by William Shaw
The farmer had said all his workers were documented. The ones who worked in the daylight probably were. But what if there were others who toiled in the semi-darkness of summer mornings, or deep into the night? The migrant hours.
Najiba had arrived back at the flat late in the last light. They had witnessed it. Almost certainly she had left early too. She worked different shifts.
There had been marks on her shoulders. Cupidi had seen them on her body. They weren’t bruises from the assault; they were older. They were from carrying fruit buckets like the pickers on the ladders.
What if there were two shifts, she had wondered? The documented one that would provide the paperwork and the undocumented one for those who would work more cheaply, taking advantage of the whole of the day.
And then there was Freya Brindley. After all, she had been undocumented too. Or rather, her documents were entirely fictitious.
Shortly after 4 a.m. a grey minibus arrived in darkness. It drove past and she heard it turn right, up into the fruit farm.
It had been full. Darkly silhouetted, she had made out the shapes of heads, men and women.
Were these the workers she had talked to in the orchard two days ago? It seemed unlikely. It wasn’t even light yet. Labour laws meant that it was almost impossible to employ the same people to work from dawn to dusk; the fifteen, sixteen hours a day that the tilt of the earth allowed at this time of year were too long a working day for a single shift.
This was the early shift.
She waited five minutes, grabbed her shoulder bag and then got out of the car. Her suit was still damp. It would be cold, but she couldn’t risk the high-viz.
This was stupid. She knew that.
She would get onto the farm, confirm her suspicions, drive back home and call it in. That’s all. Nothing more than that.
She got out, quietly closing the door.
The entrance to the farm was silent. The van would have gone straight up to the plum orchard, she guessed.
When she was twenty metres up the lane she saw lights ahead; the farmyard was brightly lit. Tractors were at work already in the darkness.
Not wanting to be seen, she left the tarmac and walked to her right, into a dark grove of apple trees, heavy with ripening fruit.
The plum orchard had been about about half a mile beyond the yard, she remembered.
She made her way up the slope, away from the farm entrance, ducking branches. The first light filled the horizon there already, turning the trees to silhouettes. The grass was long and damp with dew. In no time, her trousers were sticking to her legs, soaked again.
A few metres further and she realised she was crossing a wider gap; a space for larger vehicles to pass through. It was heading in the right direction, up the hill towards the plum trees.
She turned left and set off up it, her trainers squelching now on the wet ground. Ahead she could make out a metal gate and another orchard beyond.
Climbing over, she carried on, as silently as she could. The land here sloped gently up from the marsh, rising towards the Downs.
And then, to the west, through the trees, she heard voices. She walked towards them, but there was a hedge in the way, so she followed it.
Startled, something large scuttled into the undergrowth in front of of her. A fox? A badger? It was too dark to see.
Another gap appeared ahead. This gate was older, and, as she discovered when she was halfway over it, more rickety.
As she wobbled, it clanged back against the gatepost.
Shit. She stood, a foot on each side of the ringing metal. She was close enough for them to hear her.
But they were making their own noise, unloading crates from the trailer. The sky was turning grey. She breathed again.
She could see them now on the hillside above her. Crouching down, she headed for the security of the nearby trees; they were thick with leaves. She would be invisible among them.
Head torches were switched on. Clutching ladders, the workers spread out through the line of plum trees.
It was still too dark to see who whey were. She would have to wait. Not long, though. She needed to head back before day-light.
But the light was starting to turn blacks to grey, and then, slowly, the grey to green.
The first worker had already filled a bucket with plums. He climbed down from the tree and carefully poured the fruit into one of the plastic crates on the waiting trailer.
But the brightness of the torch on his forehead made it impossible to see his face.
The fourth person to arrive at the trailer was a small woman. No. Not a woman, she realised. A girl.
An intake of breath.
About Zoe’s age. Lighter skinned than some of the others.
Cupidi realised she could see because it was starting to get dangerously light. She could make out the figures. The day shift were Europeans; documented workers. These were a ragtag bunch. Old men. Children.
She took out her phone to take a single photograph as evidence; aimed and clicked. She would go now. She had seen enough.
But just as she was about to move, one of the men broke away from the crowd, took off his bucket, and started walking swiftly down the hill towards her.
He can’t have seen her, surely? There was nothing urgent in his pace.
She crouched down as low as she could, hoping she was invisible.
He was in his thirties; gaunt-faced and unshaven. He wore jeans that were a little too short, and a tartan shirt rolled up at the sleeves.
He was only three metres away when he turned right, into the trees she was hiding amongst, turned his back to her and lowered his trousers.
He squatted above the grass for a long time, close to her. This was a ridiculous position to find herself in.
He heart thumped so loud he must be able to hear it. He was so near to her she could smell everything. She held her breath. She imagined telling Zoë this. She would laugh.
Her daughter was not happy. A child shouldn’t be so sad all the time.
