The chase was on.
19
The figure had headed straight for the dense woodland that bordered the farm and Helen followed suit. She was fast over the first fifty yards and ate up the distance between them, hurdling packing cases and errant turkeys as she went. She knew she was getting herself in hot water, but she was the only one who could stop the fleeing figure and she was determined not to let him escape – instinct told her that something was very wrong at this farm.
She crashed into the woodland, scanning the darkness for her prey. She had no torch and for a minute could make out nothing in the gloom. But then a sound ahead, a flash of white and she had him in her sights once more. She took off, shouting a warning as she did so, but she knew this was useless. Whoever it was was determined to escape and would do so by any means possible.
Helen darted in and out of the trees, letting the fugitive be her guide. Every time he stumbled, every time he encountered an unexpected obstacle, she gained a few seconds on him. This was one pursuit where it was better to follow than lead. She could only be a few seconds behind him now and Helen braced herself for what was to come. But as she increased her speed, her foot struck a tree root. Her momentum carried her forward and she hit the ground hard, jarring her shoulder awkwardly. Pain coursed through her, but she scrambled quickly back to her feet, determined to keep moving.
A sudden crash ahead suggested the chase might not be over. Helen darted forward – she was convinced she would suddenly fall upon him, but now found herself in a small clearing, which appeared to be deserted.
Helen turned back. She couldn’t have missed him, could she? There was no sign – or sound – of him anywhere. Scanning the thick foliage that ringed the clearing, she searched for a glimpse of him – the white T-shirt, hair, teeth, anything that might pick up the strong moonlight, but she could find nothing. Helen had the strong sense that he was hiding, biding his time. She would have to move to smoke him out, but if she moved the wrong way, he would be free and clear.
She peered around the clearing one more time then made a decision, darting to her left. She swiftly found herself faced with an impenetrable wall of thorns however, so changed her mind, spinning around to head in the opposite direction. As she did so, something hard and thick crashed into her stomach. She rocked backwards, crumpling to the floor. Looking up she saw Raynor above her, raising his heavy branch once more. Suddenly it was flying towards her. Helen tried to roll away, but the branch caught her on the collarbone and she cried out in pain. Raynor now raised it for a third time, determined to end the fight, but as he did so, Helen lashed out. Acting on instinct, she kicked sharply upwards, catching her aggressor squarely between the legs.
There was a strangled yelp, then Raynor fell to the ground, dropping his weapon in the process. Helen was quickly on her feet, pulling her cuffs from her belt. Her quick thinking had saved her from serious injury – it was not a move you’d find in any of the police manuals, but it was highly effective.
The fight was over.
20
The yard was full of bodies when Helen finally reappeared. CID officers were tending to a crowd of farm workers, who were huddled together under tatty blankets. There were already a dozen present and more were now emerging from the gloomy outbuildings. They looked dazed, confused and scared.
Whittaker was already on his way over to her and Helen handed Raynor over to him without comment. The limping, bedraggled farm owner made no protest and was led away, Whittaker arrowing an angry look at Helen, as he took custody of the prisoner. Helen stared back at him, refusing to be cowed. She was sure Raynor had questions to answer and, thanks to her, he could now be called to account.
Helen’s eyes now fell on the poor souls making their way out of the ramshackle barns that flanked the farmyard. Heading in their direction, Helen noted that none of them were wearing shoes, despite the roughness of the ground and the freezing night temperatures. It was a horrible sight, like an image from a darker time, the emaciated, bare-footed men shuffling along in single file. Skirting round them, Helen ducked into one of the buildings, keen to find out what conditions these men had been kept in.
She soon had her answer. In the main barn, a large trapdoor had been heaved open. CID officers stood at its fringes firing torches down into the gloom, as the last of the farm workers were pulled blinking into the light. Helen made her way to the lip of the hole and looked down. The smell hit her first – rich, faecal, sickening. Then her eyes became accustomed to the gloom and she saw how terribly cramped the small space was. There was room for six or seven people at the most, but nearly three times that number had obviously been kept down here. There were chains on the wall, all of which had now been severed by bolt cutters and the floor was smeared with human waste. In amongst the dirt and ordure, Helen noticed farm scraps. It took Helen’s breath away that men should be kept in conditions like this in the twentieth century – imprisoned in darkness, wallowing in their own filth, fed with potato peelings. It made her blood boil and she suddenly wished she had given Raynor a bigger beating. There was no question he deserved it.
Helen walked back to the van, her heart in her boots. People never failed to surprise her with their cruelty and malevolence, but even so the callousness here was staggering. The festive season was upon them – a time of goodwill to all men – but that was far from evident here. At Manor Farm, the turkeys might have been free range, but the workers certainly weren’t.
21
St Mary’s Health Centre was a thirty-minute drive away and Helen headed straight there, despite the late hour. She knew she should go to bed, try and grab some shuteye before a long day shifting cones, but she had questions that needed answering. Questions about Addisu Tesfaye.
The farm workers were now being processed, those with the most serious conditions being prioritized. They were all in a bad way – some had respiratory diseases, many had festering wounds and all were badly dehydrated. The heroic nursing staff were pulling out all the stops, shocked by the state of the patients that Hampshire Police had suddenly landed on them.
