Helen was glad of her riding boots today. The area immediately inside the fence seemed to be littered with broken glass and rusty nails. Helen crunched over them, her suspicion and anger rising with each step. According to the sign on the main gate, this was a respectable business, but it felt much more like a prison.
The ground rose in front of her and Helen scrambled up the bank. She reached the top and finally gained a view of the farm below. The sight that greeted her took her breath away. This was another working farm – turkeys, ducks and geese this time, the animals falling over each other. And shuffling between them, dragging the birds to slaughter, were dozens of African men. This operation was on a much bigger scale than Manor Farm – Helen could count at least thirty workers – but the vibe was the same. The men were hunched, shoeless and whenever they dallied or fell, they were verbally abused and beaten.
Helen had expected the worst, but even now she felt tears prick her eyes as she took in the shocking display in front of her. This was modern slavery pure and simple. Turning on her heel, Helen tried to keep her voice steady as she called it in.
26
A number of raids took place over the following days. DI Whittaker seized on Helen’s break in the case, chasing down every suspicious injury, beating or death that could potentially be linked to this spate of human trafficking and enslavement. Dozens of arrests were made and over 200 illegal immigrants were freed from captivity within Hampshire’s borders.
They were all from East Africa and the vast majority of them required urgent medical attention. They had been kept in terrible conditions, underfed and overworked, often sleeping without blankets in drafty huts, despite the plummeting December temperatures. Most of the freed men were confused and scared. Despite promises of good jobs in the UK, they had had their documents, cash and personal items taken from them on arrival. Escape was on all of their minds, but they had had their shoes confiscated, couldn’t speak the language well and most of them had no idea where they were in the country. Violent overseers and vicious dogs helped to keep them in line.
Everyone involved was shocked by the scale of the problem. What made it worse was that the workers were clearly being used to service the Christmas feeding frenzy. The farms ran seasonal operations, making most of their money during the festive season – providing Christmas trees for people’s homes and fat birds for their tables. Their products were being sold as renewable or free range, but really they were nothing of the sort. The gullible public were being conned, having little idea of the awful operations they were helping to produce these festive offerings.
The team was making progress, but still Helen was frustrated. She desperately wanted to resolve this case – for Addisu, for Colin Patterson – but when she’d called the latter to update him on their progress, she’d had to admit that they were no closer to resolving it. Nobody was willing to give up the trafficker. The immigrants had dealt mostly with people in their own country and had only fleeting glimpses of the man who had driven them from the docks to their place of ‘employment’. And the shamed farm owners were remaining tight-lipped, despite Whittaker’s best efforts. Some appeared scared, others simply replied ‘No comment’ to every question posed to them, determined not to incriminate themselves further.
One thing had become clear, however. All the men had arrived in the UK via the same route. A boat had brought them from North Africa to Cádiz, and thence to Southampton.
It was a well-established route, with boats arriving from Cádiz once a week. Whittaker’s next move was to target these ships, staking out Southampton docks until they unearthed the perpetrator of this trade in human misery. It was a complicated operation, the biggest the CID were currently involved in, but it was their most promising lead to date and Helen was determined to be in at the death.
27
‘Are you deaf as well as stupid?’
Helen had been expecting this, but still McBain’s vehemence took her aback.
‘Have I not made myself clear? You are here to serve your rotation –’
‘And I fully intend to do that,’ Helen interrupted. ‘All I’m asking is for a short-term, temporary secondment. DI Whittaker has indicated that he’s amenable –’
‘I don’t give a fuck if the Pope has given you the thumbs-up. You are mine, WPC Grace. My officer, serving in my unit, who I can deploy where and when I like. Your job, in case you’ve forgotten, is to protect the motorists of this county and to ensure the smooth running – ’
‘This is my case, sir. I’ve made all the running on it –’
‘Without my permission!’
‘In my own time,’ Helen shot back. ‘And you can hardly argue with the results. Look at the people we’ve helped.’
‘All of them illegals.’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘Are you really that obtuse, Grace? They are criminals pure and simple. So don’t go hanging too much tinsel on your CV just yet.’
‘But if we can catch the guy – or guys – who are bringing them in …’
‘And I have every confidence that DI Whittaker and his team will do so.’
Helen bit her lip, riven with frustration but keen not to anger her boss further.
‘What if I take annual leave?’
‘I won’t sign it off.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘On the grounds that I need you here. Christmas is our busiest time and we’re short-staffed as it is. I can’t have my officers going off on personal crusades. It’s the CID’s gig, leave it to them.’
‘Come on, sir, you must see that –’
‘All I see is an unruly officer who won’t obey orders. This is your last warning, Grace.’
Helen stared at him, knowing what was coming.
‘Do your duty or you’ll be deskbound for the rest of your rotation. Is that clear?’
28
Helen roared down the motorway, conspicuously failing to keep to the speed limit. She was still boiling with anger and determined to be as far away from McBain as possible. Wrenching back the throttle, she sped down the fast lane, blue lights flashing, bullying the motorists out of her way.