The man pulled some scraps of newspaper from his pocket and started to wipe himself. She could hear every crinkle of the paper.
And then he stood in one swift moment, hitching up his trousers, and turned.
And he was looking straight at her. His mouth opened wide.
FORTY-THREE
She raised her finger to her lips.
He stood, belt undone in front of her, one hand still holding up his trousers.
‘Shh.’
He turned to see if anyone was looking at them. Up the hill behind him, they were all busy picking.
‘Please,’ she said, not knowing if he even spoke English. ‘Don’t let people know I am here.’
His open mouth; his big eyes. He was scared, she realised. Frightened of her.
Holding up her palms in front of her, she said, ‘It’s OK. It’s OK. My name is Alex.’
He said nothing; looked round again, as if he were contemplating running.
Why had she given up smoking? Cigarettes were perfect for a time like this. Something simple and non-verbal you could give to another adult. What else did she have in her bag that she could offer him?
And then she remembered what she had carried with her since the start of all this.
‘Wait,’ she said.
And she pulled out the brown envelope, now worn.
There were several photos inside. She picked the one of the dead man first.
He reached forward and took it, mouth still open. ‘Salem.’
‘That is his name?’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Salem.’
He held the photograph close.
‘He worked here?’
The man didn’t answer. He was staring at it, a puzzled look on his face, as if trying to work out why she had Salem’s picture, or what it was about it him that looked so strange.
She could see the shock emerging as he realised what he was seeing. ‘He is dead?’ He looked up at her.
‘I�
�m afraid so. I’m very sorry.’
The man looked round again, more anxiously this time. He was breathing rapidly now, panic rising.
‘Who killed him?’ His English was accented, but clear.
‘I don’t know. I am trying to find out.’
Again, he swivelled to check no one has seen them.
‘But I think you know,’ she hazarded.
He shook his head. ‘How?’
‘They drowned him. On a farm very near here.’
It was like she had punched him. She saw his misery. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No.’
‘You didn’t know Salem was dead?’
‘I have to go to work,’ he said.
‘Who killed him?’
He turned.
‘Wait. Wait. Please. What about this woman?’
He looked back just as she was pulling out Freya’s photo. Again, the pain on his face was obvious. ‘Ya ilahi. She is dead as well?’
‘You knew her?’
‘Yes. She was one of them.’ He looked round and nodded towards the workers.
‘She worked on the farm?’
Taking the photograph, he shook his head. ‘One of the bosses.’
‘A gangmaster?’
He nodded.
So Freya Brindley had been a gangmaster. That was how she had earned the money that had ended up stolen in Stanley Eason’s freezer. The first rays of the sun lit the top of the hill behind the man. Any minute now they would become visible to the rest of the party, above.
‘A good gangmaster,’ he said. ‘Not like them.’
‘She worked with them, though?’
‘Yes. Yes. But she left. She didn’t like it anymore.’
‘She used to be a gangmaster, but she didn’t like the way they ran it?’ On paper, though, she had had no job.
He looked at her. ‘Who are you?’
‘What about Najiba?’
His lips tightened.
‘She’s dead too.’
A shout came from the hillside above them. The man turned, ducked down.
‘Shit.’
She looked down. Her feet were in sunlight now. They were visible.
‘Oi. Yusuf.’ A man’s voice. ‘Who you talking to?’
Yusuf thrust the photograph back at Cupidi, a look of panic on his face. He paused for a second, as if trying to work out which direction he should run in. Then he turned and started running back up the hill towards the pickers, away from her.
‘Can I help you?’ A man in a black T-shirt shouted down at her.
‘I lost my dog,’ said Cupidi. ‘It’s OK. I’ll just go back. She’ll be down there somewhere.’
The man was sixty metres away, looking down. The other workers had stopped and were staring at her too.
She turned and began walking back to the gate. An engine started up; it revved twice. She looked round and the man in the black T-shirt was on a quad bike, bouncing down the slope towards her.
There was no point running. It would only convince him that she was snooping. So she stood and waited for the bike to arrive.
‘What are you doing?’
‘My dog’s lost. I was on a bridleway…’
‘At night? You’re walking around here?’
She couldn’t place his accent; but not anyone who had grown up round here, that’s for sure. From his belt, he picked up a walkie-talkie. ‘Hunaka imra’aton huna. Kan hina sayedda tehki ma’a Yousef.’
She recognised the name Yusuf in there. The man was telling someone from his team that a woman was on the farm and she had been talking to Yusuf. The walkie-talkie crackled back. Was it Arabic?
‘Are they plums? Do you sell them?’ she said, smiling. Distract; confuse. ‘I adore Kent plums. I’m told they’re the finest in the world.’
He looked at her nervously, not knowing what to make of her. ‘What were you showing to Yusuf?’
‘Just a map. I was lost. I wanted him to help me see where I was.’
‘Show me. I will help you.’
She needed to extricate herself from this fast.
‘It’s OK. I’ll find my own way, thank you.’ She smiled and turned her back and started walking quickly down the hill to the gate.
