The Forgotten Dead

by Tove Alsterdal

  ‘But what about Arnaud Rachid?’

  ‘He runs an organization that is trying to rally support for open borders, but he has never hidden any illegal immigrants.’

  ‘Well, of course he’d say that.’

  ‘And he doesn’t know anybody named Nedjma.’

  ‘But the two of them are together, for God’s sake.’

  I felt everything suddenly start to sway around me. Why was Arnaud lying? Didn’t he want this story to get out? Nedjma, I thought. She’s gone underground. She’s too deeply mixed up in the whole thing, and he’s protecting her. I would have done the same for Patrick. Besides, Nedjma had every reason to be furious with me. I’d broken what she considered our agreement. I hadn’t sent the documents to her in Paris. Instead, I’d sent them to the magazine in New York. They were part of Patrick’s story. He’d given his life for those fucking documents.

  ‘And that lawyer you talked about? Sarah Rachid? She cites client confidentiality and refuses to say a word. We’ve even spoken to the police inspector who was in charge of investigating the hotel fire. It was clearly caused by faulty electrical wiring.’

  ‘The police are corrupt,’ I said weakly.

  I could hear how futile my words sounded.

  ‘And that businessman you’re accusing of murder?’ Evans went on, rustling papers. ‘Some organization in Brussels has just named him innovator of the year in the European business world, and …’ He was still leafing through paperwork. ‘It’s here somewhere, but never mind. We’ll just be fucking lucky if nobody sues us for what we’ve already posted on the Internet.’

  You coward, I thought. Sitting there and worrying about what management is going to say.

  ‘But you didn’t even mention any names.’

  ‘No, and that’s one hell of a good thing. That lobbyist. What’s his name?’

  ‘Guy de Barreau.’

  ‘Anyway, he started threatening legal action when our stringer began hinting that he was associated with slave traders.’

  ‘What does Alain Thery say?’ I asked. ‘Have you contacted him?’

  ‘Yes, we have. Kearny reached him by phone on some yacht in Puerto Banus. He refused to comment. He did meet Patrick Cornwall, but he didn’t consider him to be a serious journalist, so he declined to be interviewed again. He said that Cornwall was hounding him. And from what I gather, he’s right about that.’

  Slowly I stood up, as if in a trance, and threw open the balcony doors to let in more air. The wind shook the hotel sign a few metres away, making it creak. Patrick’s story was collapsing like a poorly designed stage set. One truth fell and another appeared, which in an instant changed the old truth into a lie.

  ‘But what about Helder Ferreira?’ I said. ‘The inspector that I met in Lisbon. He knows that Mikail Yechenko was murdered.’

  ‘There’s no proof,’ said Evans. ‘Yechenko is dead and buried. And those documents you sent me can’t speak for themselves.’

  ‘What about Vera Yechenko? His widow.’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘What?’ I said, giving a start. ‘What do you mean?’

  As Richard Evans told me what had happened, darkness fell around me, and I was suddenly aware of all the nooks and crannies along the street. The doors opening onto vacant lots, the shadows behind the row of dumpsters a short distance away. Somebody could be watching me. I could be next on the list.

  The magazine had sent a reporter from London to Lisbon. He had made his way to the apartment building in Alfama and rung the bell. No one answered. Finally a neighbour came out and offered to let him in. She usually took in the mail for the other tenants if they were out of town.

  Vera Yechenko’s door was not locked.

  They found her on the floor in the living room. Dead from an overdose of sleeping pills, combined with a large amount of alcohol. It seemed clear that she’d committed suicide.

  I backed into the room and hid behind the curtains, keeping my gaze on the street below, my legs shaking.

  ‘We’ve talked to the Spanish police,’ said Evans. ‘They consider the immigrant’s account to be trustworthy. A boat like the one he described did capsize on that particular night, just as the man said. A lot of people died.’

  ‘But that was in all the newspapers,’ I replied. ‘Anybody could say what he said.’

