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‘Does he have any other name?’
‘Only that one.’
I point to the footage. ‘This other boat went north along the French coast and then north-west. Why take such a long route?’
‘To avoid trouble.’
‘What trouble? The coastguard?’
He makes a dismissive gesture and picks dirt from beneath his fingernails.
‘Seventeen people are dead. Two are missing,’ I say.
‘Someone rammed their boat,’ adds Florence. ‘They were murdered.’
I look for empathy in Mikhail’s eyes but can’t find any. Either he’s a sociopath or his reserves of sympathy are exhausted. It’s like he’s being told about a natural phenomenon, a great migration of animals, moving from one place to another, where many die on the journey, while others carry on with no time to grieve or question the losses. But this isn’t about the great circle of life. People have died needlessly.
‘Did you know anyone on the other boat?’ I ask.
‘Perhaps some of the men. I might have met them in the camps.’
‘What about Besart Pasha – an Albanian?’
‘Maybe.’
A barking yell echoes across the parade ground, where a group of men have gathered to watch us. A change comes over Mikhail. It’s like watching a cloud pass across the sun, draining the warmth from the air.
Urgently, he whispers, ‘I cannot talk to you. Not everybody here can be trusted.’
One of the distant men makes a gesture with his hand, twisting his wrist. I can’t tell if it’s a question or a threat. Then he puts his fingers together and makes another signal.
Mikhail backs away from us, shaking his head. Pale. Frightened.
‘Did they know they were in danger?’ asks Florence.
‘We’re all in danger,’ he mumbles.
The other men have gone, carried away like smoke on the breeze. Mikhail joins them. Even the children have disappeared, leaving the toys behind.
‘What just happened?’ asks Florence.
‘We asked the wrong question.’
‘The Ferryman sounds like a crime boss or a cult leader.’
We’re back at her motorbike. Florence pulls her dreadlocks together and dons her helmet.
‘What about Arben? When can I see him?’ she asks.
‘It’s too late today.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
The motorbike rumbles. I slide onto the seat behind her.
‘Where are you going to stay tonight?’ I ask.
