by William Shaw
Najiba laughed loudly and took another gulp of her beer.
‘Very funny,’ said Ferriter.
‘Do you have a husband?’ Najiba asked Ferriter.
‘She’s in love with a sergeant at work. He’s not interested in her,’ said Cupidi.
‘Shut up! I was supposed to be going out with him tonight.’
But Najiba clapped her hands, as if delighted to be doing something as simple as gossiping for a change. ‘Is that true?’
‘He is interested. Maybe he just doesn’t know it yet,’ said Ferriter.
Najiba laughed.
‘What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?’
‘I have too many to choose from,’ said Najiba.
It was Ferriter’s turn to laugh now. ‘Get you.’
‘Refugees are nearly all boys,’ said Najiba, suddenly serious. ‘It is hard for a woman. You have to keep them at a distance. Some are nice. Some not so.’
‘What about the man you share an apartment with?’
‘He is very nice, but he is married. His wife is in Libya. He is simply being kind to me because he knows it is hard for a woman on her own. What about you?’ she asked Cupidi.
‘I’m divorced.’
‘You have a boyfriend though?’
‘You bet she does,’ blurted Ferriter.
Cupidi looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Sorry. Just guessing,’ the constable said awkwardly. ‘I need to go to the loo. Save my seat.’ And she stood quickly.
When she was gone, the smile left Najiba’s face. ‘She is nice,’ she said. ‘A good person.’
‘She’s a pain in the arse,’ said Cupidi.
Najiba smiled. ‘But she is young. She does not know the world.’
‘No. Not yet.’
A drunk woman with a single rose in one hand and a glass of something purple in her right was singing ‘Galway Girl’ with more enthusiasm than familiarity with the words.
‘She says she wants to help me, but she does not know that she can’t.’
Cupidi said, ‘Ah. You mustn’t blame her for not knowing how it works.’
‘You, unfortunately, are honest,’ said Najiba. ‘But what you said is true. You cannot help me.’
‘I’m truly sorry,’ said Cupidi. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
The young Sahrawi woman nodded. ‘So I think it would be wiser to give this to you.’ Najiba reached inside her jacket pocket and brought out a small piece of folded paper.
‘What is it?’
‘Some addresses where people stay.’ She looked around her, then handed it to Cupidi. ‘Please be careful with it.’
‘Why are you helping us if we can’t help you?’
‘Because a man is dead.’
The woman with the rose had started the same song again.
‘Tell me. Did you know him?’
The woman didn’t answer; she put down her half-finished bottle and stood just as Ferriter returned.
‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘I am very tired.’
‘But we haven’t even started yet,’ complained Ferriter.
The woman put her arms around the constable and the two hugged for a minute. ‘We can meet another time, I hope,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ said Cupidi.
Najiba turned and walked around the corner, up New Street towards her flat, away from the noise of a Saturday night.
‘Why did you let her go?’ said Ferriter. ‘What were you thanking her for? She only just got here.’
Cupidi raised her glass and drained it. ‘She gave us some addresses,’ she said. ‘Places where migrant workers stay.’
Ferriter sat down hard. ‘Why didn’t she give it to me? I’m the one who got her here.’
‘Come on,’ said Cupidi. ‘You’re off duty now. I’ll get you another drink.’
As she returned from the bar, a drink in each hand, she caught the scent of dope in the air. Someone was smoking a spliff. She looked around and saw a young mod smoking a rolled-up cigarette. But it was much simpler to pretend she hadn’t smelt it. The boys were flocking round Ferriter again, and this time she seemed to be enjoying the attention, so she handed her her drink and stood a little way off.
She reached inside her bag and pulled out the note Najiba had given her. There were four addresses on the list; three she already had. The fourth she didn’t recognise.
That night she found it hard to sleep. The house felt hot, airless and empty. Zoë was with Helen in the wooden cottage.
Pulling off the sheet that covered her, she stood naked at the open window, listening to the pulse of a single cricket which sang against the low rumble of the power station.
TWENTY-FOUR
Nobody was looking forward to Monday. The IPCC had taken an office on the first floor and were calling people in, one by one.
They interviewed Cupidi for over an hour. ‘He did the right thing,’ she insisted. ‘I had requested backup. The man had threatened me.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been threatened by a suspect, presumably?’
‘No.’
‘So what was special about this time?’
‘What do you mean, special?’
‘There were sixteen officers present. DI McAdam must have thought Stanley Eason represented a very significant threat. Why do you think he came to that conclusion?’
‘Because he was a murder suspect, threatening an officer with violence.’
‘Did you tell Inspector McAdam that?’
She hesitated. ‘Yes. I did.’
There were three of them in the room: Cupidi, the small woman with the smile, and the man who never seemed to say anything. The woman looked down, read through her notes for a second, then looked up again: ‘So why, on the day, did you criticise him for ordering so many officers onto the scene then?’
‘Listen. If anyone should take the blame for Stanley Eason’s death it should be me.’
The woman nodded. ‘Go on. Explain.’