  ‘He has stepped forward to give his name, and he allowed himself to be photographed, unlike all the others involved in this story. So listen here …’ Evans paused to speak to somebody else in the room. I heard only ‘two minutes’ and realized this phone conversation was about to come to an end. ‘We’ve checked up on this James,’ he went on. ‘The man is in the country illegally. He has now been taken by bus to one of the detention camps, and he’s due to be deported within twenty-four hours. He had everything to lose by coming forward.’

  ‘They paid him off,’ I said. ‘Don’t you see that? That’s what they do. They gave him more money than he could ever earn by working a whole lifetime in Europe. They paid off that purse vendor too. That guy named Luc, who tricked Patrick. And now they’ve paid off this guy so the police will stop investigating the murder. My God, can’t you see that? You were once a journalist yourself, for Christ’s sake.’

  Not a sound for several seconds. When Evans spoke again, his voice was hard and shiny as steel, like sharp knives.

  ‘This is just what we might have expected from a freelancer like Cornwall,’ he said. ‘Always going too far. And so typical of him to get into a boat in such dangerous waters.’

  ‘I’m telling you that’s not what he did.’

  ‘Their careers falter, so they go out and risk their lives in some fucking, godforsaken war because they think it will win them prizes.’

  I’d made an appointment to meet Tom McNerney on the outdoor terrace of the Café Central. He looked exactly like I’d pictured him. Red-faced and very overweight. Too many cigarettes, too much beer, too comfortable a life. He put his stout arms around me to give me a hug.

  Tell me you have something for me, I thought.

  I ordered a salad and mineral water. He wanted an omelette and a steak. The waitress with the crew-cut placed bread and olive oil on the table and then disappeared. McNerney cleared his throat.

  ‘OK, well, I only have the preliminary results from the autopsy so far,’ he said, wiping his nose on his napkin. ‘I had to really push to get them.’

  I looked at him, waiting for him to go on. A mangy dog sniffed around under the table, looking for scraps.

  ‘His death was caused by drowning. That much they can say.’ McNerney turned away and coughed into the crook of his arm. ‘He had a wound here, on the back of his head, but it had healed long before he ended up in the sea.’ He touched his fingertips to the back of his own head, on the left.

  ‘They beat him up in Paris,’ I said. ‘To make him stop digging around in their affairs. They hit him on the head.’

  The waitress brought our food. McNerney stuck a corner of his napkin in the collar of his shirt, like a bib.

  I poked at the salad. ‘What else?’

  ‘A few scrapes, but they could have happened in the sea, if he had bumped into a boat or driftwood.’

  He tried to salt his steak, but the wind caught the salt as it came out of the shaker, blowing it sideways. Salt was strewn all over the table.

  ‘This damn coast,’ said McNerney, setting the shaker down with a thud. ‘Did you know that according to legend, the levante that’s blowing right now can literally drive people mad?’

  He shovelled a big bite into his mouth, which temporarily prevented him from saying anything more.

  ‘Two weeks ago, when the body … I mean, when your husband washed ashore, it was the poniente that was blowing, the Atlantic wind from the west.’ He wiped a trickle of gravy from the corner of his mouth. ‘But the sea is unpredictable. It’s impossible to say where he went into the water.’

  ‘There must be something more,’ I said. ‘No matter what t
hey say, I know that Patrick was not on that boat.’

  McNerney shook his head and gave me a sorrowful look.

  ‘Patrick Cornwall drowned. That’s the only thing that can be proved.’

  I walked through town, passing the Blue Heaven Bar, and reached the harbour. I sat there for a long time, watching the Tarifa–Tangiers ferry heading for open waters.

  If only the woman named Mary Kwara had dared to step forward, then … And the next instant it occurred to me that she too could be bought. She had risked her life to come to Europe in order to earn money.

  I stood up abruptly and began walking. I had $2,878. I’d kept a close eye on my expenses, as if the tiny creature inside me were an auditor who would one day hold me accountable. It wasn’t enough, but I also had seven or eight hundred left of my salary, and a little more that belonged to my company. And I could sell the apartment. In the worst case, I could borrow money from Patrick’s parents. In spite of everything, they would surely want the same thing I did: to catch the murderer.

