‘Can we see Mum?’ Kamal asked.
‘Of course. But how about getting something to eat and drink first? Your mother is still under sedation.’
‘I want to see her first, please.’
The doctor murmured something to the nurse by his side. ‘Fine. But promise me you’ll take some nourishment afterwards.’
Kamal nodded. The small group took the lift to the Intensive Care Unit. Roya Bahrami seemed to be connected to so many displays that it was a wonder anyone could get to her bed. Kamal and Arshi crept through the mess of tubes. Each put a hand on one of hers and spoke to her in whispers. A nurse explained that Roya was responding well after her surgery.
‘She might be in hospital for a while longer,’ the nurse said. ‘Her injuries were severe, but she should make a full recovery. We should go soon.’
There were too many tubes for them to hug their mother, but they kissed her before returning to their ward.
‘Do you want some food in here rather than going to the sitting room?’ asked a nurse.
‘Yes,’ Kamal murmured. Hearing of his father’s death had left him feeling numb, empty, though he had half-expected it. Fragments of memories, images of the disaster, had flashed through his brain as he’d woken, as if preparing him for the news to come.
He looked up to see two women at the entrance to the ward, one in police uniform. Kamal vaguely recognised her, but from where? Last night?
‘I’ve just popped in to see how you both are,’ she said. ‘We chatted briefly last night on the beach. I’ve brought one of my bosses with me. She’s a detective.’
‘They’ve just learned about their father,’ Saman said. ‘I hope this won’t be stressful for them.’
‘No, we’re just calling in to see how they are and if they have somewhere to go when they leave hospital. Are you their uncle?’ She waved to the two Bahrami children and went across to their beds. ‘This is Detective Superintendent Sophie Allen. She’s the boss of the team that’s investigating what went on last night.’
Sophie squeezed the hands of each of the children in turn.
‘The doctor says you need to rest, so I just have one question to ask you, but it’s important. Rose here told me that you were keeping a photo diary of your journey. Is that right?’
Kamal nodded. Close to tears, he couldn’t speak.
‘Did you take photos of the people you were with on the trip across Europe?’
‘Yes, some.’
‘Would you have photos from the beach in France, the people that went on the boat with you?’
He nodded.
‘Would there be pictures of the men who organised the boat and got people on board?’
‘I think so.’
‘Where’s the camera, Kamal?’
‘It’s in my jacket, in the inside pocket.’ His voice shook. ‘I don’t know where my jacket is.’
Sophie turned to the nurse who opened the bedside cabinet. There was no jacket inside.
‘I’ll need to trace it,’ the nurse said. ‘The people who came in last night were soaked to the skin. They were stripped of their wet clothes in the ambulances and put into warmer things. It’s possible their clothes still need to be sorted and identified. I’ll get someone to check. What colour was your coat, Kamal?’
‘Blue. Arshi’s was red. We had backpacks as well.’
‘Once it’s found, do you mind if we take it, Kamal?’ Sophie asked. ‘I promise to look after it. It needs to go to some people who’ll try to recover the photos. I expect it got soaked through while you were in the water, so it may not work anymore. But we have experts who might be able to fix it. If they can’t, we’ll get you a new one. We need those photos to catch the people who crowded so many of you together in that boat. Do you understand? Why did you have a camera, by the way, and not a phone?’
‘Our parents won’t let us have phones yet. They say we’re too young. But the camera might be dry. I put it in a plastic bag when we got on the boat and into a zipped-up pocket in my coat.’
‘That’s very sensible of you. I’ll be back to see you soon. And thanks for your help.’
The two police officers left.
* * *
‘He’s special, that one,’ Sophie said to Barry as they waited at the ward’s reception desk. ‘He’s just found out that his father’s dead and his mother’s life is hanging by a thread, but he could still talk about the camera. I think they’re worth speaking to again. They might be able to tell us more about what happened on the beach in Normandy before they set out on the crossing.’
The nurse reappeared carrying a damp blue anorak. ‘I think this is the one. I can feel something in the inside pocket.’ She was about to open it, but Sophie stopped her.
‘Let me,’ she said, slipping on a pair of latex gloves.
She unzipped the inner pocket and lifted out a small, crimson camera, well protected inside a plastic bag. ‘I’ll get this across to forensics right away. Can you keep all the other possessions secure, please? Everything will need to go for forensic examination. I’ll arrange for someone to collect it all later today. I’ll also get a couple of uniformed officers down. I’d like all these people kept close together and we’ll put a watch on them — it’s for their own safety.’
The two detectives headed towards the hospital manager’s office, to discuss security. It was going to be paramount here. There was no knowing how the traffickers would react once they realised that some of the migrants might be willing to testify against them in a possible murder trial.
The detectives drove to the forensic unit at police headquarters and handed the small camera over to Dave Nash.
‘How important?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, Dave,’ Sophie replied. ‘A young lad with a camera, travelling across Europe — the photos might all be rubbish. You know, poor exposure, blurred, no use at all. On the other hand, there might be something there, particularly if there are some shots of the beach in Normandy, which is what he claimed. We can but hope.’
