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She pulls up another image. It shows Jaden sitting next to a young woman: his sister, Nadia. They could be twins. Both are wearing traditional Sudanese clothes, white with splashes of colour around the hems and sleeves and collars.
‘This was taken at a cousin’s wedding in Khartoum, two years ago,’ says Florence. ‘Jaden arrived in Calais in March. He made two attempts to cross in July. The first time he was forced back by the weather and the second time by the French coastguard.’
‘He was paying people smugglers?’
‘I have no information about that.’
Florence is already covering herself legally. She can’t admit to having knowledge of a crime.
‘Nadia phoned me two nights ago and said he was coming. She wanted me to handle Jaden’s asylum claim.’
I read the messages again. Jaden sent them during the journey when the migrant boat was in range of phone towers on the coast. Clearly, someone tried to make the migrants turn back. Fifty-six minutes later, they were in the water, dying.
I look up at Florence. ‘Did you contact the coastguard?’
‘Of course, but I had no coordinates or any way of tracking the signal.’
I spend a moment considering the implications. I have heard stories of migrant boats being turned back or impounded by the coastguard or police. Others have been sabotaged before leaving France, but nothing comes close to a deliberate sinking.
‘Where is Nadia now?’ I ask.
‘In Nottingham. She’s waiting for me to call her.’
‘I’ll talk to the detective handling the investigation. He’ll want access to Nadia’s phone.’
‘Can you keep my name out of it?’ asks Florence.
‘That’s not possible, but you know that already.’
She sighs and nods her acceptance.
‘How do I contact you?’ I ask.
‘Give me your phone.’
‘I don’t have one.’
She looks at me like I’m from another planet. ‘I lost it today,’ I explain.
Florence tears a page from the back of her notebook and jots down her number.
‘Call me.’
9
Evie
My eyes feel like they’re weighted down with warm stones. Slowly, I force them open, letting in light. Edges take shape. Shadows. Colours. I’m in a strange room with a bed and lockable cabinet and grey carpet squares and vertical blinds and an ugly black-and-white print on the wall.
Cyrus has gone, but his jacket is still hanging over the chair. I felt his presence earlier, when he leaned over me and placed his cheek next to mine, his lips within kissing distance. I wanted to make a sound, but I couldn’t speak.
Vaguely, I remember the journey in an ambulance and a white room and bright lights and doctors who talked to me and about me. Asking questions. Issuing instructions. I didn’t respond. My lips and limbs wouldn’t sync with my brain.
Awake now, I need the bathroom. I contemplate ringing the buzzer on the wall near my head, but I don’t want to pee into a bedpan with a nurse watching. There must be a toilet nearby.
I’m wearing my fire-engine-red pyjamas. I don’t remember getting changed. I hope Cyrus didn’t see me undressed, naked, all pale and blotchy and scarred with cigarette burns.
Pushing back the covers, I swing my legs to the side, testing the floor and my strength. I wobble towards the door and crack it open, peering along the wide, brightly lit corridor. A cleaner’s trolley is parked opposite, sprouting brooms and mops and bottles of chemicals. Beyond that I see a sign for the Ladies. Cautiously, I cross the threshold, my bare feet leaving footprints that fade on the tiled floor.
