AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘It was dark,’ he tells the interpreter. ‘I only saw their shadows.’
‘But you heard their voices,’ says Carlson. I can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement.
Arben nods unconvincingly, tugging at a forelock of hair. He looks exhausted, his eyes bruised, his shoulders sloping. A borrowed T-shirt has a brown sauce stain on the front.
‘Play him the tape,’ says Carlson.
An audio file is selected. Voices emerge from the speaker. It’s a recording of Angus Radford’s police interview. Radford is responding to each question with the same answer, ‘No comment.’ At one point, he interrupts and asks, ‘How much longer do I have to put up with this shite?’
I watch Arben visibly stiffen and his eyes flit sideways as though Radford were suddenly in the room, standing behind him.
‘Is that the voice you heard?’ asks Carlson.
Arben rocks his head.
‘Answer for the tape,’ says Carlson.
‘It sounds like him. Yes. Maybe.’
Carlson looks at me, knowing it’s not enough. The inner ear is an acute organ, but a defence barrister will pick Arben’s testimony apart in the witness box, making him doubt his own name.
I follow the detective to his office. He sits in a swivel chair, checking emails, typing a reply.
‘Forensics are testing paint samples from the trawler and matching them against the wreckage of the migrant boat,’ he says. ‘We should have the results by tomorrow.’
‘Evidence of a collision doesn’t prove intent,’ I say.
‘We have Arben’s statement and the text messages and DNA pulled from the life-vests and cable ties. If we match that with Arben we’ll have proof that his sister was on board.’
‘How long should that take?’ I ask.
‘Four days, maybe five.’
‘What happens to Arben?’
‘We’ve found him a bed at a children’s unit in Sleaford. We’re waiting on a social worker to transport him.’
I know the place. Rookery Lodge. It’s a twelve-bed facility for troubled teenagers and children in need. I offer to take him because it’s on my way home and I’d like the chance to talk to him.
Twenty minutes later, I find Arben waiting in the incident room, sitting on a vinyl chair, trying to stay out of the way. He is carrying a plastic bag containing his worldly possessions – a few pieces of underwear, socks, and a small, zippered case with insulin pens, alcohol wipes, a glucose meter and test strips.
When I unlock the Fiat, he opens the back door, but I tell him to ‘ride shotgun’. He doesn’t understand the term, but I point to the front passenger seat. He buckles up his seat belt.
‘You speak a little English,’ I say, when he’s finally settled.
He nods.
‘Did you learn at school?’
‘For three years. I also learned German.’
We drive out of Grimsby, heading south along the A46 into the East Midlands. The dual carriageway intersects rolling hills that are dotted with sheep and cottages and criss-crossed by stone walls. Three huge wind turbines break the horizon, looking like giant robots stalking the landscape. Arben gazes into the distance, studying his surroundings, as though passing judgement on the country he sacrificed so much to reach. Was it worth it? Reality rarely matches our expectations, but neither does it crush a dream so completely.
More silence. More miles. Arben is clutching the plastic bag on his lap.
‘How long have you been a diabetic?’ I ask.
‘Six years.’