‘I was the one who wound him up in the first place. I went too far. He was a suspect in a murder case and I thought I could get him to incriminate himself by pushing his buttons. It was a mistake. I’m the reason why he lost his temper, not DI McAdam.’
The woman made a small note. ‘I’ll ask again. Why did you criticise your senior officer during the operation?’
‘It wasn’t criticism. I was just suggesting other ways we could have gone forward. In retrospect, I still think he made the right call.’
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘It sounded like a criticism to other officers who were present. Do you accept their account of what you said? That it was a mistake sending in a team of that size.’
‘They don’t normally work with me. People who do know I just sound like that.’
‘I asked, do you accept their account?’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I do.’
The woman stared at her. ‘Right.’ The man handed her a piece of paper. She looked at it for a second and then asked, ‘Inspector McAdam refers to a report that a man answering Eason’s description in the vicinity of Speringbrook House threatened to assault a member of the public approximately two years ago. Were you aware of that report?’
‘I’m new on this unit. It would have been before my time here.’
‘I know you are new. But have you ever seen any record of it?’
‘No. What are you suggesting?’
‘Did Inspector McAdam make any mention of the previous incident during the operation?’
‘Yes. He did. He said he’d remembered that there had been an earlier situation involving Mr Eason in which he’d been aggressive to a member of the public.’
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Yet he made no mention of this in his contemporary notes. And we are unable to find any record of any previous threats made by Mr Eason.’
Cupidi blinked. Damn. There should have been a record; the woman was right. But just because there wasn’t didn’t mean it hadn’t happen
ed.
‘On the days following the siege, what discussions have you had with Inspector McAdam about your account of events that day?’
‘Are you suggesting in some way we’ve colluded… to create a story?’
The woman leaned forward a millimetre. ‘Have you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘So what discussions have you had?’
‘He mentioned he was concerned about how people might interpret his decision to send the officers to back me up. I told him I would support his decision. Because I do.’
The woman twisted a ring on her finger. ‘Naturally we are used to officers closing ranks at times like this. It’s never particularly helpful.’ She looked at Cupidi, who was grinning back at her. ‘Why do you think that’s amusing?’
‘It’s the first time anyone here’s accused me of being a team player.’
‘You’re an experienced officer, Sergeant Cupidi. Do you really think he’s a capable team leader who’s fully in control?’
‘Somebody has to make the call. If nobody feels they can make decisions anymore then we might as well give up.’
‘The wrong decision, though, in your opinion. As you made perfectly clear on the day, whatever you are choosing to say today.’
‘My judgement call was different from his on the day. But I was an ordinary officer on the ground. If it was my responsibility to protect the necks of other officers, I’d have probably ordered tanks.’
The woman made a face; made another tiny annotation in the margin of the piece of paper she was looking at.
Back in the incident room, the mood was subdued. There was too much routine work to get through for such a small team without the distraction of the IPCC inquiry soaking up time and souring their mood.
Tongue protruding slightly from her mouth, Ferriter plotted the addresses they would visit onto Moon’s big map.
‘Know somewhere named Saddlers Wall?’ Ferriter called out to the office.
‘Never heard of it.’
That had been the fourth address on Najiba’s list. Cupidi had typed out everything she had and handed them all over to Ferriter that morning.
‘I can’t bloody find it anywhere.’
Even without the extra address to visit, it was going to be a long night. Cupidi phoned home to tell her mother not to save dinner for her, but she was out. Zoë’s number went to voicemail too.
‘I looked at Google Maps. I can’t find it.’
Moon stood and started squinting at the map too. ‘Here,’ he said eventually. ‘Saddlers Wall Lane.’
The ancient banks that had originally been built to defend the fields from floodwater had become a network of small single-track roads. He was pointing to a place about six inches to the right of the red pin that marked where the dead man’s body had been found. Cupidi joined the two of them at the map.
She traced a finger from there, south, to Salt Lane and the ditch in which the woman’s body had been floating. Saddlers Wall Lane was about three miles miles north as the crow flew. Of all the addresses they had, it was the only one that was on the marsh.
Working west into sunset they drove towards Brissenden Green. A social worker had told Cupidi about two Roma families living in a small flat there.
The Roma men had been playing cards in a tiny kitchen; they looked at the photograph silently, serious expressions on their faces, and shook their heads.
The hostel in Kingsnorth had been full of bored men, young and old, mostly Lithuanian apparently. In a communal TV room that stank of sweat, a Chinese-looking man with weepy-looking eyes muttered angrily when he looked at the photograph.
‘What’s he saying? Do you recognise him?’ asked Cupidi.
One of the Lithuanians, a stocky youngster with a hare lip, took the Chinese man by the shoulder, pulled him away. When he came back, he said, unsmiling, ‘It’s nothing. He’s a racist. He hates all the black men.’
‘You sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. I apologise for him.’ The Lithuanian stood, arms folded, in the living room while the photo was passed around. Nobody else said anything.
Some people talked to the police; others didn’t. Sometimes that was because they had nothing to say; sometimes it was because they didn’t like the police.
