Promises to Keep Read online

  Now Jo is in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in front of her, thinking things through. Dixie, who hadn’t wanted to leave her side, has been shut out in the garden to give her a chance to concentrate. This morning she managed to avoid Sam completely, took Dixie out for a walk while Sam got ready for work. Although nothing was said, Jo is sure that Sam is going to put in a full report today. She has to do this, of course, because the patrols knew all about it last night and if Sam denies it, she will be putting her career at risk. Better to get in first. Before too long they will all know how Jo enticed Hassan out of the woods and in to her – and Sam’s – home. She’s hoping they will not let this distract them from the most important task, which is finding the boy.

  The only thing she can hold on to right now is the fact that Hassan knows where she is, and that he might come back. Last night the patrols paid a visit to the makeshift camp in the woods, but nobody matching Hassan’s description was found. They arrested two adult males, apparently. Jo knows nothing else.

  It could all have been so different last night, if Sam had only listened, if she had only tried to understand. Instead, she’s missed the point completely. The system that’s designed to help is actually making things worse. If you want to make a difference to a child’s life, you have to do it yourself. You can’t rely on anyone else. You just can’t.

  Jo has spent most of the night in tears and now fresh ones fall, for Mohammed who she couldn’t save, and for his little brother who has slipped through her fingers. But he at least is alive, he still has a chance. If only he would come back. If only she could get him to trust her.

  She stands awkwardly, stiff from a sleepless night, and looks out of the kitchen window to see Dixie at the bottom of the garden, staring at the shed. His tail is wagging.

  SAM

  For the second day running, Sam is home early. She has been trying to call Jo all day, and whilst she knows there is a great immovable barrier between them right now, she is hoping that at least she can persuade Jo to talk to her. In the meantime, she tells herself that Jo is possibly catching up on some sleep.

  When she gets home the house is unbearably quiet. From the hallway Sam knows instantly that the house is empty, that Jo has gone. There is a hollowness about the space that wasn’t there before, a darkness that isn’t eased by the turning on of lights. Besides anything else, Dixie usually meets her at the door. He, too, is absent. Walking towards the kitchen, Sam doesn’t even bother to call out.

  The note is on the kitchen table. Sam snatches it up and reads.

  Gone to Mum’s x

  Sam looks quickly around the kitchen. Jo’s car keys are gone, Dixie’s bowls and the dog food from the shelves under the worktop. She breathes out when she sees this, only aware then of the panic. You don’t take dog food with you if you’re going to top yourself. Upstairs, the small suitcase has gone from under the bed, some clothes from Jo’s side of the wardrobe. In the office, the fireproof box is open and Jo’s birth certificate, driving licence and passport have also gone. This is reassuring. Nevertheless, she has to check.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sam uses the phone to call the last number dialled.

  ‘Hi, Maureen. It’s Sam.’

  ‘Oh, Sam. I’m glad you’ve called. How are you holding up?’

  ‘I’m— is Jo with you?’

  ‘Yes. And the dog. And— ’ She cuts herself off, adds hurriedly, ‘She’s upstairs, do you want me to see if …?’

  ‘Don’t worry, honestly. I was just – you know. Just checking she’s okay.’

  ‘I can ask her to call you back?’

  ‘Thanks. Tell her … I don’t know. Tell her I called?’

  ‘I will. Take care of yourself, dear.’

  There is a finality about the conversation. Even though she has not taken everything – and they have a house together, a mortgage in both their names, even though Sam pays the bills – she knows Jo isn’t coming back. They’ve bickered before but nothing like this. It’s a chasm rather than a rift. A gorge that’s getting wider, that can’t be crossed. She is going to have to report that the boy is likely to be with Jo; but maybe just not yet.

  Sam lies on the bed, on Jo’s side, looking into the open wardrobe and at the empty hangers, trying to recall what it looked like before. Wondering about the stuff she took and the things she left behind. She presses her fingers to her eyes, trying not to cry. Sometimes you make all the right decisions and still things go wrong. Sometimes you fail even when you try your hardest.