Helen hung back, determined not to interfere, but keen to identify the person who had scrawled Addisu’s name on the ground. She had to make use of the overworked interpreter’s services, but through patient probing she eventually found her man. He was a young man – no more than twenty-three at the most – who like Addisu had fled the civil strife in Rwanda. Unable to secure asylum in Europe, he had chosen to enter illegally, paying a king’s ransom to be smuggled into the UK.
‘What happened? To Addisu?’ Helen asked, then sat back, patiently waiting for the translator to put the question to the man she now learned was called Sentwali.
‘He had to run. He was dying, he knew he was dying,’ Sentwali eventually explained. ‘But he didn’t want to die there …in that hole.’
Helen nodded, just about containing her emotions. Sentwali coughed violently – like Addisu he was also suffering from tuberculosis – then gathered himself, before continuing.
‘Every night, he worked away at his chains. Worked at them until he could slide his hands in and out. Then one day the man turned up – the man who’d sold us to the farm. He had some new workers to deliver. When he opened up the hatch, Addisu burst out, ran. The bossman was too slow to catch him, so …’
‘He set the dogs on him?’
Sentwali nodded.
‘The other guy was going crazy, shouting and screaming, they wanted to stop Addisu getting away.’
Helen had guessed all this, but the thought still sickened her – the idea of this man, his lungs crippled by tuberculosis, running desperately to escape the pursuing dogs.
‘What happened to him?’ Sentwali said suddenly.
‘He died in a traffic accident. I’m very sorry.’
Sentwali nodded once more. He didn’t seem surprised.
‘Who was this other guy?’ Helen continued. ‘The one who brought you to the farm?’
She knew she was crossi
ng the line here from concern to investigation, but as Whittaker was currently holed up at the station with Raynor, she’d decided to chance her arm.
‘Was he British? Or Rwandan?’
‘British. You have to pay the “agents” in Rwanda, but they don’t run it. The man who brought us in was like you.’
‘Can you remember his name?’
Sentwali shook his head.
‘What did he look like?’
‘I barely saw him. We were hidden under boxes in the back of his van. I heard his voice, but I was scared to peek out. When I did all I could see was the back of his head. He had black hair I think, but …’
‘Anything else? Can you remember if he spoke to anyone? What he was wearing? Did you stop anywhere on your way to the farm?’
Sentwali looked sadly back at her, he clearly wanted to help but couldn’t.
‘The only thing I remember is that he had a St Christopher hanging from the mirror. I saw it when I looked out.’
‘The patron saint of travellers,’ Helen replied, angered by the irony.
‘I prayed to him,’ Sentwali said. ‘I prayed to him over and over again. But what good did it do me?’
Helen wanted to respond, to tell him that all would be fine, but she knew she couldn’t. As with everything else in this case there were still more questions than answers.
22
‘Who is he?’
Gary Raynor cast his eyes up to the ceiling, determined to avoid answering Whittaker’s question. The pair had been at it for a couple of hours already and so far the truculent farm owner had refused to cooperate, insisting that he was a law-abiding citizen who had been unlawfully assaulted by a police officer.
Helen had a bird’s-eye view of proceedings. Having left the health centre, she’d headed straight for Southampton Central, having given up on getting any sleep tonight. The CID officers had been cool in their welcome and begrudging in their praise of her actions – she had bagged the man they were supposed to bring in – but they nevertheless allowed her to watch Raynor’s interview through the two-way mirror. Helen was happy to accept this as their acknowledgement of her contribution to the case.
‘We can do this all day,’ Whittaker continued, eyeballing the taciturn Raynor. ‘And the next day. And the one after that if you want.’
‘I’ll be out of here before that.’
‘You think so? We’ve got you on charges of kidnap, unlawful imprisonment, attempted murder –’
‘Fuck off!’
‘Well what do you call setting the dogs on someone? Chasing them to their death.’
This seemed to silence Raynor, so Whittaker followed up his advantage.
‘Maybe we’ll even throw in a couple of animal cruelty charges. British juries hate that.’
Raynor turned away once more, but Helen could see that Whittaker’s shot had landed.
‘You’re looking at a long, custodial sentence. But here’s the thing. It’s not you I’m after.’
A slight pause, then Raynor resumed eye contact.
‘You’re just the end user. I want the supplier.’
Raynor didn’t look away. Helen sensed he was weighing up his options.
‘We know these men were not the only illegals brought in. They were part of a bigger group. So I want to know who you bought them from. I want to know where, when, how much, how often you’ve used him.’
Helen watched Whittaker lean forward, engaging Raynor at close quarters.
‘I want to know everything,’ Whittaker concluded quietly.
There was a long pause as Whittaker waited for a response. Helen watched intently as a change seemed to steal over Raynor. He seemed less assured, less certain now.
‘Look, mate, I’d love to help you, but I can’t,’ Raynor eventually stuttered.
‘Course you can. Way I see it, you don’t have much choice.’
‘Maybe I’ll take my chances.’
