27 Cyrus

27

In 1954, a psychologist called Julian B. Rotter came up with a concept he described as the ‘locus of control'. He based it upon how much each of us believes we control events in our lives. Someone with a strong internal locus believes they are pretty much masters of their own destiny and that their actions determine outcomes. But a person with a strong external locus of control will look at their success and failure, happiness and sadness, and attribute much of this to luck, or chance, or a higher power.

I used to think that I fell somewhere in between these two poles, perhaps leaning towards the latter, because every time I felt like I was in control of my destiny, I had the shit kicked out of me. Losing my parents and twin sisters. Elias's schizophrenia. Evie's abusive past. Even the bodies washing up on Cleethorpes Beach were beyond my control.

Now Evie has a brain tumour. I keep saying that I'll support whatever decision she makes, and that's true, but I want to make it for her. I know that's wrong. I have argued with her, but only in my head. I've presented evidence, cross-examined witnesses and made final submissions, but the jury of one keeps voting for Evie, which isn't surprising, given that she's the sole judge and juror. Her verdict is always the same: ‘Stay out of my life.'

When I can't sleep and I'm too tired to run, I go to work. I have rooms at Nottingham University, where I lecture part time and oversee several PhD students, who think they're cleverer than I am. They may be right.

Forensic psychology has become a sexy subject these days because of TV shows about FBI profilers who hunt serial killers and high-functioning psychopaths. The reality of my job is far more mundane. I assess offenders, prepare psych reports, analyse crime statistics and counsel the survivors of violent crimes.

My rooms are on the first floor overlooking a boating lake, which is dotted with brightly coloured pedalos. By ‘rooms' I mean a reception area with a sofa and an office with a desk, filing cabinet, shelves and a coffee machine that doesn't work. Autumn term doesn't begin for another three weeks, but I have future lectures to prepare and submissions to read.

Florence is sitting on the windowsill. I promised her access to Arben Pasha, something I haven't managed to arrange despite my links to the investigation. She has been patient until now, having gone back to London and returned to Nottingham at my request.

‘So, why have you brought me here?' she asks.

‘I've been thinking about the missing women. Neither has contacted the police or the Home Office or applied for asylum.'

‘If they survived, they're likely to be sold off,' says Florence. ‘They won't surface unless they manage to escape and seek help.'

‘From the police?'

‘Or a charity or migrant group.'

Florence reaches into her shoulder bag and pulls out her notebook with Monet's water lilies on the cover. Unhooking the elastic fastening, she retrieves a newspaper clipping, folded between the pages.

‘This was published three days ago.'

The headline reads:

UK Minister admits 200 asylum-seeker children have gone missing.

Florence paraphrases the article. ‘The children had been placed in hotels and hostels run by the Home Office. Some were abducted off the street and bundled into cars. Others were wooed away by bribes or promises of work, or by lover boys who play Romeo and convince them to run away. The girls are often forced into prostitution. The boys work illegally in carwashes and sweatshop factories or become pickpockets or burglars. Simon Buchan has been lobbying the Home Office to set up a special task force to tackle the problem.' She glances at me. ‘You met him, didn't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘What did you think?'

‘He's very impressive. Thoughtful.'

‘He's putting his wealth to good use.'

I look at the article again. ‘If Arben's sister manages to escape, where would she go?'

‘I know someone who works with the survivors of sexual slavery. We could ask her.'

The address is in an older part of Nottingham, a once grand old house converted into offices, most leased to law firms and accountants. A disembodied voice answers the intercom. We give our names and hold up ID to the camera. The door unlocks automatically, and we enter a brightly lit foyer with a high ceiling. A woman is sitting behind a desk with a Perspex screen.

‘Mrs Hartley will be with you soon,' she says, nodding towards a small waiting room that had once been a cloakroom. There are brochures on a table and posters on the wall. One of them shows a haunted-looking young woman in a short skirt and high heels, standing on a street corner. Modern slavery is closer than you think, reads the headline. A second poster features the image of a man huddled in a blanket on a camp stretcher. Two other men are sleeping nearby. It is captioned, They promised me a good job. They lied. Now I'm trapped.