Cupidi pulled out her card and handed it to the Lithuanian. ‘If anyone hears anything…’
‘Of course,’ said the man with as much earnestness as he could muster. As they drove away, she could see him in the rear-view mirror, standing in the building’s brightly lit porch to watch them go.
Saddlers Wall ran north–south. Cupidi travelled up the lane but found only a couple of expensive-looking private houses, set back from the road; one an old farmhouse, the other a barn conversion, each with two or three upmarket cars parked outside on gravel.
‘We must have gone past it,’ said Ferriter, examining the map by the light of her phone.
Cupidi turned at the next crossroads and drove back the way they’d come. Again, there was no sign of anything other than well-off houses.
‘Must be the wrong address.’
The first stars lit the blue sky.
Cupidi edged the car cautiously up the dark lane. A rabbit sat in the middle of the road transfixed. It didn’t move until Cupidi was just a couple of metres away, then bounded off into the grass.
‘Stop,’ yelled Ferriter suddenly. ‘Go back.’
Cupidi reversed back to the gap in the hedge. Through it, about twenty metres away, she could make out illuminated patches in the middle of the field.
Ferriter got out. ‘Reckon this is it?’
‘Are they caravans?’
The gate to the field was locked, but in the distance were two grey shapes, lights burning in the windows. Hammered into the ground next to the gate was a small sign: NO HUNTING.
‘The entrance must be on the other side,’ said Cupidi. ‘Did you notice a turning?’
‘Think we must have gone past it.’
They got back in the car and and found a narrow track. They came to another gate.
‘Pikeys, you reckon?’ asked Ferriter.
Cupidi didn’t respond. Now wasn’t the time. ‘Come on,’ she said.
The gate opened inwards, scraping across the uneven ground.
Twenty metres away, the caravan nearest to them had its door open. Lit from the back by the glare from inside, a bare-chested man was sitting on the step, smoking a cigarette.
The man’s head twitched round at the sound of the gate. A dog barked; a deep, throaty noise that made Cupidi jump. She looked around to see if it was tied up, but couldn’t make it out in the fading light.
The smoker spotted them, shouted something.
‘My name is Detective Sergeant Cupidi,’ she called out to him.
The man stood, peering at them.
She walked through the gate into the field. Seeing them coming towards him, the man called out again. Was he saying something to them, or was it a warning to the rest of the people in the two caravans that strangers were approaching?
‘We just want to talk to you,’ said Cupidi.
He stood, watching them approach. Another figure, an older man, appeared out of the caravan behind him.
The man shouted again. It was clearer this time. ‘Go away.’
She stopped. ‘We are police,’ she said again.
Abruptly, from the other caravan, a man sprinted out across the long meadow grass, running away, tripping, getting up again. There was something almost comical about it.
‘Stop!’ shouted Ferriter, calling after him.
And then the whole place burst into life. Half a dozen men and women came flying out of the two caravans and set off at a sprint.
‘It’s OK,’ called Cupidi, trying to reassure them. ‘It’s not a raid. We just want to talk.’
But it was pointless. Panicked people were running in every direction. A young woman, probably a teenager, barefoot in just a pair of knickers and a shirt, dashed out, ran fo
ur or five paces towards them, then stopped and turned.
‘Right,’ Cupidi shouted at Ferriter. ‘Just grab someone. Anyone.’ She looked at the car. The right procedure would be to call for backup, but that would give the teenager time to get away. She set off after her. ‘Stop. Police.’
A man had got into an old Subaru and had switched the lights on full beam.
‘Bloody hell.’
Car doors were slamming. Other engines started up. The Subaru lurched straight at Cupidi, bumping across the uneven ground. The sump scraped against earth, but it didn’t slow, heading towards her. She jumped out of the way in time, looking round to see where Ferriter had gone, just as the car mashed into the half-open gate, buckling it back. The constable, she was grateful to see, was safe too. She was already chasing the first man, far to the right. The car ground for a second against the metal of the gate, then seemed to lurch free, away into the small lane they had just walked down.
Cupidi looked around to see where the young woman was; she was already well on the way towards the other gateway, the one they had been looking through just a couple of minutes earlier. Snapping back into action, she began to chase her again.
It was a simple choice; the teenage girl was someone Cupidi felt she could catch and handle. OK, she was younger and ran fast, but the locked gate ahead would slow her, hopefully for long enough for Cupidi to make up some ground.
Sure enough, at the gate the girl paused, then looked round. By now, Cupidi was close enough to see her eyes widen.
Deftly, the girl placed both hands on the top of the gate and vaulted straight over. By the time Cupidi reached the gate she was sprinting barefoot down the tarmac lane.
Cupidi’s negotiation of the gate was less elegant but equally fast, and she hit the ground running, having the advantage now on the harder surface. In a few paces she was matching the girl’s pace, shouting, ‘Stop!’
The pale soles of the youngster’s feet flew up as she ran into the gathering darkness ahead of her.
Another twenty metres and Cupidi was starting to tire. The girl had a younger woman’s stamina. In the dark lane Cupidi stumbled in a pothole full of water, sending her falling face down, scraping her palms on the rough tarmac.