  Extract from the Eden Evening Times, November 19th 2010

  ‘Perfect Storm’ of Incidents Responsible for death of fifteen-year-old Asylum Seeker

  The release of the Quentin Report into the death of Mohammed Reza whilst in police custody in August will make for uncomfortable reading for Eden’s Chief Constable, Michael Spearman. Coming at the end of a year which saw crime figures in the county soar, and the resignation of the Chair of the Eden Police Authority following corruption allegations, the flaws highlighted in the report put the force under serious scrutiny.

  The report identifies a number of missed opportunities and failings in the system which is supposed to protect vulnerable young people who are brought into police custody, describing the night of 27 August 2010 as a ‘perfect storm’ of events which led to the young asylum seeker remaining in a cell, unchecked, for an hour and ten minutes during which he cut his wrists using a razor blade that had somehow been missed.

  At the time the custody suite at Briarstone Police Station was under ‘immense pressure’, caused by staff absences and budget cuts which meant less than half the requisite officers were on duty. Friday 27 August was the start of a Bank Holiday weekend, with the town centre packed full of payday drinkers out for the night. Any spare officers had been deployed to police the streets on that night, resulting in no additional cover for the custody office.

  But when Mohammed Reza was arrested at 8pm, things were still relatively quiet. He had been arrested for stealing £20 from an elderly lady in the foyer of a supermarket. Despite CCTV footage appearing to show a woman calmly handing something to Reza, a store security guard had detained the youth until police arrived. The woman in question has never been identified.

  Reza was reported to be agitated when he was processed at the custody desk. His custody photo shows a young man in tears, clearly exhausted. He had been arrested before, and he knew he was going to be held for several hours at least before he could be bailed. Reza was searched, and his shoelaces and other items were confiscated. But Reza had a razor blade and other items concealed that were missed. At a quarter to nine in the evening, Reza was locked in a cell.

  Despite attempts to contact an interpreter to facilitate an interview, none could be found. The duty solicitor was called, but requested to be called again once the interpreter arrived. Reza was checked intermittently through the early part of the evening and statements showed that he appeared to be asleep. Standard procedure is not to wake apparently sleeping prisoners but to check on them through the ‘spy-hole’ in the cell door. Custody officers reported Reza was lying on his side, facing away from the door, with the blanket over him.

  The CCTV camera in the cell in which Reza was held was not working on that night, but as the young man had calmed down, he was not assessed to be high risk.

  At around ten o’clock that night a number of serious assaults took place outside one of the town’s nightclubs, culminating in a fight involving two large groups. Officers made a total of four arrests and all were taken straight to Briarstone’s custody suite, already nearly at capacity following a drugs operation earlier in the day. Police procedures recommend that in such circumstances detained persons should be taken to various custody suites elsewhere in the county to avoid the potential for further confrontations. However, the Quentin Report highlights that, on 27 August, no other custody suites in the county were available. In the previous months, two suites (in Denham and Charlmere) had been closed down, and a third suit
e in Knapstone was closed for refurbishment. All the other suites in the county were fully occupied.

  In Briarstone police station, the overstretched staff began the task of processing the intoxicated, aggressive individuals. CCTV footage from the inside of the reception area show officers struggling to cope, with arguments breaking out between those waiting to be put into cells. Officers were forced to perform a procedure known as rapid cell exit, in which several officers are used to take an uncooperative prisoner to a cell.

  At eleven thirty, Reza’s hourly cell check was already fifteen minutes overdue. The officer who performed the check saw what he had seen previously: the young man apparently asleep on his bed; but this time, he grew aware something was wrong. He called out to the young man to rouse him. When the young man did not move, the officer entered the cell and approached. He then saw the blood that had pooled around the plastic mattress, much of it soaked into the blanket and Reza’s clothes. He raised the alarm, but despite multiple attempts at resuscitation, Mohammed Reza was already dead.

