by Janet Pywell
We fast-forward the tape speed until Ali appears in the street. He’s wearing his pilot’s flying jacket. He pulls up the collar and disappears. Peter switches cameras to the far end of the same street where Raymond Harris’s office is situated and he points to an Audi parked at the kerb. Ali appears and walking toward the camera, he passes the vehicle. But when the car pulls away a few minutes later, we can’t see the occupants.
‘Let’s assume that the people in the car were tipped off by whoever Ali spoke to in the office – it might be Raymond or one of his staff. Then the Asian picked Ali up off the street and they stopped in a supermarket car park near Tower Bridge. Maybe they were going to kill him there – Ali had bruising associated with a fight. Let’s assume that he managed to escape and he went to the nearest place he recognised – Tower Bridge – and once there, he realised his only way out was to kill himself.’
Peter replies, ‘Imagine if you thought you could go to someone you trusted, someone who held a high office, someone like Raymond – a politician, someone who cares, and who is one of the principal board members for the Dixon Trust.’
‘It makes sense,’ I agree. ‘Especially if he thought that whoever he spoke to was working with the police.’
‘It would also explain the bruises found on his arms in the autopsy report,’ adds Peter.
‘He must have been so scared, poor Ali.’
‘Not only scared, but he had nowhere to go. Where would he have been safe?’ asks Peter. ‘Not even Matt could help him. I think he must have lost faith in everyone.’
‘So, can we conclude that the Asian works for Raymond or someone in his office?’
‘Therein lies the dilemma, Mikky. We need to find out if Raymond was in the office at the time. We need more CCTV footage.’ Peter drums the stubs of his fingers against the table.
‘But the police should have access to these CCTVs?’
‘They aren’t checking, Mikky. As far as they are concerned, Ali killed himself.’
‘Assuming Raymond was in the constituency office – why would Raymond be working with the Asian?’ I ask.
Peter places his palms face up, as if balancing weighing scales.
‘He’s the good guy on the one hand, in the public eye, helping the homeless and the poor. And, on the other …’ He tips one hand lower. ‘He’s working with the Asian to line his pockets with drug money.’
‘To fund his political career?’
‘To blindside everyone, I expect. Who would suspect a reputable politician working with the most fearsome drug leader?’ Peter says with a sigh.
‘It’s like that Chinese book – The Three-Body Problem by Cixin Liu – where the Chinese encourage aliens to attack Earth, then when they do attack, the Chinese fight back and protect everyone. They become the Earth’s saviour, and everyone is grateful. Never knowing that the Chinese started it all in the first place.’
* * *
I pour a whiskey and pass one to Peter.
‘I have to go and speak with Raymond,’ I say.
‘And say what?’
‘That we have evidence—’
‘But we don’t, Mikky. We don’t have any evidence that he was involved in Ali’s death.’ Peter frowns. ‘We can only assume Ali visited his office and that the Audi that you saw last week was parked outside in the street. The link is too tenuous.’
‘We need to find out if Raymond told the police that Ali went to his office. He didn’t tell Matt, or if he did, Matt didn’t mention it to us.’
‘We can’t ask the police. We promised Joachin that we wouldn’t get involved.’
‘Can we ask Matt?’
Peter shakes his head. ‘We can’t go near Matt, either. We got away with going to Dixon House today because Monika wanted to speak to you. But if Matt thought we were doing anything to put the kids’ lives at risk …’
‘You’re right. We can’t afford to let Joachin know we are still working on this until we’ve cracked it. Do you think we will?’
Peter grins. ‘Definitely. When do we ever fail?’
I smile back. ‘I need to visit Raymond. If we’re going to rattle anyone’s cage, then it might as well be the man at the top.’
‘And run the risk that the Asian will come after you? I don’t think so. We’re not taking that risk anymore.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because the Asian knows who you are, and you won’t be able to blag your way out of it again. He will definitely kill you.’
