It was a substantial building though, with a large concrete yard bordered by outbuildings in various states of disrepair. Maybe that would be enough to compensate for the deficits of the location.
‘Over there,’ Ferreira said, gesturing towards the least dilapidated barn, which had its wooden roller door pushed back, revealing a workshop inside that was somehow gloomy enough, despite the sun, that they needed the network of strip lights hung slackly from the rafters. ‘That’s Paggett. He was the one in the shop this morning.’
Damien Paggett was hunched over a long workbench, his face hidden behind a protective face mask as he carefully spray-painted what looked like a door from a kitchen cabinet. Four more of them were lined up on the bench ahead of him, primed and waiting for the same midnight-blue topcoat. Music was playing at full blast, a band Zigic didn’t recognise, thrashy and raw.
Across the barn at another workstation was his wife, Michaela, stood with her back turned to them as she searched through plastic tubs on a set of shelves.
Was this what had made them bolt from the Long Fleet demonstration this morning? An urgent job that needed finishing? It hardly made sense to show their faces for an hour and then leave.
Their police records were a much more feasible motivation.
Public order offences, trespass, vandalism, harassment and libel.
Both of them barely thirty-five and already with a long history of active involvement in the anti-capitalist movement, mostly focused on environmental issues, but recently they’d shifted towards anti-fascist groups and found themselves under the watchful eye of the anti-terror police.
‘Not major players,’ the specialist that DS Zigic had consulted said. ‘But we’re aware of them.’
Michaela Paggett turned away from the shelves and nodded as if she’d been expecting their visit.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, punching her hands into the pocket of her dungarees, looking like a surly teenager, an impression only enhanced by her heavy eye make-up and the stubby plaits in her black, teal-streaked hair.
Damien stopped working, straightened from the bench. Well over six foot and clearly uncomfortable about it from the set stoop of his narrow shoulders, he cut an awkward figure, but his was a job with a lot of heavy lifting involved and Zigic thought he would have been easily capable of overpowering Josh Ainsworth.
‘We’re not taking any new orders right now,’ he said, shoving his face mask up onto the top of his head, revealing a slim face with a pierced nose. ‘I can give you a few recommendations if you let me know what you’re after.’
‘You can tell us why you did a runner from Long Fleet this morning,’ Zigic said, in no mood to indulge him.
‘We didn’t “do a runner”,’ Michaela told him. ‘We had work to be getting on with, so we put in a couple of hours, showed our faces and came home. We can’t be there all day, every day, we have to earn a living.’
‘It’s important we help them to keep the numbers up,’ Damien said affably. ‘The minute they drop it starts to look like we’ve deserted those women in there.’
‘Nothing to do with all the police in the village then?’ Ferreira asked.
‘We’ve got nothing to hide,’ Michaela said fiercely. ‘We’re talking to you now, aren’t we?’
‘You know about the murder then?’
‘Someone called us, yeah. One of the doctors from the prison.’ A hint of pleasure flicked the edges of Michaela’s mouth up. ‘Shame, that.’
‘Josh Ainsworth was trying to do right by those women you claim to care about,’ Ferreira said. ‘He was actively helping them, rather than standing around on the road with signs achieving nothing.’
‘We are achieving something,’ Michaela shot back at her. ‘We’re raising awareness of what’s going on in Long Fleet.’
‘Will awareness change the law?’
‘Are you suggesting a more direct approach might be better?’ she asked. ‘Because that sounds an awful lot like incitement.’
‘From the look of your record you wouldn’t need much inciting,’ Ferreira said, and Zigic could see that she was already getting to Michaela Paggett. ‘I’m surprised someone with your experience is satisfied with making placards and flyers.’
‘We don’t make flyers,’ Damien said. ‘It isn’t the nineties.’
‘So what do you do?’
‘We stand around with our signs,’ Michaela answered, her tone saccharine. ‘Just like you said.’
‘What’s this got to do with some doctor getting murdered, anyway?’ Damien asked, taking a rag from his pocket and wiping the sweat off his face.
‘Dr Ainsworth was the victim of a targeted harassment campaign,’ Zigic said, watching them both for a reaction.
‘Nothing to do with us.’ Michaela leaned nonchalantly against the workbench. ‘You’ll want to talk to Asylum Assist if you think he was murdered with a leaflet.’
‘Ruby Garrick,’ Damien added. ‘She’s the one who puts the leaflets together.’
‘And she was very close to Dr Ainsworth,’ Michaela said in a teasing tone, her face lit so bright with insinuation that Zigic didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of asking what she meant. He didn’t need to, though. ‘We saw her coming out of his house a few weeks ago. She looked like she’d had a very pleasurable evening.’
‘And how do you know where Dr Ainsworth lives?’ Ferreira asked icily.
Michaela blinked, pushed herself away from the workbench while she scrambled for an answer. ‘Well … he was seeing her out to her car, I figure that means that it was his house.’
‘Just hanging around outside, were you?’
‘We’d been to the pub for something to eat,’ Damien said smoothly, looking to Zigic. ‘They do a really good midweek barbeque in the summer. All you can eat for fifteen pounds a head.’
The idea of two environmental protestors driving half an hour to go to an all-you-can-eat barbeque struck Zigic as implausible verging on ridiculous.
‘The pub isn’t anywhere near Dr Ainsworth’s house,’
