Siren Song, page 17
20
I ARRIVED AT the Ferryboat Inn at seven-thirty. Since the coming of the motorway and the mile-long span of the new bridge, the box-girder construction a quarter-mile upriver on the Ouse had been largely abandoned by all but local traffic. It had once been on the main route between the cities of south Yorkshire and the east coast, and five-mile-long traffic jams had been commonplace most summer weekends.
I waited in the car park for a few minutes, watching the few passing cars.
James Salter arrived at eight, parked close to the exit facing the road and came to me.
I went out to him.
He held out his hand to me, and the instant I took it, he said, ‘All this is off the record. I mean it.’
‘There isn’t a record to be on,’ I told him.
He looked pointedly at my jacket and I took it off and threw it into the car.
We walked together to the bridge and looked along the Ouse. A line of fishermen sat high above the water along the far bank.
He was younger than I had anticipated, in his late twenties.
‘Tell me exactly what it is you’re looking into,’ he said.
I told him about the death of Helen Brooks, the open verdict and all the unresolved questions this had left in its wake. I told him about her dying mother, about the motives of her sister, and about Helen Brooks’s involvement with Fowler. I finished by admitting that I might have so far got everything wrong, and that Helen Brooks’s death might have been the accident that almost everybody else wanted it to be, and that her involvement with Fowler beforehand had been purely coincidental.
‘You don’t believe that for one minute,’ he said. ‘And neither do I. Otherwise, the pair of us wouldn’t be here.’ I felt encouraged by the remark. He leaned forward to watch the dark, sluggish water beneath us. ‘If you didn’t believe Fowler was in some way responsible,’ he said, ‘then you would have kept your distance from me.’
‘Not once I’d learned from Sunny what happened in London.’
He relaxed at the mention of Sunny’s name. Sunny, via his contact on the Standard, was our guarantor of confidentiality, and we both understood this.
‘The more I find out about Fowler, the more chance I have of making the few connections he hasn’t already taken care of ahead of me,’ I said.
‘What Fowler’s good at where connections are concerned, is severing them,’ he said.
I asked him if he’d like to go into the bar, but he said he’d prefer to remain outside a little longer. He’d been working since six that morning.
‘How were you involved with Fowler?’ I asked him.
‘I joined the Met six years ago, straight from UCL. They had a graduate recruitment scheme – fast-tracking – but part of the deal was that you spent a couple of years at the bottom, learning the ropes. I can’t pretend it was much of a success or that I ever really fitted in. A degree in medieval history? Big deal. You can imagine the attitude of everyone else slogging it out the hard way. There was a lot of resentment. They always made a big thing about how the culture’ – he drew quotation marks with his fingers – ‘of the force was changing, but I never saw any signs of it. If your face, your behaviour and your prejudices fitted, then you were in. Otherwise . . . I first came across Fowler when I was sent to East London for three months. There was a big operation being undertaken with Immigration and Customs – illegal immigrants being brought in and employed as cheap labour.’
‘Fowler’s syndicate.’
‘It was never his, exactly. He was just one of the lucky few getting rich on the backs of others. It stank from the start.’
‘The operation? How?’
‘Because half the men working out of the stations involved talked about Fowler as though he was their best mate. They respected him. They wanted what he’d got. They treated the immigrants like animals, but whenever Fowler or any of the others were mentioned, it was as though they were aristocracy. Fowler lapped it up.’
‘Do you think he was paying any of them?’
‘My so-called colleagues? Nothing was ever proved.’
‘But it’s what you believed.’
‘Yes, it’s what I believed. We spent months watching some of the building sites, taking pictures, checking up on the faces working there, tracing their records or their families’ records through every database available. And then on the day we picked to turn up and arrest everyone, the sites would be full of legitimate, tax-paying, national insurance number-owning labourers.’
‘Meaning the contractors had been tipped off.’
‘I didn’t need the medieval history degree to work that much out.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing, at first. And then I was approached by one of the men who put me on to the fast-track scheme, my mentor, and he asked me to tell him what I’d seen and worked out for myself. He told me he was asking me in confidence, that nothing I told him would ever find its way back to the station chiefs. He was an honest man; I trusted him. But somewhere down the line, everything became common knowledge.’
‘What happened?’
‘I told him of my suspicions, of the men I thought were involved with Fowler and the others,’ he said.
‘And?’
‘And nothing. The CPS set up a case against two of them, but the whole thing fell apart for want of evidence, and because – surprise, surprise – of a whole litany of procedural irregularities while they were awaiting trial.’
‘Irregularities perpetrated by others involved?’
‘I doubt if anybody ever said as much to their faces.’
‘The outcome of which was to shift the focus of the inquiry away from Fowler and the syndicate to the team investigating him,’ I said.
‘And of which Fowler and the others took swift and full advantage.’
‘In what way?’
