.
‘Second to last letter.’ Rick cleared his throat and continued reading.
Morning. The tenth day? The wind still blows and their boat is now far away.
In the night, I heard their curses. The oars splashed, but they had no strength to reach us.
Clouds drift over me. I can see the sail of their boat, the wind is taking it to the horizon.
Ali’s skin is now grey, with red patches. He is trying to speak. I will wet his tongue with the last drops.
I held his head. Before he died, he said I must break one of the mirrors on our mast. I am to cut his flesh so I may live.
A little rain fell and I licked some from the plastic. I can hardly write these words.
Rick stopped reading and Jon saw his Adam’s apple was trembling.
‘That’s it?’
‘Just the last letter, now. All of five lines.’
My tongue is so huge, I can hardly breathe. This is the only sound.
Blood is coming from my eyes. Wind stronger.
I will not eat him but wait for death. A ship!
They drove the last few minutes in silence. ‘She’s dead, then,’ Jon finally announced. ‘They all died out there.’ He was surprised at the level of anger inside him. For some reason, he thought, I expected her to survive. He pulled into the police station car park. ‘Her eyes were bleeding. That must be end-stage starvation. When your body has consumed so much of itself, you start bleeding inside.’
Rick folded the paper. ‘I feel ill.’
Jon swallowed. ‘You want someone to pay for this, but who? The ship’s owner is dead. Who’ll pay? If only we had a bloody name. Her boss in the CPA, that would do for starters. Get him in custody, threaten him with one of those CIA prisons and he’d start spouting information in no time. Or the name of the company that cash was going to.’
Rick sighed. ‘The CIA won’t give that up. Protecting their own, saving the administration a major embarrassment.’
‘Which leaves Salnikov,’ Jon murmured. ‘And from what Mueller said, the guy will never let himself be taken alive.’
Once Alice had read the final letter, she placed the paper to one side and shut her eyes. She kept very still, waiting as the urge to weep slowly sank back. Gradually, she turned to look at the young woman. What do I do? Who do I tell about you?
She imagined the media attention when they realised the frail and damaged thing at her side was who really wrote those letters. Perhaps they could trace her family back in Baghdad, if they were still alive. Get someone over here to be with her. Her mother. A sister.
Her phone started to ring and she took it out of her pocket. The call was showing up as anonymous. ‘Hello?’ she whispered.
‘Hello, Alice. It is Yulia speaking, from the hospital in Liverpool. I just heard your message!’
‘Yulia.’ Alice stood and moved to the far side of the room. ‘It’s her,’ she said, examining the perfume bottle in her hand. ‘It really is.’
‘That is wonderful. Is she OK?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘They are saying the woman in the Manchester Royal Infirmary is her. This is not correct, though?’
‘No. It’s the MHU at Sale General. I’ve no idea what’s caused that mix-up.’
‘I thought so. I hope you do not mind, but I rang a gentleman who knew about her. He asked that, if I heard where she was, to contact him.’
‘Who – a relative?’
‘No, a Russian man. He had also been on the same ship. He knew her name – he gave it to me. Amira Jasim.'
‘That’s her surname?’
‘Yes, Jasim.’
‘Yulia,’ Alice whispered, ‘it was a Russian man who did all those terrible things on the raft. Some kind of naval soldier.’
‘Oh, no,’ Yulia replied. ‘This man worked for a trade
union. He said they were friends.’
Feeling slightly uneasy at what Yulia had done, Alice asked, ‘Where is he?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Is he still in Britain?’
‘Yes. He said he will try to visit her.’
Thirty
As Jon entered the main room, the receiver looked up and gave him a tight-lipped look of regret. Jon glanced to his side where a cluster of officers were poring over the front page of the Chronicle. On the other side of the room, Buchanon’s door was open. The boss was in.
‘Rick,’ Jon said. ‘Perhaps I should go in on my own.’
‘He asked for both of us.’
‘Yeah, but that was before this.’ He nodded at the officers reading the paper. One of them raised his head, caught his eye then quickly looked back down.
‘If he wants me to leave his office, he can say so,’ Rick replied.
‘But I’m not hiding out here.’
