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‘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.