  As I approached the Shangri-La, I saw a light shining in the window, but the door was locked. I peeked inside. A bunch of people were sitting on hassocks around a surfboard table, smoking.

  I knocked on the door. The man with the beard, Nico, came to open it. He grimaced when he saw me, his eyes blazing.

  ‘You? What the hell do you want?’

  I took a step back. His hostility was completely unexpected.

  ‘I need to get hold of Jillian Dunne,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know where to find her.’

  ‘I don’t think she wants to talk to you.’

  The surfers inside got up and came over to join Nico.

  ‘I’m sorry, but what … I don’t understand what you mean.’

  Nico leaned forward, his eyes narrow slits.

  ‘They took her. She’s gone, thanks to you.’

  ‘Who? Jillian? Mary Kwara? My God!’ I leaned against the wall and stared out at the sea. The lighthouse was flashing out on the island, beaming swathes of light through the darkness. No one was safe.

  ‘Jillian is very upset,’ he said. ‘She did everything she could for that woman.’

  I looked at him.

  ‘So she’s alive?’

  ‘Jillian? Yes, but …’

  I grabbed his wrist.

  ‘Take me to her. Please.’

  Jillian Dunne lived in a neat little whitewashed row house with violet bougainvillea growing out front. She was sitting on the sofa, her eyes swollen from crying, her expression dejected. She didn’t even look up when Nico announced my presence.

  ‘She says she didn’t tell anyone,’ he said to her. Then he turned on his heel and left.

  Jillian stared into space.

  ‘She’s gone,’ she said. ‘You frightened her away.’

  I sat down on the very edge of the sofa, forcing myself to remain calm, even though I was screaming inside. They’d found Mary Kwara, the last witness. She’d survived the sea crossing, only to die here, and it was all my fault. Somehow I must have led them to her hiding place, even though I didn’t know where it was. I thought about Patrick, Yechenko, Salif. They’d found all of them in the end.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ I whispered.

  Jillian fell back against the sofa cushion and stared blankly up at the ceiling.

  ‘She was gone when I came back. Nico drove her home this morning and then I went out to shop for groceries.’ Her face contorted as she began crying again. ‘I walked around looking in the shops … and I bought this for her.’ She opened her fist to show me a silver necklace. ‘I was gone too long,’ she sobbed. ‘I just walked around town for several hours, talking to people. I know so many people here.’

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  She looked at me, uncomprehending.

  ‘They took her, of course. The police. And now she’s probably sitting out on Isla de las Palomas, or they’ve taken her to a detention camp, and from there she’ll be deported.’

  If only that were true, I thought, but I didn’t say anything.

  Jillian fell forward, sobbing hard, and for several minutes I sat there, looking at her shaking with sorrow and guilt, which was even worse. I tried to think the way they thought — Alain Thery and his men. Ice-cold. In my mind I went through the list of people who’d been killed. There was a certain logic to it. They didn’t kill haphazardly. They were businessmen, not psychopaths. They took revenge, wiped away all traces, buried information. They might have gone after Mary, but they had no real reason to threaten Jillian Dunne.

  I patted her shoulder. Then I got up and left.

  A block before the hotel, a man came up behind me, appearing out of nowhere. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was a man. I could tell by the weight of his footsteps and something in the air. Vibrations indicating a threat and approaching danger. You develop an instinctive sense for that sort of thing when you grow up in New York.

  I walked faster past the vacant lot. Listened to the rubber soles of my shoes against the asphalt, heard my own breathing. In the surrounding buildings I saw only dark windows, gratings, and closed blinds.

  He was no more than ten metres behind me. A black cat scurried past my feet. I saw the hotel sign up ahead and considered running the last part of the way, but that would be risky. Running would reveal my fear. Running was inviting attack.

  Instead I told myself to walk quickly and with determination. Just past the row of dumpsters, then I’d reach the intersection where it was a clear shot to the front entrance of the hotel.