‘Fair enough.’ He turned to his partner. ‘And thanks, mate. I know being paired up with me isn’t the biggest boost for your career.’
‘Bollocks to that. I’m learning all the tricks I need from you.’
‘Yeah – like keeping clear of bloody journalists.’
They paused at their desks, the urge to go through the usual routine strong. Jon turned on his computer, but didn’t sit down to start sifting through his actions tray as he normally would. Rick placed his sunglasses in the top drawer then tapped the back of his chair, leaving it pushed in.
They regarded each other and Jon nodded. ‘Come on, then.’ He walked over to Buchanon’s door, knowing most people in the room were surreptitiously watching. ‘Sir, eight thirty meeting?’
‘Come in. Shut the door. I take it you’ve seen this?’
Jon glanced at the copy of the Chronicle on his senior officer’s desk. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you account for how she came by this information?’
‘I think she looked through one of my files.’
‘How? Does she have a free run of this office?’
‘It was in my briefcase. I must have left it in her flat.’
‘Her flat.’ Buchanon raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘You’re in a relationship with her?’
‘We’ve been seeing each other. Nothing too serious.’
‘Nothing too serious?’ Buchanon scoffed. ‘I asked you to hand in all information you had regarding those murders.’
‘I realise, sir. It was just the one folder – I meant to retrieve it, but it’s been impossible to get hold of her recently.’
‘Gosh, she hasn’t been returning your calls?’ Fury flooded his voice. ‘Maybe she was busy – putting this story together.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Jon looked at the empty chairs to the side of Buchanon’s desk. I don’t suppose, he thought, you’ll be offering me a seat.
‘And on the subject of the Russian case. What prompted the visit from the MI5 officer? I was handing my report in to the Super, when the thought occurred.’
‘He called me, sir. They were looking for more details about how the four Russians were found. I had the number of—’
‘The captain of the fishing trawler. Yes, yes, detective, I spoke to Soutar.’ His voice dropped. ‘Do you think I was born yesterday?’
‘Sorry?’
Buchanon waved a hand. ‘Don’t try and play me, Spicer. Soutar might have agreed to back you up, but I don’t believe he called you. He hasn’t replied to anything I’ve sent, so why would he suddenly ring you direct? What I think, is this.’ He placed his elbows on the table. ‘You couldn’t leave the case alone. The fact all your work was being taken without any acknowledgement really pissed you off. So you kept picking away. Also, you lied to me about keeping clear of the psychiatrist and you lied to me about your relationship with that crime reporter.’
‘Sir, I don’t believe it’s necessary I tell you who I might be seeing.’
‘It is when you leave evidence about an ongoing murder investigation in her flat!’ He slammed a fist down on the paper. ‘The bloody head crime reporter for the Chronicle. Jesus, Spicer. Did the thought not even occur?’
‘We had an argument. I didn’t ever think she’d get back at me through this.’
‘You’re both off duty now. Correct?’ Rick nodded.
‘Right, I’ll be taking over as SIO on this case. Saville, I’ll see you after your break in three days’ time. DI Spicer, take the weekend off – while we try to clear up this whole mess. All calls from the media – and I’m sure there’ll be many – will now be referred direct to me. You make no comment.’
‘The Chronicle names me as the lead officer.’
‘Well, the Chronicle got it wrong. I am. If, as a result, they infer you’ve been removed from the case for some reason, that’s their shout.’
Jon went to cross his arms then dropped them back down, realising the stance would have seemed aggressive or defiant. Buchanon stared at him, a challenge in his eyes. Jon looked away, shoving his hands into his pockets as they curled into fists. He analysed his options, trying to see any way to counter Buchanon. There was nothing. ‘I’m suspended?’
‘No, you’re not suspended. But consider yourself out of my syndicate. I don’t want you.’ He looked down at the paperwork before him.
Jon and Rick exchanged a glance then made for the door. Out in the main room, a couple of detectives were hanging around near their desks.
‘What’s the score?’ one whispered.
‘Any room in your syndicate?’ Jon replied, seeing the message light blinking on his phone. He paused in the act of picking it up. What was the point? ‘Need a lift home?’ he asked Rick.