‘I don’t agree with you. Besides, what if it isn’t Raymond? We are assuming it is, but what if it’s one of the people in his office? We need to get a list of his employees. But in the meantime, I can ask Raymond if Ali went to see him – I can let him know we’re onto him, shake him up a little.’
Peter looks doubtful.
‘It’s the only plan we have, Peter. We’ll do it tomorrow, and you can wait outside in the van and listen.’
* * *
That night, Peter and I drink far too much whiskey and wine. I’m frustrated, angry, and upset. Peter’s capacity for alcohol is far higher than mine. He keeps topping up my glass, and I knock it back as we argue. I rant about Mulhoon. I swear that Matt betrayed us, and how pompous Raymond Harris is, and how Joachin won’t support us. And all the time, I drink more wine and complain that we’ve not moved forward in finding the Asian.
‘Maybe I should steal the original dagger from the pompous Jeffrey Bonnington,’ I suggest.
‘How?’ asks Peter, filling my glass.
‘I’ll find a way, you know I can do it,’ I slur.
‘You’ll steal the real dagger?’ Peter asks with a laugh. He’s deliberately winding me up.
‘You’re a pain, Peter. You don’t want to help me.’
I fill my glass, drinking recklessly, angry and frustrated, and when I eventually fall into bed, I’m very, very drunk.
I wake early. It’s still dark outside and the bed covers are untidy. It was a deep but restless sleep. My body aches and I take a hot shower, allowing the water to wash over my hair and run down my back.
When I walk into the kitchen, Peter is preparing coffee and toast.
‘Morning, sleepy!’ he says, grinning.
‘Why are you so bright and cheerful?’
‘I just spoke to Aniela – and Zofia; I think she’s growing so much. She looks much bigger than when I left.’
‘Doting father!’ I grumble.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I scratched my back last night,’ I complain, rubbing a wound on the top of my hip. ‘It was a mad night. I’m never drinking again.’ I grin ruefully, knowing I will.
Peter slides a plate across to me with toast and marmalade. ‘Yeah, yeah …’
I sit on the barstool at the kitchen island and reach for the coffee.
On the television, the BBC News is showing footage of the prime minister at an awards ceremony last night, pledging that more money will be invested into police services to fight crime. He laments the loss of a young boy, found yesterday, from the council estate in Islington, and I pause, staring at the picture of the boy on the screen.
The journalist reports, ‘He’s of Turkish origin and believed to have fallen foul of a criminal drugs gang. His body was found naked, raped, slashed, and dumped in the canal – probably as a lesson or a warning to others.’
‘Another one,’ I say, thinking of Badger, and Adam, and Monika, and I wonder where their lives will lead them.
My phone rings, and it’s Josephine.
‘Hello, sweetheart. Sorry to phone you so early, but we’re not flying back today,’ she says. ‘They’ve asked Simon to stay on for some special dinner, so we might as well stay here for Christmas.’
‘Really?’
‘You don’t mind, do you, sweetheart? Why don’t you fly over and join us?’
‘I was looking forward to— Oh look, never mind. That’s fine.’
‘You’re not upset, are you? We’ll be back in the New Year.’
> ‘No, it’s fine. I have to go. I’ll call you later, Josephine.’ I can’t hide my disappointment as I hang up.
Peter sits beside me. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Josephine has cancelled Christmas, too. Everything is falling apart.’
Peter smiles. ‘It will all work out.’
‘She won’t meet Aniela or Zofia, either,’ I complain. ‘You’re buggering off to Scotland.’
Come on, Mikky. Let’s plan.’ Peter’s tone is light and excited. ‘Why don’t we see Raymond, then go for dinner, or there’s a new exhibition at the Tate – David Hockney, this evening.’
‘What do you know about art?’ I ask with a smile.
‘You’d be surprised, Mikky. I’m not a complete philistine.’
I laugh.
‘Failing that, we could always visit the fictional home of Sherlock Holmes in Baker Street.’