‘In every way they could. They’d had a close call. I was never personally convinced that any of the dirt would stick to those at the top – they had their subcontractors and sub-subcontractors for all that little-people stuff. Fowler and the others were perfectly respectable businessmen who pretended to be horrified and angry when it was pointed out to them that men had died in accidents on building sites ultimately controlled by them.’
‘What happened to the men who were caught working illegally?’
‘Everything about them was illegal. It was what made them such easy prey for men like Fowler in the first place. I bet he could hardly believe his luck, having left London and come to Hull, to discover that the Government had chosen the city to relocate thousands of asylum-seekers away from the south-east. Only this time, Fowler could make his money legitimately by getting hand-in-glove with all those other agencies, and rent his properties to them having employed cheap labour to renovate those same properties in the first place. He couldn’t have gained more from the arrangement if he’d written the rules himself.’
‘So everything he was once doing illegally in London, he now gets to do up here with more or less everyone’s blessing?’
‘More or less. And you’d worked that much out the minute you met him. I’m assuming you have met him,’ he said.
‘Once,’ I said. ‘It was probably enough.’
‘It was,’ he said.
‘What happened to you?’ I asked him.
‘The day after the trial collapsed, my flat was searched by the Drug Squad. Acting on information received.’
‘And they found what?’
‘The few pieces of dope I had there.’
‘Just that?’
‘If they’d planted anything, I’d have put up a fight. This way there was nothing I could do except put up my hands.’
‘But you weren’t kicked off the force.’
‘The man I’d spoken to about my suspicions came back to see me. He was angry that it had all come to nothing. He was catching some of the flak for that himself. He was angry that I’d allowed myself to be compromised the way I had. There wasn’t much he could do for me, he said.’
‘And you told him that if he didn’t try, if you were kicked off the force, that you’d make all your suspicions public.’
‘Something like that. I wasn’t particularly proud of it, but the whole thing was raining back down on us all by then. Nobody knew who to trust. I don’t think I’d have survived for very much longer under those circumstances.’
‘And so you made a choice while you still had one to make.’
‘I was told that any request for transfer that I made would be granted, preferably a long way from London, and that I’d got a week to do something about it. I was given a list of vacancies. I grew up in York.’
‘And the fast-tracking?’
‘In Howden?’
‘And, meanwhile, while all that dust was settling, Fowler and the others began to dismantle and to distance themselves from being prosecuted.’
‘You’d be surprised how easy that was. Immigration and Customs were certainly in no hurry to work with the Met again. They blamed us for everything that had gone wrong. According to them, the collapse of such a major case would only encourage others to get involved in exactly the same sort of thing.’
‘Do you think Fowler stayed connected to any of it?’
‘No idea. You might say I lost touch with things. The impression I got at the time was that everybody involved, on both sides, was anxious to put it all as far behind them as possible.’
‘Because they’d made their money and escaped prosecution? Is that what you meant when you said Fowler was good at severing connections?’
‘There were a few messy ends, but I think Fowler and the others got themselves far enough away from anything that was likely to stick.’
‘And presumably the men on the force who’d escaped prosecution wouldn’t be too keen to go back after everyone again.’
‘It wouldn’t have been up to them. They’d have been kept well away from it all a second time round. But by then there was no appetite for it. Everybody had been embarrassed by the extent of the alleged involvement and corruption. It wasn’t the kind of shitpile you’d want to kick over twice in the same week.’
Beneath us, one of the anglers caught a fish, which he stood up to play, and which swam back and forth in front of him, invisible beneath the brown surface. He held his pole high, eventually raising the exhausted fish’s silver head out of the water. We both watched as he netted it.
‘You said there were some messy ends,’ I said. ‘What did you mean?’
‘Just that others further down the pecking order weren’t quite as lucky as Fowler and his friends.’
‘Were there some successful prosecutions?’
‘A few of the contractors were fined, but that’s all. I was referring to some of the others involved – men Fowler probably never even knew about.’
‘What men?’
‘The traffickers who brought the asylum-seekers into the country in the first place.’
‘No one’s ever seriously suggested that Fowler was actively involved in that side of things beyond stimulating the demand,’ I said.
‘No one ever proved that Fowler was involved in anything,’ he said.
‘Do you think he was?’
‘I don’t honestly know. But it certainly paid him and the others to have a steady supply of men coming in who weren’t all held in Government detention camps, and who they then had some hold over. At the very least he must have known about the trafficking operation. The men on the force who escaped prosecution certainly knew all about it. Immigration and Customs knew all about it. I don’t see how someone like Fowler couldn’t have known about it.’ He paused and smiled.
‘What?’
‘When I first read about Fowler being in Hull – I wasn’t even sure at first that it was the same man; not until I saw a photograph of him shaking dicks with the mayor – it occurred to me then that he was there, that he’d come to Hull specifically—’
‘Because of the asylum-seekers starting to arrive?’
