25 Cyrus

25

A one-way mirror reveals the interview suite. Two detectives are seated opposite the suspect with the burns on his neck. He has a name now, Angus Radford, aged thirty-eight, a divorced father of two, from St Claire in Scotland.

‘When did he lawyer up?' I ask.

‘First thing,' says Carlson.

His solicitor is dressed in a charcoal-grey suit, with trousers that ride up his shin whenever he crosses his legs. Each time he doesn't want his client answering a question, he taps on the table with his ring finger, as though sending him a signal in Morse code.

Mostly Radford has answered ‘no comment' to every question. He seems to enjoy watching the frustration on the detectives' faces, but they know this game. Patience is the key. Building pressure. Brick by brick. Fact by fact.

‘What do we know about him?' I ask.

Carlson rattles off the details. ‘No priors apart from a drink driving conviction and unpaid speeding tickets. He was arrested in 2018 during a right-wing protest in Trafalgar Square. He threw a traffic cone at police during the riot, which was triggered by the jailing of Tommy Robinson, the former English Defence League leader.'

I remember the protest. Demonstrators took over a tourist bus and threw smoke bombs at police after Tommy Robinson was jailed for contempt of court. The English Defence League believed that Britain was under attack from Muslim extremists and that paedophiles were being allowed out of prison without supervision.

‘What about the other guy?'

‘Kenna Downing. Twenty-six. Says he's still living at home with his parents in Truro, Cornwall. He was interviewed over the fire-bombing of a migrant hostel in Bristol eight years ago. Wasn't charged.'

Carlson waits for me to say something. My silence seems to irritate him.

‘I don't want to automatically make this about race,' he says.

‘Other people will.'

I understand his dilemma. Whichever way he jumps, certain groups will accuse him of being part of an institutionally racist police force that fails to investigate racially motivated attacks, or that he's bowing to woke pressure and scapegoating right-wing activists.

‘Is Downing talking?' I ask.

‘Up to a point,' says Carlson. ‘He says they were taking the trawler from Southampton to Scotland after an engine refit. He claims to know nothing about a collision or seeing any migrant boat or picking up any survivors. We have a warrant to track their phones and retrieved one from the mud near the trawler. The boffins have it now.'

‘What about forensics?'

‘Fingerprints and DNA. We're going to compare the sample with Arben Pasha's DNA and see if his sister was on board.'

‘What do you know about the trawler?' I ask.

‘It operates out of St Claire in Scotland. The owner is a company registered in the Cayman Islands, with a post office box as an address.'

‘I thought companies were obliged to nominate their beneficial owners?'

‘Within twenty-one days, but this paperwork was never lodged.'

‘Someone could be trying to hide.'

‘Or it could be an oversight. The NCA are looking into it.' I glance through the window at Angus Radford, who leans back in his chair, knees spread, fingers idly scratching at his neck.

‘What happened to his face?' I ask.

‘A fire. He won't say any more.'

‘Can I talk to him?'

‘I don't need a psych report.'

‘Evie thinks she knows him.'

‘From where?'

‘She can't remember.' I pause, unsure how much I should reveal. ‘She was trafficked as a child.'

‘And you think Radford was involved?'

‘I have no idea, but there is definitely some link between them. And we still have two missing migrant women.'

The detective mulls this over. ‘His solicitor would have to give you permission.'

‘It wouldn't be an official interview. No cameras. No tapes. Anything Radford told me wouldn't be admissible as evidence.'

On the far side of the glass, the detectives have turned off the recording equipment and left the room. Radford has a final word with his solicitor. The two men laugh and shake hands like they're arranging a card game for Saturday night.

Twenty minutes later, I surrender my belt, mobile phone and wallet to the charge-room sergeant. I follow a constable along an echoing corridor, painted in calming colours. He knocks against a metal door, calling out, ‘Against the wall.'

‘What now?' mutters Radford.

The door opens. He is standing with his legs apart and hands braced against the painted bricks. He's done this before.

‘Who are you?' he asks. ‘You're not allowed to talk to me – not without mah advocate.'

‘I'm not a police officer. I'm a psychologist.'

‘Ah dinnae need a shrink.'

‘I'm not interested in what happened last weekend.'

Radford sneers and returns to his bunk, where he lies on his back with a forearm covering his eyes. The skin on his neck is discoloured and puckered and the dark stubble on his cheeks doesn't grow where his skin has been burned and lost pigmentation.

‘How did it happen?' I ask, motioning to his face.

‘A fire.'

‘How old were you?'

‘Auld enough to know better.'

‘You're a fisherman.'

‘Fourth generation. My father. His father. His father before him.'

‘Tough work.'

He raises his calloused hands, sitting up to face me. Greasy curls have left a dusting of dandruff on his shoulders and his eyes are a washed-out blue, set too far apart on his face.

‘Have you always been a fisherman?' I ask.

‘Since I was fifteen.'

‘No other jobs.'

‘Why?'

‘No reason.'

He screws up his face. ‘You were with that wee girl.'

‘Did you recognise her?'

‘What is this?' he asks, growing annoyed. ‘Did she say I touched her? She's lying.'

‘Nobody said you touched her. What happened to the two young women? They were in the water. You picked them up.'

‘No comment.'

‘If you helped us find them, it could make things easier for you.'

He laughs. ‘Are you offering me a deal?'

‘I'm not in a position to do that.'

‘Thought so. Piss off!'

I notice a book lying open on the bed. The title visible. Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith. ‘Heavy reading.'

Radford sneers. ‘You think I'm some dumb Jock who reeks of fish.'

‘Not at all. I had you pegged as a socialist. Adam Smith is the poster boy of the free market.'

‘Ah'm a pragmatist.'

‘But are you a racist?'

His eyes narrow. ‘You have no idea what I believe.'

‘That's true. Can I call you Angus?'

‘Do what yer like.'

‘Adam Smith drew a contrast between savage nations and civilised nations. He said that some countries were so miserably poor that they abandoned babies and old people and sick people. He said civilised nations were industrious and frugal and deserved their wealth, while savage nations would never enjoy the conveniences of life.'

‘People aren't born equal,' says Radford. ‘We should look after our own.'

‘Is that why you sank the migrant boat?'

He glances at the camera above our heads. ‘Nice try. You can leave now.'

‘I'm trying to work out if you hate migrants or you hate yourself or if you were just going about your business,' I say. ‘Whatever the reason, it's a low act, running down defenceless people who were seeking refuge. Some would say cowardly.'

Anger lights up his face. He leaps to his feet with clenched fists. I'm ready for the punch, but he stops himself and flexes his hand, open and closed, before returning to the bunk and opening his book at a dog-eared page.

I bang on the door, summoning the guard. The lock echoes as it disengages.

Radford clears his throat.

‘Tell yer friend I'm sorry. I was rude to her. She dinnae deserve that.'