There had been a pile-up near Chilworth and Helen told herself she was just doing her duty in racing there now. But in reality she knew that it was her own frustration driving her on. In times of high emotion, speed had always been her friend. When she was a teenager, scared and angry, sickened by what her parents were doing to Marianne, she had lost herself in motion, loving the feeling of the wind ripping over as she rode helmetless through the streets. It was no different now. Even though she was more controlled and better protected, she still loved the feeling of the wind buffeting her body as she raced over the tarmac. It was one of the few things that soothed her and by far the most harmless.
The milometer ticked over and before long she caught sight of the pile-up ahead. Her heart was beating a little slower now, the buzzing in her head receding, and as she calmed, she found herself slipping back into work mode. However much she loathed McBain, in a way he was right. There was always work to do, important work, as the crumpled cars up ahead demonstrated. There were at least five cars involved in the accident, one of which was upside down in the middle of the carriageway. Suddenly Helen’s righteous anger seemed unnecessary, even a bit ridiculous. These were people who had been heading out of town, perhaps to see relatives for Christmas and in an instant their worlds had lurched sideways. Moments earlier they had been happy, carefree, now they might be seriously injured or worse. What right did she have to be angry? To think that she wasn’t needed here?
She had already parked up her bike and was running towards the stricken motorists. As she did so, she felt a surge of shame at her self-indulgence. Despite everything she had been through, despite everything she’d seen and experienced, she was one of the lucky ones.
She had survived.
29
Addisu’s funeral took place two days later, on a bitterly cold December
day. Hollybrook cemetery looked particularly bleak in the early morning light and Helen felt a deep sadness that this young man should receive such a depressing send-off. Despite her best efforts, Helen hadn’t been able to locate his family back in Rwanda and most of the young men who’d accompanied him on his dangerous passage to England had already been transferred elsewhere or done a runner. Few wanted to advertise their connection to the dead asylum-seeker, so it fell to Helen and a couple of his fellow countrymen to mark his passing.
The service was short and not particularly sweet – a municipal duty – but as the coffin descended into the grave, the two Rwandan men present suddenly broke into song. These were not the kind of songs you’d normally hear in a Southampton – the furious rhythm and incessant clapping at odds with the traditional English funeral hymns – and Helen liked them all the more because of this. They were uplifting, celebrating the energy and drive of the young man as he used to be, not as he was now.
All too soon, however, the songs came to an end and the young men drifted away, clearly keen to be away from a serving police officer. Helen watched them go, wondering where they would end up. Would they make a go of it in their strange new home or would they fall into the hands of those who would exploit and abuse them? Helen feared the latter.
She was walking away from the cemetery, still lost in thought, when a blacked-out Rover pulled up in front of her, blocking her path. The window lowered, revealing Detective Inspector Whittaker inside.
‘Day off, is it?’ he enquired casually.
‘McBain couldn’t deny me one day,’ Helen replied. ‘Especially when I’m “fostering community relations”.’
‘So I see.’ Whittaker took in her smart charcoal jacket and skirt. ‘Well, seeing as you’re not dressed for biking and you’ve got time on your hands, let me give you a lift.’
Helen stared at him, wondering what had prompted this invitation. Perhaps sensing this Whittaker put her out of her misery.
‘We’ve got a boat coming in from Cádiz.’
30
Whittaker filled her in on the way to the Western Docks. The Rwandan police force was overstretched and unwilling to cooperate, consumed by the growing civil unrest in their country. As a result, the British police had taken the initiative themselves, asking their contacts at the embassy to gather information. It was clear from their early investigations that many Rwandans were already fleeing the violence, journeying great distances to coastal countries such as Somalia and Ethiopia. From there they would either make contact with the people smugglers or attempt to stow away on of the cargo ships bound for Europe.
‘This particular ship, the Naturo Cádiz, journeyed to its home port two weeks ago and is docking in Southampton as we speak. Customs have had their suspicions about it and we know from shipping records that several containers have remained on board since its departure from Africa several weeks ago. If this is the route our man is using to bring illegals in then it’s a fair bet that some of them are on that ship.’
‘So what are you going to do now? Sit and wait?’ Helen asked.
‘Not much else we can do. We can’t move until our man shows.’
‘But if the immigrants are stowed on board, they will have been on there for weeks. In searing temperatures, now in freezing ones.’
‘I’m well aware of that, but there’s not a lot we can do. We’re not on a humanitarian mission here, we need to get a result.’
Helen begged to differ – to her mind policing was first and foremost a humanitarian enterprise – but she said nothing. She knew that Whittaker was under pressure from above – the story of the ‘epidemic’ of modern slavery in Hampshire had been splashed all over the press – giving the local area and its police force a very bad name in the process. It was now a matter of civic pride to bring those responsible to book. This was on Whittaker’s shoulders and everyone knew it.
