By the time she’d dozed and dithered and worried, she was ready to tell Billy about it. But she woke to find his side of the bed empty and now, seeing how agitated he was, pacing around his desk while he talked to Murray, she began to weigh up again the cost of telling him. What he could achieve against how much trouble he could get himself in.
They emerged from the office, Murray taking her seat at the desk opposite Ferreira’s, Adams staying at the back of the room, leaning against the wall with his arms folded and his face set hard, no more than an observer in Zigic’s case.
When she and Zigic had moved back to CID, Ferreira was worried Adams would pull rank over Zigic just to wind him up, not considering how it might make her position between them uncomfortable. They’d had a fractious relationship before the establishment of the Hate Crimes unit separated them – like two troublesome schoolboys sent to opposite corners of the classroom by the teacher. But so far Adams was using his chief inspector powers lightly and Ferreira was quietly grateful for it. Would have hated having to pick sides.
‘Okay, everyone, let’s get started.’ Zigic was standing at the board, visibly pulled together now and ready to go. He tapped the photograph with his knuckle. ‘Joshua Ainsworth, thirty-four years old. Single, lived alone in Long Fleet. Doctor at the immigration removal centre in his village. Murdered sometime on Saturday evening after an altercation in his home. Today we’re going to fill in the blanks in this man’s life.’
Quickly he précised the progress they’d made yesterday and outlined the new avenues of enquiry it had opened up – making sure everyone understood how important it was to pursue these lines while they were hot. He divvied up the day’s tasks, took the few questions that followed, got his nods and ‘yes, sir’s, then clapped his hands together.
‘Crack on then.’ He gestured at Ferreira. ‘Mel, let’s go.’
Downstairs she lit up and dawdled the short distance to his car, taking deep draws because she couldn’t smoke once she was inside. Wahlia arrived as she was scrubbing out the butt, late and dropped off in a strange vehicle.
‘That’ll be the fiancée, then,’ she said, catching a flash of platinum hair and big sunglasses before the SUV pulled away.
She got into the car and waited as Zigic shared a quick conversation, personal-looking rather than professional with Bobby, ending with a slap on the shoulder. Wahlia put a hand up to her before he went inside and she waved back, thinking how distant he felt to her now.
That was what bugged her about Bloom and Weller, she realised uncomfortably. They were just like she and Bobby used to be. And she couldn’t pinpoint any one moment when they stopped being like that. Could blame it on the move from Hate Crimes, when they were no longer sharing a desk and shit-talking each other all day. Or on things getting serious between her and Adams, keeping her home in the evenings like an old married woman. But if she was honest with herself it started before that. Fewer nights out together, tickets for gigs bought and not used, jokes misfiring. She couldn’t even blame his new woman because their friendship had survived numerous partners in the past and there was no reason this one should be any different.
Except that he was getting ready to marry her, Ferreira reminded herself.
Maybe it was just a natural ending. It didn’t feel natural though.
She dragged her attention back to the moment, seeing that they were almost at the village.
In the distance Long Fleet Immigration Removal Centre sprawled squatly against the horizon. Sections were shielded by dense screen planting, which only drew more attention to the spread of the place, and let anyone driving by know that it was somewhere that should be hidden. As the road looped around she saw the red-brick and grey-clad buildings clustered at its centre, the site’s former incarnation as an RAF base clear from the utilitarian architecture. A few niceties had been added: brightly planted flower beds and a vegetable patch ostentatiously located within easy view of the road.
The perimeter was cordoned off by dark green security fencing, solid up to three metres high and then more mesh, topped with spikes. The panels had been sprayed with the names of women, presumably inmates, and entreaties to free them underneath with the dates of their deaths sprayed in different-coloured paint.
‘I watched that documentary you sent over,’ Zigic said. ‘Didn’t make for a good night’s sleep.’
She’d found it late yesterday evening, after Billy collapsed exhausted on the sofa and she found she couldn’t sleep. Restless and over-caffeinated she went back to her laptop and starting looking more thoroughly into Asylum Assist, searching for some clue left behind by Ruby Garrick or the Paggetts.
The documentary was barely fifteen minutes long, more of a short film, shot inside Long Fleet with a hidden camera, with the images often juddery and erratic. It had been put together by Asylum Assist, voiced over by Ruby Garrick, and it struck Ferreira as odd that she hadn’t mentioned it during the interview.
Whoever was wearing the camera had access everywhere, from the women’s small grey cells where there was scant trace of personal items or softening touches, to the kitchen where they worked, cooking for each other, and the facilities they cleaned for a pound a day. The hallways all looked the same, white walls and the ceilings too low and the lights blue-tinged, the doors not quite prison-like but unmistakably penal, especially when it came to who had control over them. The camera’s bearer had stood behind guards opening those doors onto women sleeping or dressing, who scrambled to cover themselves but never quickly enough. They had sat in the staff rec area and captured the dehumanising language they used about the women, the racist nicknames they gave them and the impressions they tossed