The walkie-talkie chattered back again.
She heard the engine rev; the quad bike was coming after her. There was no point running; she just kept on moving, one step after another.
In a second, the man sped past her. Before she knew it, she was on the ground, screaming in pain. The world turned white as the nerves on her right side rang out. All breath seemed to leave her.
For a moment, all thought left her beyond the hurting. Then she started to surface from the whiteness.
Fuck. Get a grip. She sucked in air.
Think. What had happened?
She looked. The man on the bike had braked five metres away and was holding her bag.
He had stolen it, she realised. She had had it under her elbow, strap over her shoulder, but as he had passed, he had literally ripped its sturdy leather strap from her arm. Was the limb broken? Or dislocated? It hurt like hell.
She looked up. For a moment he looked as shocked as she was by what he had done.
Fighting back tears she said, ‘I am a police officer. Assaulting a police officer is a very serious crime.’
But as she stood, gingerly pushing herself up on her left arm, he was already tipping out the contents of the bag. Her phone tumbled onto the grass. Then Freya’s picture fell, face up in front of him.
‘Do you understand what kind of trouble you are in?’ she said.
He looked down at the photograph, then back up at her. Then around, to see where her colleagues were. But there weren’t any, because she had been unbelievably stupid and come here on her own.
He spoke once more into the radio. He sounded upset, panicky, unsure of what he should do. ‘Laddyha sura lihilari.’
Stepping off his bike, he strode towards her.
It was one of those calculations she had to make. Normally she would stand her ground. The odds of getting away were not good. But the look on his face was terrifying.
It wasn’t just that he was angry; he was scared. She had told him she was a police officer. Now he knew he had made a terrible mistake by assaulting her. But from the look on his face, she guessed he’d also made the calculation that there was only one way to fix this.
When he was almost on her she dummied by raising her left arm. It was a trick she had used before on London streets. In response, the man lifted his own right to deflect the blow, leaving his lower body unguarded.
Swiftly, she brought up her right leg, swinging her whole body behind it and catching him directly in the groin, hard. Her knee met soft flesh.
She heard him squeal, but didn’t wait to see if he fell. She was running away towards the gate hoping that the adrenalin coursing round her body would soon dull the pain in her right shoulder.
FORTY-FOUR
This time she vaulted the gate, swinging over on her good arm, landing hard.
Her first thought was to run for Moon’s car to get away. They wouldn’t know where she was heading, which would give her the advantage.
Then she stopped dead. Shit.
The keys to the car were in her handbag and her handbag was in the plum orchard with her phone. She would have to get away on foot. What a mess.
She set off running again, ducking off the main track into the trees so she would be less visible, dodging branches thick with apples, skittering over fallen fruit. The ground between the trunks was uneven, the grass longer. It was harder work.
She had gone fifty metres when she stumbled and fell, yelping in pain. Reflexes had made her thrust her arms out; the pain from sudden jolt in her injured shoulder was much worse than the fall itself. Looking round she saw what had tripped her; a bloody molehill.
She lay on the grass, silent, left hand clasping her throbbing right shoulder, terrified that someone had heard her. Testing the joint with her fingers, she w
inced. The limb felt wrong. It wasn’t moving properly.
For a minute, after all the action, everything seemed still. Birdsong reasserted itself. Prostrate, she caught her breath. There was no point just running away. She had to know where she was running towards.
Think, for once, for pity’s sake.
Her best option would be to find a local; get them to phone the police. But at this time of early morning there would be no one around. The lanes were still empty of cars.
Simply retracing her steps would bring her to the meadow and the lane. The bridleway itself would afford her some cover if she could make it there, but to reach it she would have to cross open ground. She would be more visible in the growing light. Could she risk that route?
If there were no cars around, how far would it be to the nearest house? The marsh was so sparsely peopled; besides, not all of the old houses were even occupied. The kind of rich folk who owned them only visited at weekends.
Second option. Find somewhere to hide to give her time to think. Better. Where? The trees above her here were still young, not tall enough to climb – and with only one arm she doubted she’d be able to do it.
She listened. Far away she heard the sound of an engine. The same quad bike, or another?
She thought of the man, Salem. Had he been running away too like she was now? They had found him and killed him. There had been several people involved; she had no doubt that her pursuer would not be alone.
What was that? Noises from higher up the hill.
The sound of thumping feet heading down towards her from the top of the orchard, the place she’d been running from. She pressed herself flat in the wet long grass.
More people were chasing her already? No. Just one person. It was too late to run now. That would just give herself away. All she could do was lie as still as she could, face close to the earth.
The footfalls were heavy; she could hear breathing too. It was a man, running fast. Would he notice where she had left the main path? The grass would be flattened there.
But he ran on, down the hill. She raised her head slightly to look. It wasn’t the person she had felled; this one was stockier, older.
So her guess was right. There was definitely more than one man after her.
