‘Those Eastern European girls at the hostel, where exactly did they come from?’
I didn’t think Dan had heard. He was looking at Nell, eyes glazed, thinking of sex.
‘Romania,’ he said in the end. ‘I think that’s it. It could be the Czech Republic. They don’t have much English.’
‘Were they placed by social services?’
He was still finding it hard to concentrate. ‘You know what Ellen’s like. She’ll take anyone. No questions asked.’
Chapter Thirty
I didn’t know anything about asylum seekers. Only what I’d read in the papers and seen on the news, and there was precious little factual reporting in that. And I didn’t mind the paucity of fact. It saved me having to think through the issue clearly. My sympathy lay with the immigrants. Of course. What else would you expect? I’m a social worker, all liberal conscience and fuzzy sentiment. Just the sort of person Doreen at the Consortium despises. And there was more to it than that. A lot of the Eastern European immigrants are Roma, gypsy, and I have some fellow feeling. If the popular Newbiggin myth is to be believed, we could be related. When I hear people slagging them off, I take it personally.
I phoned a mate who worked for social services. A sort of mate. She’d trained with me, but she knew all the right games to play and she was already a team leader. That meant she didn’t have to visit grubby flats any more, or think up new excuses for not drinking tea, or play with the snotty kids of her clients. It took a bit of persistence to get through to her and when she did make herself available her voice was wary. It only occurred to me later that she probably thought I was on the scrounge for a job.
‘Lizzie. Hi. It’s been a long time. How are things?’
‘Fine,’ I said, trying to sound it, only managing that mad jollity which sounds natural to infant teachers.
‘We should meet up sometime.’ That was the last thing either of us wanted. She’d be embarrassed to be seen with me and she’d always bored me rigid.
‘Really, I was just after a favour.’
‘Yeah?’ The tone had turned distinctly chilly.
‘Some information. It’s something I’m working on. A kind of project. It’s about asylum seekers.’
‘Oh, right.’ She was too relieved to ask what kind of project.
‘Is North Tyneside one of the official dispersal areas? If so, do you know who’s in charge of resettlement?’
This was a test of her competence, a sort of challenge. ‘I haven’t heard of the borough becoming involved. County Durham is, of course. I’ve read about the problems there. Let me ask around and phone you back.’
She did. Almost immediately. She was like that. Conscientious, the sort of student who always got her essays in on time. Mine usually were given higher marks, though, and that’s why she didn’t like me. She told me smugly that it was as she’d thought. No formal resettlement programme in our area, no one specifically responsible for immigrants. ‘Sorry not to be more help,’ she said as she replaced the receiver, not sounding at all as if she meant it.
Of course, that didn’t mean the sad-eyed girls weren’t legitimate residents of Absalom House. They could have been students. They could have been born here. But I was starting to weave a fantasy in which they had starring roles, and I was already so committed to it that the social worker’s reply was pleasing.
I’d put together a story in my head, lying sleepless in Sea View watching the beams from the light buoys bounce off the ceiling. This is how it went: Harry Pool was smuggling people into the country. That’s why his attitude towards me had changed when I’d asked him about bringing in asylum seekers. That’s why he wasn’t putting more effort into defending Michael Spicer. He wanted the issue to go away. His trucks went to Eastern Europe, didn’t they? A trade in illegals would explain his affluence, the big house in Culler-coats, the flash car. Smugglers made a fortune. The papers I’d read on the subject all said that. And once the people were here perhaps Ellen helped them, the younger ones at least. As Dan had said, she’d not ask any awkward questions or check papers too carefully. She wouldn’t want them ending up on the streets and dying like her son. Perhaps she was so eager to see me, that day in Cullercoats, not to give me information, but to find out how much I knew.
And perhaps Thomas had found out about it. He was in a better position than anyone to put together what was going on. He worked in the office at the yard. Even if Harry had tried to keep him out of it, there could be overheard conversations, mysterious phone messages. Nobody had ever said that Thomas was dumb. He’d work it out. Maybe he’d even seen the lorries come back and watched them unload. I ran it in my head, saw it like one of those cheesy cop shows they have on the telly on a Sunday night, all shadowy lighting and eerie electronic music. I pictured Thomas hiding behind a stack of containers, watching the dark figures climb over the tailboard of the truck. And he was living at Absalom House, so when the immigrants turned up there he’d not be taken in by whatever cover story Ellen and Harry had hatched up for them.
You can’t blame me for getting excited, for being seduced by the theory. I mean, it was beautiful. Everything slotted right into place, even Marcus’s idea that Thomas saw himself with a new future at work. Perhaps Harry had offered to cut him in on the deal. Perhaps Thomas had tried blackmail. OK, it didn’t explain Marcus’s sudden death, but perhaps that was an accident after all.
The only problem was, I couldn’t see Harry or Ellen stabbing him. I mean, Ellen, come on! There might be something scary about her appearance. That dyed hair and scarlet lipstick always made me think of vampires. But she was a sweetie. She was genuinely fond of the kids in her care. She couldn’t knife anyone to save her life, especially a lad who’d reminded her of her son. And I’d seen Harry playing with his grandchildren. Perhaps I’m a sentimental fool, but he didn’t strike me as a violent man. That afternoon when we’d all been in the pub after the funeral threw me too. Could he possibly have gone through that charade if he’d been the cause of it? I didn’t think so.
My first instinct was to go to Farrier and share my theory. The thought gave me the same feeling as when I was about to hand in an essay to my tutor at college. Please like it. Please approve. Of my ideas and me. Then I thought that was pathetic, and I needed something more concrete to give him anyway. At the back of my mind was the fear that, as he’d warned me off meddling, he’d be cross. He’d only be pleased if I had a really solid piece of information to hand to him, not a wild accusation against two respectable people. Otherwise, like all the other cops, he might think I was crazy.
I decided on a trip to Absalom House. It might be possible to speak to the foreign girls without bumping into Ellen or Dan. And in Sea View I was restless. I couldn’t settle to anything. My prowling around the house was starting to worry Jess and she’d begun muttering about it having been a long time since Lisa had been round, and maybe I should ask her in for coffee.
She stopped me on my way out. I thought she was going to ask an unsubtle question about when I was due to see the psychiatrist next, but all she said was, ‘Are you doing anything next Friday night?’ It slipped out really casually and I was preoccupied, or I’d have taken more care in the answer.
‘I don’t think so.’ I was fishing through my bag for my car keys.
‘Oh, that’s good. There’s a ceilidh. Some friends of Ray’s are getting engaged. You’re invited too. It’ll be a chance for you to get to know them all.’
And she beamed, delighted, so how could I refuse?
I arrived at Absalom House late in the morning and it was quiet, as I’d hoped. Dan had told me that most of the residents were expected to take on work or training. ‘It’s not just a doss house,’ he’d said, giving me the party line. But surely the sisters wouldn’t be at work or college. Not yet. Not if they were hiding from the authorities. I tried the front door, but it was locked. The windows at the front of the house were covered by net curtains and I couldn’t see in without going right up to the glass. It was a busy street, a sunny day, and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.