  Little is known of the teenager whose death has instigated such a thorough review of custody procedures, and that also highlights some of the problems government services face in ensuring reasonable care. It is believed that he was fifteen and that he had come from Iraq, although he had no official paperwork and it is common for asylum seekers to lie about their age in order to avoid swift deportation, or internment in an adult detention facility. Reza had previously claimed that he made his way to the UK via Calais with his brother, and that he had been living in various hostels and in makeshift camps ever since. Sadly their story is by no means unusual, and the sheer volume of young people entering the UK makes the process of providing them all with appropriate assistance even more difficult.

  In attempting to assign responsibility for the tragic death, the Quentin Report identifies failings in achieving minimum staffing levels on the evening of 27 August, suggesting that the forthcoming Bank Holiday weekend had not been adequately risk-assessed by management. Official procedures put in place to ensure the welfare of detainees were not followed, although the Report concludes that under the circumstances, this would have been difficult to achieve.

  What the Quentin Report does bring into sharp focus are the tragic shortcomings of a system designed to protect vulnerable young people, a system that can now no longer cope. As a nation we are guilty of turning our faces away from the truth that young asylum seekers in our communities are in desperate need of help and support that, currently, they are not always able to access. The Chief Constable of Eden Police will undoubtedly feel the same way.

  There is, however, some brighter news. Mohammed Reza’s younger brother, Hassan, was picked up by social services following a call from a concerned member of staff at a motorway service station. A foster home has been found for him and recent reports say that he is doing well, and attending school. Although there are many young people falling through the net, this one at least seems to have a secure future to look forward to.

  Author’s Note

  Promises to Keep was inspired in part by an article by Amelia Gentleman in the Guardian (‘Asylum seekers: nowhere boys’, Saturday 22 June 2013). As the mother of a ten-year-old boy, the thought of children and teenagers making their way across continents alone and vulnerable terrifies me. Whatever your politics, asylum seekers of every age have become something of a faceless statistic and I wanted to try and give a voice to some of these boys. Of course, however, all of the characters and events in the story are entirely fictional. I would like to express my grateful thanks to Lisa Cutts and Gill Fewins, who took the time to check my procedural accuracy with regards to police custody and social services.

  Dixie (or Dixi) is real; he is the brother of my own Spanish rescue dog, unfortunately still waiting for his forever home. You can read more about him and the work of Spanish Stray Dogs UK here: http://www.spanishstraydogs.org.uk/dixi.

  Now read the beginning of Elizabeth’s latest novel

  Under a Silent Moon

  Day One – Thursday 1 November 2012

  09:41

  Dispatch Log 1101-0132

  **CALLER STATES SHE HAS FOUND HER FRIEND COVERED IN BLOOD NOT MOVING NOT BREATHING

  **AMBULANCE ALREADY DISPATCHED – REF 01-914

  **CALLER IS FELICITY MAITLAND, HERMITAGE FARM, CEMETERY LANE MORDEN – OCCUPATION FARM OWNER

  **INJURED PARTY IDENTIFIED AS POLLY LUCAS, FAMILY FRIEND OF CALLER

  **CALLER HYSTERICAL, TRYING TO GET LOCATION FROM HER

  **ADDRESS YONDER COTTAGE CEMETERY LANE MORDEN VILLAGE

  **LOCATION GIVEN AS OUTSIDE VILLAGE ON ROAD TO BRIARSTONE, PAST THE LEMON TREE PUB ON THE RIGHT HAND SIDE

  **SP CORRECTION POLLY LEUCHARS DOB 28/12/1984 AGED 27

  **PATROLS AL23 AL11 AVAILABLE DISPATCHED

  **DUTY INSPECTOR NOTED, WILL ATTEND

  10:52

  In years to come, Flora would remember this as the day of Before and After.

  Before, she had been working on the canvas that had troubled her for nearly three months. She had reworked it so many times, had stared at it, loved it and hated it, often at the same time. On that Thursday it had gone well. The blue was right, finally, and while she had the sun slanting in even strips from the skylight overhead she traced the lines with her brush delicately as though she was touching the softest human skin and not canvas.