‘Cheers,’ his partner replied and they started walking for the doors. ‘If you’re moving syndicates, I’m coming with you.’
Jon sighed. ‘Maybe you’re best staying put. I only balls things up.’
‘Nah.’ Rick shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough of that crinkle-haired cock, to be honest. By the way, you’re welcome to stay in my flat as long as you want.’
The light breeze was funnelled down Combe Martin’s high street, blowing Oliver Brookes’ thinning hair back as he approached the library doors. He paused on the pavement to check he had sufficient change in his pocket. As he did so, excitement tickled his spine. The old pleasure of unearthing information, making links, anticipating events.
A young-sounding lady answered the phone. Funny, Oliver thought. I don’t remember Peter having any children. ‘Is Mr Durwood there, please?’
‘Hang on, I’ll get him.’
His old associate came on the line within seconds. ‘Oliver! How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks. Who was that on the phone just now?’
‘Helena, my wife.’
‘Helena?’
‘Peggy and I parted company year before last, I’m afraid.’
‘Ah. Sorry to hear.’
‘Well, life moves on. Now, what are you on to, here? You’re up to something, Oliver, you old dog.’
Brookes’ eyes narrowed. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Oh, come, come. You ask me to look into Myko Enterprises, particularly the owner. A Mr Slavko Mykosowski, as it happens.’
‘Yes.’
‘So I start a data search then make a couple of calls,’ he lowered his voice, ‘only to learn the man in question has just been murdered.’
Brookes felt himself blink with surprise. ‘Someone killed him?’
Durwood’s voice remained quiet. ‘Clinically, by all accounts. He was found on the floor of his office. Apparently his neck had been cleanly snapped.’
‘Well, that’s . . . a shock. What sort of company is it?’
‘Dodgy, to use one word. Very dodgy, to use two. Head office listed as being in Odessa, the Ukraine. Mykosowski conducted most of his business from London, but had all sorts of satellites and subsidiaries dotted round the globe. He offered a tramp service. Are you familiar?’
‘Non-scheduled shipments, aren’t
they?’
‘That’s right. Any time, any place, anywhere, to quote Mr Rossiter. Or was it Joan Collins? You understand, though. Myko Enterprises would take anything. One rumour has it that’s included the odd shipment of decommissioned Soviet army hard-ware to the Sudan. Probably boxed up as engineering equipment or some such.’
‘It’s that easy?’
‘If port staff are in your pocket and it’s got the blessing of the country’s powers-that-be, of course.’
‘Could Myko Enterprises have been smuggling people, too?’
‘Why not? People are just another form of cargo, in that sense.’
‘So he’s dead.’
‘And it’s not the regular police looking into it. There were loads of plain-clothes officers at the scene.’
‘Who?’
‘MI5, apparently.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Indeed. I don’t know what you know, Oliver, but be careful, won’t you? Ever since it all went computerised, they’ve got better and better at tracking these things. Any sudden switches in stock.’
Money, Brookes smiled. You think I’m trying to make money. ‘OK, that’s much appreciated, Peter.’
‘My pleasure. And if you’re ever in town . . .’
‘Will do.’ Brookes replaced the receiver, but his hand stayed on it as his thoughts drifted away. The Lesya Ukrayinka was happy to see its human cargo go overboard. Other letters found indicated over twenty had died. Mykosowski is then murdered. Was there a connection? There was if he made the contents of the letter in his pocket known. He pushed his way through the inner doors and sat down at the newspaper desk. Someone else was reading the Express and, from the front page, Brooks could see the headline announcing that the final letters were inside. He flicked through the other papers, but they were only going over old ground.
At the computers, he logged on and went straight to the homepage of the BBC news service. My, my, my, he mouthed to himself. Breaking news was about the author of the letters being found. He read the brief paragraph. Manchester Royal Infirmary. He returned to Google and searched for Manchester newspapers. Top of the list was the website for the Manchester Evening Chronicle. He clicked on it. Lead story was about a spate of murders, each victim’s head having nearly been severed. Professional jobs: just like the owner of Myko Enterprises, he thought. All the victims were Russian nationals. He scanned through to the end of the report. A detective called Spicer was leading the investigation.