‘Now, that’s more like it,’ I reply. ‘But first, let’s get me a meeting with Raymond.’
‘Only if you promise you’ll be subtle. We don’t want to get arrested and end up spending Christmas in prison.’
* * *
The following morning, Peter sits in the van listening through headphones. I’m wired with a pin of a sunflower attached to the lapel of my black leather jacket.
I enter Raymond Harris’s political control centre – in Islington, only a few streets away from Dixon House – with curiosity and anger.
It’s almost eight-thirty, but I’m left waiting in a shabby reception with a few homeless people; one is particularly aggressive. He is persuaded to sit down and wait by a calm and efficient male secretary. It’s gone ten o’clock when it’s finally my turn and I’m shown into Raymond’s office. My patience and good humour have gone, and my hangover is blinding.
I smile. ‘Would it be alright if I record our interview?’ I ask.
Raymond smiles warily. He’s immaculately dressed in a navy suit and white shirt. He’s older than I thought he looked the last time in the hotel near Hyde Park. The election is clearly taking its toll.
He’s in his late fifties, a good twenty years older than his second wife Arlene, and fleetingly I wonder if she awoke with a hangover this morning or if she’s now at the gym.
‘I didn’t agree to an interview.’ He tugs on his cuffs.
‘For a journalist, I have a rotten memory, and I don’t want the information to be inaccurate.’
‘This is my morning for my constituents.’
‘I understand that, but I am working with the Dixon Trust. I’m Mikky dos Santos. Matt and I have been working very closely together, and I wanted to get this finished to help with your election campaign. It’s part of a documentary. I’m hoping I can get an angle on the injustices of the government, lack of policing on the streets, and how social housing is an absolute priority for our country.’
Now I have his attention. He frowns. ‘You visited my home?’
I smile. ‘Yes, I met your lovely wife, Arlene.’
‘I don’t like journalists visiting my home uninvited.’
‘I wasn’t uninvited. Matt spoke to her, and she agreed.’
I gaze into his eyes and smile. ‘But if you’re upset, then I do apologise. Like you, I don’t have a lot of time, and I thought you’d be supportive of my film. I want it to support your election campaign. If I can get it finished in time and maybe get it televised or on social media in the next few days, it might make a big difference. The prime minister might sit up and take notice. It will tell him you’re not to be messed with.’
‘How can I help?’ His posture changes and his tone is almost affable. ‘Record it if you like; you can take a seat here.’ He indicates a rickety chair opposite his desk.
‘It’s not what I expected,’ I say.
‘What isn’t?’
‘I thought your office would be more salubrious.’
His laughter is light, and he doesn’t take offence. ‘No chance. This furniture has all been donated. All our funds go into the Dixon Trust.’
‘But you are campaigning in the election?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you think you’ll get in again?’
He spreads his manicured hands on the table and smiles professionally into my camera.
‘I’d like to think so. We’ve worked hard with the Dixon Trust to provide a safe place for the homeless, and for the kids on the street, affected by the drugs gangs. We’re the only political party that is actively engaged in getting the homeless off the streets and helping those people living below the poverty level, and providing food banks. If it weren’t for the Dixon Trust, some of these people would be starving.’ He smiles professionally.
‘What’s your view on social housing?’ I ask.
It’s a question that I know will put him at ease. I pretend to take notes as he quickly reels off figures and statistics about the homeless, the number of food banks, and the general demise of social housing under this present government.
‘Years ago, these buildings were full of asbestos and the tenants were never expected to stay longer than a few months. They were in a very poor condition and it was like legalised squatting, and the licensee didn’t pay rent. I believe everyone deserves a decent roof over their head,’ he says. ‘Many of the people on the estates are young and single; they were previously homeless or living on low incomes. If no new tenancies are granted, the flats become empty and squatters take over, and the blocks steadily deteriorate.’
‘Do the community help to maintain the blocks?’
