16 Cyrus

16

My radio alarm wakes me. The newsreader has a plummy authoritative voice.

Police have abandoned the search for more survivors of the weekend's tragedy in the North Sea. Eleven emergency vessels, two fixed-wing aircraft and three helicopters were involved in the operation when it was suspended last night due to worsening weather conditions.

The small inflatable boat capsized twelve miles off the coast of Cleethorpes in Lincolnshire. Seventeen migrants drowned, one survived and two are believed to be missing.

A Home Office spokesman told the BBC: ‘Crossing the Channel in a small boat is a huge risk. The criminal gangs that perpetuate this ruthless trade do not care about loss of life. We thank all the agencies at home and abroad who led the search and rescue operation.'

Getting out of bed, I splash water on my face, still listening to the report.

The victims of the tragedy, which included two children, were from Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Albania and Sudan. The sole survivor, a boy of fourteen, is still recovering in hospital and has been interviewed by police trying to piece together the vessel's last hours.

Evie's bedroom door is open. She must have taken Poppy for a walk. Uncompelled, which is surprising. A second thought bumps into the first one – what if she relapses? It has only been three days since her catatonia. I should have gone with her. I check my phone and contemplate calling her, but Evie doesn't like when I hover or micro-manage. That was one of her rules when she moved into the house. I would not act like a parent or a therapist.

Downstairs, I make coffee and keep one ear out for the side gate, wishing Evie were home. Florence joins me. She's wearing one of my shirts. ‘I borrowed this. I hope that's all right.'

‘It looks better on you,' I say. As the words leave my mouth, I wonder if I'm being too forward. I change the subject. ‘We have toast, instant porridge, eggs – can you eat eggs?'

‘What can I put on toast?' she asks.

‘Strawberry jam, honey or marmalade.'

‘Jam would be great.' She looks around. ‘Where's Evie?'

‘Walking Poppy.'

‘This is some house.'

‘It belonged to my grandparents. They gave it to me when they retired to Limington in Somerset.'

‘My grandparents gave me a herd of goats in Nyanga.'

‘Where?'

‘In Zimbabwe.'

‘Is that true?'

‘No, but it's a good story.'

She checks the toaster and keeps talking. ‘My parents were lawyers who left Zimbabwe when the farm invasions began. Mugabe was president and he ordered a purge of all judges and lawyers who were arguing that the land seizures were illegal.'

‘How old were you?'

‘Six. I go back every year to visit my grandparents.'

As she talks, Florence is exploring downstairs. I sometimes forget what sort of impression the house has on people. How it makes me seem like a man of means, yet it belongs to a childhood that I'd rather forget. Growing up, I explored every room, cupboard and crawlspace during sleepovers and games of hide-and-seek and Easter egg hunts. These should be happy memories, but they come tinged with sadness. The house is too big for me. It has too many rooms with oak panelling and thick dado rails and heavy plaster and dented crown mouldings and floors worn smooth with use. Some of the rooms still have nipple buttons that once summoned servants from ‘below stairs'. It is a house from a bygone era, patched up and refurbished but still creaking with age.

Excusing myself, I go to the library and phone Carlson's number. The detective is in his car on his way to the morning media conference.

‘They called off the search,' I say.

‘Not my decision.'

‘Where's Arben?'

‘We're transferring him to Birchin Way Custody Facility.'

‘Custody?'

‘Border Force want to interview him. After that we hand him over to social services.'

‘When?'

‘Tonight, if they can find him a place.'

‘I want to help.'

‘In what way?'

‘I can review the evidence and give you a different perspective . . . be a fresh set of eyes.'

These arguments seem to land awkwardly. I can picture Carlson asking himself if he wants an outsider involved. I'm a layman not a police officer – not part of the ‘tribe' or the culture. This can have benefits but it can also be problematic because he has no control over me.

Carlson makes a decision. ‘I'm texting you an address. Meet me there at midday.'

Florence is at the kitchen bench. She bites off a corner of toast. ‘What was that about?'

