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‘You look so young,’ I say, sensing the danger.
Florence laughs. ‘Nice save.’ And grows circumspect. ‘I’m not supposed to have foreknowledge of any of the small boats that leave Europe.’
‘But you did this time?’
She nods.
‘There was a second boat that left Calais at the same time,’ I say. ‘It arrived on a beach near Harwich in the early hours of Saturday morning with twenty-seven people on board, all safe and well. It took the usual route, the shortest crossing, but this one went further north. Why did they separate? We need to talk to someone on that other boat.’
Florence taps her forefinger against her lips. ‘All new arrivals are being processed at a former RAF base near Peterborough. I could take you there, but I need something in return.’
‘What could you want from me?’
She raises an eyebrow, as though I’m flirting with her. ‘The survivor, Arben Pasha, somebody has to represent him.’
‘He hasn’t applied for asylum.’
‘He will.’
Outside, I direct Florence towards my car, but she has other ideas.
‘It’s quicker on the bike.’
She points to a gleaming black and chrome machine. She opens a side pannier and pulls out a spare helmet.
‘You’re kidding me,’ I say.
‘I’m a very safe rider.’
‘I might not be a safe passenger.’
‘Just do what I do and hold on.’
She throws her leg over the bike and folds the kickstand. Turning the key, the machine rumbles into life. Florence pats the leather seat. Clumsily, I slide behind her, gripping the sides of her jacket. She grabs my hands and pulls them tight around her waist, saying, ‘Don’t let go.’
The Kawasaki vibrates beneath me as we pull away, weaving between stationary cars at a red light and accelerating on the green. Florence shifts her weight, leaning into the first corner. I fight the urge to counter gravity, trying to match her movements. At the same time, I don’t want to press my body against hers for obvious reasons. As though sensing my reluctance, she taps the front brakes and I slide closer to her.
Once we reach the countryside, she opens up the throttle. Trees and fences and farms flash past and instantly my senses are magnified. The outside world pours in, and I smell every whiff of grass and hint of cow pat and the mossy earth of riverbanks.
An hour later we pull up at the boom gate of the migrant reception centre, which has a sentry box and fences topped with coils of razor-wire.
‘Visiting hours are over,’ says the square-shouldered guard, sitting in his box.
‘We couldn’t get here any sooner,’ Florence says.
‘Rules are rules.’
‘I’m a forensic psychologist who works with the police,’ I explain. ‘I’m looking for any of the migrants who arrived over the weekend. I’m hoping they can shed light on the small boat tragedy in Cleethorpes.’
‘Without an appointment, I can’t let you inside,’ says the guard, sticking to his script.
‘If you call DI Stephen Carlson, he’ll vouch for me.’
‘Not my job.’
I’m close enough to read his nametag. I open my phone and type the details.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks.