  The next second someone grabbed my arm from behind. Another man stepped forward to block my way. He must have been hiding behind the dumpsters. The cap he wore kept his eyes in shadow. The man behind me was standing so close that I could hear him breathing against my hair. He was a head taller. I screamed, but he put his hand over my mouth. A glove of stiff leather that smelled of oil. I kicked and struggled to get free, but he just tightened his grip. As I was dragged backwards, I had a dizzying realization that I’d felt the same grip on my arm before, not once but twice. First when I was thrown out of the office in Paris, and then when they threw me out of the Plaza Athénée. That’s impossible, I thought. They can’t be here. It’s just a couple of local crazies. I gritted my teeth. Think clearly. Get ready to strike as soon as you can. Kick them in the balls and run.

  They dragged me into the tall grass and thickets in the vacant lot. I saw boards and other junk scattered about. A wall hid the view from the street. The man that I still hadn’t seen slammed me against a brick wall and pressed his mouth to my ear.

  ‘So you refuse to give up, you bitch.’

  He spoke French, and, in a moment of ice-cold clarity, I realized I was the last one who knew everything. And who could destroy their business.

  ‘Translate so the bitch doesn’t miss anything.’

  My arm was wrenched upwards, my face pressed against the brick.

  ‘You’re going to stop all this fucking around. One more shitty word out of you and …’ He snarled threats at me, his hand gripping my throat, but I’d stopped listening. It’s over now, I thought. This is how it will end. Then my neck was snapped back, and he gave me a hard shove in the back. I landed with my face in a thorny bush and something hard jabbed into my lap. The baby, I thought. Dear God in heaven, he knows I’m pregnant.

  ‘Should we give the fucking American bitch what she wants?’

  Branches snapped, and then the man was breathing hard above me.

  He yanked on my arm and tossed me onto my back, and only then did I see his face. A wide face, with a nose that looked too small. It really was the same man who had been guarding Thery’s office in Paris and who had sat at his table in the Plaza Athénée. A hand unfastened my belt and he panted as he pulled off my jeans. Or maybe it was the other man who did that.

  I screamed as he pushed inside me, but the scream was stopped by the glove he shoved into my mouth.

  Mama, I thought, as my body was poun
ded against the ground, and in my head it was her screams that echoed between the brick walls of the house. I’d seen Monsieur throw her down on the bed before he locked the door.

  You’ll survive, I thought, turning my face away. Stared at the thistles and discarded bottles. You can’t touch me, because I’m not here.

  The man’s hands pressed on my throat. ‘Look at me, bitch,’ he shouted in French, and then he let go of my throat to punch me in the face. I turned to look at him. A patch of bloated red skin with eyes about to pop out and a mouth that was open with sounds coming out of it, ‘you fucking cunt,’ as he shoved inside me again and again and then he collapsed, heavy as a sack, onto my chest, pressing the air out of my lungs. And I thought, this is the end.

  If only they don’t break my arms.

  But the man got onto his knees and pulled up his pants, grinning. He laughed at his cohort, who was standing in the door facing the street. I curled into a foetal position.

  ‘I think the bitch has had enough,’ one of them said in French.

  The other laughed. ‘Maybe she’d like it in the arse too.’

  The security guard, or whatever he was, bent down and grabbed my hair, forcing me to look at him.

  ‘Translate what I’m saying so the bitch won’t miss anything,’ he said to the other man. Then he breathed into my face, a stench of beer and rotting food scraps.

  ‘Go home to America,’ he said. ‘Otherwise we’ll throw you into the sea too. But no one will ever find you.’ He yanked my head off the ground. ‘Or what do you think?’ he said to the other man. ‘Should we let her wake up in a bordello in Moldova instead? They’d teach you a few things in that place, you worthless little Yankee whore.’

  He twisted my hair around his hand and yanked my head back.

  ‘The boss doesn’t want any more American bodies turning up in this hole of a town,’ he snarled. Then he spat in my face. ‘That’s the only reason you’re still alive.’

  Then he tossed me back on the ground.

  ‘And don’t try to hide. We can find you anywhere.’