‘I'm working on the case.'

‘That's good, isn't it?'

‘I hope so.'

I scroll through my contacts lists and find a number. Derek Posniak picks up immediately. He and I were at university together and once shared a girlfriend, although we didn't know it at the time. Now he works for the National Crime Agency, but never talks about his job. I once joked he was a spy. Derek laughed, but there was nothing behind his eyes.

‘Padfoot,' he says cheerfully. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?'

He's using an old nickname, given to me because Cyrus sounds like Sirius (as in Sirius Black), who was Harry Potter's godfather and could transform into a big black dog called Padfoot.

‘I might have something for you,' I say.

‘Really? Most people want something from me.'

He's tapping on a keyboard as he speaks.

‘The small boat that capsized off Cleethorpes was deliberately rammed.'

‘On what evidence?'

‘The eyewitness testimony of the survivor.'

‘A fourteen-year-old.'

‘And text messages from someone else on board.'

Posniak pauses and I hear a pen tapping against his teeth. ‘Have you talked to the police?'

‘I'm working on the case.'

‘Why do you need me?'

‘Yesterday, I talked to an asylum seeker who left Calais on a different boat on the same night. It landed safely in Essex. He told me that the other boat didn't have permission to travel.'

‘Permission from whom?'

‘The Ferryman.'

Posniak makes a scoffing sound. ‘That old chestnut.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘The Ferryman is a ghost, a figment, a bogeyman. He's like Keyser S?ze or Lex Luther or Moriarty.'

‘You're saying he's not real.'

‘I can't tell you how many stories we hear about untouchable, faceless master criminals, who are controlling the world order and running paedophile rings out of a pizza shop. Debunk one myth and another one pops up, fed by Q-Anon believers or conspiracy websites or Russian bots.'

‘But you've heard of the Ferryman.'

‘I've also heard of the tooth fairy.'

I wait for more.

Derek sighs. ‘I've been in this job for six years, Padfoot, and I've heard people talk about the Ferryman, but nobody has ever given him a real name or a nationality. A year ago, the NCA took part in a series of joint raids across Europe, in France, Germany, Belgium, the Netherlands and here. We raided over fifty locations. Arrested forty suspects. Seized thousands of life-jackets, more than two hundred boats and fifty engines, as well as cash, firearms and drugs. We rounded up the leaders of six different criminal networks. We offered them plea-deals if they cooperated. Some of them accepted. Some kept schtum. Not one of them gave up the Ferryman.'

‘Why would asylum seekers invent him?'

‘I don't think they did. I blame the people smugglers. What better way to keep people quiet? Create a terrifying bogeyman who will murder them in their beds or target their families or deliberately sink their boats.'

‘Someone did deliberately sink this boat.'

‘Are you certain?'

‘Yes.'

Derek grunts and keeps tapping at his keyboard. I don't know if he's ignoring me or waiting for me to ask another question.

‘Who would benefit from a tragedy like this?' I ask.

‘Well, the obvious suspects are the ultra-nationalists, neo-Nazi gangs or white supremacists. Anti-immigration groups regularly target migrant camps and hostels. But it could also be the escalation of a turf war. The gangs that are trafficking migrants are becoming more ruthless – fighting for control of camps and crossings. Europol is dealing with a dozen different executions over the past eight months. Double-taps, two shots to the back of the head, close range. The victims were found with a coin in their mouths.'

‘The Greek myth,' I say.

‘Charon's Obol. A coin is placed in the mouth or near the body of the dead, as payment to Charon, the ferryman to the underworld.'

‘Could the Ferryman be Greek?' I ask.

‘Like I said – I don't think he exists.'

‘Can you do me a favour?'

‘Ah, that's what I was waiting for,' he says sarcastically.

‘If you hear anything – any whisper about the Ferryman – can you let me know?'

‘And what do I get in return?'

‘You're not supposed to take bribes.'

‘OK, I'll own your soul.'

Afterwards, I realise that I did most of the talking. Maybe he is a spy.