‘Mel, come on,’ he said, incredulous. ‘There are theories and then there’s just mad speculation.’
‘It’s not mad speculation to suggest he might have held Long Fleet responsible for drawing down this harassment on him, is it?’
Zigic murmured without agreeing.
‘He was off work, wasn’t he?’ she said. ‘And we don’t know why.’
Ferreira came over to the desk and carefully removed a leaflet that looked different to all the others, more ersatz in style, deliberately punky, and when she opened it he saw that this one wasn’t decrying the general regime at Long Fleet, it was directly accusing the medical staff of collusion, addressing Ainsworth by name.
‘“You took a Hippocratic oath, Dr Ainsworth. And now you’re cleaning up after the rapists and murderers of an immoral immigration system that criminalises victims.”’
‘You think this might be the kind of thing that you’d need a holiday from?’ Ferreira asked.
Zigic sifted through the box, found another one in the same distinctive style. A flyer this time.
‘“How many abortions have you performed in there, Dr Ainsworth? How many suicides have you covered up? The blood of innocent women is on your hands.”’
He let out a slow and careful breath, seeing his fears about the impact of this case beginning to solidify.
‘It might not be relevant,’ he said hopefully.
‘Or it might be why he wound up with his head smashed to bits on his living room floor.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Are they here?’ Zigic asked as he pulled onto the verge behind a line of cars belonging to the people protesting outside Long Fleet’s gates. ‘The couple from the shop, do you see them?’
‘No,’ Ferreira said.
He took out his phone, glanced at the list DC Parr had made of the protestors’ vehicles. ‘That tallies, we’ve got a car missing since Parr was here.’
‘Must have noticed him and got spooked.’
‘None of them have got records,’ Zigic told her.
‘They should be happy to help us, then,’ she said drily.
He wasn’t so sure.
From the car they looked like a collection of respectable middle-aged ladies, churchgoers and garden centre aficionados, dressed in leggings and linen shirts, with sun hats and glasses to protect them from the midday heat and dust from the road, as they kept up their vigil for the women on the other side of the gates. But as he climbed out of the car and felt their attention turn towards Ferreira and him, he started to get that familiar prickling sensation that comes before trouble.
They would know their rights, he guessed. Wouldn’t be scared into complying, wouldn’t allow themselves to be rounded up without justification or tricked into acting in a rash and illegal manner that would justify taking them into the station.
He needed them to want to help, but watching their mouths set into hard lines and their fingers closing tighter around the handles of their placards, he doubted their willingness to aid the police. Even for something as serious as murder.
All they could see were coppers. No better than the ones who’d raided homes and businesses and sent the women inside them through that gateway with no warning or argument brooked.
‘We’ve got permission from the landowner to be here,’ a voice said as they approached.
‘We’re not here to move you on,’ Ferreira told them.
A stout woman at the front of the group drew herself up taller. ‘I’d like to see you try, young lady.’
Zigic saw Ferreira’s shoulders stiffen automatically then relax again. Knew she’d had to make a conscious effort to do that, show them an open face and a neutral attitude, when she would be desperate to snap back. She was getting better at hiding her temper, he thought. But it was still there and he hoped she could keep it under wraps for a few more minutes.
Ferreira reached into her bag and brought out her ID.
‘I’m DS Ferreira, this is DI Zigic, we’re investigating a murder in the village.’
‘Zigic,’ the stout woman said, coming towards him. ‘That’s a Serbian name, isn’t it?’
It wasn’t the part of the sentence he expected anyone to fasten on. Usually murder blew away any other concerns, but he didn’t feel he could ignore her question when they needed help.
‘It is.’
‘So your family were asylum seekers?’
‘My grandparents were, yes,’ he admitted, feeling her eyes burning through her tinted glasses. ‘A long time ago.’
‘And how would you feel if your grandmother was locked up in that gulag?’
‘We’re investigating the murder of Dr Joshua Ainsworth,’ Ferreira said firmly, trying to draw the rest of the crowd away from the developing scene.
The woman took another step towards him. ‘Your grandmother fled oppression in her homeland so you could be born into stability and safety. Why shouldn’t other women have that right?’
‘My grandparents were very lucky to be given asylum,’ he conceded, thinking of the bombed-out remains of their village, the livestock stolen and slaughtered, their brothers and cousins executed in the mountainous forests they’d played in as boys. He forced the thoughts away, said, ‘We could debate this issue in detail, but right now I need to find who murdered Dr Ainsworth.’
‘Well, you won’t find them here,’ the woman said fiercely. ‘This is a peaceful protest.’
‘Have any of you spoken to Dr Ainsworth?’ Ferreira asked, inclining her body away from the woman, directing her words to the more receptive faces.
There were murmurs but no direct responses.
‘Whatever the rights and wrongs of the regime here, Dr Ainsworth wasn’t a guard, he wasn’t an oppressor,’ she said. ‘He wanted the same thing you do, to try and keep those women in there as safe and well as possible. He wasn’t your enemy.’
Still no reply, but Zigic noticed the collective shape of the group changing, heads going down, shoulders rounding, as the defiance bled out of them in the face of this death.
‘Dr Ainsworth has been brutally murdered,’ he said. ‘Nobody deserves to die how he died. Let alone someone who dedicated their life to helping others.’
‘That is very sad,’ the woman said, managing