A gloved technician extracted the camera from the plastic bag. She removed the memory card and took it to one of the computers. Images started to appear on the screen, most of scenes in Europe, taken as the family moved west. Many had the boy’s family posing, either singly or as a group. Sophie recognised the small girl. What was her name? Arshi? And the mother, now in intensive care at the hospital. The man must be the dead father. He had an anxious look about him, even in those photos where the rest of the family seemed relaxed. No wonder. What an undertaking, to smuggle his family out of their home country under threat, then across several thousand miles, in search of sanctuary.
Finally, they came to the last set of photos, taken among dunes on a beach at dusk. Even in the low light, the boy had done remarkably well. In most of the photos he’d managed to keep the setting sun behind him, so faces and figures were clearly defined. The last two photos showed a small group of men deep in discussion with Kamal’s father, who looked angry.
‘Zoom in on that group,’ Sophie said.
Dave watched closely. ‘Very useful. They’re good enough to be used as evidence in court.’
‘Move across to that figure on the left, the one hanging back slightly,’ Sophie said. She squinted at the image. ‘Is that a sticking plaster on his nose?’
‘Looks like it,’ Barry replied. ‘I don’t know what else it might be.’
Sophie reached forward for the mouse and zoomed back out, looking at the photo carefully. There was another figure, standing well back from the group and leaning against a spindly tree, only partly in shot.
‘Zoom in there,’ she said, pointing. She leant forward, screwing up her eyes.
‘That’s a woman, isn’t it? Blonde, do you think? Come on, someone. Am I imagining it?’
‘No. I think you’re right, Sophie,’ Dave replied. ‘But we need to do some work on the image before we can be sure. How important is it?’
‘A man with a sticking plaster on his
nose. A blonde middle-aged woman. This might be the couple we’re looking for. That little boy has just given us the link we need. We need to talk to him again, Barry. In fact, we need to arrange for everyone on that boat to be interviewed. And soon, before they start to forget.’
Chapter 16: Ambitious Politicians
Late Saturday morning
The big cars arrived, sweeping to a halt in the turning area at the end of the narrow lane. The press were already there — journalists, photographers, film units, standing in a broad semicircle on the shingle and all looking cold, miserable and windswept in the stiff breeze that was blowing in from the west. The Home Secretary got out of his car, accompanied by his security unit, and made his way to the appointed position, where he was to speak, along with Dorset’s chief constable. Sophie Allen was in the accompanying police entourage with her boss, Matt Silver, having just arrived from Dorchester hospital.
The Home Secretary shook hands with some of the police and ambulance personnel. His quiet words seemed genuine enough. He then made a short speech about the evils of people trafficking and the gangs that made a fortune out of the misery of others.
‘Rest assured,’ he went on, ‘we will catch the people responsible for this tragedy. And we will strive to keep the numbers of immigrants down. People trying to enter the country illegally need to know that we are not a soft target. We’ll be working with our friends across the Channel to stop this wicked exploitation.’
He and his junior, the Immigration Minister, exchanged a few more words with the chief, smiled for the cameras and left.
The chief turned to Matt and Sophie. ‘He’s okay, really. His own parents were immigrants, so he has some understanding of the issues. Not like that idiot of a junior minister. He’s a total knobhead. Far too aggressive and rude for my liking, and only interested in his own political ambitions. He wants a report on his desk on Monday. I ask you. Haven’t we got better things to do over the next couple of days?’
‘Do you know anything else, ma’am? About what’s been going on here without our knowledge?’ Sophie asked.
‘I’m not allowed to tell you, apparently. I don’t have permission to confirm what you both suspected has been happening. So I’m not confirming that the Home Office has set up a special unit in an attempt to counter this kind of trafficking, but without telling us, and without involving many of the agencies that already have some expertise. And I also can’t confirm that it’s the brainchild of the junior minister, Ken Burke. Sorry, did I use the word ‘brain' somewhere in that sentence? A mistake there, I think. And you can imagine how disorganised this special unit is with him in charge, can’t you? Not that I can confirm that, either. It’s non-confirmation all round, I’m afraid.’ She stopped and looked at Sophie closely. ‘You’ve got that eureka look in your eye, Sophie Allen. Are you planning to enlighten us?’
‘I can hazard a guess. Whether it’s right or not . . .’
‘Come on, out with it, woman. I haven’t got all day.’
‘Ambitious politicians. To be more specific, the junior minister at the Home Office. He’s angling for the top job. It’s autumn, ma’am. We’re just coming up to party conference season. Just imagine the kudos he’d have gained if he could have announced a successful action against the people traffickers in the middle of his speech. I think he was pushing that unit a lot faster than they wanted to go, just for his own personal ends.’
The chief constable smiled. ‘You cynic, you. But I have no doubt you’re right. Have a million brownie points and keep up the good work.’ She turned and headed for her car and was soon being driven away. Matt turned to Sophie. ‘I think we’ve just got her blessing to continue, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Bloody good thing too, Matt, if this special unit is as useless as she implied. Maybe it’ll be down to us after all.’
‘Isn’t it always?’
* * *
An hour after the last member of the press had departed, a shiny, dark blue BMW four-by-four drew up on the headland overlooking the long sweep of Chesil Beach, about a mile from where the tragedy had occurred. Two people got out and stood looking down.
