The case was getting under his skin though. A violent altercation outside a nightclub that left a young man in a coma; they knew who was responsible within hours – George Batty, 24, Peterborough born and bred, nothing more serious than a couple of speeding fines on his records. Batty fled the country immediately, caught a lorry to Dover and then on to Calais. Knowing who your man was but not being able to grab him and bring him to justice was the greatest frustration of being a copper, and Adams wasn’t taking it well. He seemed particularly annoyed because Batty was hardly a seasoned criminal who he’d expect to give him the runaround. Just some gobshite who’d run and made it further than he should have.
Ferreira finished the report and emailed it to the rest of the team.
She went back to Asylum Assist’s Facebook page and scanned down the posts, reading links to news items and blogs on other groups’ sites, calls for donations to legal defence funds and signatures for petitions, an occasional interview with a sympathetic politician or a live chat with a high-profile celebrity campaigner. They were a more significant force than the group outside the gate appeared, but there was nothing to suggest direct or violent action here.
Of course it wouldn’t be visible, she thought.
These people spoke openly because they were hopeful their tactics could provoke change.
The private groups were where the radicals lurked.
Ferreira look up as DC Keri Bloom approached her desk, wearing a broad smile, which revealed the workings of her near invisible braces.
‘Ma’am, I’ve got something I think you’ll want to see.’
Ferreira pulled her earbuds out and followed Bloom to her desk, noticing a new photo of her pet ferret tucked up close to the monitor. It was wearing a tiny black beret and didn’t look particularly happy about it. Obviously red was better suited to its colouring, Ferreira was shocked to find herself thinking.
‘This is the listing for the holiday cottage next door to Joshua Ainsworth,’ Bloom said, turning the screen towards Ferreira.
The images showed the cottage in its full picturesque glory, all cream-painted furniture and sheepskin rugs on the stripped pine flooring. The owners had written a breathlessly positive description of Long Fleet’s manifold charms, describing a rural idyll perfect for nature lovers and fans of Norman churches, a description so tempting she had to check that it was the same place that she’d spent the better part of the morning in. No mention of the sprawling Immigration Removal Centre.
‘And this –’ Bloom scrolled down, ‘is the review from the couple who stayed there at the weekend.’
‘We couldn’t in all good conscience recommend this beautiful cottage to others due to the shocking noise levels from the neighbours. We understand that this is beyond the control of the owners but our otherwise tranquil weekend was irretrievable, marred by the inconsiderate behaviour on Saturday night. It sounded like there was a war going on. One just doesn’t expect that from a country cottage getaway.’
Ferreira straightened away from the desk.
‘Good work, Keri.’
‘Should I get in touch with the letting agency and try and get the guests’ contact details? Or I could email them direct through the site,’ she suggested. ‘They have an enquiries form here. I think they’ll pick that message up pretty quick, don’t you?’
‘Do both,’ Ferreira told her, already heading for Zigic’s office. ‘Push the site, though. We need to speak to those guests asap.’
The phone was already in her hand. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Zigic was slamming his own receiver down as she went in.
‘Long Fleet?’
‘They won’t see us until tomorrow,’ he said irritably. ‘One of their medical staff gets murdered and they’re already putting roadblocks up.’
She told him about the guests at the holiday cottage and his expression became slightly less furious, even if it didn’t soften completely.
‘Are we sure they’re talking about the murder and not Josh’s lady visitor?’
Ferreira grinned at him. ‘Either way, we’ve got potential witnesses and a potential time of death until the PM can confirm. Makes things easier, doesn’t it? Narrows us down to Saturday night for questioning.’
‘Very tentatively,’ he said. ‘Best we stick to what we actually know for now.’
Ferreira shrugged.
‘Thanks for putting the stuff on Long Fleet together by the way.’ He gestured at his computer. ‘What do you think about the group? Asylum Assist?’
‘I doubt they’re behind the harassment,’ Ferreira told him. ‘But they probably have an idea who is.’
‘The Paggetts?’ he asked. They had been identified as the couple who had deserted the gates of Long Fleet this morning at the first sign of a police presence.
‘You’ve looked at their records, right?’
‘Do we really think people like this escalate to murder, though?’ he asked, his face twisting at the thought of where this could lead, the trouble they were pushing up against. ‘There’s no lunatic fringe in these movements, is there?’
‘All movements attract extremists. They don’t necessarily believe in the cause, they just see an opportunity to cause havoc and they take it.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Idyllic,’ Ferreira said, as they got out of the car, shouting to make herself heard over the incessant roar of the traffic on the A1 ten metres away from them. The house itself was even closer to the road, a ceaseless stream of lorries and cars thundering past the sash windows, so close that you could probably reach out and touch them.
The old farmhouse would have been idyllic once, Zigic thought, as they went to the back door, before the motorway was built. Tolerable even then maybe, when few people had cars and freight was moved largely by train. But now with the road widened
