‘You’re due your biannual check, aren’t you?’
‘Just so long as that’s all it is,’ said Shepherd. ‘I thought maybe you’d sent her to see if I was suicidal after my dip in the sea.’
‘You’re not, are you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘There you are, then. How did it go?’
‘She thinks I should get out more.’
‘She might be right. Call me when you’ve done the interview.’
Shepherd cut the connection and called the major. He asked if they could reschedule their meeting for the following evening and Gannon agreed. Then Shepherd went upstairs and changed back into his Tony Corke clothes.
The interpreter was waiting for them outside the hospital, sitting behind the wheel of a six-year-old Ford Ka. She was a middle-aged woman, with permed hair and thick-lensed glasses, and introduced herself as Lyn. She didn’t offer a surname and Shepherd didn’t ask. He and Sharpe shook hands with her.
‘You speak Kosovan?’ asked Shepherd.
‘I speak seven languages fluently,’ she said matter-of-factly, ‘and I can get by in another four.’
Shepherd was impressed. His trick memory was good for facts and faces, but it was of little help when it came to languages. He could memorise vocabulary without any problems but speaking a foreign language was more about comprehension and grammar. ‘We need to talk to a woman called Edita about some items that were found in her belongings.’
‘Edita?’ Lyn took a packet of Silk Cut from her coat pocket and lit a cigarette with a cheap plastic lighter.
‘Something wrong?’ asked Shepherd.
Lyn shrugged. ‘It is not a usual Kosovan name,’ she said, ‘but never mind. She’s an illegal?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘That’s usually why I’m called in,’ she said. ‘Immigration cases, mainly. Asylum-seekers.’
Shepherd had been trying to place her accent, but without success. She spoke English with the same clarity as a BBC newsreader but he had the feeling she was from somewhere in Central or Eastern Europe. ‘She was trying to get into the country, but our interest is purely in what she had with her.’
Lyn took a long pull on her cigarette. ‘Let me finish this first,’ she said. ‘They don’t let you smoke in hospitals.’
Shepherd and Sharpe waited until she had stubbed out the cigarette, then walked into the hospital. Sharpe showed his warrant card at Reception and went back to Shepherd and Lyn. ‘The little girl’s out of Intensive Care,’ he said. ‘Her mother’s with her, on the third floor.’
They took the lift and Sharpe led the way to the room. It was similar to the one Shepherd had been kept in, but there was no uniformed policeman standing guard.
Edita was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her daughter’s hand. She smiled when she saw Shepherd, who smiled back.
Jessica was lying on her back, asleep, her arms on top of the blankets. There were no monitoring instruments, no drips, just a little girl asleep in bed.
‘Pretty girl,’ said Lyn. ‘What happened to her?’
‘She nearly drowned,’ said Sharpe, closing the door and standing with his back to it. ‘The doctors say she’ll be fine.’
Lyn spoke to Edita, but she turned away and brushed a lock of hair away from her daughter’s face.
‘Tell her we need to talk to her about some money that was found among her belongings,’ said Shepherd.
Lyn translated. Edita didn’t reply.
‘Edita, please, if you co-operate with the police they’ll do everything they can to let you stay in the country,’ said Shepherd.
Again, Lyn translated. Once again, the woman refused even to acknowledge her presence.
Shepherd exhaled deeply. ‘Ask her what’s wrong.’
Lyn spoke again, but was ignored. She frowned and went to stand next to Edita. She put a hand gently on the woman’s shoulder and spoke softly. Edita flinched, then shook her head. Lyn said something else and this time the woman replied.
Lyn walked back to Shepherd. ‘I know what the problem is,’ she said. ‘She’s not from Kosovo. She’s Albanian.’
‘Do you speak Albanian?’
‘Enough to get by,’ said Lyn. ‘Probably enough for what you need.’
Shepherd nodded. The family had Kosovan passports: if they were Albanian their travel documents must be forgeries. Or stolen. ‘Tell her we need to talk to her now. I’m happy to do it here so that she can be near her daughter, but if she doesn’t start talking we’ll take her to an office.’ He forced a smile. ‘Don’t make it sound as threatening as that.’
Lyn spoke to Edita again. Edita turned to Shepherd and said something in Albanian. It sounded very different from Kosovan, but Shepherd couldn’t understand a word of either language.
‘She wants to know if you’ve spoken to her husband,’ said Lyn.
‘Yes,’ said Shepherd, nodding.
Edita spoke again. ‘You must speak to her husband about this,’ said Lyn. ‘She says it is nothing to do with her.’
‘Tell her that the police need to check the information they have.’
Lyn translated, but Edita simply shrugged.
‘Do you want to try good-cop-bad-cop?’ asked Sharpe.
Shepherd shook his head. The woman had been through enough, and soon she would learn that her husband had killed himself. ‘Ask her if she knew that there was money in the oil cans,’ he told Lyn.
Lyn translated. Edita answered angrily.
‘She says it was nothing to do with her. They met only her husband, and her husband told her not to talk about it.’
‘They? Who does she mean?’
Lyn translated. Edita snapped back.
‘Two men in France. They met her husband before they got on to the boat.’
‘Why would he agree to take something on board? Did they threaten him? Or the little girl?’
This time the conversation went back and forth a few times before Lyn offered a translation: ‘She doesn’t know who the men were, but they were gangsters. There was no need to make any threats because they didn’t have enough money to pay for their passage to England. The husband was told that if he carried the cans with him they would make up the difference. She guessed there wasn’t oil in them but her husband said she was to mind her own business.’
‘Would she recognise them if we showed her photographs?’
Lyn translated, and Edita shook her head firmly.
‘And she didn’t know what was in the cans?’
Lyn spoke to Edita, who waved her away. Lyn looked to Shepherd for guidance. He sighed. It was pointless asking her any more. And he didn’t think there was any point in taking the woman away for further questioning. ‘Let’s call it a day,’ he said. ‘Tell her we’re through here.’
Lyn spoke to Edita, who nodded, then got up and went to Shepherd. ‘Mr Corke, we thank you,’ she said, in halting English. She grabbed his hand and pressed the palm against her cheek. ‘Thank you.’ Then she said something to Lyn. ‘She wants to see her husband,’ said the interpreter.
‘Later,’ said Shepherd. ‘Tell her later.’
Shepherd untangled his hand and followed Sharpe out of the room. A wave of guilt washed over him. He wanted to tell Edita the truth, that her husband was dead, but he knew that the job of breaking the bad news was better left to professionals, to men and women who could offer therapy and support. Even if he had told her, what would he have done when she’d broken down? Held her and told her that everything would be all right? Patted her back and told her that time healed all wounds? He was finding it hard enough to come to terms with the loss of his wife and had no idea what to say to a woman whose husband had just killed himself.
Lyn followed them out of the room. ‘Why does she think your name’s Corke?’ she asked, as they walked down the corridor.
‘It’s a long story,’ said Shepherd.
‘He’s a man of mystery,’ growled Sharpe. ‘Just leave it at that.’
Shepherd phoned Hargrove on his mobile as soon as he climbed into the Vectra. ‘They’re Albanians, not Kosovans,’ he said. ‘Their passports need a going-over with any other documents they had. They told me they’re called Rudi and Edita, and the interpreter says they’re Albanian names. I’m guessing they won’t be the names on the passports.’