A woman reverses into the room, saying goodbye to someone. She's dressed in faded jeans and a short T-shirt that slides up when she hugs Florence, revealing the bulge of her pregnancy.

‘Florence, darling, my token black friend,' she says, grinning broadly.

‘I can't get my arms around you,' says Florence.

‘Rub it in, why don't you? I feel like a brood mare.' She notices me and releases Florence, before shamelessly looking me up and down. ‘And who do we have here?'

‘This is Cyrus Haven,' says Florence.

‘You're very good-looking. Are you gay?'

‘No.'

She winks at Florence and offers me a fist bump. ‘Call me Natalie.'

We adjourn to her cluttered office, where files are moved to find enough chairs.

‘Sorry about the mess. I've had meetings all morning,' says Natalie.

‘With clients?' asks Florence.

‘No. Donors. Most of this job is fund-raising. If it weren't for Simon Buchan, that darling man, we'd have closed down years ago. Give him a hug from me.'

‘We're not really on hugging terms,' says Florence.

‘Do it anyway.'

Natalie has a notepad beside her elbow that is almost identical to the one that Florence carries but has a different cover design: Van Gogh's Starry Night.

‘Snap,' says Florence, holding up her notebook.

‘Simon again,' says Natalie. ‘Our office furniture, stationery, computers, printers, even our loo paper – all down to him. I thank him every time I have a wee, which is far too often these days.' She cradles her pregnancy.

The two women swap small talk about due dates and motherhood and someone called Benjamin, whom Natalie refers to as ‘my sperm donor husband'.

‘He's treating me like the Virgin Mary about to give birth to the baby Jesus or a future England football captain.'

‘Which would he prefer?' asks Florence.

‘Oh, the latter, of course. What man wouldn't?' Natalie winks at me. ‘So why are you here?'

‘We believe two young migrant women crossing from Calais to England in a small boat were picked up by a fishing trawler. Now they're missing,' I say.

‘How young?'

‘Late teens. Early twenties.'

‘Nationalities?'

‘Albanian and Syrian.'

‘Photographs?'

‘No.'

‘We don't actively investigate missing person cases,' says Natalie. ‘We wait for the survivors to find us and then try to pick up the pieces.'

‘Where might they have been taken?' I ask.

‘That depends on what the gangs are looking for. Forced labour, domestic servitude, marriage, prostitution, petty crime. Every time you get your car washed for a fiver, or a pedicure for a tenner, you should be asking, why is it so cheap? And why is it cash only? And why do none of the workers seem to speak English? It's not rocket science. People must realise that these migrants are being exploited, but they don't complain because it's cheap and convenient and easier to look the other way.'

The frustration breaks in her voice.

‘You mentioned gangs,' I say.

‘Geographically, they have areas. Turf wars break out occasionally, but most of them cooperate, swapping intelligence, keeping the police at bay.'

‘Are they being prosecuted?' asks Florence.

‘Not often enough. The Home Office has a habit of sending the victims home before the police can get enough evidence to charge anyone.'

‘Deliberately?' I ask.

A pained smile. ‘I like to give them the benefit of the doubt.'

‘How do we find these women?' asks Florence.

‘Do you have names?'

‘Yes.'

‘You said they were picked up by a trawler.'

‘Two men have been arrested.'

‘I know it's an age-old piece of advice, but I would be following the money. The National Crime Agency has just set up a new task force to tackle grooming gangs, particularly in the north of England. You could try to find out if your suspects are linked to any of them.'

She calls up a website on her computer.

‘Another option is the online bulletin boards and chat forums where survivors swap details, warning each other about particular workplaces and bosses.'

‘Have you ever heard anyone mention someone called the Ferryman?' I ask.

‘All the time,' says Natalie. ‘He frightens people more than Border Force or the police or the Home Office.'

‘You think he's real?'

‘I don't think that matters.'

‘Would any of your clients talk to us?'

‘I can ask around, but like I said, they're frightened.'