‘And spend the next ten years behind bars? Who’s going to look after the farm? Be a shame to let the homestead go to rack and ruin? How long has it been in the family? Three generations …?’
Raynor shrugged.
‘And what about your little boy? I know he doesn’t live with you, but do you think he’d like to see his dad in the slammer?’
Raynor dropped his eyes to the floor, shamed by the thought. Whittaker rose a notch in Helen’s estimation. His tactics weren’t subtle, but they were effective.
‘I don’t want that, you know I don’t want that … but I can’t risk it,’ Raynor answered suddenly.
‘Because you’d be in danger?’
‘Because I’d be in danger, my boy.’
‘We can protect you.’
Raynor just shook his head, dismissing the notion instantly.
‘You think he doesn’t have people in here? You think he wouldn’t get to me before you could bring him in?’
‘That’s bullshit.’
‘Oh you can guarantee that, can you?’
‘Yes, you have my word.’
‘Well, I’m sorry but that’s not good enough. Charge me if you want to.’
Raynor fixed Whittaker with a steely glare.
‘But I ain’t saying another word.’
23
‘Do you think he’s genuine?’
Helen was surprised by the bluntness of Whittaker’s question – and the fact that he was asking her opinion. They were walking down the steps towards the bike park. Helen had assumed he was gently ushering her from the station, away from his patch, but now she wasn’t so sure.
‘Yes, I do,’ Helen agreed after some reflection.
Whittaker nodded, but said nothing.
‘How long will you keep him in for?’ Helen eventually continued.
‘Another day or so. We’ll call his ex, let her know what’s going on, see if we can get her and the boy down here.’
Helen looked at him and Whittaker smiled.
‘It’s not pretty, but it’s all in a good cause,’ he went on. ‘Perhaps you should try it some time?’
Helen said nothing, genuinely surprised by the invitation.
‘Transport have got the bikes, but we get all the glory …
’ He turned away from her, still smiling.
‘And you’ve certainly got the balls for it.’
24
Helen’s head was spinning following her discussion with Whittaker, but she turned up to work on time nevertheless. She knew she couldn’t risk any further run-ins with McBain – not whilst she was still a probationary officer. Her boss was graceless as usual, pointedly commenting on her appearance. He had a point – she hadn’t had a minute’s sleep and looked terrible – but she was still infuriated that he’d done it in front of the entire team.
She set out for cone duty in bad humour and as the hours passed directing traffic her mood barely improved. She was angry with McBain and frustrated with their lack of progress in Addisu’s case. An illegal immigrant he may have been, but he was still a human being. He had taken great risks and presumably paid large sums to come here, driven here by the awful violence in his home country. And what had been his welcome? He had been abused, beaten and imprisoned. And when he had dared to resist he had been chased to his death. There was no dressing it up. A human had been hunted down like an animal and it made Helen’s blood boil.
Time crawled by. Her partner tried to engage her in conversation, but she wasn’t in the mood for small talk. In fact, she could feel a darkness creeping over her that scared her. She had had episodes like this before which had led to bouts of self-harm, to extended periods in hospital, but she had managed to avoid these of late. Things had been going her way for a change, she was making a success of things, she had managed to run from the horrific memories that frequently reared up – memories of her sister, of the girls at Grove Street Care Home …
Helen forced her mind back on to Addisu. If she could focus on him, on trying to gain justice for this poor man, then maybe she could keep hers
elf on track. And as Helen ran over the details of his death again, a thought suddenly occurred to her. Swiftly she pulled her radio from her shoulder and radioed a message through to Rosemary.
The rest of her shift passed even more slowly than usual, Helen’s impatience to get to the Records Office mounting with every passing second. But eventually she found herself there and the reliable Rosemary was waiting for her, a slim file clutched in her hand.
‘I want back through our files and we did have a similar RTA about eight months ago. It was on the hard shoulder of the M27. An unidentified male of African appearance hit by a Belgian truck. As you suggested, he didn’t have any ID and he wasn’t wearing any shoes – and none were recovered from the scene. Here are the details we’ve got. There’s not much, I’m afraid, nobody seemed that interested as they couldn’t identify him.’
Helen took the file and flicked through the scant particulars. Another young man dead. Killed whilst trying to escape? Chased to his death perhaps? He was killed in a different part of the county, but the parallels were uncanny, hinting perhaps that the problem was much more widescale than she had initially feared. Within minutes, she was out of the building and back on her bike.
25
Their second RTA victim had been killed on the M27 near Lower Swanwick. That part of the county beyond the natural boundary of the River Hamble is sparsely populated, with only a scattering of houses. There was, however, a farmstead about half a mile from the accident site and Helen was heading there now.
The chain link fence at the top of the farm drive was padlocked shut. There was no one in sight, the main farm buildings tucked away around a bend further down the track, so Helen opted against trying to raise someone. Instead she skirted around the perimeter of the fence, searching for a means of entry. The going was hard, the forest thick and unyielding, cocooning the farm perfectly, but eventually she got lucky. She spotted a small tear in the fence, allowing her just enough room to wriggle through.
Running Blind (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 4