  The phone rang and at first she ignored it. When the answering machine kicked in the caller rang off and then her mobile buzzed on the windowsill behind her. The caller display showed her father’s mobile. She ignored it as she usually did. He was not someone she really wanted to talk to, after all.

  Seconds later, the phone rang again. He wasn’t going to give up.

  ‘Dad? What is it? I’m working—’

  That was the moment. And then it was the After, and nothing was ever the same again.

  11:08

  Thursday had barely started and it was already proving to be a challenge for Lou Smith. Just after ten the call had come in from the boss, Detective Superintendent Buchanan. Area had called in a suspicious death and requested Major Crime’s attendance. A month after her promotion and the DCI on duty, it was her turn to lead the investigation.

  ‘Probably nothing,’ Buchanan had said. ‘You can hand it back to Area if it looks like the boyfriend’s done it, OK? Keep me updated.’

  Her heart was thudding as she’d disconnected the call. Please God, don’t let me balls it up.

  Lou reached for the grubby A–Z on the shelf in the main office; it’d be a darn sight quicker than logging on to the mapping software. She couldn’t remember ever having to go to Morden, which meant it was probably posh. The paramedics had turned up first and declared life well and truly extinct, waited for the patrols, and then buggered off on another call.

  The patrols had done what they were supposed to do – look for the offender (no sign), manage the witnesses (only one, so far, the woman who’d called it in) and preserve the scene (shut the door and stand outside). The Area DI had turned up shortly afterwards and it hadn’t been more than ten minutes before he’d called the Major Crime Superintendent. Which meant that this was clearly a murder, probably not domestic.

  ‘Nasty,’ the DI said cheerfully when Lou got to Yonder Cottage. ‘Your first one, isn’t it, ma’am? Good luck.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  Lou recognised him. He’d been one of the trainers when she’d been a probationer, which made the ‘ma’am’ feel rather awkward.

  ‘Where have you got to?’ she asked.

  ‘They’ve started the house-to-house,’ he responded. ‘Nothing so far. The woman who found her is in the kitchen up at the farmhouse with PC Gregson, the family liaison. Mrs Felicity Maitland. She owns the farm with her husband Nigel – Nigel Maitland?’

  The last two words were phrased as a question, implying that Lou should recognise the name. She did.

  Maitland had associates who were known to be involved in organised
crime in Briarstone and London. He’d been brought in for questioning on several occasions for different reasons; each time he’d given a ‘no comment’ interview, or one where he stuck to one word answers, in the company of his very expensive solicitor. Each time he had been polite, cooperative as far as it went, and utterly unhelpful. Each time he had been released without charge. Circumstantial evidence, including his mobile phone number appearing on the itemised phone bill of three men who were eventually charged with armed robbery and conspiracy, had never amounted to enough to justify an arrest. Nevertheless, the links were there and officers in a number of departments were watching and waiting for him to make a mistake. In the meantime Nigel went about his legitimate day job, running his farm and maintaining his expensive golf club membership, the horses, the Mercedes and the Land Rover and the Porsche convertible, and stayed one step ahead.

  ‘Mrs Maitland’s in charge of the stables, leaves all the rest of it to her husband,’ the Area DI said. ‘The victim worked for them as a groom, lived here in the cottage rent-free. I gather she was a family friend.’

  ‘Any word on an offender?’

  ‘Nothing, so far. Apparently the victim lived on her own.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She’s at the bottom of the stairs. Massive head trauma.’

  ‘Not a fall?’

  ‘Definitely not a fall.’

  ‘Weapon?’

  ‘Nothing obvious. CSI are on the way, apparently.’ He indicated the patrol officer standing guard. ‘This is PC Dave Forster. He got the short straw.’

  PC Forster grinned.

  DI Carter disappeared shortly after that, back to the station.

  Yonder Cottage was a square, brick-built house separated from the main road by an overgrown hedge and an expanse of gravel, upon which a dark blue Nissan Micra was parked. The scene tape stretched from the hedge to a birch tree and outside of this was a roughly tarmacked driveway which led up to a series of barns and outbuildings. Beyond this, apparently, was the main house of Hermitage Farm.