‘Why are you doing this, sir? Letting me ride along, I mean?’ Helen said suddenly.
Whittaker considered this for a moment, then explained:
‘Because contrary to what Sergeant McBain might think, I view this as your case. If it wasn’t for you, Addisu would still be in the police mortuary and many of his countrymen would still be in Hell.’
Helen felt her cheeks flush – she was not a proud person but was more than pleased with his summary of the situation. It was how she felt and was glad that he understood.
‘Which is why I think you should be allowed to see it through.’
Helen was about to respond, when the car suddenly slowed.
‘Looks like we’re here,’ Whittaker said, sparing Helen the embarrassment of a mumbled thanks by opening the door for them. ‘Before we begin though, a word of advice. Don’t make the more experienced officers present look foolish. You’ll already be the best-dressed person there. No need to be the smartest one too.’
Winking at her, Whittaker stepped out and walked towards a derelict warehouse, Helen following close behind.
31
Helen took Whittaker’s advice, remaining in the background as much as possible during the stakeout. Whittaker’s patronage was enough to guarantee her acceptance within the team, but the experienced men of Central CID were not going to extend a warm hand of welcome to a younger, female interloper. They were polite but no more, talking to Whittaker as if she wasn’t in the room. If this was designed to irritate Helen, it didn’t work. She was happy to be a silent presence here, watching and learning.
The small team were holed up in a disused warehouse overlooking the Western Docks. No one came here any more, so it was the perfect place to hide out, affording them a good view of the two roads to and from the unloading bay. There had been some excitement when the boat docked, but since then little had happened, as the formalities were concluded prior to unloading. Helen knew that undercover work was 90 per cent tedium and 10 per cent adrenaline, but even so she hadn’t been prepared for how slowly the minutes crept by. The time was passed discussing the case, bantering about past collars and smoking. Helen could at least join in with the latter, making a point of offering her pack around. As a couple of the officers accepted her offer, Helen thought she felt a slight thawing in the atmosphere.
As the hours ticked by, the atmosphere changed from expectation to boredom, and then to frustration. The sun was dropping from the sky after a pointless twelve hours and the temperature was following suit.
‘There’s going to be a heavy frost tonight. Could drop down to two below zero, possibly more,’ Carter was saying.
Carter was slightly younger than the others, a little more modern in his views. Helen instinctively liked him, especially as he was expounding her own concerns.
‘Noted,’ Whittaker replied. ‘But our man is likely to come at night, so for now we sit tight.’
‘How long are we giving it?’ Carter persisted.
‘Till something fucking happens,’ Roberts piped up.
Roberts – overweight and overconfident – clearly felt he was Whittaker’s number two, though Helen wasn’t sure that Whittaker felt the same way.
‘Easy for you to say. You haven’t been in a box for the last three weeks.’
Roberts stared at Carter. There was no love lost between these two. Helen wondered whether it was ambition setting them at odds or something else.
‘All right, boys,’ Whittaker interrupted. ‘No point getting your knickers in a twist. We’re not making a move until we have to. So for now, we wait.’
He stared at the two men, daring them to continue the argument. Neither did. Whittaker had asserted himself and the conversation was over.
32
Shortly afterwards, Helen slipped out of the room. She could only stomach so much testosterone.
Leaving the sweaty surveillance room behind, she crept quietly out onto the old fire escape and climbed upwards. Before long, she was at roof level and, treading carefully, stepped out onto the tiles. Her progress was slow and steady, but before long she had crested the
roof and sat down on its apex ridge, surveying the scene below.
She hadn’t had much call to come down to the docks during her rotations and she was struck now by their splendour. By day they looked workaday and industrial, but they sparkled at night, when the powerful lights on the cranes, boats and quaysides danced off the inky black water. Helen was struck by the scale of it all – the number of ships, the vast towers of containers. To her it seemed as if the whole world came in and out of this port. Which is why a posting with Hampshire police would never be dull.
She pulled a Wispa from her pocket and started to nibble on it as she scanned the night sky. The docks were in front of her, behind her the city stretched away into the distance. She was still finding her feet here – she was often mocked by other officers for her London accent and attitudes – but her instinct was that she was going to like it. She liked the fact that nobody knew her. Her colleagues, her flatmates, had no idea that up until a couple of years ago she had been Jodie Haynes, the product of an abusive, violent family and the fortunate survivor of a brutal care system. Helen had hoped that by changing her name and embracing her new destiny as a police officer she would buy herself some happiness, an ounce of redemption, and for the first time in her difficult life her faith had been repaid. Sometimes in her darker moments, she saw only the bad side of Southampton, but tonight she saw only its promise.
In the distance a dog barked, snapping Helen out of her introspection. Looking in the direction of the noise, she thought she saw something, a flash of headlights near the entrance to the docks. She immediately tensed, straining to see if the vehicle was heading in her direction.
Running Blind (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 5