‘What a complete shambles,’ the woman said. ‘Why do those cretins always have to squeeze extra people in? We agreed on a maximum of fifteen, didn’t we? Didn’t you hear me say it to them on the beach before we left? They’d have made it in without a problem if they’d stuck to that number. But no, they have to be greedy and go for the short-term gain. And then they only sent one crewman across. How was he ever going to cope alone? And they’ve been pocketing the extra cash. It’s not as though we’ve been mean with the money, not with the amount they get from us for every trip. It could ruin everything.’ She looked through her binoculars. ‘Look at the number of cops swarming about the place.’ She shook her head angrily. ‘The whole setup has gone to buggery.’
‘We can just lie low for a while, until things settle down. It’s not as though anyone can finger us, is it? We’ll be fine like we always are, Charmaine. Haven’t we always got through sticky situations?’ The man fingered his nose as he spoke. He’d been able to remove the sticking plaster this morning, but the scab still itched.
‘You can be a real simpleton sometimes, Phil. Learn your forensic rules. Every interaction leaves a trace. If they’ve got really good forensic people and the right cops, they’ll pick up on something. I think we need to head across to Normandy and sort a few weak links. Permanently.’
‘But that will be an interaction, won’t it? If what you say is right, it’ll leave traces. Is it worth it?’
‘It’s a judgement call we have to make. Those guys we used to organise last night’s trip are morons, basically. They need to be dealt with. It’s safer than leaving them over there, because they’ll be sure to spill the beans when the cops come calling. Just like those others we’ve had to remove. Christ. What a nightmare. All we seem to be doing is perpetual damage limitation. How did I ever talk myself into this?’ She suddenly fixed her companion with a piercing gaze. ‘Who was the crewman who stayed on the boat?’
‘Dorry O’Brian, the Irishman. The one with the beard and squint.’
‘Things just get worse and worse, don’t they? He sticks out a mile. Will he follow the rules?’
The man nodded. ‘I think so. He’s a bit slow on the uptake.’
‘Well, let’s go get him.’
Chapter 17: The Way West
Saturday afternoon
Dorry O’Brian opened his eyes, lifted his head and looked around. All was quiet. He’d slept heavily on his straw bedding, which had proved more comfortable than he’d expected. He looked at his watch, rose, stretched and slid around the bales of hay. He peered outside. No one about. Good. He picked up his rucksack and headed westwards. According to the plan, he was to go to Chideock, a short distance inland from Seatown on the West Dorset coast. It would be good to reach there before it got dark. There was a lot more cloud cover today and it looked like rain. Would it hold off for the couple of hours it would take him to get there? He forced his stiff limbs to move faster.
He passed just three or four people on the coast path. They looked to be committed walkers, heading east towards West Bay and Bridport, possibly to a night in a comfortable bed, after a hot meal and a drink. Well, that was not an option for him, not for a while yet. The police would be out in force by now, looking for someone of his description. At any moment, he half-expected to hear the clattering of a search helicopter, but his luck held. Maybe the misty drizzle now beginning to fall was a blessing in disguise. Would a helicopter be able to operate in such conditions? He had no idea.
By the time he reached Seatown the mist was getting thicker and he was walking in a dim twilight. He stopped briefly to eat his last three biscuits and finish the bottle of water. He heard voices and dodged behind a low wall, watching a small group of police and coastguard personnel walk past, heading east. So, there were search parties out. He needed to be careful.
He took a narrow t
rack north from Seatown, heading away from the shoreline but avoiding the lane. He didn’t want to be picked out in some car’s headlights. The traffic on the lane seemed heavier than he would have expected. Maybe this was it, the start of a concerted search for him along the coast. Well, he was heading inland now with only another ten minutes or so to go.
He ghosted past several cottages and finally came out onto the A35, the main road heading west, a mile or so inland from the coast. According to his instructions, he should cross the road beyond the western edge of the village of Chideock and head up a rough farm track to the emergency rendezvous point. He ducked down behind a wall as several cars passed, then decided to remain in the field rather than walking directly beside the road. He was nothing if not careful.
It took Dorry another five minutes to reach the crossing point. There was the farm and there the signpost. That track must be the one he was looking for. He crossed the main road and made his way up the track. Five hundred yards, that’s what he’d been told. He passed a copse of trees on his left. And there, pulled in tight under a canopy of beech trees, was the car he’d been looking for. A dark-coloured BMW four-by-four, only just visible in the rapidly failing light.
He saw the door open and two people get out. He raised a hand to wave, then fell like a stone. He never registered the slight popping sound from the silenced handgun. He was already dead before he hit the ground, shot cleanly through the heart.
* * *
The woman slipped the gun back into her fashionable shoulder bag. ‘You know, I could get used to this,’ she said. ‘I always thought I was a knife girl. I like the close-up nature of it, the intimacy. But that gun is a real power weapon. It kind of appeals to my more mature personality, with my newfound direct approach to life.’
They walked the few yards to Dorry O’Brian’s body. She was about to prod him with the toe of her boot but thought better of it.
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