‘Who’d have thought it?’ Ramsden said. ‘The centre for tourism and hospitality, here in downtown Leyton.’
The woman behind the desk — middle-aged, spectacles, brown hair dislodged on one side from the combs intended to secure it in place — scarcely glanced up from what she was doing. ‘If you want to enquire about courses, enroll a student, prospectuses are all online. Keeps the print costs down. Application’s the same.’
No immediate reply, she half-turned in her chair. There was another door behind her:
‘Is it the gas? It’s not the gas? Gas and electric? Public utility bills, all paid, direct debit, straight from the bank. If payments are delayed, I’m afraid that’s not of our doing.’
Karen took out her ID and placed it on the desk.
The woman shook her head and another strand of hair slipped astray. ‘I’ve told them till I’m blue in the face, we’ve all told them, don’t block the pavement outside, it constitutes a public nuisance. But do they listen?’ A small grunt. ‘Do they understand?’
‘Petru Andronic,’ Karen said. ‘He was a student here.’
The woman removed her glasses and looked them up and down. Ramsden in well-worn leather jacket, stomach resting easily on the belt of his jeans. Karen, thanks to her boot heels, taller by a couple of inches; black trousers that accentuated the length of her legs, black woollen belted coat, sweater, scarf loose about her neck.
‘Was he?’ the woman said.
‘Apparently. He applied, at least. Summer of last year.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah?’
‘Many apply. Few are chosen.’ Pleased with that, she allowed herself a little smirk.
‘Keep records?’ Ramsden asked.
‘Of course.’
‘Matter of minutes, then, if that. To check.’
The door to the inner office opened and a man stepped through, late forties, balding, a suit that had been to the cleaner’s too many times.
‘Mrs Dawes?’
‘The police, Mr Sillet, just a routine inquiry.’
‘Very well.’ He paused, a moment, no more; a quick glance towards Karen and Ramsden, an inclination of the head and he was gone.
‘Busy man,’ Ramsden observed.
Mrs Dawes’ fingers clicked briskly on the computer keyboard. ‘Yes, here we are. Andronic, Petru. Date of birth, November 27th, 1994. Passport number. Date of entry. Place of residence in this country. He applied to take three courses: ESOL, Administration and Office Skills, Computing and ICT.’
‘ESOL?’
‘English for Speakers of Other Languages.’
‘Of course.’
‘According to this, he was offered a place in September, September last, but never seems to have enrolled.’
‘Is that unusual?’ Karen asked.
‘Oh, no.’
‘And in that event what happens?’
‘We send a letter to the address we’ve been given. After that, a follow-up, if necessary, warning the student that unless the place is taken up by a certain time it will be forfeited and offered to somebody else.’
‘And that would have happened in this case?’
‘I assume so.’
‘After that? If you hear nothing after that?’
‘We’re obliged to inform the UK Border Agency of his failure to attend.’
‘Which you would have done?’
‘We take our responsibilities seriously.’
‘Give or take the odd gas bill,’ said Ramsden quietly, an aside.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Nothing.’
September, October, November — by the time the Border Agency had been informed, Karen thought, Petru Andronic didn’t have so very long to live.
‘His details,’ she said. ‘UK address and so on, you can print us out a copy?’
No sooner said, almost, than done. The address was in Green Lanes, off St Ann’s Road. She knew the Salisbury pub.
3
The main street was awash with Kurdish and Turkish bakeries and cafes; mini-markets whose stalls, laden high with fruit and vegetables, stretched down across the pavement towards the kerb. Windows advertised cheap calls to Africa and the Middle East, secure ways of sending money home.
‘My old man brought me here once,’ Ramsden said. ‘Up the road from here. Dog track. Harringay. Couple of years before it closed down. I was still at school. Tucked a fiver into my top pocket. See how long it takes you to lose that.’ He grinned, remembering. ‘Couple of races. Three, maybe. Neither of us had a winner the whole night.’
‘Miss him?’ Karen asked. ‘Your dad?’ He’d died, she knew, the year before, cancer.
Ramsden shook his head. ‘Don’t give it much of a thought.’
He looked away.
‘He saw all this now, poor bastard’d be turnin’ in his grave.’
The street they were looking for ran off to the left, two rows of small terraced houses, flat-fronted, some showing signs of recent renovation, others dwindling towards decay. The address they’d been given was stranded midway between two extremes, work started and abandoned; a new window in the front downstairs, fresh paint, new curtains; the first-floor window had been removed and not replaced, a sheet of tarpaulin flapping in the wind and failing to keep out the snow that had begun, once more, to fall. Tiles had slipped from the roof and lay like crazy paving across the bare patch of garden. A coat of primer on the front door.
Ramsden rang the bell and, when nothing seemed to be happening, knocked loudly twice.
The woman who came to the door was wearing a black burkha, impossible to guess her age; a child of no more than a few months asleep in a sling across her chest. Seeing Ramsden she took a step back inside; stood impassive in the face of Karen’s questions, then called back into the house. The boy who sidled towards them was twelve or thirteen, dark-eyed, hair grown long.
‘You speak English?’ Ramsden asked.
‘Course. So does my mum. She don’t like to speak to no strangers, yeah? My dad, he goes crazy.’
His mother had retreated into the hall, a hand cupped round the baby’s head.
‘You from the council?’ the boy asked. ‘No. Police. Police, i’n it?’
Karen nodded. ‘We’re looking for someone who might know a Petru Andronic.’
‘Who?’
‘Petru Andronic. We were told he lived here.’
The boy was shaking his head, shifting his weight from foot to foot. ‘Just me an’ my brothers, my sisters, mum an’ dad, that’s all.’
‘And where are you from?’ Ramsden asked.
‘Tottenham. South Tottenham.’