‘They have made a remarkable improvement. Ten, even twenty years ago, there was more neglect and decay; windows were broken and smashed, and some of the flats were burnt out. There were cockroaches, pigeon mess, heroin users, discarded needles and other drug paraphernalia. You can’t imagine the overwhelming rubbish chutes, or the graffiti, or the smell of urine in the stairwells. The lifts didn’t work, robberies were a daily occurrence, as well as domestic violence.’ He pauses. ‘We’ve come a long way in a short time. We are making progress.’
‘I’m aware of a solid community that cares for the area.’
‘Well.’ He puffs up his chest and takes a deep breath. ‘Now you get hippies, anarchists, and all those types of festival-goers – who take cannabis and who believe they are excluded by society. Their poverty in this current affluent society only acts as further exclusion, which then reasserts their identity and ontology.’
I smile at his addition of metaphysics and wonder if he’s trying to impress. ‘So, if the properties on the estate are neglected, then this contributes to increased crime on the estates?’
He stares at me. ‘Broken windows may signal nothing more than increased criminality.’
‘Do you think it’s a sign of political resistance? Does the estate community aim for quality and affordable housing, and do they plead with you to have an improved environment for their families?’
‘Of course.’
‘How do you think social housing affects the drug culture in Islington, or is it the other way around?’
Raymond repeats some of his previous opinions and election promises, about lack of care from the current government, our vulnerable society, and our need to care for those less fortunate.
I smile. ‘Islington, your area, has an increasing rate of drug-related crimes.’
‘Is that a question or a statement?’ His smile is tight at the corners, and he checks his watch.
‘There was a big police presence just over a year ago, where they rescued twenty-five children and arrested over fifteen drug pushers.’
I know that Ali was rescued during this raid and that Monika’s stepfather was one of those arrested. I continue, ‘You must be pleased, unless you’re upset that these drug-related incidents, involving the Asian, constantly happen in Islington – quite unusual—’
‘I don’t think that’s necessarily true—’
‘There is a group, a cult – a drugs gang – call it what you like, that is growin
g in numbers, through intimidation. They recruit young kids and trap them in houses to bag up drugs – coke, heroin, crack – to sell on the streets.’
He stares at me as I speak.
‘You must have heard of the Asian, haven’t you?’ I insist.
He turns his attention to some papers on his desk, which he begins to shuffle. ‘It’s not a name I’m familiar with.’
‘It’s a drugs gang operating in your area.’
‘You can hardly call it my area. This city – this country – has been under government rule that hasn’t cared about social welfare for years. I’m inheriting their problems. And drugs are a national problem, the same as lack of welfare, job losses, and Universal Credit.’
‘Is that why you want that vacant building for more social housing?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a high-rise development near the Islington estates: Luke, Thomas, and John’s. But this building is where Sandra Worthington has been filming. You’ve been discussing it on television. Do you deliberately lobby for these buildings to be turned into social housing so that there will be more voters for you in your constituency?’
‘What a ridiculous suggestion.’ He checks his watch, frowns, and stands up.
‘Why? If you have an extra five hundred voters in one block of high-rise apartments, then that will place you in a much stronger position for any subsequent elections.’
‘I have another appointment now.’
‘Do you know that when children are forced to join the drugs gangs and swear allegiance to a cult, they have a tattoo inked under their heart?’
His eyes follow my finger, where I trace an invisible tattoo on the left side of my chest.
‘Look, I’m sorry, Ms dos Santos.’ He tugs on his jacket sleeves. ‘I’m already late for another appointment, and as you can see, people are queuing outside to see me.’
‘What would you do if it were true? If there was a cult?’ I stand up and make a very deliberate effort to pack my notepad and recorder into my bag.
‘I’d tell the police, of course.’
‘Well, you’d be right. The police seem to be very capable of sorting out drugs rings across county lines in the north, but there’s not much effort being made here in London – in Islington.’