‘It made as much sense as anything.’
The thought had already occurred to me, and while I hadn’t dismissed it completely, I considered it unlikely.
‘Were any of the traffickers caught?’ I asked him.
‘Most of the main players in that particular set-up were from Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Someone might have warned Fowler and the others what was about to happen, but I imagine the word only ever went so far down the line. That was how it was supposed to work; that’s how Fowler and the others protected themselves. It was always more a part of the Immigration brief to deal with the traffickers. The Met were meant to tie up the illegal-working side of things.’ He held his hands apart, cupped them and drew them together. ‘Chop things off at both ends, leave everybody in the middle.’
‘Instead of which . . .’
‘Instead of which, three or four days after the first of our failed raids, some of the traffickers actually turned up in London and were arrested.’
‘Why did they come?’
‘It was all a big mystery. They were deported and sent for trial in the countries they’d come from. There were some from Albania, some Croatians, one or two from places most people here had never heard of. The thinking at the time was that they’d come on one of their regular visits to the country. Some thought they were there to set up their own little slave markets, and some that they were there to connect with the people here who could take care of the new arrivals for them, so that the risk to themselves was reduced. Everybody could stay at home and do what they did. The only people moving and exposed would be the illegal immigrants themselves.’
‘Surely, someone could have warned the traffickers to stay away?’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps them coming and getting caught was all a part of the syndicate’s plan. At least that way Immigration got something out of it.’
‘What happened?’
‘To the traffickers? No idea. I was long gone by the time any of it happened.’
‘Meaning they’d all probably be back in business soon enough.’
‘It’s not as though the trade’s become any less profitable.’
‘And by which time, Fowler himself was also long gone.’
‘Washing his hands for three years and then holding them up to show everyone how clean they were.’
We left the bridge and walked back to the inn.
Dusk was falling, and bats flew among the crosspieces above us. We both stopped walking to watch.
‘Would Fowler ever have had any idea what happened to you, what part you might have played in it all?’ I asked him.
‘What part did I play? Fowler wouldn’t have known I even existed.’
We went into the inn and sat at a corner table. Music played. Photographs of vessels passing the bridge and of men holding fish hung above the bar.
‘What was she like?’ he asked me when I returned to him with our drinks.
‘Someone who got caught up in something she didn’t have the sense to stay away from,’ I told him.
‘Whatever she did, she didn’t deserve Fowler,’ he said.
‘What do you think would have happened if all the trials had gone ahead and succeeded?’ I asked him.
‘If Fowler and the others had been convicted and locked up, and if my esteemed colleagues had then been convicted and imprisoned on the evidence of people like me, you mean?’ He pretended to consider his answer. ‘Then by now I’d probably be watching my back and sitting in a shitty little bar somewhere in the middle of nowhere with somebody who was about as lost as I was. All being well, I’ll be a desk sergeant in five years, and after that I’ll be one for another twenty years.’
‘You could always take up fishing,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘I did.’
We left the bar an hour later, by which time the darkness was complete. Lights stretched away on all sides of us. The illuminated motorway rose high into the night. The men along the riverbank continued fishing by the light of lanterns.
21
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I went to Humber Street early, at seven. A line of lorries waited to be unloaded. The Cutter had opened its doors and some of the drivers sat out on the pavement, drinking. I spoke briefly to the men I knew. In the warehouse opposite my door, a consignment of melons was being unloaded. The owner called to me and then presented me with two. He told me to eat them with yoghurt for my breakfast. I knew for a fact that he himself ate three fried meals a day with sandwiches in between. I took the melons and thanked him.
I called Louise and asked how her mother was. I’d hoped to catch her at home and speak to Alison Brooks at the same time, but I knew from the background noise – banging, the voices of others and distant traffic – that she was outside somewhere. I had difficulty hearing her, and she me.
‘I’m on the roof,’ she shouted.
I asked her what roof.
‘The hospital. I’ve been here an hour. The air conditioning in two of the operating theatres waited for the heatwave to go on the blink. The Buildings Manager is on holiday. I’ve been up here with the engineers since six.’ She told me to wait while she put some distance between herself and the banging. It made little difference.
‘I wanted to talk to your mother,’ I told her.
‘Fine. But leave it until later. The doctor’s going to see her at ten, and a nurse is going in after that. She’s in bed, but I’m sure she’d like to see you. Anything in particular?’
‘I just wanted to bring her up to date,’ I said.
‘Has something turned up?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘It’s all to do with Fowler’s past. It might have some bearing, or it might not. I just thought it would be easier to see her than to write it all down. I’d still like to look through what you have of Helen’s possessions,’ I reminded her. We both knew she had delayed arranging this for me. Then I told her that I wanted to visit the students with whom her sister had been living at the time of her death.
